Party with... Ellis Boyd "Red" Redding!
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This suggestion (which I'm sure will be one of many) came from a rather charming fella (okay, my husband) over at The High Stinkin', who happens to harbor a soft spot for Frank Darabonte. I fall too easily for the same characters and wanted a bit of a challenge outside of what I might normally choose. Obviously, Red isn't too far beyond my radar. I love The Shawshank Redemption. I have a quote by Red on my wall. I vividly remember "studying" this movie in film class.
"It was bluer," he says, gesticulating grandly before picking up his bottle again. "For months, I used to wake up and just lie with my eyes shut tight, afraid that this had all been some pleasant dream. I used to wait until I felt the sway of the waters beneath me and tasted the salt air before I could convince myself that this was real. But that blue. You ever seen anything that blue?"
I don't answer him right away. I don't think he's fishing for a response, so we just stare out into the ocean for a moment and sip our bohemian-style beers.
"Zihuatanejo," he whispers. The word rolls from his tongue like the pet name of an old lover. "Sounds like music."
His boat Gilda rocks gently in the safe harbor of the beach cove. I've followed his lead and kicked off my sandals in favor of wiggling toes under the Mexican sun. He devours his fish taco while I contemplate my next move on the chess board. I'm not much one for chess and neither is he. Or so he claims.
"But it's Andy's favorite, so I've learned," he says. "Me, I'm still a checkers man myself." He pulls out an old harmonica from his pants pocket and fiddles with a tune while I examine my pieces. I gaze past my stone-carved king, into the face of a friend that has grown younger somehow over the years. Still in his classic backwards cap, but clad in cuffed linen pants and leather flip flops instead of prison blues and borrowed boots.
"You still have a knack for getting things?" I ask.
"I'm known to locate certain things from time to time," he says with wink. "What exactly are you looking for?"
"At the moment, a better strategy. I think you're fixing to ambush me, Red."
He just chuckles and plays on.
I move my bishop across the board. His eyebrows jump for just a second then turn innocently toward the horizon.
"Where's Andy?"
"Oh, he's around. He'll be back soon enough. You'll hear him coming."
I wonder what he means by that but again, let it go. The sun's making me drowsy and apathetic. I adjust my straw hat and tip back my bottle.
"Another beer?"
"Sure, Red. Another beer."
"How 'bout you, Brooks? Want a treat?" he calls into the shadows of the boat where a scruffy red mutt pricks his ears at his master's voice. The dog crosses the boat to retrieve his piece of fish and a scratch then returns to his spot in the shade. "That ugly thing just wandered into our bait shop one day. Took right to Andy. He warmed to me after a while and hasn't left my side since."
"He ever run away?"
"Never crosses his mind, I think. Out on the wide ocean and the dumb thing just lies on the deck while we take a swim. Andy says some dogs like small spaces, you know? Makes them feel safer. I just say he's a little institutionalized, too used to a cage or a den. So I let him be."
From our seat on the deck, I catch Rita Hayworth staring at me. I can't help but wonder if something is hidden behind the large poster; life vests perhaps, an emergency supply of beer, or just a really shiny pair of shoes. I turn back to the game but something in the trees distracts me.
"What is that?" I ask, pointing into the dense tropical green. Red squints over his sunglasses.
"A honeycreeper, damned pretty things." And it is; cerulean like the Pacific water just past the reef.
"Most of the species in Hawai'i are extinct or near so," I mention. The thought of one last lonely bird singing into an empty forest, calling out for a mate but hearing only his own echo, it breaks my heart. But adapt or die, (or 'get busy living or get busy dying', as another put it), I suppose and those delicate creatures couldn't fight off the invasive species that threatened their survival. "I think they tried to breed a few in captivity," I say. "But it didn't work."
"Some birds aren't meant to be caged. Their feathers are just too bright," Red says with a shake of his head and pushes his queen forward on the board. "Before I forget," he adds. "I'd like you to have something, a token of your trip."
Ugh, is the first thought in my mind. No actual words slip out, thankfully. It looks like something my grandmother might have purchased for me on a trip into Waikiki. Yep, exactly the kind of kitschy, gawdy trinket a thoughtful grandparent might give... And hell, it probably did come from some tourist trap along the beach, but the gesture was still overwhelming and sweet.
"Been fixated on these sea stars of late. Andy's been teaching me about sea life too."
"Well, thanks, Red."
"You're welcome," he says with a smile. "And, also, checkmate."
Crap. I knew I was being played.
A woman's voice drifts over the waves like a Siren through the Grecian fog.
Sull'aria... she calls...
Che soave zeffiretto... another joins...
"Zeffiretto," I whisper to myself.
Red listens with his eyes closed, positively transported. Even Brooks seems entranced by the music.
Andy's here.
I sip my beer and watch his boat slowly coast towards our own. His vessel appears to float above the waves.
The Pacific, a warm place with no memory perhaps, but the kind of salvation they've found doesn't rise up from the tropical waters, it rests deep within the human soul. They can long for their hindsight lost though the tragic past never truly leaves us.
Yet for a moment, hope can lift us up above the muck and mire, above the heartache of reality, and "through five hundred yards of shit smelling foulness I can't even imagine" to a warm place that does have a memory. Hope is the constructed fragments of happy memory projected into the safe otherness of elsewhere and someday.
Memory of the ocean blue.
Of a warm handshake with an old friend.
Of the occasional handwritten letter.
Of an ice cold beer with the sun on your shoulders.
Of faith rewarded and long, dark days redeemed.
Happy weekend, Party-Goers. Remember: "hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies."
