It is noon when I reach Santa Monica and 12:20 when I find a vacant metered parking space. Andy must be furious because I’m late. There’s a long lunch line outside of Allegro’s that I side step, go inside, to the outside gardens. Almost all the colorful sunbrellas are open. Charlie McArthy mouths move but I can’t make out the words. Waiters bring in hot coffee, cold beer. Andy and I see each other at the same moment. He stands and waves to me. ‘Where the hell have you been?’ are his welcoming words. ‘I had to order or be thrown out. Here, try a cold English muffin with marmalade. It sucks but that’s all I have left.’
‘Come on, Andy. I was here on time but circled the streets, alleys for 20 minutes before I found a meter and then ran 5 blocks to meet you.Sorry.’ He only says, ‘Order.’ I tell the waiter blueberry pancakes with plenty of blueberries, a side of crisp, not burned bacon, coffee strong.’
Then–the boom, the explosion, the screams reverberate into the garden. Tables over turn, food slides across straw mats. Hot coffee spills on my arm. I hold it with a cloth napkin and run with the others into the front area. It is almost empty. The front window is shattered. Salamis that were hanging on chains a few minutes ago are on the floor. Patrolmen are everywhere, moving us outside in orderly fashion, down the street to Franie’s Flop Shop. Franie displays only bedroom sets, sleep sofas and loungers. There must be 40 of us former diners now calm and comfortable. Officer Jackson interviews me and finishes the big deal in two minutes. When I hand him my driver’s license I shriek, ‘Oh, my god, my meter’s run out. My car may be booted.’
Captain Fine gets our attention. ‘Ladies and Gentlemen. There was no bomb. It looks like the main gas line to the ovens and range broke open. The heat of the cooking caused the explosion. You are lucky people. We have a few bruises, one broken leg and a lady’s hair piece has disappeared. Mr. Alle thinks he can reopen for business in ten days or less. You may all leave now. Watch channel 10 tonight. Maybe some of the cameras caught you.’
I walk the now six blocks to my car that is no longer at the meter. It has not just been booted but taken to the DMV where I have to go and pay my fine.
‘What a day,’ I say aloud. I have no car to drive there. I had no time to spend with Andy. I still haven’t eaten lunch. I was almost killed by a heated salami sandwich and now I need car bondage money. On top of it all I wasn’t even visible on the 11 P.M. news. Andy was in front of me.
So it came and so it went.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Friday, October 30, 2009
FLASH ! BAM !
Lombardi’s is on the corner of Fremont and Allegheny in Baltimore, smack in the middle of Little Italy. Longtime residents hang on like flies to tar paper. Their parents, grandparents lived around here and they are staying the course. Narrow row houses, white marble or white wooden steps are flavor from a dying world. Once there must have been black iron hitching posts along the gutters. They are gone, replaced by parking meters. Customers, even residents, circle the streets searching for a place to pull in. A row of decrepit houses was torn down about two years ago and parking lots were put in by the city which maintains them with $3 fees per hour. They are within walking distance of super great Italian restaurants–as long as there is no snow on the ground. Recently Lombardi’s and Alfred’s across the street put in valet parking. It is costly and annoying as cars line up and block traffic. Leaving is bad too because the valets have to find our cars on the street and get them back to us before we die.
We habitue’s groan and bear it. Sure, I know it’s the garlic, the anchovies, the hot ground pepper that give me heartburn, indigestion, but I’d rather blame Lombardi than myself. Each visit is a dilemma for me. ‘Change your selection, Fool. Absolutely not!’ If I do that I might as well get a too thick pizza in our own neighborhood. There will be easy free parking, plenty of lights, but no marble steps, no whiff of garlic.’
My husband and I plus our good friends, Sara and Joseph, with a reservation at Lombardi’s, wait 30 minutes. We fume. The maitre’ dshrivels his shoulders when he looks t us. As soon as we are seated, our displeasure abates. Luigi, our regular waiter, serves us chilled Valpolicello on the house. Laughter, loud conversations, orders in, orders out are the usual routine. We love it–loved it-until tonight.
An unexpected ear-splitting clap of thunder shakes the building. The lightning that preceded it was hidden by shuttered blinds covering all the side windows. My heart almost stops beating. Thunder rolls and rolls. Rain pounds on the windows, seems to be slowing down. A few wet, disheveled patrons squeeze into the entrance area. No tables are available so they stand and grumble. Waiters bring them rolls of paper towels to at least dry their hands, wipe their faces. Mixed in with the thunder comes the sharp high toned wail of sirens. They are stuck. Narrow streets are blocked. Parked cars remain parked with drivers cussing a blue streak. Firemen push in the front and side restaurant doors, knocking standing patrons off their feet. ‘Get out, get out NOW. Everybody. I mean everybody.’ They stand stalwart, contain the panic. ‘What’s on fire?’ someone yells. A fireman answers, ‘This restaurant. Shut up and move quickly. Don’t push.’
As we near the main door, we are aware ladders are leaning against the wall, a fireman in full hat, boots, ventilator over his face, is climbing to the roof. The scraggly, frightened previous happy diners are lead across the street. I almost trip on broken bricks that had to come from the roof. ‘Keep moving. Everything is under control. We need space. Move faster.’
We are still together with Sara and Joe. ‘There’s your car, Gil. Looks like you have a ticket on the windshield.’ My husband lifts the wiper and the ticket disintegrates in his fingers. He saves the pieces to show the judge if he has to explain why he didn’t pay it. That man of mine has the smarts some time. He unlocks the door. We get in and pass an hour talking, playing word games. There is simply no way to get past the hook and ladder that barely fit in between cars on the right and left. It is near midnight when we feel vibrations and see the fire truck and its crew slowly pulling out. I feel like Mrs. Martin Luther King, ‘Free at Last.’
We habitue’s groan and bear it. Sure, I know it’s the garlic, the anchovies, the hot ground pepper that give me heartburn, indigestion, but I’d rather blame Lombardi than myself. Each visit is a dilemma for me. ‘Change your selection, Fool. Absolutely not!’ If I do that I might as well get a too thick pizza in our own neighborhood. There will be easy free parking, plenty of lights, but no marble steps, no whiff of garlic.’
My husband and I plus our good friends, Sara and Joseph, with a reservation at Lombardi’s, wait 30 minutes. We fume. The maitre’ dshrivels his shoulders when he looks t us. As soon as we are seated, our displeasure abates. Luigi, our regular waiter, serves us chilled Valpolicello on the house. Laughter, loud conversations, orders in, orders out are the usual routine. We love it–loved it-until tonight.
An unexpected ear-splitting clap of thunder shakes the building. The lightning that preceded it was hidden by shuttered blinds covering all the side windows. My heart almost stops beating. Thunder rolls and rolls. Rain pounds on the windows, seems to be slowing down. A few wet, disheveled patrons squeeze into the entrance area. No tables are available so they stand and grumble. Waiters bring them rolls of paper towels to at least dry their hands, wipe their faces. Mixed in with the thunder comes the sharp high toned wail of sirens. They are stuck. Narrow streets are blocked. Parked cars remain parked with drivers cussing a blue streak. Firemen push in the front and side restaurant doors, knocking standing patrons off their feet. ‘Get out, get out NOW. Everybody. I mean everybody.’ They stand stalwart, contain the panic. ‘What’s on fire?’ someone yells. A fireman answers, ‘This restaurant. Shut up and move quickly. Don’t push.’
As we near the main door, we are aware ladders are leaning against the wall, a fireman in full hat, boots, ventilator over his face, is climbing to the roof. The scraggly, frightened previous happy diners are lead across the street. I almost trip on broken bricks that had to come from the roof. ‘Keep moving. Everything is under control. We need space. Move faster.’
We are still together with Sara and Joe. ‘There’s your car, Gil. Looks like you have a ticket on the windshield.’ My husband lifts the wiper and the ticket disintegrates in his fingers. He saves the pieces to show the judge if he has to explain why he didn’t pay it. That man of mine has the smarts some time. He unlocks the door. We get in and pass an hour talking, playing word games. There is simply no way to get past the hook and ladder that barely fit in between cars on the right and left. It is near midnight when we feel vibrations and see the fire truck and its crew slowly pulling out. I feel like Mrs. Martin Luther King, ‘Free at Last.’
Thursday, October 29, 2009
TOO SMUG
Tall, about 5'7" I figure. The woman walking ahead of me down Biltmore Ave. has a great wiggle to her ass. I like her white stiletto sandals and the shapely legs above them. She slows down at the corner, seems unsure whether to turn left or right. Clearly I see her shrug her shoulders and left she goes, with me on her tail.
There’s a drooping plant in a moldy clay pot next to a wrought iron bench near the curb. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have noticed it but the lady stops, looks in her purse, and plunks herself down on the dirty bench. Evidently she didn’t have anything available to wipe it clean. She clearly needed a rest. Little beads of sweat are on her upper lip.
My opportunity is evident and I take it. ‘Do you mind if I sit down a minute. That sun tires me.’ ‘It’s a public bench,’ is all she says. Her front view is not what I expected and I am a bit disappointed. Her eyebrows are thick, need shaping and plucking. I see no sign of lipstick worn or eaten off. Dark wrap-around sun-glasses cover her eyes. At first I think she must be disabled, maybe blind, but she is neither. Her glasses come off, go into her lap, revealing aqua colored eyes that are a little bloodshot. From her purse she removes a small make-up kit, magnifying mirror and 2 tubes of lipstick. The first one she applies is almost burgundy, shockingly bad for her fair coloring. I grimace. She almost scrubs her lips sore as she removes all traces of it and puts on a medium rose, turns her face to me for my opinion. ‘Do you have one that isn’t so wishy washy?’ A grin and slight twinkle in her eyes tell me ‘yes.’ I too grin and nod my head OK.
If I am going to make a move, this is the time. ‘I’m Carl Stafford.’ I hand her my handy business card that she tears in half. ‘Mr. Stafford, I am not a woman you want to meet nor are you I man who interests me. Excuse me, I must be going.’
Abruptly she leaves me sitting on the bench breathing in tons of carbon monoxide. My curiosity blooms and I discretely follow her still wiggling ass. I give her a little leeway and approach her at the next red traffic light. ‘Go away, Mr. Stafford.’ She irks me. I am upset because I am being spurned unfairly. A gauntlet has smacked me on my cheek and I am prepared for battle.
Miss Whatever enters a large office building that I know quite well. Mostly doctors and lawyers occupy the ten floors. A few of the big advertising firms squeeze into corners. I manage to be the last person to fit on the elevator she reached before me. Each floor, I move over to let passengers get out. We are down to about 7 people. Loud enough for them to hear she says, ‘ Mr. Stafford, I have asked you to go away. If you don’t, I will call a guard and have you thrown out of the building. Get off at the next floor or you will regret it.’
My ego is bruised. I get off with my head held high and watch where the elevator stops next. Rats. It stops at all 5 of them. I ride to the lobby. It is in turmoil. Police, medics are everywhere. I am trapped, pushed behind red ropes. It is noisy. Questions marks are stamped on everyone’s face. Driver’s licences are recorded.
A covered body is carried off the elevator to what looks like an ME car. I gasp, can’t believe what I see. From under the sheet that hides the victim, falls a white sandal with a stiletto heel. ‘Officer, Officer’, I call, quickly tell him the little I know about Miss Whatever. He asks no questions, puts me in a police car where I am interrogated for hours.
CNN’s lead story is about a woman who shot her lover in the D & A building and then took her own life. I must have been upsetting her plans. She had clearly told me she was not someone I would want to meet and she didn’t want to meet me. I will be more selective next walk.
There’s a drooping plant in a moldy clay pot next to a wrought iron bench near the curb. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have noticed it but the lady stops, looks in her purse, and plunks herself down on the dirty bench. Evidently she didn’t have anything available to wipe it clean. She clearly needed a rest. Little beads of sweat are on her upper lip.
My opportunity is evident and I take it. ‘Do you mind if I sit down a minute. That sun tires me.’ ‘It’s a public bench,’ is all she says. Her front view is not what I expected and I am a bit disappointed. Her eyebrows are thick, need shaping and plucking. I see no sign of lipstick worn or eaten off. Dark wrap-around sun-glasses cover her eyes. At first I think she must be disabled, maybe blind, but she is neither. Her glasses come off, go into her lap, revealing aqua colored eyes that are a little bloodshot. From her purse she removes a small make-up kit, magnifying mirror and 2 tubes of lipstick. The first one she applies is almost burgundy, shockingly bad for her fair coloring. I grimace. She almost scrubs her lips sore as she removes all traces of it and puts on a medium rose, turns her face to me for my opinion. ‘Do you have one that isn’t so wishy washy?’ A grin and slight twinkle in her eyes tell me ‘yes.’ I too grin and nod my head OK.
If I am going to make a move, this is the time. ‘I’m Carl Stafford.’ I hand her my handy business card that she tears in half. ‘Mr. Stafford, I am not a woman you want to meet nor are you I man who interests me. Excuse me, I must be going.’
Abruptly she leaves me sitting on the bench breathing in tons of carbon monoxide. My curiosity blooms and I discretely follow her still wiggling ass. I give her a little leeway and approach her at the next red traffic light. ‘Go away, Mr. Stafford.’ She irks me. I am upset because I am being spurned unfairly. A gauntlet has smacked me on my cheek and I am prepared for battle.
Miss Whatever enters a large office building that I know quite well. Mostly doctors and lawyers occupy the ten floors. A few of the big advertising firms squeeze into corners. I manage to be the last person to fit on the elevator she reached before me. Each floor, I move over to let passengers get out. We are down to about 7 people. Loud enough for them to hear she says, ‘ Mr. Stafford, I have asked you to go away. If you don’t, I will call a guard and have you thrown out of the building. Get off at the next floor or you will regret it.’
My ego is bruised. I get off with my head held high and watch where the elevator stops next. Rats. It stops at all 5 of them. I ride to the lobby. It is in turmoil. Police, medics are everywhere. I am trapped, pushed behind red ropes. It is noisy. Questions marks are stamped on everyone’s face. Driver’s licences are recorded.
A covered body is carried off the elevator to what looks like an ME car. I gasp, can’t believe what I see. From under the sheet that hides the victim, falls a white sandal with a stiletto heel. ‘Officer, Officer’, I call, quickly tell him the little I know about Miss Whatever. He asks no questions, puts me in a police car where I am interrogated for hours.
CNN’s lead story is about a woman who shot her lover in the D & A building and then took her own life. I must have been upsetting her plans. She had clearly told me she was not someone I would want to meet and she didn’t want to meet me. I will be more selective next walk.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
FEARFUL FEAR
In the forest there is a large clearing in which no trees grow. Fire from the sky burned the trees, the vines. We dragons live here in solitude. Today the earth shook violently. Ooma, Miko, Gombu and I, Cambor, didn’t know where to go. The earth shook again. There, thumping, pounding its eight legs, was the biggest, greatest dragon in the world. It’s body glistened with thousands of shiny silver scales, each bigger than those on the fish in the blue water beyond the clearing. Jaws opened and a forked tongue, much longer than my entire body, rolled out, touched Gombu and he disappeared. If I dared, I could stand up comfortably, extend my long neck, go inside its huge nostrils. Instead, I took a chance, spread my webbed wings, fluttered them a bit and could step back. Sudden hot flames shot out of the dragon’s gigantic jaws but went out before they reached Ooma, Miko and me.
Green, green eyes that changed to yellow, looked at me now and then.They watched me closely and frightened me. Ooma and I hissed but the dragon paid no attention. One eye held steady on Ooma, the other on me. The dragon raised its two front legs while the middle two hung loose. All of its weight was then on his hind legs and thick scaly tail. That’s where I saw a huge round thing that had no scales. Steam curled out of it.
The middle legs were lowered and the dragon took one step forward. That put him behind me. I waited to be devoured. Instead he climbed on me, hurt me. Noises came from my neck that I never made before. He got off and went to Ooma. She bellowed, roared, tried to get away but couldn’t. Again the monster dragon raised its itself until I was sure it would touch the sky. When he came down, he hunched over Ooma one more time, then me. Thumping and pounding, in a few steps he left the clearing.It took many suns, many moons for Ooma and me to have four beautiful baby dragons with silver scales and green eyes. We both would welcome the biggest dragon in the world if he ever returned. He had better before our dragons get bigger than he is.
Green, green eyes that changed to yellow, looked at me now and then.They watched me closely and frightened me. Ooma and I hissed but the dragon paid no attention. One eye held steady on Ooma, the other on me. The dragon raised its two front legs while the middle two hung loose. All of its weight was then on his hind legs and thick scaly tail. That’s where I saw a huge round thing that had no scales. Steam curled out of it.
The middle legs were lowered and the dragon took one step forward. That put him behind me. I waited to be devoured. Instead he climbed on me, hurt me. Noises came from my neck that I never made before. He got off and went to Ooma. She bellowed, roared, tried to get away but couldn’t. Again the monster dragon raised its itself until I was sure it would touch the sky. When he came down, he hunched over Ooma one more time, then me. Thumping and pounding, in a few steps he left the clearing.It took many suns, many moons for Ooma and me to have four beautiful baby dragons with silver scales and green eyes. We both would welcome the biggest dragon in the world if he ever returned. He had better before our dragons get bigger than he is.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
AH OOOOW!
The charity marionette show is over. Duplicates of Little Red Riding Hood, Grandma and the wolf had been made by seniors at Glenrock High. They are for sale outside the auditorium. Nagging young kids drag their parents close, beg for one, two or all of the characters. My Sue is one of them. ‘Cut it out, Sue. You have an overage of toys, dolls of all sizes that you have outgrown and haven’t looked at for years. In fact, over the week-end, you and I are going thru your bedroom displays and the 3 toy boxes in the basement. Most are going to Toyland at a charity. You pick the one you want. Don’t make any other Sunday plans. I claim the entire morning.’
‘Mom, look. Here comes Dad. ‘Sue, I knew you’d want these.’ He hands her all three marionettes. Ralph gets a big hug from her and the meanest, nastiest scowl I can muster from me. ‘Anybody feel like pizza?’ Spendthrift asks. ‘Ralph, I told you I have hot, lean corned beef, home fries and sour pickles for dinner tonight. That’s what we are having.’ ‘Come on, Amy. That’ll keep. Let’s go.’ We go!
Sue carries Red Riding Hood and Grandma over one arm and tries to manipulate the wolf with her right hand. In the blink of an eye, strings twist together. One of the wolf’s snaps. We all stand still. ‘Ralph, did you hear that? ‘ ’Hear what, Amy?’ ‘A baying, a howl, that’s what!’ ‘You’re nuts. All I heard was the three of us saying at the same time, ‘Oh no.’ ‘Sue, did you hear it?’ ‘ No, Mom I was busy trying to keep the wolf off the grass.’
The marionettes go in the back of the car with Sue. She fiddles with the wolf but it needs a new string, something we don’t have. It’s left leg is inanimate and hangs like a drying salami in the delly window. I turn to Sue. ‘Leave them all alone. You’ll do more damage than good.’ ‘Do you know what, Mom? The Grandma reminds me of you.’ Ralph thinks that is funny. I am hurt.
The pizzas are delicious. We devour two mediums, add too much fat and cholesterol to our innards. But what the heck. Ralph was right. The brisket can wait and I have tomorrow’s dinner ready.
Sue takes the still working marionettes out of the car and walks them up the driveway. She hands me the broken wolf and asks me to fix it in the morning. ‘You wanted it, Sue, it’s yours. You broke it, fix it. Don’t give me another job to do.’ ‘But, Mom, it wasn’t my fault. The string was lousy. You are much handier than I am. Please fix it tomorrow.’ ‘No, I will not. Learn not to count on anybody but yourself. There’s no rush. Maybe Josie, your friend who helped make the actors, can get you a new string. See you in the morning. Good nite. Don’t let the bed bugs bite.’ ‘You’re right, Mom. I’ll try to work on it later or tomorrow. OK?
