Antonia Porter, Medium

Antonia Porter, Medium

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Whilst Frank dealt with a demon on the rainy street–Justine and Rich left to their own “horrors”–Antonia Porter nee Vincent adjusted her parlor. It had been ages since new clients had come to town and she was anxious to appear welcoming.

Ever since the tourism in Carlisle had taken its permanent dive, Antonia’s business had struggled. Not that she was alone in this fact, quite the opposite. But whereas the butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker (Tyler & Daughter’s Candlestick Co., 21 Cliff Avenue, open M-F, 10-8) all had renewable and what some might call “necessary” businesses, Antonia’s services were more…niche. More valuable, no doubt, but in a town like Carlisle, it was difficult to get a firm foothold on the collective consciousness. Everything was too nice, went too well. The rents were low, the town morale was high and people tended to look towards each other, as opposed to an unseen force, when searching for a source of their happiness.

Until that lovely day. The Embargo. She thought about it as often as her mind would allow. She damn near fell out of her recliner the moment it happened. One minute you’re watching Kyra Sedgwick come down hard on Bill Croelick in the penultimate episode of The Closer and the next, you’re splayed on the floor. It had taken her hours to get the spilled ranch dip out of Janey’s latch hook rug. HOURS. But it had been worth it, hadn’t it? After all the toil and the strife. Marrying lower than herself, deserving of more. Antonia Porter had held on and finally, someone, something, had rewarded her.

Antonia Porter with her husband, Duke, 1973

After all the ruckus, Antonia did her best to lay low. She was never one to grasp for attention, though that never stopped its steady flow. After all, it can’t be helped when you’re so beautiful, so flawless and socially graceful. People just flock to you. But this time she said, “No, I’m sorry. I simply can’t.” Like a mourning dame from the ’20s, she scoffed at the various masses clinging to her legs. “Help us! Please!”

No one had the courage to say it out loud but she could feel them calling to her. Sure, Ophelia–the spoiled bitch that she is–gladly stepped into the spotlight YET. AGAIN. Always so demure, so ravishing. Just because she’d never had to deal with a bad hair day in her life she and her trash bag, old money husband thought they were so great. But no. Not this time. Not today! And from the looks of things so far, Today was about to last a very long time.

As she brushed off the final crumbs from the velvet scarf on the table holding her crystal ball, Antonia managed a brief smile.

The tinkling bell above her front door rang, and she turned to greet her first new client.

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Waking Up in Carlisle

Waking Up in Carlisle

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You know how in movies, when someone wakes up from a bad dream they shoot up from their bed and pant? Not my experience.

Perhaps, this was due to the fact that my face was stuck to the bar. Not in any weird Harry Potter way. Never in my life (so far? I feel the need to say so far after being here a day or so) have I come into contact with magic stickyness. The closest would probably be those hands from when we were kids.

If Satan hisself didn’t make this, who did?

Instead of referring to that Satanic mess pictured above, I’d like to redirect your attention to my face stuck to the bar. I’m talking about a few pounds of resistance, cheek was stretched, plus that little tearing sounds sort of stuck. Like a tongue on an icy pole. What? No one here was born in the 1940s and has experience with this? Well..alright then. MOVING ON!

I looked around, realized that I was still in Maine and had a minor inkling to just say “Fuck” and then go back to bed for a bit, cause at least then when I woke up the second time and Rich is all “Why did you go back to sleep?!” I could be like “I wasn’t happy about it…”

Instead, I arose from the booth I fell asleep in, took the longest piss in recorded Mainish history and looked around for other survivors from the previous night.

The bar was empty. Granted, who was I expecting? Wait, I know. My brother and his girlfriend. Well, she’s my friend too but it’s like, which identifier do I go by at this point? I was friends with her first, but I think if you marked down the man hours they’ve spent more time together. I’ve probably got Rich cornered on waking man hours but they have sleepovers A LOT. On that note, let me map this out real quick. I’ll be back in a second.

Wait, no. Dumb! (I’m totally gonna do that later. Remind me to do that and then come back to this post to link it. It’ll be so foreshadowy/tres cool). The bar was empty, but also lacked blood so at that moment, I would have taken a bet that Justine and Rich were still alive. Granted, it would depend who was betting me, but as long as it wasn’t a clown or someone who had oversized teeth, I’d take it. Even if one of them turned out to be dead, I’d probably go double or nothing.