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| via blog |
I've never read the Stephen King novella on which The Shawshank Redemption is based, but I do know that in Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redeption, Ellis Boyd Redding is a middle-aged Irishman and it was Frank Darabonte who read the script with only Morgan Freeman in mind. Hence the joke, in the movie about his name being "Red," to which he responds: "Maybe it's because I'm Irish." Can you imagine the movie being narrated by any other voice besides Morgan Freeman's? I sure can't. (sidebar: fun AMC quiz on Shawshank trivia)
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| via blog |
Andy Dufresne:
That's the beauty of music. They can't get that from you... Haven't you ever felt that way about music?
Red: I played a mean harmonica as a younger man. Lost interest in it though. Didn't make much sense in here.
Andy Dufresne: Here's where it makes the most sense. You need it so you don't forget.
Red: Forget?
Andy Dufresne: Forget that... there are places in this world that aren't made out of stone. That there's something inside... that they can't get to, that they can't touch. That's yours.
Red: What're you talking about?
Andy Dufresne: Hope.
Red: I played a mean harmonica as a younger man. Lost interest in it though. Didn't make much sense in here.
Andy Dufresne: Here's where it makes the most sense. You need it so you don't forget.
Red: Forget?
Andy Dufresne: Forget that... there are places in this world that aren't made out of stone. That there's something inside... that they can't get to, that they can't touch. That's yours.
Red: What're you talking about?
Andy Dufresne: Hope.
The prison of the body and the liberation of the spirit. Beautiful... Still, I wish someone would give it a much cooler poster. I kind of always hated this one because firstly, it gives away the best moment in the movie and secondly, the kind of hope that Andy has is quiet, less dramatic (and less sepia toned) than the poster connotes. But it's a film from the 90s. Can't be picky, right?
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| via wikipedia |
Party with... Ellis Boyd "Red" Redding!
"It was bluer," he says, gesticulating grandly before picking up his bottle again. "For months, I used to wake up and just lie with my eyes shut tight, afraid that this had all been some pleasant dream. I used to wait until I felt the sway of the waters beneath me and tasted the salt air before I could convince myself that this was real. But that blue. You ever seen anything that blue?"
I don't answer him right away. I don't think he's fishing for a response, so we just stare out into the ocean for a moment and sip our bohemian-style beers.
"Zihuatanejo," he whispers. The word rolls from his tongue like the pet name of an old lover. "Sounds like music."
 |
| via blog |
"But it's Andy's favorite, so I've learned," he says. "Me, I'm still a checkers man myself." He pulls out an old harmonica from his pants pocket and fiddles with a tune while I examine my pieces. I gaze past my stone-carved king, into the face of a friend that has grown younger somehow over the years. Still in his classic backwards cap, but clad in cuffed linen pants and leather flip flops instead of prison blues and borrowed boots.
 |
| linen pants, sunnies, straw cap, flip flops, t-shirt, harmonica |
"I'm known to locate certain things from time to time," he says with wink. "What exactly are you looking for?"
"At the moment, a better strategy. I think you're fixing to ambush me, Red."
He just chuckles and plays on.
I move my bishop across the board. His eyebrows jump for just a second then turn innocently toward the horizon.
"Where's Andy?"
"Oh, he's around. He'll be back soon enough. You'll hear him coming."
I wonder what he means by that but again, let it go. The sun's making me drowsy and apathetic. I adjust my straw hat and tip back my bottle.
 |
| chambray blouse, sunnies, sandals, straw hat, earrings, maxi skirt |
"Sure, Red. Another beer."
"How 'bout you, Brooks? Want a treat?" he calls into the shadows of the boat where a scruffy red mutt pricks his ears at his master's voice. The dog crosses the boat to retrieve his piece of fish and a scratch then returns to his spot in the shade. "That ugly thing just wandered into our bait shop one day. Took right to Andy. He warmed to me after a while and hasn't left my side since."
"He ever run away?"
"Never crosses his mind, I think. Out on the wide ocean and the dumb thing just lies on the deck while we take a swim. Andy says some dogs like small spaces, you know? Makes them feel safer. I just say he's a little institutionalized, too used to a cage or a den. So I let him be."
 |
| chess set, rita hayworth, dog, fish tacos, beer |
"What is that?" I ask, pointing into the dense tropical green. Red squints over his sunglasses.
 |
| via blog |
"Most of the species in Hawai'i are extinct or near so," I mention. The thought of one last lonely bird singing into an empty forest, calling out for a mate but hearing only his own echo, it breaks my heart. But adapt or die, (or 'get busy living or get busy dying', as another put it), I suppose and those delicate creatures couldn't fight off the invasive species that threatened their survival. "I think they tried to breed a few in captivity," I say. "But it didn't work."
"Some birds aren't meant to be caged. Their feathers are just too bright," Red says with a shake of his head and pushes his queen forward on the board. "Before I forget," he adds. "I'd like you to have something, a token of your trip."
 |
| via yesstyle |
"Been fixated on these sea stars of late. Andy's been teaching me about sea life too."
"Well, thanks, Red."
"You're welcome," he says with a smile. "And, also, checkmate."
Crap. I knew I was being played.
Sull'aria... she calls...
Che soave zeffiretto... another joins...
"Zeffiretto," I whisper to myself.
Red listens with his eyes closed, positively transported. Even Brooks seems entranced by the music.
Andy's here.
I sip my beer and watch his boat slowly coast towards our own. His vessel appears to float above the waves.
 | ||
| via blog |
Yet for a moment, hope can lift us up above the muck and mire, above the heartache of reality, and "through five hundred yards of shit smelling foulness I can't even imagine" to a warm place that does have a memory. Hope is the constructed fragments of happy memory projected into the safe otherness of elsewhere and someday.
Memory of the ocean blue.
Of a warm handshake with an old friend.
Of the occasional handwritten letter.
Of an ice cold beer with the sun on your shoulders.
Of faith rewarded and long, dark days redeemed.
 |
| via blog |
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