Sunday morning comes, toy cleaning day. Sue doesn’t come down to breakfast at her usual 8. I call upstairs for her to come down. She doesn’t answer. I call again, then go upstairs. Her door is partially open. I push it hard enough that it bangs against the wall, chips the paint. Sue is in bed. Her eyes are closed. The sheets and coverlet are rumpled, hanging partially out of the bed. My heart is doing flip flops. I shake her. She stirs. Slightly dazed, she sits up, puts her hand on her neck.‘Mom, what’s wrong with my neck. It hurts.’ I look and see a large red mark. I imagine a wolf’s fangs would do that.
On the other side of the bed the broken Big Bad Wolf is totally wrapped in all its strings. It’s eyes are red and they shine. I scream. Sue screams and the wolf snarls.
‘Mom, look. Here comes Dad. ‘Sue, I knew you’d want these.’ He hands her all three marionettes. Ralph gets a big hug from her and the meanest, nastiest scowl I can muster from me. ‘Anybody feel like pizza?’ Spendthrift asks. ‘Ralph, I told you I have hot, lean corned beef, home fries and sour pickles for dinner tonight. That’s what we are having.’ ‘Come on, Amy. That’ll keep. Let’s go.’ We go!
Sue carries Red Riding Hood and Grandma over one arm and tries to manipulate the wolf with her right hand. In the blink of an eye, strings twist together. One of the wolf’s snaps. We all stand still. ‘Ralph, did you hear that? ‘ ’Hear what, Amy?’ ‘A baying, a howl, that’s what!’ ‘You’re nuts. All I heard was the three of us saying at the same time, ‘Oh no.’ ‘Sue, did you hear it?’ ‘ No, Mom I was busy trying to keep the wolf off the grass.’
The marionettes go in the back of the car with Sue. She fiddles with the wolf but it needs a new string, something we don’t have. It’s left leg is inanimate and hangs like a drying salami in the delly window. I turn to Sue. ‘Leave them all alone. You’ll do more damage than good.’ ‘Do you know what, Mom? The Grandma reminds me of you.’ Ralph thinks that is funny. I am hurt.
The pizzas are delicious. We devour two mediums, add too much fat and cholesterol to our innards. But what the heck. Ralph was right. The brisket can wait and I have tomorrow’s dinner ready.
Sue takes the still working marionettes out of the car and walks them up the driveway. She hands me the broken wolf and asks me to fix it in the morning. ‘You wanted it, Sue, it’s yours. You broke it, fix it. Don’t give me another job to do.’ ‘But, Mom, it wasn’t my fault. The string was lousy. You are much handier than I am. Please fix it tomorrow.’ ‘No, I will not. Learn not to count on anybody but yourself. There’s no rush. Maybe Josie, your friend who helped make the actors, can get you a new string. See you in the morning. Good nite. Don’t let the bed bugs bite.’ ‘You’re right, Mom. I’ll try to work on it later or tomorrow. OK?
Sunday morning comes, toy cleaning day. Sue doesn’t come down to breakfast at her usual 8. I call upstairs for her to come down. She doesn’t answer. I call again, then go upstairs. Her door is partially open. I push it hard enough that it bangs against the wall, chips the paint. Sue is in bed. Her eyes are closed. The sheets and coverlet are rumpled, hanging partially out of the bed. My heart is doing flip flops. I shake her. She stirs. Slightly dazed, she sits up, puts her hand on her neck.‘Mom, what’s wrong with my neck. It hurts.’ I look and see a large red mark. I imagine a wolf’s fangs would do that.
On the other side of the bed the broken Big Bad Wolf is totally wrapped in all its strings. It’s eyes are red and they shine. I scream. Sue screams and the wolf snarls.
Monday, October 26, 2009
TICK TOCK TICK
Unaware she was 15 minutes late, Flo breezed in like a zephyr kissed by am angel. She greeted me with a pout. ‘Mel, why do you do this to me every time? I am always prompt and you are always agonizingly early.‘ Her softly painted pink/rose lips puckered. She showed me her watch. I showed her mine and the large clock over my President’s chair at the long oval Board table. John Handley, one of my directors, rolled Flo’s suede leather swivel chair out for her and then slid her into place. Our monthly meeting began.
Reports, reports, long, boring and necessary took two hours of debate. Flo’s attention wavered several times as she opened her purse, re-freshed her sexy lips. From her large smart looking carpenter’s bag she neatly laid out samples of fabrics, colors, just about ready for production for our fall winter furniture sales. Neither snow falling or our December cold, deterred her positive outlook, fantastic sense of color. On the one test sofa in the room, she displayed her magic, her touch. Chocolate Moussse, Rosey Latte, Pine Forest, breathed life into it. She merely nodded, gathered her samples and sat down to await the reactions. Flo was tops, negatives were not on the table.
As the meeting was about to end, she rose, pointed to her watch and slyly announced she was in a hurry as she is never late. ‘Good bye, Gentlemen.’ I rapped my gavel to her empty chair. While all the directors were talking things over, having coffee, bagels, cream cheese and chocolate covered donuts, the Board Room door rammed open, hit the glass wall. Flo stumbled in. She was disheveled. Her right hand held her left arm that was clearly hurting. She refused to sit down. I was the first to reach her and stupidly asked, ‘Are you alright, Flo?’ Christ, I could see she wasn’t. ‘What happened?’ ‘Look at me,’ she bawled. ‘Do I usually come to meetings without shoes, with street dirt on my skirt?’ No answers. ‘No, I don’t. I was standing near the curb outside of our building, trying to hail a cab, when a big bearded guy dressed neatly in business clothes, pushed me. I fell into the gutter. In a second my sample bag of fabrics, colors was gone. My purse was still on my arm. All he wanted he took. What do we do now? He had to be working for Rossman or Blackthorn. My samples are useless. One of those thieving bastards will get my work out before us, probably August. We’ll know then but it will be too late. Suing won’t help.’
I tried to calm her and the other directors but it was a lost cause. We were in trouble. As CEO it fell on me to fix things or be out of business. All week I watched employees going in and out of those factories. I asked questions, offered bribes, had a few successes.They cost me. I needed lawyers to break contracts, write new ones. I needed fresh talent and tried My Face, Twitter, Ace Job Hunters. My employees pitched in, worked over-time (for extra pay), gave up vacations. Flo was our guiding light, our Savior. 14 hour days, sleepless nights, 8 lbs. lost from her divine body. She took old patterns, altered them slightly, gave them new names and got the weaving machines going full time. We were ready!
Aug. 30 our catalogue was in the mail. Sept. 1 full page color ads were in major cities, NY, Philly, Boston. We were suing Rossman. Somehow we not only muddled thru but our figures outdid last year.
I personally bought Flo a dainty diamond studded Rolex. She was surprised and thrilled, hugged me, kissed me with her pink/rose lips
and never had to re-set her cheapo watch again.
Reports, reports, long, boring and necessary took two hours of debate. Flo’s attention wavered several times as she opened her purse, re-freshed her sexy lips. From her large smart looking carpenter’s bag she neatly laid out samples of fabrics, colors, just about ready for production for our fall winter furniture sales. Neither snow falling or our December cold, deterred her positive outlook, fantastic sense of color. On the one test sofa in the room, she displayed her magic, her touch. Chocolate Moussse, Rosey Latte, Pine Forest, breathed life into it. She merely nodded, gathered her samples and sat down to await the reactions. Flo was tops, negatives were not on the table.
As the meeting was about to end, she rose, pointed to her watch and slyly announced she was in a hurry as she is never late. ‘Good bye, Gentlemen.’ I rapped my gavel to her empty chair. While all the directors were talking things over, having coffee, bagels, cream cheese and chocolate covered donuts, the Board Room door rammed open, hit the glass wall. Flo stumbled in. She was disheveled. Her right hand held her left arm that was clearly hurting. She refused to sit down. I was the first to reach her and stupidly asked, ‘Are you alright, Flo?’ Christ, I could see she wasn’t. ‘What happened?’ ‘Look at me,’ she bawled. ‘Do I usually come to meetings without shoes, with street dirt on my skirt?’ No answers. ‘No, I don’t. I was standing near the curb outside of our building, trying to hail a cab, when a big bearded guy dressed neatly in business clothes, pushed me. I fell into the gutter. In a second my sample bag of fabrics, colors was gone. My purse was still on my arm. All he wanted he took. What do we do now? He had to be working for Rossman or Blackthorn. My samples are useless. One of those thieving bastards will get my work out before us, probably August. We’ll know then but it will be too late. Suing won’t help.’
I tried to calm her and the other directors but it was a lost cause. We were in trouble. As CEO it fell on me to fix things or be out of business. All week I watched employees going in and out of those factories. I asked questions, offered bribes, had a few successes.They cost me. I needed lawyers to break contracts, write new ones. I needed fresh talent and tried My Face, Twitter, Ace Job Hunters. My employees pitched in, worked over-time (for extra pay), gave up vacations. Flo was our guiding light, our Savior. 14 hour days, sleepless nights, 8 lbs. lost from her divine body. She took old patterns, altered them slightly, gave them new names and got the weaving machines going full time. We were ready!
Aug. 30 our catalogue was in the mail. Sept. 1 full page color ads were in major cities, NY, Philly, Boston. We were suing Rossman. Somehow we not only muddled thru but our figures outdid last year.
I personally bought Flo a dainty diamond studded Rolex. She was surprised and thrilled, hugged me, kissed me with her pink/rose lips
and never had to re-set her cheapo watch again.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
TOESIES
My one glass of house burgundy did its job, soothed my blind date anxiety. Cliff, however, liked his dry martinis. After his third, I stopped counting and remained fairly amiable. The spicy Mexican dinner held ½ my attention. Cliff’s shoeless foot under the table searching for my crotch, held the other ½. Only once did I uncross my legs, smiling as I did so. I kicked at him and connected hard with his knee. Stunned, evidently hurting, his cocktail glass slipped from his fingers, bounced on the table and tumbled to the floor. Most likely I sneered as I asked, ‘What’s the matter, Lover Boy. Your knee in pain?’ Maybe you should take me home and you can go to your house to get ice for the bruise you are going to have. ‘Ha!’ he said. ‘It will be my pleasure.’ With that he called for the check, took my cashmere shawl off the back of my chair and gentlemanly put it over my shoulders. From his wallet he extracted the valet ticket, handed it to me and asked to be excused as he had to go to the john.
I was in the car waiting for him to come out. It was plain to see he could walk, but not very well. No kitty cat I, I laid it on the line. ‘May I drive? We’ll both be safer.’ An explosion roared from his throat. ‘Are you crazy? You want me to let you drive my Lexus? I don’t even know you. You want a cab? I’ll get you one, but you’re not going to be chauffeuring me. We bickered, made nasty, ugly, uncalled for remarks to each other. The ball was in my court and I bounced it, opened my own door and called the valet to stop a cab for me. Cliff was left to drive himself home, maybe kill an old geezer out for a late evening stroll. A cab pulled in. Cliff pulled out.
Steam was rolling from my pores. That bastard actually let me take a cab by myself. I relived the moment I felt his toes going up my leg and gagged. The taxi driver asked if I felt okay. After a few deep breaths, normalcy returned. My apartment was around the next corner. ‘What?! What is going on?’ Cliff’s car was in my driveway. He was standing at the curb throwing up. ‘Driver, please wait for me to get into my house.’ I gave him $10 that included a good tip, had my door key in my hand, and got inside with no altercation. Clear thinking was needed. I left the outside lights on, the first floor I left dark and walked upstairs to my loft by rote. Silent night, oh silent night. It was perfect. Not once did I even turn over. I could have been a mummy. All I had to do was tuck my quilt under my stack of pillows and my bed was made.
Beep, beep. A loud and annoying horn honked from my driveway. There, behind the Lexus wheel, waving to me, was Cliff. The beep, beep quickly became a knock, knock. ‘Go away, Cliff.’ ‘Let me in. I need to use your john. I’ve been here all night and want to apologize. Please let me in.’ ‘There’s a gas station one block from here. Go there. Take a ride.’ ‘Let me in. I won’t bite.’ ‘Go bite, go bite your toenails off. I don’t care. Go away. This conversation is over.’
Varoom, varoom, the Lexus motor revved, purred. I didn’t allow myself to watch him get into traffic. He didn’t. Within 2 minutes I heard a crash. His rear bumper went into the middle of a lady’s gold colored Subaru, dented it badly. All of us, the policeman, the owner of the damaged car, I, Cliff too, knew the accident was 100% his fault. He didn’t argue. He accepted full responsibility.
Knock, knock. ‘Now may I come in? I have to call my insurance company.’ ‘Use your cell. I don’t want to see you.’ ‘Well, you know what Miss Snotty Nose, I don’t want to see you either.’ ‘Oh, alright,’ I mumbled. ‘Come in. Just keep your shoes on your feet and your hands off of me.’ ‘And you, you keep your clunking feet off my knees. Deal?’
‘How about some coffee. Got cream for latte?’
I was in the car waiting for him to come out. It was plain to see he could walk, but not very well. No kitty cat I, I laid it on the line. ‘May I drive? We’ll both be safer.’ An explosion roared from his throat. ‘Are you crazy? You want me to let you drive my Lexus? I don’t even know you. You want a cab? I’ll get you one, but you’re not going to be chauffeuring me. We bickered, made nasty, ugly, uncalled for remarks to each other. The ball was in my court and I bounced it, opened my own door and called the valet to stop a cab for me. Cliff was left to drive himself home, maybe kill an old geezer out for a late evening stroll. A cab pulled in. Cliff pulled out.
Steam was rolling from my pores. That bastard actually let me take a cab by myself. I relived the moment I felt his toes going up my leg and gagged. The taxi driver asked if I felt okay. After a few deep breaths, normalcy returned. My apartment was around the next corner. ‘What?! What is going on?’ Cliff’s car was in my driveway. He was standing at the curb throwing up. ‘Driver, please wait for me to get into my house.’ I gave him $10 that included a good tip, had my door key in my hand, and got inside with no altercation. Clear thinking was needed. I left the outside lights on, the first floor I left dark and walked upstairs to my loft by rote. Silent night, oh silent night. It was perfect. Not once did I even turn over. I could have been a mummy. All I had to do was tuck my quilt under my stack of pillows and my bed was made.
Beep, beep. A loud and annoying horn honked from my driveway. There, behind the Lexus wheel, waving to me, was Cliff. The beep, beep quickly became a knock, knock. ‘Go away, Cliff.’ ‘Let me in. I need to use your john. I’ve been here all night and want to apologize. Please let me in.’ ‘There’s a gas station one block from here. Go there. Take a ride.’ ‘Let me in. I won’t bite.’ ‘Go bite, go bite your toenails off. I don’t care. Go away. This conversation is over.’
Varoom, varoom, the Lexus motor revved, purred. I didn’t allow myself to watch him get into traffic. He didn’t. Within 2 minutes I heard a crash. His rear bumper went into the middle of a lady’s gold colored Subaru, dented it badly. All of us, the policeman, the owner of the damaged car, I, Cliff too, knew the accident was 100% his fault. He didn’t argue. He accepted full responsibility.
Knock, knock. ‘Now may I come in? I have to call my insurance company.’ ‘Use your cell. I don’t want to see you.’ ‘Well, you know what Miss Snotty Nose, I don’t want to see you either.’ ‘Oh, alright,’ I mumbled. ‘Come in. Just keep your shoes on your feet and your hands off of me.’ ‘And you, you keep your clunking feet off my knees. Deal?’
‘How about some coffee. Got cream for latte?’
Saturday, October 24, 2009
PARADISE LOST
A humming bird hummed. It’s tiny wings fluttered so fast they seemed in perpetual motion. A loud rat-a-tat-tat startled me. I looked up, looked around, knew what the noise was but couldn’t spot the red-headed woodpecker. It must have found a cache of worms and was eating as fast as he could. The sun was shining. I could almost hear the grass growing.
Miss Connelly was walking down the concrete path pushing her white cart of medications. She waved to me, gave me a sweet Giaconda smile and kept going.
I watched her stop at Stephan’s. He was angry about something. No big deal he was always angry about something. His pen had disappeared. Miss Connelly got down on her hands and knees and found the pen hehad dropped under his chair. Stephan grabbed for it but had his hand lightly slapped. ‘Here, swallow your medication and I’ll give your pen back.’ He swallowed. Stephan is a lost soul without his pen and writing book.
On Saturdays each patient performs in some way. Stephan is always ready to read aloud one of the stories he had labored over the entire week. One time the rest of us couldn’t stop laughing. Not one of us understood a word of jabberwocky except him. He rattled on for 15 minutes. We laughed for 20. When at last his glib tongue slowed down, his eyes rolled to the back of his head, he bowed and thanked us for our applause. Sudden silence and he hurried back to his room to start another story.
Brenda, my almost friend, was anxiously waiting for her afternoon dose of Valium. Her mother warned her to stay calm, take her medicine or she will never visit again. If Miss Connelly would allot Brenda ten times as much as she was allowed, Brenda would swallow every pill non-stop. She desperately wanted to go home. A silence, a lovely silence surrounded me. Robins, sparrows pulled up earthworms from the fertile soil. I was comfortable, content. A big robin near me must have been a male. It was twice the size of the other birds. It’s bill almost smirked as a juicy worm curled around its beak. A robin spread its wings and flew above the trees. The sky got bluer and bluer. Miss Connelly stood between the birds and me. I opened my mouth wide and my pill was put went in. It was small, blue almost the color of the sky. I swallowed the soft gelatin thing without my apple juice. The juice slid down my throat and refreshed me.
The blue sky moved closer to the earth. It was glorious. A red, red robin cocked its head at my feet, hopped up on my lap and sat there quietly. We studied each other. I touched its wings and was surprised to find how lightweight and hollow the bones were. That set the wings to grow bigger, stronger. The red breast puffed. I stood up and the beautiful bird came down to me, nudged me onto its back. He began to chirp, tweet, sing as I settled in for a ride.
Below me Stephan was writing. Brenda was trying to finagle another pillfrom Miss Connelly. The bird flew me to its nest, let me see the blue eggs about to crack open. I saw the woodpecker that I couldn’t find this morning. Robin swooped. He was taking me home. ‘Don’t. Don’t, not yet,’ I cried.
Someone touched my shoulder. Brenda, my almost friend, was behind me. ‘Where did you get all those feathers? Did you kill some birds? I won’t tell.’ And she never did. She wangled too many Valiums and never went home. I’m still here waiting for a turtle dove or a green cardinal to give me another ride.
Be nice and I’ll take you along.
Miss Connelly was walking down the concrete path pushing her white cart of medications. She waved to me, gave me a sweet Giaconda smile and kept going.
I watched her stop at Stephan’s. He was angry about something. No big deal he was always angry about something. His pen had disappeared. Miss Connelly got down on her hands and knees and found the pen hehad dropped under his chair. Stephan grabbed for it but had his hand lightly slapped. ‘Here, swallow your medication and I’ll give your pen back.’ He swallowed. Stephan is a lost soul without his pen and writing book.
On Saturdays each patient performs in some way. Stephan is always ready to read aloud one of the stories he had labored over the entire week. One time the rest of us couldn’t stop laughing. Not one of us understood a word of jabberwocky except him. He rattled on for 15 minutes. We laughed for 20. When at last his glib tongue slowed down, his eyes rolled to the back of his head, he bowed and thanked us for our applause. Sudden silence and he hurried back to his room to start another story.
