Spirits

By Michael Jesse

Chapter 18

Jack's first day of work had been a Wednesday, and he spent the next two days getting acclimated to his new beat and writing his first story – an interview with the Brayton Centre Mall development project manager, Joe Dawson, who led them on a walking tour of the excavation site behind the wire fence. A staff photographer went along to get fresh images of the site and a portrait of Dawson against the panorama of the project area.

Dawson did his best to put a positive spin on the situation, but it was obvious the project was at a virtual standstill. Previous Morning Star stories before Jack came on board had already laid out the challenges facing the massive project. The U.S. bond market had tanked, inflation had spiked, and the Federal Reserve had responded by raising interest rates.

As they walked around the pits and facades, they reached a point where the Pembroke Theatre was visible on the other side of the fence, and Jack told Dawson about his first job working at the theater as a teen. "I hope you're not going to gut that place," he said.

"No, no," Dawson assured him. "We plan on restoring it to its former glory and having it be a live theater again."

Back at the office, Jack sat at his computer and searched the Library's VuText system again and did some more research to decide whether anything from his interview had not yet been reported. Nothing much was really new, so he just wrote up the story as an update with fresh quotes.

That done, he decided to do a little research on the Pembroke Theatre. It had been mentioned several times as being part of the development project, though on the periphery. The Morning Star's electronic story archive only went back two years, so Jack went down to the library to look at older clips. He knew, of course, that Millie was out of town, but still he felt a tingle of anticipation as he stepped into the library and stopped at the counter. He had learned in his orientation that reporters couldn't just start rooting through file drawers themselves but had to wait for one of the librarians to assist them. Soon, he was seated at one of the tables as a librarian named Dawn brought him the pre-electronic clipping files on the Pembroke Theatre, going back to the mid-1980s. Anything older would be on microfilm, but even in this batch, he found a few good articles that gave some history.

Some were brief news pieces chronicling when the theater closed, reopened, closed again, and changed ownership a few times. There were also a few feature stories giving the history the theater from the 1890s until the Stock Market Crash of 1929. Many Vaudeville theaters started closing in the mid-1920s and converting to movie houses, especially after talking pictures came out and many of the great Vaudeville performers switched to motion pictures. The Pembroke was one of only a few Vaudeville theaters that kept operating until the Great Depression hit.

After making photocopies of some of the articles, Jack put the files in the return basket and headed back to the Business Desk, where there was a team meeting on the mall coverage project. Jack gave a summary of his talk with Dawson, but none of that seemed to be breaking any news. He also mentioned his research into the Pembroke Theatre and pitched doing a series of historical stories on the buildings. Everyone agreed, though of course it made sense to start with the facades that would be part of the mall itself. The Pembroke would have to come later. Jack was secretly glad to take on that assignment because it meant spending more time in the library.

The next evening after work, Jack moved his belongings from the Essex to his new apartment in the Roosevelt Building. There was a heavy old wooden office desk against one of the interior walls, and he pushed it over by the big window so he could look out at the city as he worked on his computer. There, he could watch evening fade to night as the streetlights came out. He logged into Molly's site and was quietly thrilled to see another dozen or more comments and questions. Several were from Molly's actually gay new readers, who had gone back to read her story from the beginning. As he opened each one, Jack worried that someone would question Molly's authenticity -- and yet no one did. Molly carefully responded to each comment, which took a while. It was nearly midnight when Molly posted a new chapter to her story.

Every evening from that night on, usually between dinner and dessert, Jaye would loudly announce that it was time for my spanking and we'd do it wherever she said she wanted. She liked doing it under the bright lights of the kitchen, but I preferred the leather couch where I could be comfortable and watch it happen in the mirror. It was always her choice, but she knew what I preferred and was learning not to push her luck.

Later, as she was getting ready to leave, I would give her lots of five-second kisses so she would have her ten points for the following evening. Sometimes I kissed her in private by the door, and other times I did it in front of everyone. After all, I figured, if I can be spanked in front of everyone, I should be able to kiss in front of them too.

Some nights, our audience was just the Roommates plus two or three regulars, while other times there might be a dozen others, some of whom I had never met. These were, of course, nearly always women, but there was the occasional man (many of the Honorary Roommates were straight and had husbands or boyfriends). Whenever there was someone new, Jaye always led me up to that person and had me explain everything -- that I was naked because Jaye told me to be naked, and that she was going to spank me sometime that evening whenever the mood struck her to do so. Jaye was really into her role in this game -- a little too into it -- but I was prepared to yank her chain if need be.

One evening, as I was in the kitchen watching Dee make White Russians, Jaye strolled in from the living room and said, "Time for your spanking, slut."

Jaye was, I realized, only trying to tease me in a role-playing way, but I intensely dislike that word, especially when it is applied to me, and it made me mad. "WHAT did you call me?" I demanded.

Jaye's confidence faltered. "Now, now, I was just joking with you," she said apologetically. "However, I do have these 10 spank points to use so . . ."

The drink was fabulous, and I took my time with a long, slow gulp before replying. "No, actually, you don't have any points at all. I just revoked them."

"Molly, I apologize for--"

"Great drink, Dee," I said, ignoring Jaye. I went back into the living room and squeezed myself onto one of the couches, where three people scooted aside to welcome me.

