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DIFFERENT STROKES

‘Lady, you sure are a pain.’ Jim throws his new paint brush on the bedroom carpet and scowls at Mrs. Lathrum. ‘First you wanted pale green and I brought you samples. Then you tried to make a fool out of me and insisted you asked for blue. You never mentioned blue, but I went back to Harrington’s and brought you blues. Now you want white. Go there yourself and if you know what you want, buy 2 gallons. The clerk will put it in your car. If you have it by 10 a.m. in the morning, I’ll come right over, be finished by 6 p.m. If I don’t hear by 10, find yourself another painter.

Mrs. Lathrum tells Jim to go screw himself and not come back. He picks up his brush, takes all of the samples he had brought her and tosses them like snowflakes on the carpet and pounds roughly downstairs and out the door.

As soon as he gets in his van, he text messages Mrs. Schneider. ‘Hello, Mrs. Schneider. This is Jim, the painter Mrs. Lathrum recommended to you yesterday. She’s decided not to paint so I’m free for a few days. Would you like me to stop by now so I can see what you want done?’ ‘Yes, Jim, but give me ½ hour. I’m finishing a pie crust that I have to brown. ‘ ’See you 10:30, Mrs. Schneider.’

He rings her doorbell at 10:28 according to the watch he bought at the Flea Market last week. An elderly lady comes to the door. ‘Good morning, Jim. You’re a bit early but this is fine. Please come in.’ Jim looks at his watch and by then it shows exactly 10:30. ‘Not bad,’ he thinks, ‘for $8.’ He let’s the difference in minutes not annoy Mrs. Schneider.

‘How about a hot cup of tea with a few chocolate covered cookies I baked yesterday?’ ‘Thanks, I’d love to join you but business comes first.’ She smiles and leads him upstairs. ‘I have three bedrooms and the bathroom I’d like to have painted. Here are my samples. My room, in the rear of the house, is the largest. I want peach #310 using Williams paint chart. Do the baseboards, window frames and sills, plus the door with peach one shade darker #311. The middle room is for my daughter and granddaughter whenever they can visit me.’ Mrs. Shneider hands him #120, aqualyne. ‘I like this one. It’s soft and easy on the eyes. Jim, don’t say a word. Get dark brown #614 for my grandson. He’s finished college, has his own taste. Make the baseboards and woodwork enamel white. I promised him I’d do what he wants no matter if I like it or not.The bathroom I want semi gloss white. It looks more sanitary than a color, don’t you think? And that’s it.

What’s the price including paint and tax?’ ‘Mrs. Schneider, your walls need some scaling to smooth the years away. I’ll have to prime them and apply 2 coats of paint. I hate to give prices like this because I can imagine the huge difference since you last painted. Don’t faint. With my helper we can be in and out in 5 days. $1800 is the full definite cost to you, no dickering.’

‘Sold, Jim. When can you start? I’ll have to empty the closets, take the lamps and pictures out.’ “How about next Monday?’ ‘OK. We will move your furniture and whatever needs to go out and put everything back. Believe me, you’ll be satisfied. All I need now is a $500 deposit. Half will go for paint to start. You can charge it to Visa or Master Card if you like.

‘That was easy, Jim. You sound legit, speak well. Judge Judy is one of my favorite shows so I must have a contract that we both sign. Do you have one with you? I want to read it carefully before we both sign.

Then let’s have some hot tea with chocolate covered cookies and you can head for Willams Paint Store. I’ll be ready for you Mon. 8 A.M.’

GOBBLE, GOBBLE!

Being over-loaded with things to accomplish, needing time to love, adore, share with my daughter and son-in-law, I may again have to skip a few days of writing. Don't despair, I shall return!

STINKERS

Rising from Matt’s bed, Carrie saw the blue cashmere coverlet lying on the floor, picked it up, wrapped it around her nakedness. Barefooted, she walked over to the sitting room. Nosey as she habitually was, she opened his desk. On top of some papers was his check book. Of course, she just had to peep at the numbers. ‘Oh, my lord,’ she thought. ‘He writes a lot of checks but still has oodles of money.’ Quietly she closed the drawer, scanned the bedroom more closely than when Matt had brought her to his home after the meeting last nite. Everything was handsome, masculine, high quality, fine taste–and that included Matt.

Just a few hours ago they were complete strangers who happened to be seated next to each other at a wacky fund raising dinner to save Dying Dalmations in Denmark, or something equally idiotic. Her good friend, Lisa, had been Seating Coordinator and, as far as Carrie was concerned, did a super job. A thank you note, a phone call–later.

A bubbling sound came from the kitchen. An automatic coffee maker was spewing hot, strong coffee into a bronze colored mug. Matt took it, placed another mug under the tap, whistled and called out, ‘Hey, Carrie, come on in. Want fresh squeezed O.J.?’ No novice, Carrie dropped the cashmere coverlet at the kitchen door and told Matt, ‘Sure, but that’s not all I want.’ Just as she was about to retrieve her cover, she was covered by Matt. He held her close for a moment and let her go. They had breakfast and a great dessert, shared his sauna for 15 minutes and a hot shower for 15 more. When dry, he handed her the few under garments she had worn, her dress, her evening wrap and drove her to her apartment. His car disappeared quickly in the madness of morning traffic.

Carrie, on her own territory, was sated, cool, calm and hopeful. By eight that evening she was still cool, fairly calm, but less hopeful. Matt hadn’t called. ‘Hell’s bells,’ she thought, ‘I never gave him my phone number or did I?’ Her mind was mush. He could get it from Lisa or anyone at their table for 12.

9 p.m. her phone rang. It was Lisa who ran on and on about how much money the guests gave for the dumb Dalmations. Carrie tried to interrupt, get a word in sideways, wanted to thank her for setting her up with Matt, but there was no pause in Lisa’s excitement. An abrupt, ‘We’ll talk tomorrow nite, Carrie. I’ve really got a lot to take care of today.’ The phone went dead. Carrie went to bed. Two days, 3 days went by believing Lisa must have been too busy to call. What could Matt’s reason be?

On the 4th day after the ridiculous Dalmation fund raiser, Carrie’s doorbell chimed. A messenger handed her a white gift box, tied with a neat blue ribbon. She signed, hurried inside to open it. As she removed the ribbon, lifted the lid, a little straw fell on her carpet. There was a white envelope with a white card inside. Before looking for the gift she read the card. It simply said ‘Thanks for - -, find it.’ ‘ What can it be?’Her eyebrows furrowed as she reached into the straw, felt something odd, sort of hard, crisp. She pulled it out to find a seeded Kaiser roll with another card to finish the first. It read ‘the roll in the hay.’ Matt.

Carrie threw it across the room, dropped to the floor and cried all day. Matt, you god damn rotten, mean bastard....

And worse, her friend Lisa, was not her friend at all!

HAPPY THANKSGIVING, EVERYONE!

Try to forget all the world's problems and your own. Just be grateful you are living in the U S of A and that this IS the best place on earth.

FAR, FAR AWAY

Whoopde do! Whoopee do! I’m travelin, flyin’ non-stop to LA, on a brand new airline, Virgin America. In spite of my excitement, a few nigglin’ things are already bothering me and my flight has not yet begun. At midnite I put my luggage at the door for a 7 a.m. flight. That means a 12 hour wait, doesn’t it? Or does it just seem that way?

My driver had contacted the new airline to ascertain its location at Ft. Lauderdale airport so I would not end up at Southwest. He was told Virgin America had taken over Jet Blue’s station and it was at # 1 post as the circle starts for Departures. Before Joe reached that point a bright red electric arrow blinked the correctiveness of the phone information. Great, Joe and I thought–but Virgin America was not at #1 post. Slowly we circled, went past Jet Blue, Southwest and saw a sign in front of a check in station with Virgin America painted in. Out I got, followed by Joe with my luggage and were given a porter to walk me and my luggage about 10 yards down the street where I was then taken inside to get my boarding pass and charge the $20 per bag for send thru luggage. Ha! I was ready for that. My charge plate, porter’s tip, driver’s license, my flight confirmation were in my hand. ‘Sorry, we don’t take Master card.’ Scrounging thru my much too-full new purse, I found my wallet, naturally on the bottom of everything else. ‘We take Visa.’ Visa they got and I got my boarding pass that did not give me a claim check in case my luggage disappeared. ‘Ma’am, you won’t need that. This is a non-stop flight. No way your bag will be lost.’ Go fight? Well, I should have, but didn’t.

From there I was sent towards Security, gate 9, arrow, Left.’ With me was my carrying case to go under my seat. Instead of the handlethat Southwest broke on my last trip, I had attached a sturdy leather belt so I could roll easily to my destination. The case refused to roll on carpet. There was no choice, I had to lift that damn ornery thing and carry it to the escalator which turned out to be a non-working escalator. No choice again. I carried it back to the stairway that was as long and as high as a stairway to the stars, or more likely to my grave. It was very wide, very handsome and very long, 2 flights of at least 35 steps. I managed five or six steps but knew I could never make it and arrive at the bottom in decent health. From the Alps an angel called to me. ‘Do you need help, Madam?’ ‘Oh, my god, yes, please.’ He had 2 cases of his own, picked mine up as if were a feather and was at the bottom of the stairs waiting for me when I finally walked down. Maybe I said ‘thank you’ but more likely I was babbling like a kid who just received a whole box of Mary Sue Chocolates, ‘Thank you, Thank you, Thank you.’ I wanted to hug him, but he had already disappeared.