Brenda, my almost friend, was anxiously waiting for her afternoon dose of Valium. Her mother warned her to stay calm, take her medicine or she will never visit again. If Miss Connelly would allot Brenda ten times as much as she was allowed, Brenda would swallow every pill non-stop. She desperately wanted to go home. A silence, a lovely silence surrounded me. Robins, sparrows pulled up earthworms from the fertile soil. I was comfortable, content. A big robin near me must have been a male. It was twice the size of the other birds. It’s bill almost smirked as a juicy worm curled around its beak. A robin spread its wings and flew above the trees. The sky got bluer and bluer. Miss Connelly stood between the birds and me. I opened my mouth wide and my pill was put went in. It was small, blue almost the color of the sky. I swallowed the soft gelatin thing without my apple juice. The juice slid down my throat and refreshed me.
The blue sky moved closer to the earth. It was glorious. A red, red robin cocked its head at my feet, hopped up on my lap and sat there quietly. We studied each other. I touched its wings and was surprised to find how lightweight and hollow the bones were. That set the wings to grow bigger, stronger. The red breast puffed. I stood up and the beautiful bird came down to me, nudged me onto its back. He began to chirp, tweet, sing as I settled in for a ride.
Below me Stephan was writing. Brenda was trying to finagle another pillfrom Miss Connelly. The bird flew me to its nest, let me see the blue eggs about to crack open. I saw the woodpecker that I couldn’t find this morning. Robin swooped. He was taking me home. ‘Don’t. Don’t, not yet,’ I cried.
Someone touched my shoulder. Brenda, my almost friend, was behind me. ‘Where did you get all those feathers? Did you kill some birds? I won’t tell.’ And she never did. She wangled too many Valiums and never went home. I’m still here waiting for a turtle dove or a green cardinal to give me another ride.
Be nice and I’ll take you along.
Friday, October 23, 2009
WHOA! IS ME
It’s raining! It’s pouring. The Old Lady is not snoring. She’s sitting in a large, lovely contemporary waiting area to have a few routine jobs done on her two year old Camry that just reached 5000 miles. Sounds ok so far, doesn’t it? Well, I’ll tell you the truth, I’m the lady, the ‘she’ in this tale and I’m a wreck. Why is such a load of crap falling on my head so late in life? I can find no explicable reason, yet it multiplies hour by hour, day by day. It’s fine with me if you want to ridicule the pettiness I am bitching about. That won’t stop me. I must keep on trying to get rid of some of the garbage and you can go plant roses, fly to the Riviera, play with your grandchildren. There is no jealousy on my part. I’ve been there, done that.
Almost a year ago my hale, hearty, happy tennis playing husband died on the court. That was a blow for both of us. Fortunately I recovered, smiled a lot and cried alone. My grandson is in rehab for the 3rd time and there is bound to be a 4th or a funeral.
Visiting my son in Canada on a lovely October day, I walked thru the park with him, amazed at the beauty of the maple trees turning orange and brown. They were in their glory. I looked up to watch them fall gently to earth, tripped on a covered heavy twig and broke my leg. The vacation went to hell. As soon as I could manage to take care of myself, fit into a miserably narrow aisle seat on a Delta flight, I headed home. Seated between me and a young fairly attractive woman was a child somewhere near aged one. Her seat belt was not secure. She never sat still a moment, fidgeting, whining, kicking my cast. The mother was unable to keep her quiet or still. Dora, the Explorer, her favorite doll, fell under the seat in front of me. I could not reach it. The mother crawled over her child, fell on my leg and retrieved Dora. Yes, she was sorry and so was I.
A hundred years later the cast came off. I continued to hobble for weeks until I finally knew I had what could not be put off any longer. Something was happening to my eyelids. They didn’t burn, didn’t itch but they weren’t mine. Never in my 75 years was I aware I had eyelids. They were just on my face like my nose, my chin. They had become so heavy they were looked like elephant lids, minus the huge lashes. I could hardly keep them open. My ophthalmologist knew immediately and gave me the news, ‘Miss Gladstone, you have dry eyes.’ My denying it, telling him how often I cry and have plenty of tears, made no impression. If I don’t follow his instructions, the problem would get worse. There is no cure. For the rest of my life I will be buying drops to be used as often as I need them. They will do no harm. At least twice a day I have to put hot compresses on my eyes which supposedly will give me comfort. And so I am now a prisoner and carry out my sentence.
That was, is, minor, compared to learning my cataracts should be removed. I was strongly advised to do so. What a 2 month trauma it was. Don’t squirm. I am not going to load you with details but will tell you the one good thing in my saga so far. I now have 20/20 vision, may possibly need reading glasses later. I’d like to tell you I feel better but I don’t. Things I never noticed jump out at me. Stains from cooking are under the cabinets. My clothes have spilled food on them that have hardened. Nobody mentioned these things. Colors have changed totally. My den sofa is falling apart. Seams are opening. The small pillows I use when watching t.v. have turned a hideous shade of orange sweat.
Whoa! Old Lady, find an upholsterer fast. Sure. There are 10 in the phone book. I call each. When I tell them the colors and type of fabric I will need to coordinate with the rest of the room, they laugh. Nobody makes mauve fabric any more. That was the rage in the 90's. ‘Look all you want, Lady. You aren’t going to find it.’ None wanted to come to my home with books to show me except one who measured the sofa and gave me an approximate price IF I can find a fabric, $1800! Ridiculous. It cost $350 the last time. I am now ‘The Huntress’ going almost daily to furniture stores who offer me nothing in a new sofa as they have no ‘mauve’ fabric. Sitting, still loving my sofa, I am in a vortex of worry, just about no place else to try. What am I going to do? You may leave now. I won’t know.
Yesterday, yesterday, almost finished me off. Wearing dark glasses to avoid the glare of headlights, I left the house before the sun was fully in view. I took extra care maintaining the speed limits as I headed towards the large, lovely contemporary Toyota waiting area. The ride is 20 miles with several school crossings guarded by mothers who do nothing to make the red lights change while no children wait.
About 5 miles from my destination, a policeman must have fallen out of the sky. He was in my lane, signaling me to pull over. I saw his motorcycle on the grass, pulled to the side, but not enough to please him. ‘Lady, first you went thru blinking yellow lights for a school crossing and now you are about to obstruct traffic. Move over!’ My explanation, although true, held no water. ‘I saw the lights, slowed down, and when close enough so I could read what the lights were for, I was past them.’ ‘Where is your driving licence, Ma am?’ I gave it to him. He wanted the other credentials that I knew were in my wallet and/or glove compartment but was so nervous I couldn’t find them. My throat was dry. Words were hard to get out. The officer was brutal. He called my license in. If I were going to the guillotine, I doubt I would have been any more frightened. While he was gone and I was shaking, crying, I found my papers and was trying to crawl over the center of the seats so I could get out of the car safely and got stuck. When he returned, he saw my sincerity and helped me back up. I told him again and again that in 55 years I had never received a ticket. He was not blind and became aware that I was probably going to pass out. ‘Lady, do you know this ticket would cost you $350?’ I don’t think I even shook my head. He was writing and I was crying silently. The sound of the ticket being torn from his book made the quiet tears flow like a swollen river. I thought all of the dry eye drops I had been using were coming out at once. ‘Here, Lady. I am giving you a warning only. You don’t have to sign it or do anything but never go thru blinking yellow lights again.’ The officer pulled away and I sat still collecting myself. On the way to Toyota yellow lights were blinking ahead. They were on a big truck, not a school warning at all.
My tale of woe has a rocky road to go. Yesterday was simply too heavy for me. I’ll cut to the quick. The service man with whom I had arranged my appointment, didn’t show up. My car was out of alignment, it needed tremendous, costly work. I waited 3 hours to have only what I thought should get done, done. If I did as suggested, I would have had to take out a loan in order to drive home.
So–now I have loused up your day, bored you into a catatonic state.Today is still young. I am old, feel no better dumping on you.
Just the same, trite or not, ‘Have a nice day.’
Almost a year ago my hale, hearty, happy tennis playing husband died on the court. That was a blow for both of us. Fortunately I recovered, smiled a lot and cried alone. My grandson is in rehab for the 3rd time and there is bound to be a 4th or a funeral.
Visiting my son in Canada on a lovely October day, I walked thru the park with him, amazed at the beauty of the maple trees turning orange and brown. They were in their glory. I looked up to watch them fall gently to earth, tripped on a covered heavy twig and broke my leg. The vacation went to hell. As soon as I could manage to take care of myself, fit into a miserably narrow aisle seat on a Delta flight, I headed home. Seated between me and a young fairly attractive woman was a child somewhere near aged one. Her seat belt was not secure. She never sat still a moment, fidgeting, whining, kicking my cast. The mother was unable to keep her quiet or still. Dora, the Explorer, her favorite doll, fell under the seat in front of me. I could not reach it. The mother crawled over her child, fell on my leg and retrieved Dora. Yes, she was sorry and so was I.
A hundred years later the cast came off. I continued to hobble for weeks until I finally knew I had what could not be put off any longer. Something was happening to my eyelids. They didn’t burn, didn’t itch but they weren’t mine. Never in my 75 years was I aware I had eyelids. They were just on my face like my nose, my chin. They had become so heavy they were looked like elephant lids, minus the huge lashes. I could hardly keep them open. My ophthalmologist knew immediately and gave me the news, ‘Miss Gladstone, you have dry eyes.’ My denying it, telling him how often I cry and have plenty of tears, made no impression. If I don’t follow his instructions, the problem would get worse. There is no cure. For the rest of my life I will be buying drops to be used as often as I need them. They will do no harm. At least twice a day I have to put hot compresses on my eyes which supposedly will give me comfort. And so I am now a prisoner and carry out my sentence.
That was, is, minor, compared to learning my cataracts should be removed. I was strongly advised to do so. What a 2 month trauma it was. Don’t squirm. I am not going to load you with details but will tell you the one good thing in my saga so far. I now have 20/20 vision, may possibly need reading glasses later. I’d like to tell you I feel better but I don’t. Things I never noticed jump out at me. Stains from cooking are under the cabinets. My clothes have spilled food on them that have hardened. Nobody mentioned these things. Colors have changed totally. My den sofa is falling apart. Seams are opening. The small pillows I use when watching t.v. have turned a hideous shade of orange sweat.
Whoa! Old Lady, find an upholsterer fast. Sure. There are 10 in the phone book. I call each. When I tell them the colors and type of fabric I will need to coordinate with the rest of the room, they laugh. Nobody makes mauve fabric any more. That was the rage in the 90's. ‘Look all you want, Lady. You aren’t going to find it.’ None wanted to come to my home with books to show me except one who measured the sofa and gave me an approximate price IF I can find a fabric, $1800! Ridiculous. It cost $350 the last time. I am now ‘The Huntress’ going almost daily to furniture stores who offer me nothing in a new sofa as they have no ‘mauve’ fabric. Sitting, still loving my sofa, I am in a vortex of worry, just about no place else to try. What am I going to do? You may leave now. I won’t know.
Yesterday, yesterday, almost finished me off. Wearing dark glasses to avoid the glare of headlights, I left the house before the sun was fully in view. I took extra care maintaining the speed limits as I headed towards the large, lovely contemporary Toyota waiting area. The ride is 20 miles with several school crossings guarded by mothers who do nothing to make the red lights change while no children wait.
About 5 miles from my destination, a policeman must have fallen out of the sky. He was in my lane, signaling me to pull over. I saw his motorcycle on the grass, pulled to the side, but not enough to please him. ‘Lady, first you went thru blinking yellow lights for a school crossing and now you are about to obstruct traffic. Move over!’ My explanation, although true, held no water. ‘I saw the lights, slowed down, and when close enough so I could read what the lights were for, I was past them.’ ‘Where is your driving licence, Ma am?’ I gave it to him. He wanted the other credentials that I knew were in my wallet and/or glove compartment but was so nervous I couldn’t find them. My throat was dry. Words were hard to get out. The officer was brutal. He called my license in. If I were going to the guillotine, I doubt I would have been any more frightened. While he was gone and I was shaking, crying, I found my papers and was trying to crawl over the center of the seats so I could get out of the car safely and got stuck. When he returned, he saw my sincerity and helped me back up. I told him again and again that in 55 years I had never received a ticket. He was not blind and became aware that I was probably going to pass out. ‘Lady, do you know this ticket would cost you $350?’ I don’t think I even shook my head. He was writing and I was crying silently. The sound of the ticket being torn from his book made the quiet tears flow like a swollen river. I thought all of the dry eye drops I had been using were coming out at once. ‘Here, Lady. I am giving you a warning only. You don’t have to sign it or do anything but never go thru blinking yellow lights again.’ The officer pulled away and I sat still collecting myself. On the way to Toyota yellow lights were blinking ahead. They were on a big truck, not a school warning at all.
My tale of woe has a rocky road to go. Yesterday was simply too heavy for me. I’ll cut to the quick. The service man with whom I had arranged my appointment, didn’t show up. My car was out of alignment, it needed tremendous, costly work. I waited 3 hours to have only what I thought should get done, done. If I did as suggested, I would have had to take out a loan in order to drive home.
So–now I have loused up your day, bored you into a catatonic state.Today is still young. I am old, feel no better dumping on you.
Just the same, trite or not, ‘Have a nice day.’
Thursday, October 22, 2009
SLIPPING
My fingers stiffen. My hands shake. The closest phone is in the kitchen. I can hardly walk to it, have to almost creep. It’s tough for me to focus on the numbers. Why don’t phones have a single key for 9 1 1? The keys are blurry. I must have hit the 8 instead of the 9. There is a dull hum but no reply. I mumble words to the kitchen wall and try 9 1 1 again. Without waiting for a voice, a hello, I yell, ‘Help. Somebody is trying to kill me!’ Questions fly at me. I nod my head yes and no. ‘Speak up, Lady. The police are on the way. Are your doors locked? I manage to say, Uh huh.’ ‘Stay away from your windows. Talk to me. ‘Do you know who is after you, where that person is now?’ ‘All I know is he followed me home last night and again tonight. I never turned around to look at him closely but it’s a man. Help! He’s at my door.’
Miss 911 calls me ‘Ma am’ and tells me the police are at the door, not a killer. Let them in.’ I look thru the peep hole and see a fat face under a police hat. The policeman holds his badge to the peep hole so I can see that it is really him. Even so, I hesitate opening the door. ‘Open up, Mrs. Castille.’ ‘OK., OK, don’t rush me.’ The chain slides and bangs against the wood.
Fat Face is called Lt. Paul Beecham. He is alone and asks if we can sit down and talk. Questions fly at me like bees escaping from a disturbed hive. After answering one or two, I have one of my own to ask. ‘Lt. Beecham, are you on prednisone?’ A moment more and I wonder why I asked him that. And that is exactly what his next question to me is, ‘Why did you ask me such a thing at a time like this?’ The lieutenant isn’t smiling. ‘Because you are tall, nicely built but your face is so full. I have just been put on prednisone for my fibraneuralgia and a friend told me my face is going to get fat and moony.’ His answer isn’t an answer. It’s several questions. ‘What kind of danger are you in? Who is trying to kill you? Why? My sergeant is waiting in my car. I have another officer in a car behind your house, maybe risking his life to protect you. Will you please answer my questions, tell me why you think someone is trying to kill you, or my men and I will be leaving.
‘Hurumph,’ I say. ‘Don’t get pushy with me. I’m an old scared lady who is now a sick scared old lady. May I make you and the other officers a cup of coffee? It won’t take long.’ ‘No, thanks. Sit down, concentrate. Tell me about the killer.’ ‘Captain.’ ‘Wait Mrs. Castille. Start right. I am not a captain. I am Lieutenant Beecham.’ ‘Sorry, Lieutenant. Which is higher rank, Lt. or Capt?’ ‘I’m running out of patience, Ma am. Stop asking me unimportant questions. Have you had phone or mail threats?Did a man follow you two nights in a row? Did he say anything, do anything?’ ‘Yes, Captain. Once he said something but I don’t remember what it was. I think he may be young as his voice was high and I also think he plays football or is a dancer. His shoes had taps or cleats.’‘We’ll be checking your place every few hours. If you see him, call me. Put my card next to your phone. Good night.’
I give the captain time to get back to his station and call. ‘Oh, it’s Lieutenant, not Captain, I remember the person had long blond hair. What she said was ‘Hello, Mrs. Castille. Remember me, Yvonne? I’ve been walking behind you in case you fall. You shouldn’t go out by yourself at night.’
‘Captain, so tell me. Are you on prednisone?’
Miss 911 calls me ‘Ma am’ and tells me the police are at the door, not a killer. Let them in.’ I look thru the peep hole and see a fat face under a police hat. The policeman holds his badge to the peep hole so I can see that it is really him. Even so, I hesitate opening the door. ‘Open up, Mrs. Castille.’ ‘OK., OK, don’t rush me.’ The chain slides and bangs against the wood.
Fat Face is called Lt. Paul Beecham. He is alone and asks if we can sit down and talk. Questions fly at me like bees escaping from a disturbed hive. After answering one or two, I have one of my own to ask. ‘Lt. Beecham, are you on prednisone?’ A moment more and I wonder why I asked him that. And that is exactly what his next question to me is, ‘Why did you ask me such a thing at a time like this?’ The lieutenant isn’t smiling. ‘Because you are tall, nicely built but your face is so full. I have just been put on prednisone for my fibraneuralgia and a friend told me my face is going to get fat and moony.’ His answer isn’t an answer. It’s several questions. ‘What kind of danger are you in? Who is trying to kill you? Why? My sergeant is waiting in my car. I have another officer in a car behind your house, maybe risking his life to protect you. Will you please answer my questions, tell me why you think someone is trying to kill you, or my men and I will be leaving.
‘Hurumph,’ I say. ‘Don’t get pushy with me. I’m an old scared lady who is now a sick scared old lady. May I make you and the other officers a cup of coffee? It won’t take long.’ ‘No, thanks. Sit down, concentrate. Tell me about the killer.’ ‘Captain.’ ‘Wait Mrs. Castille. Start right. I am not a captain. I am Lieutenant Beecham.’ ‘Sorry, Lieutenant. Which is higher rank, Lt. or Capt?’ ‘I’m running out of patience, Ma am. Stop asking me unimportant questions. Have you had phone or mail threats?Did a man follow you two nights in a row? Did he say anything, do anything?’ ‘Yes, Captain. Once he said something but I don’t remember what it was. I think he may be young as his voice was high and I also think he plays football or is a dancer. His shoes had taps or cleats.’‘We’ll be checking your place every few hours. If you see him, call me. Put my card next to your phone. Good night.’
I give the captain time to get back to his station and call. ‘Oh, it’s Lieutenant, not Captain, I remember the person had long blond hair. What she said was ‘Hello, Mrs. Castille. Remember me, Yvonne? I’ve been walking behind you in case you fall. You shouldn’t go out by yourself at night.’
‘Captain, so tell me. Are you on prednisone?’
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
I DO–I DO
She licked her lips, smiled, clapped her hands with joy. Jennie got the first piece of the 10 layered wedding cake. Her new husband, Joseph, stood straight and tall beside her. He knew what was coming. The cake was going to be slobbered all over his face and onto his rented tux. It didn’t happen. Jennie handed him a Royal Dalton dessert plate with her slice on it, plus the little bride figurine that topped the cake. ‘I give you me, all of me, and may our lives be as sweet, beautiful as our wedding night.’ 250 guests applauded. Cameras caught some tears.
Joseph carefully removed the little tuxedoed figure that stood alone. He was just about ready to put it on slice 2 of the cake, when the ring bearer, his 5 year old nephew, ran up to him and hugged his uncle around his knees. The Royal Dalton plate fell and broke into many shards. The figure was decapitated. Icing splattered around the hem of Jennie’s gown. Cameras caught the disaster.
