WRONG

He stood waiting at the Marina, saw her before she saw him. The lady drove around twice looking for a parking space. Maybe its an omen she thought. Go home. An angel must have been listening and prodded a truck driver to move out. She grabbed the spot. A tall, seemingly nice looking man, leaned against a post. That must be Max, one of the few who answered her ad.

As she opened her car door, the man walked slowly towards her, hesitated and offered, ‘I’m Max. Are you Edie?’ Edie offered a soft handshake. ‘Nice to meet you in person.’ Her washed denim slax were perfect for the occasion. Max had said casual and casual she was. A light blue polished cotton blouse, collar raised, a sort of cowboy straw sun hat covered most of her hair, straight bangs added to the sunny glow of her smile. Damn, she knew she passed test one. Max’s smile was broad with what looked like his own teeth. ‘I’m impressed, Edie.. One look at you and my first thought was, ‘she’s a fox!. Ready for lunch? We have a table with an ocean view for both of us, if we sit side by side? Would you mind? ‘ A negative nod sufficed.

They walked together over a small bridge almost in silence. ‘I’ve never been here before, Max. How about you?’ ‘Once or twice. After our phone talks, I thought this would be just right. ‘This is lovely. You made a good choice so far.’ Words began to flow like the long Mississippi, going from place to place. They dawdled over their Cabernets, a crispy Caesar salad tossed at the table, spicy chilled shrimp cocktails and finished off with two black coffees and a shared lime sherbet. ‘ No hurry, let’s not rush.’ But the waitress put the check on the table as soon as they had ordered the sherbet. A long line of new customers waited at the door.

‘Let’s go. How about a walk in the sun to look over the yachts, see which one we should buy?’ They walked. They talked as if they had been friends forever. ‘Know what I love to do? Read the cute names, pick out the biggest yacht that I know I can never afford and then find the smallest best kept one I might aim for some day.’ Someplace in the conversation Edie felt a bump. ‘Max Sugar’ isn’t Jewish. He’s a Southern Baptist. Didn’t he pay attention to my ad, SWWJ.no smoking? I think his fingers are too yellow. Maybe he quit.’ The new knowledge rained on her parade, hit her in the gut like a bowling ball zigging down the gutter. Everything had seemed so perfect until then. It was time to thank him for a nice afternoon, shake hands and say ‘So long.’ And that is what they did. Max waved and yelled, ‘I’ll call you.’ With only herself to hear, Edie mumbled. ‘Don’t.

At home she tossed her hat on the sofa, kicked off her shoes, unzipped her jeans, put her comfy silk robe on over her underwear and sat down to write about Max-Baptist, her feelings, good and bad. Just another page for her portfolio of blind dates. The phone rang. Frankie, Old Blue Eyes was calling her. He sang close to the mouthpiece one whole chorus of ‘Fly Me to the Moon.’ ‘Who is this?’ ‘Edie, it’s Max. Didn’t we have a great day together? How about doing it again Saturday morning? I’ll think of something special for us to do? What do you say?’ Edie was ready to say she was busy but her mouth didn’t listen. Out came, ‘Sure let me know what to wear by Friday in case I need a new formal dress.’ ‘Ha, don’t worry. We won’t go to the early show of La Boheme. Casual will be fine.’ With that sentence, Max was circumsized, no ceremony, no pain.

9 A.M. they headed to the San Diego zoo, 60 miles away and got lost twice. It was 11 when they finally got to the entrance to a new world, one Edie had only seen on T.V. One of the first areas they visited was to watch the silver backed gorillas walk around as if they owned the world. They seemed so human. They grunted, talked to each other, fed babies. Max was enchanted by Edie’s enthusiasm and sketched her riding on the back of the lord of the group. That made a big impression on her. Edie kissed Max lightly on the cheek. Like a schoolboy, he wiped it off and put it in his pocket. At noon they were lucky to find an empty sunbrella, had a small lunch with glass after glass of good, cold water. They saw as many animals as they could, many so strange she thought they were characters from Dr. Suess books. ‘We’d better head back. Traffic will be even worse leaving than coming. The good part is we won’t get lost.’

No sooner did Max start the motor than Frankie jumped out of the speaker and he harmonized with Max, 2 full choruses, ‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin.’ Max tried to take Edie’s hand but she pulled away. ‘Keep your hands on the wheel and your eyes on the road, Please.’ At her house, he got out of the car to open her door for her and as it closed he gave her a tiny hug and a tinier kiss on the cheek. No complaint. No rebuff. Instead he sang,’ You Brought a New Kind of Love to Me.’ A wave, a blown kiss and he was gone.

Original love poems, funny one act plays dropped into her foyer almost every day. Edie didn’t put any more ads in the paper, even though she knew something was missing. There was little cuddling, no mention, no action towards the bedroom. Knowing Edie better than she knew herself, he wasn’t going to destroy what was building up.

Max fit easily into Edie’s country club lifestyle. Her friends adored him, asked him to sing at parties, play golf, have a beer. The other side of the coin became evident. Max took Edie to spend an evening or two with his buddies, their girlfriends, a few wives. She was uncomfortable with the beer drinking, loud voices, foul language, dirty talk. Edie did her best to join in but the girdle was strangling her. The writing on the wall was more and more clear. The words were dripping tears.

No question, Max loved her deeply. No question her passion, her wall of defense was crumbling to dust. The dust was turning into a mountain with no snow on top. Edie could not exchange her world for Max’s. She could never be his mistress or his wife. Her heritage still bound her to what she had almost lost. Her heart could not be her guide. It would surely lead to disaster sooner or later. Let him go. Make him go. Edie broke his heart and took a huge chunk out of her own. She closed her mind tightly to his pleading, to his singing. Tore up his poetry unread. With no choice, Max left.

Six months later, Edie answered the phone and heard Max singing soulfully with Frankie, ‘Blues in the Night.’ At the end of the chorus, Max said softly, ‘I loved you, Edie. I still love you.’ She didn’t even have time to reply when she heard a loud noise and the phone went dead.

Two days later by chance, Edie saw a small news bit in the Sat. Sun.‘Max Sugar, well known, Sinatra mimic, found dead in his apartment. His gun was still in his hand. The case is being investigated.

FROM FAR AWAY

I was standing on a big rock whose surface had been smoothed by water, rain and wind. The rock was surround by water. Long waves rolled lazily from the sea and broke silently when they hit the rock. I was facing the open ocean. Behind me, not many yards away was a sandy beach. It was surrounded by high but smooth cliffs. To the right the tongue of a cliff moved into the crystal clear water, interrupting the white line of the beach. Huge palm trees looked like green parasols. Their long leaves were swinging the light breeze which blew in from the sea.

I was naked. I felt the salty air and the warming rays of the sun on my skin. In my hands I held a long fishing rod, but I didn’t fish. I just stood there and watched the colorful fish playing at the foot of the rock and enjoyed the peace.

When I heard a strange, deep monotonous sound I turned around, angered by what had disturbed the beautiful silence.

A line of dark clad people came slowly walking out of the water, there where the tongue of the cliff dipped into the sea. At first I could only see the heads emerge, covered by dark hoods. Then the shoulders broke the water surface, then the rest of their bodies appeared from under the water. When the strange, mysterious procession reached the beach, it continued to move in slow motion.

I watched those dark clad figures in surprise. I tried to understand the words of their monotonous song. Was it a song or was it a litany, a litany I recall from when I was a child? Why couldn’t I see the faces under the hoods? Why were these people clad in thick frocks like monks? Where did they come from? Where were they going? The procession came to a halt. The mysterious group formed a half circle which was facing me. For a second I wanted to cover my nakedness, but I felt no shame, no fear. I felt proud!

The sound coming from the the half circle grew louder, menacing in its tone. Now I could hear what it was, a Gregorian Choral which I had to sing when I was forced to participate in religious exercises. Did this half circle of gender-less human figures try to get me back to this long forgotten time?

I started to hum, then my voice grew louder, but it was not a Choral coming from my mouth. It was a Scottish melody, ‘Oh, flower of Scotland’! Why did I sing that lovely song of freedom? I tried to stop singing, felt it was not proper to answer to the choral in that way–but couldn’t stop. The choral grew louder. It sounded threatening. I answered by nearly yelling my song. The wind tried to help me. It grew stronger, carried my voice to the beach. Louder and louder I sang. I felt like a warrior, naked and proud.

Slowly, ever so slowly the half circle formed a straight line again. The choral faded away. I could feel tristesse, sadness floating towards me. Suddenly I felt sorry for these anonymous humans.

I jumped into the water and swam towards the shore. I wanted to see the faces under the hoods. wanted to speak to these poor people. When I reached the beach the procession had moved on in the opposite direction from where it had come. I tried to follow but couldn’t. I yelled but no sound escaped my lips. I tried to wave but my arms would not obey me.

One after the other the people disappeared behind a sand dune. The last figure in the procession seemed to hesitate. It stopped on the topof the dune, turned around. Reflections of the sun in the sea lightened the face under the hood. I recognized you at once. I was shocked, I couldn’t believe you had joined a medieval Christian procession, that you had dressed like a nun. I tried to speak to you, but still my voice failed. You smiled, but still didn’t follow the others. You seemed to wait for me. Suddenly my muscles obeyed again. I ran towards you, embraced you, held you tigfht against my naked body. You didn’t make the slightest move, didn’t try to free yourself from my embrace. I lifted you up, carried you to theplace I had left the water. How light you were. When I reached the water, I put you down, push the dark hood hiding your head backwards.

Again you only smiled. You remained silent. You took a step backwards, hesitated for a second, then your fingers undid the knot that held a thick rope around your hips. When the rope hit the sand, your frock opened and fell to the ground. Suddenly you were as naked as I was. You came towards me, put your arms around me. Your smile was not sad any more, but you still didn’t speak.

Again I lifted you up. Then I waded into the water very carefully. Somehow I remembered you were afraid of swimming in deep water. The water got deeper. I was surprised I could still wade. It was as if were walking on an underwater bridge. I walked until I reached ‘my’ rock. Then I put you down. You grabbed my hand, held it tight. Together we sat down. I put my arm around your slim shoulders.

Silently we watched the red sun as it slowly set behind the horizon.

It is important to me to tell you that this is the first time I have ever used someone else's story. He was a close email friend of mine for several years, lived in Norway. I came across his emails to me that I had saved and couldn't resist sharing this with you. I have many more of his dreams but will not usurp his privacy any further. --Val

FORGIVE? YES. FORGET? NO

The table was set as usual for five but my sister didn’t come in for dinner. No message, no call from her. I was only nine but saw the angry faces of my parents. Betty, six years older than I was, should have known better than to worry them. My eighteen year old brother, Greg, was inconsiderate far too often. Sometimes he’d apologize when he came home too late to eat with us and every time would hear Dad say, ‘Don’t do it again. Next time, no car key for a week.’ To my knowledge, Dad never carried out his threat and Greg continued doing as he pleased.

