SMALL THINGS

I’m weak, encased in wrappings, can barely move. Bars hold me. My eyes are bad. I can see almost nothing around me. A rustle of sound and a stranger approaches, touches my hand to be sure I’m alive, and is gone.

There is no toilet. Whatever leaks out of me makes my bottom burn. Liquid food comes in and I start to choke. Day after day it is the same, warm piss. I spit it out and it cakes on my shirt, stays there a long time.

Now and then I hear sounds, sounds I seem to remember. Can my ears deceive me? I like the sounds. They take away some of my anger. The monster holding me captive is big, strong. It lifts me from my cage as if I were a bag of potato chips that might break. I am tossed over its shoulder and am beaten on my back. My mouth opens and I throw up on that shoulder and am punished. Back into my cage I go, with nothing to do but lie still.

There is more than one monster. The second one comes in when there is almost no light at all, checks my back, rolls me over on my stomach and goes away. My bindings are not too tight but I can’t turn over. What is going to happen to me? I cry a lot, too much. My legs are loosened from the ties that bind me and I’m more comfortable. Slowly I bend my knees and try to crawl forward but bang my head and let out a scream. The monster returns, touches me, walks me in circles until I am dizzy. Again I remember, the familiar soft sounds, spit out whatever was put in my mouth. My clothes are removed and I am naked and cold. I believe I am going to die.

A new sound , a new feel, one I knew long ago. Water, water, nice warm water. I am submerged. My legs kick out and I squirm, try to get free. I can’t so I try only to keep my head out of the water. I think about the old very dark room where I was kept before this cage and wish I could go back there. It was better than this place. I had good food, was warm all the time and nobody stuffed things in my mouth. A soft something goes around me and my memory brightens, becomes more clear. I hear an angel sing, ‘Mary had a little lamb, little lamb,’ and tiny bubbles come out of my mouth. A face, a fuzzy face smiles. Warm lips kiss my cheek. My little bald head rests on her shoulder and I fall asleep.

BLOWIN’ IN THE WIND

‘It’s hot as Hell.’ Nonsense! Who has been to Hell and back to tell us how hot it is there? One thing for sure, it has to be hotter than Florida in July, but just the same, Florida July is too hot for me. I’m out of here, headed for the New England coast, Maine to be exact. Kennebunkport to be more explicit. I’ve been there before, seen what there is to see yet it draws me again. It is restful, historically well preserved, friendly and has super great lobster eateries. Close your eyes, pick one, and you will not have made a mistake.

The northeast coast sure beats the daily Florida t.v. threats giving hurricane coordinates, latitudes, longitudes where a hurricane may be forming off the coast of Africa, may strike Cuba and then Florida. It may go south to Key West and travel into the gulf or go up to Palm Beach. It is too much for me.

From Miami I fly to Boston where an Alamo rental is pre-arranged for my delicious two week taste of heaven. In town I watch the tourists amble slowly, breathing the salt, amazed how strong the old wooden houses still stand strong against the wind, the winter cold. They are treasures to cherish.

Sturdy nets, colorful lobster pots scream at me from every corner. ‘Take my picture.’ I snap. I snap, knowing I already have dozens of similar ones at home. The cool wonderment drowns me.

A small, clean inn, the Arcadia, will be home for tonight. It is charming with little do-dads everywhere, a soft comforter on a four poster bed, eider down pillows. Best of all is the cook, who knows just what to do with the lobsters–Steam ‘em. It’s cruel but I try not to think about that as the big white chunks swim in butter and slide down my throat. Next to my table is a middle aged couple from Idaho who have never been out of their state. We chat. He wipes the lemon meringue off his lips as I finish a huge juicy claw. Mr. Idaho was not impressed with the lobsters. ‘Too much trouble,’ he tells me. I give him some tourist tips and go to my waiting comfort zone.

My next stop will be the rocky coast, far less populated than the towns, but a lot more thrilling. Schoodic Point in Winter Park is where I aim. It’s my favorite place along the wild rocky shoreline. There is a fairly safe parking area at the top of a crag. I take a chance. As I open the door, it almost flies off its hinges. The wind is full of spray and salt and a lot of power. No one is around. I ponder and imagine being blown away. Not a good thought, I turn my mind to a lobster boat past the crashing waves.

And then I see someone, a man, sitting on a gigantic almost smooth boulder, too close to the edge. His head rests on his bent knees, his arms around them. He is unaware of me. I have no intention of alarming him, turn carefully and walk to what I believe will be a safer place to watch the birds fight the wind, swoop and miraculously rise, holding a squirming fish in sharp talons. If I’m lucky, I may see a rare eagle.

For an hour I am seduced by the glory of nature. The blue cloudless sky covers my world. The foaming waves below me, the golden rust of the cliffs are accent spots. My camera can’t possibly show what I feel, but I snap, snap.

And when I look around for the man with his head on his knees, his arms around them, he is gone.

And I’ll never know where he went.

THE UNEXPECTED

‘Row, row, row your boat,’ I tap the side of the small tourist flat boat as we glide down the Caroni River in Trinidad. Little black bugs annoy me, go down my shirt. Bengali must be immune to them. He stands, rows and watches. ‘Look, Sahib, see where the river flows into the ocean? See, see. Isn’t it beautiful? ‘ Deftly he swings the boat around. He, the bugs and I head back to civilization. Mangrove trees root along the river’s edge. ‘Keep your hands inside or you may lose a finger,’ says Bengali. 1000s of scarlet ibises stalk the shallow water feasting on whatever moves.

Bengali calls across the river to a friend. Shail is about to turn also and will follow us. ‘When is it?’ ‘It is at 2 today.’ I look at my watch and see it is already 11. ‘Bengali, what is at 2 o’clock? You aren’t going are you? I thought we were to have lunch and continue northward.’ ‘Sahib, we have time. I will take you to the big event, no extra charge. Hokay?’ ‘Hokay if you say so.’

Naked children laugh and follow our boat. They wave and call us ashore but Bengali ignores them. ‘They want to sell you trinkets they made in school. They’ll smile and let you see their big black eyes and maybe pick your pockets.’ We drift. Bengali rests, has a coke and offers one to me. I gladly take it and find it so warm I start to throw it in the water, but am stopped. My hand is grabbed and I am scolded. ‘You must not throw glass in the water. I will take it in when we go ashore.’ ‘Whoa, I wasn’t going to throw the bottle in. I was just going to empty the warm coke.’ ‘Hokay,’ and he drinks it all, letting me know he drank it because fish don’t like coke.

We pull into a small cove where we have a light lunch of spicy couscous with what I hope is chicken pieces . A delicious piece of papaya, warmed by the sun, is plenty for me. Bengali orders seconds. Before starting out again the toilets become a necessity. With much apprehension I go in and am pleasantly surprised to see flush toilets with Americanized tissue called Caroni Soft, plus a large roll of Bounty hand wipes on the wall.

Off we go! At 1:30 I notice large groups of white robed men walking along the shore. ‘Who are they, Benagali? Where are they going?’‘Like most tourists, Sahib, you did not read about us before your arrival. Books, travel guides say our history is that were settled by Indians, so travelers gather American Indians, Apache, Navajo, but no we are East Indians with a long history.. Today is Cremation Day. Today is special. Orija’s cremation is the one we will attend. I have known him since I was a small child. He was a holy man, a good man, who has left seven sons. His body will be blessed, put in a bier and covered with wood chips. Then we will watch as he is carried to the river where the wood will begin to burn and he will drift to the ocean and disappear. There will be a feast but we will not stay for that. When Orija leaves, we will go in the opposite direction.’ I do not want to stay to see the body burn but cannot insult Bengali, so stay and keep my eyes closed.I hear chimes and chanting as we set out towards the nearby wharf. Other flat boats are emptying, some filling again. There will be no more cremations tonight.

Bengali and I shake hands. He receives a substantial tip and I return to the tour bus that is only partially filled. The moon later hides behind the clouds and myriad blinking stars. Sleep is slow coming. I see the scarlet ibises that are now red, aflame. Ocean waves swell over them. They breathe smoke. I shake, wake early, have a satisfactory breakfast of eggs over light in the air conditioned dining room, skip the papaya and never intend going to another barbecue.

ACCIDENTS HAPPEN

Pulling my carry on bag to the place I thought I left my car at the airport, I couldn’t avoid seeing a couple having sex in a shiny new blue Lexus. The show was probably better than the one I gave passersby in the garage. I tripped. I didn’t fall. I flew forward as if I were a jet taking off. A gorgeous gal, very well padded, with vavooms like I’ve never felt before, cushioned my body. It was wonderful when she helped me drop to the greasy floor. The floor didn’t matter. What mattered was I couldn’t sit up. I couldn’t stand. Like a ninny, I felt tears on my face. I mumbled, ‘Thank you, Miss. Do you have a cell phone?’ She nodded ‘ ‘yes.’ ‘Will you please call 911 for me? I’m pretty sure I broke something, my leg or my hip. I’m just not sure which. The pain is terrible.’

My Savior’s name is Marilyn. She is making cars go around me, keeping me safe. ‘Ho, Marilyn, I may die right here if help doesn’t come soon. I need a pain killer fast!’ I tell her. ‘Help is here.’ She bends over and kisses me warmly, sweetly on my lips. ‘That’s the best I can do, Greg. Greg is your name, isn’t it?’ I tell her how nice it was but it can’t cure what’s ailing me at the moment.

With no siren blasting in the enclosed garage, I’m barely aware the ambulance is beside me. The guerney is out. I am strapped on a metal board and lifted up. My arm is alcoholed and jabbed with a two foot needle. Marilyn, Marilyn, follow me, find me. A sweet, quiet fog blankets my mind.

My mother tells me it is tomorrow and my leg is broken, just the bottom, thin part, the tibia. I ask her where I was all night. ‘Mom, where’s Marilyn?’ ‘Marilyn? Marilyn who?’ ‘Oh, god. I don’t know but she saved me. Without her soft body I’d be a broken man.’ Do you know where my car is? Is it still at the airport?’ ‘No, it’s been impounded.’ ‘Well, did you get my wallet back?’ ‘Back from where, Greggie, Darling?’ ‘It was in my briefcase. Egads, where’s my briefcase? Somebody must have stolen it while I was writhing on the ground. Maybe one of the ambulance drivers took it. Mom, go check with the ambulance company, the hospital. I need my I.D.’ ‘ Greggie. I know who you are. You don’t need an I. D.’ ‘But, but, my money, my car, my leg!!’

