Enigma Jones 1

Enigma Jones

Chapter 1

You don't know me, and you wouldn't recognize me if I walked by you on the street, but you've heard my name. Well, not my name, but my 'professional' name.

Enigma Jones. Yeah, that Enigma Jones, lyricist on five of the top twenty songs published in the last four years, and three more in the top twenty, all sung by the fantastic duo Starshine. Oddly enough, Starr is her real name. Star Winston, to be exact. She told me once they added another R to the end of her name for effect. I didn't think it would really matter if her professional name were Bucket Of Toads With Huge Slimy Warts. She'd still be one of the hottest singers in the universe, but Starr suited her.

She and I went to college together, a very liberal arts college in the mountains of North Carolina. We were even required to do at least eight hours of physical work weekly. Starr and I met on a tree-planting crew. She was a light-skinned stunner with a fantastically sculpted body, and I was a tongue-tied, skinny white nerd of epic proportion. At least, that's the image I projected. I didn't speak a word the first three weeks we worked together.

One thing I never could get in check was being brutally honest, and on the fourth week, she confronted me. "Are you afraid of black women?"

The comment startled me, and then I surprised her by grinning. "Oddly enough, very little scares me except women. But tell me, what would I say to you? That I love your hair? That when you move, you exhibit lithe and grace unimagined? That even in ripped jeans, hair in that messy bun, and a dirty tee shirt, I think you're one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen, and we have nothing in common? All true, but that would be incredibly cheesy, wouldn't it? No, I prefer to bask in your presence and be happy for the little favor God did for me today." Our day was over by then, so I told her to have a good weekend and left her standing.

I may be young, but I learned early that the thing people hate most is a mystery. Deep down in our DNA, something profound makes us want to know. What are they doing? What are they thinking? Why are they attracted to this person but not that one? She was all over me the next time we were working. "You never did answer me the other day. Are you afraid of black women?"

"I'm afraid of all women, especially the beautiful ones. Once you get past the basics, your thought patterns are completely foreign to any man. I guess that makes me terrified of you."

Once again, she had to work it out in her head. "Let me rephrase that. Have you ever dated or been intimate with a black woman? Do you date at all? I never see you with anyone."

Now then, had she been checking up on me? "I have dated black women. I've also dated white women, a charming woman from Bombay, an Arabic princess from Dubai, and was briefly considering marriage with a woman from Taiwan."

"A real princess? Why didn't you marry the Chinese woman?"

"Miss Winston, where is this need to know coming from? And no, she was a metaphorical princess, and Miss Lee decided she loved her home country more than me. Have you dated men or women of other colors, if that's the case? And I could say the same about you. I haven't seen you in the company of others this semester."

She grinned. "You've watched me?"

"Don't be immodest. It doesn't suit you. Of course, I noticed. Every man and many women watch you and wonder what it would be like to be attached to you."

"I'm like you, concentrating on my career post-college. Romance and commitment are on the back burner, and I'm not a switch hitter." We worked for a while, me punching the holes while she dropped the seedlings in. We were the best team in the program, and we both liked the thought that if we returned to the college in later years, we could see a forest where we planted most of the trees.

Once the block was removed, we talked freely. "You're not nearly as shy and nerdy as you let on. Why?"

"Because it keeps me from being bothered. People look at me and think, no, he doesn't need to be at my party, and they let me be."

"That's important to you?"

I waved my arm. "Look around, Star. This is a liberal college, and half the people we're working with are at least partially high. Nine times out of ten, the education they get here won't help them in later life. I don't want that."

"So what do you want to do, then?"

I couldn't surprise her any more than I did. "I intend to be a potter. You know, coffee mugs, plates, whiskey jugs, pitchers, that sort of thing. I may do a little sculpting for my pleasure, but no face jugs. I hate those things."

She seemed amazed. "There's money in that?"

"More than enough for a good living, and if you get famous, like Burlon Craig or Sid Luck, you make really good money. I don't have to worry about clay; my uncle owns sixty acres in Catawba County, and there are enough clay deposits on it to last me a hundred lifetimes. I've been accumulating equipment since I was sixteen. I even got a mule-powered old-fashioned grinder, but I won't go that route. I'll put an electric motor on it instead. I've got several modern and antique pottery wheels, one that's foot-powered, scales, and shapers. I need a building when I graduate, and I'll be good to go."

