| THE LORELEI SIGNAL |
.
| Written by Jason Andrew / Artwork by Marge Simon |
| Make a donation to this writer |
| Girl in the Window |
Peter wiped the fake wooden counter for
almost an hour desperately hoping for
inspiration. In the slow hours during the
day, he enjoyed jotting down poetry.
Sometimes he would post it on-line, but
he had given up any pretenses of getting
published years ago.
"It's Pete the Pimp!" a short, stocky bald
man wearing glasses said as soon as he
entered the café.
"How's it going, Brandon?" Peter asked.
"Not too bad at all. That coworker I told
you about asked me out to the movies. I
snuck out early to clean my apartment and
feed my cats. I'm hoping she comes
home with me," Brandon answered
cheerfully.
Peter smiled. "I'm glad for you."
Brandon snickered. "Hey now, Pete! We
can't all look like Greek gods. Look at that
chiseled jaw, bright smile, sparkling blue
eyes and thick blond hair. Hell, if you had
tits, I'd fuck you."
Peter held up his hands in protest. "I get
by."
Brandon rolled his eyes. "I've seen you
swoop in on many unassuming co-eds,
remember? You've seen more ass than a
proctologist."
Peter's smile twisted into a smirk and he shrugged his shoulders. "It'll do for now. Until, I get my book contract."
Brandon sighed. "I told you that you need to go back to school. You're almost thirty and still no sale. Don't you think you
should have a backup plan? You can't screw college girls the rest of your life by feeding them crappy poetry."
"College produces professors, Brandon" he said. "Life begets poets."
"Peter, you have talent. You could work at it, if you wanted. You could make something of yourself."
"I'm waiting for my muse," Peter said.
"And what are you doing in the meantime?"
Peter looked past Brandon and nodded. Brandon followed his gaze to the young college girl Peter had targeted. She had
short auburn hair and wore black-rimmed glasses. "Dancer?" Brandon asked.
"English Lit major," Peter said.
"Byron or Shelly?"
"I think she's a Wordsworth girl, myself."
"Don't you think you are too old to be a vulture like this? Brandon asked.
Peter replied by flapping his arms as although he was an airborne predator swooping in on his prey and smirked. "Bonus
time," he whispered.
As it turned out, her name was Sara and she was indeed a Wordsworth girl.
#
Sara lasted three weeks before Peter dumped her via voice mail.
"At least this one lasted three weeks," Brandon said.
"I have pictures to remember her by," Peter said.
"Yeah, speaking of which, you can't send those kinds of pictures to my work e-mail address. I almost shit a brick when I
checked my mail."
"I told you that she was a freak," Peter said with a smirk.
Frustrated, Brandon slipped his glasses off his face and wiped them with his shirt. "Why'd you break up with this one? I
figured if she lasted longer than a week she had to have something special."
"I liked her hot tub. Her little sister's taking a romantic poets course. Little bitch caught me cribbing. Besides, her mom
already gave it up. I was almost done anyway."
"Jesus Christ! Pete, Sara was nice. She adored you!"
"So did her mom. Now calm down, you're going to scare the customers."
"You have to grow up sometime, Pete."
"I'm just waiting for my muse to take me away from all of this."
"Right, your muse," Brandon replied.
#
Peter liked to pick his women slowly. Sometimes, he would watch them for days before making up his mind enjoying the
diversion from brewing espresso.
One woman he found appealing was a lanky Asian girl with wavy braided hair. All he had been able to find out about her
was that she was an exchange student and she didn't speak English fluently. He was considering possible scenarios when
caught unaware by Sara.
"How could you?" Sara yelled. "My own mother!"
"She pinched my ass first," Peter said.
"You said I was special." Sara's face contorted with anger.
"And you are...special. We just don't work together. I need the time to work on my writing." It was a lie, one he had
practiced and used before.
Sara grunted with frustration. "Those poems you said you wrote for me were written by someone else. Did you think I
was stupid and wouldn't find out?"
Peter put on his best puppy-dog face, something else he practiced. "I do write. Quite a bit. I'm working on a novel. I just
use poetry to smooth over social situations. Come on, I didn't hurt anyone."
"You told me it was true love. The love of the ages. I gave myself to you. I did things...I..." The few patrons in the café
turned their heads towards them as her voice got louder and higher in pitch.
Peter had already been warned against any more public scenes at the café. "Sara," he whispered. "You are going to get me
fired. I need this job. I'm sorry I hurt your feelings. Let me make it up to you after my shift."
Sara put her hands on her hips. "Well, I'm not going to just get over this."
"I'll make it up to you -- I promise," Peter said, patting her on the shoulder. "I'm always so self-destructive. Maybe you
can help me?"
Sara's expression softened. "Maybe."
She kissed him on the cheek before leaving. As soon as the door closed, Peter rolled his eyes. "I hate it when that
happens," he muttered.
Peter scanned the café discovering his new target had retreated. Most of the customers had returned to their coffee and
conversations. It was then he noticed the girl in the window.
Peter couldn't see her clearly due to the sunshine, but her dark silhouette was amazing. She was sitting on the windowsill,
leaning against the wall. The girl was writing in a small notebook she was balancing on her knees.
Fascinated, Peter moved around the counter and started wiping tables closer to her. Her shoulder-length, curly dark brown
hair was sexy, he decided. It was the tousled after-sex hair look other women paid salons hundreds of dollars to imitate.
Her eyes were blue or light green. It was difficult to tell from a distance. Her face was perfectly heart shaped with big
pouty lips. Her shirt was rather sheer which revealed perfect breasts he was already imagining cupping in his hands.
Feeling his heart race, Peter plotted several different first contact scenarios. Peter tried to guess her age, but couldn't
decide. She had that youthful look that could be early twenties, but her confidence and manner suggested a woman in her
early thirties. He knew he would have to watch his approach as any errors could spook her. Her clothing didn't give any
additional clues. She wore loose fitting, hip-hugging, faded jeans and a sheer white blouse. She could be another student, a
poet, or simply on vacation. He tried to think of a good line to catch her attention. Frustrated, he decided to once again
return to the classics.