‘Son, I’ve come to take you home. You’ll live.’ From a small closet, Mom removes the oily clothes and slit pants. Although she brought me clean clothes, I can’t get my leg into the pants so she helps me with the cut ones. The door opens and a nurse, a homely one, brings in a wheel chair, and crutches that are surely going to be on the bill Mom has in one hand along with my release papers.

‘Mom, how am I going to get in your car, in your house? I can’t lift my leg. What am I going to do?’ ‘First things first. We’ll find ways to do everything, including you going weewee.’ I have to laugh at that. A surprise waits for me outside. A tall, strong looking private male nurse is going to show me how to get my ass in and out of the car and will be with me at Mom’s for as long as I need him. That Mom of mine is really something. I thank her and tell her I love her. That seems to be payment enough. ‘It will get easier,’ Tyrone, my caretaker, tells me. There are only two steps into the house but they look like the Alps. Mom and Tyrone stand on the side to see what I am going to do and they are not happy. I do nothing. He lifts me up as if I were a feather and sets me down in the hallway, saying, ‘ That is the first and last time I’ll do that for you. You will soon learn how to handle crutches.’

I make it to the arm chair and manage to elevate my leg onto the hassock. There is someone else in the house. ‘Mom, who’s in the kitchen? Aunt Mildred?’ ‘Turn your head a little, Greg,’ I look and immediately see an arm holding my briefcase, followed by a beaut of a gal. ‘Mom, where did you find Marilyn?’ ‘Marilyn found me, son. She opened your briefcase and got your emergency info out, called me right away.’ Marilyn comes over to me, kisses me again.

I kiss her back and wake up. Everything has disappeared, my memory of falling, the vavoom cushion, the needle in my arm. It was all a dream–except the plaster cast holding me prisoner for a month or so.

MONEY, MONEY, MONEY

The lady is sitting below the t.v. screen, next to the water cooler, in the doctor’s waiting room. In her hand is a stack of paper cups given by numerous doctors in the complex. They are blue and gray and not much bigger than a thimble. I ask her why she is sitting under the t.v. when she can see better from several empty chairs. ‘I have to drink a lot of water,’ she replies, and might as well sit right here.’ ‘I’ll tell you what. You carry two cups, I’ll take three over to the table and you will be comfortable.’ My nice suggestion is turned down and I look at her again and believe she is an idiot.

Having left my exasperating wait and huge unexpected cost to do niggling things at the car shop, I have to make another nearby stop at the Deafness Center to get an additional assisted phone for my apartment. The one I have had for several years is on my seldom used desk in the spare room. It has been a blessing except that I am usually in my den or bedroom when a call comes in. Those phones do not have extra volume so I ask the caller to please hold on while I go to the other phone. Too often I forget to turn off the T.V. so that background noise destroys the advantage of my special phone. ‘ Please hold another minute. I have to go in the den to turn off the T.V. I’ll be right back!’ I run and return.. The call is from a sheriff who wants a donation. My ire takes fire. Impolitely, I slam down the phone. When I try to make a call after those experiences, 90% of the time, I can’t. My phone line is dead. ‘Darn it!’ I yell at myself. ‘Dummy, again you forgot to hang up the den phone.’

My stop today is to buy a duplicate phone for the one I have. Before driving to the Center, I call A T & T who offers me a walk around small, extra volume phone for $139. It is not what I want. I amaze myself and find the original box my first free phone was in, read a lot of words until I come to, ‘Second phone free.’ Wow, I’ll get that–until I read the bottom line. I must choose from the styles offered- for speech defects, text messaging, ability to read messages, none of the 6 types offered fit my needs. All I want is a duplicate of what I have. I learn when I call that the second one will cost me $39.95. ‘Super. Hold one for me. I’ll be in tomorrow.’ I find the building, park and then walk totally around the building finding no entrance door. How can that be? I go again and see a small wooden stairway, partially covered by fronds, walk down and lo and behold there is a door–and also an elevator, push five and crawl upward. There is a long hall with names on every door, none showing Deafness Center. At the last door, I hear voices inside, find the door locked and knock. ‘Oh’, says the gentleman. ‘Go back to the elevator and there is a left turn to another hall. Deafness is the last office.’ Wishing I had hiking boots, I set out.

The office is in the process of re-decoration. It is necessary for me to walk over rolls of carpeting, be careful of open paint cans. ‘Ah, Dr. Livingstone, I presume,’ when I see a man with a name tag ‘Fred.’ He doesn’t get my meaning but is friendly and takes me into his office, clears a chair of papers and I sit. In a few minutes he brings a box with the new phone, types some things on his computer and says to me 79.80. ‘What? I was told yesterday the phone is $39.95. How could the price jump like that in one day?’ Fred breaks up laughing. He was posting my address, not price. I had to laugh myself. ‘May I charge the phone or do you want a check?’ ‘Whatever you like, will be fine.’ My trusty Visa is in my hand in a minute. Fred types it into his computer, prints it and hands me the bill, $140.05 including tax! Now I am upset. ‘What about the $39.95 phone I was to pick up today?’ Fred says I must not have heard the One on the phone. Of course, I didn’t because the woman didn’t say 139.95. ‘Fred, I was on my hearing assisted phone and heard her perfectly . She did not say One.’ Fred is not finished the good news. I will now own the phone and if there is any trouble, I must contact the maker and pay for service. If my first free phone goes out of order the Deafness Center replaces it free. The new one is not a bargain.

I went for it anyhow. Now I have a belly full, two hearing assisted phones, a blasting headache, nausea, more convenience and more bills for dessert.

A FREE-BE ?

My ‘07 Camry is in for a quick free check-up, The all new waiting area is at least 10 times larger than the old one and is now in full stainless steel regalia. Too many door frames galore with an overage of heavy glass, that my directions to the manager’s office lead to the outside. I caught what looked like a salesman who helped a lot, ‘That’a way’ he said. Following his instructions I had to go through 3 more doors, getting a dirty look from each ‘proprietor’. At last I located the manager’s office and he had not yet arrived.

My quest continued. Another wandering soul appeared and I asked if he knew where the Finance Dept. is. ‘Sure, right thru that door,’ Wrong. That turns out to be 3 large sales rooms, where I am immediately approached to look at the new ‘2010s. I brush him aside. He takes his time and leads me back to the waiting room where I decide to wait.

The waiting area has as many handsome gray and mauve leather chairs as the building has doors. I pause for a cup of coffee, choosing decaf from four other more exotic blends. The black shiny urns gleam, mirror the chairs. There are ample trash cans in strategic places that look like Frank Lloyd Wright designed them. I am impressed, but not happy.

The hour my cheap job was to take now if an hour ½. A large, sloppy looking black woman fills one of the new chairs. She wears a long, slippery dress with a large black and white print. Her spaghetti shoulder straps are twisted and soiled, barely hold on to her extremely low blouse., a blouse which does not cover her sagging, bulbous breasts.No girdle, no corset could retain her huge belly. Any minute I figured she’d give birth. With 4 noisy children running wild in and out of the chair area, she didn’t once ask them to sit down, behave. One ran right over my foot.

The rest of us still waiting customers are sedate, quiet. We stare into space, have more coffee, read the newspaper, perhaps go hog wild and buy a bun. Four large t.v. screens hang in an an artistic square that can be seen from any part of the area. I don’t need them. I have the lady and her belly to watch.

I’m getting perturbed and start asking questions. ‘Is my car ready yet? Can you locate Al?, Will you find out if the manager is in yet?’ I add ‘Please.’ Al finds and stuns me. My 2 ½ year old car needs a few things attended to and it will cost about $400 (which rings up in my head at $500 minimum.) ‘Al, I have another appointment in 15 minutes and can’t stay. I’ll make an appointment when I get home.’ My car is waiting outside, thru 3 more doors.

For my next appointment I’ll bring an extra pen to perhaps begin chapter one of a book that I have been thinking of doing, a new writing book and MY CHARGE CARD!

THE LONG AND SHORT OF IT

Diane and Eduardo are all over the news. I feel like I know them and use their first names. Diane’s is something short like Cosby or Carlson. Eduardo’s I’m glad I can at least spell his first one. She holds onto his arm as they walk toward the airport security gate. The long snake-like line seems to be endless. Jackets, shoes are removed, computers come out of padded cases. The stacks of white trays are constantly refilled. Eyes, hundreds of eyes, watch Diane and Eduardo. He is 6'7"., very tall for Spaniards. She is a fraction under 4'11 ½ inches. If I didn’t know flight 066 was going east, I’d assume we were heading to Barnum’s in Sarasota. I gaze at them and wonder where they get their clothes that fit so perfectly.- and- where is the tall man going to put those giraffe legs on the plane.

I snap out of my thoughts, drop my purse and shoes into a tray, gently put my carry-on case in another, keep my lunch and a magazine in my left hand. A guard calls me over, shows me the small vial of eye drops I had in my purse and throws the Rx in the trash. ‘But, Officer, I need those drops.’ ‘Sorry, Lady, you should have checked the size. Notices are with your plane ticket, all over the airport.’ I am devastated. ‘Get a Chief over here. I must have my drops.’ The guard again tells me he is sorry. I reply, ‘Sorry? Shmorry. Am I supposed to lose my eye sight for 2 mg of a prescription?’

The Lone Ranger strides to my side, puts his 39" arm into the trash can and retrieves my vial, still tightly closed. The guard starts to draw his gun but stops dead. He is quickly handed Eduardo’s Consulate papers. ‘Yes, Sir. Sorry about that, Sir, but I have to follow orders.’ We move away from the line, retrieve our belongings and I grab an opportunity. As soon as Eduardo sits down on a cold grey metal chair to get the huge clodhoppers on his feet, I can reach him and would have hugged him to death if I could have. ‘De nada, de nada,’ and his laughter roars across the aisle. Heading towards the gate I count. Diane takes four, sometimes five, steps to his one. She is light and fast, looks like a Geisha with bound feet. He makes an effort to slow down. They are a show unto themselves. I am right behind them heading towards the gate. The couple don’t know it but we are a temporary threesome.

