Searching For Casablanca
Ray Rasmussen

"It's ... that mysterious city … where things are new and strange, the place where something interesting can happen to you ... Some part of Casablanca is the lovely dark-haired lady who beckons from the doorway.” The Night the Gods Smiled, Eric Wright

Bob and I were up early to begin a 2-week excursion to the Canyon Country of Southern Utah, some 1400 miles south. We've crossed the Canadian border into Idaho where severe winds are trying push our car off the road. Ahead, downed power lines block the highway and the highway patrol directs us into the small town of Duncan. Stuck here for the night, we walk the four blocks long main street looking for a pool table. In the first bar, a haze of cigarette smoke floats in the neon light. The patrons lean wearily on the bar, look as if they're barely eking out the little bit of life that hasn’t yet been kicked out of them. No dark-haired lady here.

smell of stale beer—
the slow turn
of ceiling fans

We find a once elegant hotel, The Carlisle, with a patched pool table. As we play, we discuss Wright's book and I recount a trip to Hull, Quebec with my friend Harvey who insisted on taking me to a strippers' bar. For a small fee, a young woman just skirting anorexia danced on our table. After an overlong period of watching her lifeless gyrations and feeling increasingly awkward at having her shaved pelvis circling directly over my beer, I told Harvey that I was ready to leave.

“Why so early?”

Because Casablanca is about a dark-haired femme fatale, not a skinny adolescent controlled by tattooed pimps in a room filled with depressed men. And, like Wright’s character, David, I’ve never wanted a woman that I would have to pay for.

Most often, my Casablancas come as a surprise. I once guided 10 hikers in a wild, untouched place in the Northern Rocky Mountains. One evening, I caught a glimpse of Jenny leaving the sweat lodge that we had built on the grassy banks of a stream. She had the pearly skin of a redhead and a blush of rust below her belly. The next day, she hiked with me and said: “I dreamed about you last night.”

“Yeah … good dreams?”

“Very good,” she said. “We were kissing in a meadow.”

I counted my blessings and entered Casablanca.

Bob’s voice breaks my reverie: "Quit daydreaming and shoot the bloody ball!"

college girls giggle
at a nearby table
another lost game

Comments

[Yu Chang]

On the walkway to Mount Olympus (girl's dorm at Syracuse University), someone's scribble caught my eye,

"If you love some thing, let it go. If it comes back to you, it's
yours. If it doesn't, it never was."

later on that day, a good friend gave me another one to ponder.

"If you want something, go for it. If you don't get it, at least you
have tried, and you don't have to say 'I should have..'too often
in the future."

That happened a long time ago.

Thanks for the journey, Ray. Enjoyed the haibun very much.
Genuine, un-adorned, and the mystery is still there.

giggles
from the next table
I smile back

Thanks again.
Yu

[aurora]

I know very little about haibun, having written less than five, and only having one publised, but I just wanted to say I read this, and ask why in the world you don't write short stories? :) There's a shortage of quality fiction out there, and you ought to jump right in, Ray.

[david giacalone]

Yep, Ray, Aurora better invite you to the MagnaPoets short story weblog. Thanks for reminding me of my restaurant longing.

dessert cart –
four coeds
at the next table

[aurora]

David, Ray's got an open invitation to the Short Story blog (unlike SOME people around here):). I'm also hoping he'll jump in on the Essay one.

[Ray]

Thanks for the comments on this haibun. As to short stories or short/flash fiction, I guess I see the haibun as having several essential differences. A haibun is a personal account of something in the recent past or a memory. As such the writer is present and the piece is self-revelatory. In addition, there is the matter of the linkage between prose and haiku--part of what makes a good haibun sing. Finally, a haibun, while likely embellishing the reported event, isn't strictly speaking fiction ... something entirely imagined. Having said that, some published haibun do present fantasy and dream states.
A reason I like the form is that it is a way of speaking in a very personal way about ones own life journey and sharing it with others. If the prose is evocative, immediate, people take the journey with you but realizing that it's a real journey they are sharing. Different than fiction, neh?
Ray

[Masago]

Hi Ray,
Enjoyed the haibun and your comments in the comment section.
~Vaughn