Like the 600 of those who made up the Light Brigade, I plodded on, forward to Security. For 6:15 A.M., the line was shockingly long. Off with my shoes, my jacket, my computer, my purse, my loaded semi-repaired, too many zippered pocketed carrying case I managed to get into 5 white fast moving bins. Looking ahead, I see 1000 more to get thru before me. At last my 5 made it through and I past the first inspection. ‘This way, Lady. Put your shoes on. Wait for the green light and then enter.’ Before me was a glass cage that instantly made me think of an old t.v. show where one would step in and hundreds of bills were blown into the air and the contestant grabbed as much money as she could in 30 seconds. Momentarily I though,’ Hey, this new airline is going to be fun.’ The light turned green and I went in. The sound of the doors locking me in took the smile right off my face. Two painted shoes on the floor directed me to stand on that spot until the red light staring at me turned green. I stood. Noise, like ten paparazzi were snapping dozens of pictures of me worried me. Did I have cancer, a bad heart. The noise stopped and a huge, loud gust of wind blew up and over my entire body. Had I been wearing a dress (possibly no underwear) the guard would have had a free show. That was not the case, the light turned green and I could leave, unscathed.My 5 bins were waiting for me. With a sigh of relief, I grabbed my jacket, my shoes, without stopping to see if my wallet was still in my purse, put that over my shoulder, got the computer in the carry on case, zipped whichever zippers the guards had undone, left that madhouse to those behind me.

Fun time was ahead, so the ads for the new airline offered. OK. Boarding and take off went right on time. One up for Virgin America. The blue/ lavender soft lighting, new leather seats, two small windows for viewing welcomed me. But my window seat gave me no view, not even of the wagons loading luggage aboard. What the devil kind of windows were these? They looked like they were frosted. How was I going to look for Dorothy as we reached Kansas? How will I see again the Grand Canyons? How was the Captain going to pass Southwest without hitting one of their planes still on the ground?

Fun time starts as we wait for lift off. The single stewardess that I see does not stand in the middle of the aisle to tell us how to put on our seat belts, where the lavatories are. On the back of every seat there is a small screen which comes on to show us all, via cute cartoons, what to do in an emergency, what to click on if we want a pillow($11.95. It will give comfort all thru the flight and comes with ear plugs), where to reach for your life jacket even though the flight is 99 ½% over land, where and when we can plug in and use our computers, what to click to play games, watch t.v. For those who are similar to me, ancient not into new fangled electronics, unable to follow hit this, click on that, we could read, sleep, wait for the one-time go around of the coffee/juice or soda pop cart. We few did not have fun. The attractive leather seats are far from comfortable even though they recline about ½” inch further than older planes. The seats are so short, they stop about 8" down from my hips, leaving my knees, my legs dangling.

Although I am not a 1st class passenger, let me tell you about the wonders of it in this new plane. As soon as you get over the ‘door step’ onto the plane itself, make a quick turn right and you can see for yourself, if you decide to travel Virgin America. You will be directly in the four seat 1st class area. 4 fairly large single seats, which evidently can be moved a few inches, are almost touching. Each one has its own screen, computer. If you take 2 seconds so you don’t delay the line of passengers behind you trying to find their seats, you will pass the serving area where the single cart is loaded. If you look to your left you will see and smell the lavatory. Well, that made up my mind. I will not up-grade next trip, will be content with my windows that unfroze as soon as we were air borne, bring my own peanuts and cookies, maybe a thermos so I can have a second cup of coffee if I choose.

And certainly be thankful I didn’t have to ‘Go West’ in a Conestoga Wagon.

To My Adored Fan Club

I leave this Friday, November 20 for Los Angeles.

You have all been wonderful to me but it's time you have at least one day off from my meaderings. I may even make it two days.

After that, look out, Old ZelaBop will be back.

YES, I SWEAR

My sister was named for our paternal grandmother Rose, a grandmother neither of us ever knew. She died at age 36, ten years before I was born. But, I got to know her thru my father’s devotion to her memory. This story is going to be next to impossible for you to believe it, but it is Gospel, or as Jewish people like our family would say, ‘It’s emiss (the truth). Seven sons and one daughter grew to adult hood and they confirm what I am about to tell you. That is, if you decide to read on. The choice is yours.

Grandma Rose had 26 pregnancies. 6 children between ages 1 and five died of various illnesses. There were 12 miscarriages at different stages. During all of those years she was a midwife, well known through out Baltimore as the most reliable, most knowledgeable, cleanest in the city. ‘Come, Martha needs you. She is ready.’ Martha, Mildred, Adele, the name put a face on the mother-to-be. Grandma would get her little black bag, a shawl if the weather was cool and get Al, her oldest child, and Bob, my dad, to care for the smaller children. Another would run to the barber shop a block away where my grandfather might have had a customer to shave, a hair cut, application of leeches. He would not leave a customer until he was finished and then would go home.

Grandma was a wonderful cook, she could make a tasty meal out of drek (pardon me but my daddy called it ‘shit’. The children didn’t complain, had school lunches usually wrapped in newspapers stuck in their book bags. If you have come this far, stay and believe.

My grandfather was mean, an ogre. The children, his wife, were all afraid of him. He was a sex crazed man who never let my grandmother alone, no matter how often, how far along she was. There came a time, she was 34, and pregnant. A miscarriage was about to happen.She pulled a wooden chair over to the rusty kitchen sink, stepped on the chair and sat over the pipe. Picturing her cleaning the sink, somehow getting rid of what was going to be her baby, makes me sick. But that’s what she had to do. And, from the rust, she got an infection and lost her hearing. That didn’t keep grandpa off of her.

Dec. 14, 1914, a bitter cold, icy night in Baltimore, Grandma, carrying her 6 month old son, banged on my parent’s door. She and the infant were wrapped tightly in black shawls. ‘Sarah, help me. Joseph is sick. His forehead is hot. Come to Dr. Williams with me.’ Of course, my mother went. It was a long walk on streets lit now and then by gas lamps. They had to walk between the no longer used train tracks, switch Joseph between them every block. There was an ice free short pavement to the doctor’s office. My mother knocked on the door. When she opened it, a clinky jingle sounded. The waiting room was semi-dark, dingy. Grandma spoke to my mother. ‘Sit down on the sofa. Take Joseph from me. I don’t feel so good.’ That done, Rose put her head on what was left of mother’s lap, closed her eyes and died, just like that.

My mother must have screamed for the doctor because he came hurrying in. He took Joseph from my mother so he could see what was wrong with Rose. What was wrong was she was dead.

That’s all I know except I still have the article, now yellow and dry, about the tragedy. I found it amongst the treasures my father had saved when his turn came to die.

NO END IN SIGHT

I was standing on the corner, unwrapping the crinkly brown wrapper of a Hershey bar. At the small Italian restaurant that Johnny and I just left, I had passed up dessert. Johnny is a body building freak who watches my ‘no-no’ sweets as well as the rest of me.

The fabulous pleasure of the chocolate on my tongue is gone. Verboten has a bitter taste. It stops my delight for only a minute. I take two small squares of chocolate and let them melt in my mouth, cling to my teeth. The varoom of Johnny’s motorcycle got louder. I had mis-judged how long it would take him to use the men’s room and walk a few blocks to unchain his bike from a lamp post.

I spit out the remains of my fix, ran my tongue over my teeth, spit a few times and hoped my deceit would not be noticed as the wind blew away the smell. Johnny stopped only long enough for me to get into the jump seat and off we went. He had no trouble as he carefully pulled into light traffic, yet, without glancing at me, he knew. ‘Carole, where did you get that chocolate? You sneaked it into your purse, didn’t you? How can I trust you with anything if you are dishonest with me?’ I had no answer. Johnny was right. But, he wouldn’t let it go and so we argued, said mean things. ‘All I wanted was a little taste, 2 squares that are much smaller than they used to be. Would that do me in, make me sick, fat?’

At the next red traffic signal Johnny turned right, rode two blocks and pulled to the curb. ‘Why are we stopping, Honey? This is a quiet street. Your bike will sound like a war zone or electric thunder to these people.’ ‘Carole, you can get out of your seat now and walk home. I’ll ride near you to make you feel safe. The calories you didn’t spit out are already clogging your arteries. GO!’

‘Go?! What’s the matter with you, you freakin’, crazy health nut? I’m not walking.’ ‘Fine with me. Use your cell and call a cab. You can eat the rest of your junk on your way home.’

Instead of walking in the direction Johnny pointed me, I turned around and headed back to the restaurant. Visions of his huge green salad, slopping over with beans, raw veggies I didn’t recognize, topped with a few drops of virgin oil and pepper made me gag. My dinner was death for me in his mind but for me it was a super meal and that was what made him become the Grumble Master and attack my ways.