By eight o’clock Mother was worried, took out her private book of Betty’s and Greg’s friends’ phone numbers. Methodically she called Betty’s friends. ‘Jenny, have you seen Betty since school let out?’ ‘No Ma am.’ Each response was ‘no’. Mother looked at Dad, sometimes at me, and just shook her head. At nine they sent me to bed. Looking down at them from the upstairs railing, I saw them sitting close to each other on the sofa, holding hands.

The doorbell woke me. Who could that be in the middle of the night? I heard voices as my parents opened the front door. Two police officers were asked in. Dad said, ‘Our daughter is missing.’Then he answered all kinds of questions. ‘How old is she, height, weight, what was she wearing when you last saw her. Does she take drugs?’ At that my father flew into a rage, ‘No, NO, certainly not!’ A tickle in my throat was out of control, escaped. ‘Go back to bed, Esther.’

The darkness of my room did not soothe me. Sleep was impossible. Where could my sister be? Questions to the air were unanswered until at last my eyes must have closed. Saturday morning filtered into my window. No school today. For just a moment I was happy and then I remembered Betty was gone. Her room was not slept in nor had my parents been to bed. Quietly I went downstairs. Mom and Dad were fully dressed in yesterday’s clothes. They were asleep on the sofa leaning on each other, holding hands. This was not good. I got down on my knees and prayed to god to bring my sister home to us. Mom got up slowly, saw me praying and came over to pray with me. Greg came downstairs, put his arms around us both. Dad stirred. His eyes were red, puffy. Mom looked tired, worn out. None of us spoke except to god.

Dad call Sgt. Bradford, Station ten. ‘No word, Sir. We’ve got an all points bulletin out for your daughter but have heard nothing yet.’ Greg took the phone and went down his list of buddies. Most knew me a little bit. They had nothing to tell us except, ‘Wait. She’ll be back’

I help Mom clean up from last night’s dinner that was supposed to be for five and was only for 3. She threw unrefrigerated left-over meat loaf in the garbage disposal, added the lemon-merigue pie that had turned watery. The four of us sat at the kitchen table eating only enough to silence growling stomachs. Mom cleared the table and re-called Betty’s friends.

Diane had something to say that might be important. ‘Mrs. Mccourt, Betty was really in a bad mood yesterday, angry about Millicent, you know her, don’t you? Well she had been spreading lies about Betty being pregnant. Everybody was whispering. Mrs. McCourt, don’t worry, that wasn’t true. Maybe Betty was too embarrassed to tell you about her former friend. I don’t know if this has anything to do with Betty disappearing but thought I’d better tell you. She’ll come home.’

Mom repeated Diane’s story. I didn’t understand why Betty was so mad. ‘Mom, why didn’t Betty just go have a fight with Millicent. Greg would have helped. I was ignored. Our family vigil lasted until it was almost dark. Officer Madlin brought Betty back from DC. We were a family of five again. Poor Betty. She was almost smothered in hugs. Words, words, words, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ poured from Betty’s quivering lips. ‘Mom, the money you always make me carry for emergencies got me on the bus to DC. I ate a little in the station, slept on a hard, miserable bench all night and then walked over to the zoo. I didn’t know what to do. A policeman asked me questions, put me in his car and here I am. ‘I’m sorry, so sorry. But I hurt a lot and needed space.

Forgive me, please, please forgive me!’ Mom did. Dad did. I did.
And my brother never missed dinner with us again without letting Mom know he couldn’t make it.

ODE TO DONE THAT

I beat the erasers
Filled the ink wells,
Got to school early
Heard the loud bells.

I’ve saved used grease
In big tin cans
Gave the war effort
My aluminum pans.

I’ve waited too long
For silk hose to appear
Made seam lines down my legs
When the Japs seemed to near.

I met a great guy
Who worked off his butt
Savings Sundays
So he could putt.

We put money in envelopes
For doctors, for rent
Carefully held on to
Every red cent.

I’ve reared my children
As best I could
Gave from my heart
And hope I did good.

I’ve walked on beaches
On wondrous isles
Been on cruises
Covered thousands of miles.

I sloshed over a glacier
Seen the world from sky high
And who could be
More lucky than I?

I’ve been to China
And even Tibet
What an experience
I did really get.

I’ve been to Israel
The Wailing Wall
Planted trees
To grow green and tall.

Portugal, France
And also Spain
But never felt it
Rain on the Plain.

Santorini, Mikonos
And Crete
Much too exciting
To try to beat.

Turkey, Italy
Oh where we went
And guess what I did
Letters I sent

I’ve given parties
And loved to Twist
But dancing close
I can’t resist.

I’ve had homes and clothes
Hubby supplied wealth
But most of all
I’ve had my health.

I’ve learned a lot
My mind keeps growing
It’s filling up
Without my knowing.

I’ve been able and strong
Could even lead
And oh, how fantastic
It is to read.

Still again, I’d rather write
But then again
What good
Is hind sight?

So now as the days
Dwindle down to a few
I think back
Send my thoughts to you.

ODE TO HAVEN’TS

I’ve never put out a fire
Or changed a tire.

I can’t fly
Wouldn’t even try.

I can’t sing a note
Don’t ALWAYs vote.

Never swam with a shark
Or heard a sweet lark.

Never been behind bars
Or reached the stars.

Never climbed a mountain
Or swam in a fountain.

I’ve not fallen thru ice
‘Cause that wouldn’t feel nice.

I’ve never stroked a snake
Or felt the earth quake.

I’ve missed tender kisses
And am not sure what bliss is.

Not written a tune
Or been to the moon.

I’ve not axed a tree
Or been stranded at sea.

I’ve not seen oil wildy spout
Gone in a door that says ‘out.’

I’ve not dug deep into the past
Or climbed a ship’s mast.

But there ARE things
I’ve already done. Things that were happy,
Lots of fun
So hold on to your hat
While I think about that.

And maybe I’ll send
List number two
For all to read,
Especially YOU.

WHO KNOWS?

I was sitting at my antique desk, going over for the third time, the translation of Nostradamus’ quatrains. The lamp is top quality, sheds perfect study light. I was comfortable for the rest of the evening.

At 9 o’clock my lamp began to dim. That was strange indeed. In my years of experience bulbs burn out, they don’t fade, but this one was dimming slowly. With it there was a strange shift in the air. As the bulb died, a small candle in a metal holder came to life on the right end of my desk. I almost fell to the floor in shock and fear. It gave off just enough light for me to try the lamp again. It was useless. The odor of candles is usually soothing, even romantic at times. This candle smelled old as if it had been in a tightly closed area for a long time, the wax absorbing the stuffiness.

I was afraid but knew that just sitting there watching, smelling would not solve anything. I rose and went to the light switch at the library door. It did not work. From there I barely made out something in my brown leather revolving chair. Somebody was sitting in it. I could tell my voice was shaky as I called out, ‘Who are you? How did you get in here? What do you want? What has happened to my lights?’ All those questions poured from my lips one after the other. There were no answers.

Moving a little closer to the shadow, I was afraid to be touched or perhaps bitten. Two more steps and I saw scruffy leather sandals on bare, dirty feet. I asked again, ‘Who are you?’ A soft, almost kind voice spoke in French. My scant knowledge of French let me understand . ‘Comment allez vous, Monsieur’. Period. ‘Can you speak in English, Sir?’

The voice became more harsh. Then ‘it’ coughed and said, ‘Yes, I can. Don’t be afraid. You know me very well. I am Nostradamus.’ What the hell is going on? Who is playing such a garish trick on me? ‘Charlie, if you are in this room, show yourself. Turn the lights back on.’ The brown clad figure rose slowly. My god, I thought. He looks just like the Nostradamus on the History channel. ‘Charlie, where did you get that beard? Great trick but I’ve had enough. Turn on the lights. We’ll have a drink and laugh at me.’

The phone rang. I almost tripped on my own feet as I managed to get to the phone. Charlie asked me to go to the movies with him tonight. ‘Where are you?’ ‘I’m home.’ he answered. ‘Go by yourself. I have company. Goodnite.’

Nostradamus sternly told me to ‘assez a vous.,’ so I sat down. He stood beside me. The quatrains began to turn by themselves, slowly, one page at a time. ‘Stop, Read this one to me.’ I read him his prediction about the downfall of the French empire. ‘ Do you truly believe I had fore thoughts, as much as 500 years after I was dead, that I was a seer, a fortuneteller? I didn’t know there would be a United States of America but did know a new land was found.’ ‘But how did you know blacks were going to be set free. There were no slaves in France and you wrote about great storms that blew strong winds that destroyed cities upon the water.’ ‘ was a story teller most of the time. People believed me. They shouldn’t have. When my children and wife died in the plague, there was nothing left for me. I was a lunatic, wandering aimlessly. I studied. I wrote and was famous. Imagining ships in the air, hah. That was going to happen with or without my prophesy.

I’m here because I am desperate. There was a book of quatrains after my Les Prophetics that is about to be found and I don’t want it to appear.’‘Why?’ Because I foresaw the Armageddon. It IS coming May 12, 2012. This one I didn’t make up. The world is going to end.’ ‘Don’t worry, Sir. People have been walking with signs on their backs, churches have warned us for years, and it hasn’t happened yet. IF you are correct, so be it. Who will be here to chastise you? Until then, disappear, go back to France. Leave me in peace. I won’t tell anyone you were here. They will call me a kook, and maybe I am . As for me, I’m going on living, reading more about you and Da Vinci. My lips are sealed.’

Nostradamus went up in smoke as he blew out the candle. I called to him, ‘Hey, turn my lights back on!’

BEAUTY AND THE BEAUTY

She is 17, really 17 ½ but who’s counting? Catherine is. High school graduation is getting close. College boys call her. Every fellow graduate has the hots for her and Cathy knows it. Why? Why? What do I do? I don’t dress provocatively. My clothes fit nicely, never binding, never tight. My rear end doesn’t wiggle a lot when I walk. My breasts are not humongous and I always wear a bra. I’m supposed to be thrilled with all this attention, but I’m not. ‘Cathy, come into the kitchen. I have the names of 4 college freshmen who want to date you. Are you interested?’ ‘Thanks, Mom. You know I’m not. What am I supposed to do? None of the high school boys interest me. And I’m not making any blind dates, especially to frat parties.’

‘You opened the book, Darling. You asked and Mother will answer. This is what I would do and think you should too. Talk to a couple of freshman, even juniors, one at a time. Find out what kind of movies he likes, mysteries, wars, science fiction, foreign, sex. Even his voice is important. What interests does he have? What does he do? What courses are set for this year? Does he like opera? Mention your favorite artist, author. Criminey, girl, your not only lovely to look at, you are smart. Why am I giving you advice? Don’t answer that. I’ll tell you why. Because you know where you are going, have high aims, how to dress, how to study, but you don’t have a molecule of good common sense in your head. You’ll be at U of P in 3 months. What are you going to do? Be a female hermit? Listen to me. ‘

Wake up, Honey–smell the Old Spice. Men are worth a sniff.