Peter stepped closer to the girl in the window and slightly bowed. "O Attic shape! Fair attitude! With brede of marble men
and maidens overwrought," he recited.
The girl in the window ignored the spontaneous ode and continued to carefully write in her notebook. Stunned, Peter didn't
know how to react. Once she was finished with her thought, the girl in the window deigned to glance at him. "I much
prefer the 'Lady of Shalott' to 'Ode on a Grecian Urn,'" she said in a flat even voice.
"But, the way you were sitting reminded me of the maiden resting on the urn waiting for her lover," Peter said.
"Do I?" There was a hint of amusement in her voice.
She returned her attention to her notebook while subtly shifting her position. Despondent, he slinked back behind his
counter and filled orders. He watched her for the rest of his shift. She sat on the windowsill, wrote in her notebook, and
occasionally bought another cup of coffee. Shortly before the end of his shift, she was gone.
That night he met with Sara and quickly wooed away her concerns. Their sex lacked passion and felt no more pleasurable
to him than push-ups. Afterwards, she left his apartment in tears without saying a word. Peter didn't care.
#
He waited weeks for the girl in the window to return. He tried to think of other women, but every time he made the
attempt she would creep into his mind. Peter accepted more and more shifts hoping she would return.
"Pete, man, you need to get out more. I can't believe I'm saying this, but you need to relax a little. I know saving money is
important, but you have to have fun too or you'll burn out," Brandon said one afternoon.
"I'm not working more shifts just to make more money," Peter said.
Brandon laughed. "Not this story about the hot girl in the window. I'm starting to think you made her up."
"I wish I did," Peter said. "I really wish I did. She's burning me out, Brandon. I can't think of anything else. I tried picking
up hookers. I've tried movies. I've tried writing. All I can think of is her."
"You don't look so good, Pete! You've got bags under your eyes. You've lost weight. You haven't shaved, and that's not a
good look for you. Hell, did you shower today?"
"I can't remember," he muttered.
#
It was several more weeks before Peter saw the girl in the window again. During that time, he screwed up the cash
register three times and had to offer himself sexually to the manager to avoid being fired. Like with Sara, it contained no
pleasure except when he pretended he was with Her.
Between making a caramel macchiato and a soy sugar-free vanilla latte, Peter found her again. She was sitting on the
window, wearing a white dress, writing in her notebook as though she had never left. Enraptured, he burned his hand on
the steamer and yelped. The girl in the window looked up from her work, glanced at him, then returned to her notebook.
The manager insisted Peter take a quick break to wash his burn. It wasn't quite bad enough to drive to the hospital, but it
did need ice. Peter barely seemed to notice. He refused to go to the bathroom because he didn't want to lose her again.
Cradling the ice pack in his hand, he approached her.
She ignored him for almost a minute while she continued to scribble in the notebook. When she was finished, she glanced
up at Peter. "Is there a reason you are looming over me?"
"I can't get you out of my mind."
She returned to her work. "Have we met?"
"I'm the Ode to a Grecian Urn guy," Peter said desperately. "You told me you liked the Lady of Shallot better."
"Do you know why?" she asked.
"I'd love to know."
The girl in the window sighed. "'Ode to a Grecian Urn' is a poem about an old pot. Keats saw the figures on this urn as
immortal figures of joy existing forever in a moment of living passion and turbulent action. That's a childish fantasy.
Nothing good lasts forever. 'The Lady of Shalott' is about a woman who loves one man, even though she knows he does
not return that love. She dies alone, but inspires poetry, music, and the arts. Legends are the only thing that survives the
ages."
"That's beautiful," Peter said. "Just like you."
The girl in the window ignored him. Frustrated, Peter tried to sneak a look at the notebook, but didn't recognize some of
the letters. "Is that Greek?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Homework?" Peter probed.
"No."
Peter tore at his hair. "Come on, throw me a bone here."
"Are you a dog?" the girl asked.
"Look, I'm really into you. Can we maybe go somewhere for coffee or something?"
She looked around the Apropos café dramatically and then raised her eyebrow. "Or something I take it?"
"Anything."
She smirked. It was the closest thing to a smile Peter had managed to elicit from her. "You want to be my lover."
Peter dropped the ice pack. He tried to lie to her, but couldn't. "Yes."
The girl in the window returned to her work. "It wouldn't satisfy you. It's better to not try."
"Not satisfy me?" Peter felt his cheeks warm. "I love you. I haven't thought of anything else since I first saw you sitting
here in the window."
"You didn't leave Sara satisfied."
"Do you know Sara?" Peter was now worried that any chance of being with this woman had already been blown. "Are
you friends with her?"
"I know her," she said. "I am not her friend. She's a writer."
"She tries to be. Guess she has problems getting inspiration," Peter said. "I've been trying to help her, but things got a little
messy."
"I can see that. I like to help writers as well."
"We have a lot in common, please give me a chance." He knew he sounded like he was begging. Hell, he was begging.
"Do we?"
"We're both writers. I love poetry. Can't you feel it? There's synchronicity in our meeting, like it was meant to be," he said.
The girl in the window looked up from her notebook again, but for the first time seemed interested in Peter. "Do you
believe in synchronicity?"
Surprised at her interest, Peter sat next to her ignoring the pain in his arm. "Yeah."
"Do you believe in archetypes?"
"I've read a lot of Jung's work. The semester I went to school, we dissected a lot of movies using Jungian archetypes,"
Peter said, glad to have something to talk about.
"If this were a story, what archetype would you be?" She asked.
Peter hoped this wasn't some sort of verbal trap. "The callow youth."
"Aren't you a little old for that?" She asked with a slight grin.
"Age is a state of mind."
"I quite agree. Very well, after your shift we can go out. Maybe you may take me home," she told him. "But only if you
leave me alone until then. I have work to do."
"Absolutely. Anything you want. And free coffee. What's your name?"
"Calliope."
"That's a beautiful name," Peter said, almost from rote.
The girl in the window ignored his reply. She was already writing once again.
The rest of Peter's shift passed very slowly. Peter snuck as many glimpses as he could get away with at Calliope, but she
did not acknowledge his existence again. When there were no customers waiting in line, Peter was unusually diligent in
cleaning up the lounge and washing the windows. The manager nodded with approval, but really Peter was trying to be
close to Calliope; to get a sense of her.