‘Johnny, you have gone too far, have touched too many wrong buttons. Please be kind enough to take me home for the last time. You must have your choice of thinner, prettier ladies in your health class, ladies who care about the strict regime you insist on, maybe lie too.’

‘Hop on, Carole. You are going for a ride the likes of which you’ve never had.’ We started so quickly, so fast, I had trouble with my seat belt. The wind took my breath away. My shouting, ‘Slow down, Johnny. Slow down!’ didn’t reach him thru his helmet. I couldn’t hear myself either. We must have been doing 70 in a residential area. Johnny turned into my street and must have skidded on an oil slick. He crashed us into a parked van.

Everything went black until it all went white. Nurses uniforms, the bed, the walls, a cast on my leg were glaring white. I lay there wondering how I got to this place and cried, out loud, ‘Help, Nurse. Where is my Johnny?’ The door opened and in walked a black nurse wearing a white nurse’s cap and starched white uniform. Her face was a delight. She smiled but I could not smile back, until I saw movement behind her, Jimmy. He came close, kissed the top of my head and showed me a three lb. box of Dove chocolates, tied with a big red bow.‘Get better fast, Carole, so we can eat these together,’ He made me think he was a child again and had been spanked by his father. He was repentant. I squeezed his hand just enough for him to know I forgave him.

Johnny stayed five more minutes before the nurse asked him to leave.He bent over me, kissed me again, very softly on my lips, and left.

PUZZLE

What a dream! What a dream! It was real. I saw it all, felt every emotion, smelled the flowers, didn’t want to wake up...but I did. The digital clock on the bureau blinked 10:02. I knew that was p.m. because I had only a few minutes ago gotten into bed. T.V. was on. Blood poured from bodies, not my kind of entertainment. Reaching for the remote, it slipped and fell on the floor and I followed it.

Unbelievably, the dream still existed, had not evaporated in gremlin dust. The colors, the trees, the houses, people living, loving, were drawing pictures in my mind. I could still smell the farmer’s perspiration, feel his strong, knotted hands. Was I still dreaming?

No. I had switched on the ceiling light and was opening the right hand drawer to my desk. I was awake alright. A lined notebook that I had bought on a whim yesterday smiled at me and whispered ‘Pick me up. Pick me up! Sit down and write your dream. The desk lamp lit itself or, did my notebook carelessly push against it? For sure, I hadn’t turned it on. Roads and roads of blue colored lines blurred my vision. They changed to black when I turned off the ceiling light and began to concentrate on that dream. My Waterman’s pen jumped into my hand and words flew non-stop onto the paper. The sensation of no control frightened me.

I turned off the desk lamp and was shocked to see morning ahead of me. A breeze had come in the half opened window, touched my face and closed my notebook. Exhaustion overcame me so that I climbed back into bed, knowing that I had no idea what I had written or had I dreamed I wrote all nite?

It was 11 a.m. when I woke again. Rain had come in when the breeze left. The floor needed wiping up but I was not in the mood to do it. I needed coffee and a bowl of Rice Krispies using up the last banana that was about to rot. Reality had to show its face. Instead, a warm shower and fresh clothes sent me back to my desk and Dreamville. My closed writing book was lying open. At least 20 pages both sides had unfamiliar words scribbled on them. Slowly the dream appeared. The story was not finished. I worked on it for hours, improving it, fixing punctuation, making all tense past. Up to that point, I knew my writing was very professional, interesting. It was ready to go into a computer document under Word Perfect. I typed and typed as if I were possessed by an angel, praising me, pushing me on. But I still needed a title and a closing. I froze. I could not think straight any longer. The angel said, ‘Pace yourself. It will come. You’ve come so far. Keep going.’ Nothing came to me.

A little click, a little green click, that I recognized to be the sound my printer makes when I turn it on, made me look around. My room was empty except for me. My fingers were still poised on the keyboard. The printer began to hum even though I had never turned it on, saved what I had already written, hadn’t entered a title. Everything was as it should be, font, color, size perfect. All of my corrections were correct. The last paragraph, the big finish for my story, had not yet come to me, yet there it was printed. How? Who? What caused this phenomena? I have never found out.All I know is the title in Bold Black print started my story that has now been published in the LA Times.

You can go to back log and find ‘EXPLANATION WANTED’ on page 38 ‘story time’ June 18, 2008.

GONE WITH THE WIND 70th ANNIVERSARY

My daughter Ronnee did this fun event to celebrate the 70th Anniversary of the great movie "Gone With the Wind" which is now on remastered Blu-ray and DVD.

Click below to enjoy some news of the event.
GONE WITH THE WIND

HOW TO WIN FRIENDS

‘Don’t, don’t tell me again, Chris. I know, I eat too much. You really piss me off. Do I tell you to stop visiting pros?’ ‘What’s with you, my former friend? Damn right you do and it’s none of your business who I slam. And if I want another tattoo, keep out of it. I already have a father.’

‘OK, Millie, go poison your skin, look like a Jap. You want HIV? Fine. Just don’t come visit me and use my toilet.’

‘Whoa, I’ve warned you too many times about calling me Millie. My name is Millard, like Millard Fillmore, the 13th President of the United States of America, an honorable name. You do it one more time and it will be your last anything.’ He turns abruptly and walks swiftly to the tattoo shop, leaving Chris babbling to himself.

The door is wide open. Jim, the main honcho, lays down the needle buzzing into a customer’s neck. “How you doin’, Millie? ‘ Well, I’m doin’ better than you are going to be doing if you call me that girl’s name one more time. How long before you can do me? This will be my last shot. I want 6 small red hearts around my left nipple. Can you do that without electrifying my real heart? An hour? Hell, I’ve got other things to do than watch you mutilate that poor soul on your table. Make it 45 minutes.’

The deceased President of the United States, Millard, straightens his back and pretends he is what he isn’t, ends up across the street from Mickey’s where he can get a good cup of Joe and a passable slice of un-iced pound cake.

Sitting in a round wrought iron chair that needs repainting is Chris. He is alone. In front of him is a giant bowl of salad greens and bottles of wine and vinegar. ‘Hello, Millard. Would you like to sit with me or will you be too embarrassed to sit with a fat man?’‘Good for you, al. Glad to see you are coming to your senses. No sooner were those words out of Millard’s mouth, then the waitress arrives. She put a humongous fudge sundae in front of Chris. He jumps up and almost knocks her off her feet. ‘That’s not mine,’ he shouts. ‘I ordered a cup of black coffee! Just bring my check and let me out of here. Cancel the coffee.’The waitress is dumbfounded. She knows he ordered that sundae, like he does almost every Friday. Sweat is pouring off of Chris’s face.

As he starts to leave, he picks up a spoon, takes a gob of whipped cream, offers some to Millard and tells him, ‘No sense wasting this, is there?

THE CANDY GIRL CAN

I am on my way to the other end of the street where we live. I’m five big years old. Daddy gave me a nickle for being good and told me I can buy anything I want. A sweet chocolate smell comes out of the bakery door but I go past. Walk slow like Daddy told you. I tell myself to step over every crack in the sidewalk. I love my mommy and don’t want to step on one and break her back.

Kelley’s is the last store on my block and my nickle is still in my hand. I didn’t lose it. The screen door opens easily but I can’t turn the knob on the glass and wooden one, so I knock. Oh, good. Billy lets me in and goes with me to the candy case next to the ice cream counter. ‘What’ll you have, Izzy?’ he asks. ‘Billy, my mother told you not to call me Izzy. My name is Isobel. I feel like having candy instead of ice cream today.’

I stand in front of the tall glass case, look at every box, every shelf, and decide on a Milky Way. Billy slides the door open and hands me my choice. Slowly I look at it. ‘Billy, I changed my mind. I don’t want this. Please give me a box of Good and Plenty instead.’ ‘Sure, Izzy,’ and changes the candy for me. ‘Billy, don’t call me Izzy. I’m going to tell my mother on you.’ The licorice pink and white candies rattle in their box. I am anxious and start to open one end and stop. ‘Billy, Daddy told me licorice makes my teeth black and makes me go to the toilet too many times. Will you give me a box of Walnetto’s instead?’ ‘Ok. Izzy, but this is the last change. A customer is up front waiting for ice cream. ‘Give me your nickel.’

I open my fist wide and there is no nickle. It was there before I tried to open Kelley’s door. ‘Billy, Billy, somebody stole my nickle right out of my hand. ‘ Isobel, you must have dropped it and didn’t hear it fall. Give me the Walnettos back.’ ‘Can’t you help me look for it? Honest, I had it at the door.’ Billy takes the Walnetto’s out of my hand and I stand at the candy case crying and looking sad.

The girl on the ice cream stool looks older than I am, maybe 7. She is already eating a chocolate cone Dr. Kelley gave her. Billy goes over to say hello and she tells him how lucky she was. She found a nickle. ‘This is the first ice cream cone I have had in two weeks, she says. Her tongue goes round and round the ice cream until only the cone is left. That sounds crunchy as she finishes it, wipes her hands on a paper napkin and jumps off the stool.