She is really 15 but has the IQ of a 12 year old, maybe 11, possibly 13 at times, who knows? Florence is in the 9th grade and is going on to high school in the fall. She is aware that she will be the oldest in the classes, except for the teachers. Why? Why? Why am I different? Mother tells me I am as pretty as a tulip rising from its winter’s nap. I have gorgeous long blond hair that gets more blond every summer. My breasts are going to be bigger than any of the girls. They may laugh at me or be jealous. I’m going to be taller than most of the boys. I tell myself I don’t care at all but I do. ‘Mother, I hear the whispers. She’s slow. Am I really?’ ‘ Darling, maybe, but you are much smarter than those who call you slow. They aren’t nice and you are, sometimes too nice. The 13 year old kids may know bigger words than you know. Some may be able to speak some Spanish or French, but are too dumb to try to understand people like you. You are fighting your way all the time trying to do better. You have a lovely voice, have performed in public. Have they? You will be singing at the high school graduation and they can’t even go if they have a sister or brother there.’

‘Mother, help me. Do I have to stay in school? I’m old enough to drop out.’ ‘What are you saying, Darling? You are absolutely able to do the school work ahead of you. Dad and I will get a tutor if you need one. What do you want to do, stay home, get a part time job at Walmart? No Daughter. You’ll see, you are going to be fine. You have stored a lot in your mind that the younger kids haven’t been taught yet. This year may be easier than you think. Come on now, Florence, look in the mirror. Look deep and see the beautiful young woman I see. She’s getting her feet wet and has a huge beach towel in her hand, ready to wipe off the sand and little shells that may make those feet bleed a little.

You are my baby girl, growing into a woman who happens to have a prideful mother.’

Q AND A

Busy shoppers, office workers, drifters, fill the noontime sidewalks of NYC. Some idle, others hurry, some are obliviously engrossed in themselves. They are anonymous strangers. Just as the 4 walk sign appears, anxious feet get going and a burst of gun fire almost shatters the closest ear drums. Two men a few feet apart fall to the ground, blood spurting from their chests. Screams scatter running walkers who can’t get away fast enough. One brave, maybe stupid, man breaks thru the crowd, bends down over each man, feels for a pulse, shrugs, shakes his head and hastily walks back into the crowd, unaware he has blood on his jacket.

Sirens wail from every direction. Patrolmen and women appear from nowhere, try to control the frightened, curious crowd. There are so many lookeeloos they don’t know where to begin, who to question. Most of the original crowd has left but the crowd does not shrink. Yellow tapes are quickly strung from one end of 54th St.-on the west side-to the other, leaving a small path next to the shops open. Even that doesn’t help. There will not be ‘business as usual’ that day. Officers chalk the street where the men lie, take many pictures, luckily find 2 spent shells. With safety gloves they go thru pockets, get I.D.s. Traffic is detoured. It is bedlam, a too familiar bedlam.

The lady’s name is Smith, at least that is what she tell’s Officer Rudman. ‘Joy Smith. That’s right, Sir. I don’t recognize a Rolls from a Honda, but the shots came from a big, black car. It didn’t look real new to me but it was shiny clean. I saw the rear widow open and I think it was a man’s arm wearing something dark, maybe a sweater, that came out. I only got a glimpse of the driver, nobody else in the front seat. I don’t know why but I think the shooter was tall and had on some kind of hat. That’s all I saw, Officer.’

John Samson Clark saw the shots come from a dark blue Camry, definitely a 2004. ’I know it was a ‘04 because that’s what I have. The NY license plate ended in a 7. There were two men up front but the shots came from the rear. The driver had long gray hair. The open window blew it around. The shooter looked like a kid to me. Sorry, Officer, that’s all I saw. I hit the ground fast.’

Rory Baker, a black hep teen, saw the gunman’s hand, even saw the bullets fly. ‘I swear there was a tattoo on the killer’s left hand. He had a black scarf tied around his head so I don’t know what color his hair was. I saw the license. It was definitely NYC. The last two numbers were 06.That’s all I saw, Officer.’

‘Policeman, Policeman! I saw it all.’ A senior bag lady offered her help. She smelled like beer. ‘Nobody was in the back unless they were down on the floor. The driver had long gray hair and a little beard. The man with the gun had something on his head, like what doctors wear when the cut you open, except it was a dark color. He looked young to me, but everybody does. Oh, maybe this will help. The back door had a big scratch from the knob to the trunk. The NYC license had a dealer’s name, maybe Carlton Agency, or something like that. My eyes aren’t so good any more. I could have been killed. The young killer didn’t seem to be aiming at anybody. He just sat up, leaned out and shot.’ Hope I helped.’

Maybe a break in this impossible inquiry. Tourists, Bob and Doris Ledbecker have some pictures on their new cell phone. They were practicing and happened to be looking at the crowd as the street light changed. An officer asked for the phone, gave them a receipt and promised to return it to them in a few days. The Ledbeckers complained. They got the cell for this trip and want to have what they already did and want to keep practicing. The officer calls the Captain over. The Captain gives them $100 cash from his pocket to buy a new one and they will still get the original back when the department has studied it. He writes a memo of the expense and the attending officer initials it.

TV, newspapers asked for help. ‘Anyone witnessing the two murders on July 8 54th St. & River contact 917-555-5444. A reward of $10000 is offered for conviction of killers.’

The phone line didn’t stop ringing for 3 days. 1500 calls came in. 200 callers were interviewed, none gave any information not already in the record. The ‘Cold Case’ files grow and grow while the bag lady has disappeared and just may be the next case.

COLOR ME ‘FOOL’

Horrors! Horrors! I took a chance and it backfired. My prideful years of having lovely reddish hair, constant compliments had slowed to a trickle. Unaware of what my best friend, Shirley, saw, I brushed, styled, didn’t tease it. Sheepishly, reluctantly, she spoke her piece.

‘Why don’t you get rid of the gray in your hair? It is aging you too fast.’ ‘What gray, Shirl? I have blond streaks.’ A quick and hurtful retort hit me hard. ‘Believe me, Joan, your gray is showing and you aren’t fooling anybody.’ Keeping my cool, no anger, no hurt leaked from my face. The subject was simply closed.

As soon as I walked into my house, I went right upstairs to stare into my X7 magnifying mirror. Maybe Shirley was right. Admit it, Kid. That is not blond bursting out of your part, around your ears and sat there disbelieving what was right before me, feeling worse every minute.

At the sound of Don pulling into our garage, I greeted him at the front door. A tiny peck on my neck, a smile back, and I took Don’s hand and lead him into the living room, to the bay window. ‘Help me open all the louvered shades.’ The still bright sunshine smacked me in the face, warmed my hair. ‘Donny, look at me, look closely at my hair. What do you see? Be honest. How does it look to you?’ Ah, I knew he would seem baffled. ‘It looks nice, a little messed up. Don’t comb it for me. I like it when it gets really messy.’ ‘But what color is it, Donny?’ ‘What’s going on here? You know I love your red hair.’ He pinched my cheek and added, ‘All of you.’ ‘Look carefully at my part. Do you see blond or gray? ‘I’m no professional but now that you have turned me into a hair sleuth, I think I see gray.’ At that moment my die was cast.

Never a procrastinator, I waited for Donny to leave and headed to the corner drugstore to purvey the rows of hair color products. I’d never been aware of them before. Each company displayed at least a dozen colors. My mind boggled enough to send me into a spasm that needed a cup of coffee. ‘Samples of bagel chips were being given out. I indulged and felt a bit better, called Shirley on my cell. What a friend! She’d meet me in 15 minutes. Taking a box of Revlon from the shelf, she pushed the red/blond #104 on me. Yes, the beautiful girl on the box with the swirling red tresses reminded me of me. We looked no further. ‘Will you come home with me and show me what to do?’ ‘Sure, I’ve never done it myself but I’ll read the directions to you as you go step by step.’ From then on I knew I would be lying to the world and worse, to myself.

What a mess I made, ruined two nice terry towels, got a red stain on the wallpaper, destroyed my bra straps and my hair–oh, god. I couldn’t look at myself. The disaster took only 45 minutes before I was bawling like a 5 year old who lost her mommie. ‘Shirley, what can I do? I’m a flaming freak, a redhead from Redsville. It’s so ugly. I’m ugly. Donny will disown me, never walk down the street with me again..’ ‘Wash it. Maybe it will get lighter.’ Four washes and it hadn’t changed.

‘Hey, call Revlon,’ Shirley said. There’s an 800 service number on the box.’ With a sugary voice Miss Revlon apologized and offered to send me a free box of #106 immediately, with a $2 off coupon for my next purchase. ‘Please wait a full week before you re-color. The red will be much less.’ I waited, prepared to do it without Shirley. This time I did it in the buff, put newspaper over the cabinet tops and kept the washed, ruined towels close enough to reach them with my eyes closed.

#106 went on. Service department was right. The red was lighter, much lighter. In fact I became a platinum blond looking like Marilyn Monroe, at least above my eyes. Panic, Panic. Donny came home, saw his blond wife and couldn’t speak at all. His eyes barely moved from his dinner plate. Mine were leaking, running down my chin.

For a week I stayed home, wouldn’t even let Shirley visit. She called every day, sometimes twice. On the eighth day of my self-isolation she didn’t call. Instead she knocked on the front door and walked in without me inviting her. I will never forget the look on her face. She laughed so hard that I could not control myself and laughed with her. ‘Come on, Joan. You’re going with me.’ Where are you taking me, my former Best Friend? ‘ ’Shut up and I’ll tell you. You have an appointment in twenty minutes with my hairdresser. Lorraine has colored my hair once a month for six years. Now she is going to repair what you did to yourself. My treat!’ And that is just what Lorraine did. My hair truly looked like it belonged to me, minus the gray.

Yes, I was out of Revlon’s clutches but was forever after a prisoner of Lorraine and the salon and as the little gray slowly became a lot of gray, I learned to live with it.

FRIGHT FLIGHT

My bags are packed, waiting for the bellboy. Almost all of Joe’s things are still in drawers , the closet and medicine cabinet. I dial the front desk. ‘Please page Mr. J. Morgan.’ I hold. ’ Mr. Morgan doesn’t answer, Ma’am.’ I am nervous, terribly nervous. Where the hell is he? No choice left for me. His empty suitcase and matching black dop kit bode no good. It is already 8 A.M. and our flight is 10:45. ‘Hmnn, didn’t it take us 3/4 of an hour to get to the St. Maarten Colony?’ I dial the desk. ‘Will you try a page for Mr. J. Morgan again? Will you check and see if he has paid our hotel bill yet?’ ‘ No, he hasn’t, Mrs. Morgan and hasn’t answered this page either.’ Frantically I pace, waiting for the slow elevator to reach the 7th floor. It creaks and I’m not sure it will ever get here. It does. Visa card in hand, I scan our week’s stay without taking in the numbers, sign and get my receipt. Ridiculous thought, did he leave tips for the maids. Should I call the police, the airport? Should I just calm down, sit here and wait, miss our plane? My watch sweats. Jesus Christ, where is he?