For an hour, she stared into her notebook and occasionally jotted down a sentence or two. Then, she looked up as though
a loud bang had startled her. She scanned around the room and finally focused on an old man with white hair in a
wrinkled, brown tweed suit. Smiling, she snapped the notebook shut and hopped off the windowsill. Peter desperately
wished he had made her smile like that. She sauntered over to the old man and introduced herself. Steaming the milk for a
drink, Peter couldn't hear the conversation due to the loud frothing noise of the machine.
The old man must be a professor, Peter theorized. The old man laughed so hard he had to wipe tears from his eyes.
Calliope joined him. It was weird to think of her laughing. He passed her a sheet of paper and she examined it. After a few
minutes of silence, she borrowed a pen and then carefully added something to the paper. She passed it back to the old man
and grinned. He stared at the paper and then smiled as though he'd just won the lottery.
"God! I hope she didn't give that old fart her phone number," Peter mumbled.
Calliope returned to her windowsill, obviously pleased with herself. The old man folded the paper in half and slipped it into
his inner jacket pocket. He waved at Calliope and dashed out the store.
Peter wanted to ask Calliope what that had been about, but he was afraid she'd cancel their dinner date.
After his shift, he cleaned himself up as best he could and returned to her side. She put a cap on her pen, slipped it into the
spine of her notebook, and then greeted him with a smile. "Where are we going?" she asked.
"Anywhere you want to go."
They strolled down Capital Hill. It was a beautiful night. The air was cool and smelled of wild flowers. "This area used to
be a ghetto, but now it's kind of trendy. Lots of yuppies and college students live here. This is kind of the gay Mecca in
Seattle," Peter said, desperate to end the silence.
The strip was lined with stores, tattoo parlors, and hole-in-the-wall restaurants. They stopped at the bronze statue of Jimi
Hendrix playing the guitar as though he were the god of rock. Calliope touched the statue's head softly. "He could play
with the best of them," she said, almost purring.
"I'm a big fan," Peter said, another lie.
"He worked very hard. Played until his fingers bleed for the gods," Calliope said.
"Too bad he died." He had been surprised by the almost reverent tone in Calliope's voice.
"He became a legend," Calliope replied. "It's what any artist really wants."
She led Peter up the block and into a bookstore overrun with cats. Peter hated cats, but tried to pet one to impress
Calliope. As she wandered from section to section, the cats playfully followed her as though she had been dipped in catnip
and tuna. "I've never seen the cats take to anyone so quickly," the clerk said.
"Find anything you like?" Peter asked.
"No." She didn't bother to hide the disappointment in her voice.
"If we hurry, we can make Charlie's before it closes. It's my favorite place here," Peter said.
Calliope nodded and wrapped her arm around Peter. He smiled. They walked two blocks until accosted by a man who
smelled like the bathroom stall at a carnival. His teeth were black and yellow; his skin flushed with alcohol and grime. He
wore a ragged, torn trench coat and ripped clothing. "Stories for a buck!" His words were slurred, but there was an
unmistakable excitement in his voice.
"Get out of here, ya bum!" Peter waved his hand at the man.
"Buy one," Calliope whispered.
Surprised, but still wanting to impress her, Peter fished dollar out of his pocket and handed it over to the man.
He gave Calliope a homemade chapbook. It was a typed pamphlet folded in two and stapled. "Thank you."
She smiled as she took the story and Peter again felt a twinge of jealousy at her apparent understanding of something he
couldn't.
The man waved in appreciation and wandered away. "You know helping him like that is only going to help him get drunk,"
Peter said.
"In ancient times, they'd say the gods judged a man by how he treated those that treat beggars," Calliope said. Again that
same tone of disappointment he had heard in the bookstore.
"There are shelters and programs. People live on the street because they want to."
"Perhaps."
Peter liked to take dates to Charlie's. The food was moderately priced and the atmosphere was warm and inviting. Some of
the wait staff went to his café so they always treated him well. Dates were usually impressed with the friendly
camaraderie, but Calliope didn't seem to notice.
The waiter, a short man with handsome Mediterranean features, brought two large menus. "Would you like anything to
drink?" he asked in a vaguely European accent.
Calliope looked up at him and spoke to him in a strange, rhythmic language. The waiter smiled and then replied in kind. He
laughed and then turned to Peter. "What can I get for you?"
"I'd like a pineapple and vodka, please," Peter said.
"Of course. Please excuse me." The waiter left the table.
"What language were you speaking?" Peter asked.
"Greek."
Calliope seemed very interested in watching the crowd at Charlie's. She ate her chicken salad quietly, savoring the meal.
Peter started to sweat. She seemed happy to be there, but didn't seem to care as much if he were there or not. After
dinner, Peter paid for the meal while Calliope went to the ladies room.
"What did she say to you?" Peter asked the waiter.
"Keep writing poetry."
Peter waited by the entrance to the bathrooms. Several minutes later, Calliope and an older woman with a blue shawl
exited together. "Thank you for that story. It will be perfect for our urban writers section," the old woman said. "And you
say he's homeless? Darn shame!"
"Thank you for taking the time to read it," Calliope said.
Calliope took Peter's arm and led him out onto the street. "Take me to your apartment," she whispered.
Peter quickly hailed a cab and the two of them went to his flat. During their trek up the flight of stairs, Peter mentally
steeled himself for the courage to kiss her. As he unlocked the door, the hallway echoed with thunder and then lit up for a
moment from a flash of lightning. "Wow, that's weird. There wasn't a cloud in the sky. Heh! I guess this is what you get
used to living in Seattle."
The gentle, soft sound of rain surrounded them. Through the windows, they could see flashes of lightning. Calliope smiled
then pushed Peter backwards onto the couch. "This is what you wanted, isn't it?"
"Yes, please." He found himself begging again.
She mounted him and put her hands upon his chest. Playfully, she brushed her dark curls across his face and then lightly
kissed his lips. Peter passionately returned the kiss. She ran her fingers across his chest and then tore his shirt open. Peter
gasped, but she just giggled. She slipped out of her dress and flung it to the floor. Her lithe body moved deftly like a snake.