Before the wheelchairs and children without parents get on, Eduardo and Diane are called to the desk and escorted aboard. My section is called later and I find my own way to row 4 aisle seat. From there I can see into First Class and there is Eduardo Rodriguez leaning back in a tan leather lounge seat, Another chair faces him, his shoeless feet already cozy on it. Diane’s lounger faces his face. Rolling into take off position, I see those clodhoppers go down flat on the floor. Seat belts are on and we are airborne.

A woman about my age more than adequately fills the middle seat beside me. I start a polite conversation and a new crossword.puzzle. The captain and steward have finished their instructions. The jet quickly rises above the clouds, reaches the required altitude for an announcement that we can move around but keep seat belts on when seated. No one rushes to the loo yet.

The curtain between First and Cabin class opens a little. Rodriguez, slightly bent over, walks directly to me. I hear passengers buzz as in his charming dialect he invites me to join him and Diane to the empty seat up front. ‘We will be delighted to have you join us. Will you?’ he asks. He is rubbing off on me and I simply reply, ‘Si, Si, Gracias.’ ‘In which bin is your bag? I will get it for you.’ I don’t know how to say ‘up there’ in Spanish so I merely point. With great ease he reaches the red one with the white ribbon and leads me forward, truly walking on air.

Of course, I am delighted, more so than my former seat mate who is already lifting the center arm rest so she can spread out. I don’t say it but snidely think, ‘Lady, you don’t have to move the arm. You already are spread out.’ Instead, I give her my lunch, smile and say ‘Adios.’

MANY QUESTIONS

The apartment next to mine has been empty for a year. It contains two bedrooms, a small den, 2 baths, a small terrace overlooking a small park. I have a one bedroom, living room a den like a closet or maybe a closet like a den, a shower in the tub and no terrace. The other tenants, and surely the building owner, worry about the vacancy. This is not a plush neighborhood but is far from a slum. Residents run the gamut from Orthodox Jews to Catholics, skin colors, nationalities vary. While small children may live here, none do.

Charlie, the maintenance man does a good job, keeps everything running smoothly, the halls clean. We are a friendly group, help each other when called on, check on the elderly. Aside from a rare purse snatching, we have been crime free for 5 years. Why then, no tenant?Rumors begin to circulate. A family with two teen sons , a newly married couple in their late seventies, a single man with his lady and grown daughter, are considering 605.

A lot of commotion, banging on my walls wakens me 7 A.M. signaling I will soon have new neighbors. After my shower I go to check out the doings. The t.v. wall unit that used to be in the den is gone. Two over-alled men have already scraped the wall and are applying fresh plaster. I ask no questions and return to my apartment where I belong. My neighbor on the other side of me waves, shrugs and heads to work.

Charlie tells somebody. Somebody tells somebody else and I learn in the afternoon that one rumor is true. The couple with two teens will move in sometime this month. My emotion are fuzzy, mixed up. No sooner were we all somewhat relieved, we learn there has been a mugging in the alley between our building and the corner one. Our tongues wag.

The Dresslers move in ten days later. When the moving men leave and all is still, I knock lightly on their door. A slightly disheveled but attractive woman, 45 or so, opens the door. ‘Welcome, Mrs. Dressler. I live next door in 604. I’m Harriet Thomas. Thought you and your family might enjoy this strawberry short cake.’ I hand it to her. She says, ‘Thanks’ and closes the door. Immediately I take a dislike to her. None of the other Dresslers had been visible.

Two weeks pass and I have yet to see the boys. Walking down the hall, I come close to tripping on a skate board. ‘Will’, Mr. Dressler asked me to call him that, steps from the elevator and sees what happened. He apologizes for his son, tells me it won’t happen again and it doesn’t.

More stories in the lobby. There was another mugging where the first one had been. An elderly lady was pushed to the ground, kicked and her heirloom purse was stolen. She sat in the police car crying over it.Whether anyone else makes a mental connection to the Dressler boys or not, I don’t know. But foolishly I do and think they are criminals.

Mrs. Dressler remains Mrs. Dressler, somewhat aloof. Will is warm, friendly, has met most of us and has already offered to be on the House Committee. His offering is accepted at once.

The unheard of, impossible, happens. 407 is robbed while the Kirsches are out to dinner. The door has been jimmied. Not much was taken but the place is a mess. Police arrive, take photos, dust for fingerprintsspeak to all residents who are home. I tell them my suspicions that we have never had any trouble here until the teens moved in. If anyone else mentions my thoughts I am unaware, and feel a bit guilty.

Mrs. Grempler pulls me on the side and tells me she thinks the boysare involved and my guilt lessens. We stand together and see the boys with the two officers get off the elevator, get in their cruiser. Detective First Class Johnson questions them at the precinct, finds their alibis perfectly substantiated and returns them to their parents. As he apologizes and turns to leave, his eye catches on a bureau drawer not completely closed. He mentions it to Mr. Dressler who quickly opens it and stuffs the thing back in the drawer.

Detective First Class isn’t First Class for nothing. In that moment he is pretty sure that embroidered strap is the match to the bag of the woman who was mugged near my building. ‘Mr. Dressler, please come downtown with me. I have some questions to ask you.’

The Dressler s have a year’s lease and remain my neighbor for the entire time, except Will. The judge went easy on him, too easy, gave him only six months jail time. Mrs. Dressler puts in fives days a week in Walmart’s office, gets discounts on whatever she has to have. The boys give Charlie a hand after school and on Saturdays. They are doing just about the best they can.

In the meantime, while the Mrs. waits for Will to come home, crime around here is back to zero and I am Treasurer of the House Committee.

FLY, FLY AWAY

I was sitting on the back porch, as comfortably as possible. A large pillow was on a kitchen chair near where my lef leg, heavy as lead, swaddled in a plaster cast, rested. My mother had brought me a chocolate covered cupcake (from my favorite bakery) along with a big glass of cold white milk. The sun had been warm but had moved to the front of the house and I was getting chilly. ‘Mother,’ I called. ‘Will you help me back inside. I’m getting cold.’

Almost a month ago my new ten speed bike hit a rock in the road. It fell over, with me on it. It took time but finally Mother convinced me that the rock had not jumped up at me. It was I who wasn’t being watchful. I rode into it. I knew that was true but couldn’t bear the blame for this big, heavy cast on my leg, for missing weeks of my final high school year, for being a nuisance to my family-and–they didn’t let me forget the big doctor bills or the cost of the bike repairs.

Oh, lord, how my leg itched. Dad had uncoiled a wire hanger so I could reach inside the cast and scratch to my heart’s content. That helped for a day or two until my scratching started to bleed. The plaster was turning red. Another trip to the doctor who removed the entire cast. Ah, while he cleaned my wounds I had a moment of light headed heaven. But I was not free, Dr. Saloman put back a smaller one with a metal heel so I could walk a little, cautioning me not to over-do. Dad carried my crutches and led me to the car.

At home the crutches were put in the basement and the wire hanger in the trash can. It seemed to me I had been punished enough and was out of jail, on parole. A small, insignificant, unchangeable thing happened. It rained, rained hard, all week. I was still incarcerated. Finally, the sun won its battle with the clouds and lit up the spring sky. The grass was taller, greener. Mother worked a bit in the garden and came on the porch to tell me that her lilac bushes had buds and to relax, keep me company for a while. She brought out a pitcher of lemonade and two cupcakes from the freezer that she microwave zapped for 20 seconds. We also shared a warm closeness when she showed her sympathy for me, understanding my discomfort, loss of school time and added, ‘Darling, you aren’t any bother. I love you.’ She also told me not to worry about the bills. Insurance will cover most of them. I, in turn, thanked her for putting up with me, doing for me. ‘Mother, I love you, too.’ We hugged.

Over her shoulder I saw a small black bug land on my cupcake. A second one came and got stuck in the soft icing. A third looked over the situation and flew away. None had lingered over Mother’s cupcake. She took mine to the garbage pail and gave me hers. No sooner was her plate moved to my side of the small porch table, two more flies stopped for a taste of chocolate. I was angry, rose and swung my napkin at them, lost my balance and fell down the four wooden steps, landing hard on my tush. Mother was shocked, stood there screaming for help. No one else was home. I was close enough to the railing to grab it and pull myself up. I got a break, but not in my foot–just a lucky one. I was not hurt. Mother put her arms around me and hugged me close again. Her racing heart beat against my chest.

We went inside to calm down. Mother took the last of the frozen cup cakes out of the freezer, zapped them. She looked out on the porch, talked to the little bastards, ‘Flies, go eat someplace else. All the chocolate is gone and you had better be too.’ They went.

TIME MARCHES ON

Pops, the Director, walks slowly, sternly down the line. He moves Jennie’s hand a little further down Beth’s shoulder, chucks Lola under her throat, lifts his own head and tells her, ‘Up! Up!’ and smiles. ‘Nice. Nice. Excellent! Ready?’ We stay silent but he knows we are ready. Pop gives the nod and hurries from the stage. Trumpets blare. Drums roll. ‘Curtain up!’

Stone-faced our line-up of 30 dancers is set to be blinded by the foot lights. The theater is dark and empty. This time has to be perfect. Rehearsals are over. Tomorrow is Show-time. We are the Rockin’ Road Rockettes and we are good!

Baltimore’s beautiful old theater, The Hippodrome, has been closed for years. It used to be the hub of downtown. It has decayed to almost rubble. And then it happened. Interest in revival of the area brought investors with guts and millions of dollars, to research old photos, locate people who still can describe the most intricate of patterns, arrangements, fabrics, colors. Every seat was going to be identically placed as 50 years ago. The high domed ceiling with its spectacular crystal chandelier had to be copied, crystal by crystal, an unimaginable job. The city waited impatiently for the grand opening during Christmas season. All seats were sold months before. The glory, the adoration of old times, started with a pre-opening gala in the lobby. The walls were covered with old photos, yellow with age. Hollywood times were back.

Sheila, Rosa and Charlotte are extra excited about the formal show opening. They are Baltimoreans. Their grandparents and parents rarely missed a new stage show and movie for twenty-five cents. Movie stars came, big bands, comedians, magicians filled the bills and some will be here tonight.

We open the show as toy soldiers. Our cheeks are painted with round, red circles. Black tall hats with chin straps keep our identical long blond wigs straight. Two shiny rows of brass buttons are on our tight jackets. Wide black patent leather belts, white cotton gloves and we look gorgeous and ready,.