Dodging a few knocked over barstools and the judgemental glances of more than a few of those waving cat statues (everybody needs a hobby, I guess, right, Lills?), I went to the front door.

With a little resistance and creaking, it gave way to the brutal pounding of rain outside. The orchestra of it all hit my hangover with the malice of Damien from The Omen, parts one through three. The Omen, Part Four is pretty shit, anyways.

The whole town was wet, but worse. Damp. Like the rain and sea had soaked through any protection it might have once had and settled into the bones of the buildings. I imagined the sewers full of bright, fresh and freezing rain water and even more fell from the sky. Everything was stark, harsh, like the intensity of the blacks and greys had been turned up but cooled. The streets were empty…except for him.



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Previous Post: Lillian’s



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‘Cause you had a bad day, you’re taking one down. Sing a sad song just to turn it around…

Why, yes, that is the seminal (and I mean the liquid kind of seminal) classic “Bad Day” by Daniel Powter. What in the high fuck was that doing on the jukebox?

First guess: Maine. Second guess: White people. Third: A summation of the previous two.

I wouldn’t get to the right answer until halfway through a bottle of well gin. I may be on vacation–like kinda vacation. I mean, I’m signing a will or something but I’m in a different city and I’m not at work so, I’ll take what I can get–but I still ain’t rich. And rich Rich (read: my wealthy AF brother who can’t pick up my check EVEN ONCE!) decided he’d like “Just water, please.” It’s like, you have to try and not hate life if you want to not hate your life. This is elementary school shit. Ms. Frizzle taught us this.

Walking into Lillian’s part of me felt at home. The sort of trashy “I’m a failure so may as well fail” part. The low-lighting was doing us all a favor and aside from a few weird grunts from the locals, it seemed welcoming enough. Lillian herself was bartending, so I came to discover, and she greeted at least Justine with a smile.

Brown-hair and big eyes, Lillian gave off the vibe of a predatory house cat. Not necessarily accustomed to the wild but she’d eaten her fair share of canaries.

“You’re lost,” she said, not a question mark in sight. “And don’t play this whole ‘What, how’d you know?’ game. It’s late, I’m tired, and you’d be full of shit.”

“Well he’s always that third one,” said Justine. Her smile caught Lillian’s and I knew we were safe for at least one round of luke warm beer.

“So, where can I point you to?” said Lillian. She reached under the bar pulling out a tattered map. “This far north I’d say you’re looking for either the adult superstore down the highway or the ocean.”

“The ocean?” said Rich. Somehow the words screeched out between his veneers and manicured five o’clock shadow.

“This time of year? Oh yeah. People are looking for a little Sylvia Plath action,” said Lillian.

“Pocket full of stones, kinda thing?” I said.


“Neat, but alas, we’re here on business.”

“The stones ain’t going anywhere, my friend.”

Lillian turned and grabbed a bottle from behind her. It was dusty and full of dark liquor. Not my usual vibe but a welcome change from the seemingly endless stream of gin and tonics I’d swallowed over the past eleven years. If I’d been a good gay, I’d of had a vodka soda, but alas, my crippling WASPy-ness overtook my desire to stay swimsuit ready.

Setting out four shot glasses, Lillian eyed us another time and poured.

“What sort of business?” she asked. She kept the glasses close to her, just a bit out of “Here, take this. It’s for you” reach.

“Signing a will,” I said.

“We’re not signing a will. We’re reviewing a will. What in the world do you think we’d be signing?” said Rich.

“Sorry,” I said, turning to Lillian. “It’s the first time my parents have died. Out of practice.”

“You’ll get the hang of it,” she said, taking her shot. “You sure you’re in the right place? Death isn’t too common around here.”

I want to say I noticed something weird at this moment, but if I had, I wouldn’t be writing this right now. Instead I said…

“Must be all that fresh air.” 🙂


“We’re here to settle up an estate,” said Rich. “Our parents’ lawyers sent us a letter to come up here and take care of everything. Do you know where the McVaughn offices are? I want to get this done first thing in the morning.”

“They sent you a letter? To where?”

“New York. Well, I live in Manhattan like a civilized human. Rich and Justine are living out some Catcher in the Rye bullshit in Brooklyn.”

“You got a letter? In New York? From Carlisle, Maine?” said Lillian.

Now if you’re following along at home, this is ONCE AGAIN, a point where I shoulda been like, “Oh, wow. How fucking cryptic?! Let’s go. Instead, part deux…

“Yeah, who knew that mail could still, like, mail, ya know?”