"Are you any good?"

I showed her a series of photos of work I'd done. "Most of these are at the museum in the state capitol, part of an expo on up-and-coming state potters."

Star admired the jugs and liked the seasonal figurines I'd done of snowmen and Christmas trees. Then, I switched the conversation around to her.

"What's your major?"

She didn't seem that enthused when she said she was studying music, even though the college had one of the best programs in the region. The department chairman was a well-known roots musician with probably twenty albums to his credit and was a guest player on the recordings of many famous musicians. "Don't you like the program?"

"It's one of the best in the state, but I don't want to study music; I want to make music. I've got a perfect set of pipes; I could be a star with the right combination of management, production, and songs.

I grinned. "Star the star. Tell me, are you more interested in the songs or the stardom?"

"I want both. Good songs that will still be remembered in fifty years, and all the money to go with it."

"It's good to have a dream, but from everything I read, it's tough to achieve. I wish you luck."

Chapter 2

We drifted into an easy, uncomplicated friendship. She lived in the dorms, but I had a little money, so I rented a two-bedroom apartment right off campus. The bus ran right by my front door. I had a car, but this was just so much easier. She'd never been to my apartment, and I was surprised to find her at my door one evening. It was pouring rain, cold rain, and she was soaked.

"Star! What are you doing here?"

"Seeking shelter from the rain. Gonna let me in?"

"What? Oh, sure!"

It was a miserable October evening, the leaves long gone, leaving gray trunks against a background of gray rain. It was my least favorite time of the year. She came in shivering and couldn't seem to stop. After a few minutes, I showed her the shower, gave her a sweatsuit, and shut the door. I'd just about bet there was no hot water left when she was done. She looked great in the living room, still toweling her hair. "I guess a hair dryer is too much to ask?"

"Nope. Drip dry tonight." She laughed and wrapped her hair in yet another towel. Looked like I'd be doing laundry soon. While she was in the shower, I'd brewed a pot of tea made from dry marigold flowers, lemon thyme, and just a hint of peppermint. One of our friends was studying herbal medicine, and the college had the third-best program in the country, after a school in California and one of the Ivy League colleges. He, too, was a dorm rat, and he'd come by occasionally when he needed a private place to try out his concoctions. Some were bland, some were like this and quite good, and some I forbid him to ever make again in my house, but they all had medicinal properties.

She took a sip and smiled. "Julio's?"

"One of his better ones, and it keeps colds and cases of flu at bay. I figured you could use it. If you put honey in it, it's also supposed to be good for your voice."

"Got any honey?"

I did have a small jar of organic, courtesy of the school's apiary program. She put in half a teaspoon and grinned. "You should try it this way."

"I don't particularly like sweeteners; besides, I don't have a throat to protect. Pizza?"

"Who turns down pizza?"

While we waited for delivery, we took her soaked clothing to the dryer. She dropped her stuff, and I helped pick it up, grinning when her pink bra and matching panties fell out. I picked them up before she could react. "Well, now, 36C and size 7, I'm impressed. Now I know."

She snatched them back, glowing. "Now you do, but that is something you're never, ever going to share, understood?"

I smirked. "I'm sure your bra size has been a hot topic of debate since you showed up here. Now I can grin at them because I know."

The pizza came, and although it was oversized and overloaded with toppings, we ate it all. Star drank two craft ciders I had in the refrigerator, and they were pretty potent. Stuffed and buzzed, she fell asleep on one end of the sofa, and I quickly joined her at my end. I woke a few hours later to find we'd readjusted and were snuggled together. I looked at the clock. Three in the morning. I shook her awake and led her to the second bedroom, and I don't think she ever fully woke because she was snoring before I turned the lights off.

Chapter 3

I was up and fixing breakfast when she walked in. "Mornin'," she said as she poured coffee. "What happened?"

"We overate, you drank more than you should, and we crashed. I woke up at three and decided there was no way in hell I was going out in that cold rain to haul your butt home. You zombied your way to bed."

She looked horrified for a second. "Did I snore?"