The door knob turns. ‘Connie, I’m here.’ An unshaven, whiskey wavering husband walks in. ‘Are you crazy? Where have you been? Come on, let’s go. Let’s go. Get a move on, Jerk!’ ‘I’ll tell you where I was, having a damn good time all night.’ His voice falters. ‘She was gorgeous. I even thought of you once, how you used to be. Maybe you still could be like Daisy, but I’m not waiting and I’m not leaving here either. Go ahead. Go back to our house. I don’t care! Maybe I’ll get there eventually, but I’m not going with you now!’

Are you out of your mind? Did somebody slip you a keg of Ecstacy? I’ve paid the desk clerk. My things are already in the lobby and that is where I’ll be after I kick the shit out of you.’ Joe looks at me with hatred in his blood shot eyes. With all of my might and spiked heels. I kick him, claw at his face. My rage is uncontrollable. His scratches bleed. I go for his eyes. He grabs my arm and twists it back. Joe is beaten up, lies still. I reach for his wallet and accidentally touch his shlong. He giggles. There is nothing left of me. Numb toes, broken finger nails. My heart is in my mouth and may die there. My clothes are a mess and I wash the make-up off my face, don’t bother replacing it,
take the new box of Kleenex off the toilet top and suddenly I am in a taxi with no idea of how I got here. The driver is taking me someplace.
‘Driver. Airport please. Dutch Airlines.’

He’ll be sorry. I have his I.D. That Stink Pot may have to live with Daisy forever on St. Maarten. He’ll have to get a job. That man can’t do much. What he can do while broiling in the sun is be a beach comber, use that thingamajig to find lost coins, maybe a tin ring.

Plane security is so easy here. I can keep my spike heeled shoes on, carry cosmetics. The plane isn’t full. Of course not. Joe is one of the missing. Perfect, perfect, no one is sitting in the middle or on the aisle in C10, my seat. As soon as we are airborne, I lift the 2 arm rests, put my shoes in the sunny yellow carry-on case and spread out, grateful I don’t have to make idle chatter for four hours. The overhead A.C. chills me to the roots of my teeth but I leave it on rather than get up.

A stewardess hands me a thin burgundy blanket. It reminds me of blood, of Joe’s face. I roll it up and put it under my seat, order two white wines that send me on the fast road to Sleepville. That’s when I see Joe. He’s in the last seat of the plane, right next to the perfumed toilets. ‘Fall in, Crud Face! Where’s your Daisy? Did you pluck her too much?’ I’m saying those things but thinking how nice it would be if his half of the plane crashed and the septic tank holdings landed on his head.

The white snowy clouds below us are now pink as the sun’s dying reds let them leave until morning. Tiny town lights below wink to the sky.
One hour more to go. Customs with Dorrie waiting and asking immediately, ‘Where’s Dad,’ will be my first test. Where is Dad?’ expected- needs answering. ‘He had business to take care of, Honey. I’ll explain in the morning.’ I don’t yet tell her, ‘funny business.’ Tomorrow never comes. I open my eyes and blink at the winter sun’s rays coming thru the vertical shades. They make a beautiful long picket fence on my bedroom wall. Joe is warm. I cuddle to his back. Joe turns slowly to me. ‘Time to go, Honey. Our flight leaves at 10:45. You slept so tight last night, didn’t even know you were kicking me and kicking me. I didn’t get mad either.

I’ll get your sunny yellow carry on case down from the shelf and we can finish the last few items after breakfast. Dorrie has the coffee perking.

THINKING THRU IT

Standing in place, waiting, a few nervous beads of sweat trickling down his neck, he almost pulled his blue silk kerchief with three perfect points out of his breast pocket. His hand stopped, mid-motion, managed to reach a clean white one in his back pocket. Excitement surrounded him. Keep quiet everybody. Shh. Shh. Step out on my right foot. I need a glass of water, cola. A Jack Daniels would be nice. My throat is as dry as unbuttered toast. Miss Directress, can’t you quiet some of the jabbering? Is everybody here? I haven’t seen that damn Cantor. He’s always late. Sarah, don’t grab my arm. Hold it lightly. You won’t fall so don’t make me fall.

It sounds like a marching army out there. Somebody open the door a crack. I want to see what’s happening. Ushers, all of you dumb clucks, make sure you seat the bride’s guests on the right going towards the Chupah. Everybody else on the left. Why is it so quiet all of a sudden? Open the door again, just a crack. Did everybody leave? The violins in the balcony. I forgot about them, little angels fiddling upstairs. Sing, Lisa. I voted for you against Sarah’s cousin Becky. ‘Is this the little girl I carried?’ Sarah, I see you starting to cry. Don’t. You’ll ruin your make-up. I’ll cry for both of us. ‘Love is a Many Splendored Thing.’ Enough, enough, already. Somebody take that long loose white thread off of Larry’s pants. Get it off!

Sarah, Sarah, you look beautiful, prettier than when we got married so long ago. Are you as nervous as I am? You don’t look it. I think you were more nervous than I was when we eloped to Elkton. You did great with the flowers down the aisle. Your were right, Pumpkin Pie, gardenias would have asphyxiated everyone. Sarah, look who’s here. Your cousins from Harrisburg. They returned their card that they couldn’t make it and now they are here. Damn, I’ll have to get Mike to re-set a family table.

Everybody, stay in order. Move back from the door. The show is starting! Cantor Blum. You made it. Your robe is too long. Careful at the bemah steps. You awkward oaf. Don’t trip. Rabbi, go! I like your white outfit. Will you lend it to me for next Halloween?

Not bad you two old foggies. You are going to burst with pride. Larry walks between you down the aisle, not in back. He’s soon gonna be my son, too, unless I die on the spot. When you get up front, let go of him and sit down in the first row. Six groomsmen, did we need that many? I hope they all like the wallets I got them. Maybe I should have bought one for myself. Mine is worn out just paying all these bills.

Jerry, don’t be smart alecky. You think you are the best man, but you’re not. Larry is best and I am second best. You are a swell guy and I like you but don’t get cocky with your title. There they go, two at a time. Jenny has gorgeous friends, real friends. How my baby worried about leaving anyone out. Hell, she’d have had 30 bridesmaids if I let her. Carole isn’t Jewish and she is Maid Of Honor. She looks perfect and happy. Jenny picked a winner. And so did Carole. Jenny has spunk alright.

Move a little. Let me peep. Please let me peep. The cameras better be getting this whole thing. I am going to look like a smiling donkey going down that aisle. Burt, be good. Don’t act silly. You know the ring is tacked to the pillow and isn’t going to fall off. Don’t run. Please don’t run. Little, pretty Anne, you do look a lot like Grandma. Your dress is the blue of your precious eyes. Hold the basket straight. You know how. You practiced a lot of times. Throw the petals on one side and then the other, not at the guests.

The waiting room is almost empty. Jenny, is the most beautiful bride in the world. Take a big breath. I’m as ready as I am going to be. Come Sarah. Right before the bemah we stop. Larry will come down to help her up the steps. Here she comes. Every eye is on her. Handkerchiefs, smiles, whisperings. Jenny, stop right here. Kiss Mamma. Don’t forget me. Without me there’d be no you.

The service is too long, Rabbi. Finish it. Give them the wine to taste. Good, good. Now put the glass down on the floor. Larry’s big feet will shatter it to dust. Let’s go! Let’s go! It’s party time!

Oh, Jenny, how I love you. I just gave you away to Larry. Was I a fool? Was I smart? I’ve decided to stick around to see what happens. This was great. We want to do it again when you are the mother of the bride–or groom.

We’ll all have good seats then.

ONWARD

It was but yesterday-June 1940- and I was free, free from high school. My average marks pleased my dad who had been self-taught since he was ten. To him I was a genius. Many times he looked at me with wonderment, slapped himself on his right cheek, ‘So smart, so smart. From me you didn’t get it!’ Why down myself for the sake of honesty? My motto became, Shut up. Let him enjoy!

I never failed a subject, usually earned Bs, an occasional C, yet knew I had goofed off too much, had made poor course selections. If there had been a course in Girls, I would have excelled. They liked me. I liked them. It was normal for a young guy to have roaming eyes, and hands too if he could. But I was only 5'8", not a good dancer and, in my opinion, not a good kisser either. In spite of that, I didn’t get the dregs. The May Queen asked me to be her date for the Senior Prom. Charlotte, a beaut, broke up with her steady and asked me to ‘host’ her sixteenth birthday party.

My past was gone. The future was ahead. I realized I was unprepared.
Shop classes, typing, a smattering of French were useless. To this point I had delivered newspapers, been a soda jerk, and a real one too. Each morning I read the sports section first and then scanned the help wanted ads rife with painters, gardeners, bookkeepers and salesmen. I decided to go after a salesman’s job, but would have to sell myself first. Door to door selling household brushes, shoes, kitchen knives that never need sharpening, magazines, offered, refused. My spirits were going lower and lower. My streetcar nickels were just about gone.

And then it happened. Mr. Grife of Grife’s Men’s Wear Emporium, let my non- experience selling anything besides sundaes and milkshakes, not concern him. He was going to teach me everything there was to know about ‘hooking’ a customer. I was offered $6 for a six day week, plus one per cent commission. I grabbed it. It can’t be tough. A man needs a new shirt, I’d sell him one. Nothing to it. Ha Ha. He must have seen something in me that I didn’t know I had. Within one month I could sell a customer who came in for one pair of long men’s socks, a pair of shoes, go further. ‘With those good looking brown wing tips, I suggest a new pair of trousers. Want to take a look?’ I never pushed, used no pressure. A ‘no’ was a ‘no’. Silence meant try again.

Jealousy was rising amongst the other five salesmen, including Solly who had already become a buddy of mine. After my second month, I was top man making commission. Grife raised my base pay to $20 a week. I guess some of my pride showed as I wore my King of the World crown on my shoulders.