Peter lifted his head to taste her perfect, pert breasts. Calliope pushed him back upon the couch, slowly grinding upon him.
She looked him in the eyes and then said, "This is going to be a night that you will never forget."
They made love in every room in the house. Peter was surprised that he could keep going. It was as though he were
possessed. Over the course of the night, their sex was sweet, passionate, animalistic, and then stinky, dirty crazy.
Afterwards, she sang him to sleep. He didn't understand the words, but the tone and inflections were beautiful. Peter
drifted asleep content.
In the morning, she was gone. Peter returned to work refreshed and vibrant. Between orders, he jotted down three short
poems and a haiku. By the afternoon, the feeling began to fade. By the evening, he was drained.
#
It took three months for Peter to lose his job. The manager tried to cover for him, but Peter's apathy ensured his
termination. Peter spent his days wandering from coffee shop to café to bars looking for Calliope and hastily scribbling
down poems or stories.
When his unemployment ran out eight months later, he lived with Brandon and continued his search. Peter lost interest in
eating and began to lose weight. Six months later, Brandon checked Peter into the hospital for malnourishment. Tied down
to a bed and receiving nourishment from a tube, Peter continued to write and sketch crude pictures of Calliope.
"Pete! You got to get this girl out of your head. She's gone. You need to eat," Brandon said.
Peter didn't reply. He rarely spoke. Once the doctors released him, Peter took to wandering the streets visiting potential
places he thought Calliope might visit. He begged on the street corners for money to buy paper and pens. Each day, he
walked his route looking for the girl in the window. Over the years, Peter became notorious as a local celebrity and was
even on the local news twice. As Peter's legend grew, local cafes fed him for the publicity and yuppies wanting local color
would buy his poems pieced together on dirty bar napkins. The legend of the girl in the window and her poet grew to a
national scale.
Peter continued his route each day stopping only to write, to sketch, and occasionally eat. Ten years later, Peter was
mostly forgotten except as an odd urban legend. He was begging for change downtown when he bumped into an attractive
looking woman in her early forties with short graying black hair and black, thick rimmed glasses. She was accompanied
by a young, blonde woman in her late teens.
"Excuse me, Miss. Do you have any spare change?" Peter asked.
The woman seemed to examine Peter. She seemed familiar somehow, but he saw thousands of women on the street daily.
"Peter?" she finally asked.
Peter stepped back. "Do I know you?"
The older woman looked at the younger woman with blonde hair and nodded. "I'm Sara. Remember?"
There were many women over the years, most of them forgotten. Sara was the girl before the Girl in the Window. She
was the last woman he had been with when he was whole. "Sara? The English Lit major?"
"Yes. Funny seeing you again after all this time." She shifted her feet a little.
Peter was shocked to run into anyone who knew his name and not the legend he had become. Although Sara had aged it
was not nearly as harsh as his progression. His hair, what remained, had turned gray. His teeth yellowed and his wrinkled
skin was pocked with scars, moles, and liver spots. Over the years, his health had declined and he knew he would be
lucky to last another Seattle winter on the streets.
"You wanted to be a writer." Peter said trying desperately to make a connection to someone from his previous life.
"She is a writer," the young blonde woman said. "She's published over thirty books. Three of them have been made
movies."
"This is my daughter, Jacinda," Sara said.
Peter looked at Sara and Jacinda. "That's an odd name."
"It's from Greek myth," Jacinda said. "Apollo was wounded in battle. He bled in the highlands. From that blood, flowers
sprang to life: Jacindas. A woman helped Mom with her writing just before I was born. She gave her the idea."
"Calliope." Peter took another step back.
"You remember her?" Sara asked. "She really helped me get started that first year or two; after you disappeared. I'd have
never been published if it weren't for her."
Jacinda had a familiar look about her. Like his mother, only less bitter. Her eyes were blue and the dimple on her chin
mirrored his. Looking into Sara's eyes confirmed this, Jacinda was his daughter. "Where's your Dad?" he asked.
"He died in a car accident before I was born," Jacinda said.
"That's too bad." Peter turned his gaze back to Sara, but she looked away.
"Mom, the store closes soon," Jacinda said.
"You should go. Thanks for saying hi."
Peter turned away from them before Sara could argue. Once he was out of their sight, he started running. He wanted to
feel the pain in his lungs and heart. He had given up everything for the dream of the girl in the window. Confused, he
wandered the streets hoping to find something to end his pain.
It was then that Peter found her. She was sitting in the same window sill of the Apropos Cafe, writing in a new notebook,
acting as though she had never left. At first, Peter thought he might be hallucinating. Calliope had not aged. She had been
frozen in time like the lovers on the Grecian Urn.
"Is that you, Calliope?"
Surprised to hear her name, the girl in the window looked up from her new notebook. "Do I know you?"
His arms were numb. It was difficult for him to wipe the sweat from his forehead. He took several deep breaths. "Peter.
My name is Peter."
There was a long pause. "Oh yes, I remember you. I trust you are well."
There was a sharp pain in his chest. "Well? Well? I've spent the last twenty years looking for you. I gave up everything.
I'm wasting away like that poem. And here you are, young and fresh. You burned my mind. When I sleep, I dream only of
you and that I can't have you. No other woman would do. I've tried drugs. Hell, the doctors used shock therapy on me
and you were still there. Why? I'm living a shell of a life because you have consumed my every moment since I met you. I
deserve to know. Why? Who are you?"
Calliope put the cap on her pen, and then put it in the spine of her notebook. "Very well. Long ago, my sisters departed the
world to that undreamed country from which no traveler returns and I have waited for the one who can bring them back.
You had the potential. But you squandered it on sex and coffee. The world needed better. So, I gave your inspiration to
Sara. She was a much better guardian."
With great effort, he forced himself to keep breathing. He stumbled onto the window sill next to her. Keeping his eyes
open was a herculean task. "What did you do to me?"
"Scientists say the world is made of atoms and particles and quarks. You and I know this is untrue. The universe is made
of stories, of archetypes, and of legends. You had the gift and yet you were afraid. You were lazy and you wanted the
glory without the work," Calliope said. "I granted your wish. Now, you are legend."