I started to make up a story about three or four chainsaws going simultaneously but decided not to. "If you did, it wasn't loud enough to wake me. Over easy or scrambled?"

"Scrambled." She laughed when I gave her the plate. "Sausage and bacon. Do the resident vegans know you're a carnivore?"

"You'd be amazed at what the resident vegans and I don't have in common. Now then, why did you come by last night?"

"Angie."

Angie was her roommate and the resident slut. I usually didn't label people, but she seemed proud of it. She'd stated her aim was to fuck her way through college and then settle down when she graduated. I guess everyone has goals in life. Angie had been to the free clinic twice this year, and it was only October. Star didn't choose her as a roommate; that was done arbitrarily. Once the semester started, you could swap, but no one wanted her because she brought her lovers home.

"I was tired of hearing her scream 'Fuck me harder!' while some random guy pounded her. Sometimes, it wasn't just one; a few thought I was into what they did. I had to pepper spray one guy, and last night, I couldn't take it anymore. You were the safest person I could imagine, so I came here. Are you mad?"

I paused, making her nervous. "No, not about that. I'm a little ticked you called me safe. I have a reputation to uphold."

"Don't worry. I remember Becca from last year, and the word is Sabrina is a happy woman this semester. You'd never presume anything, which makes you safe."

"I'll work on that. Do you need to go back any time soon?"

She looked a bit sad. "Are you kicking me out?"

"Not at all, but I had something I wanted to do. There's a pottery expo at the Center today. It's a tour they organize this time of year that features a lot of potters, and I always go to steal ideas."

"I'd love to see what gets you excited. Do I need to change?"

"No, the jeans and top you wore yesterday will be fine."

I'd cleaned them, and she went to change, calling out from the bedroom. "I can't find my bra!"

"Oh, I'm keeping that as a memento."

"You are not!"

I grinned, picking it up where she'd dropped it. Opening the door a crack to toss it in, I managed to get a good glimpse at a LOT of boobs as she squealed. "Well, it's pretty obvious you don't need padding."

"Asshole!" Then she followed it by giggling, coming out in her bra, her top in her hand. "Go ahead, get a good look."

"I believe I'll do that very thing. This calls for a close inspection." I started towards her, and she shrieked before running back into the bedroom and slamming the door. A few minutes later, she was out, fully dressed. It was still slamming a cold, hard rain down, so I gave her a purple hoodie lined for warmth and waterproof. She looked like a little girl in it, and she liked it so much I never got it back.

It was gratifying to expose her to my world; she wandered the exhibit halls, oohing at some of the things she saw. It irritated me that she liked face jugs so much, but to each their own. We were winding down when she stopped in front of a booth. There were no face jugs, but it was still pretty eye-catching. Star was looking at a two-handled, oversized mug, glazed in a blue/green seafoam, with what looked like a little wave cresting along the top.

"I love that!" She picked it up carefully, examining every side, before she looked at the price. She sat it down sadly. "I could never afford this, even though it's worth it. Do you think you could do something like this for me?"

"Probably not exactly. What I love most about pottery is that every piece you throw is different. Pick a set of four cups or plates, and if you look closely, you'll see something just a bit different about every one of them. It's time to go; they'll be closing in a few minutes; let's use the bathroom and find some lunch."

I waited until she went into the bathroom and made a quick detour. Lunch was at a local Mexican place run by three real Mexicans and a woman from Guatemala. Everything they made was true to traditional recipes, all full-flavored and delicious. She finished her plate with a sigh. "Thanks for the day and the shelter last night. I guess it's time to face Slutzilla. You don't happen to have earplugs, do you?"

"You want to swing by and get a change of clothes? The bedroom is still available."

"Really?"

"No, not really. What man in his right man wants a beautiful woman in the same space? Forget I asked."

Giggling, she told me I'd already seen her doing a drowned rat imitation and with serious bedhead, so I should be safe. "This won't interfere with any plans, will it?"

"Well, I was going to have Sabrina over, and she's hinted several times she's bi, so a three-way would be a perfect ending to the day. Maybe she'll let us take pictures. Seriously, I had no plans. How about you?"

"You know I'm not dating anyone now."

"Well, okay then. Let's go home."