Waiters, waitresses, busboys rushed to clean up. Jennie remained cool. She held her gown high enough to almost amble over to the bandstand.‘We’re ready, Bennie. Play our song.’ The 10 piece band began with ‘The Girl That I Married’. Jennie spotted Joseph standing with his father. She held her arms out and over the mike spoke only to him. ‘Come get me, Joseph.’ Together they danced, sang aloud in their theatrically trained voices, ‘will have to be, as soft and as pink as a nursery.’ Love, tenderness filled the room. Cameras captured it as they circled the dance floor with the newlyweds.
The family did the ritual dancing with each other. Wines, liqueurs, hard drinks were everywhere. Dinner was served and a better one no caterer ever presented. From the crisp salad, to steaming hot vegetable soup, fillet minion brought to each guest just the way it was ordered. The laughter, the toasts, speeches were an interlude for the dancing that was ahead. Jennie had arranged the music starting with Ragtime, Lindy, and then The Horrah! Everybody UP.’ Love ballads, rhumba, samba, limbo. Each person surely found several tunes to enjoy. Most of the evening the dance floor was filled. A few very senior relatives remained in their seats. They were forgiven. Harry, Jennie’s nephew, and two cousins took over for a few minutes. They were giving a demonstration of break dancing when Sammy slipped, hit his head on a table and had to be carried out. It was a downer for a few minutes. Cameras caught the fall.
Jennie’s best friend, Bella, reached the bride’s bouquet and shouldn’t have been trying for it. She was already engaged. Joseph flipped Jennie’s garter and it flew over one of the cameramen and landed on the chandelier. Another cameraman caught the shot.
The band played ‘The Party’s Over’. Guests tossed petals as the couple came out of the synagogue. A chauffeur opened the limo door for the couple. It had been a glorious June wedding.
But in January, many guests were busy again sending Mazel Tov gifts to the newlyweds for the birth of their son. Cameras were in the delivery room.
Joseph carefully removed the little tuxedoed figure that stood alone. He was just about ready to put it on slice 2 of the cake, when the ring bearer, his 5 year old nephew, ran up to him and hugged his uncle around his knees. The Royal Dalton plate fell and broke into many shards. The figure was decapitated. Icing splattered around the hem of Jennie’s gown. Cameras caught the disaster.
Waiters, waitresses, busboys rushed to clean up. Jennie remained cool. She held her gown high enough to almost amble over to the bandstand.‘We’re ready, Bennie. Play our song.’ The 10 piece band began with ‘The Girl That I Married’. Jennie spotted Joseph standing with his father. She held her arms out and over the mike spoke only to him. ‘Come get me, Joseph.’ Together they danced, sang aloud in their theatrically trained voices, ‘will have to be, as soft and as pink as a nursery.’ Love, tenderness filled the room. Cameras captured it as they circled the dance floor with the newlyweds.
The family did the ritual dancing with each other. Wines, liqueurs, hard drinks were everywhere. Dinner was served and a better one no caterer ever presented. From the crisp salad, to steaming hot vegetable soup, fillet minion brought to each guest just the way it was ordered. The laughter, the toasts, speeches were an interlude for the dancing that was ahead. Jennie had arranged the music starting with Ragtime, Lindy, and then The Horrah! Everybody UP.’ Love ballads, rhumba, samba, limbo. Each person surely found several tunes to enjoy. Most of the evening the dance floor was filled. A few very senior relatives remained in their seats. They were forgiven. Harry, Jennie’s nephew, and two cousins took over for a few minutes. They were giving a demonstration of break dancing when Sammy slipped, hit his head on a table and had to be carried out. It was a downer for a few minutes. Cameras caught the fall.
Jennie’s best friend, Bella, reached the bride’s bouquet and shouldn’t have been trying for it. She was already engaged. Joseph flipped Jennie’s garter and it flew over one of the cameramen and landed on the chandelier. Another cameraman caught the shot.
The band played ‘The Party’s Over’. Guests tossed petals as the couple came out of the synagogue. A chauffeur opened the limo door for the couple. It had been a glorious June wedding.
But in January, many guests were busy again sending Mazel Tov gifts to the newlyweds for the birth of their son. Cameras were in the delivery room.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
SCHOOL TIME
I almost stepped on her. She just sort of crumpled and fell on the ground in front of me. I had no recollection of ever seeing her before, and was at a loss as to what to do. The lady was unconscious but breathing. No blood was evident on her clothes. This was not an epilepsy seizure. Never having had the need to take anyone’s pulse, I tried anyhow. Yes, yes, I felt a slow beat, but my fake Rolex watch had no second hand so I couldn’t keep an accurate count. There were no other morning walkers in sight. Traffic was light. My cell phone was dead. This lady may be dead too, I thought, if I don’t find some help fast.
Telepathy must have worked as a shiny red Lexus pulled up to the curb. A middle aged woman with obviously dyed red hair, got out of her car and rushed over to me and then the still unconscious woman. All I could do was blurt out what I had seen and how I had not helped her in any way. A cell phone was thrust into my hand. Call 911 NOW!’ That I could do. Reds was on her knees, thumping, pumping, breathing into the woman’s mouth. She kept it up even after noticing a slight twitch in the woman’s hand, then a tightening and loosening of her fist.
Whatever cars were on the street pulled to the curb as the siren and flashing red lights came zooming down the street. For all intents and purposes I was not there. ‘Mister, move it.’ Reds was gruffly asked to move, too. She spoke clearly, rapidly and told them all she knew, what she had done.
The one thing I had done was open the lady’s purse, found her driver’s license, insurance card, a red lipstick. There was a flowered silk kerchief on the bottom of the purse. I lifted it and gasped. There was a gun, a big gun, a Glock like Clint Eastwood handles with ease. Knowing nothing about unconscious people, and even less about guns, I did know enough not to touch it. I covered the frightening thing with the scarf, closed the bag and put it on the driver’s seat of the ambulance. Also left was my calling card in case somebody wanted to ask me questions.
Zoom, the red flashing light and ear popping sirens flew east to the closest hospital. Reds and I were alone. We talked, exchanged I.D.s. But I didn’t think it was any of her business about the gun so I said nothing. She drove away. My lovely early morning walk was a disaster. Still shaky, my shame, my embarrassment pushed me to go hide in my apartment. Another shock! At the curb, waiting for me, was Reds, whose real name I took from her card, Ms. DiLeonardo. I thanked her for her help and honestly told her I thought she was wonderful and that she most likely saved that woman’s life. ‘ I know I have been negligent for too long and tomorrow I will positively, absolutely, contact the Red Cross to sign up for the next class in CPR.’
‘Excellent idea, Ms. Eastwood. Now, please be honest with me. I know you looked in the patient’s purse and saw something shocking, so shocking that your mouth gaped like a volcano crater. I also saw you put the purse on the driver’s seat of the ambulance. What did you see?’
‘Sorry, it’s not for me to say. By now that purse has been examined by the police and if you want to know anything call them. They aren’t going to tell you either. My suggestion is, forget it or you may regret it. As for me, I’m taking my own advice. It is forgotten.’
FAT CHANCE!
Telepathy must have worked as a shiny red Lexus pulled up to the curb. A middle aged woman with obviously dyed red hair, got out of her car and rushed over to me and then the still unconscious woman. All I could do was blurt out what I had seen and how I had not helped her in any way. A cell phone was thrust into my hand. Call 911 NOW!’ That I could do. Reds was on her knees, thumping, pumping, breathing into the woman’s mouth. She kept it up even after noticing a slight twitch in the woman’s hand, then a tightening and loosening of her fist.
Whatever cars were on the street pulled to the curb as the siren and flashing red lights came zooming down the street. For all intents and purposes I was not there. ‘Mister, move it.’ Reds was gruffly asked to move, too. She spoke clearly, rapidly and told them all she knew, what she had done.
The one thing I had done was open the lady’s purse, found her driver’s license, insurance card, a red lipstick. There was a flowered silk kerchief on the bottom of the purse. I lifted it and gasped. There was a gun, a big gun, a Glock like Clint Eastwood handles with ease. Knowing nothing about unconscious people, and even less about guns, I did know enough not to touch it. I covered the frightening thing with the scarf, closed the bag and put it on the driver’s seat of the ambulance. Also left was my calling card in case somebody wanted to ask me questions.
Zoom, the red flashing light and ear popping sirens flew east to the closest hospital. Reds and I were alone. We talked, exchanged I.D.s. But I didn’t think it was any of her business about the gun so I said nothing. She drove away. My lovely early morning walk was a disaster. Still shaky, my shame, my embarrassment pushed me to go hide in my apartment. Another shock! At the curb, waiting for me, was Reds, whose real name I took from her card, Ms. DiLeonardo. I thanked her for her help and honestly told her I thought she was wonderful and that she most likely saved that woman’s life. ‘ I know I have been negligent for too long and tomorrow I will positively, absolutely, contact the Red Cross to sign up for the next class in CPR.’
‘Excellent idea, Ms. Eastwood. Now, please be honest with me. I know you looked in the patient’s purse and saw something shocking, so shocking that your mouth gaped like a volcano crater. I also saw you put the purse on the driver’s seat of the ambulance. What did you see?’
‘Sorry, it’s not for me to say. By now that purse has been examined by the police and if you want to know anything call them. They aren’t going to tell you either. My suggestion is, forget it or you may regret it. As for me, I’m taking my own advice. It is forgotten.’
FAT CHANCE!
Monday, October 19, 2009
METAMORPHOSIS
It was not unusual to find her crying. Charlotte had invited me over for tea and crumpets. She loves these mealy things she bakes and thinks I love them too. Often I crumble mine into nothingness or linger so long my tea is cold. My friend never seems to notice, doesn’t chide me, never bakes anything else.
My purring, lilting ‘Hi, Charlotte, ‘ was acknowledged by her blowing her nose into the paper napkin sitting beside her crumpet plate. My stomach churned a little as I handed her my napkin. ‘Is your wonderful English tea still brewing?’ I asked. Without a word, Charlotte stood, poured her perfect tea thru a silver strainer. This time it was flavored ever so lightly with strawberries,
Knowing my friend was chomping at the bit, I could delay no longer.’So, what’s wrong, Kiddo?’ Sobbing again, her words were difficult to make out. ‘What? What did you just say?’ ‘He’s packed! He’s gone! Except for you I have nobody. How’s that grab you?’ Pain tore her to pieces. Her shoulders shook. Her breathing was rapid and irregular. Tears and rage changed her into a wild tiger. The person I have known for 20 years suddenly became a stranger.
When she smacked me in the face, kicked me in the shins, my first reaction was shock. My second was to smack her back and I punched her, as hard as I could, right in her belly. She buckled and fell flat on the floor. A little blood came out of her nose, ran onto her lips. It must have tasted foul as she grimaced. My shin surely was bruised. Charlotte might throw up her next meal after the wallop I gave her stomach. I watched as she gritted her teeth, squinted her eyes and I feared she would have another go at me. Instead, she laughed, laughed so hard, she peed in her panties. That made me laugh even harder but I controlled my bladder.
‘Want another cup of tea, Flo?’ She never calls me Flo but that didn’t matter. I took the tea and was able to tell her a secret. ‘Charlotte, let that man go. He is no good and you have known it a long time. If there was ever a philanderer, your husband has it written on his forehead. Hold on. Don’t hit me again. Jake has made passes at me almost weekly. I kid with him, never, never took him seriously but other ladies have and still do. Don’t ask me names. All you can do is call a locksmith, change all the locks, empty his check book, fast, call your cousin Rob, the divorce lawyer. Just don’t take him back.
And if you hit me one more time, you won’t have me and you will really be alone. And here’s another item I have on my agenda, as soon as you calm down, please bake something else besides those crumpets of yours, something like a chocolate layer cake, knock on our wall, and we’ll have tea together.’
Two nights later Charlotte invited me over to try her 4 layer double Dutch chocolate cake. Her strong, perfect English tea brewed in a china pot. Jake sat between us. I didn’t mean to stare but the new 4 carat marquis diamond on Charlotte’s right index finger was enough to chase her blues away and I didn’t have to buy boxing gloves for my next visit.
My purring, lilting ‘Hi, Charlotte, ‘ was acknowledged by her blowing her nose into the paper napkin sitting beside her crumpet plate. My stomach churned a little as I handed her my napkin. ‘Is your wonderful English tea still brewing?’ I asked. Without a word, Charlotte stood, poured her perfect tea thru a silver strainer. This time it was flavored ever so lightly with strawberries,
Knowing my friend was chomping at the bit, I could delay no longer.’So, what’s wrong, Kiddo?’ Sobbing again, her words were difficult to make out. ‘What? What did you just say?’ ‘He’s packed! He’s gone! Except for you I have nobody. How’s that grab you?’ Pain tore her to pieces. Her shoulders shook. Her breathing was rapid and irregular. Tears and rage changed her into a wild tiger. The person I have known for 20 years suddenly became a stranger.
When she smacked me in the face, kicked me in the shins, my first reaction was shock. My second was to smack her back and I punched her, as hard as I could, right in her belly. She buckled and fell flat on the floor. A little blood came out of her nose, ran onto her lips. It must have tasted foul as she grimaced. My shin surely was bruised. Charlotte might throw up her next meal after the wallop I gave her stomach. I watched as she gritted her teeth, squinted her eyes and I feared she would have another go at me. Instead, she laughed, laughed so hard, she peed in her panties. That made me laugh even harder but I controlled my bladder.
‘Want another cup of tea, Flo?’ She never calls me Flo but that didn’t matter. I took the tea and was able to tell her a secret. ‘Charlotte, let that man go. He is no good and you have known it a long time. If there was ever a philanderer, your husband has it written on his forehead. Hold on. Don’t hit me again. Jake has made passes at me almost weekly. I kid with him, never, never took him seriously but other ladies have and still do. Don’t ask me names. All you can do is call a locksmith, change all the locks, empty his check book, fast, call your cousin Rob, the divorce lawyer. Just don’t take him back.
And if you hit me one more time, you won’t have me and you will really be alone. And here’s another item I have on my agenda, as soon as you calm down, please bake something else besides those crumpets of yours, something like a chocolate layer cake, knock on our wall, and we’ll have tea together.’
Two nights later Charlotte invited me over to try her 4 layer double Dutch chocolate cake. Her strong, perfect English tea brewed in a china pot. Jake sat between us. I didn’t mean to stare but the new 4 carat marquis diamond on Charlotte’s right index finger was enough to chase her blues away and I didn’t have to buy boxing gloves for my next visit.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
IT’S MINE ?
Sue left her leather sandals on her rumpled paisley beach towel while I set up the rental sunbrella. The second her naked feet touched the sand she nearly scared me to death. ‘Ouch, Ouch. Wow the sand is hot!’‘What did you expect, Sue, ice cubes?’ I watched her grow wings, almost fly to the water’s edge, and wade in up to her waist. Even yards away her sigh of contentment was visible to me, her Grandma.
I was not too happy being here and needed a quick cold cola fix. From the small but adequate cooler I removed a diet Pepsi, pulled at the tab and cussed myself as I again broke it and a finger nail. In desperation I motioned to a black teen selling lemonade, handed him a buck fifty, drank it so fast, I wanted another cup but decided to wait for Sue to handle Pepsi’s ‘gift’ to mankind, can tabs.
Along the water’s edge, kids were doing what kids have done for years, even I, many moons ago. Castles grew and dissolved away. Little bodies were buried up to their heads. Two old bow-legged ladies put their toes in the water, then their ankles, their knees and dove in. They swam like happy seals. Silently I applauded their vigor.
The sun’s reflection of the greenish water infiltrated my skin with too many gamma rays. In a few weeks my dermatologist will surely be zapping new keretosis, maybe even biopsies, on my red arms and chest. This beach stuff never was, still isn’t, my favorite place to be. In fact, I despise it but pretend it’s great, just to keep my grand daughter company–at least until she can meet a young man, hopefully starting college. She gave up on the silliness of high school boys when she became a senior.
Enough time finally passed. I put my car keys and few dollars in my robe and walked down to be with Sue. She was in the middle of a group of children, barely out of reach of the soft waves as they kissed the sand and hurried back to their fold. ‘Grandma, sit with us. Why are you wearing that terry cloth robe? Aren’t you hot?’ ‘Young lady, do you think I like this robe? I have my car keys and money in the pocket. Just because other people leave their valuables unattended doesn’t mean I have to be foolish, too. How about coming back to the sunbrella now? You will some day regret not listening to me.’ Sue told the kids she’d see them later. We walked as fast as we could to the shade.
We talked. We read. We ate cheese/turkey sandwiches and Sue, with ease, pulled the Pepsi tab up for me. I gurgled down the bubbly coolness and burped a few times. I felt better, not so lonely, neglected. Sue and I put our empty sandwich bags into a large plastic one I brought along. It held our soft drink empties and tabs, paper plates, until we would reach the trash bin.
Why I began to put my hands in the sand, sift it through my fingers, I didn’t know. There was no purpose other than avoid idleness. I dug a hole until I reached wet sand, pulled out a few small pieces of broken shells and felt something else. ‘Sue, Sue, look at this!’ I shouted, but not too loudly. ‘I found a ring! Here, take it. Hold it carefully, tight, and wash it off at the water fountain. Bring it right back.’ Cleaned off, I had no doubt this was a diamond, a lovely, clear diamond. There were two baguettes on each side of the emerald cut stone. ‘Let’s clean up and go home, Sue.’
The following day I took it to Malcomb’s jewelers at the mall just to see if the stone was real. ‘Yes, Ma am. This looks like close to 3 carats, no blemishes as far as I can tell. Was this your mother’s?’ I didn’t answer, gave no information, thanked the salesman and went home. The first thing I did was look in the Lost and Found column of the two local papers, being just about sure there would be no ad for this ring. And there wasn’t. It must have been lost some time ago. For two weeks I watched the ads. Finally, I placed one myself. ‘Found, a piece of jewelry at the beach on July 8. Call 505-542-6549. Identify it correctly and it will be yours.’ The ad cost me $15 but I could not live with myself if I didn’t attempt to return it to its owner. During the next 3 days, 20 calls came, not one even close to what was laying upstairs in my jewel box. Sue asked me every day if I gave it to somebody yet. My answer was always the same, ‘No, Darling. It seems this ring is going to be mine for sometime. Some day it will be yours.’
My story ends with me wanting my grand daughter to have this beautiful ring, but not too soon.
I was not too happy being here and needed a quick cold cola fix. From the small but adequate cooler I removed a diet Pepsi, pulled at the tab and cussed myself as I again broke it and a finger nail. In desperation I motioned to a black teen selling lemonade, handed him a buck fifty, drank it so fast, I wanted another cup but decided to wait for Sue to handle Pepsi’s ‘gift’ to mankind, can tabs.
Along the water’s edge, kids were doing what kids have done for years, even I, many moons ago. Castles grew and dissolved away. Little bodies were buried up to their heads. Two old bow-legged ladies put their toes in the water, then their ankles, their knees and dove in. They swam like happy seals. Silently I applauded their vigor.
The sun’s reflection of the greenish water infiltrated my skin with too many gamma rays. In a few weeks my dermatologist will surely be zapping new keretosis, maybe even biopsies, on my red arms and chest. This beach stuff never was, still isn’t, my favorite place to be. In fact, I despise it but pretend it’s great, just to keep my grand daughter company–at least until she can meet a young man, hopefully starting college. She gave up on the silliness of high school boys when she became a senior.