‘Billy. I told you I had a nickle. That girl ate my ice cream.’ ‘Tough, Isobel. Maybe your Daddy will give you another nickle, but no money, no candy.’

I walk back down the street, extra stepping on every crack. Daddy is sitting on our green bench outside of our house. ‘Hi, Honey, what did you buy?’ He sees my tears still on my cheeks and I have to tell him what happened. Daddy pats me on the head and tells me to be more careful with money. It doesn’t grow on trees. He goes inside. So do I.

Under my bed I keep a tin cookie box for my special marbles, the ones my brother Sol doesn’t play with any more. I have aggies, bloodies, shooters. The lid is very tight. When I finally get it off the marbles roll off and slide all over the linoleum floor. I find all but one. It has to be here and I will look for it later. The lid goes on the tin and I hit it closed with my shoe.

A plan is ready. From my window I see Robert and Harvey playing marbles in the dirt around Miss Higgens tree. The old lady who lives there lets them play and never hollers. With one hand I hold the stair railing and keep the tin box close to my body with the other hand. Daddy is on the bench again. I feel his eyes watching me. I show him my cookie tin and ask him to open it for me. ‘Are you now a good marble player, Isobel?’ ‘No, Daddy. I have to talk to Harold and Robert about them.’ I walk over and the boys stop their game long enough to tell me to go away. I don’t go. Instead I show them my beautiful marbles. ‘My brother told me this black one is the best shooter he ever had. I can sell you some of these. I’ll sell you 3 marbles for 2 cents. The boys are old, about 9, and have the money. They each select 3 and hand me 4 pennies. ‘

‘Daddy, Daddy, guess what I did. I sold 6 old, rotten marbles to Harold and Robert and they gave me 4 pennies. I only need one more to make a nickle. Right? Will you please give me one little penny, please?’ ‘Child, I’ll give you the penny now if you promise to bring in the Sunday heavy paper and put it near my kitchen chair.’ ‘Daddy, I love you. I promise.’ I jump on his lap, hug and kiss him and he hands me the penny.

I run to Kelley’s . ‘Billy, here take my 5 pennies before I lose one. I want two long strips of the white paper with all the colored candy beads on them. They last me two days and I will be able to give my friend, Dolly the lemon ones. They are sour.’

‘Billy, Sunday when you come in to work, will you please put a Milky Way into the ice box for me? I am going to sell Harold and Robert six more marbles and tell them the price is 5 cents instead of four. They will pay it and I’ll be here in the afternoon for my Milky Way.’

A DARK SUNNY DAY

He was sitting in an aluminum webbed beach chair, seemingly entranced, watching the rough Atlantic Ocean pound the sand. It was 7 A.M., my usual time to start setting up my sunbrella rental stand. No idea how early the lone beach goer arrived and didn’t care. The trucks had already combed the beach, leaving a tooth trail as far as I could see. Evidently, the sitter had refused to move so the tracks went around him. It was easier for the driver than arguing.

A few mothers, holding onto their kids, were beginning to arrive. Once they decided where on the vast empty beach they wanted to be, pails, shovels, towels, coolers, hit the sand. Two bikini clad mothers were my first customers. Nice start, I thought. I carried their red and white sunbrella choice about 25 feet away, wiggled the pole deep into the cool sand and unfurled the brella. They thanked me and I returned to the stand to sit and wait for another customer.

In the meantime, I watched the ladies take their children’s hands and walk quickly toward the freezing water’s edge. They walked past the lone man still sitting quietly in the webbed chair, shrugged their shoulders, walked a few steps closer to the waves that swirled around their ankles, turned around and walked back to the not moving man. As one, they screamed, grabbed their children and ran towards me.

‘Help! Police, call the police. A naked dead man is sitting in that chair near the water!’ Asking no questions, I used my cell for 911. I also took hold of one lady’s arm and gave an order, ‘Don’t leave. The police will want to talk to you. They are on the way.’ The Beach Patrol were already in sight. Their vehicles could travel on the sand. Sirens wailed from the street. Not knowing what they would find, reporters, t.v. cameras were right on their tail.

Being the one who called in the 911 report, I was the first to be questioned. There was almost no helpful information I could give other than the man was sitting there when I arrived at 7 when I came to work. There had been no apparent reason I should check on him. The two ladies were questioned next. They couldn’t help but see the man was naked, so quickly looked away. Mrs. Cole then realized the man hadn’t raised his head, smiled and that his eyes were wide open, staring at the ocean. She had seen enough and ran towards me. Mrs. Sanders, her friend, gathered the toys spread around and prodded the children to run ahead to Mrs. Cole.

The police and beach patrol had no one else to question. There was nothing to inspect except the dead body. The ME walked from the street and complained to me he had sand in his shoes. What did he expect on the beach, feathers? With a fast examination he told the police there was no possible way to set a time of death. The constant cool, to cold, ocean wind, erased all chances. He called his wagon driver to send 2 men with a stretcher and tarpaulin cover down to pick up the body. Unlike t.v. police dramas, no yellow tape marked the area.

Already there had to be 50 curious sun bathers trying to see what was happening. They asked each other questions, got no sensible answers, I was sure, and left when the wagon headed for the morgue.

I was not a stranger to death on the beach and had witnessed several fools being brought in, blue and dead, having not followed the lifeguards’ orders to stay out of the ocean. Rip tides were strong. But this was a different thing altogether.This seemingly mild old man, for no reason I could imagine, was naked and very, very dead in a wide open public place. With no wallet, no fingerprints recorded with the FBI, a photo of him appeared in The Atlantic News the next day. I remembered clearly the police had closed the man’s staring eyes but the photo had them open. How come? I asked myself.

He had to be somebody’s father, brother, but so far nobody I.D.’d him. I wanted to get the whole morbid thing out of my mind, but it had a mind of its own, and hung on and on.

Two weeks later, on page 22 of the Atlantic News, there were a few lines about the man who died being a 62 year old retired pharmacist named James McCourt. He had no known living relatives and the pharmacy where he worked for years closed 5 years before. The last sentence threw me hard. ‘Evidently, Dr. McCourt died of self-ingested strychnine poisoning.’ I looked it up and confirmed what I knew. It is highly poisonous, colorless and a painful death.

I felt sad, couldn’t believe such a short obituary ended that man’s world. I continue to ponder so many questions about the tragic story, but these remain top priority on my list:

Was Dr. McCourt naked when he walked to the ocean’s edge? Was he carrying the webbed aluminum beach chair? Some place he had to have left his clothes. Where?

A DARK SUNNY DAY

He was sitting in an aluminum webbed beach chair, seemingly entranced, watching the rough Atlantic Ocean pound the sand. It was 7 A.M., my usual time to start setting up my sunbrella rental stand. No idea how early the lone beach goer arrived and didn’t care. The trucks had already combed the beach, leaving a tooth trail as far as I could see. Evidently, the sitter had refused to move so the tracks went around him. It was easier for the driver than arguing.

A few mothers, holding onto their kids, were beginning to arrive. Once they decided where on the vast empty beach they wanted to be, pails, shovels, towels, coolers, hit the sand. Two bikini clad mothers were my first customers. Nice start, I thought. I carried their red and white sunbrella choice about 25 feet away, wiggled the pole deep into the cool sand and unfurled the brella. They thanked me and I returned to the stand to sit and wait for another customer.

In the meantime, I watched the ladies take their children’s hands and walk quickly toward the freezing water’s edge. They walked past the lone man still sitting quietly in the webbed chair, shrugged their shoulders, walked a few steps closer to the waves that swirled around their ankles, turned around and walked back to the not moving man. As one, they screamed, grabbed their children and ran towards me.

‘Help! Police, call the police. A naked dead man is sitting in that chair near the water!’ Asking no questions, I used my cell for 911. I also took hold of one lady’s arm and gave an order, ‘Don’t leave. The police will want to talk to you. They are on the way.’ The Beach Patrol were already in sight. Their vehicles could travel on the sand. Sirens wailed from the street. Not knowing what they would find, reporters, t.v. cameras were right on their tail.

Being the one who called in the 911 report, I was the first to be questioned. There was almost no helpful information I could give other than the man was sitting there when I arrived at 7 when I came to work. There had been no apparent reason I should check on him. The two ladies were questioned next. They couldn’t help but see the man was naked, so quickly looked away. Mrs. Cole then realized the man hadn’t raised his head, smiled and that his eyes were wide open, staring at the ocean. She had seen enough and ran towards me. Mrs. Sanders, her friend, gathered the toys spread around and prodded the children to run ahead to Mrs. Cole.

The police and beach patrol had no one else to question. There was nothing to inspect except the dead body. The ME walked from the street and complained to me he had sand in his shoes. What did he expect on the beach, feathers? With a fast examination he told the police there was no possible way to set a time of death. The constant cool, to cold, ocean wind, erased all chances. He called his wagon driver to send 2 men with a stretcher and tarpaulin cover down to pick up the body. Unlike t.v. police dramas, no yellow tape marked the area.

Already there had to be 50 curious sun bathers trying to see what was happening. They asked each other questions, got no sensible answers, I was sure, and left when the wagon headed for the morgue.