After busy Saturdays, Solly and I needed a change, a diversion, and took the street car to the Algonquin where he would jitterbug his legs off while I stayed on the sidelines waiting for ‘Deep Purple’, ‘Marie Elena’, nice slow numbers. Girls were plentiful, standing in groups for support, looking at the more quiet guys, hoping to be asked out on the floor. 10 minute music break meant the first group of songs would be slow. With the aplomb Solly told me I had, I walked over to a girl who was adorable. She wore a pale blue dress, just right to show off her Titian red hair, hanging over her eye like Veronica Lake’s. ‘Would you like to dance?’ She nodded yes. I liked her nice smile, very white teeth and the fact that she was not too tall for me. We lasted two songs until the music blared, the jumpers, kickers, tossers took over. Betty wrote her name and phone number on a slip of paper for me. ‘I’ll call you,’ I said and I did. We dated for a few weeks but she was too young, just turned sixteen, and I was already nineteen, a man, going places, maybe I’d have my own men’s wear store some day.

Grife put me in charge of the docks. He kept track of which ships were due into the harbor. As the sailors debarked, Solly and I approached them, worked them, told them about the finest men’s wear store in all of Norfolk, lead the way. Money was no object. They bought sweaters, jackets, underwear to take back home as gifts, shoes for themselves and American felt hats. Sometimes sailors would tip me for helping. I was worth it, treated them with respect, never cheated, never hounded them.

Times were good. I was making more money than I thought I would. That car I wanted became a reality. A For Sale ad in the car column caught my eye. One look and I knew it was for me. I bought the used grey rumble seat Ford, in excellent condition, loved zipping to work but not the being alone on week-ends. A girl by my side, that’s what was missing. In my little black book that had just a few names, Betty’s number was still clear. So was the image of her in the blue dress, long red hair. ‘Sure I remember you, Roy’. etc. etc., idle talk.

‘I’m a better dancer now, Betty. Want to give me a try Saturday?’

When I drove up it was my car that got her attention, and then my new prowness on the dance floor. We danced. We both had grown up a lot. A few months later we drove away from our church with a big sign on the back that Solly made, ‘Just Married.’

Yes, I had a good job, a good friend, a wife and a rumble seat car, but I wanted a Cadillac and intended getting it, even if it took a long time.

It did.

BEHIND SIGHT

My appetite was almost ruined. What I came in for was three slices of delicious French toast, almost drowning in Mrs. Butterworth’s syrup, a carafe of steaming hot coffee, and a table big enough for me to eat and write. Most of all I want peace, not particularly quiet but some form of tranquility to sooth my innards. The family café opened at seven. I got here at 7:10 and it looked perfect. No wait line. Two couples and one man already served. A petite waitress in a white ruffled apron seated me where I could get a good look at every customer coming in. She had no idea the notebook I carried was going to be jam packed with descriptions of people, characters I could use in the future.

‘Do you have freshly squeezed orange juice?’ I asked and was disappointed at the quick, ‘sorry, No.’ I ordered a carafe of coffee that would let me linger plus a warm croissant with home-made blueberry preserves.. As she walked away with my order, a customer came in and sat with his back to me. That was when my morning turned to shit. The man was gross from the top of his balding head with snow white fringe still clinging around his ears to his sloppy black flip-flops that he shook off under the next table. If I wanted to, but certainly didn’t, I would have to grow an extra hand just to circle one ankle.

This man had no cane, no seeing eye dog and evidently, no mirror at home or wife to nag him. Instead of a decently ironed shirt, or even a clean white T, he wore a washed out navy blue T shirt banded with turquoise stripes encircling layers and layers of fat bulge. My eyes didn’t want to look lower than his shirt, but the urge was strong and I let them wander. Ah, he was dressed, in his eyes, with a handsome matched outfit. His polyester shorts matched his shirt, the same bright turquoise. Any minute I thought the seams would explode, tossing bits of him and his Crisco all over my croissant.

He dropped his fork and in his effort to reach it, almost tumbled over. Humpty Dumpty is what I saw. The tight short sleeves of his striped shirt held his arm so tightly, with a handy gauge a nurse could have gotten his high blood pressure rate. He steadied himself, stood up straight, burped loudly and sat down slowly.

My croissant was almost gone but I wasn’t ready to leave. The waitress brought me another with a tad more blueberry preserves. I spread it thinly and thought for a moment of my handsome husband and what it must be like to live with Gargantua. I was already letting myself become upset when I got worse. An empty soup sized bowl of cereal, maybe oatmeal or cream of wheat, was being taken away and was replaced with a large plate of scrambled eggs piled high with crisp bacon. I couldn’t help hearing his raspy voice calling for more butter.

My idea to write character studies, just taking short notes for a future story fizzled. The one man engrossed me. Several other customers stopped at his table. They all knew his name, Fival, with a long ‘I’. There was camaraderie, laughter. Fival’s belly shook. One more guffaw and I figured his table would fall over.

My carafe was totally empty, my small appetite fulfilled and my pen almost dry. As the waitress brought my check, I turned to get my purse for my charge card and when I looked up the model of what not to wear was gone. A few feet before the cashier, I saw him again, couldn’t miss him. He was struggling to get his money clip from those handsome shorts that were so tightly enmeshed in his crack that if he hadn’t been circumsized before he had breakfast, he was then. The cashier and he were joking while a few customers impatiently waited to pay their tabs. With a flourish he finished off his breakfast, whistling like a bird as he left, ‘God Bless America.’

As I walked to my car, I realized I didn’t like myself. I spent an hour criticizing, tearing a man apart. He has friends, joie de vivre and has lasted at least 65 years. There must be something good about him.

And what about me? I went there to enjoy myself have fantastic french toast swimming in Mrs. Butterworth syrup, and forgot to order it. Maybe I’ll come back next week and get to meet that fun man who enjoys himself, probably gets more out of life than I do.

And I will remember to get my french toast.

Val's Favorite Pix

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LENNY, LENNY, WHERE ARE YOU?

It’s 3 A.M. and I, Sleepless in Philly, go into the hall outside my apartment and my neighbor’s, wearing only my nightgown and slippers. Having been extremely worn out from over-shopping yesterday, I came home, undressed, put on one of the new flannel gowns I had just bought and my comfy robe to do nothing but lounge around until my eyes demand closing. The devil with the mail I didn’t pick up in the lobby. I’ll get it before I go to work in the morning. Nobody hears me. It is so easy being alone, no snappy rebuttals. My plan doesn’t work too well.

Old Morpheus grabs me as soon as I finish a cold snack, turkey and cheese on rye, ½ bag of potato chips and a Claussen sour tomato. I manage to brush my teeth, turn on the bedroom t.v. and sleep like a baby in its swaddling clothes. Guns blast, a car crashes I roll over and see 2:15 on the digital clock. Law and Order is in a serial mode, has been on all day and evening. Lenny has captured a dozen killers, bank robbers. What did I miss? 6 or 7 episodes but it doesn’t matter I figure I’ve seen almost all more than once.. That’s when I decide to finish off the chips even if I have to brush my teeth again. I open the hall door and of course, see nobody, go 7 paces left and am at the elevator, going down as usual from the fifth floor to ground zero. While I waited I pondered, I hit ‘up’ but I wanted to go down. The elevator came up and then took me down. Next time, if I remember, I’ll hit down and see if I takes me up to the roof. I didn’t expect to see anyone in the lobby so didn’t even wear a robe. Right, nobody there.

My bare feet touch the cold marble floor. I gasp. Then I double gasp.

From the elevator door to the exit door, I guess 50 feet, drops of blood are no more than 6" apart. Some drops are as big as quarters, a few ½ dollars mixed in, no dimes. The blood looks dry but even so, I am careful not to walk in it. At the exit door I see more blood outside. The door opens automatically from the inside only. My imaginary Sherlock Holmes deer stalking cap is on my head and I follow the trail.
Lenny, Lenny, I need you. Which way does the splatter show the direction of the bullet? Lenny is busy on t.v. and doesn’t answer me. I can’t tell if the person was coming in or going out. At the end of the path I was stymied. It was still night and I couldn’t see where the blood was or wasn’t.

I shut the door and pushed the elevator button. There is only one so it went up. It looked like there had been blood on the elevator too, but it was very pale, maybe somebody wiped up a few drops. I hit 5 and didn’t move a hair until the door opened for me. Not expecting a drama, a murder when I went down for the mail, that I forgot to get, my door had been left unlocked. Cautiously I opened it, turning on every light. I went from room to room as I cased the place. Nobody snuck in. What should I do now, Lenny? My decision was to leave a message with our maintenance man. ‘Carl, 501 calling. It’s 3:15 a.m and it looks like a lot of blood on the lobby floor and out to the pavement. Unless you already know what it is from, don’t wash it off. Maybe the sheriff has to be called.’ There was an episode of Law and Order that I had missed somehow. I got back in bed, propped my pillows high and was so comfortable I never saw it.

Daylight woke me. The elevator opened in the lobby and there was an orange barrier up, reading, ‘Wet Floor. Be careful.’ Once I realized the clues were gone I went for a brisk walk. It was so windy I came back in 10 minutes and stopped at Carl’s office only to learn he was away until Fri. His ‘assistant’, Miguel, can say ‘No understand’ very clearly in English. I can understand ‘Si, casa, gracias.’ We could not converse so I acted. I laid down on the floor, pretended I was shot, showed him blood running out of my arm., made out I was mopping up the blood and shook my head with a big, ‘No, No,’ Miguel smiled to me, took his mop that was behind him, pointed to his chest and told me, ‘I mop.’ As well as I could do, I imitated the siren of an an ambulance. He was deaf to my efforts. Nothing left for me to do here, Lenny.

In my apartment I turned on my computer, emailed 4 neighbors, asking for information of the blood splatter. The new 2009 resident list of numbers had errors. 3 numbers didn’t exist. One went thru but I knew Arnold was away until late afternoon today. I was desperate, had to find out who was hurt or maybe murdered. This was serious stuff. However, I had to control myself and waited until a fairly decent hour to call Jim, 302. ‘Hi, Jim. This is Paula, 501. ‘Are you O.K?’ ‘Yes, Paula. I’m O.K. now that you woke me.’ ‘Did you see all the blood on the lobby floor?’ ‘No, what blood? I came in at 5 and didn’t go down again. What happened?’ ‘Christ, Jim. If I knew, I wouldn’t be calling you. Thanks anyway. Bye.’

I called Joan, 101. That’s the first floor and if anybody knows anything it would be Joan. ‘Hi, Joan, This is Paula, 501. Do you know anything about all the blood on the lobby floor?’ There was a pause and a cough. Joan came back on laughing. ‘Paula, I don’t know how Gerry did it but she leaked grape juice all the way from her car, thru the lobby, every place, even got some on the elevator. It must have been one helluva big bottle.’ You could have knocked me over with a ten ton truck. That really looked like blood. I had done my best trying to check the splatter direction but what I had learned was not enough.

