YuleKing
Overcast, save for in the North, where in a bare patch of sky, a branch of five stars lay, as though it had fallen upward, off one of the trees outside Patty’s cabin, their limbs street corners for crickets, busking ceaselessly, interrupted occasionally by an owl, who’s been there these two years, ever since she got this whole project down, every hoo-hoo a fist into her side, which had gone from feeling like a cramp, to a tear, to now, no matter how much turmeric root or how little orange wine she took in —she re-entered the cabin and approached the wood stove, and lifted from its hot surface a kettle, simmering all the way to the kitchen counter, and over her fresh grounds, which arrived every week along with her groceries, and several pallets of long-burn firewood: her lifeblood, delivered faithfully to her doorstep atop a stinking mountain (with breathtaking views of the valley’s water treatment facilities), unpopulated but for Patty’s shed down the road, which could be found on AirBnb under The Belvedere, now in its peak season, a steady stream of guests babbling faintly below, a stream you could never step in twice, for there were never repeat visitors, by design—she was sipping her coffee and monitoring the flames when she heard the knocking, and, suspecting one of the lumber racks outside to have purged its contents, made for the door with a groan, where she saw through the screen, a girl, wearing an oversized university hoodie and sandals, and a haggard look, and a diffident voice (“Hi Patty?”), and out of shock, Patty was silent for a moment, watching her guest shiver in the autumn night, before responding “Hi,” and was about to say more, when the girl bristled, entered into a speech re: the abject lack of towels in The Belvedere, and before Patty knew it, she had been bludgeoned by the AirBnb code of conduct regarding livable conditions: she must provide a minimum of two towels for the four women staying on the premises, or face expulsion from the platform, and, owing to the importance of that revenue in Patty’s affairs, expulsion from the mountain itself; it would not do, so Patty, in spite of her aching side and the owl and the girl, bestowed a smile and an invite inside, and asked warmly for the girl’s name (“Hannah”), if she was in college (“We just graduated”), if she would like some coffee (“Yes”), what brought her over here so late (“I couldn’t sleep, so I was going to shower – What’s the camera for?”) and now Patty looked at the device set upon its tripod, aimed at the wood stove, sitting before a miniature wall of stone bricks, against which various iron tools were set, and felt all was lost, and so finally asked: “Have you heard of YuleKing?” and in the ruby glow Hannah’s face lifted first to Patty (“No Way!”) then back to the camera, (“My stepmom is a Patron! Her TV is basically a fireplace machine! My dog sits in front of it like it’s real!”) and she drew her phone from the hoodie’s front-pocket, dug for a moment, then held out to Patty a photo of a golden retriever lounging before a fireplace recording; gracing the bottom-right corner of the screen in regal font was the name YULEKING, and when Hannah withdrew the phone Patty realized she had been searching the photo for details, clues to the mystery of this girl who knew her for her C-list internet stardom (“This is crazy – I always thought you were… older”), bringing Patty great satisfaction, satisfaction she decided to indulge by offering a survey of her home/operation: this was the kitchen/Rustic Room, where bold fires blazed in simple environs, granting live viewers the license to be freely with themselves as they dozed off; next was the living room/Elegant Room, with the heat emanating from a refined mantle serving to buoy the weary ego of the virtual passerby; and finally, there was the bedroom/Holiday Room, the only such room whose fire was not being broadcast live, but which was nonetheless being recorded – “Ahead of the winter, I will film roughly 30 pieces in this room, set to accommodate every major religious tradition – this is Catholic Christmas” and Patty gestured to a nativity scene, expecting audible wonder, but hearing none, she opened the door to the bedroom closet, and retrieved three towels from a storage container, apologizing and explaining that her internal discomfort had made her distracted as she handed them to Hannah, whose mood had dropped during the tour and who now looked dissatisfied, as though she had wanted more of a fight over the paucity of linens, and as the two made their way back to the front door, against her intuition, Patty stopped on the porch and asked what Hannah’s friends were doing (“They went to bed early”), if she wanted to stay longer ( ), and then began telling of the branch of five stars in the bare patch of sky, which was actually not a branch, but an arrow, and that maybe if she stayed a little longer, the sky would clear some, and they could look at more formations, or if it never cleared, the sunrise, and at this, Patty turned up once more: “It’s actually a particular arrow, but I can’t remember which one”, and she braced for the owl, but it never came.
Seamus Holland is a writer and musician based in Brooklyn. His work can be found at seamusholland.com.