I was not a stranger to death on the beach and had witnessed several fools being brought in, blue and dead, having not followed the lifeguards’ orders to stay out of the ocean. Rip tides were strong. But this was a different thing altogether.This seemingly mild old man, for no reason I could imagine, was naked and very, very dead in a wide open public place. With no wallet, no fingerprints recorded with the FBI, a photo of him appeared in The Atlantic News the next day. I remembered clearly the police had closed the man’s staring eyes but the photo had them open. How come? I asked myself.

He had to be somebody’s father, brother, but so far nobody I.D.’d him. I wanted to get the whole morbid thing out of my mind, but it had a mind of its own, and hung on and on.

Two weeks later, on page 22 of the Atlantic News, there were a few lines about the man who died being a 62 year old retired pharmacist named James McCourt. He had no known living relatives and the pharmacy where he worked for years closed 5 years before. The last sentence threw me hard. ‘Evidently, Dr. McCourt died of self-ingested strychnine poisoning.’ I looked it up and confirmed what I knew. It is highly poisonous, colorless and a painful death.

I felt sad, couldn’t believe such a short obituary ended that man’s world. I continue to ponder so many questions about the tragic story, but these remain top priority on my list:

Was Dr. McCourt naked when he walked to the ocean’s edge? Was he carrying the webbed aluminum beach chair? Some place he had to have left his clothes. Where?

CHICKEN LITTLE #666

Don't be frightened. I want you to know this story happens to be #666 in my current group of stories that I put in my documents, mail individually to my Fan Club. 666 is the Devil's number, but there is no devil so read on.

Both of my feet had just reached the cold floor. The heat hadn’t clicked on yet nor had the sun started to show its face. I gathered my old comfortable flannel robe from the top of Mathilda’s treasured hope chest and was just about ready to tie the ragged belt around my waist, when there was a tremendous thump on the roof. The whole house shook. Matty sat straight up, looked at me and asked, What have you done now, Nathan?’ ‘Nothin’, nothin’, stay in bed. I think there must have been a terrible accident out front. I’m going out to see what happened. Stay here!’

My slippers were inadequate for this cold morning so I took ½ minute and slipped on my lined work boots. As soon as I opened the door a deluge of neighbors flooded my pathway. Eyes were to the sky. Red flashing lights were flying up the street. ‘What’s going on?’ I asked Jim, my neighbor’s oldest son. ‘Ha Ha. Look for yourself. A piece of the sky fell on your roof.’ I looked but didn’t know what I was seeing. It was big, metallic, silvery and was hanging over the edge of my roof.

Firemen were already climbing ladders up the back wall. Matty’s screeching voice rang out. ‘Nathan, help. Somebody’s on our roof. Keep him away from the window. I’m not dressed yet.’

The firemen radioed down to their base, ‘Three.’ Three new men dressed in full emergency helmets, hatchets, rubber boots, oxygen masks, managed to carry heavy ropes, chains. Police were everywhere making neighbors move back, cross the street. ‘Just stay out of our way, Folks.’ But I was not to be chased. This was my house. ‘Move it, Mister. Move it now! You want that jet spare part on your head? No? Then Go! ‘Anybody else inside?’ he asked. ‘Nice to ask. Yes, my wife is getting dressed.’ He looked at me like I was crazy, and I guess he was right. ‘Get her out, now.’ He directed one of his men to find Matty but don’t frighten her. She’s getting dressed, is probably in the bathroom, second floor rear. The two of them had a good laugh while I yelled, ‘Go, Go.’

T.V. trucks and paraphernalia blocked one end of the street. The Albany Daily, Erie Sentinel had trucks, reporters, photographers getting in the way. Cell phones were glued to ears. Mouths foamed with the rush to get the words out and then the neighbors roared with laughter.

Out stepped Matty, swaddled in our old candlewick bedspread that had been in the hope chest until it semi-rotted. She was mad and embarrassed. Pointing at a fireman she said he saw her naked. ‘Nathan, talk to his boss and get him fired.’ ‘Matty, you can’t fire a fireman.’

Now that she was safe I looked at my destroyed lawn. It was of no consequence. A crane was coming on it, chains digging up every flower, every blade of grass. It had to get between my house and Joe’s Dad’s. With less than 12 inches on each side of the monster, I figured it was good the lawn was dug up. Matty could bury me right here.

A heavy chain net was hoisted towards the roof. The thing, whose name I still don’t know, was lifted in jaws bigger than that sharks’ and much, much stronger and lowered slowly to the ground. Equipment began to leave. New apparatus came in. A flat bed truck with metal rails received the thing and drove away.

By then we knew the part was decorative and it had loosened and fallen from an Air France jet and did no harm. Not until the plane reached Paris, did the men who prepare it for its next flight see the empty space.

Headlines were all over the States, France. Matt Laurie had Matty and me on the Today Show. Our story was in Time magazine. The roofer got a lot of free publicity and didn’t charge us. We don’t know who paid the police, the firemen, the truckers, the crane people, but we didn’t have to lay out any money. Unreal. Isn’t it?

Nobody likes to pay taxes, but we pay them. If not, I’d be in Pauper’s Jail and not telling you this wonderful bubbameitza. Hope you liked.

TURNABOUT

From the driveway I can see her bedroom window. The low lamp is on. Is she sleeping or did she just get in? Why should I care? With good reason. I am mad as a wet hen that knows it can’t swim and will soon drown. Jen dumped me. If she had held off just another fifteen minutes I would have been able to relax my paralyzed vocal chords to tell her what she told me. The difference was my plan had me as the bogey man while she was sweet, pretty, charming and I am a creature of habit–a bad habit–I snort coke. So what if that is a lie, a big lie? Drugs are not on my list to do some day. Jen has a list too, a don’t list. Don’t date druggies.

What really bothered me the most were the few words she used to do the deed. ‘Sorry, Drew. We’ve had our time together and now I’m movin’ on. Please drive me home.’ I fumphed. I gulped. I was stunned and delighted at the same time. Her mother was sitting on the front porch when we arrived. Jen, dry eyed, kissed me lightly, quickly on the cheek, opened the car door and smiled a quirky smile, ‘Have a good life, Drew.’ Her mother waved to me. I was away from there as fast as my Honda would take me.

Days turned into weeks, Jen was replaced by Marcie, We were good together. In spite of our diverse opinions, we had fun. We had super sex. Being escorted to a secluded table in any fine restaurant, eyes turned to us, her really. She’s the pretty one, the dresser who doesn’t flaunt herself. She walks slowly but with no airs. Me, I’m there in the background until the check comes. That’s okay. It’s not exactly ok.I’m still hurting. The rocky road I’ve been on trips me up. Jen did walk out on me. That never happened before and I didn’t like it when it hit. Had she gotten down on her knees in mid-thought and begged me to forgive her, I just might have. My degradation is eating an ulcer in my belly. I’ve taken to driving past her place when Marcie and I go out. Marcie has asked a few times why I come this way and I make up little white lies. Actually, I go past hoping Jen will see me with her. Instead, my pain has worsened. Once I caught her as she got out of a red Lincoln and once a silver Caddy.

Christmas was nearing and my innards knotted. The holiday season filled Marcie’s time. Almost daily she told me what she bought for this nephew, this niece, that cousin, her Mom and I didn’t want to hear her even mention my name. I told her several times not to buy me a gift and I won’t buy her anything either. I had a plan.

The week before Christmas we went to a cozy pizzeria. I was going to be Samson, strong willed, defiant, use what I had planned to use on Jen. An old wine bottle, still encased in raffia, a lit candle played shadow games on the red checked table cloth. I was ready, Marcie was extremely quiet. There was a look in her eye I didn’t like. It reminded me of Jen. Her face was long, somewhat sullen. Before she could tell me what was bothering her, I let it out. ‘Marcie, this isn’t easy,’ I said, ‘but I have to do it. You are special. You’ve been the joy of my life for two months. You’re lovely. You’re smart. Your sexy, but I have to move on.’ My kidneys needed emptying. Marcie laughed. ‘Drew, you are right. That’s what I was trying to tell you. I want to be free again. It was nice while it lasted, but it’s over.’ I am dumbstruck. I fumphed and I gulped. We finished our Chianti, shared a piece of Italian ricotta cheese cake and walked arm and arm out of the pizzeria. Marcie said, ‘Take me home, Drew.’

At her place, she kissed me lightly on my cheek, thanked me for the fabulous nights, walked up the path to her porch and stopped.A tall, broad shouldered man met her as she reached the top step. He put his arm around her.

I called out the window, ‘Have a good life, Marcie,’ and drove away.

PICTURES OF THE TROOPS

This may wake up a few people. It is so easy to be comfortable, complacent.
I must admit, I am one of the blind sometime.

www.erie.gov/veterans/pdfs/our_troops.pdf

PAGE ONE

The three times a week local paper hit the screen door. Maggie fumed again. She opened it and yelled, ‘Tommy, I warned you, one more bang and I would cancel the insipid Camptown Capers. Consider it done. Bye Tommy.’ The Monday paper showed her November horoscope to be rough for a few days and was right. That very day there was trouble.