Before the curtain opens, we are tapping. The audience is quiet. ‘Open you beautiful red curtain,’ I say much too softly to be heard. The audience rises as one and claps with great enthusiasm. They already love us and we haven’t even started. No slumping, eyes riveted, every click is in unison. The curtain closes. When the applause dies down a movie screen rises from the floor. Scratchy, yellowed movies of Eddie Cantor, Jack Benny, Edgar Bergen, Burns and Allen move slowly across the screen. People point, laugh, clap. Acrobats, magicians, Old Blue Eyes when Frankie was only 17 bring yells.

The screen descends to sleep until tomorrow nite. The Rockettes are ready to rock again. Our costumes are scanty, revealing, but no one faints. Whistles come from the balcony. Vegas Show girls, flaunting lots of feathers, boas, minute rhinestone bras excite the old geezers. The senior women are still, tied up with jealousy. We tap our way to form stars, triple turns. Near the end we divide and out comes Mickey Mouse, 8 feet tall, Mortimer Snerd, chewing on straw. Comically they try to keep up with us We don’t acknowledge their presence and exit, leaving them bewildered at center stage.

Applause shakes the crystal chandelier. From the wings I see frightened eyes looking up. For only a moment, fear rises. Tons and tons of red and green small squares of confetti fill the air, cover hair, the seats, floors. The restored building (and our show) brought back memories to at least a thousand people and made new ones for their grandchildren.

The Morning Sunpaper’s headline reads ‘ THE HIPP IS HIP AGAIN!

NOT ENDED

What a perfect day. The sun lords itself over the sky. To be nice, it allows a few fluffy white clouds to puff across its face. Beach sunbrellas make the hot sand bearable. Sammy and I have a cooler full of ice, beer and foil wrapped sandwiches. The crash and crack of the waves lull us to relax, cover each other with another layer of sun screen. I growl at a teen as he runs past us, sand flying from his awkward feet, peppering my back. Sammy gently wipes it off. We share a beer. Doing nothing is easy, talking unnecessary .

There are no small children on this private wide white beach in St. Maarten. Hotel guests seldom bring toddlers. I was born on the French side of the island. We natives were, are, a bit snooty, aloof, sell the tourists their perfumes, wines and stuff them with fabulous meals.

The Dutch side is lighter. Casinos are everywhere. Local talent and many American stars entertain. Clothes are more casual than on the French side. Pets, dogs, cats, parrots can eat in our restaurants. My Uncle Hans and his wife, Hilda, have a little house here and invited me for a few weeks in April, when the tourists have left. Each morning as the sun rises I take a long walk along the beach. The solitude echos. The salted air is tangy. I am alone except for the little sand crabs and the white gulls sweeping down on their breakfast.

Looking to the east, feeling like a tiny speck of nothing, I step on a large, sharp spike of a shell. It starts to bleed heavily. Fear overcomes me. Noone is around. I can’t hop to my uncles and survive. All I can do is scream ‘help’ to thin air. I knew there was a god in that beautiful sky. He heard me and sent Sammy. I lower my eyes from heaven and see a man running towards me. ‘Don’t fight me. Try to breathe easy.,’ he says in a calm voice. He turns his back on me and I think he is leaving. Instead he leans over, shows me what to do, put my arms over his shoulders, put my hands in his and off we go. Piggy back he gets me to the closest hotel. We are both bloody and I feel woozy. The man near the hotel door sees us coming, has a wheel chair ready and I am almost flown to the first aid room. My hero knows what has to be done and dowa it. Once he had stopped the major bleeding, the hotel manager puts us both in his car and drives us to the hospital. An hour later with six stitches in my foot and a shot in my arm, my gratitude to Sammy flows out like rain from a summer cloudburst. I hug him, kiss his neck, his shoulders, his face. My offer to pay him is laughed at.

I have never liked being beholden to anyone but I am to Sammy. I insist on paying him. I give him my all-me. We are lovers, and we are married.

NON- DELUXE

Breakfast time. It’s 10:28 and I don’t know what to order. Before leaving my car, I have decided on French toast. It just so happens I see on Donnie’s Kitchen window the weekly special- Tuesday until 10:30-French toast $3.95. I’ll have to eat my breakfast before I get the check to see if the waitress charges $3.95 or $5.95. I know I made the time okay. If I don’t get the lower price, the manager will learn what a banshee scream is.

The place is not busy as usual. I count 10 customers including me, 4 wait staff. The cook must be twiddling his thumbs. 2 young, dark haired waitresses are sitting on a bench near the front door, their mouths going in unison, a mile a minute. I seat myself and wait for attention. An elderly man comes down my row, pushing a walker. It is difficult for him to move the straight backed wooden chair so he can put the walker away. I get up to help him while the talkers talk. As long as I am standing, I go over to the girls and ask, ‘Do you work here?’ ‘Yeah,’ they reply.’ ‘Then why not get to work? I’d like some service, please.’ They give me dirty looks and go in.

Donnie, his back to me, is at the grill, scraping some hot dog grease into a coffee can. I tap on the counter and he looks around. ‘Are you blind? Your 2 waitresses have ignored me and the man with the walker. Not that I need the menu, but nobody has bothered to give me one. No wonder your business is falling off.’ Did he ask my opinion? No. But I give it anyhow and sit down.

The smaller of the two girls approaches me, smiles sweetly (falsely). Maybe she saw me talk to Donnie. Her name, embroidered in red on her yellow blouse collar, is Anne. ‘Anne. I don’t need a menu. Give me French toast, not too dark.’ ‘Want powdered sugar?’ ‘No thanks. Just low cal syrup and a cup of hot decaf coffee, black.’ Anne disappears. Her former confidant is taking the old man’s order at last. A few customers come in, replacing those leaving who have survived Donnie’s breakfast. My order arrives. ‘Anne, you forgot the syrup. I’d like it before my order is cold.’ It comes and the toast is brick hard, so dry the syrup won’t seep thru, but I manage to eat just the inside of one slice, push it aside and ask for another hot cup of the then cold coffee. One sip and I believe Anne is trying to poison me. It is terrible, maybe from yesterday’s unwashed pot. I’ve had it, call for my check and look at the total. Egads. Darn if it doesn’t have the regular $5.99 price. ‘ I wiggle my finger at Anne and she walks over quickly. ‘Isn’t this Tuesday?’ I ask. ‘Yes.’ ‘While you were up front talking with your friend, didn’t you see the big sign in the window, ‘Tuesday special until 10:30, French toast $3.99? You charged me $5.99.’ With no apology or explanation she takes my check to Donnie, who okays an adjustment.

Anne comes back to me, hands me a new slip of paper with the $2 overcharg credited. For the first time I can ever remember, I leave no tip, don’t feel guilty at all.

What I do leave is Donnie’s, with no intention of returning ever. I make better French toast. Doesn’t everyone?

DRIVE AND THRIVE ?

Driving Miss Maisy is driving me crazy. I’ve been doing it for twelve years and am close to having a nervous breakdown. The lady and I are closer than many families. I’d do for her. She’d do for me, but what a bitch, what a witch, she can be.

Miss Maisy, I surmise, has reached the point that she must budget her funds. At one time, even though she has never been a spendthrift, if she got the urge to have a dinner party for 50, bim, bam, boom, she’d do it. Printed invitations, finest caterer, flowers and always a new dress. No more.

A big nite is dinner with me at a cozy French restaurant. Anything on the menu that tempts her, she orders, while I am aware that she prefers I dine more economically. I skip the appetizer and brandy. She checks the check carefully and if there is an error, she will find it. Somewhat of a cheapskate, she tips exactly 15%. Over her bifocals she sends me a silent message. Service, food -- good, bad, or so so. I give the thumbs up or down or crossed and she pays cash.

Dec. 12 is her birthday. Mine is Sept. 15. On those evenings we share small birthday cakes, sit and reminisce. Those are the times she picks me to pieces. ‘Why didn’t you rotate the tires? If you had done it, we wouldn’t have had a flat. I would not have missed Miss Morgan’s 25th anniversary party. Why did you let that sheriff serve me with a summons about Bobo’s barking all night and keeping the neighbors up? Why haven’t you saved up some money in case I drop dead? You’d better tend to that soon. You are not my heir. You’re my driver.’ ‘Miss Maisy, you look out for you. I look out for me. But I do wonder, if I’m not your heir, who else you got? I have never met a single person in your family. You met my sister and my Aunt Bea. How many times do I have to ask you to stop telling where to turn? You don’t know north from west. Get out, Woman. Drive yourself. Call me when you get to New Jersey. You’ll be so lost I’ll have to send the marines to find you. You don’t even have a driver’s license.’

My boss’s dander flares. ‘I used to drive our Buick before you were born. Most lucky Buick owners kept paper flowers in the vase between the windows. I kept fresh flowers every day. Thomas, my driver before you, used to polish that Buick every day. If the weather was bad, he worked in the garage. You are lazy. I don’t know how I’ve put up with you so many years. Benson, just look at the dust on the hood and the rust on the hub caps. I may fire you today.’

I look in the rear view mirror and squint at her, stick my tongue out. She’s quick, returns the gesture plus she hits me over the head with her purse. I growl at her like a lion and in her thin, mousy voice she growls back.

‘Miss Maisy, why don’t you buy a digital clock? You always insist I pick you up at 10 or 11 and you are ready ten minutes sooner. So I come ten minutes sooner and you are tapping your foot 20 minutes before you originally ordered me to be there. After all these years, I barely have time to sleep.’

‘Benson, take me home. I’m tired of fussing with you. Christmas is coming and so is my 80th birthday. I want a fudge cake with chocolate icing, topped with walnuts. Make sure the top is big enough for 79 candles.’ ‘Miss Maisy, you just told me you will be 80, not 79. Why?’ ‘None of your business, but if you must know, I’ve asked Miss Robinson to join us. She told me she will be 80. I intend letting her know she is older than I am. Just get a big enough cake. I am going to count the 79 candles. ‘ I knew that.

Miss Robinson comes in dressed in a becoming blue silk suit. Miss Maisy looks almost dowdy, and several years older than Miss Robinson. I bring in the silver tea tray and best dishes. Miss Robinson says, ‘Maisy, I’m 78 today and I prefer a glass of Pinot Grigio if you have it or a nice Cabernet Sauvignon. You drink your ghastly tea.’

