Our Man in Europe, now in Belize, Dave Delacroix: "RUSALKA; The Lady in the Lake."

 Our Man in Europe, now in Belize, working on my "foot-dangling" trying to be a Beach Bum, DAVE DELACROIX: "Rusalka, The Lady in the Lake" (après aria by composer Dvorak)

"Rusalka. The Lady in the Lake."

...I wasn't up to much. Damned ragged! Big night with a bottle of "Jack" & a gal called Lois? And then a botched Bank Robbery. I was IN on it, planned over a Poker game in Sherman Oaks but I'd failed to show up on time. The Crew? By the time I got there they were all arrested -"sans" clown masks. I'd advised that squirt water pistols weren't gonna do the job less they were instantly dehydrated - no one listens to me - the bank tellers of course pissed their pants, the squirrel of a bank manager - who'd enrolled in TAP-DANCING lessons had managed, even with: "Get down on the floor U Mudder! Unlock da Safe!!!" managed his toe-pinky sandal to press the banks secret alarm. And then he said, "I ain't the Manager. He don't come in till noon." The BOYS, exasperated, indicated they were in a hurry, the girl bank tellers by this time were afraid to giggle, the BOYS waggled their Water Pistols, but everyone then got reverent, so S-WHEN the COPS, with REAL GUNS showed up.

I wasn't up to much. S-why I'm ON THE RUN. I was an innocent bystander - a bit late - but I could tell by the "failed bank robber FELONS stares" - I was hanging cross the street, my timing- tardiness, they'd plea-bargain -Criminal Mastermind - get me in deep. I'd also cleaned them out the night before. There's NO SUCH THING as a "friendly game of POKER." Losers always hate your guts. Never-ever again will they buy U beer. (Lots to think about there?)

So, there I was. A Christopher Cross song. "I'm on the Run! Ride the Wind!" -up nigh in the California desert, Sierra-no place, the old I-15, now desolate due to the modern I-15 Interstate highway up by yonder. But here, a lost highway, AMERICANA-PROGRESSO, miles & miles of broken Gas stations, derelict Motels, blank-gaudy road signs, abandoned-rusted Pontiac convertibles, a few up-turned skeletal slot machines that once promised gold, a Jack Kerouac's "On the Road" highway memory, sand-grit embalming. Creepy!

I wasn't up to much. Cops SURE - my bleating bank robber crew spewing their guts - Cops would be on my trail. I'm in THE DESERT here don't U know? But one thing 'bout the desert, the MOJAVE...when it RAINS, it POURS & this desert turns into a botanical garden. It happens once or twice in every decade. Lakes, outta nowhere FORM!

So, there I was. Sitting by this LAKE. Cops on my trail. Whistling DIXIE wasn't an option. The Bank Crew would sell me down the "lazy River", probably get me a 15-year stretch/never see LOIS till she/I was old & grey SO a suicide option, a suicide NOTE. Goddam it. I only had a Pencil, not even a Pen; jeeze, by this lake U don't know the meaning of heartbreak? And there I was, simpering, a-ruing when RUSALKA appeared out of this Lake! Bikini. A laurel round her head.

Yet BUSTED! BEAT! She still waded over. She lent me $20. Which I promised to pay her back. We collectively tweedled desert sand between our toes. Night fell. Slumber. I guess she disappeared, maybe back into that transient lake...A heart gone. Her name was Rusalka. European? I never saw her again.

c.2026. dave delacroix