Today was the last day she’d throw her two dollars a week in the trash. The paper quality had gotten so flimsy, the sheets tore before she could turn a page. Still, she felt an allegiance to it as it was at or to her door for a few years. She took it to the kitchen, laid it on the table, scrambled 3 eggs and sat down with her cup of de caf Maxwell house. Her heart pounded as soon as she saw page one. ‘Willie, quick, come down here. We have trouble!’ ‘Whadda ya yellin’ about, Woman? Couldn’t you wait until I was out of the bathroom?’

‘No, just look at the picture on page one. It’s a drawing but it’s him. I know it’s him.’ ‘Who, Maggie?’ ‘Crap, your mind is mush. It’s the man I saw in Gloria’s yard Tues., the day her house was robbed. Willie, it’s him. I’m calling the police.’ ‘Are you nuts? Don’t get involved. You can’t help.’ ‘But, I am involved. I gave Officer Jordan my description of that guy who shouldn’t have been in Gloria’s yard but I wasn’t sure enough to work with an artist.’ ‘Read the article, Willie. If I could have described him better maybe the girl on the next block wouldn’t have been raped Tues. night. The paper says she got a clear look at him in a mirror when he made her face the wall. It’s him and he’s loose.’ Listen to me, oh husband of mine. You can stand on your head, divorce me, I don’t care. We are putting in a burglar alarm today. Gloria gave me all the details. If she had put the alarm in when she had wanted, she still would have her grandmother’s brooch, her father’s gold stick pin. The magnificent double strand of pearls with the opal clasp she got for a 25th anniversary present would have been safe in a drawer instead of in a pawn shop or around some whore’s throat.’

‘Maggie, cut it out. You don’t have jewelry like Gloria has, I mean had. What would a burglar steal here?’

‘Your precious lap top computer, your DV discs, your portable big screen t.v., your grandfather’s old shaving mugs and brushes and my diamond ear rings that I hardly wear. Willie, do you still love me? Tell me the truth. Do you think I am too wrinkled, a few pounds overweight, that I am undesirable? You don’t think someone could get into our house while I am sleeping and you are out playing poker ‘til early in the morning, rape and murder me? Well, think again. I am not chopped liver. Rapists are rats and you leave me here as bait. We are getting the alarm system if you like it or not.’

‘No, we are not, Maggie. A system is expensive to put in and there are monthly charges. Listen to me. Here are our possibilities. #1. We can buy a one time thing, a rottweiler, that would scare bejesus away.’

‘That’s ridiculous. I’m not taking care of any man-killing dog while you go to work and aren’t home 4 nights a week.’

‘OK. Then we can put this house up for sale, make a little profit, and find a small condo apartment with door security. How’s that?’

‘Willie stop it! I am calling Stay Safe as soon as you shut up.’

‘Maggie, don’t. I have the perfect solution that won’t cost us anything.For you I will do it.’

‘And what hair brained scheme have you got now?’

‘Maggie, my beautiful wife, I’ll talk it over with the guys and they’ll understand. They can come here every game so you don’t have to be by yourself.’

Maggie gave him a big taste of raspberries, went to the phone and called Stay Safe. She and Willie didn’t speak for a week that gave Stay Safe time to install the burglar alarm.

T’AINT FUNNY, MA GEE

Jeb picked up his croissant, tore it to shreds, and lavishly spread orange marmalade over every nook and cranny. Little bits of orange stuck in his neatly trimmed small goatee. With his tongue he managed to pluck them out. It was not a pretty sight.

I, beardless thank heavens, wiped off the remains of my lipstick and put on a fresh layer just to please myself, not Jeb. His left eye is slightly crossed but he saw what

I did and reprimanded me for fixing my lips in public. ‘Cut that crap out, Jeb. You used your tongue to cleanse yourself and you have the guts to criticize me? Shame on you and don’t do it again, OR.’ There I shut up. ‘Or what?’ I turned my head in order to hold my temper.

Since our ‘love’ affair broke to shards of glass, we share our apartment but haven’t shared the same bed. It was a legal and financial agreement that is souring quickly.

For convenience’s sake we have breakfast together, usually at Mickey’s, where parking is free.

Our ‘regular’ waitress, Nora, was ready for us today. Jeb’s oatmeal was put in front of him within minutes, as if he were the Lord High Executioner. Bang! Jeb hit the table and shouted, ‘Come here, Nora. Take this oatmeal back to the kitchen. Bring it back hot, with my usual pitcher of warm cream and shaker of sugar/cinnamon, NOW! What’s the matter with you today? Got the curse?’

I couldn’t help it. My pointed snake-skin shoe hit into Jeb’s leg like a cobra in heat. He banged the table even harder, gave me a grimacing look. It shook and all eyes were focused on us. Jeb stood up, raised his arms as if he just won the world’s heavyweight championship. Smuggly, loud and clear, he said, ‘I am right, you all know. Waitresses shouldn’t have to be told a hundred times what a customer likes.’
How I wished I could have kicked him harder. Before his temper was cooled Nora was back . His oatmeal et al was to his liking, he thought. A few shakes of the sugar/cinnamon mixture produced nothing. Uselessly he hit it with the palm of his hand. Nora was not in sight. What did genius do? He unscrewed the top of the shaker and shook. The top and what looked like a mountain of sugar/cinnamon fell in his oatmeal. ‘Whoops!’ he yelled.’ I couldn’t stop laughing. Oatmeal was where the orange marmalade had been. I rubbed it in and wiggled my finger at Jeb. ‘It’s your own darn fault. You’re a jinx and don’t you dare make another childish scene–OR.’

‘Or what?’ I zipped my lips, gathered my things and left him sitting by himself. As I walked away, I heard him calling Nora. ‘Clean up this mess and bring me another croissant with orange marmalade.’

MARGARET’S CHOICE

From a plastic bag she removes a small ash tray, lays it on the nite table in her Astor Hotel room. What does Margaret care if there are ‘no smoking’ signs in the lobby, on elevators, in the halls? She opens her antiquated silver cigarette case, flicks her Bic and takes a long, deep drag on a Marlboro.

There is little for her to unpack as there is almost no hope of getting any part, even the most trivial, in another revival of ‘Oklahoma.’ Self analysis makes it clear that she smells of smoke, her fingers are yellowed and would be a deterrent, a physical risk for the new Angel.

The Cattle Call line snakes around the block. Why am I here? I must be crazy, she thinks. I’m chasing a faded rainbow. Her mind see-saws, stick it out; Idiot, get the bus and go home. Go hide and have a smoke to calm down. No, throw the pack in the Hudson River. Add the cigarette case. No, keep the case. That’s all I have of Eddie.

The audition line moves like a dying side-winder. At last, Margaret reaches the marquee and the shade. It helps, but not much. Turning to the fresh, stacked, squeaky clean Cow behind her, she asks, ‘Will you hold my place for me? I have to go to the loo. I’ll hold yours when I get back.’ With a partially honest ‘thanks a lot’ she almost runs to the outside toilets. It stinks in there but a cig is worth standing it. Catastrophe! Her Bic slips from her nervous hand and drops in the toilet. It’s the only lighter she brought with her. The Horns of a Dilemma rear. The flush toilet looks clean and the lighter is reachable but it is wet and won’t work. With a frustrated sigh, she pulls down her panties and pees, flushes and returns to the line. The girl behind her let’s Margaret into the line as it is moving faster. They are almost at the theatre doors. Margaret gives the young girl a silly military salute and walks away.

Disgruntled with herself she stops at a Going Out of Business store, goes in and buys two Bics, lights up as soon as she gets out the door, inhales until the smoke touches her ankles. She checks out of the hotel and heads back to Northbridge, home NOT sweet home. There she mopes and smokes. Her last x-ray report from the MRI Center has been delayed. It was not a good report three months ago so this one is going to be worse. She’s been foolish but has never been stupid.

Looking up into the sky, she cries, ‘Momma, Momma, can you hear me? You were right. I knew you were right but I had to defy you. You could not rule me. I had to be ME. And, Momma, I am not afraid. Rest, Momma.’

It takes a year for that week to end. She can see right thru Dr. Glassman. He’s going to want her to start chemo at once even though they both know it won’t save her. ‘Dr. , how long do I have?’ With no hesitation he replies, ‘Not much. Get your affairs in order, maybe six months, a little more, a little less.’ He is not surprised to hear strong words. ‘Right now, get out the legal papers. No chemo. Let me go. No resuscitation. No prolonging my life. You have checked, told me my heart is good, my eyes are good. So far the cancer has not metastasized, right?’ Dr. Glassman lowers his head and replies, ‘Right, Margaret.’

‘As soon as I am comatose, do nothing. Let me die. I want to be a donor. Take my heart, my eyes, my skin. Give them to those who are smarter than I have been.’ ‘You are sure, Margaret? There will be no turning back.’ ‘Yes, just give me the papers.’ The doctor’s nurse witnesses the signatures on three separate forms. An assistant from the outer office notarizes them.

Margaret leaves, reaches the doorway to the street, opens the door, walks out, lights up a Marlborough with her new Bic, looks back towards the sky again and says, ‘ Momma, I’ll see you soon.’ She takes a long, deep drag.