Miss Maisy turns gray, drops her cake plate and falls to the floor. Miss Robinson quickly dials 911 and is so frightened she runs home. As soon as she closes the door, Miss Maisy sits up, winks to me and says, ‘I won that one, didn’t I Benson? I couldn’t help scaring her.'

I hugged her and she hugged me back and we drank the Pinot together.

GOT IT !

There is almost no sound of her high heels touching the Rotunda’s marble floor. It is early, only 6:20 a.m. The guards arrive promptly at 6:30. The lady is conservatively, stylishly dressed. We are headed in the same direction, towards the elevators. The strap of her large bone colored handbag slips from her shoulder. She grabs for it and fumbles, gets it open, turns towards me. In her right hand is a small silver gun. I have time to only say, ‘Why?’ when she aims directly at me and shoots. I die!

My head hurts as I get up from my bedroom floor. This is my third fall out of bed this week, each time cracking my head on the frame. But this is the first time I remember the dream I was having. Did I die in the others? I can’t remember. Is this a premonition? Is there a bump rising behind my left ear? I go downstairs to the kitchen. While my automatic percolator hisses and bubbles, I give this situation deep thought.

Bits of my dream start to return. Rotunda, marble floors? Yes, yes. There were long lines of people paying respect to Kennedy, Martin L. King in the DC Rotunda. There is a Rotunda a few blocks from my office that is a mall and has a triplex movie center. Those are the only two I know about. Why was a rotunda in my dream? The dreams the other two nights when I fell out of bed are totally forgotten. This time they are becoming more and more clear. The lady’s shoes and handbag color match perfectly. Her suit, hmnnn. Ah, toast. Brown hair,slightly curled up reached her shoulders. I’ve read that most people believe they dream in black and white and maybe I do, but I think I dream in vivid technicolor. Thinking about her almost silent shoes, reminds me to remind myself that I need new tennis shoes, nice, quiet, comfortable tennis shoes. I see the lady’s silver gun. She shot me so I could wake up, not die in my sleep.

There is no bump on my head. I don’t need a psychologist. I am my own doctor and have it all figured out.

There was only one fall out of bed caused by my absolute need to get up extra early today, before the guards arrive. I have to fire (guns fire) the laggard head of our employee health insurance department. She is mixing up the files, not making sure claims are handled quickly and correctly. Employees are bitching. She is going to be angry, furious and will want to kill me.

Case settled. Dream over. All I have to do now, before I see Angie and fire her, is make sure her purse is in her locker.

DIAMOND IN THE ROUGH

‘Take it off! Take it off!’ the drunks, the lonely, the sex-starved men shouted to Gypsy, Belle Starr. They bumped and ground their luscious soft hips suggestively.

Mine are soft alright. My best friends, Helen and Flo, nag me to death. ‘Take it off! Take it off! You’re fat!’ ‘I’m not fat. I’m pleasingly plump. Barry loves every inch of me.’ This conversation has become monotonous. They are not nice to me any more. We go to lunch and I do try to cut down, leave off the mayo, use Sweet ‘n Low in black coffee, skip dessert. They eat twice as much as I do and have figures I am almost ready to die for, but I’m not going to take up tennis. Who carries extra large tennis wear? Besides I don’t like the game, never watch it on t.v., not even the Wimbledon finals that Barry had to see from beginning to end.

Helen is curt, says nasty things to me. She makes me feel like crud. I know she means well but constantly bugging me is having the wrong affect on me. We part. I go straight home, make a low salt muenster cheese, sliced thin, sandwich. I cover it with mustard, fight the devil and manage to leave off the ham.

Flo doesn’t condemn me as often as she used to. Her tongue is tied but I can see pain in her eyes, know what she is thinking when she sees the rows of bulges in my blouse. ‘Take it off! Take it off! You are getting fatter. You are going to burst!’

Barry and I go to bed. I am afraid I will crush him. Our bed squeaks and I do not want our children to hear us. I lay there like a cold fish.

My 40th birthday is next week. Barry is lost. He doesn’t joke with me, doesn’t promise me a three carat diamond ring, like he has been doing for 5 years. And I don’t tease him, don’t dare suggest a turquoise negligee with lace trim. What I do is pretend I don’t know my birthday is almost here. I feel I am failing as a woman, as a mother. School closes in four weeks. Neither Barry or I have mentioned a summer vacation. At dinner my darling son asks if we can go up in a blimp, winks at me, and says, ‘Never mind. We have our own!’ Barry stifles his laughter and is able to give Sid hell.

‘Don’t anyone bother getting me a present,’ I tell them, and mean it. I have everything I need, and then some. ‘For my birthday dinner let’s go to the Green Salad Joint. I promise, honest, I promise, I’ll use only oil and vinegar, no bread, no potatoes, no corn, no dessert. O.K.?’ I keep my promise.

At home, in private, Barry hands me a small box, wrapped in silver paper with two tiny red hearts hanging on the ribbon. What a surprise! I gasp. He chose a gorgeous marquis diamond ring, too small for even my little finger. He also hands me an envelope that has a certificate for a six week stay at Franny’s Fat Farm. It has a guarantee to take 50 pounds off of me. I get the message, loud and clear.

I accepted both gifts and am glad to tell Helen, Flo, and you, too, that now my new ring fits fine and my bed no longer squeaks.

BOO WHO?

There’s a devil who lives near my house. O.K., I know he isn’t the REAL devil. Ill call him Imp and he is out to torture me. Yes, he bothers other kids, but I am his favorite target. Joey is a great hider, if I say so myself. He can scrunch his body into the smallest, crookedest places. Some I know and avoid them, but he keeps finding me. Today I had bought myself a treat, a double decker ice cream cone, vanilla on the bottom, chocolate with jimmies on top. With only two blocks to go before I reached home safely and all of the vanilla still left in the cone, I walked faster, looking behind, in front of, to the side of me and from behind the turning red and white striped barber’s pole, out jumped Joey. ‘BOO. I gotcha!’ I was so startled I dropped my ice cream. Joey picked it up and ate it, germs, dirt and all. I could do nothing except holler at him, tell him I was going to see his mother. ‘Go ahead, Namby Pamby. You’ll have to stand in line. My mother doesn’t give a good god damn what I do.’

He is right. Instead I am brave, don’‘t let him see me cry and go home to tell my mother to see his mother. She shrugs and replies, Why waste my time?’

Joey plays tricks. Some kids think he is funny. Some know he is bad. We all know something is brewing for Saturday, no school day. If you think he is going to do it to me, I agree.

Mother invited my friend, Marsha to have lunch with us Sat. We ate out in the sun parlor that hardly ever sees the sun. Mom used her best dishes to please me, made a sweet and sour brisket that she sliced extra thin and put on fresh rye bread. She served a big bowl of thin pasta in a bought sauce that she ‘doctored, apple sauce and home made lemon chiffon pie. After we played Monopoly for a while, Marsha and I walked towards the Liberty to see a Star Wars movie. Joey spotted us. He had a live snake twisted around his arm and he headed straight for me. I jumped back, scared out of my wits. Mr. ‘Imp’ laughed hysterically. ‘ Dummy, Dummy. It’ s not real but it’s a good fake, isn’t it?’Merlin waved his arm and Joey disappeared. To calm myself I had to sit down on the first marble steps I came to. Marsha and I were no longer in the mood for a movie. Instead we came back to my house, played War, talked and talked, mostly on how to stop Joey from being such a son of a gun.

Came Monday I got him. Walking home from school with Marsha, wecame to where we had to split up. She went right. I went left. Joey paid no attention to Marsha. Instead, he ran at me. All I saw was that Joey was carrying a bucket with something inside that was on fire. He easily caught me and yelled loud and clear, ‘I’m going to give you a fire haircut, burn off your pretty blond curls .’ He grabbed my arm and told me to stand still or my face may burn too. At that very second, Officer O’Malley saw the fire, saw Joey threatening me. He ran like Seabiscuit, got Joey by his ears, making Joey drop the bucket. O’Malley stomped out the flames. ‘Gotcha’, Kid, at last. You endangered this little girl’s life. You could have killed her. Come with me. You are going to jail. That is where Joey went for a two year stay in the NJ Reform School.

His mother was surely glad he was gone and no neighbors would bother her again and I was glad he wouldn’t bother me either.

But I’m still not sure.

HOLD ON

‘Sing to me, Mama. Sing to me, please. I can’t fall asleep until you sing to me.’ I turn over towards the window. The moon is looking down on me. My teary eyes blur it away. I turn back and stare at the wall. The wall stares back at me. The house is so empty. And then I hear it. Daddy has fallen asleep at last. His snore is soft, not loud enough for him to wake himself. When I listen closely it’s like a hum, as if he were singing with Mama.

‘Go away, go away,’ my little brother Jerry cries. I hurry to him so he won’t wake Daddy, but Daddy gets there first. He picks Jerry up and holds him close. ‘Go to bed, Charlotte. I’ll stay here with Jerry.’ This happens a lot. There is no arguing with Daddy. As I leave, he is already nestled in bed with my brother. I go to my room, look for the moon and it is gone. Did clouds swallow it or did it simply want to get away from this sad house? My mother sings to me again, about love and happy times. The moon no longer matters. It is gone for a while but Mama is gone forever.

Slowly sleep comes–so does morning. Dddy is stirring down in the kitchen. Jerry is whining for him to make chocolate chip pancakes like Mama used to make. Daddy tells him again he doesn’t know how and besides, he has to go to work. Hilda, our housekeeper knocks at the door. Jerry runs to her, grabs her hand and pulls her towards the kitchen. ‘Make chocolate chip pancakes for me, Bessie!’ ‘Not today, Little One. I have to do the laundry. How about scrambled eggs?’ Jerry agrees with a promise that he will get them Friday. Daddy leaves, I go to school and Jerry will be on Bessie’s tail.

There is a lady I see every day at the bus stop after mine. She looks very much like my mother and I stare at her until her son gets aboard and she walks away. Some days it’s unbearable and I sit on the other side of the bus. Other days I wait impatiently for her to bring her son, hug him, blow him a kiss and fade away.

Months have passed, Jerry now goes to nursery school. Bessie has learned how to make delicious chocolate chip pancakes. Daddy sleeps better, goes to work every morning. The lady who looks like my mother no longer comes to the bus.