Bea was always in charge of the music and was great at matching the mood of the House to any one of thousands of songs she seemed to remember encyclopedically, orate upon, and produce from her meticulously organized LP collection.

She could see I was giving Jaye the cold shoulder so she put on some Brazilian dance music that she knew I could never resist. I danced all night in front of Jaye, ignoring her, or making a show of seeming to. But when she quietly picked up her hat and made her way to the door, I was right behind her, sweaty and out of breath. I followed her out onto the porch, turning off the light switch as I always did. This was when she normally would have gotten her new spank points, but all I did was peck her on the cheek. I swirled, showing her my butt, now out of reach, and went back to the party to have another White Russian and dance.

The next night, Jaye arrived destitute -- having no points at all -- and I let her stay that way all evening. Spanking me was a privilege, and I gave her a nice long reminder of that fact. I was considering sending her home penniless for a second night in a row when I remembered she was going to be gone for several days on a business trip. She had told me that a week earlier, but I'd forgotten it was coming up so soon until she put on her fedora and said her goodnights -- mentioning that her flight was early the next morning. Stoically, she just gave me a little nod and headed out the back door.

I ran after her, down the porch steps, and caught up with her in the middle of the little back yard. Although our house was only blocks from the center of the downtown, the backyard was sheltered by ancient wisteria boughs and a three-story brick wall of a long-vacant factory. A storm was coming, and the wind had kicked up. I could feel sprinkles on my skin, and thunder rumbled in the distance. Jaye's fedora nearly blew off, so I held it on by the brim and gave her spank point after spank point as the rain began to fall. After the tenth kiss, I pushed her away, and she dashed to her car, holding her hat on with one hand as her wingtips splashed in the puddles of the broken sidewalk. I stood unmoving and watched her go, my hands on my hips, rain washing over me and my hair flying in the wind. Her headlights lit me up as if I were on stage, changing the raindrops into white streaks as she backed out and turned away, taking the light with her.

Friday after work, Jack just wanted to explore a new bar or go home and relax, but he knew he had something else he needed to attend to sooner or later. He had escaped a possible DUI charge back in Harrington, but was required by the agreement to attend at least six AA meetings within the next 10 weeks. Moving to Brayton and starting a new job had already consumed a couple of those weeks, so he needed to at least scout out the most discreet way to do those six meetings.

He had a list of regular AA meetings in the Brayton metro area and picked one as far south as possible. He had already learned that most of the newsroom staff lived in the northern and western suburbs. The South side had historically been where the factories, junkyards and the slaughterhouse had been, and the neighborhoods were all tiny houses on small lots.

Jack took the interstate south to Stop 20 Road — so named for its place on the city's old "interurban" electric trolley lines at the beginning of the 1900s. Stop 20 was the little town of Edwina, and now Jack cruised along its little downtown Main Street of crumbling red brick storefronts. At the end of the row was what looked like a large white farmhouse with "Edwina Grange" carved over the main entrance. It did not look open from the front, but several cars and pickup trucks were parked in the pitted asphalt lot, and a few men were smoking near an open side door.

He hadn't decided if he was going in and parked on the street instead of pulling into the lot. He waited until the men flicked away their cigarette butts and ducked inside. He followed. The light and sounds of activity led him down a flight of stairs and into a room that smelled of cigarettes and coffee that had been left on the burner too long.

About a dozen men and a few women sat in metal folding chairs reciting a prayer that sounded familiar, but hokey like a Hallmark card. "Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference." Jack took the opportunity to duck into the last row, where he tried to be invisible.

The gray-haired woman leading the prayer opened her eyes and looked right at him as she asked if there were any newcomers who wanted to introduce themselves. Jack looked back at her silently. No, ma'am, he tried to tell her telepathically, there are not.

She accepted that and moved on to a long reading from the AA Big Book, saying that our lives are unmanageable and so we need to surrender to God, who has a plan for us that unfortunately requires us to first "hit bottom" so we can have the "gift of desperation." This passage seemed to go on for quite a while, and then the floor was passed to a rough-looking guy with tattoos and a flat nose who came up front and sat facing the group. "My name is Curtis, and I'm an alcoholic," he said.

"Hi, Curtis," everyone responded, including Jack, though he was half a beat late."

"I'm grateful to be of service tonight and grateful to be sober." Jack had noticed an accent right from the start, but when Curtis got to the word "sober," it became obvious that Curtis had the classic South Boston accent. Curtis shared his tale of bar fights and drunk tanks before he hit bottom in the hospital, being told at age 30 he'd be dead before 40 if he didn't change his ways. It was a serious story -- and one that Jack respected -- but the word "sow-bah" came up so frequently Jack had to cover his face with his hands in a contemplative pose he had learned in church.

By the time Curtis finished, they were 45 minutes into the hour, and for the rest of the meeting, a handful of others introduced themselves and either thanked Curtis for his share or gave a brief share of their own. Then there was another reading from the "Big Book" and a closing prayer, and (finally) the meeting was over. Jack made a beeline to the lady who ran the meeting to get her signature. She looked at the paperwork with the familiarity of one who sees such forms all the time.

"I'm glad you came," she said, and then glancing at the form again, she added, "John?"

"That's right," he nodded. "My name is John."