All I was able to say to Joan, I said with indignation, ‘Well if Gerry made that big mess and scared the beejesus out of me. She is a pig, must live in a sty apartment. She should have cleaned up. So long.’ ng at $479

THE CHOICES

My father was a workaholic. Six days a week he left for work at 7:30. Usually I was asleep before he got home so we had little time together. He would be up and dressed before I got out of bed, but when I rushed, I walked with him and Bingo, our big, strong, happy, blond Golden Retriever. Bingo romped in front of us, did his business and came back, always worming his way between Dad and me. Dad threw a stick and Bingo brought it back to him. I threw it and Bingo gave it to me. He never gave my stick to Dad or Dad’s to me. We Three Musketeers went out in the rain, in the snow in the heat of summer. It was our time together.

Sundays were special. As a family we shared a big, tasty breakfast. Dad and Mom sat in the living room reading the paper while I impatiently finished my homework, ready for our walk in the park. Bingo always sat in the back of the car with me. I would smooth Bingo’s fur, almost rubbing a bare spot. He rewarded me by slobbering his big tongue all over my face. If the weather was bad or Mom was preparing for afternoon company she stayed home. I liked when there were the 4 of us but loved when just I and Bingo were alone.

Saturday, Sept 4th, Dad noticed Bingo was limping slightly. He examined his paw, saw no cut, no pebble. Each day the limp worsened. A week was more than enough so Dad took him (and me) to the vet’s. We had to leave him there for tests. Mom didn’t tell me she spoke to the vet on Monday. How surprised I was when Dad came home early. ‘Hi, Dad. Are you okay? Did your office burn down?’ ‘I’m fine son. I just needed to get away for a while.’ After Mom had cleared the dinner table, we went to the living room to read, watch t.v. Oddly, Mom and Dad sat on the sofa together. I sat on the floor with Bingo. Dad gave me a strange look and then he told me the vet said Bingo had cancer. Mom burst out crying. Dad had to stop talking. Bingo felt something was wrong, went to each one, put his head on our laps, went into a corner and curled up for sleep. Dad tried to ease my pain.‘The vet said he will have to amputate Bingo’s rear left leg but animals are wonderful. They learn to adjust quickly. He’ll be okay in a week.’ He also thinks surgery will save Bingo’s life as it looks like the cancer was caught early.

Bingo followed me upstairs, slept in my bed for the first time. I wanted him to sleep on my face, smother me, let me die. I wanted to die. I didn’t want morning to come. Dad, Bingo and I went for our morning walk. Dad sent me inside and put Bingo in the car. Mom came out, put her arm around me and held me close.

She and I went to see Bingo every day after school. It broke my heart to see him try to stand. By Saturday he managed to balance himself and Monday when we took him home he got up the three front steps by himself. Our old routine began again except we didn’t throw the sticks as far.

I said nothing to Dad. He said nothing to me but surely by spring, Bingo was slowing down. ‘Hey, Billy, we are going to the vet’s for a check-up Saturday. Want to go?’ The Musketeers went, faking our nonchalance. Our fears became reality. The cancer had spread. The vet gave us choices–wait and let your pet suffer, amputate the other leg, put Bingo down. Those were choices? How could we choose? We couldn’t ask Bingo for advice. Heart wrenching, tearful talks, imagining him with two legs and no surety that he was safe, was impossible. Mom and Dad finally decided to let him go. I didn’t agree but knew they were right.

Dad made arrangements with the vet for the following Sunday. It was otherwise a lovely warm spring day. Dad had allowed me to stay home from school all week to share it with one of the three Musketeers. Silence filled our house as we waited for the vet. Mom had placed 3 chairs next to each other in the garden. Bingo lay down at our feet. The vet snapped that last photo for us. Bingo got up, yawned and limped to me, put his beautiful head on my lap. The vet came close, a kerchief over his right hand., patted Bingo with his left, and then injected a long needle into Bingo’s rump. No yip, no noise from him. His eyes quickly closed and I saw his soul fly upward to Doggie Heaven.

I reached for his tail but he was gone too fast.

SELF EFFACEMENT

Time is of the essence. My day happens to be dull, boring. I’m out of household chores. I’ve super shopped for the week. I’ve met Millie for lunch on Tuesday and Janet on Friday. Too many lunches out. My cholesterol level went up 10 points on my last blood test. I’ve walked my walking shoes right down to the last one or two uses before I take my new in reserve pair down from the closet shelf. T.V. has too much repetitive news (all bad), too much Obama, too many commercials. I rarely turn it on any more. Thank heavens the laundry basket is empty, even if only for the day. There are no doctor, hair appointments on my calender for this entire week. There is no need for pen and paper to write long letters any more. My emails go out in bulk, 5, 10, 100 if I so choose. Sometimes I write one that I think is an interesting letter, alter the addressee, add a few personal notes, arrange lunches, and they go out singly. 10 minutes and that is done. One well done handwritten could absorb me for an hour.

Many youthful years of working are behind me. So are the varied volunteer jobs in which I involved myself when I no longer needed a salary. I play too much double Solitaire on my computer, make only a few personal phone calls, get less. Sure, Stranger, tell me to go to the library, get a good book. But my cataracts make reading difficult yet they are not ‘ripe’ for surgery. So I squint and my wrinkles get wider, deeper. Wait, don’t be insulted. I have an idea. I am going to get a magnifying glass to look hard at myself, see me as others may have seen me, see me now. Open Sesame, I want to see the me of me.

‘OK, Zel. Look. You were not very nice to your sister. You extra broke her favorite china doll dishes. You made her do your chores. You got stubborn and wouldn’t go to the store for your mother unless it was to buy chocolate cake. You never told her you loved her. You never thanked her when she bought you new clothes or toys. You bossed your playmates, always wanted to be the leader. When you got mad, you really got mad and hit your friends, kicked them even tore a few dresses. OK, Little one, I did have a few good points. I always helped my teachers, ran errands, washed blackboards, filled inkwells. I was smart too. I raised my hand to answer most questions, jiggled it to make you see me. My homework was always done on time and my report cards brought back with my daddy’s true signature.
I give myself a ‘C’ for childhood.

As a teen I always had a crush on somebody, even a stranger. There were countless verbal battles with my girlfriends. Jealousy flourished as they had boyfriends and I didn’t. They were all prettier than I was, I thought, but I was wrong. Inside of me was a strong inferior complex. Recently I looked back at old black and white fading photos and see how beautiful my hair was, even though I hated the redness. My freckles were fading, but not my bad traits. Bossy, bossy, big mouth. I could exaggerate easily but never lied.
I get a ‘C’ here too.

Without being aware of its approach, I became an adult. I got a job, gave my parents half of my $12 a week, sometimes brought fruit or potatoes from the market for my mother and didn’t take the money. I was patriotic, saved used Crisco, gave my aluminum pans to the war effort, became a block chairman to make sure blackouts were observed. I was strong willed, independent. My parents get part of the blame for my errors. They didn’t send me to college nor try to convince me not to marry so young. I did marry and should have been, could have been a warmer wife, but a harder worker you wouldn’t find then or today. My children were cared for, showered with love and presents but my determination to teach them right from wrong, politeness, backfired and I think they didn’t like me very much.
Another ‘C’ for me

Twilight years, widowed days and nights have reached me and I am a different person. My angers, resentments, stubborness, bossiness have almost disappeared. I talk easily to strangers, give compliments, honestly and unasked for. Sharing thoughts, experiences fill my days, my heart. Compassion, understanding seems natural. It comes so easily.

If only I could have been born old and become young, I’d have been a cute, loveable, sweet child and my daddy wouldn’t have had to pay for anybody’s torn dress.

CYBERSTUFF

I’m just about in the middle of a carefully thought out and researched letter to email to Senator Baum, TX. Wha happen? My cursor locks. Nothing works. I can’t copy and save my unfinished letter, open my four emails. Control, Alternate, Delete is out of order. Closing aol has died, and is unworkable too. The only thing that would work, if I had one, would be a blood pressure cuff. It would tell me in no uncertain terms that I am a candidate for a stroke. After a fifteen minute wait, clicking this and that, hoping aol was breathing again, I give up and log off manually. Using a modicum of sense, I pause long enough to dip a few graham crackers, piece by piece, into a hot cup of coffee and turn on my puter. It starts and so does signing on to aol. Four emails are waiting. I feel better, move the cursor, or thought I did, but it was glued to the screen. God damn it!

Leaving the non-working screen on, I get my handy ‘how to’ book for aol’s service number, wait for the same automated instructions I know by heart. As usual, I don’t totally wait for the questions but blurt out my answers. ‘Sorry,’ the robot says, ‘I didn’t understand your answer’ and I am asked again what my problem is. ‘You may say billing, tech,’ etc. I KNOW tech is not enough so I say, ‘Consultant’. Reply, ’ You wish to speak to a consultant. Is that right? ‘ ’Yes’. ‘Before I connect you I need more information. Are you using a pc or mac?’ I rush my answer and have to repeat it. ‘Your wait will be between five and ten minutes.’ I watch my watch. 12 minutes later a consultant answers. I give him the same name I use on line, my full name and am asked if I mind being called Peggy. ‘That will be fine.’ ‘Well, Peggy, how can I help you? ‘First tell me your name,‘ I ask his. He tells me but I can’t understand him at all. “Please repeat that and spell it for me.’ ‘J like in jump, a like in apple, until he gets to ‘l’ and I thought ‘l as in looney.’ We are ready to work.

My puter is on and the aol unworkable screen is before me. Jamal tells me to log off which takes forever to restart. Jamal and I chat about India while we wait. A thought comes to me, ‘Jamal, please give me this case number. It is best I have it for emergency..‘Peggy, you won’t need it. I am going to fix everything for you, but here it is.’ My pen is ready. 1065923KL47. Knowing my own carelessness I double check the number I have written down and am pleased I got it right. ‘Jamal, Jamal. Where are you?’ My line is dead!’ The operator comes on and automatically tells me. ‘If you want to make a call, please hang up and try again. ‘

To that point I have wasted a lot of time and all of my patience. Half a valium is called for. Even calming down takes time. The Senator may have already been unseated. I chance it and dial aol service again. This time I tie my tongue in knots and slow down answering questions by the Shadow. After all the details are taken care of he tells me he sees I have already talked to a consultant today so he will connect me at once, ‘ but first I need a little more information. Are you using a pc or mac.?I rush the pc again and have to grumble the answer.

The Consultant answers, asks me form questions including my whole name. ‘Do you mind if I call you Peggy?’ he asks. I tell Charlie the case number. I follow instructions and log off. While we wait for all of my icons to re appear we chat about India. Charlie comes back to me with an entirely different path from the one Jamal used. For every step, big or little, I hold the line while Charlie boy evidently goes to look thru volumes and volumes of instructions, different ways to deal with millions of troubles. His way works, I thank him. As soon as I am back on aol, I realize I have lost all of my font settings, my password and have to re-set them. The four lost emails may be amongst the 21 now waiting for me. I only take a quick glance at the senders name, delete any ads so come down to 15, pause, hit ‘write’............... and begin again, ‘Dear Senator Baum.’