I still lie awake, imagining my mother is singing to me. Her voice keeps getting softer and softer, more distant nightly and the moon continues to peep in at me.

A FRAGILE MIND

‘I’m ready. Let’s go! The Wimbledon Match is on hold.!’ She was ready but I no longer was. Not wanting to disturb her enthusiasm, I had remained silent in her house office playing puter Solitaire for well over an hour. Gradually without quite overflowing, tears filled my eyes. Child-like I felt neglected. My daughter and I, during my visit, had little time to spend together. She was an addicted workaholic and left me alone 10 hours a day. Fool that I was, and remain, it has been my choice to stay at her home, straightening drawers, talking to the shepherd pup, wiping up his messes, working on her lawn, watching t.v., taking short naps. Mornings dragged to evenings.

Dorothy’s shouts, ‘Hit it! Wow!’ from the living room, enlarged the growing selfish hole that was boring into my heart. Stupid, stupid despair, unsubstantiated neglect grew into Mt. Everest. ‘Ma, let’s go!’ she called again. My id shouted to me, ‘Get off your butt. Don’t spoil the day. Take what you can, give your all. Be what she expected.’

As I hurried past the bathroom door, something pulled me in. On the dressing table was my small vial of seldom used pills, brought along just in case. Pick me up. Swallow me, you’ll calm down and down went a Valium. ‘Give me a second. I’m coming.’ My middle aged, loving, precious daughter was waiting in her new Jag. I kept my face turned away from her hoping my red eyes would be barely noticeable. Did we speak? I don’t remember. When I turned to be sure no cars were coming and it was safe for her to pull out of the driveway, Dorothy looked strange to me, fuzzy. I turned to my right and there she was again. There were two Dorothys. ‘What’s going on?’ I mumbled. Did she hear me? If she did I heard no answer. The second image changed into Eddie, my son-in-law. He was none too clear but there he was. ‘What is this?’ No answer.

‘Where are you taking me? What am I doing here?’ I asked. Silence. ‘Why am I on this table??’ I was being rolled someplace. Where? A woman standing next to me told somebody to take off my necklace, put my hearing aids in her pocket. Was I being robbed? My daughter materialized, was holding my hand. ‘Ma, Ma, I’m here. Don’t be afraid. ‘‘Where is here?’ ‘You are in the hospital emergency area.’ A lady I didn’t know came from nowhere and began to talk to my daughter and me.. She showed me a button that I should wear all the time in case I need help. ‘In case what happens to me?’ I asked. In my mind I told her to go screw herself but out loud I said, ‘I don’t want any button. It won’t help me.’ Dorothy tod the lady she was going to buy it for me and I told her to mind her own business.

My mind began to clear a little. ‘What am I doing here? I want to go home.’ I tried to sit up was gently pushed backwards. ‘Stay still,’ the button selling lady told me. ‘You have a needle in your arm.’ I looked and damned if I didn’t, a big one! On my right index finger was a white clamp with a wire going someplace. Every once in a while, it felt like my arm was being pumped up and then slowly let its breath out again.

‘Dorothy, don’t just stand there. Find somebody. I want to get out of here. Look, there are lots of workers here with name tags. Get somebody over here for me.’ ‘Ma, the doctor will be here soon.’ Soon took long but eventually came. The doctor told me I was going to have a CAT scan. I’m next. ‘It is possible you had a stroke. We want you to stay here, at least overnight.’ ‘No way, no way!’ I stubbornly responded. He ordered me to stay or I will have to sign a release form so the hospital wouldn’t be sued if I died.’ ‘Get it!’ and I sign. Somewhere, somehow, I had the scan, I was told but don’t remember.

Four or five young foreign looking men wearing official badges sat along the wall, opposite my bed, joking, evidently with no patients to tend. A distant voice asked me to slide down to the end of my bed and get up. I couldn’t. I had to pee. I tried and tried to stand but started wetting my slax. I was not so out of this world that I wasn’t embarrassed. ‘I can’t get up! I can’t. I have to go to the bathroom. One of the men jumped up and told me he would take care of me. He brought a wheel chair and rode me across the hall where Niagara Falls rushed from me. My clothes were soaked. The floor was a river. ‘Dorothy, put a plug in me. Where is this coming from? Has somebody put a hose down my throat?’ She and I foolishly got paper towels and tried to sop up the floor. The wheel chair rolled back in. Dorothy put my jacket around my waist. It reached almost to my knees but did not hide the wetness that was me. I looked at noone as I got back on my sliding bed. Surely the young men were laughing at the old lady who peed in her clothes. I hated them.

‘Dorothy, get somebody to find the dr. I want to leave.’ Finally she found Dr. Feldman. He told me my Cat scan was normal. It might have been the Valium. ‘That’s dangerous stuff for people your age. Never take it again. You should not leave until we are sure you will be alright.’‘Goodbye, Dr.’ He handed me a complete review of every test made on me and I could not believe I had so much attention. It couldn’t really have happened.

My son-in-law, Eddie, had been in the waiting room for three hours. Finally he came for me, helped me into Dorothy’s car and drove me to their house. I was as good as new, I thought. My mind wasn’t right. Did I have lunch, dinner? Maybe I wasn’t good as new. Dorothy washed my clothes, gave my necklace and both hearing aids back to me. I put what was to go on, on and what was to go in, in. Bed time came. Get up time–midnite, came. The t.v. was playing but I couldn’t hear it. I raised the volume. I checked my left aid and it was working well. The right ear was empty. A vigorous search began- absolutely in silence. I stripped my bed, pulled back the scatter rug, looked thru my purse, bureau drawers, the sofa cushions. My hearing aid was lost. It could have fallen anywhere. With flashlights, Dorothy and I searched the car. The hearing aid and I are lost. I will have to order another one. That may take weeks. Morning came slowly. The grass was wet. We searched the car again, found a few crushed potato chips, a broken dog biscuit, no hearing aid. Every place searched once was searched again and again. Using a large, soft broom I had swept under the dining room server, my bed, the sofa, better than the service people did. There was nothing more to do. Eddie asked me if I was absolutely positive I checked everywhere. ‘Yes.’ ‘Then you are positive the hearing aid is not in this house? ‘Yes.’

Eddie walked out of the kitchen, into my room. Again he shook the sheets, pillow cases, found nothing. For some reason he didn’t know, he got down on his knees. I repeated that I had swept under my bed. He paid no attention and ran his hand under the skirt of the sofa bed. He stood up and told me I had been right. The hearing aid was gone. It was not in the house. Sheepishly he put his hand out towards me and said, ‘Well, what is this?’ I could not answer. It was my hearing aid! Neither of us smiled. We were both too astounded. I took it, put it in my right ear and it still worked.

There were no more words. The previous 24 hours were a bad dream. 24 more have passed and I still cannot believe my own story.

There is only one thing of which I am sure. I took the whole Valium and will never take another.

NON-MEMBERSHIP

I shouldn’t be laughing but giggle anyhow. Nobody notices, I hope. I sit on the side, near a blood pressure machine and try to look sauve, worldly, but probably rouse only some curiosity. My fingers fly like the wind, writing what my roving eyes see.

They stop on a dime. A young woman is trying to sit on a huge green inflated ball while reaching as high as she can to get hold of two pulleys so she can stretch her arms, maybe develop muscles she thinks will make her more attractive. She can’t do it and falls off the ball, chases it and tries again.

A balding man to my right lies flat on his back on a large blue mat, a white towel around his neck. He turns over, bends one knee and wraps the other around the bent one like a snake. He holds that awkward position for about 3 minutes, that surely feel like 15 to him. Switch. With each turn, he sits up momentarily, re-arranges his too short shorts with legs wide enough so peepers who want to see what’s under them, if they so desire, can. I did not have the slightest interest to view his gonads or to think too long about his sopping shirt. The already perspired towel he used to dry the mat could not do much good. I blink and another acrobat plunks himself down on it.

This is amazing. Am I watching preparations for a circus freak show?Nobody gets paid. In fact, the price is high to contort oneself. Are they slimming down or opening their bodies for more assaults, back aches, leg cramps? The new man on the non-sterilized mat near me, possibly sending germs my way, does push ups, fast and numerous. .I lose count and interest after 15. Without a breather he switches to touching his toes, over and over, from a sitting position. If he were pregnant, he’d be in labor.

A menagerie of animals, sweaty, twisted, parade before me. I sit still while my fingers grasp my pen. Words fly across the lined pages. I see, I hear, but cannot understand why these people pay to work so hard. Why not go into construction, help build apartment houses, a new bridge, pave a road, be useful?

There is a man almost out of my sight who fascinates me. He must be 85 years old, maybe a few more. He stands, his legs slightly parted, slightly bent as he makes tiny, tiny soft jabs into the air. He couldn’t hurt a fly if that fly taunted, teased, annoyed him. There is no spirit, no strength, no oomph to his effort. He smiles, glances to see if any women are watching him, and does the Twist without twisting. Actually, he is a joy to watch. He has not yet resigned himself to an old age home. He is doing more than I do, will ever do.

The weird contraptions, pulleys, presses are in constant use. Skinny ladies, pregnant women, fat men sometimes wait in line to get to the equipment that may help them face themselves. Trainers hold legs tightly erect while the rest of his client sweats bullets. Big green, blue, silver balls, are rolled, sat on. I sit, I wait for my daughter to join me, rest, listen to what I have written while she built muscles she doesn’t need.

Here she comes, showered, ready for lunch. She isn’t interested, resents my attitude and I don’t blame her. If I weren’t her captured audience and we weren’t going shopping together, I’d be angry at her being angry at me. Maybe I’ll destroy what I saw, felt, not mention it to her ever again.

Fat chance!

SETTLEMENT

I love her. She loves me not. She loves me. I love her not. I love her. She hates me. The wheels go round and round-turn into unmovable flat squares. We argue over nothings. We debate important things like ‘how to pronounce ‘bologna.’ I argue for ‘baloney’ that’s what people say, is my stance. She says the ‘gna’ is correct and is a soft sound.’ It is a stupid, endless argument that has continued for years.

I think my hair is most becoming worn short, needs only a lick and a quick run through of my fine toothed comb. Roy, my better half (who can’t be more than 1/4 of me) likes it loose, resting on my shoulders but they are barely big enough to hold my many angers. My short hair cuts are lined up for once a month.