As he died, he thought of the life that could have been if he had not thrown it away for the girl in the window.
almost an hour desperately hoping for
inspiration. In the slow hours during the
day, he enjoyed jotting down poetry.
Sometimes he would post it on-line, but
he had given up any pretenses of getting
published years ago.
"It's Pete the Pimp!" a short, stocky bald
man wearing glasses said as soon as he
entered the café.
"How's it going, Brandon?" Peter asked.
"Not too bad at all. That coworker I told
you about asked me out to the movies. I
snuck out early to clean my apartment and
feed my cats. I'm hoping she comes
home with me," Brandon answered
cheerfully.
Peter smiled. "I'm glad for you."
Brandon snickered. "Hey now, Pete! We
can't all look like Greek gods. Look at that
chiseled jaw, bright smile, sparkling blue
eyes and thick blond hair. Hell, if you had
tits, I'd fuck you."
Peter held up his hands in protest. "I get
by."
Brandon rolled his eyes. "I've seen you
swoop in on many unassuming co-eds,
remember? You've seen more ass than a
proctologist."
Peter's smile twisted into a smirk and he shrugged his shoulders. "It'll do for now. Until, I get my book contract."
Brandon sighed. "I told you that you need to go back to school. You're almost thirty and still no sale. Don't you think you
should have a backup plan? You can't screw college girls the rest of your life by feeding them crappy poetry."
"College produces professors, Brandon" he said. "Life begets poets."
"Peter, you have talent. You could work at it, if you wanted. You could make something of yourself."
"I'm waiting for my muse," Peter said.
"And what are you doing in the meantime?"
Peter looked past Brandon and nodded. Brandon followed his gaze to the young college girl Peter had targeted. She had
short auburn hair and wore black-rimmed glasses. "Dancer?" Brandon asked.
"English Lit major," Peter said.
"Byron or Shelly?"
"I think she's a Wordsworth girl, myself."
"Don't you think you are too old to be a vulture like this? Brandon asked.
Peter replied by flapping his arms as although he was an airborne predator swooping in on his prey and smirked. "Bonus
time," he whispered.
As it turned out, her name was Sara and she was indeed a Wordsworth girl.
#
Sara lasted three weeks before Peter dumped her via voice mail.
"At least this one lasted three weeks," Brandon said.
"I have pictures to remember her by," Peter said.
"Yeah, speaking of which, you can't send those kinds of pictures to my work e-mail address. I almost shit a brick when I
checked my mail."
"I told you that she was a freak," Peter said with a smirk.
Frustrated, Brandon slipped his glasses off his face and wiped them with his shirt. "Why'd you break up with this one? I
figured if she lasted longer than a week she had to have something special."
"I liked her hot tub. Her little sister's taking a romantic poets course. Little bitch caught me cribbing. Besides, her mom
already gave it up. I was almost done anyway."
"Jesus Christ! Pete, Sara was nice. She adored you!"
"So did her mom. Now calm down, you're going to scare the customers."
"You have to grow up sometime, Pete."
"I'm just waiting for my muse to take me away from all of this."
"Right, your muse," Brandon replied.
#
Peter liked to pick his women slowly. Sometimes, he would watch them for days before making up his mind enjoying the
diversion from brewing espresso.
One woman he found appealing was a lanky Asian girl with wavy braided hair. All he had been able to find out about her
was that she was an exchange student and she didn't speak English fluently. He was considering possible scenarios when
caught unaware by Sara.
"How could you?" Sara yelled. "My own mother!"
"She pinched my ass first," Peter said.
"You said I was special." Sara's face contorted with anger.
"And you are...special. We just don't work together. I need the time to work on my writing." It was a lie, one he had
practiced and used before.
Sara grunted with frustration. "Those poems you said you wrote for me were written by someone else. Did you think I
was stupid and wouldn't find out?"
Peter put on his best puppy-dog face, something else he practiced. "I do write. Quite a bit. I'm working on a novel. I just
use poetry to smooth over social situations. Come on, I didn't hurt anyone."
"You told me it was true love. The love of the ages. I gave myself to you. I did things...I..." The few patrons in the café
turned their heads towards them as her voice got louder and higher in pitch.
Peter had already been warned against any more public scenes at the café. "Sara," he whispered. "You are going to get me
fired. I need this job. I'm sorry I hurt your feelings. Let me make it up to you after my shift."
Sara put her hands on her hips. "Well, I'm not going to just get over this."
"I'll make it up to you -- I promise," Peter said, patting her on the shoulder. "I'm always so self-destructive. Maybe you
can help me?"
Sara's expression softened. "Maybe."
She kissed him on the cheek before leaving. As soon as the door closed, Peter rolled his eyes. "I hate it when that
happens," he muttered.
Peter scanned the café discovering his new target had retreated. Most of the customers had returned to their coffee and
conversations. It was then he noticed the girl in the window.
Peter couldn't see her clearly due to the sunshine, but her dark silhouette was amazing. She was sitting on the windowsill,
leaning against the wall. The girl was writing in a small notebook she was balancing on her knees.
Fascinated, Peter moved around the counter and started wiping tables closer to her. Her shoulder-length, curly dark brown
hair was sexy, he decided. It was the tousled after-sex hair look other women paid salons hundreds of dollars to imitate.
Her eyes were blue or light green. It was difficult to tell from a distance. Her face was perfectly heart shaped with big
pouty lips. Her shirt was rather sheer which revealed perfect breasts he was already imagining cupping in his hands.
Feeling his heart race, Peter plotted several different first contact scenarios. Peter tried to guess her age, but couldn't
decide. She had that youthful look that could be early twenties, but her confidence and manner suggested a woman in her
early thirties. He knew he would have to watch his approach as any errors could spook her. Her clothing didn't give any
additional clues. She wore loose fitting, hip-hugging, faded jeans and a sheer white blouse. She could be another student, a
poet, or simply on vacation. He tried to think of a good line to catch her attention. Frustrated, he decided to once again
return to the classics.
Peter stepped closer to the girl in the window and slightly bowed. "O Attic shape! Fair attitude! With brede of marble men
and maidens overwrought," he recited.