OBLIGATION?

I can’t avoid it any longer. I’m taking my mother to lunch today. May heaven help me. Somehow I believe she dreads it as much as I do. No, I didn’t give her a choice of restaurants because she would sweetly say,’You select it, Sue. You go out much more than I do.’ Mom is 68. I am 39, which should allow us to connect, enjoy each other, but it never works out that way. Mom asked me what she should wear to Estafan’s. ‘How about your light gray suit with a bright red blouse or turtle neck shirt? ‘ It seemed I gave her a good plan.

In the morning I call to tell Mom I’ll pick her up at noon but she asks me to make it 12:15. ‘That gives me more time to dress.’ ‘Sure, 12:15. See ya.’ She’s waiting on the front porch and waves me into the driveway, all the way in, wearing navy blue slax, a white blouse and red jacket. Mom looks like an old American flag. I say nothing to avoid an argument. Estafan’‘s is a short drive.

One of Mom’s steady Bridge players had casually mentioned my mother had left the group, the group she said she adored, and gave no reason. ‘Hey, Mom. I heard from your friend Bea that you left the group and didn’t say why. Is that true?’ Her lips are a sealed steel trap. A lady pushing a stroller catches Mom’s eye and gives her an immediate out to drop the bridge subject and to beat on me some more. Isn’t that little girl adorable? Look at the precious outfit her mother has dressed on her today.’ My blood is getting hot, won’t stay under control much longer. ‘Mom, for the last time Harry, and I have decided one child is enough. Stop nagging me about it. Did I tell you how many kids to have? You chose one and here I am waiting for you to zonk me again.’

The hostess at Estafan’s takes us to a table for two that is a perfect size, not too little, not too big. It is in a nice spot with several other occupied tables for two around us. We aren’t isolated or stuck in a corner. Mom doesn’t like our table and asks to be seated on the other side of the room. ‘Madam, there are no tables for two on the other side of the room,’ she is told in no uncertain terms. ‘Then please give us a table for four and we will be able to put our handbags on the chairs instead of the floor.’ I can see the anger in the hostess’ eyes while she surely sees the determination in my Mom’s. I wished I could hide behind her and melt away.

As soon as we sit down,, Mom orders the hostess to send the waitress right away. ‘We’re hungry.’ I look straight at the hostess, let her see my displeasure, my embarrassment. I shrug my shoulders, put a quizzical look on my face and hand Mom a menu. ‘Mom, the tomato/lobster bisque is good enough to die for. I’m getting a bowl instead of a cup and then a shrimp salad scoop with a baked potato.

Want to try these?’ ‘Sue, I’m a big girl now. I can choose my own lunch.’ Oh, that mother of mine. I’d like to kick her in the ass. Mom stares at the menu, goes over it and over it, examining every item., while our waitress stands by her side, tapping her pen on the order pad, and glowers. ‘O.K. I’ve finally made up my mind. I’ll have a bowl of lobster bisque and a scoop of shrimp salad with those delicious fried sweet potatoes Estafan does so well.’

My self control amazes even me until I offer Mom coffee or tea with a scrumptious dessert. ‘Daughter, don’t you know yet I don’t drink coffee and I always get a large plate of fresh seasonal fruit. I hope they have blueberries today. You do torture me, Sue. Why?’ ‘One decaf coffee, one tea, Lord Grey. And I’ll have a brownie with vanilla ice cream and hot fudge.’ I get the check and Mom grabs it roughly from my hand. I let go and make a scene. ‘Damn you, Mother, you are my guest.’ The people on each side of us give me dirty looks. ‘You are–you are–,’ and no more words come out. She thrusts her Visa card on top of the check and tells me to shut up. I do.

Haughtily she walks in front of me to the exit, stops to tell the hostess how much we enjoyed lunch and as discretely as possible, hands her five bucks. I open the car door for Mom and drive her home, pull into the driveway just as she tells me, ‘drive in, all the way in.’ Mom doesn’t rush to leave. She sits still and starts to peel off her new nail polish. ‘Mom, stop that, you just had your nails done yesterday.’ She stops for a second, leans over and kisses me on the cheek. ‘Sue, this was lovely. It was really nice being with you and the bisque is almost enough to die for. Let’s go back there again in a week or two.. By the way, have you made an appointment yet with an obstetrician? In vitro isn’t easy, might not work and you are running out if time.’ I wave good-bye. Harry is trimming the hedges. ‘How was it, Sue?’ ‘You know, so don’t ask.’

I go in the house and call Mom just to say, ‘Mom, you are a real case, a pain in the neck case, but hell- I love you anyhow.’

TODAY IS NOT FOREVER

It’s about 6:30 in the morning, still not light, still cold. From my second story bedroom window I can barely see Stanley peddling his bike, its overly large basket filled with heavy morning newspapers. Stan skips the stores but stops at each house, sets his kick stand, and lays the paper neatly on the top step. Sundays he does the same thing. I put on my warm flannel bathrobe, tie the tassel, put my feet into bunny slippers and go downstairs to get the treasure first. The door squeaks a little so I open it slowly, reach out into the cold, bring in the Lansing Herald and right there on the hall floor, I pull out the funny papers and take only them to the kitchen.

My friends pop out at me, wait for me as my drawing pencils, manilla paper, gum eraser, crayons remain in my closet until after breakfast.Ha, ha, the Katzenjammer Kids are in trouble again. Buck Rogers has a rocket ship ready to fly to the moon. (I’ll have to wait until next week to see if he gets there). Blondie and Dagwood are arguing. Colonel Hoopnagel isn’t funny but is easy to draw. I will be busy and happy all day, by myself drawing, coloring, talking to my friends. And when I am finally finished, Dad and Mom will look them over and tell me I will surely be a Michelangelo when I grow up. I have Saturday night to dream, to do imaginary things, to sometimes see Popeye, Wimpy, before my Sunday funnies come.

Dad reads every page of the paper, all the news, the obituaries, jobs wanted, jobs people want to get, cars for sale. He always cuts out the radio station programs for the week and puts it on the windowsill next to our Majestic radio in the living room. Dad has a good job, a car, hasn’t lost or found anything, knows very well what time Eddie Cantor comes on, but still covers the paper page by page, column by column–except for the funny papers. Those he leaves for me.

It’s about 6:30 in the morning, still not light, still cold. From my 4th floor condo front window I see a bright red SUV drive up, stop at the building next to mine. The driver gets out, opens the car trunk and easily takes out about 10 Lancing once a day newspapers. He lines them up in a row, under the protective overhead roof, magic marks the apartment building, and moves on to my place. The daily procedure takes him no more than 5 minutes per building. So easy. I am always the first downstairs and bring up my paper and my neighbor’s. If I wanted to be in the delivery service, I think I could carry all ten in one arm.

My coffee cup is filled with instant Maxwell House decaf and a Sweet ‘n Low. I nuke it for one minute 47 seconds. ½ a pumpernickel bagel covered with a thin piece of muenster cheese goes in the toaster oven, timed to synchronize with the coffee being ready. I put them on a tray, carry it into the living room, switch on CNN. Opening the morning paper I am affronted by a large sticker advertising a hair salon, firmly covering ½ of the headline. Angrily ripping it off, ½ the newsprint goes with it. It doesn’t matter as there is not one word of national or world news on the front page. Sport scores and a pictures of players, a list of where to find news is all I see. The paper quality is so thin, trying to turn to the inside page, the crinkling feel and sound stop me from reading it. The news that is on the following page I read, I saw on CNN 24 hours ago. My fingers are already covered with black printers’ ink.Page four lists birthdays of stars whose names are totally unfamiliar to me. They do not shine very brightly in my world.

There are 4 pages of ads, big sales, buy one get one free. I skip those. There is a sports section so why were sports on the front page? Where is the editor? Oh, there he is in the local section giving mostly social information, church meetings, weddings, bar mitzvahs, plus a few Letters to the Editor. It surprises me to find one voicing my identicalcomplaints. I save the puzzle, jumble page for last. The comics are on one side (not in color). The puzzle font is extremely small and light. Even with my excellent bifocals I cannot work them. The Horoscope remains. I read February’s and it tells me to make a change in my life today. Wait no longer. Do what I know I should do. For some reason this strikes me just right and I decide to follow the advice.

I wait for the office to open at 7:30, dial the Lansing Herald, hit 5 for the service department and cancel my subscription with them. I have been loyal for 25 years so I swallow the little lump I feel in my throat. From here on I’ll read the news on my computer, watch CNN instead of waiting for the driver in his red SUV.

This wasn’t easy - but- it is a fait accompli . If I choose, I will always be free to re-order the paper. I won’t, I won’t!

SELF-MADE HURTS

I don’t cry in front of my mother usually, but this time I do. Sunday is going to be the neighborhood’s weekly straw ride to Jackson Swinging Bridge and nobody invited me and I have nobody to ask to take me. The big truck with high wooden slats on two sides waits in front of Ballard’s Delly and fills up fast. The floor oozes straw that smells like wet sunshine. My schoolmates, friends carry baskets of goodies. Their swim suits and towels are in paper shopping bags. When a friend asks me if I am going, I smile and make goofy excuses why I can’t go this week.

From the cellar I hear Mom call me. ‘ Hey, Reds, guess what. You’re going on the straw ride this week.’ My thirteen year old heart almost jumps out of my chest. ‘Mom, I can’t go. I don’t have a date, and you know I have never had one,’ I sobbed. ‘Oh, yes you do. Dad asked his cousin, Ira, if his son Jimmy would like to go and take you, free. He’d treat. Jimmy’s calling for you Sunday, 9:30. I’ll pack a delicious lunch for both of you and Saturday, you and I will go to the Mart and get you a new bathing suit with maybe a little boobs added in.’

‘Thanks, Mom, but I won’t go with Jimmy. Everybody knows he’s related to me. Martha once asked me to fix her up with him but I wouldn’t do it. I am not going. No way!’ I run upstairs to my bedroom and cry real tears. Mom leaves me alone but Dad doesn’t. He reasons with me at dinner, tells me this is a chance to get to be more friendly, maybe meet some boys. Of course he is right yet I sulk back to my room..

Bathing suit buying is a disaster. Mom forces me to accept a one piece woolen suit, mucky green on the bottom and tan on top. It has a belt with a silver buckle. I hate it and am not going to wear it Sunday or ever. With little enthusiasm Jimmy rings our doorbell. He stands in the vestibule holding tightly to his towel wrapped swim trunks, hands me the trunks and he takes the lunch basket from me. Fair exchange.

The truck is still locked when we walk up the street and maybe 50 kids are anxiously waited to get on. As soon as the gate is opened the rush is on. There are arguments as to who stands , who can lie down in the little shade from the driver’s compartment. Some kids roll in the straw that smells like wet sunshine. As we take off, Max and Mildred start singing, ‘Tow, tow, tow your truck, gently to the bridge’ and pretty soon there is laughter, hugging and secretive kissing. I pray Jimmy doesn’t get any ideas like that. The truck shakes badly. It bumps and sometimes chugs. Flying straw falls in my hair.