Winter comes every year. We like soft white snow falling gently, flames burning brightly in our 3 sided fire place. Now and then we get together, make love on the carpet, as the smoke and our peeves float out of the chimney together. But inside of me I know what happens next. Roy will ask me where I want to go in spring. Before the rainy season begins, I always want sunny beaches, aqua waves, blue cloudless skies and Roy wants Italy, Spain again, museums, antiquities before Easter vacations begin. He hates the disheveled bikers, drinkers, smoking, drugging. They forget the past, mess up the now, the future.

‘Let’s take a two week cruise on a really luxurious ship! We haven’t done that in years.’ I enumerate the quietude, huge, delicious meals, entertainment, meeting new people to whom we can tell our oft repeated memories. And..there are ports, places to see.’ My last three words stifle me. Roy’s face gets red. ‘What? What? Do you think for a moment I will get off our ship in line with 1500 passengers all going to the same places? And there will be 4 or 5 other liners already docked, discharging their thousands of lookee loos. No! No! Forget it.

From nowhere my mind sharpens. I can feel my own eyes brighten. ‘Let’s fly to Antarctica! It will be shtuping time for the penguins. We can watch them take unbelievable care of their eggs. We can feel the ice melt, see thousands of meteors zoom nightly across the sky until it looks like 4th of July in New York. It will be cold but we will be told what to bring and can get most of it from an Army-Navy shop. I wonder if there are igloos there.’

Roy has listened to every word and doesn’t realize I have been kidding him. ‘Say no more, Lil. Great idea! I’m going to Google it now!’ In a flash he’s on line, likes what he sees and hurries back to tell me he’s contacting our travel agent at 10 when her office opens.

‘Whoa, Buster! Not so fast. I’m not going to that cold, lonely country. You still don’t know when I’m kidding, do you? All these years together and you can’t remember I like the warm sun, beautiful palm trees swaying in tender breezes, visiting yellow birds nibbling at my breakfast left overs. ‘

Roy looks crestfallen. Why did I tease him, hurt him? What a bitch I am, a stinkin’ skunk. I apologize more than once, gather him in close to my heart. He knows I am truly sorry and silently forgives me. While he is blowing on his hot coffee I watch him watching me. I am deep in thought. Words, feelings, tumble from my pouting lips. ‘Roy, Darling, know what? My silly kidding wasn’t really silly at all. Antarctica has to be worth seeing. It’s the newest hot-cold spot on earth, with lots of space. I’m game. Let’s do it! And next year we’ll warm up at the Galapagos. Deal?’

‘Deal!’

THE COMMANDMENTS

‘Look right at me and say that again!’

‘O.K. You stink!’

‘Yeah? Well I can run faster than you. I can spell better than you. I can hit more pointers off Buster’s steps in ten minutes than you can hit in fifteen. So don’t tell me I stink, Carl. Your house stinks. Your mother’s cooking smells up the whole neighborhood. Cabbage, cabbage, cabbage. She must cook it every day and then you crap it out and stink too.’

‘Oh, yeah, Jerome? Your father’s a kike. He’s cheap. Your mother is too fat. She begs me every Friday and Saturday to light her gas range for her or she can’t cook. And I do it to be nice. Your mother told me god will strike her dead if she turns on lights on Shabbus. What the hell is Shabbus anyhow? And you, Crud head, have pimples and had your dangler cut off.’

‘Go to hell, Jerome.’

‘Can’t, Carl. It’s filled with goyim. They’ve taken all the space. See you in class tomorrow.’

‘Yeah, but sit on the other side of the room!’

‘Ma, tomorrow when you make your good cabbage soup, can you close the kitchen windows? I love your soup but some of the guys asked me how I can eat so much cabbage all the time. They were laughing at me and I might have to knock some teeth out if they do it again.’

‘Ma, don’t ask Carl to be your Shabbus goy any more. He’s tired of it. You don’t even give him a piece of lemon meringue pie. You don’t pay him. You are cheap.’

‘Pay him to turn a single knob two times? That’s crazy. Tell him not to come anymore. I’ll find somebody else. How about Frank?’

‘Ma, how come I’m the only guy in my class who has pimples? If you see Dr. Hyman at the drugstore, ask him if he has any samples so I can get rid of these ugly things. They are red and itch. I make them worse but can’t help it.’

‘Ma, if I do better in school, don’t fight so much, do you think I might go to heaven when I die? Somebody told me most gentiles go to hell because they are all drunks. They never become doctors or lawyers either. Is that true, Ma?’

‘Wash up. I have your favorite potato pancakes for dinner and baked cod. Mrs. Schwartz told me eating fish makes you smarter, so eat. Maybe you’ll be a lawyer.’

‘Ma, why did a Mohel cut off the end of my thing? It must have hurt bad. Did I cry? Of course you cried. Daddy put some red wine on a piece of gauze and you sucked on it until you fell asleep. One day, when you are older, you’ll be glad you were circumcised.’ ‘No, I won’t, Ma. I’ve got the smallest thing of all my classmates. They make fun of me.’ ‘ It will grow, Jerome, my Darling.’

‘Hey, Jerome, why are you sitting next to the window? What’s wrong with where you always sit, in front of me?’

‘You told me to sit on the other side of the room. Remember? My mother said you shouldn’t come any more on Shabbus. She’s going to ask Fred to do it. Ma also said if you want to come, she’ll give you a warm piece of her just baked apple pie on Fridays and two pieces of her nutty struedel on Saturdays.’

‘O.K. I’ll do it. Your mother’s house really smells good when she bakes.’

School lets out. Carl and Jerome walk on opposite sides of the street. Carl yells out. ‘Jerome, Johnny just turned the corner towards you. He hates Jews. He’s lookin’ for a fight. I can tell. Cross over to my side.’ Jerome is not a coward, walks slowly, defiant, every stride strong. Johnny gets close. ‘Jew Bagel, Jew Bagel, you’re worse than the Wops. I’m going to beat the shit out of you!

Carl can see what is happening, hears the threat and runs into the street. A motorbike slams into him. Police cars, an ambulance arrive quickly. Mr. Goldfarb who hit him is very shaken up but gets no traffic violation ticket. Carl’s leg is set in a heavy plaster cast and is taken home in an ambulance, taken inside on a stretcher and made as comfortable as he can be, which translates, ‘I hurt. I’m miserable.’

The very next day, before school starts, Jerome rings the doorbell. ‘Here’s some struedel for you. Mama sent it. I’ll bring your homework to you every day. Excuse me if I say it, but I am smarter than you and if you want, I’ll help you learn algebra.’

‘My mother is making fresh chopped slaw out of cabbage tomorrow. There will be no smell in the street. She’s going to make a pot roast with a lot of browned potatoes. Want to eat with us?’

Years later, Jerome Jacobs added a PHD and MD after his name and Carl married Sadie Bloom. He offered no argument and had a Briss for his son, put wine on a piece of gauze and let the baby suck the wine until he fell asleep.

HAVE A NICE DAY

It is a cold day in May when I wake, knowing today will be unique. The sun is orangey red as it forces its weight thru a bluish gray sky. Bands of white look like jail bars. They touch the earth. As the wind grows stronger, the bars slant, rise towards the sun and become rays of sunshine on the early school buses as they pass my house.

But where are the children, their faces plastered to the windows, their arms waving goodbye to their mom’s, their yelping dogs? Bus #3 slows down then #4. No red brake lights come on, no yellow ‘Stop! Children crossing’ signs drop down. ‘John, John, get up!’ I shake him. ‘Get up now. Something is wrong. Quick, come look!’ John rolls over, refuses to give up the extra ½ hour he has before he has to get to work. I prod him again. He pushes back his blanket, goes to shower, rush thru breakfast, tweak my tush.

The buses are gone. The sky is yellow, the sun purple. This is crazy. The world is insane. By now the morning paper should be in our driveway. It isn’t. It must be under the car again. It isn’t. Where is John’s car. Where is John? I look in the bathroom and do not find him. ‘John, get out of bed.. Get up now. Something crazy is happening. Get up.’ John doesn’t move. I go over close, shake him. He is cold and gray, made out of clay.

The sun comes in my window, bright, a regular yellow white sun that smiles to me. I hear a clanking noise, like an alarm, a signal. Someone is opening my door. ‘Who’s there? Don’t come in. I’m not dressed yet.’ The knob turns. In walks a fat lady carrying a tray. On it is a bud vase with a single red rose, a coffee pot that feels hot even though I haven’t yet touched it. A small pitcher of green milk and a large bowl of Post Toasties, topped with sliced bananas tempt me. She puts it all on the table and tells me to enjoy my breakfast. But first she tells me to sit down, swallow two black pills with my orange juice. Before I can get to my cereal, she asks me to put out my arm and I do it for her. The fat lady quickly sticks a needle close to where my old vaccination mark is still visible. She puts a small piece of cotton over the bleeding hole and tapes it on.

‘O.K., Miss Sunshine. Be good today. Eat all your breakfast. Warm toast is under your napkin. See you later.’ She glances in my mirror as she heads towards the door, straightens her white cap, smooths her crisp, spotless white uniform and closes my door. I drink the green milk, pour the hot coffee on my Post Toasties, walk over to the window to see what color the sun is today.

I love it. It is green just like my glass of milk!

SING ME TO SLEEP

‘I’ve been here before! I’m sure of it. Pointing to the right, I add, ‘We sat over there. You saw Glenda, who used to work in your office. Remember? My neighbor, May, is amazed that I recall 15 years ago dining with her at Le Pompadour. I am more amazed than she is as I forget where I put my car keys when I came in from the grocery, where I put my eye lasses when I stop to wash my face and hands.

My mood is bright, happy tonight. Something is going to be special, I’m sure, but so far nothing is apparent. It doesn’t seem possible that today I am 50 years old and just yesterday I was six. That is the only time I can remember having a birthday party but am not sure if I had it or my parents made it up years later and told it to me so many times it planted in my mind and became reality.

My daddy told me he had rented a moving picture projector and two animated cartoons. One was Felix the Cat and the other Popeye the Sailor Man. He had hung a white sheet over mother’s flowered wallpaper so all the children could see the movie at one time. My little friends sat on the tile floor, laughed and laughed. One of the girls laughed so hard, she peed in her panties. Maybe it really happened, maybe it didn’t. I have nobody to ask anymore. But-in any case, tonight will be either my first or second party.