The girl in the window ignored the spontaneous ode and continued to carefully write in her notebook. Stunned, Peter didn't
know how to react. Once she was finished with her thought, the girl in the window deigned to glance at him. "I much
prefer the 'Lady of Shalott' to 'Ode on a Grecian Urn,'" she said in a flat even voice.
"But, the way you were sitting reminded me of the maiden resting on the urn waiting for her lover," Peter said.
"Do I?" There was a hint of amusement in her voice.
She returned her attention to her notebook while subtly shifting her position. Despondent, he slinked back behind his
counter and filled orders. He watched her for the rest of his shift. She sat on the windowsill, wrote in her notebook, and
occasionally bought another cup of coffee. Shortly before the end of his shift, she was gone.
That night he met with Sara and quickly wooed away her concerns. Their sex lacked passion and felt no more pleasurable
to him than push-ups. Afterwards, she left his apartment in tears without saying a word. Peter didn't care.
#
He waited weeks for the girl in the window to return. He tried to think of other women, but every time he made the
attempt she would creep into his mind. Peter accepted more and more shifts hoping she would return.
"Pete, man, you need to get out more. I can't believe I'm saying this, but you need to relax a little. I know saving money is
important, but you have to have fun too or you'll burn out," Brandon said one afternoon.
"I'm not working more shifts just to make more money," Peter said.
Brandon laughed. "Not this story about the hot girl in the window. I'm starting to think you made her up."
"I wish I did," Peter said. "I really wish I did. She's burning me out, Brandon. I can't think of anything else. I tried picking
up hookers. I've tried movies. I've tried writing. All I can think of is her."
"You don't look so good, Pete! You've got bags under your eyes. You've lost weight. You haven't shaved, and that's not a
good look for you. Hell, did you shower today?"
"I can't remember," he muttered.
#
It was several more weeks before Peter saw the girl in the window again. During that time, he screwed up the cash
register three times and had to offer himself sexually to the manager to avoid being fired. Like with Sara, it contained no
pleasure except when he pretended he was with Her.
Between making a caramel macchiato and a soy sugar-free vanilla latte, Peter found her again. She was sitting on the
window, wearing a white dress, writing in her notebook as though she had never left. Enraptured, he burned his hand on
the steamer and yelped. The girl in the window looked up from her work, glanced at him, then returned to her notebook.
The manager insisted Peter take a quick break to wash his burn. It wasn't quite bad enough to drive to the hospital, but it
did need ice. Peter barely seemed to notice. He refused to go to the bathroom because he didn't want to lose her again.
Cradling the ice pack in his hand, he approached her.
She ignored him for almost a minute while she continued to scribble in the notebook. When she was finished, she glanced
up at Peter. "Is there a reason you are looming over me?"
"I can't get you out of my mind."
She returned to her work. "Have we met?"
"I'm the Ode to a Grecian Urn guy," Peter said desperately. "You told me you liked the Lady of Shallot better."
"Do you know why?" she asked.
"I'd love to know."
The girl in the window sighed. "'Ode to a Grecian Urn' is a poem about an old pot. Keats saw the figures on this urn as
immortal figures of joy existing forever in a moment of living passion and turbulent action. That's a childish fantasy.
Nothing good lasts forever. 'The Lady of Shalott' is about a woman who loves one man, even though she knows he does
not return that love. She dies alone, but inspires poetry, music, and the arts. Legends are the only thing that survives the
ages."
"That's beautiful," Peter said. "Just like you."
The girl in the window ignored him. Frustrated, Peter tried to sneak a look at the notebook, but didn't recognize some of
the letters. "Is that Greek?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Homework?" Peter probed.
"No."
Peter tore at his hair. "Come on, throw me a bone here."
"Are you a dog?" the girl asked.
"Look, I'm really into you. Can we maybe go somewhere for coffee or something?"
She looked around the Apropos café dramatically and then raised her eyebrow. "Or something I take it?"
"Anything."
She smirked. It was the closest thing to a smile Peter had managed to elicit from her. "You want to be my lover."
Peter dropped the ice pack. He tried to lie to her, but couldn't. "Yes."
The girl in the window returned to her work. "It wouldn't satisfy you. It's better to not try."
"Not satisfy me?" Peter felt his cheeks warm. "I love you. I haven't thought of anything else since I first saw you sitting
here in the window."
"You didn't leave Sara satisfied."
"Do you know Sara?" Peter was now worried that any chance of being with this woman had already been blown. "Are
you friends with her?"
"I know her," she said. "I am not her friend. She's a writer."
"She tries to be. Guess she has problems getting inspiration," Peter said. "I've been trying to help her, but things got a little
messy."
"I can see that. I like to help writers as well."
"We have a lot in common, please give me a chance." He knew he sounded like he was begging. Hell, he was begging.
"Do we?"
"We're both writers. I love poetry. Can't you feel it? There's synchronicity in our meeting, like it was meant to be," he said.
The girl in the window looked up from her notebook again, but for the first time seemed interested in Peter. "Do you
believe in synchronicity?"
Surprised at her interest, Peter sat next to her ignoring the pain in his arm. "Yeah."
"Do you believe in archetypes?"
"I've read a lot of Jung's work. The semester I went to school, we dissected a lot of movies using Jungian archetypes,"
Peter said, glad to have something to talk about.
"If this were a story, what archetype would you be?" She asked.
Peter hoped this wasn't some sort of verbal trap. "The callow youth."
"Aren't you a little old for that?" She asked with a slight grin.
"Age is a state of mind."
"I quite agree. Very well, after your shift we can go out. Maybe you may take me home," she told him. "But only if you
leave me alone until then. I have work to do."
"Absolutely. Anything you want. And free coffee. What's your name?"
"Calliope."
"That's a beautiful name," Peter said, almost from rote.
The girl in the window ignored his reply. She was already writing once again.
The rest of Peter's shift passed very slowly. Peter snuck as many glimpses as he could get away with at Calliope, but she
did not acknowledge his existence again. When there were no customers waiting in line, Peter was unusually diligent in
cleaning up the lounge and washing the windows. The manager nodded with approval, but really Peter was trying to be
close to Calliope; to get a sense of her.