Enough time finally passed. I put my car keys and few dollars in my robe and walked down to be with Sue. She was in the middle of a group of children, barely out of reach of the soft waves as they kissed the sand and hurried back to their fold. ‘Grandma, sit with us. Why are you wearing that terry cloth robe? Aren’t you hot?’ ‘Young lady, do you think I like this robe? I have my car keys and money in the pocket. Just because other people leave their valuables unattended doesn’t mean I have to be foolish, too. How about coming back to the sunbrella now? You will some day regret not listening to me.’ Sue told the kids she’d see them later. We walked as fast as we could to the shade.
We talked. We read. We ate cheese/turkey sandwiches and Sue, with ease, pulled the Pepsi tab up for me. I gurgled down the bubbly coolness and burped a few times. I felt better, not so lonely, neglected. Sue and I put our empty sandwich bags into a large plastic one I brought along. It held our soft drink empties and tabs, paper plates, until we would reach the trash bin.
Why I began to put my hands in the sand, sift it through my fingers, I didn’t know. There was no purpose other than avoid idleness. I dug a hole until I reached wet sand, pulled out a few small pieces of broken shells and felt something else. ‘Sue, Sue, look at this!’ I shouted, but not too loudly. ‘I found a ring! Here, take it. Hold it carefully, tight, and wash it off at the water fountain. Bring it right back.’ Cleaned off, I had no doubt this was a diamond, a lovely, clear diamond. There were two baguettes on each side of the emerald cut stone. ‘Let’s clean up and go home, Sue.’
The following day I took it to Malcomb’s jewelers at the mall just to see if the stone was real. ‘Yes, Ma am. This looks like close to 3 carats, no blemishes as far as I can tell. Was this your mother’s?’ I didn’t answer, gave no information, thanked the salesman and went home. The first thing I did was look in the Lost and Found column of the two local papers, being just about sure there would be no ad for this ring. And there wasn’t. It must have been lost some time ago. For two weeks I watched the ads. Finally, I placed one myself. ‘Found, a piece of jewelry at the beach on July 8. Call 505-542-6549. Identify it correctly and it will be yours.’ The ad cost me $15 but I could not live with myself if I didn’t attempt to return it to its owner. During the next 3 days, 20 calls came, not one even close to what was laying upstairs in my jewel box. Sue asked me every day if I gave it to somebody yet. My answer was always the same, ‘No, Darling. It seems this ring is going to be mine for sometime. Some day it will be yours.’
My story ends with me wanting my grand daughter to have this beautiful ring, but not too soon.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
AVON CALLING
The door bell chimed. It chimed again and again. I hated it even when it chimed only once. My sister, Nancy, thought it would be cute if our doorbell played a happy greeting. I didn’t like the idea but she went ahead, without my approval, and set it up to play ‘Merrily We Roll Along, Roll Along, da da da de da.’ She would ring the bell herself just to hear it and annoy me. This time I can’t answer the door no matter who is bugging me. I died two days ago. All I can do is lie here waiting for Nancy to come back from Annapolis. Wow! This is going to freak her out, especially if I’m already wormy.
So far I know nothing about death except I’m not breathing. There was no long bright tunnel to enter when my heart stopped beating. No angel, devil, pushed me, pulled me, lifted me. My mind works a little but when I tried a mathematical equation, I got blip. Sounds like that god-awful chime come in clear. Once I thought I felt my heart start to beat when a car drove past my house during the nite and the driver honked over and over. It must have been like an electric shock treatment. Maybe if Nancy comes home today I can still be revived.
I’m so bored, don’t know for sure if I’m sleeping or awake. Nothing hurts. Nothing feels good. I’m not hot, cold or luke-warm. My fall asleep nite game lights up my dull thoughts. I’ll make a list of all words I can think of that begin with letter ‘A’. There are hundreds, thousands. I start, ‘apple, ace, are, able, yes, come, stay.’That does not work.
Maybe a prayer is the way to go–come back to life. ‘God, god, take me to heaven now or send me to hell. Do something. If I’m going to rot, at least send somebody here to put me in a box and bury me so I don’t hear that infernal chime ever again. OR, god, let me breathe again, get up from this bed that seems harder and harder. Give me a chance to do some good on this earth.’
A noise, a loud rumble fills my thoughts, my ears. Mist begins to slide into my room. It rises slightly, curls around me. My vision is fading. ‘God, what are you doing?’ I hear wheels, wheels that sound like my 10 speed bike. It s peddles turn by themselves. A force I cannot see stops the bike by my bedside and I am lifted by nobody, put on the seat. ‘What do I do now, god?’ God, the Omnipotent, ignores me.
I have no control. My feet start to churn. Music sounds and I hear myself singing, ‘Merrily We Roll Along, Roll Along.’ There is no ‘a da da de da’ and I am gone.
So far I know nothing about death except I’m not breathing. There was no long bright tunnel to enter when my heart stopped beating. No angel, devil, pushed me, pulled me, lifted me. My mind works a little but when I tried a mathematical equation, I got blip. Sounds like that god-awful chime come in clear. Once I thought I felt my heart start to beat when a car drove past my house during the nite and the driver honked over and over. It must have been like an electric shock treatment. Maybe if Nancy comes home today I can still be revived.
I’m so bored, don’t know for sure if I’m sleeping or awake. Nothing hurts. Nothing feels good. I’m not hot, cold or luke-warm. My fall asleep nite game lights up my dull thoughts. I’ll make a list of all words I can think of that begin with letter ‘A’. There are hundreds, thousands. I start, ‘apple, ace, are, able, yes, come, stay.’That does not work.
Maybe a prayer is the way to go–come back to life. ‘God, god, take me to heaven now or send me to hell. Do something. If I’m going to rot, at least send somebody here to put me in a box and bury me so I don’t hear that infernal chime ever again. OR, god, let me breathe again, get up from this bed that seems harder and harder. Give me a chance to do some good on this earth.’
A noise, a loud rumble fills my thoughts, my ears. Mist begins to slide into my room. It rises slightly, curls around me. My vision is fading. ‘God, what are you doing?’ I hear wheels, wheels that sound like my 10 speed bike. It s peddles turn by themselves. A force I cannot see stops the bike by my bedside and I am lifted by nobody, put on the seat. ‘What do I do now, god?’ God, the Omnipotent, ignores me.
I have no control. My feet start to churn. Music sounds and I hear myself singing, ‘Merrily We Roll Along, Roll Along.’ There is no ‘a da da de da’ and I am gone.
Friday, October 16, 2009
TOUCH THEE NOT
To me, a curious eight year old, my mother’s dresser was a treasure chest. Many times when she wasn’t home I explored its drawers, its cabinet. It was my grown up Pretend Land, a place Mother didn’t know I visited. In the corner of a narrow drawer was a finely woven straw box that held her silk stockings, the ones that had runs in them. She thought Dad didn’t know she wore them under long skirts, but I did. Being careful not to rip them more, all I wanted to do was feel silk on my legs. It didn’t work out like I thought. My toe nails caught on it and I ripped a huge hole in the top. Rolled up, it fit into my panties so I could squeeze it into the outside trash can without Mother missing it. Whew, I felt relieved.
On top of her bureau, sitting like a queen’s crown, was Mother’s jewelry box, a box I could reach. The diamond clip that Mother wore on her only ball gown looked beautiful on my pink sweater–until the pin opened and the clip hit the wooden floor. I saw something glittery on the scatter rug next to Mother’s bed and knew it came out of the pin. I also knew I couldn’t fix it. Two choices were clear. #1 was admit I was in Mother’s room, playing with her jewelry, and I had an accident. #2 I could return the pin to the jewelry box and not say a word. Back into the box it went and out of the room went I.
Had that taught me not to snoop? NO. I had noticed a metal box underneath a long flannel nightgown that I had never seen before. What was in it? Why was it hidden? It made no noise when I shook it but I felt something move. My small hand was not strong enough to open it and I had to leave it alone.
It was an ugly, rainy day in April and Mother was out for her bridge game all afternoon. Marcelene, the day worker, was busy cleaning the ice box, washing the kitchen linoleum, not paying attention to me. Once in a while, she shouted up the stair well, ‘You o.k., Gloria?’ and I would yell as loud as I could. ‘Yes.’ On that rainy day I made a big mistake. Mother’s make-up drawer had tempted me for a long time. I gave in and slid it open. Her big box of bath powder was closed tight. There were brown and black pencils, an eye lash curler and a fancy box of her almost used up red, red lipsticks. ‘Marcelene,’ I called. ‘Can I play Indians?’ She gave me her permission as long as I didn’t break anything. I took the longest red lipstick I could find and 2 pencils and started making designs all over my face and neck. I zigged the pencils, made dots and circles around my eyes as I watched in the bureau mirror. I was ready. My war paint was on and I whooped and I hollered, I jumped on the bed and I fell down. Lipstick and black lines got all over the chenille bed spread.
Mother called to me. ‘Gloria, I’m home. Come down. Mrs. Goldman gave me a large ball of multicolored wool and two knitting needles for you. I’ll teach you how to knit.’ I didn’t answer Mother. ‘‘Gloria, come down here or I’m coming up!’ I didn’t answer. Mother’s scream brought Marcelene running up the stairs. Mother grabbed me by my pigtails without saying anything. She pulled me into the bathroom, took an old clean towel out of the linen closet, told me to hold it tight over my eyes while she scrubbed my face hard with yellow Octagon floor soap.It burned. My face was on fire. ‘Stop it, Big Chief Insane Child. Close that mouth of yours or the soap will go in there. Stop squirming! Wait until your father hears what you did. This wash is nothing compared to what he will do to you.’
Dad listened while Mother talked and I cried. He rolled up the morning paper and whipped my tush with it. With a stern face and his Papa Bear deep voice he took away my weekly 25 cent allowance for six months.‘Mother, Gloria didn’t mean to do damage. I’ll give you her allowance and you will have enough to buy a new blanket, and you, Child, stay out of our bedroom.’
Of course, I didn’t, but I was more careful. There was that one round metal box that I couldn’t open. It ate me up. I did open it when I was 11 and strong enough. There was a big rubber thing inside, wrapped in soft tan chamois. Why did Mother keep that thing hidden? What was it for? Carefullly I closed the tin box, put it back under a satin night gown, and still didn’t know what it was. I never mentioned it to my mother or to anyone but you.
If you can even guess, please put a 6 cent airmail stamp on a letter to me. If it sounds okay and logical, I may ask my old mother about it.My address is Mrs. Dru Ferguson, 1012 S. Michigan Dr., Michigan.
Thanks.
On top of her bureau, sitting like a queen’s crown, was Mother’s jewelry box, a box I could reach. The diamond clip that Mother wore on her only ball gown looked beautiful on my pink sweater–until the pin opened and the clip hit the wooden floor. I saw something glittery on the scatter rug next to Mother’s bed and knew it came out of the pin. I also knew I couldn’t fix it. Two choices were clear. #1 was admit I was in Mother’s room, playing with her jewelry, and I had an accident. #2 I could return the pin to the jewelry box and not say a word. Back into the box it went and out of the room went I.
Had that taught me not to snoop? NO. I had noticed a metal box underneath a long flannel nightgown that I had never seen before. What was in it? Why was it hidden? It made no noise when I shook it but I felt something move. My small hand was not strong enough to open it and I had to leave it alone.
It was an ugly, rainy day in April and Mother was out for her bridge game all afternoon. Marcelene, the day worker, was busy cleaning the ice box, washing the kitchen linoleum, not paying attention to me. Once in a while, she shouted up the stair well, ‘You o.k., Gloria?’ and I would yell as loud as I could. ‘Yes.’ On that rainy day I made a big mistake. Mother’s make-up drawer had tempted me for a long time. I gave in and slid it open. Her big box of bath powder was closed tight. There were brown and black pencils, an eye lash curler and a fancy box of her almost used up red, red lipsticks. ‘Marcelene,’ I called. ‘Can I play Indians?’ She gave me her permission as long as I didn’t break anything. I took the longest red lipstick I could find and 2 pencils and started making designs all over my face and neck. I zigged the pencils, made dots and circles around my eyes as I watched in the bureau mirror. I was ready. My war paint was on and I whooped and I hollered, I jumped on the bed and I fell down. Lipstick and black lines got all over the chenille bed spread.
Mother called to me. ‘Gloria, I’m home. Come down. Mrs. Goldman gave me a large ball of multicolored wool and two knitting needles for you. I’ll teach you how to knit.’ I didn’t answer Mother. ‘‘Gloria, come down here or I’m coming up!’ I didn’t answer. Mother’s scream brought Marcelene running up the stairs. Mother grabbed me by my pigtails without saying anything. She pulled me into the bathroom, took an old clean towel out of the linen closet, told me to hold it tight over my eyes while she scrubbed my face hard with yellow Octagon floor soap.It burned. My face was on fire. ‘Stop it, Big Chief Insane Child. Close that mouth of yours or the soap will go in there. Stop squirming! Wait until your father hears what you did. This wash is nothing compared to what he will do to you.’
Dad listened while Mother talked and I cried. He rolled up the morning paper and whipped my tush with it. With a stern face and his Papa Bear deep voice he took away my weekly 25 cent allowance for six months.‘Mother, Gloria didn’t mean to do damage. I’ll give you her allowance and you will have enough to buy a new blanket, and you, Child, stay out of our bedroom.’
Of course, I didn’t, but I was more careful. There was that one round metal box that I couldn’t open. It ate me up. I did open it when I was 11 and strong enough. There was a big rubber thing inside, wrapped in soft tan chamois. Why did Mother keep that thing hidden? What was it for? Carefullly I closed the tin box, put it back under a satin night gown, and still didn’t know what it was. I never mentioned it to my mother or to anyone but you.
If you can even guess, please put a 6 cent airmail stamp on a letter to me. If it sounds okay and logical, I may ask my old mother about it.My address is Mrs. Dru Ferguson, 1012 S. Michigan Dr., Michigan.
Thanks.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
BY CHANCE
I met a man last week, quite by chance. We were about 5 feet apart, standing in the street, trying to hail a cab. The rain had not yet started plummeting Duval Circle but was on its way. At last a cab pulled over, stopping between us. The stranger opened the door for me, held it steady in the wind, bowed ever so slightly, and motioned for me to enter. There was no chance for me to say ‘thank you,’ as in an eye’s blink, he was sitting beside me. He put a black bag on the floor between his feet, placed his hands on his lap, and asked where I was headed. My voice was loud enough for the cabbie to hear, ‘1719 N.E. Rittenhouse Square, please.’
The cabbie asked the gentleman, ‘And you, Mister?’ ‘ Saradon Hospital, Emergency Entrance. That’s S.E. from here.’ ‘Mr., I know where it is. Do you two want to toss a coin to see which way I go?’ ‘No, Driver. I’m not in a hurry. If need be, by all means, go to the hospital first.’ A hand and a smile reached me. ‘I’m Dr. Caldwell and do have a patient waiting for me. Ending with a question mark, he said, ‘Thank you-- Miss? I’ll cover the fare.’ The cabbie braked and made a U turn. We headed S.E. ‘Jane Doe. Really doctor. Jane Doe. Don’t laugh. It’s been a load to carry all these years.’
‘Miss Doe, may I be so bold as to ask why you are crying?’ ‘What are you talking about? I’m not crying.’ At the emergency entrance Dr. Faery only had time to hand me his card, pay the fare and ask me to call him. I didn’t respond and he didn’t look back.
At home, I looked in the mirror. My eyes were not red, not blood shot. Why had the doctor thought I was crying? All I could see in my magnifying glass was a very pretty blue right eye and equally pretty one in the left. They both were shiny, moist. As I stared at myself, a small tear drop slithered from my right eye. Then another dribbled from the left. I blamed it on reading too many fashion mags, fast read detective stories. My delicious vegetable soup that I had left out to thaw in the morning just waited for me to set the microwave timer to 2 min. The doctor’s card in my purse began to call to me. It was an ordinary but classy looking card, George Caldwell, M.D., F.S.C.S. Board Certified & Fellow American College of Surgeons and American Academy of Ophthalmology - Saradon Hospital, Chevy Chase, MD. 21212 410-365-5544.
I began to get nervous. What did he see without examining me? Waiting until morning would be forever but that is what I did. At 10 a.m. the answering machine took my message to have Dr. Caldwell call when he gets a moment. His ‘moment’ didn’t come until the next afternoon. He was pleasant and turned me over to his secretary for an appointment the following Wednesday. I liked his voice and remembered his smile. I couldn’t help myself but wondered if there is a Mrs. George Caldwell.
‘Nice to see you again, Miss Doe. When did you have your eyes checked last?’ I felt a chill in his voice. My reply sounded stupid even to me. ‘No idea. I see fine.’ ‘Your neglect is wrong. What is more important than sight?’ ‘Dr. Caldwell, I do appreciate your seeing me but I really don’t want a lecture.’ That’s when his back went up. I had not been nice. ‘Well, listen anyhow. It is quite simple to start. You have ‘dry eyes’ and if you neglect yourself it is going to worsen. In fact, shut your ears if you don’t want to know. You will have them as long as you live and they do get worse unless you keep them moist. Do you want to hear how?’
Ungrateful me, I replied, ‘No, I don’t,’ and started to leave. The almighty Dr. Caldwell asked me to cool off, sit down and listen to him.Reluctantly, I did. ‘The tear ducts in your eyes are not working full time. They are dry, need liquid. You may go to as many ophthalmologists as you like, but will get the same diagnosis. This is what you must do. Use warm to hot compresses on them, a minimum of twice a day. Wait a minute or two after each and put one drop of any brand of dry eye drops you learn to prefer in each eye, as often as you like. They will do no harm and do give relief. My nurse will give you written instructions on how to correctly put the drops in. She’ll also give you some samples to test.’ He went on without a pause. ‘Miss Doe, there is no charge for this visit. If you choose to return for proper eye care, I will be glad to have you as a patient. You are free to choose the brand of drops and doctor.’
I apologized for my rudeness and thanked him for the information. He shook my hand and I left. Suddenly it seemed ½ of the people I know have dry eyes. The super market shelves, pharmacies, bulge with dozens of brands, I had never heard of. The competition is every bit as wild as Coke/Pepsi.
After a month of wasting more drops on my cheeks than went in my eyes, I chose GenTeal as the most comfortable drops for me and made another appointment with Dr. Caldwell. After a full eye check up by several techs and the doctor, I had to start wearing reading glasses.
No fool I. I complained more than I should about the glasses and the drops, insisting on seeing Dr. Caldwell each appointment. Finally I stopped the sham as he became more to me than my doctor.
And after 6 months I stopped going to his office any more. He began coming to me. I’ve fixed meals, handled his other needs and he has never sent me a bill. Good deal all around. We both ended up winners.
The cabbie asked the gentleman, ‘And you, Mister?’ ‘ Saradon Hospital, Emergency Entrance. That’s S.E. from here.’ ‘Mr., I know where it is. Do you two want to toss a coin to see which way I go?’ ‘No, Driver. I’m not in a hurry. If need be, by all means, go to the hospital first.’ A hand and a smile reached me. ‘I’m Dr. Caldwell and do have a patient waiting for me. Ending with a question mark, he said, ‘Thank you-- Miss? I’ll cover the fare.’ The cabbie braked and made a U turn. We headed S.E. ‘Jane Doe. Really doctor. Jane Doe. Don’t laugh. It’s been a load to carry all these years.’
‘Miss Doe, may I be so bold as to ask why you are crying?’ ‘What are you talking about? I’m not crying.’ At the emergency entrance Dr. Faery only had time to hand me his card, pay the fare and ask me to call him. I didn’t respond and he didn’t look back.
