the Wakefield Doctrine

Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)

This is the Wakefield Doctrine’s contribution to the Six Sentence Story bloghop.

Hosted each week by Denise, all we’re asked to do is write a story of six (and only six) sentences.

So we continue this oddly interesting meeting of the Sophomore and the tall, thin man. Our last encounter.

Prompt word:

CRAFT

“Let’s say, just for the sake of argument, I accept your claim of being a time-traveler; as far as I can tell, you got the other Proprietors, if not believing you, at least are willing to give you the benefit of the doubt,” the fingers of the young man’s hands on the arms of his chair went from being triangles to lying in a row; spotting this reaction, the tall, thin man leaned forward, “aka humoring the kid’.”

“That’s not very ‘you’ of you to take that particular tact,” the Sophomore, marginally more upright in his chair, his pupils dilating as his nostrils flared, any prize fighter stepping into the ring.

Seeing uncertainty and anger grow in the older man’s face, he hastened to add, “What I mean to say is, courtesy of my putative knowledge of the past…. your past, that kinda sneery, faux-crafty response is for a personality type that you are not.”

The young man with long hair and a head full of fear added, “You, ‘Mr T. Thin Man’ sir, suspect I am who I say I am, but fear of the implications has you as tangled up as an octopus in a bowl of warm spaghetti.”

“Fuck you,” the Proprietor pushed away from the desk like a third grader from his cafeteria tray on Welsh Rarebit Day.

The phones on the desk began to ring, vibrate mode making them move randomly across the surface, digital Mexican jumping-Chiclets; a million miles, (and decades of life) away from the Six Sentence Café and Bistro, the tall, thin man considered which phone to answer first.

*

Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)

This is the Wakefield Doctrine’s contribution to the Six Sentence Story bloghop.

Hosted each week by Denise, all we’re asked to do is write a story of six (and only six) sentences.

Prompt word:

ACCESS

“Hey, Devereaux, I know you got a degree from Hah-vud,” Lou Ceasare looked up from his booth as I approached, “But the Bottom of the Sea ain’t no Ivory League satellite campus and, even if it was, a Doctorate of Breasteses and Sequinology ain’t in the catalogue,” un-leashing his crocodile-laugh, the career-drinkers at the bar joined in like a flock of tipsy plover birds.

About to deliver a thoroughly devastating riposte, a liquor-bottle-fractal woman approached us in mirror behind the bar; the reflection stopped, and, all Plato’s cave fire-made-flesh, the Club’s hostess, Diane Tierney, stopped next to Lou’s booth/office/boardroom, “Lou, three of our dancers have called in sick for the second day in a row and a fourth said she was quitting, something about protestors and tires being slashed in the parking lot.”

Lou leaned over his table towards me, his peculiar sense of decorum regarding the woman responsible for the efficient operation of the Bottom of the Sea Strip Club and Lounge exerting itself and said, “Devereaux, you being out of work and all, wanna earn some money?”

Diane stepped away from Lou a few steps past me and, putting an index finger to her lips, in the tone of a professional appraiser, “I don’t know Lou, the butt’s good but kinda flat in the chest and besides, I don’t think our clientele are ready for a Chippendale reboot.”

“Fuckin’ Tierney, you crack me up,” a millisecond of a glance, taking in everyone in earshot, guaranteed there would be nothing but a respectful silence.

“But, you’re absolutely correct, Diane, having our dancers stressed by this is not acceptable; I can make sure nobody loiters in front of the joint blocking access for our dancers or customers, that’s Underworld 101; as far as the group behind the protests, these so-called Magdalenians, I want you, Devereaux, to get me something I can leverage on them, without having to resort to gunpowder and other explosives, capische?”

*

Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)

This is the Wakefield Doctrine’s contribution to the Six Sentence Story bloghop.

Hosted each week by Denise, all we’re asked to do is write a story of six (and only six) sentences.

Prompt word:

KICK

“On this we can agree.”

Despite being extremely expensive, the music system unexpectedly flared into pre-LED colored light, heralding the unmistakable plastic-flop of vinyl onto turntable; the 100 proof-silk sound of Curtis Mayfield began to confide raw truth of life for those on the left up-slope of the Bell curve.

“Not to be rude, but what, not counting your fanciful oeuvre hung on being a time traveler, encourages you to presume that?”

The Sophomore’s lips compressed into a non-committal line, even as his eyes skidded across the direct line-of-sight with the other man; the haplessly-optimistic part of his mind ran scratchy newsreels of manly hugs binding self-absorbed veterans returning from battle. Medals and campaign ribbons, official tokens of instant depreciation to be treasured only when alone, the better to survive the emotional kick of a lethal fetus awaiting entrance to a loud, noisy world, barely hinted at the true extent of his wounds.

The tall, thin man stared at the visitor on the far side of his desk when one of six phones skittered to life, a deaf-mute sand-crab demanding attention in a surprisingly arid world; swiping the screen into the cell phone equivalent of a coma, he looked at the Sophomore and rose from his chair.

Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)

This is the Wakefield Doctrine’s contribution to the Six Sentence Story bloghop.

Hosted each week by Denise, all we’re asked to do is write a story of six (and only six) sentences.

Prompt word:

STOCK

‘From stock room to boardroom,’ the man stood at the window-wall that framed the expanse of blue that was Lake Michigan on an early January morning. The expression on his face was a battlefield of pride and shame, as the phrase, ‘lock, stock and barrel’ pushed all other thought to the side as nurture triumphed over nature.

Having completed his daily invocation, the president of the Omni Corp rested his forehead against the glass in profane genuflection to Mammon and Friedman, his prophet.

Without changing his posture, one in which balance was as much an illusion as the belief in the value of his own will, the man looked down; the city streets, already alive with people and vehicles pulsing and flowing like corpuscles giving life and clearing waste from a living, growing body.

“Mr. Avaritia, the men from the SEC are here,” Anya Clarieaux stood in the doorway, her title was Executive Administrative Assistant but any stock analyst, from the NYSE to the Nikkei and all points in-between would, after a long enough day on the financial ramparts, whisper, like young boys sharing old, dirty jokes, ‘Wither goest Anya’.

“Tell them to wait, I have one last file to secure,” the windows along the northern side of the penthouse offices were not designed to open, save one; ‘If you apply yourself and never admit defeat, you can be so much more than everyone else’ the words of his father as softly corrosive as rust on the undercarriage of an old car.