For an hour, she stared into her notebook and occasionally jotted down a sentence or two. Then, she looked up as though
a loud bang had startled her. She scanned around the room and finally focused on an old man with white hair in a
wrinkled, brown tweed suit. Smiling, she snapped the notebook shut and hopped off the windowsill. Peter desperately
wished he had made her smile like that. She sauntered over to the old man and introduced herself. Steaming the milk for a
drink, Peter couldn't hear the conversation due to the loud frothing noise of the machine.
The old man must be a professor, Peter theorized. The old man laughed so hard he had to wipe tears from his eyes.
Calliope joined him. It was weird to think of her laughing. He passed her a sheet of paper and she examined it. After a few
minutes of silence, she borrowed a pen and then carefully added something to the paper. She passed it back to the old man
and grinned. He stared at the paper and then smiled as though he'd just won the lottery.
"God! I hope she didn't give that old fart her phone number," Peter mumbled.
Calliope returned to her windowsill, obviously pleased with herself. The old man folded the paper in half and slipped it into
his inner jacket pocket. He waved at Calliope and dashed out the store.
Peter wanted to ask Calliope what that had been about, but he was afraid she'd cancel their dinner date.
After his shift, he cleaned himself up as best he could and returned to her side. She put a cap on her pen, slipped it into the
spine of her notebook, and then greeted him with a smile. "Where are we going?" she asked.
"Anywhere you want to go."
They strolled down Capital Hill. It was a beautiful night. The air was cool and smelled of wild flowers. "This area used to
be a ghetto, but now it's kind of trendy. Lots of yuppies and college students live here. This is kind of the gay Mecca in
Seattle," Peter said, desperate to end the silence.
The strip was lined with stores, tattoo parlors, and hole-in-the-wall restaurants. They stopped at the bronze statue of Jimi
Hendrix playing the guitar as though he were the god of rock. Calliope touched the statue's head softly. "He could play
with the best of them," she said, almost purring.
"I'm a big fan," Peter said, another lie.
"He worked very hard. Played until his fingers bleed for the gods," Calliope said.
"Too bad he died." He had been surprised by the almost reverent tone in Calliope's voice.
"He became a legend," Calliope replied. "It's what any artist really wants."
She led Peter up the block and into a bookstore overrun with cats. Peter hated cats, but tried to pet one to impress
Calliope. As she wandered from section to section, the cats playfully followed her as though she had been dipped in catnip
and tuna. "I've never seen the cats take to anyone so quickly," the clerk said.
"Find anything you like?" Peter asked.
"No." She didn't bother to hide the disappointment in her voice.
"If we hurry, we can make Charlie's before it closes. It's my favorite place here," Peter said.
Calliope nodded and wrapped her arm around Peter. He smiled. They walked two blocks until accosted by a man who
smelled like the bathroom stall at a carnival. His teeth were black and yellow; his skin flushed with alcohol and grime. He
wore a ragged, torn trench coat and ripped clothing. "Stories for a buck!" His words were slurred, but there was an
unmistakable excitement in his voice.
"Get out of here, ya bum!" Peter waved his hand at the man.
"Buy one," Calliope whispered.
Surprised, but still wanting to impress her, Peter fished dollar out of his pocket and handed it over to the man.
He gave Calliope a homemade chapbook. It was a typed pamphlet folded in two and stapled. "Thank you."
She smiled as she took the story and Peter again felt a twinge of jealousy at her apparent understanding of something he
couldn't.
The man waved in appreciation and wandered away. "You know helping him like that is only going to help him get drunk,"
Peter said.
"In ancient times, they'd say the gods judged a man by how he treated those that treat beggars," Calliope said. Again that
same tone of disappointment he had heard in the bookstore.
"There are shelters and programs. People live on the street because they want to."
"Perhaps."
Peter liked to take dates to Charlie's. The food was moderately priced and the atmosphere was warm and inviting. Some of
the wait staff went to his café so they always treated him well. Dates were usually impressed with the friendly
camaraderie, but Calliope didn't seem to notice.
The waiter, a short man with handsome Mediterranean features, brought two large menus. "Would you like anything to
drink?" he asked in a vaguely European accent.
Calliope looked up at him and spoke to him in a strange, rhythmic language. The waiter smiled and then replied in kind. He
laughed and then turned to Peter. "What can I get for you?"
"I'd like a pineapple and vodka, please," Peter said.
"Of course. Please excuse me." The waiter left the table.
"What language were you speaking?" Peter asked.
"Greek."
Calliope seemed very interested in watching the crowd at Charlie's. She ate her chicken salad quietly, savoring the meal.
Peter started to sweat. She seemed happy to be there, but didn't seem to care as much if he were there or not. After
dinner, Peter paid for the meal while Calliope went to the ladies room.
"What did she say to you?" Peter asked the waiter.
"Keep writing poetry."
Peter waited by the entrance to the bathrooms. Several minutes later, Calliope and an older woman with a blue shawl
exited together. "Thank you for that story. It will be perfect for our urban writers section," the old woman said. "And you
say he's homeless? Darn shame!"
"Thank you for taking the time to read it," Calliope said.
Calliope took Peter's arm and led him out onto the street. "Take me to your apartment," she whispered.
Peter quickly hailed a cab and the two of them went to his flat. During their trek up the flight of stairs, Peter mentally
steeled himself for the courage to kiss her. As he unlocked the door, the hallway echoed with thunder and then lit up for a
moment from a flash of lightning. "Wow, that's weird. There wasn't a cloud in the sky. Heh! I guess this is what you get
used to living in Seattle."
The gentle, soft sound of rain surrounded them. Through the windows, they could see flashes of lightning. Calliope smiled
then pushed Peter backwards onto the couch. "This is what you wanted, isn't it?"
"Yes, please." He found himself begging again.
She mounted him and put her hands upon his chest. Playfully, she brushed her dark curls across his face and then lightly
kissed his lips. Peter passionately returned the kiss. She ran her fingers across his chest and then tore his shirt open. Peter
gasped, but she just giggled. She slipped out of her dress and flung it to the floor. Her lithe body moved deftly like a snake.
Peter lifted his head to taste her perfect, pert breasts. Calliope pushed him back upon the couch, slowly grinding upon him.