LOVE OUT OF BLOOM

May 1 my youth took a blow. Harvey and I broke up. We had been a teen thing for over a year. Everybody thought we would get married soon or later, including us. Our parents disapproved and will surely be glad to hear the news when I am able to tell them.

In the hall mirror at the top of the stairs I see a me I don’t know. My eyes are bloodshot. My lips are pale. Crying has washed away the little eye make up I wear. Did I comb my hair this morning? The mirror tells me ‘no’. There is no solace in my room. On the closet door hangs my gorgeous blue somewhat slinky prom gown. All it needs is a hemming and all I need is a cup of hemlock. When I plop on my bed, the springs creak. I pull my Dacron pillow over my head, close my eyes and want to stop breathing. My lungs have a will of their own.

Footsteps, Mom’s footsteps, are not what I want to hear at the moment, but they are coming in. ‘Go away, Mother. Just let me alone.’She says not a word, turns, goes downstairs and lets me be. I jump out of bed and hurry to the railing. ‘Mother, can you return my prom dress? I won’t be wearing it.’ She comes to the step. ‘Elly, what’s your hurry? Let’s wait until Friday. Maybe things will change.’ ‘Right, Mom. Friday you may be burying me. Take the dress back.’ I return to my solitude, don’t want to talk to anybody, which is perfect. Nobody is calling me. ‘Mother, if Harvey calls, tell him I went to the movies with Janet. He’ll believe you.’

The June ‘82 yearbook is lying open on my night stand, just the way I left it when I kissed Harvey’s picture good night only yesterday. I bang it closed and, like a fool, toss it under my bed. As I stand up a tiny speck of light touches my soggy mind. Harvey isn’t the only person in my book. My friends are there. From the hall closet I get the dust mop and with it I retrieve my book, take a cuticle scissors, small but sharp. Poof, Harvey is in shreds, just like my heart. Somehow, that makes me feel better. He started the argument and I finished it for good. ‘Elly, phone. It’s Alice. Are you coming down?’ Murdering Harvey with my cuticle scissors is incentive enough to wake me. I don’t need him. He doesn’t need me. Here I come, Mother.’

‘Hi, Alice. What’s new?’ There is a bit of hesitation on both ends of the line. ‘Saturday Maggie and I are having lunch at the mall and then going to see a movie. Friday we’ll have a list of shows and will choose then. What do you say?’ I say, ‘Sure, why not?’ Alice continues. ‘You asked what’s new. The economic slump is not over and Sylvia Sondheim fell down her front steps and broke her left leg.’ ‘What a shame, Alice, but I have my own problems. See you Saturday.’

The day has no end. Night is endless. Sleep comes in 1/2 hour spurts. Echoes of Harvey’s harsh words are a blur. Mine are loud and mean and come out as gibberish. I switch on my lamp, open my year book, re-read the good wishes, the wise cracks. The hole in page 36 was stupid. I cut up Mary Griffin who was on the back of Harvey. Hell, I liked her.Too late, done is done.

Sylvia Sondheim broke her leg? Hmmmn. More slowly, more carefully, I study my classmates. Sylvia wasn’t going with anyone special but I know she dated Ralph Beck a few times. I lay the thought to rest until Saturday. ‘Alice, do you know if Ralph Beck has a prom date?’ How should I know, Elly? Ask him.’ ‘Oh, no. You ask him for me. Will you?’ ‘I don’t want to but what are friends for?’

Ralph calls me Saturday night and invites me to be his date. I call to Mom, ‘Hey, Mom, did you take my gown back to the store yesterday?’ ‘No, Honey, I was busy. I’m going this afternoon.’ ‘Don’t bother, Smarty Pants. Get an appointment for me with the dressmaker. My gown needs shortening.’

MAZEL TOV

I’ve never been a skinflint, a miser, but do admit I watch my wallet like a German Shepherd watching his master’s flock. The Bar Mitzvah of our son, David, has done wonders, put wax on my fingers to loosen me up a little. Also, my wife Millie, has used her wiles on me. I try not to mention it too often, but do think I have flipped and gone overboard. Yet, for our David, he is worth everything to us. He is going to have a Bar Mitzvah from Bar Mitzvah land, a beaut!

Without our nagging, pushing him, he has spent months studying the Torah, learning the difficult language and the meaning of each passage.Anything he wants that I can give him, I will gladly give...and he is not bashful. He asks. ‘Dad, Jerrold isn’t having a bash like you are giving me. He is having a family luncheon after Sabbath services are over and then, on Sunday, his father has rented the entire Capt. Rick’s Ice Rink from noon until 5. I’ve already accepted the invitation but don’t have skates. I have to have skates. Please, please, will you take me to Sports Authority this afternoon to get a pair? They’re on sale today.’ ‘David, why not wait a few days and see what presents come?’ ‘No, Dad, I need time to learn. I can’t go to the rink like a shlamozzle. Jerry said 100 kids are coming, including a lot of girls.’

‘OK, David. We’ll go later, after the Army/Navy game.’ ‘But, but, Dad,’ my son whines. ‘They’ll sell out. How many pairs can one store carry?’ I ignore his but, buts. The store still has his size after Army trounces Navy. My son, is a student exemplar, and in only 6 days of one hour lessons, can do an axle like a pro. He does it so well girls start calling him after school. They are twelve going on fifteen. Beverly and Melanie call often during our supper. Honest Abe David tells me to tell them he isn’t home. I hand him the phone and loudly say, ‘Here tell Beverly yourself that you aren’t home,’ and I hang up.

Before the phone starts to ring the following week, I take it off the hook. Millie and I watch as David opens all the envelopes, writes in a notebook I have given him, each person’s gift, their names and addresses and no matter what else he has to do before bed, we see to it that thank you notes are written and will go in the mail the next day. The same with gift boxes. David unties the ribbons, cuts the tape and makes careful notes so he can write something personal, not just ‘thank you for the present.’

It has all been a wonderful, happy, expensive experience. Pish Posh, the money was immaterial. David made us proud. And when he asked me to take him back to Sports Authority to return the 3 pairs of ice skates he got so the salesman can sell them to someone else, I couldn’t help but say aloud...

Some Boyshick we reared, didn’t we Millie?

MAMA, DEAREST

I’m only ten (an only child) and have lots of likes and don’t likes, maybe too many of each. What I like best is my bedroom, Mama spent a lot of time planning, making it everything a little girl growing up would like. Not once did she make a choice without first asking me what I want, then telling Daddy what we both wanted.

That their room is bigger than mine is the way it is supposed to be–and is. My room is sunshine. The walls are yellow, a soft, happy yellow. Near the window is a white rattan chair. I didn’t know what rattan was so Mama took me to the furniture store and showed me. Oooh, I didn’t like it. Then she showed me the yellow and orange cushions and pillows that go with it and the chair became beautiful. On the floor next to my bed is a large, round, orange colored plushy mat. Every time I step on it I take a sip of orange juice. There is a framed painting of suns, two suns, in the sky with rays of light coming from a pale blue sky that I did in the second grade. It hangs over my bureau. In the linen closet there are always clean, crisp yellow and white checked pillow cases and solid yellow sheets. No matter what the day is like, I’m happy breathing sunshine.

Sometimes I laugh to myself, or even let the laughter loose when Mama gets angry at me, tells me to apologize and go to my room. In a second, I kiss her on the cheek, say, ‘I’m sorry, Mama’ and fly upstairs on gossamer wings. Even with gray sunshine, from my window I can see flowers growing, watch the weeping willow that planted itself in our yard. Mother doesn’t really like sad things but loves this one because it chose to live with us. It does look like it is crying but when the spring wind brushes its branches, it seems to dance. Wearing my pretty yellow sweater with the matching cap Aunt Mollie knitted for me, I can sit in the grass and let the tree hula for me.

Winter comes. Snow falls and covers everything. Now and then a sparrow dots the white. Mama comes to my room to take my temperature. She doesn’t tell me how much I have. It can’t be a lot because I am chilled and want another blanket. Mama brings me a cup of hot tea with honey in it. It warms my throat and chest

I am taking a trip in a golden chariot led by 4 horses that have wings I can see thru. White clouds part and there is a fence and a gate. Above that there is sunshine. Mama and Daddy wave to me. They are holding each other and crying.

UNEXPECTED SAVIOR

Sitting in my car in front of a block of neat stone houses, 4 to a nest, I ponder my dilemma. I remember when construction began here, right after WWII. Mostly returning service people bought with government assistance. The lawns now are lush, manicured. Shrubs have grown tall, colorful. A few flowering mimosas, cherry trees have reached majority.

This section of Tampa was all white at first. When one family had to move north and sold to a Negro family, another white family followed. It took five years to find a good balance, for neighbors to be friends, mingle, share. It was, and is, a small model for a big world.