At home, I looked in the mirror. My eyes were not red, not blood shot. Why had the doctor thought I was crying? All I could see in my magnifying glass was a very pretty blue right eye and equally pretty one in the left. They both were shiny, moist. As I stared at myself, a small tear drop slithered from my right eye. Then another dribbled from the left. I blamed it on reading too many fashion mags, fast read detective stories. My delicious vegetable soup that I had left out to thaw in the morning just waited for me to set the microwave timer to 2 min. The doctor’s card in my purse began to call to me. It was an ordinary but classy looking card, George Caldwell, M.D., F.S.C.S. Board Certified & Fellow American College of Surgeons and American Academy of Ophthalmology - Saradon Hospital, Chevy Chase, MD. 21212 410-365-5544.
I began to get nervous. What did he see without examining me? Waiting until morning would be forever but that is what I did. At 10 a.m. the answering machine took my message to have Dr. Caldwell call when he gets a moment. His ‘moment’ didn’t come until the next afternoon. He was pleasant and turned me over to his secretary for an appointment the following Wednesday. I liked his voice and remembered his smile. I couldn’t help myself but wondered if there is a Mrs. George Caldwell.
‘Nice to see you again, Miss Doe. When did you have your eyes checked last?’ I felt a chill in his voice. My reply sounded stupid even to me. ‘No idea. I see fine.’ ‘Your neglect is wrong. What is more important than sight?’ ‘Dr. Caldwell, I do appreciate your seeing me but I really don’t want a lecture.’ That’s when his back went up. I had not been nice. ‘Well, listen anyhow. It is quite simple to start. You have ‘dry eyes’ and if you neglect yourself it is going to worsen. In fact, shut your ears if you don’t want to know. You will have them as long as you live and they do get worse unless you keep them moist. Do you want to hear how?’
Ungrateful me, I replied, ‘No, I don’t,’ and started to leave. The almighty Dr. Caldwell asked me to cool off, sit down and listen to him.Reluctantly, I did. ‘The tear ducts in your eyes are not working full time. They are dry, need liquid. You may go to as many ophthalmologists as you like, but will get the same diagnosis. This is what you must do. Use warm to hot compresses on them, a minimum of twice a day. Wait a minute or two after each and put one drop of any brand of dry eye drops you learn to prefer in each eye, as often as you like. They will do no harm and do give relief. My nurse will give you written instructions on how to correctly put the drops in. She’ll also give you some samples to test.’ He went on without a pause. ‘Miss Doe, there is no charge for this visit. If you choose to return for proper eye care, I will be glad to have you as a patient. You are free to choose the brand of drops and doctor.’
I apologized for my rudeness and thanked him for the information. He shook my hand and I left. Suddenly it seemed ½ of the people I know have dry eyes. The super market shelves, pharmacies, bulge with dozens of brands, I had never heard of. The competition is every bit as wild as Coke/Pepsi.
After a month of wasting more drops on my cheeks than went in my eyes, I chose GenTeal as the most comfortable drops for me and made another appointment with Dr. Caldwell. After a full eye check up by several techs and the doctor, I had to start wearing reading glasses.
No fool I. I complained more than I should about the glasses and the drops, insisting on seeing Dr. Caldwell each appointment. Finally I stopped the sham as he became more to me than my doctor.
And after 6 months I stopped going to his office any more. He began coming to me. I’ve fixed meals, handled his other needs and he has never sent me a bill. Good deal all around. We both ended up winners.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
NEWS TO ME
I’m sitting alone on a park bench, tired, so tired from endless, useless shopping. My shoes burn. I take them off and slip them under the bench, wiggle my toes so they can breathe fresh air. The grass feels cool, delightful. With no hesitation, no embarrassment, I slide off my knee high nylon hose and let the green stuff caress my feet. Their white nakedness astounds me.
Prams, skate boarders, bikes disappear, go into their own space. Mine is here, with my feet. Hopefully my lips don’t move as I start a conversation with them. ‘Hey, Big Toes! How come the left one is bigger than the right? I never noticed that before.’ An ant runs across my instep. ‘Get the hell off my foot. Busy yourself elsewhere.’ One shake, two shakes and it moves on to other pastures.
The grass exudes a green that grows darker, deeper as I watch. It pillows my arches. I look around, see nobody watching, and rub them gently. Not a passerby glances at me, clucks her tongue at my rudeness. Let one single cluck come my way and I will put the Evil Eye on the clucker.
How come the toe next to my biggest one (the one with a slight case of fungus) is longer than the big toe? It is so skinny I believe it is empty except for a bone and a blood vessel, maybe a little calcium. If it is empty of veins, no tissue, no fat, what lets it wiggle, sometimes get numb?
I rub the right foot and compare it to the left. Yikes, there’s a water blister ready to pop. I don’t have a band aid with me. Trouble looms. The toe next to it is long, but not as long as the other second toe. My feet are freaky. The three not yet examined stare at me. They are a sliding board to the little toes that are so small there are no toenails to cut. When I put red polish on the other four, I dab the little ones too and nobody knows my secret.
The podiatrist told me I have a Planter’s Wart under my heel and it should be removed. It doesn’t hurt and since I didn’t plant it, I let it alone.
The last shoe salesman to whom I almost crawled in search of great looking flats, threw me a curve. The arch on my right foot has fallen so no flat will hug the foot. He hands me a card and recommends a place where I can be fitted for a single arch. It goes in my purse until I am out of his sight and then it is out of my purse, into the closest trash can.
The 7 N I wore as a young person became 7 ½ N about 8 years ago and the last shoes I didn’t buy were 8 1/2 M. Manufacturers must be playing tricks on the public, forcing us to reconsider sizes. I’m not fooled. The 8 1/2 M did feel comfortable but only came in black and I wanted tan. No sale.
Time to take a chance, go home. I put my knee high nylons back on my tootsies that I pray will fit into my shoes still under the bench. I shake them and two ants run away.
With only the tiniest of smiles on my face, I hum, ‘Feet, feet, do your duty. Here comes Bella, a faded beauty,’ and I walk gingerly back to the parking lot.
Prams, skate boarders, bikes disappear, go into their own space. Mine is here, with my feet. Hopefully my lips don’t move as I start a conversation with them. ‘Hey, Big Toes! How come the left one is bigger than the right? I never noticed that before.’ An ant runs across my instep. ‘Get the hell off my foot. Busy yourself elsewhere.’ One shake, two shakes and it moves on to other pastures.
The grass exudes a green that grows darker, deeper as I watch. It pillows my arches. I look around, see nobody watching, and rub them gently. Not a passerby glances at me, clucks her tongue at my rudeness. Let one single cluck come my way and I will put the Evil Eye on the clucker.
How come the toe next to my biggest one (the one with a slight case of fungus) is longer than the big toe? It is so skinny I believe it is empty except for a bone and a blood vessel, maybe a little calcium. If it is empty of veins, no tissue, no fat, what lets it wiggle, sometimes get numb?
I rub the right foot and compare it to the left. Yikes, there’s a water blister ready to pop. I don’t have a band aid with me. Trouble looms. The toe next to it is long, but not as long as the other second toe. My feet are freaky. The three not yet examined stare at me. They are a sliding board to the little toes that are so small there are no toenails to cut. When I put red polish on the other four, I dab the little ones too and nobody knows my secret.
The podiatrist told me I have a Planter’s Wart under my heel and it should be removed. It doesn’t hurt and since I didn’t plant it, I let it alone.
The last shoe salesman to whom I almost crawled in search of great looking flats, threw me a curve. The arch on my right foot has fallen so no flat will hug the foot. He hands me a card and recommends a place where I can be fitted for a single arch. It goes in my purse until I am out of his sight and then it is out of my purse, into the closest trash can.
The 7 N I wore as a young person became 7 ½ N about 8 years ago and the last shoes I didn’t buy were 8 1/2 M. Manufacturers must be playing tricks on the public, forcing us to reconsider sizes. I’m not fooled. The 8 1/2 M did feel comfortable but only came in black and I wanted tan. No sale.
Time to take a chance, go home. I put my knee high nylons back on my tootsies that I pray will fit into my shoes still under the bench. I shake them and two ants run away.
With only the tiniest of smiles on my face, I hum, ‘Feet, feet, do your duty. Here comes Bella, a faded beauty,’ and I walk gingerly back to the parking lot.
Monday, October 12, 2009
JEWS EXILED TO THE MOON
This is a long story, but it is worth reading every word. The writer of this brilliant piece remains unknown. It was posted to a blog on the internet June 18, 2009.
The Jews settled the moon in 2053, just about five years after the end of the Islamic Wars of the 40's, where the Middle East, and Israel , of course, had been obliterated by nuclear weapons. The two million Jews remaining throughout the rest of the world - less than 100,000 total in all the Islamic countries - banded together and purchased the dark side of the moon, which no other companies or people wished to colonize.
Great transports were arranged via the 62,000 mile space elevator and the Space Shuttle and every Jew on Earth - including anyone who claimed any Jewish heritage whatsoever - left to go to a place where no one could blame them for anything.
The Earth rejoiced - happily rid of all Jews There were huge parties throughout all of Sweden and the rest of Europe, Africa, Asia, South America and North America . (Now known as the Northern Alliance of Islamic States after the United States was taken over peacefully in the elections of 2040 by a predominantly Muslim Congress and President, who immediately passed amendments making Islam the main religion of the United States and the world
After the last Jew entered the elevator (a David Goldstein, 62, formerly of New York ), the Earth was officially declared Judenrein by Hans Ibn Hitler, a great, great-grandson of Hitler who had been raised in Brazil and hidden by Nazis until this precious moment.
It was not an easy move for the Jews but, in some ways, it was no different from all their moves of previous eras. Some former Israelis (still alive because they were out of Israel when the bombs dropped) claimed that the moon was easier to deal with because there were no Extremist Muslims. Of course, this precipitated a huge argument with some Jews, who felt not having the Radical Muslims nearby was not enough challenge.
Other Jews argued that taming a wilderness with no atmosphere, plant or animal life and freezing temperatures was enough challenge. And yet other Jews argued that arguing was counterproductive. It came as no surprise to anyone that for the two million Jews, there were eventually one million synagogues (with the other million Jews not joining).
It was also no surprise that within just three years, the Jews had created a controlled environment that allowed for fantastic plant and animal growth and production. The transports, which had been called the Arks, had also carried two of each animal and plant (remember, Noah), and through the ingenuity of the Jews and cloning, there were now many new species which sped up production of food (cows with six udders, chickens with four legs and so forth). The population had rapidly increased and, due to the amazing collection of scientific and medical minds, most diseases and even aging had been reduced to nil.
There was even a ministry of communication with Earth, consisting of the remains of Hollywood producers and moviemakers, who sent back to Earth portraits of life on the moon. Of course, it had been decided when the Jews first got to the moon - based on six-thousand- year history of people being jealous of Jewish accomplishment - that all news coverage of the moon's population would be 'movie-ized' to show only horrible things. The film industry, led by Jordan Spielberg, went to great lengths to fabricate news clips to show Jews barely surviving in the harsh lunar habitat. Artists and engineers laboured to cover over vast environmental successes with illusionary domes showing massive areas of wasteland - just in case anyone from Earth ever sent a spaceship with cameras to see what was going on.
But no-one ever did, and the years passed rapidly; one decade, then another. Bar mitzvahs, weddings, brises, all celebrated under the artificial world that the Jews had created - not only had it not been that bad, but by the end of the century, some Jewish authors were calling the moon colony - Eden 2'.
Of course other Jews disagreed. In fact, much time was spent on disagreeing. There were even contests for arguing but, in general, there was peace. Anyone who threatened the peace was forced to officiate at a contest with people arguing about why that person was wrong. The contests would go on for days (sometimes weeks), until the troublemaker begged for forgiveness. (Many penalties on the moon were similar to this, and were extremely effective.)
Back on Earth, life disintegrated without the Jews. There was a return to Middle Ages thought - only the current religion du jour was valid - all others were kept legislated into poverty until a war erupted and the positions changed for a few years.
Another amazing anomaly appeared when there were no longer any Jews on Earth - anti-Semitism actually increased to monumental proportions! Famous orators explained this simply by saying: 'I don't have to have a gun to be afraid of having my brains blown out.' Additionally, without the presence of the Jew, the world developed incredible evil that had no release. (Previous evil had always focused on the Jews. One Rabbi on the moon actually said G-d spoke to him, and said that He, G-d, was about to destroy the Earth because everyone on the Earth was evil. The Rabbi begged Him to reconsider, and bargained that if there were 1,000 good people left on Earth, G-d should spare the planet. G-d then told the Rabbi, 'Hey, I went through this before with Abraham and Noah, and I already know the answer because I'm G-d.'
People laughed at the Rabbi, but then, one day, while all the lunar citizens were going about their business, an enormous series of explosions was seen on the Earth. Everyone on the moon stared at the distant fireballs that seemed to engulf the blue planet that was once their home.
Although there had been great anger at being forced to leave the Earth, the true spirit of Judaism was always present on the moon, and no one had wished ill on to their former home. As in the tradition of the Seder (when the wine is spilled because the Egyptians perished, and we do not rejoice fully when even an enemy has died) when the Jews saw what was happening, they began to weep and pray, and watch what was to be the final news broadcast from Earth. The horror of the apocalypse was videotaped by cameras until all electricity was ionised by the new electron bombs Entire countries were wiped away in the blink of an ion exploding. And then came the final transmission from the nation that had started the entire mess - it was a desperate headline screamed by a hundred dying newscasters. Their rant continued until it was just blackness. What were they saying? As the Jews watched, some gasped, others cried, and a few even laughed. For the last words of the disappearing civilization was a condemnation. 'The Jews have caused all our problems - they left us here to face the mess they made. If the Jews hadn't taken all the best scientists and engineers, we could have defeated our enemies. Our enemies are the Jews! Kill all the Jews.'
It took a little while, but the electronics experts pieced together what had happened on Earth during its last days. Anti-Semitism, which had grown stronger and stronger since the Jews had left, had reached its pinnacle, and all the countries of the world had decided to launch a massive attack on the moon. The attack had been coordinated by the United Nations and, although all the missiles had been launched properly, there was some sort of glitch in the targeting system, resulting in all the weapons colliding in the upper atmosphere and showering the Earth with a deadly rain of nuclear fire, electronic destruction, and a generally bad day. The mistake triggered the military response of all the nations (who all had nuclear weapons by then - plus a few other horrid toys), and the result was truly an Armageddon.
The Jews on the moon went into a period of deep mourning. The Orthodox rent their clothing and there were mass counseling sessions. And then, about one week after the BIG DAY, as it was now called, a presence was detected heading towards the moon. Had one of the missiles escaped? Were the Jews doomed after all? The leaders checked with the defense experts - no this was not a missile, it was an old-style spacecraft, like the ones used in the early seventies. As it approached, the laser defense was trained on the craft. Debates raged as to whether the craft should be destroyed or allowed to get close enough to communicate with.
A message from the ship came just in time. It said, 'We are the last representatives from Earth - two from each country and we come in peace.' Some Jews rejoiced that there were survivors, others demanded isolation or death of the approaching group.
The Rabbi who had had the vision of earth's destruction told the leaders that G-d wanted them to have a chance, so they were allowed to circle the moon. When told they could have a section of land to themselves to farm and repopulate, the Earthlings were upset. They told the Jews that they should be allowed to live with the Jews and have all the same privileges - because, after all, in Judaism, the stranger is given the same rights and privileges as the citizen.
Upon hearing this, the leaders went to the Rabbi with the visions, and he offered to guide the visitors to their new home. The leaders allowed him to give the instructions for landing. Of course, not trusting the Rabbi, the commander of the ship didn't listen to his advice, and instead crashed into a lunar crater.
And so we have the final days of the history of the planet Earth, which have been generously shared with us by the Jewish colony of the 453rd Solar System of the M Galaxy. Although the Earth is currently uninhabitable, the head engineer of the Jewish colony on Mars tells us that Venus will be fully colonized by the year 2120, and with continuous replanting, Earth will once again be ready for Jews returning from other planets in the year 2136.
An interesting side note - inside the wreckage of the rocket with the survivors from Earth was a specially marked package that had survived which included the following words: 'Once there was a great planet named Earth. And there were many peoples on this planet, and they all existed peacefully with each other, except for the Jews. Wherever there were Jews, there was trouble. Jews brought dirt and death and hatred and strife. They were finally banished from our planet, only to take with them many great inventors and scientists and doctors, leaving Earth with nothing. We have decided to destroy the remnants of the Jews, and since the first attempt failed, we are the last chance for Earth. Whoever shall find this will know the truth - It was all the Jews' fault.'
This panel has been saved and is on display at the Earth Memorial Museum at Rivka Crater, NW, for all travelers who wish to see the remains of a civilization that did not understand the words - 'He who blesses the Jews, is himself blessed. He who curses the Jews, is himself cursed.'
Shalom
The Jews settled the moon in 2053, just about five years after the end of the Islamic Wars of the 40's, where the Middle East, and Israel , of course, had been obliterated by nuclear weapons. The two million Jews remaining throughout the rest of the world - less than 100,000 total in all the Islamic countries - banded together and purchased the dark side of the moon, which no other companies or people wished to colonize.
Great transports were arranged via the 62,000 mile space elevator and the Space Shuttle and every Jew on Earth - including anyone who claimed any Jewish heritage whatsoever - left to go to a place where no one could blame them for anything.
The Earth rejoiced - happily rid of all Jews There were huge parties throughout all of Sweden and the rest of Europe, Africa, Asia, South America and North America . (Now known as the Northern Alliance of Islamic States after the United States was taken over peacefully in the elections of 2040 by a predominantly Muslim Congress and President, who immediately passed amendments making Islam the main religion of the United States and the world
After the last Jew entered the elevator (a David Goldstein, 62, formerly of New York ), the Earth was officially declared Judenrein by Hans Ibn Hitler, a great, great-grandson of Hitler who had been raised in Brazil and hidden by Nazis until this precious moment.
It was not an easy move for the Jews but, in some ways, it was no different from all their moves of previous eras. Some former Israelis (still alive because they were out of Israel when the bombs dropped) claimed that the moon was easier to deal with because there were no Extremist Muslims. Of course, this precipitated a huge argument with some Jews, who felt not having the Radical Muslims nearby was not enough challenge.
Other Jews argued that taming a wilderness with no atmosphere, plant or animal life and freezing temperatures was enough challenge. And yet other Jews argued that arguing was counterproductive. It came as no surprise to anyone that for the two million Jews, there were eventually one million synagogues (with the other million Jews not joining).
It was also no surprise that within just three years, the Jews had created a controlled environment that allowed for fantastic plant and animal growth and production. The transports, which had been called the Arks, had also carried two of each animal and plant (remember, Noah), and through the ingenuity of the Jews and cloning, there were now many new species which sped up production of food (cows with six udders, chickens with four legs and so forth). The population had rapidly increased and, due to the amazing collection of scientific and medical minds, most diseases and even aging had been reduced to nil.
There was even a ministry of communication with Earth, consisting of the remains of Hollywood producers and moviemakers, who sent back to Earth portraits of life on the moon. Of course, it had been decided when the Jews first got to the moon - based on six-thousand- year history of people being jealous of Jewish accomplishment - that all news coverage of the moon's population would be 'movie-ized' to show only horrible things. The film industry, led by Jordan Spielberg, went to great lengths to fabricate news clips to show Jews barely surviving in the harsh lunar habitat. Artists and engineers laboured to cover over vast environmental successes with illusionary domes showing massive areas of wasteland - just in case anyone from Earth ever sent a spaceship with cameras to see what was going on.
But no-one ever did, and the years passed rapidly; one decade, then another. Bar mitzvahs, weddings, brises, all celebrated under the artificial world that the Jews had created - not only had it not been that bad, but by the end of the century, some Jewish authors were calling the moon colony - Eden 2'.