I want to blame the drinks. I want to blame the tired. I can only blame myself. 

“Well then I guess you’re where you need to be. Best of luck to you,” said Lillian. She served us our shots, pouring herself another.

“Cheers!” we said, swigging back the burning liquid.

“And may the gods have mercy on your souls!” said Lillian, smiling all the way.



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The Arrival, Pt. 2

The Arrival, Pt. 2

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In my not-so humble opinion, this post will be most effective (affective?…I looked up the difference and honestly either works in this situation) when read whilst listening to White Winter Hymnal. If that doesn’t immediately make sense, it will once you hear about what happened over my first 24 hours in Carlisle, ME. Either the Fleet Foxes or Birdy version will do. Let me know which you chose. I’ll sort you accordingly.

Walking into Carlisle is sort of like walking into one of those Christmas villages they sell at Target or Michael’s or Hobby Lobby if you’re a lil bigot with bad taste. And that’s just facts. But still, you’ve got to give some credit to whichever intern somehow snuck this past the salaried buyers and into stores.

I swear on every book I own this is a legitimate photo I took in a Hobby Lobby in Florida.

Why yes, that is a rainbow…rooster 😉

With our feet-a achin’, we decided to stop in the first place that looked at all open in the town square. Thankfully, it was a bar. Looking down the road in either direction, things were quiet, but warm. Does that make sense? It looked lived in, but not by me. It was like visiting your best friend’s house. You knew the smells weren’t your own, but you still knew them. You recognized the spots in the wallpaper that were faded, except you don’t know what happened to make them that way.

Carlisle Street.jpg

Fall is already almost over here. The chill would have thrown us inside if the smell of beer hadn’t. We walked in, a honest to goodness jukebox playing, and were met with not a few stares. I’m not saying the needle skipped or anything, but if a record player was present who knows what would have happened.

Lillian’s was as warm as it was unwelcoming, the assumed locals crowded near the bar rail. A few housewives played pool in the back while the bartender, Lillian herself, held court with a whiskey bottle and the remote control. I think I should have known then, really. I mean, who still watches American Idol?


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Previous Post: The Arrival, Pt. 1



The Arrival, Pt. 1

The Arrival, Pt. 1

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Listen and listen well, folks. Greyhound is No. Fucking. Joke.

The ride put aside (which if at any point I can begin to feel my ass again will become the focus of this post…the ride, not my ass. My ass should be the focus of every post) getting into town late last night was shall we say…quiet? Let me break that down a little clearer.

Remember when those hopefully-not-demons-but-instead-just-bored-kids were roaming around New Jersey in clown outfits for no apparent reason?

SIDEBAR: I understand you might not want to click that link, but I promise, if you do, you get to see a flustered (and let’s call a horse a horse) bloated Carson Daly try to talk about creepy NJ clowns whilst reading a teleprompter and using an unnecessary, oversized iPad.

You back? Did you watch it? It wasn’t even him so much, right? It’s like, “Who told you to wear that suit?” Anyways, remember those clowns!?! It was like that…minus the clowns. And also in Maine. I’m going for, like, a feeling, OK? It was a similar feeling. I imagine. Cause honestly, who goes to Jersey?

If you’ve been on Greyhound–first off, bless you–you know that sometimes it just stops at a Designated Area. This isn’t really a “place” so much as a “location.” These sorts of passenger exchanges usually take place in mad rural areas during time when there is still an acceptable amount of daylight happening.



Cut to me, Justine and Rich hopping off our bus on the side of the road at ten to midnight. Are you thinking, “Oh, fuck this shit.” ‘Cause you should be, and we were. But it’s November and no matter how lit you are, peeps still get cold.

After one of us thought Uber might work (Justine) and the other thought calling the cab company that was advertising via a sticker on a telephone pole (Rich) would work, we decided to hoof it. How far could it be?

Far. The answer is Far. Capital F.

At a little past 1 a.m., we finally made it to town. Once I’m more acclimated, I’m going to try and upload a map so you can feel my pain properly but for now, imagine ripping a Victorian dollhouse inside out like so many starfish stomachs and then sewing it atop a rocky cliff like the geography version of that scene from Silence of the Lambs. That’s kinda what Carlisle is like. Smell included.

EDITOR’S NOTE: When I made this joke to Justine, she scoffed and said the town was both “quaint” and “charming.” Rich has yet to say more than a few words at a time. Mostly they’ve been “Jesus Christ.”


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