A large, dark skinned man, about 45 I imagine, walks slowly towards my car. He’s neatly dressed in a brown houndstooth checked jacket, tan trousers, brown loafers. He taps on my window. I’m startled but not panicked. I hit the open button and the window glass slides down. ‘May I help you, Ma am? Are you looking for someone? I know all the residents here.’ ‘Maybe you can, Sir. You must have noticed my front windshield and radiator, haven’t you?’ ‘How could I miss the mess, Ma am?’ ‘Well, I didn’t expect this coming thru Tampa. I hit a swarm of love bugs that have clogged my radiator and covered my windshield. My wiper won’t budge nor will the bugs. I have nothing to scrape them off, have no idea what is in my engine and how to fix it. So, Mr., if you can help me in any way, I will be eternally grateful.’

‘May I put my sport coat inside your car? I’d hate to ruin it.’ He hands it to me thru the window and asks me to release the hood, something I have never done. ‘How? Where is the release, Mr, oh, what’s your name?’ ‘George, George Hanson. Ma am.’ ‘ Stop with the Ma am already, George. I’m Lilly Val. Just call me Lilly.’ He shows me the hood release and how easy it is to lift. The noise scares me silly. ‘Look overhere. See this white funnel? Open it. Your window washer fluid is empty. That’s why your blades won’t wash the windows. Do you have any fluid in the trunk?’ ‘I don’t know, George. The service station where I get gas always checks these things out for me.’ ‘Stay where you are, Lilly. I have some in my car.’ He returns with a gallon of turquoise colored water. I stand right next to him to watch what he does and then slam the cap tight. ‘Close the hood, Lily.’ It drops and sounds to me like I broke the entire car.

From his pant’s pocket, George hands me a bottle of spray water and tells me to spray the dead and dying love bugs on the window until they loosen. Most quickly slide down the side of the car. It looks like a few are still making love and are not ready to die. Those George squirts off and sprays more water to wash the gook away. Then with a dry scrub brush he attacks the radiator cover. What a dirty job but he stays spotless.

‘Lilly, get in the car. Start it. Turn on your windshield wiper. Let’s see if all is well,’ It is. He gives me good advice. ‘The next time you are near a service center, a car dealership, buy a radiator screen, It isn’t expensive and is easy to attach. Put it on before the bugs come in spring. ‘

‘Mr. Hanson, George, how can I thank you?’ I take $20 out of my purse and hand it to him. He pays me back with a sour, snarled face and refuses the money. Indignity pours from his carbon colored eyes. I meant well, didn’t mean to insult him. That’s for sure!

After a slight pause, George changes his mind. ‘Lilly, you can pay me with the pleasure of your company. Look in the front window. See Tula, my wife peeping out? She’s wondering who the white lady is I’ve been helping and if she will join us for some of the best darn walnut pancakes in the world. Tula doesn’t use any kind of mix. Please join us.’‘Thank you but no thank you. I have to get going.’ ‘Going where that is better than here?’ ‘I want to hurry and get a radiator net so those crazy lovin’ ants don’t attack my car again.’

‘Lilly, be honest. Are you afraid to come in, hesitant being in a black man’s house?’ I have no time to reply. He calls loudly to Tula. ‘Tula, come out here. Meet Lilly Val. Whatcha been doing all this time I’m helping her out?’ ‘George, Honey, I’ve just be waiting for you to bring her in. My walnut pancakes are just itching to fry. Come on in, Lilly Val. You’ve never been treated to pancakes like mine. You might want to buy a house down the street and come often. Our home is completely integrated, in case our color bothers you.’ ‘One more stupid remark like that, Tutu, and you will have extra pancakes to eat by yourselves. Our teen son is adopted and very dark skinned.

Our daughter is white as snow and is Jewish. Come meet them.’ George offers me his arm and we walk together into the large kitchen and a new friendship.

ON MY WAY

Her cell phone, like dozens of others rushing to the subway, is glued to her ear. Mine is in the Hudson River. I don’t even miss it. I feel loose and step to the song that is in my heart, ‘Come on a My House.’ Cheryl is waiting for me. I have to go downstairs to go Uptown. They are already full of candy wrappers, paper napkins, ads even they though they were swept probably an hour ago. A chunk of what looks like a vomited Milky Way sticks to my shoe. I almost fall but manage to grab the railing.

Click, click, click. The turnstile clicks non-stop. I am about to spin thru it when a disheveled beared man pushes me aside and goes ahead of me. A lady behind me, laden with a shopping bag, stands back a foot so I can go thru. There is no time to say ‘thank you’ but I manage to wave it. How I detest this ride but not as much as I would hate to have a car in NY City. The streets are reserved for strong-willed cab drivers and lunatics and those wealthy enough to have expensive parking spaces in their condo garages.

As expected, I have no choice and have to stand to reach the fourth stop, Cheryl’s. There is a commotion at the other end of my car. A female yells, ‘Rape! Rape!’ A few heads, including mine, look her way. The car screeches to a stop at that very moment. Whether she wants out or not, she ‘s pushed to the platform. There is no one to whom she can report the incident, no way for her to identify the hand that went up her skirt. I lose track of her as we pull away.

‘Wentworth, Cranston, 12th St.’ light up on the directory. My shoulder juts against a man carrying a violin case. He gives me a foul look. I apologize and squeeze my way to the exit door. A nursing mother, breast exposed, is sitting on a bench near the wall. Two toddlers are too close to the track. The mother jumps up, almost drops her baby, and screams for her children to come right back to her. They don’t move until I grab one by her fuzzy jacket. Her brother hits me in my back, almost knocks me over. I persevere and get them back to their mother where, surprisingly, a man gives her a seat on the bench next to where she had been. Her, ‘Gracias, senor,’ is welcome. I wink to her and am on my way to Cheryl.

It’s a short walk, down a tree lined street. Like a child, I hopscotch over the concrete lines. The girls jumping rope make fun of me and at the same time ask me in for Double Dutch. I daren’t. They would really laugh when I trip on the first try.

On the corner of Cheryl’s block is a florist. In a large green bucket against the window overly large pink peonies call my name. The sweet smell and beautiful pink will surely earn me an extra big hug. Laden down, I ring Cheryl’s bell. The ‘Entre’ unless you are a killer,’ comes over the mike.

And there she is leaning against the door. In her hand is a big bowl of fruit. Rosemary Clooney sings from her album, loud enough for neighbors to hear. ‘Come on a my house, a my house. I gonna give you, peach an a pear and a pomegranate, too’. She takes the peonies and I take the fruit.

Later we will take each other into her pink bedroom, finish the fruit and cuddle up until I have to go back on that damn subway.

THE MULBERRY BUSH

A crowd is gathering around the white haired lady sitting on the curb. The heavy summer storm has passed. Rain water runs rapidly from the gutter to the sewer. Empty cigarette packs, note paper, candy wrappers float like rafts to the sea. Black tie oxfords sit side by side close to the lady. Her skirt is hiked up only high enough to keep it dry. Bare feet wiggle, toes rejoice at the coolness of the water.

I hear whispers, see women of various ages pointing at the goofus sitting on the curb. She is oblivious, recites softly ‘Mary had a little lamb’, ‘Jack be nimble.’ The memories pour out like sparkling burgundy wine.

There is no parking on the right side of Charles Street today so she is fairly safe. But delivery trucks don’t park. They merely ‘stop’. A special delivery brown UPS car barely misses her but the wheels throw water over her face and hair. From a small plastic bag she removes a man sized white handkerchief, dries herself, turns to the Lookie Loos. ‘Great! Now I have had my morning shower.’

In no hurry, I stay a few minutes longer than those who will go home and tell their husbands about the ‘nut’ in the gutter. Suitably dry, she puts on knee high nylon hose, her shoes and struggles to tie the laces.‘May I do that for you?’ I ask. What a sweet, soft, warm ‘Yes, thank you,’ I receive. My hand reaches out to help her stand. Her grip almost pulls me into the gutter. ‘There’s a Starbucks on the other side of the street. Would you like to have a steaming hot coffee with me? I usually get their cinnamon pecan brioche that is big enough for us to share?’‘Chahmed,’ I reply. We exchange names, shake hands, but make no move towards Starbucks.

The old lady’s name is Liz, ‘like Lizzie Borden,’ she adds. I must look wild. ‘Liz, that was my mother’s name and she always did what you just did when she met someone new, ‘like Lizzie Borden.’ ‘My name is Helen. Like Helen of Troy.’ It’s Liz’s turn to be stunned. ‘Helen, my daughter was named Helen, Helen of Troy, but she died in a car accident when she was 12.’ This is awesome. We don’t even try to talk as we walk to the corner traffic light and cross for our treat.

‘Let’s recite our childhood poems. I’ll go first, then you do one,’ Liz suggests and begins before I acquiesce ‘Little Boy Blue come.’ I interrupt, ‘My turn. Jack and Jill went.’ We end each others and laugh like kids. The coffee, the brioche, are delicious. Liz’s company special. I don’t want it to end yet.

‘Momma, will you come to my house for Thanksgiving, meet my family? You’ll have to save some room for my 3" home made luscious pumpkin pie. Please come.’

‘I’d be chahmed,’ Liz answers. ‘I think god has sent us to each other today. I can’t help but think that my Helen would be about your age now. ‘Yes, I’ll come and bring my special roast potatoes with lots of browned onions. Helen loved those.’

‘Bring plenty. I adore them too!’