At last, there is a sign, ‘Swinging Bridge, turn right. Go slow.’ We are here and I am not excited about the stinkin’ little bridge. Orders from the driver: ‘We’ll take an orderly walk across, make an about face and come back to the truck. Then we’ll have a short ride to the lake.’ The lake is blue as crystal diamonds, icy cold diamonds. There are plenty of picnic ables and dressing rooms close by. Everybody goes to change, but I stay at our table #10. I sit there worrying what I can tell Jimmy, why I’m not going swimming. I tell him my mother packed my old suit and it is too small. Jimmy doesn’t believe me and asks, What’s wrong with you? You got the rag on?’ ‘What rag, Jimmy? My suit isn’t a rag it is just too small. I can do very nicely without the water. You go have fun.’ Actually I do have reasons, logical good reasons, I can’t admit. I hate that ugly bathing suit my mother forced on me and worse than that is I hate my ugly, skinny legs and flat chest. No, I can’t tell him or anybody else how up tight I am.

Sitting quietly at table #10, I hear the girlish squeals, see the boys flick wet towels at their dates backsides. Jimmy is amongst them. Dripping wet, chilled, the gang fills the tables. Fried chicken, still slightly warm, smells good, tastes wonderful. We pass around pickles, chips, olives, tomatoes, saurkraut. I fill up a paper plate and take it to the driver. Jimmy brings him a Coke.

Dottie brought along a windup record player so crazy dancing begins. I try the limbo, make it thru the first notch and fall on the 2nd one. Jimmy and I get in the Bunny Hop and follow the leader without losing the rhythm. The ride home seems to take longer than getting there. Darkness covers us which doesn’t hide the sounds of kissing and ‘Don’ts.’ We make it safely. Jimmy walks me home, says ‘thanks’ and leaves me holding his wet towel.

‘Hi, Mom. I’m home.’ ‘Did you have a great time?’ Mom asks. ‘Swell Mom. Jimmy was nice, My bathing suit looked pretty he said. I’m going to take a bath to get the straw and lake sand off. I’ll be down for supper soon.’ My day was awful, an expected disappointment. I am a wallflower, a dud. I’ll never be like the other girls. Mom calls to me while I am still in the tub, ‘Hey, Reds, how come your bathing suit is dry and the sale tag is still on it?’

I turn the faucet on harder and make out I don’t hear her.

GOOD YUNTUFF, YE PUNTIFFS!

Be well, be safe, be smart, and be happy

EMPTY EYES

White haired, soft spoken, usually pleasant Miss Brainard stands before my second grade class, pointer in hand. The 9 a.m. bell rings. She turns to the just washed blackboard and gives it a light tap for attention. Rustling dresses and shuffling feet stop at once. Miss Brainard says nothing, just nods her head towards me and I stand next to my desk, look at the wall over blackboard #1 and read aloud, ‘If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.’ I sit down, fold my hands on my desk. Andy is flag bearer this week. He goes to the corner next to the teacher’s desk, lifts the American flag against his knee as it unfurls. In unison the class says the Pledge of Allegiance without a hitch in the smooth recital. Andy replaces the flag in its corner brace. Our daily routine is well known. We don’t gripe or ridicule it. Buddy stands and leads the Lord’s prayer, ‘The Lord is my shepherd’. Carrol starts to cough, takes the required clean handkerchief from her pocket and gets control.

‘Ouch’ , a small squeak comes from the back of row four. Minyon stands and rubs her ankle. ‘Herby, to the coatroom, NOW. No recess for you today. Stay in and write 100 times on the side blackboard, ‘I’m sorry, Minyon.’ Miss Brainard didn’t have to ask who hurt Minyon, she knows and handles it quickly. Herby does not deny it.

Today is my day for ‘Show and Tell’ and I have something special to show. My Daddy gave me permission. He got it down from the top shelf of his medical cabinet for me, wrapped it in an old terry cloth towel and placed it lightly in a checked cloth shopping bag for me. ‘Be careful. It is very old, Zel. It can crack if you drop it. I’m trusting you to not let anybody hold it except you and Miss Brainard. Promise?’ I promise.

‘Zel has Show and Tell today . Let’s see what she has.’ I leave my seat and take the bag to Miss Brainard’s desk, carefully unwrap ‘the thing’ and hold it in front of the class. My classmates wiggle in their seats, not sure of what I have in my hands. I have to explain. This is a real skeleton head. It was a man about 60 years old. Look, you can still see a few teeth in his mouth. I put my hand inside, ‘This is where his brain was and these big holes were where his eyes used to be.. Really. This is true. My father got it when he was studying medicine at Johns Hopkins. See, I’m not afraid.’ A few girl classmates look away. The boys sit like statues. Miss Brainard thanks me . I re-wrap the skull and sit down. School day is interesting. Kids ask me questions, want to hold the skull, but I had left it with Miss Brainard so nobody could force me to let go. Daddy is pleased with my description of the class, but I have trouble sleeping. Skeletons come into my dreams. They talk. Words come from toothless mouths. They rattle. They shake bony fingers at me. I wake and go downstairs before the sun rises. The office door is seldom locked.

I turn on a light and slowly raise my eyes to the top of the cabinet. Daddy has put the skull back in its place, where I will leave it forever.

Lookin' to Get Out?

(L to R) Jon Voight, my daughter, Warner Home Video Vice President Ronnee Sass, and Burt Young were not lookin’ to get out of the Florida woods. They were just taking a break at the Sarasota Film Festival where director Hal Ashby’s newly discovered cut of Lookin’ to Get Out had its world premiere as part of the Festival’s gala tribute to the late filmmaker. "Lookin’ to Get Out" -- starring Voight, Young and Ann-Margret and featuring the film debut of Angelina Jolie -- debuts on DVD June 30. Also screened was Ashby’s signature film "Being There," a recent WHV Blu-ray/DVD release.

BIG BOSS

My fat grandfather, hair thinning, dyed red, sat at the heavy round oak dining room table in the otherwise empty room. There was no cloth on the table. Its only cover was stacks of money, piled neatly, held together with thick rubber bands. Easily in reach for the old man was a large amber colored glass ashtray. A Havana cigar, the band still on it, rested, it’s smoke choking me.

In the kitchen tin gallons were being filled thru funnels with what looked like water but smelled as strong as bitter medicine. ‘We’re done. We’re leavin’, Lucky called to my grandfather. In a throaty voice the men were told to come in the other room. ‘I’ll take care of you now.’ The boss looked at the piles of money, thought for a minute and handed one pile to Lucky and one to Pete. ‘Want a cigar too? Fresh from Havana.’ ‘No, we’d better get movin’. ‘Go, and don’t come back until you hear from me. Be careful. The Feds are everywhere!’

3 men carry the heavy cans of gin to the back yard where their altered, souped-up car waits. In a second, nobody would know the cans were under the floor. Lucky starts to back the car out and all hell breaks loose. The Feds were at the front door and pushed it right off its hinges. Without waiting, guns drawn, they headed to the Boss’s table. In the yard other Feds had handcuffed the delivery men. Neighbors were watching in the front of the house and leaning over fences in the back.  Some hissed the Feds, other gave my grandfather a smile and thumbs up.

The thousands of dollars on the table were disappearing fast. ‘Hey, Officer Jackson. Here’s something for you. Divvy it with your squad.’

Putting some of the money up his sleeve, the captain doles bills out to his men. Friend and foe had no complaints. The police drove away happy.

The gin drivers got in their loaded car and headed for Rte. 1 and D.C.

The raid was over. Nobody got hurt. Everybody came out ahead. Boss leaned back in his rocking chair, puffed on that smelly cigar and gave me, his 10 year old grand daughter who saw the whole thing, a lot of money, one dollar, a pat on my rear and orders, ‘Don’t you tell your mother or father what you saw or no more money for you, ever!’

I never told ‘til now and he isn’t around to know it.

SMILING TEARS

In my guest room that rarely has guests, on the wall between my hearing assisted phone and desk top computer, always visible, hangs a treasure. It is a walnut plaque, words engraved on a brass plate. I know them all by heart, even the date, 1985. That 12" by 14" nothing is everything. Some mornings a mere glance its way makes me teary, feel the emptiness without my Paul. That’s when my desk top computer reaches out to partly offer comfort. It see saws, goes up and down, grows into a big Tandy that Paul never had a chance to use, and I inherited. Now its baby brother takes up half the room of Tandy, comes with me on trips. We are friends. Emails fly, I search the web, write stories and always Paul smiles at me, so glad I have accepted what fate handed us and that I have grown without getting fat. My memories are as clear as the new DVDs, playable over and over. I would crumble without them.

In the glass case of my étagère lives a small papier mache’ clown. His outfit is green with big pink buttons. Tilted on his head is a pointed cap to match. He used to live almost hidden on a Mexican shelf in Acapulco, stuck between animals, children, balloon sellers. I walked up and down the aisles searching, searching for just the right one for me until I was on Paul’s nerves and he was on mine.’Go take a walk, Paul. I’ll meet you in ½ hour near the fountain to the right of this shop’s door.’ He goes, probably will find a cervasa stand nearby. I am running out of rows to check when I see just what I want. I reach up to the top shelf and take him in my hands, ‘Hello, Pierott,’ I say. No Pepe, no Pedro, no Pagliacci, my little Frenchman wasn’t too happy amongst all the Spaniards, so he doesn’t cry when I take him to the dark skinned, heavy boss.  Crocodile tears are on Pierott’s face. The boss gives me a price and I am supposed to argue with him but don’t quibble, pay his first price. He wraps my new friend in old Spanish newspapers, bows a Gracias and we are both free to find Paul.

I easily spot him at the fountain, his empty cervasa bottle near his feet. Not once does he show any interest in what I bought and I don’t bother telling him. ‘What was the big deal about buying that little thing wrapped up like trash?’ ‘You’ll see it when you see it, Paul.’

Back home, where I am so happy to be, I kiss my freezer door, feel the cleanliness of the bathrooms. Pierott stays silent in a corner of one suitcase. After our first night at home, Paul and I start to unpack. I need the right spot for my friend and go from room to room, shelf, to shelf until I find the place we can see each other every day and place him in the étagère.  ‘You’re home now, Pierott.’ I think I see him wink at me but maybe not.

Over the many years since he moved in, he has earned a place on one of my DVDs. The little Mexican shop is there, the rows and rows of balloon makers, animals, children are still there. One empty space glitters like pebbles washed by the ocean. Paul and I are there shopping, arguing, drinking beer from dripping bottles.

I sweat, hit repeat on my DVD player, lie down in my empty room and remember.