Of course other Jews disagreed. In fact, much time was spent on disagreeing. There were even contests for arguing but, in general, there was peace. Anyone who threatened the peace was forced to officiate at a contest with people arguing about why that person was wrong. The contests would go on for days (sometimes weeks), until the troublemaker begged for forgiveness. (Many penalties on the moon were similar to this, and were extremely effective.)
Back on Earth, life disintegrated without the Jews. There was a return to Middle Ages thought - only the current religion du jour was valid - all others were kept legislated into poverty until a war erupted and the positions changed for a few years.
Another amazing anomaly appeared when there were no longer any Jews on Earth - anti-Semitism actually increased to monumental proportions! Famous orators explained this simply by saying: 'I don't have to have a gun to be afraid of having my brains blown out.' Additionally, without the presence of the Jew, the world developed incredible evil that had no release. (Previous evil had always focused on the Jews. One Rabbi on the moon actually said G-d spoke to him, and said that He, G-d, was about to destroy the Earth because everyone on the Earth was evil. The Rabbi begged Him to reconsider, and bargained that if there were 1,000 good people left on Earth, G-d should spare the planet. G-d then told the Rabbi, 'Hey, I went through this before with Abraham and Noah, and I already know the answer because I'm G-d.'
People laughed at the Rabbi, but then, one day, while all the lunar citizens were going about their business, an enormous series of explosions was seen on the Earth. Everyone on the moon stared at the distant fireballs that seemed to engulf the blue planet that was once their home.
Although there had been great anger at being forced to leave the Earth, the true spirit of Judaism was always present on the moon, and no one had wished ill on to their former home. As in the tradition of the Seder (when the wine is spilled because the Egyptians perished, and we do not rejoice fully when even an enemy has died) when the Jews saw what was happening, they began to weep and pray, and watch what was to be the final news broadcast from Earth. The horror of the apocalypse was videotaped by cameras until all electricity was ionised by the new electron bombs Entire countries were wiped away in the blink of an ion exploding. And then came the final transmission from the nation that had started the entire mess - it was a desperate headline screamed by a hundred dying newscasters. Their rant continued until it was just blackness. What were they saying? As the Jews watched, some gasped, others cried, and a few even laughed. For the last words of the disappearing civilization was a condemnation. 'The Jews have caused all our problems - they left us here to face the mess they made. If the Jews hadn't taken all the best scientists and engineers, we could have defeated our enemies. Our enemies are the Jews! Kill all the Jews.'
It took a little while, but the electronics experts pieced together what had happened on Earth during its last days. Anti-Semitism, which had grown stronger and stronger since the Jews had left, had reached its pinnacle, and all the countries of the world had decided to launch a massive attack on the moon. The attack had been coordinated by the United Nations and, although all the missiles had been launched properly, there was some sort of glitch in the targeting system, resulting in all the weapons colliding in the upper atmosphere and showering the Earth with a deadly rain of nuclear fire, electronic destruction, and a generally bad day. The mistake triggered the military response of all the nations (who all had nuclear weapons by then - plus a few other horrid toys), and the result was truly an Armageddon.
The Jews on the moon went into a period of deep mourning. The Orthodox rent their clothing and there were mass counseling sessions. And then, about one week after the BIG DAY, as it was now called, a presence was detected heading towards the moon. Had one of the missiles escaped? Were the Jews doomed after all? The leaders checked with the defense experts - no this was not a missile, it was an old-style spacecraft, like the ones used in the early seventies. As it approached, the laser defense was trained on the craft. Debates raged as to whether the craft should be destroyed or allowed to get close enough to communicate with.
A message from the ship came just in time. It said, 'We are the last representatives from Earth - two from each country and we come in peace.' Some Jews rejoiced that there were survivors, others demanded isolation or death of the approaching group.
The Rabbi who had had the vision of earth's destruction told the leaders that G-d wanted them to have a chance, so they were allowed to circle the moon. When told they could have a section of land to themselves to farm and repopulate, the Earthlings were upset. They told the Jews that they should be allowed to live with the Jews and have all the same privileges - because, after all, in Judaism, the stranger is given the same rights and privileges as the citizen.
Upon hearing this, the leaders went to the Rabbi with the visions, and he offered to guide the visitors to their new home. The leaders allowed him to give the instructions for landing. Of course, not trusting the Rabbi, the commander of the ship didn't listen to his advice, and instead crashed into a lunar crater.
And so we have the final days of the history of the planet Earth, which have been generously shared with us by the Jewish colony of the 453rd Solar System of the M Galaxy. Although the Earth is currently uninhabitable, the head engineer of the Jewish colony on Mars tells us that Venus will be fully colonized by the year 2120, and with continuous replanting, Earth will once again be ready for Jews returning from other planets in the year 2136.
An interesting side note - inside the wreckage of the rocket with the survivors from Earth was a specially marked package that had survived which included the following words: 'Once there was a great planet named Earth. And there were many peoples on this planet, and they all existed peacefully with each other, except for the Jews. Wherever there were Jews, there was trouble. Jews brought dirt and death and hatred and strife. They were finally banished from our planet, only to take with them many great inventors and scientists and doctors, leaving Earth with nothing. We have decided to destroy the remnants of the Jews, and since the first attempt failed, we are the last chance for Earth. Whoever shall find this will know the truth - It was all the Jews' fault.'
This panel has been saved and is on display at the Earth Memorial Museum at Rivka Crater, NW, for all travelers who wish to see the remains of a civilization that did not understand the words - 'He who blesses the Jews, is himself blessed. He who curses the Jews, is himself cursed.'
Shalom
Social Security
IF we last long enough, we will have decreases instead of cost of living increases.
For the first time in history, the Democratic Congress will not allow an increase in the social security COLA (cost of living adjustment). In fact, The Henry J. Kaiser Family Foundation predicts there may not be any COLA for the next three years. However, the per person monthly Medicare insurance premium will be increased from the 2009 premium of $96.40 to $104.20 in 2010 and to $120.20 for the year 2011. Send this to all seniors that you know.
Remind them to not vote for the incumbent senators and congressmen in the 2010 and the 2012 elections.
Remember, Congress passed a bill to get their annual increases automatically so they wouldn't have to be burdened with voting for it each year. Who do you think they are watching out for . . . the people who elected them or for themselves??
Sunday, October 11, 2009
HARK !
They shoot the boy with his pants down first. I don’t feel safe in this dumpster but it is all I have. It stinks in here. I don’t want to move, to breathe, but am forced to at least breathe. Imagined or not, it feels like maggots are crawling up my legs. Oh, god in heaven or tree elf, save me. Don’t let that bloody young man be tossed in here on me!
One motorcycle revs, roars. Garbage shifts. A voice, not yet mature, screams only, ‘Don’t please don’t.’ Two shots and quiet. I dare not twitch a finger. I can hear things, keep praying I cannot be heard. A shifting empty can, a broken piece of glass with a squeal from me and my worries will be over.
There is laughter, high voices, female voices. ‘Come on, Charlie, get it up. Now!’ A moan snakes into my space. ‘No, no. I can’t.’ And then I get it. The killers are girls, not yet women! ‘I can’t. Let me alone,’ Charlie cries. ‘You better had work on it. You’re going to do it to all four of us. We’re not kidding, Kid.’
‘Hey, Charlie, you may get a break. We are voting. Little Connie likes your measly looks and wants you for herself. We’re giving her a present, You. Pull up your pants and climb on her bike. She won’t bite you, yet.’ There’s rustling noise, footsteps, gagging. ‘Charlie, you’re repulsive. You’re lucky we’re not going to make you lick up your vomit. Wipe your mouth and get out of here.’ Give us up, one single word, believe me, you and your family won’t live to regret it.’
No whispers reach me. How can I tell if they are gone? A minute is a lifetime and a lifetime ain’t worth shit. It’s now or never! By wiggling my legs a little I sink lower, touch bottom and through the slime and plastic bags I can just reach the back of the dumpster, barely touch the top and wham, bam, I kick over a bag and hoist myself on it, do it again and I’m over. The two bodies are laid out next to each other, naked from the waist down.
Hallelujah, they left my car alone. I don’t hesitate to break a window with a rock, unlock the door, find my cell under the front seat and dial what I never expected to dial, 911. Sirens come from 3 directions. Police cars, ambulances, a meat wagon and the M.E. converge, destroy clues as they swing their cars onto the grass. Spotlights turn night into day. Two officers try not to get too close to me but manage to help me into an ambulance. When I’m not babbling like a loon, I cry, I cry. ‘Officer, there’s another boy who may be alive. A girl named Connie took him away on her bike. I think I heard 4 girls and they were going to have the boys rape them all.’
Just then my friends Bob and Ernie come in, plop on my sofa and ask for a Bud. ‘Go get it, I’m watching the end of Law and Order. It’s the best ever and boy is it explicit! Know what I am, going to do tomorrow?What kind of friends are you? You don’t even ask.’
‘Well, Schmuck, what are you going to do?’ /I’m going down to the Police Academy and sign up to be a policeman. After that, I’ll study, work and become a Lennie, a real Detective.’
One motorcycle revs, roars. Garbage shifts. A voice, not yet mature, screams only, ‘Don’t please don’t.’ Two shots and quiet. I dare not twitch a finger. I can hear things, keep praying I cannot be heard. A shifting empty can, a broken piece of glass with a squeal from me and my worries will be over.
There is laughter, high voices, female voices. ‘Come on, Charlie, get it up. Now!’ A moan snakes into my space. ‘No, no. I can’t.’ And then I get it. The killers are girls, not yet women! ‘I can’t. Let me alone,’ Charlie cries. ‘You better had work on it. You’re going to do it to all four of us. We’re not kidding, Kid.’
‘Hey, Charlie, you may get a break. We are voting. Little Connie likes your measly looks and wants you for herself. We’re giving her a present, You. Pull up your pants and climb on her bike. She won’t bite you, yet.’ There’s rustling noise, footsteps, gagging. ‘Charlie, you’re repulsive. You’re lucky we’re not going to make you lick up your vomit. Wipe your mouth and get out of here.’ Give us up, one single word, believe me, you and your family won’t live to regret it.’
No whispers reach me. How can I tell if they are gone? A minute is a lifetime and a lifetime ain’t worth shit. It’s now or never! By wiggling my legs a little I sink lower, touch bottom and through the slime and plastic bags I can just reach the back of the dumpster, barely touch the top and wham, bam, I kick over a bag and hoist myself on it, do it again and I’m over. The two bodies are laid out next to each other, naked from the waist down.
Hallelujah, they left my car alone. I don’t hesitate to break a window with a rock, unlock the door, find my cell under the front seat and dial what I never expected to dial, 911. Sirens come from 3 directions. Police cars, ambulances, a meat wagon and the M.E. converge, destroy clues as they swing their cars onto the grass. Spotlights turn night into day. Two officers try not to get too close to me but manage to help me into an ambulance. When I’m not babbling like a loon, I cry, I cry. ‘Officer, there’s another boy who may be alive. A girl named Connie took him away on her bike. I think I heard 4 girls and they were going to have the boys rape them all.’
Just then my friends Bob and Ernie come in, plop on my sofa and ask for a Bud. ‘Go get it, I’m watching the end of Law and Order. It’s the best ever and boy is it explicit! Know what I am, going to do tomorrow?What kind of friends are you? You don’t even ask.’
‘Well, Schmuck, what are you going to do?’ /I’m going down to the Police Academy and sign up to be a policeman. After that, I’ll study, work and become a Lennie, a real Detective.’
Saturday, October 10, 2009
THE PICK UP
As I go into our bedroom every night, I have to pick up my sloppy husband’s underwear. It has infuriated me for a year. I’ve yelled; I’ve pleaded, cajoled. I’ve threatened, used the silent treatment and have yet to see a reaction. He doesn’t complain, has never taken a swing at me. What he does, he does well. He puts on a deaf/mute act. He doesn’t seem to see me, doesn’t know I exist.
I’ve taken him by the hand, twisted it and forced him to see a therapist with me. It turned out I was under her scrutiny. Harry was fine. I was the one who needed help she said and sent me a bill for $75.
If I have a backbone, I had better straighten it now. ‘Harry, I’m going to stay in the spare room for the rest of our married life, unless you put your worn underwear in the hamper or you wear it forever. I’m not picking it up ever again.’ Does he hear me? Does he care how he bothers me? I have to cure him or accept him and I am out of acceptance.
Harry and I have a nice, peaceful dinner, one he particularly enjoys, Salisbury steak, smothered in sauteed onions, home fries and stuffed peppers. We have chocolate mousse (that he thinks I made) for dessert. The Colts are playing the Ravens tonight which means I should leave Harry alone. I don’t. Instead, I parade provocatively in front of him during commercials. He tells me to sit down. I don’t. I strip and leave my underwear on the floor and he doesn’t see that either. It is still there when I come down in the morning.
The spare room is comfortable but lonely. If I like it enough, I’ll buy new curtains, bed spread, may even have the wall to wall carpet removed and have hardwood floors installed. At breakfast Harry asks if I had a good night’s sleep. I reply, ‘Go to hell, Harry. You are a foolish pig. Don’t expect me in your bed, ever.What you can expect is a letter from our lawyer. I’m not joking. It is divorce time. Clean up your own breakfast. You can thaw or you can go out for dinner. I’ll be out for the evening.’ As usual, Silent Harry is silent. Where is this new strength I have coming from? I scare myself.
My friend, Gilda, and I take in an idiotic movie with a PG rating that is childishly adult. I’m home, if I can still call it home. Harry’s car is in the driveway. The kitchen is neat, clean. I go up to my new room and there is Harry, lying in the bed I already consider mine. There is no underwear on the floor or on him. And in a flash, none or me either.
And, like Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, I expect to live happily ever after.
I’ve taken him by the hand, twisted it and forced him to see a therapist with me. It turned out I was under her scrutiny. Harry was fine. I was the one who needed help she said and sent me a bill for $75.
If I have a backbone, I had better straighten it now. ‘Harry, I’m going to stay in the spare room for the rest of our married life, unless you put your worn underwear in the hamper or you wear it forever. I’m not picking it up ever again.’ Does he hear me? Does he care how he bothers me? I have to cure him or accept him and I am out of acceptance.
Harry and I have a nice, peaceful dinner, one he particularly enjoys, Salisbury steak, smothered in sauteed onions, home fries and stuffed peppers. We have chocolate mousse (that he thinks I made) for dessert. The Colts are playing the Ravens tonight which means I should leave Harry alone. I don’t. Instead, I parade provocatively in front of him during commercials. He tells me to sit down. I don’t. I strip and leave my underwear on the floor and he doesn’t see that either. It is still there when I come down in the morning.
The spare room is comfortable but lonely. If I like it enough, I’ll buy new curtains, bed spread, may even have the wall to wall carpet removed and have hardwood floors installed. At breakfast Harry asks if I had a good night’s sleep. I reply, ‘Go to hell, Harry. You are a foolish pig. Don’t expect me in your bed, ever.What you can expect is a letter from our lawyer. I’m not joking. It is divorce time. Clean up your own breakfast. You can thaw or you can go out for dinner. I’ll be out for the evening.’ As usual, Silent Harry is silent. Where is this new strength I have coming from? I scare myself.
My friend, Gilda, and I take in an idiotic movie with a PG rating that is childishly adult. I’m home, if I can still call it home. Harry’s car is in the driveway. The kitchen is neat, clean. I go up to my new room and there is Harry, lying in the bed I already consider mine. There is no underwear on the floor or on him. And in a flash, none or me either.
And, like Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, I expect to live happily ever after.
Friday, October 9, 2009
TWENTY - TWENTY - VISION
Medical news update: My vision is 20-20! Not in hindsight, but going forward. And that will never change. I may, or may not, need reading glasses only!
Walkin' on air...
Walkin' on air...
GOING HOME
It was a chilly night in Baltimore. More than that, it was darn cold, 25 degrees. Ben was sitting above the cornice, right at the edge of the roof, ready, almost set, to drop eight stories and bloody the icy sidewalk. The row house had already out-lived most of its owners. The red bricks had been repainted scores of times. Once the owners, my grandparents, had gone mad and had the building modernized by having it painted a mustardy yellow. Yowls, complaints that it looked like a blinking neon sign, cost my Zade a bundle to have it made red again.
Looking at the stark black sky Ben gripped the cornice to steady himself. Just for him the evening star twinkled. ‘Hey, Magi, Bethlehem is that way. Stop it, Ben. Hogwash!’ In spite of the cold, the wind, he unzipped his plaid wool jacket, put his hand under his shirt and pulled out a fine gold chain holding a Star of David. He fingered it, raised it to his lips, kissed it and put it back under his shirt.
A deep, familiar voice called to him. ‘Hello, Ben. What the hell are you doing up here?’ No one was there. ‘Come over here, away from the edge, Boychick.’ There was nothing but blackness and a warmth from the voice. ‘Zade, where are you?’ ‘Follow my voice. I’m walking toward the emergency door, the one you used to use to get on the roof. It’s never locked.’
Ben took a miniature flashlight from his pocket and slowly went to find his Zade. ‘Where are you? I’m at the door and don’t see you.’ No answer. Nothing. The door was open a crack, just enough to let the inside light bulb guide Ben to the stairwell. ‘Zade, let me see you, please.’ He turned in circles, over and over. That and the slight warmth made him dizzy. Fear and nausea overtook him. He stumbled. The stairs became an escalator and came up to meet him. When he could go no further and laid there on the old, cracked linoleum floor, his eyes flickered for a moment. He smiled a tiny smile, tried to lift his hand to touch his Zade.
They shook. Ben smiled a bigger smile and mumbled,’ Hello, Zade. I’m glad to see you again. A new strength arose in Ben’s legs. He rose and walked with his Zade away from the old mustardy row house.
Looking at the stark black sky Ben gripped the cornice to steady himself. Just for him the evening star twinkled. ‘Hey, Magi, Bethlehem is that way. Stop it, Ben. Hogwash!’ In spite of the cold, the wind, he unzipped his plaid wool jacket, put his hand under his shirt and pulled out a fine gold chain holding a Star of David. He fingered it, raised it to his lips, kissed it and put it back under his shirt.
A deep, familiar voice called to him. ‘Hello, Ben. What the hell are you doing up here?’ No one was there. ‘Come over here, away from the edge, Boychick.’ There was nothing but blackness and a warmth from the voice. ‘Zade, where are you?’ ‘Follow my voice. I’m walking toward the emergency door, the one you used to use to get on the roof. It’s never locked.’
Ben took a miniature flashlight from his pocket and slowly went to find his Zade. ‘Where are you? I’m at the door and don’t see you.’ No answer. Nothing. The door was open a crack, just enough to let the inside light bulb guide Ben to the stairwell. ‘Zade, let me see you, please.’ He turned in circles, over and over. That and the slight warmth made him dizzy. Fear and nausea overtook him. He stumbled. The stairs became an escalator and came up to meet him. When he could go no further and laid there on the old, cracked linoleum floor, his eyes flickered for a moment. He smiled a tiny smile, tried to lift his hand to touch his Zade.
They shook. Ben smiled a bigger smile and mumbled,’ Hello, Zade. I’m glad to see you again. A new strength arose in Ben’s legs. He rose and walked with his Zade away from the old mustardy row house.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
CAW CAW
Four and twenty blackbirds had better fly away fast. My mother is baking pies today for the church fair and so far doesn’t know which fillings to use. The dough is already rolled paper thin and carefully laid on 3 smooth pieces of waxed paper. Lemon meringue, cherry, apple are no challenge. Her pies must be outstanding, unique. Simple minded women can do the ordinary and she is not ordinary. Last year she got a blue ribbon for a pie nobody ate. One of the judges tossed it under the table in a refuse carton. That was her ‘eel’ pie.