She looked him in the eyes and then said, "This is going to be a night that you will never forget."
They made love in every room in the house. Peter was surprised that he could keep going. It was as though he were
possessed. Over the course of the night, their sex was sweet, passionate, animalistic, and then stinky, dirty crazy.
Afterwards, she sang him to sleep. He didn't understand the words, but the tone and inflections were beautiful. Peter
drifted asleep content.
In the morning, she was gone. Peter returned to work refreshed and vibrant. Between orders, he jotted down three short
poems and a haiku. By the afternoon, the feeling began to fade. By the evening, he was drained.
#
It took three months for Peter to lose his job. The manager tried to cover for him, but Peter's apathy ensured his
termination. Peter spent his days wandering from coffee shop to café to bars looking for Calliope and hastily scribbling
down poems or stories.
When his unemployment ran out eight months later, he lived with Brandon and continued his search. Peter lost interest in
eating and began to lose weight. Six months later, Brandon checked Peter into the hospital for malnourishment. Tied down
to a bed and receiving nourishment from a tube, Peter continued to write and sketch crude pictures of Calliope.
"Pete! You got to get this girl out of your head. She's gone. You need to eat," Brandon said.
Peter didn't reply. He rarely spoke. Once the doctors released him, Peter took to wandering the streets visiting potential
places he thought Calliope might visit. He begged on the street corners for money to buy paper and pens. Each day, he
walked his route looking for the girl in the window. Over the years, Peter became notorious as a local celebrity and was
even on the local news twice. As Peter's legend grew, local cafes fed him for the publicity and yuppies wanting local color
would buy his poems pieced together on dirty bar napkins. The legend of the girl in the window and her poet grew to a
national scale.
Peter continued his route each day stopping only to write, to sketch, and occasionally eat. Ten years later, Peter was
mostly forgotten except as an odd urban legend. He was begging for change downtown when he bumped into an attractive
looking woman in her early forties with short graying black hair and black, thick rimmed glasses. She was accompanied
by a young, blonde woman in her late teens.
"Excuse me, Miss. Do you have any spare change?" Peter asked.
The woman seemed to examine Peter. She seemed familiar somehow, but he saw thousands of women on the street daily.
"Peter?" she finally asked.
Peter stepped back. "Do I know you?"
The older woman looked at the younger woman with blonde hair and nodded. "I'm Sara. Remember?"
There were many women over the years, most of them forgotten. Sara was the girl before the Girl in the Window. She
was the last woman he had been with when he was whole. "Sara? The English Lit major?"
"Yes. Funny seeing you again after all this time." She shifted her feet a little.
Peter was shocked to run into anyone who knew his name and not the legend he had become. Although Sara had aged it
was not nearly as harsh as his progression. His hair, what remained, had turned gray. His teeth yellowed and his wrinkled
skin was pocked with scars, moles, and liver spots. Over the years, his health had declined and he knew he would be
lucky to last another Seattle winter on the streets.
"You wanted to be a writer." Peter said trying desperately to make a connection to someone from his previous life.
"She is a writer," the young blonde woman said. "She's published over thirty books. Three of them have been made
movies."
"This is my daughter, Jacinda," Sara said.
Peter looked at Sara and Jacinda. "That's an odd name."
"It's from Greek myth," Jacinda said. "Apollo was wounded in battle. He bled in the highlands. From that blood, flowers
sprang to life: Jacindas. A woman helped Mom with her writing just before I was born. She gave her the idea."
"Calliope." Peter took another step back.
"You remember her?" Sara asked. "She really helped me get started that first year or two; after you disappeared. I'd have
never been published if it weren't for her."
Jacinda had a familiar look about her. Like his mother, only less bitter. Her eyes were blue and the dimple on her chin
mirrored his. Looking into Sara's eyes confirmed this, Jacinda was his daughter. "Where's your Dad?" he asked.
"He died in a car accident before I was born," Jacinda said.
"That's too bad." Peter turned his gaze back to Sara, but she looked away.
"Mom, the store closes soon," Jacinda said.
"You should go. Thanks for saying hi."
Peter turned away from them before Sara could argue. Once he was out of their sight, he started running. He wanted to
feel the pain in his lungs and heart. He had given up everything for the dream of the girl in the window. Confused, he
wandered the streets hoping to find something to end his pain.
It was then that Peter found her. She was sitting in the same window sill of the Apropos Cafe, writing in a new notebook,
acting as though she had never left. At first, Peter thought he might be hallucinating. Calliope had not aged. She had been
frozen in time like the lovers on the Grecian Urn.
"Is that you, Calliope?"
Surprised to hear her name, the girl in the window looked up from her new notebook. "Do I know you?"
His arms were numb. It was difficult for him to wipe the sweat from his forehead. He took several deep breaths. "Peter.
My name is Peter."
There was a long pause. "Oh yes, I remember you. I trust you are well."
There was a sharp pain in his chest. "Well? Well? I've spent the last twenty years looking for you. I gave up everything.
I'm wasting away like that poem. And here you are, young and fresh. You burned my mind. When I sleep, I dream only of
you and that I can't have you. No other woman would do. I've tried drugs. Hell, the doctors used shock therapy on me
and you were still there. Why? I'm living a shell of a life because you have consumed my every moment since I met you. I
deserve to know. Why? Who are you?"
Calliope put the cap on her pen, and then put it in the spine of her notebook. "Very well. Long ago, my sisters departed the
world to that undreamed country from which no traveler returns and I have waited for the one who can bring them back.
You had the potential. But you squandered it on sex and coffee. The world needed better. So, I gave your inspiration to
Sara. She was a much better guardian."
With great effort, he forced himself to keep breathing. He stumbled onto the window sill next to her. Keeping his eyes
open was a herculean task. "What did you do to me?"
"Scientists say the world is made of atoms and particles and quarks. You and I know this is untrue. The universe is made
of stories, of archetypes, and of legends. You had the gift and yet you were afraid. You were lazy and you wanted the
glory without the work," Calliope said. "I granted your wish. Now, you are legend."
As he died, he thought of the life that could have been if he had not thrown it away for the girl in the window.
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