Chapter 4

We made dinner together, a soup I was partial to and suited to the season. It had potatoes, carrots, leeks, onions, and celery cooked in chicken broth with shredded chicken breasts. The spices I added made it that much more fragrant. I toasted some craftsman bread I'd picked up at the local bakery, slathering it with butter and garlic. The smell seeped out of the oven, and her stomach growled, making her glow red.

I grinned. "Time to eat."

The look on her face was worth it when she saw the mug she'd admired sitting on the table. "Where did this come from?"

"From me. Check the bottom."

She turned it over, seeing the initials D O and a crude outline of a bird. That was my signature, Darrin Osprey. I often wondered how I came to bear the name of a bird, but it was what it was.

"You made this?"

"I did. It's one of a series, and that was the last one left."

Star didn't even pretend not to accept it, giving me a toe-curling kiss in gratitude. We scooped our soup, covered it with cheese and bread chunks, and ate like pigs, finishing half the pot. She sighed and told me how stuffed she was, but her eyes widened when I pulled out the brownies the bakery was famous for. Rumor had it that if you were a good enough friend, the baker would make you a batch of 'special' brownies. She ate two.

We tried watching a chick flick on Netflix, but once again, she was out before the halfway point. I woke her up before sending her to bed, giving her a shirt to sleep in. She kissed me like a half-asleep little girl and shut the door.

Chapter 5

As luck would have it, Angie flunked out at the end of the semester, her grades so low that her parents snatched her up in a rage and took her home. Rumor has it that they put her in community college and told her she was on her own if she flunked out of that. It got too cold to plant trees, so we helped where we were assigned to get our mandatory hours in.

She hated what they had her doing, and I finagled around until she was assigned to my team. We maintained the ceramics department, inventorying materials, cleaning, and doing anything else that needed doing. She met most of the others in my field of study, which wasn't pottery per se but ceramic design, and widened her circle of friends.

She still came by and stayed the night every two weeks, and I always enjoyed her visits. She talked about a band she had been asked to join, and I grunted. I had heard them, and they weren't that talented. It offended her, but she joined, lasting a month before she got tired of them hitting on her or showing up for shows stoned.

She was complaining to me, and I grinned. She stopped in midrant, seeing my grin. "Fuck you! Go ahead and say it!"

"Say what?"

"Whatever's on your mind!"

"Okay then. Pizza or Chinese?"

"What?"

"What?"

She had her new roommate with her, and she was rolling around on the floor. "OMG! Could you guys not sound so married? I vote Chinese."

"So do I, Annie. Call up Ling Ho Fuks and order for us." You had to admire a man who named his place after the one in the song Werewolves Of London. He even had a pair of fake werewolf heads over the counter. I've eaten Chinese food worldwide, including Hong Kong and mainland China, in the years since, and I still prefer his. Annie and Star got into the wine, so I gave them my bed and slept in the second bedroom.

They didn't get trashed enough to get sick, but they moved mighty slow the following day, perking up at the pancakes, bacon, and ham. "If Star doesn't hook you, can I have you?"

Star and I colored, and she went to get dressed. Coming out of my bedroom later with a funny look, holding my little three-string guitar. "What is this?"

"It's a guitar."

"It looks like a cigar box with a stick up its butt. Can you play it?"

I took it from her and enjoyed how their mouths hung open when I ripped through Ain't No Rest For The Wicked, doing slide leads while I played along on harmonica.

"Why didn't you tell me you could play?" Star seemed a little angry.

"It never seemed relevant. Besides, it's just for fun, and I hardly touch them anymore."

Star might have missed it, but Annie honed in on the statement. "Them?"

I let out a breath of air. "Yes, them. I've also got a four-string, a resonator, and a bass."

They insisted they get to see them and dragged them out of the closet into the living room. Annie knew a little about instruments and was impressed with the bass. "What year?"

It was a 1965 Fender Precision. My grandfather bought it new, and when he passed, he put it in his will that I have it. It came with two amps: a little 25-watt for practice and a 60-watt he used when he played small clubs. Both were from the same year, but they performed just fine.

Then they found my 10-watt Vox Modeling amp, loaded with features, including a drum machine and looping.