tibetanmethod | (no subject)

Summertime, and the living is easy. It's not bad, certainly. Cooper is commuting down the road from Twin Peaks to Colville a few days a week to assist in an ongoing drug operation -- a gift from Gordon Cole's interim replacement; apparently Gordon was able to leave a few notes in files and a few bugs in people's ears before going on administrative leave. It's enough to let Cooper stay in Twin Peaks; it's enough to keep Cooper happy.

He's started doing the daily donut runs for the sheriff's station as well, before heading south. He does them even on the mornings his presence isn't requested -- it's nice to have structure, and it's good to keep a finger on the pulse of the town.

That's in the mornings, though. Evenings are meditation, reading, research. He could use a hobby or two; in a few months, he tells himself. Tonight he's in the Bookhouse, sitting at the round table, with two things in front of him. One thing is a shoebox. It's filled with microcassettes; he's sorting them.

The other thing is a mostly untouched longneck, beaded with condensation; it's a poor pale ale that never did anybody any harm, and soon it's not going to be any good any more. Somewhere deep and unconscious Cooper figures it'll just prove his point that beer isn't any good anyway. He also figures that a beer seems required, considering recent events. It's like a wake. Sometimes mindfulness, loving kindness, detachment -- sometimes they come a little hard.

Threaded | Flat

Harry Truman doesn't like to complain; he supposes it's hard on the people of Deer Meadow, too, having almost their entire sheriff department arrested on federal charges. Still, it makes his days longer. The emergency elections can't come too soon.

(He's been working with one of the few apparently honest deputies, a man named Chadwick, and it looks like the votes are going to swing his way. Should be a change for the good.)

Harry ought to get home. He needs a shower, and maybe something solid to eat. The dinner Chadwick takes him to in Deer Meadow looks like salmonella on legs to Harry, although maybe he's just spoiled. But his headlights lead him to the Bookhouse anyway.

He lingers in the doorway, looking into the quiet woods that the Bookhouse backs on. Or maybe faces. Guards, anyway. Quiet, now. There's that, at least.

The stairs that lead down into the library aren't designed for stealth; neither are his lawman boots.