May & I are directed thru a rapidly filling large dining room, towards a more secluded, smaller one on the right. Several tables of couples are already being served. None of them look familiar to me. As the maitre ‘d seats us, my spirits go blah, slide low. Only two more tables are empty. For sure there will be no party for me tonight. I put on a fake happy face for May, tell her how I had been looking forward to the seclusion of tonight’s tete ‘ a tete. We have school days, old friends, crushes, weddings, divorces, wars, to talk about. There is enough stored in our memories to share many times in the future.

We order cocktails, caesar salads, the house specialty fillet mignons (medium well, a little pink). The other diners speak quietly. They don’t annoy us and we don’t bother them. The tapered candles on each table burn down slowly. The room grows dim. It is pleasant being with May again but deep in my heart and privately I’m somewhat, no- terribly- disappointed that my 50th birthday is almost over and I will be starting into my 51st year well before I wake in the morning.

Bill, my devoted husband, will be taking me to dinner Sunday night. It is going to be elegant. We are going to dress formally and if anyone asks, we tell them we have just left the opening of the Pollacello Art Gallery and after dinner will attend the party at L’Empire Opera House for the cast and producers of La Traviata that opened last night. We’ve done such silly things before and laughingly recall them now and then.

I’m almost content with the quiet that but still can’t shake my disappointment of this evening. May and I talk and eat, sip our drinks and eat, laugh and get teary. The two empty tables remain empty. Several others empty slowly. Our candles still burn as do those at the empty tables. I watch the dishes head to the kitchen, clean cloths spread for tomorrow’s lunch. The light in the room is so low now that we can barely see if our dessert is coming.. I don’t see anyone to request another candle.

Suddenly, I get frightened. Bright lights come on. There is a banging of drums, whistles whistling. In comes a parade, Harry, Larry, Meg, Peg, Jerry, Mary, Glen, Ben, Dolly and Molly. My friends, my husband stop the banging, circle around me and sing like the angels ‘Happy Birthday, Lil. It’s party time!’ A 5 piece band comes in sets up quickly and opens with some sweet, lovely oldies. Hugs, kisses, congrats cover me. I’m overwhelmed but not voiceless. I sing a tough song , ‘Memories’ and Bill kisses me hard and long in front of everybody.

The lights dim. My birthday cake with all the candles ablaze, plus two orders of blueberry short cake, are rolled in. My 50 years have flown as quickly as the last two happy hours. We say our goodnites, not one goodbye.

At home I go to sleep, vividly dream in black and white that Popeye gives Felix a big party with a cake made of spinach. The cake is cut and served to dozens of adorable kittens.

I wake with a smile on my face and Bill’s arms holding me close.

TO DO–OR NOT TO DO

I am one of many travelers in a line at least two blocks long waiting to check our luggage at the sidewalk. I am an hour and twenty minutes early for my flight which doesn’t stop me from being concerned about making it on time. A porter notices my struggle to get my 2 heavy suitcases to the end of the line and nicely allows me to leave them close to the check-in desks. I bless him, keep my eyes on them every minute as I move up much more quickly than I think possible. Step one, acte accompli.

Over my shoulder I hike up a red canvas bag holding my laptop puter that weighs at least one hundred pounds, the power wires, mouse, a new writing book, all of my Rxes, 2 paper back books, crossword puzzles, my iPod and charger, a foolish load of extra make-up that I will never use–but just may. I walk towards Security check thru, my right shoulder dipping almost to my knees. My left hand holds my boarding pass, a receipt for my luggage, a small silver colored paper bag with the prestigious name ’Nordstrom’ on both sides. In there I have my lunch ready, a good turkey breast with cheese sandwich, foil wrapped sweet pickle slices, an unopened bag of potato chips and 2 slices of my favorite ripple cake. This I guard as if it were gold.

I’m having trouble breathing but can’t hold up the line. I move as I feel smirking mouths behind me wanting me to fill the five baskets I will need for my jacket, shoes, purse, puter, lunch. The line goes as far as I can see, up, down, around, around again and again. My breathing gets more difficult. I picture a hearse waiting for me just as I am at the point of being inspected. Several people actually move forward and ask to help me, but I remain stalwart and stupid, thank them, and carry on alone.

When at last my shoes are back on my feet, my jacket loosely over my shoulders, the red bag safely in my hands, my purse supposedly still as full as when I sent it thru the x ray machine, I find a long metal bench with room enough for me to plop my bundles and ass. All in order I head for the gate, expecting to ask for a wheel chair, if it is as my departure gate always is, at the very end of the terminal. I lift my eyes and think I am in the wrong place. What the devil is this? Is my ticket correct? I look at my boarding pass for the 20th time and it does say Gate 1 that happens to be no more than 50 feet from the security area! I can make that without dying, I am sure, then not so sure. Every chair is filled. I can sit on the floor with the children, the unkempt or stand. Instead I look for the service desk that seems to be lost. Dragging my items and my feet, I find it behind a post, stand in line behind two young men having a crisis over their tickets, tapping my feet, feeling my blood pressure rising to the explosion point. All I have to ask the service lady for is a boarding pass. She surely sees that I look like hell, asks no questions, makes a simple, tiny curlycue mark in red ink on my boarding pass and directs me to wait next to the window. ‘Thank you.’ I stand there amongst children happily playing with toys, 2 ladies with puppies not in cages and watch the 7 wheel-chaired passengers get in line ahead of me. No gripe from me. In fact, as I see #8 and his nurse coming, I make room for them to go ahead of me. Do they even nod to me? No. When I board, no matter how many children and disabled get on, I will have a better seat than if I were in sections A,B,C,D allowed to board as a frenzied group.

At last something good happens. Row 3 from the front is still empty. I slide into the window seat and somehow stuff my belongs under the seat in front of me, leaving only inches for my feet to be on the floor or on top of my possessions. I alter my position by 1/4 inch at a time for eight hours. They are numb, swollen. I consider confiscating the first wheel chair I see when about to deplane.

A lady, younger than I but far from young to whom I had spoken a few words earlier takes the aisle seat and puts her purse on the empty middle one. I wink to her and tell her she is fooling herself, somebody is going to separate us, maybe a 300 pound blimp. Ms. Rogers takes a chance until a stewardess goes up and down the narrow aisle announcing the plane is totally filled, please free any empty seats. My neighbor reluctantly puts her purse under her seat and must stand at once while a young woman, carrying an infant, asks that her baby bags and her own things be put under the seat in front of her. Ms. Rogers helps the struggling mother to settle in. She and I manage to show our disappointment privately in having such a tot between us.

The baby is not particularly cute, maybe a tiny bit on the edge of being un-cute but alert, smart, smiley, and good. As we take off, the mother asks me if I mind if she changes the baby’s diaper. Aloud I say, ‘Of course not.’ Inside I loudly say, ‘Yes, I do,’ The baby’s head is on Ms. Rogers lap, his small body mostly on his mother’s and his private parts dangerously close to my slacks. I am not a a happy traveler, and do not like whatever hits my leg. The father sits in the row behind us, also in the middle seat, holding an uncaged small white poodle.

Ms. Rogers tells us that she has 19 grandchildren all of whom she dearly loves but they are expensive. She prays nightly there will be no more. In a moment she takes the baby on her lap, cuddles him, sings baby songs I had never heard, plays patty cake with him and he falls asleep against her ample breast while the mother reads a fashion magazine and orders a cocktail. When the baby wakes, he is handed to the father over the back of the seat. I never turn around to see what he does with the puppy, but he hasn’t hurt the dog as not a whimper is heard for 4 hours.

I count 20 children on our filled flight from ages 6 months to 6 years–and–not once do I hear a cry. Not once do I hear a parent shushing anyone. It is a miracle. As we start to descend, Ms. Rogers and I each help get all the baby’s toys put away, his empty bottle in a separate plastic bag, wish the little boy a good life and I tell the mother not to let him grow up to be the president of the United States. It’s too tough a job. All passengers leaving at Kansas City get off. A few of those headed to LA with me are still on board. I check the pocket of the seat next to me and see a used diaper, call over a stewardess who grimaces, gets a bag, grunts and tosses it inside.

So much for my neighbor, the mother of the not-to-be president of the United States someday. If he does it against her wishes, I am glad to say, I won’t be here to see his mother on T.V.

ARRIVAL IN L.A. - GREAT READ

Yes, this is a bad, bad start, my 3 toes are extremely discolored but I can walk in bedroom slippers. I am not going to big Voight shindig tonight in slippers; will walk on my hands if I have to -- I am going.

My right hand knuckles are very bruised so making a fist, typing, trying to wring out the hot compresses for my eyes, I have to learn to be a contortionist and a water wiper as the floor and cabinets, table, my clothes, get soaked. I'll work this out too.

Ev will call Verizon after his breakfast and I hope they can walk him thru how to get me to contact thru wireless. Ron will be working from home most of the day and may be helpful with that.

I was up 21 straight hours from Sun. 1 a.m. EDT to 10 P.M. PDT yesterday. I managed to sleep 2 hours and tossed another as moving my hand, even my foot under the comforter, was painful. By tomorrow, I expect better things.

After I was able to plug in my computer into the phone line, Ron for some reason, was unable to use hers at all last evening. We unplugged everything of mine and she still couldn't connect with Warners. This a.m. I found a stick-um note on my computer 'Mom. OK to plug yours in (I got on line) Hope you really slept. Love you!' What a doll.

I have written my first DAILY poem to them that I do every visit. I stick it to their coffee cups that I have ready for when they come in the kitchen.
I read it aloud and we always laugh. Most are longer than this one done by an aching old lady.

I'm here,
I'm a wreck,
Expect to be
A pain in your neck.
But the butter is out.
Please don't pout.
I'll try to be good
Like a Super Mom should.
Love, Ma

SEEING JON VOIGHT AND ANN-MARGRET WILL HAVE TO DO FOR NOW

Shutting down my computer now...to be ready to leave for LA Sunday morning.

Do not expect to hear from me before Monday, June 29 - perhaps in the p.m PDT. Maybe.

Led by the Southwest pilots, I will be stopping in Kansas City Sun, where the reports are storms, temperature reaching 110!

Ergo: if you do not ever hear from me again, check the KC restaurant reports as I may be served as a boiled red hot lobster.

So long for a while.