How she solidified guacamole I don’t know but she was despondent for days when it didn’t even get Honorable Mention. The tiny dough sombreros didn’t help at all.
Guinea pig that she has made me, I was forced to taste the Salmon pie last season and was surprised it tasted like croquettes on salty crackers. There were no takers, no prize and I was fed the same thing for lunch three days in a row.
Today she is pacing, nervous, idealess. There is a spark in her eyes at last. ‘What will you make, Mom?’ ‘Hurry to the market for me. Pick out 10 of the best purple plums Smitty has. Be sure they are ripe but not too ripe. Go, go!’ ‘Mom, they aren’t in season. I tried three places.’ ‘Go back, get the yellow ones, firm. They’ll work.’
I wash them, dry them with a clean white kitchen towel, carefully remove the pits. The artiste is brewing up a concoction with sour cream and blueberry preserves. Her hand mixer comes out of the sideboard and gently stirs the gloop, leaving the plums streaked. The halved, now quartered, plums are rolled in enough brown sugar to cause pimples.
All of the pieces are gently layered on the dough and the top crust gets pierced and fluted. Mother smiles at me. ‘Into the oven at 350 for 51 minutes will be perfect. You’ll see, Sweetie Plum. This has to be a winner. It’s you in a pie. Haven’t I always called you ‘Sweetie Plum?’I don’t bother telling her she never called me that, ever, ever.
‘Darling, I want all the chicken breasts that are in the garage freezer. I’m ready for my next pie.’ There must be four lbs. there, each in a small plastic bag. They will thaw fast. ‘Get my two quart soup pot for me, will you, Sweetie Pie?’ Mom coats the inside, including the lid, with Pam and starts tossing stuff in. Lots of diced carrots, onions, corn kernels, celery, grated apples, ginger, salt, pepper, sugar and the the fridge is almost empty. The whole shebang simmers for two hours and cools. Mom encrusts the pot with her thin rolled dough. The mixture actually smells good but looks like lumpy crud. ‘Sweetie, I’ll be back in 15 minutes. Don’t do anything except make sure nothing burns.’ As soon as Mom returns she bakes the whole thing, including the pot, to a light golden brown.
Her last step makes me gag. I heave my lunch on the kitchen floor. Look out or you will heave too. Her piece’ de resistance is a killer. She centers in the middle of the toasted top a real chicken head, slightly bloody, puffs up her ego and laughs to me.
‘I bet you never saw a real Chicken Pot Pie before did you, Sweetie. This is going to win the Blue Ribbon for the tastiest, most unusual pie.
It doesn’t.
How she solidified guacamole I don’t know but she was despondent for days when it didn’t even get Honorable Mention. The tiny dough sombreros didn’t help at all.
Guinea pig that she has made me, I was forced to taste the Salmon pie last season and was surprised it tasted like croquettes on salty crackers. There were no takers, no prize and I was fed the same thing for lunch three days in a row.
Today she is pacing, nervous, idealess. There is a spark in her eyes at last. ‘What will you make, Mom?’ ‘Hurry to the market for me. Pick out 10 of the best purple plums Smitty has. Be sure they are ripe but not too ripe. Go, go!’ ‘Mom, they aren’t in season. I tried three places.’ ‘Go back, get the yellow ones, firm. They’ll work.’
I wash them, dry them with a clean white kitchen towel, carefully remove the pits. The artiste is brewing up a concoction with sour cream and blueberry preserves. Her hand mixer comes out of the sideboard and gently stirs the gloop, leaving the plums streaked. The halved, now quartered, plums are rolled in enough brown sugar to cause pimples.
All of the pieces are gently layered on the dough and the top crust gets pierced and fluted. Mother smiles at me. ‘Into the oven at 350 for 51 minutes will be perfect. You’ll see, Sweetie Plum. This has to be a winner. It’s you in a pie. Haven’t I always called you ‘Sweetie Plum?’I don’t bother telling her she never called me that, ever, ever.
‘Darling, I want all the chicken breasts that are in the garage freezer. I’m ready for my next pie.’ There must be four lbs. there, each in a small plastic bag. They will thaw fast. ‘Get my two quart soup pot for me, will you, Sweetie Pie?’ Mom coats the inside, including the lid, with Pam and starts tossing stuff in. Lots of diced carrots, onions, corn kernels, celery, grated apples, ginger, salt, pepper, sugar and the the fridge is almost empty. The whole shebang simmers for two hours and cools. Mom encrusts the pot with her thin rolled dough. The mixture actually smells good but looks like lumpy crud. ‘Sweetie, I’ll be back in 15 minutes. Don’t do anything except make sure nothing burns.’ As soon as Mom returns she bakes the whole thing, including the pot, to a light golden brown.
Her last step makes me gag. I heave my lunch on the kitchen floor. Look out or you will heave too. Her piece’ de resistance is a killer. She centers in the middle of the toasted top a real chicken head, slightly bloody, puffs up her ego and laughs to me.
‘I bet you never saw a real Chicken Pot Pie before did you, Sweetie. This is going to win the Blue Ribbon for the tastiest, most unusual pie.
It doesn’t.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
MY JOURNEY
I’m exhausted, literally, understandably so. As a t.v. news reporter who has not reached ‘star’ status yet, my hours are long, exciting, stressful and are taking a toll on me. The studio calls me in at 4 a.m. or midnite, whenever news breaks and staff is ‘off call.’ My days become nites, my nites days. There are days I sit and am merely emergency fodder, am on the air 4 or 5 minutes. For a 36 year old, attractive, married, still childless woman, I am drowning. The money is good. Donnie, my husband, is now part of a group of heart surgeons. I zig. He zags. Situation- Poor.
8 American service men and 2 women were killed in Afghanistan in yet another Taliban battle. A crazy in Texas murdered his wife and 5 children. I followed police cars as they chased a car for 90 miles. A mentally disturbed teen in a stolen car had killed three teens riding their bikes in the proper bike zone. When he finally ran out of gas, he was captured and 2 officers stomped on him. Every channel carried the chase.
I know I need time off, know I need a rest, at least 5 or 6 uninterrupted hours of sleep. It has been eluding me too long. I’m fuzzy too much of the time.
Our king sized bed waits for me. Our housekeeper has pulled back the covers, laid a nightgown and robe on the top of the cedar chest at the foot of the bed. It looks like heaven, but Donnie is still in surgery so I have to cuddle a down bolster. I pull it closer, fluff it higher, wrap my legs around it and am gone.
Little elves, fairies, lift my bed. It doesn’t shake. It glides on gossamer wings through the wide open french windows. No complaints from me. Where have I been so long? Why didn’t I take this trip sooner? Although I have never been to heaven, probably won’t ever get there, I am confident the sky my bed and I are flying into is the true, real heavenly blue. If there are angels, they are hiding or maybe sleeping. Soft breezes lift my light weight duvet and I am free, free as the white doves that coo as they fly and guide me to St. Maarten. Below the water is turquoise. The beach is clean, white and so wide I cannot find its end. Tiny sparkling grains of sand look like upside down stars.
‘Take me down there, Bed. Let me swim a little, at least until I wake up.’ We dip, go lower and I am on an anchored yacht. Bill Gates has a launch to take me closer to shore so I can swim more safely. I swim until I am exhausted and content. Donnie appears from nowhere and is beside me. He moves closer. I am so relaxed I don’t care if I never wake up, but I do.
Donnie is naked. His legs are wrapped around me. His soft lips are kissing the back of my neck.
My dream was a wondrous prelude. Reality is a lot better.
8 American service men and 2 women were killed in Afghanistan in yet another Taliban battle. A crazy in Texas murdered his wife and 5 children. I followed police cars as they chased a car for 90 miles. A mentally disturbed teen in a stolen car had killed three teens riding their bikes in the proper bike zone. When he finally ran out of gas, he was captured and 2 officers stomped on him. Every channel carried the chase.
I know I need time off, know I need a rest, at least 5 or 6 uninterrupted hours of sleep. It has been eluding me too long. I’m fuzzy too much of the time.
Our king sized bed waits for me. Our housekeeper has pulled back the covers, laid a nightgown and robe on the top of the cedar chest at the foot of the bed. It looks like heaven, but Donnie is still in surgery so I have to cuddle a down bolster. I pull it closer, fluff it higher, wrap my legs around it and am gone.
Little elves, fairies, lift my bed. It doesn’t shake. It glides on gossamer wings through the wide open french windows. No complaints from me. Where have I been so long? Why didn’t I take this trip sooner? Although I have never been to heaven, probably won’t ever get there, I am confident the sky my bed and I are flying into is the true, real heavenly blue. If there are angels, they are hiding or maybe sleeping. Soft breezes lift my light weight duvet and I am free, free as the white doves that coo as they fly and guide me to St. Maarten. Below the water is turquoise. The beach is clean, white and so wide I cannot find its end. Tiny sparkling grains of sand look like upside down stars.
‘Take me down there, Bed. Let me swim a little, at least until I wake up.’ We dip, go lower and I am on an anchored yacht. Bill Gates has a launch to take me closer to shore so I can swim more safely. I swim until I am exhausted and content. Donnie appears from nowhere and is beside me. He moves closer. I am so relaxed I don’t care if I never wake up, but I do.
Donnie is naked. His legs are wrapped around me. His soft lips are kissing the back of my neck.
My dream was a wondrous prelude. Reality is a lot better.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
KVELLING!
My son's daughter, my granddaughter, Felicia Greenfield, is an actress. She just set up her own Web site which I thought you all might want to visit. Once you do, I think you'll agree with me: Isn't she lov er ly, and talented too? !
www.feliciagreenfield.com
www.feliciagreenfield.com
BEAR IT - COME ALONG
I am empty. I am lost. My heart barely beats. My brain is grey, soft and smooth. No thoughts, no thoughts encourage me to go on. My pen won’t move. Morning is dawning. The newspaper has not yet arrived and I don’t give a damn. There will be nothing in it to free me from my doldrums. What I have just written is a lie–but I gotcha, didn’t I?
I’ve got a lover who’s young but old enough that I don’t have to worry about being arrested for raping a minor. There’s a bit of doubt in my mind about how the law looks at same sex love. They can look at us all they want. We’re not afraid as we each have our birth certificates in our wallets. I’m 26. She’s 22. I’m a he, she’s a she. Gotcha again!
This silliness has come from nowhere and I am most grateful. This morning was dire and my only wish was to give up, not go near the darkness of my Dell’s screen. Everything around me was despondent and it definitely, positively, was not my fault. It began at 10 P.M. when old, bearded Morpheus gave me a rabbit punch, put his foot on my chest and warned me not to wake up yet.
My mother was in the kitchen, percolating coffee in the bent pot on the gas stove. Her bathrobe sleeve was fodder for the little flame. I saw her run, heard her screams and I, a mere ten years old, could not make her drop to the cement floor and roll herself over and over. The scene lives, is a undying replay, out of my control.
Somehow I step over her and see the yellow moon lighting the midnight sky. A moonbeam slips and falls on my father’s house. The sky flares with lightning. Flames fly in the wind. Fire trucks clang down the country road too late. A fireman finds me crouched in a banyan tree. My clothes are sooty. Father was incinerated. Oh, they didn’t use that word. That is a dream word so I shouldn’t have to picture, ‘burned to ashes.’
Thru it all I am struggling, trying hard to open my eyes, find a comfortable spot in my bed. Peter Pan flutters by and tells me to ‘think lovely thoughts.’ Jerk!
It’s a struggle but I am getting close, closer. Yes, here she is, my 17 year old gorgeous lover. She’s unashamedly naked. I put my arms out to her. ‘Sandy, come here. Lie down next to me. Hold me. Chase my parents away. They won’t condemn us. They were young once, too.’ Mephistopheles decides at the most inconvenient time to let my old fashioned alarm clock jar me awake.
Guess what! I gotcha again. I slept well and hope you do now. GOODNIGHT!
I’ve got a lover who’s young but old enough that I don’t have to worry about being arrested for raping a minor. There’s a bit of doubt in my mind about how the law looks at same sex love. They can look at us all they want. We’re not afraid as we each have our birth certificates in our wallets. I’m 26. She’s 22. I’m a he, she’s a she. Gotcha again!
This silliness has come from nowhere and I am most grateful. This morning was dire and my only wish was to give up, not go near the darkness of my Dell’s screen. Everything around me was despondent and it definitely, positively, was not my fault. It began at 10 P.M. when old, bearded Morpheus gave me a rabbit punch, put his foot on my chest and warned me not to wake up yet.
My mother was in the kitchen, percolating coffee in the bent pot on the gas stove. Her bathrobe sleeve was fodder for the little flame. I saw her run, heard her screams and I, a mere ten years old, could not make her drop to the cement floor and roll herself over and over. The scene lives, is a undying replay, out of my control.
Somehow I step over her and see the yellow moon lighting the midnight sky. A moonbeam slips and falls on my father’s house. The sky flares with lightning. Flames fly in the wind. Fire trucks clang down the country road too late. A fireman finds me crouched in a banyan tree. My clothes are sooty. Father was incinerated. Oh, they didn’t use that word. That is a dream word so I shouldn’t have to picture, ‘burned to ashes.’
Thru it all I am struggling, trying hard to open my eyes, find a comfortable spot in my bed. Peter Pan flutters by and tells me to ‘think lovely thoughts.’ Jerk!
It’s a struggle but I am getting close, closer. Yes, here she is, my 17 year old gorgeous lover. She’s unashamedly naked. I put my arms out to her. ‘Sandy, come here. Lie down next to me. Hold me. Chase my parents away. They won’t condemn us. They were young once, too.’ Mephistopheles decides at the most inconvenient time to let my old fashioned alarm clock jar me awake.
Guess what! I gotcha again. I slept well and hope you do now. GOODNIGHT!
FROM SOME PLACE - HAPPENINGS HAPPEN
Shirley skipped dinner last night, fixed herself a grilled cheese sandwich, some chips and a glass of milk and took them upstairs on a small wooden tray. Tired, she slipped off her clothes, put on warm, cuddly p.j.s and settled in bed, ready to nibble her snack, watch a bit of t.v. She remembers clearly trying every channel and finally yelling loudly to the walls, ‘Garbage, garbage, cruddy garbage,’ and clicking off the set. As she tried to decide which book to read, there was a whoosh, a loud noise and whamo, something came from nowhere and slammed into her face, hard, and fell on the floor. It was a smelly, rotten cabbage.
‘Grace, honest, Shirley swears this is true. It really happened. She can’t figure it out and doesn’t know how Mr. Tate, the editor of the dying Galveston Gazette, found out about it and is coming over soon to find out if this really happened or if Shirley needs a shrink.’ Grace surely wonders if it is I who need the shrink. She ta tas me and drives away.
I go back to Shirley’s house expecting to vouch for her integrity and good mental health and let him know she wants no publicity at all. What she does need is an explanation. A strange looking man is at the door. Actually he is a dwarf with a handle bar mustache that still shows signs of red but is now grey and too long. His eye brows are non-existent. Shirley and I try to act nonchalant but most likely don’t pull it off too well.
‘Come in Mr. Tate. Come in and see my rotting cabbage. Then I can throw it out. It’s stinking up the whole kitchen. ‘ The heap is gone. Only one miserable looking leaf remains. There is, in its former place, a bowl, one Shirley says isn’t hers. It is almost overflowing with odiferous raw eggs, onion skins and what looks like chopped up banana peels. ‘See, see, Mr. Tate. No windows, doors are open. We three are alone in this house. Search if you like. You haven’t told me yet if you were able to trace the caller who told you about my problem.’ The red tinged mustache shivers a little as he gently shakes his head No.
‘May I examine the bowl and its contents, Mrs. McCafferty? It is Mrs. McCafferty, isn’t it?’ ‘Look all you like, just get this garbage out of here.’ ‘Will you please move it closer to the edge, I can’t quite reach it.’ Wordlessly, Shirley slides it to him. ‘Aha See those tiny green dots, Ladies? They are important. I have to hurry back to the Gazette to see if what I suspect is so. I’ll be back around 2.’ We back out of thekitchen and close the door tight. ‘Maybe I should call the police’. I tell her that would be a waste of time. They know nothing about these things. ‘Get the phone book and look up Ghost Busters.’ Come on, Sharon, that was a dumb movie a long time ago. There aren’t any Ghost Busters.’ ‘Look, you’ll see at least five.’
Shirley doesn’t have enough time to look. ‘Hey, Tate’s back. Didn’t you hear the knock?’ Waiting to be let in is a six foot duplicate of Tate, grey mustache with red remnants, no eyebrows. He smiles broadly and his mustache shimmies. ‘Where is the smaller Mr. Tate, Mr. Tate, Sir?’‘He’s back where he came from, Ireland, where the Leprachauns live. What a magician he is! I’m not bad myself. Where is that smelly cabbage leaf?” We take him to the kitchen and gape. There is no cabbage leaf, no foul bowl of garbage. Everything is pristine lover-ly.
Shirley and I turn to Tate wanting answers. There is no tall Mr. Tate and there are no answers. And, for sure, neither Shirley nor I will ever visit Ireland.
‘Grace, honest, Shirley swears this is true. It really happened. She can’t figure it out and doesn’t know how Mr. Tate, the editor of the dying Galveston Gazette, found out about it and is coming over soon to find out if this really happened or if Shirley needs a shrink.’ Grace surely wonders if it is I who need the shrink. She ta tas me and drives away.
I go back to Shirley’s house expecting to vouch for her integrity and good mental health and let him know she wants no publicity at all. What she does need is an explanation. A strange looking man is at the door. Actually he is a dwarf with a handle bar mustache that still shows signs of red but is now grey and too long. His eye brows are non-existent. Shirley and I try to act nonchalant but most likely don’t pull it off too well.
‘Come in Mr. Tate. Come in and see my rotting cabbage. Then I can throw it out. It’s stinking up the whole kitchen. ‘ The heap is gone. Only one miserable looking leaf remains. There is, in its former place, a bowl, one Shirley says isn’t hers. It is almost overflowing with odiferous raw eggs, onion skins and what looks like chopped up banana peels. ‘See, see, Mr. Tate. No windows, doors are open. We three are alone in this house. Search if you like. You haven’t told me yet if you were able to trace the caller who told you about my problem.’ The red tinged mustache shivers a little as he gently shakes his head No.
‘May I examine the bowl and its contents, Mrs. McCafferty? It is Mrs. McCafferty, isn’t it?’ ‘Look all you like, just get this garbage out of here.’ ‘Will you please move it closer to the edge, I can’t quite reach it.’ Wordlessly, Shirley slides it to him. ‘Aha See those tiny green dots, Ladies? They are important. I have to hurry back to the Gazette to see if what I suspect is so. I’ll be back around 2.’ We back out of thekitchen and close the door tight. ‘Maybe I should call the police’. I tell her that would be a waste of time. They know nothing about these things. ‘Get the phone book and look up Ghost Busters.’ Come on, Sharon, that was a dumb movie a long time ago. There aren’t any Ghost Busters.’ ‘Look, you’ll see at least five.’
Shirley doesn’t have enough time to look. ‘Hey, Tate’s back. Didn’t you hear the knock?’ Waiting to be let in is a six foot duplicate of Tate, grey mustache with red remnants, no eyebrows. He smiles broadly and his mustache shimmies. ‘Where is the smaller Mr. Tate, Mr. Tate, Sir?’‘He’s back where he came from, Ireland, where the Leprachauns live. What a magician he is! I’m not bad myself. Where is that smelly cabbage leaf?” We take him to the kitchen and gape. There is no cabbage leaf, no foul bowl of garbage. Everything is pristine lover-ly.
Shirley and I turn to Tate wanting answers. There is no tall Mr. Tate and there are no answers. And, for sure, neither Shirley nor I will ever visit Ireland.
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