Friday, January 29, 2010
THE ORANGUTAN AND THE HOUND
This is the most enjoyable, impossibly adorable thing I've ever seen online. http://bit.ly/91qvCi
GET AWAY
I’m alone, craving solitude. It’s denied me as I grip the armrest on Southwest’s flight # 109, Boston to San Antonio. There is an overly overweight senior lady between a male stranger, me and the plane’s wing. The woman taps her chest, breathes heavily. Her eyes flutter. Momentarily I believe she is having a stroke, or worse, dying. If she dies, god forbid, I will have to step over her body. I lengthen my usual prayer to the captain to get me up there without being hit by a plane coming in and ask for her survival.
It seems we taxi long enough for us to already be in San Antonio. My feet are frozen to the floor. We bank towards the ocean. I am ready to call a stewardess to have her tell the captain we are going the wrong way, when I come to realize he knows what he is doing as we head south along the coast, bank until we almost turn over and gain altitude faster than I like to dwell on the thought.
I’ve heard many times about the life raft under my seat, took notes of what happens when the oxygen mask falls in my lap, and still I remove the instructions that are in glorious Southwest color, where the exit doors are, how to open the emergency door. I’d still rather go cross country by ship. I can’t fly but am a good swimmer.
The captain tells us the route we will be taking, our speed and altitude and time of arrival at the lay-over spot. My lord, we will not arrive safely. The pilot is a woman ! I start to pray more seriously and stop when, without a word to me, Fat Stuff sitting next to me, lifts the arm rest so she can ooze out onto my reserved seat. Her buttocks are now pushing mine almost to the outside plane skin. I am upset as I consider the arm rest at least ½ mine. What a nerve she has! What chutzpah! If I don’t do something about this immediately, I’ll have no arm rest the entire trip–unless she dies.
The line to the mixed sexes rest room, where no one can sit or stand comfortably fills the entire narrow aisle. Stewardesses from each end of the plane push cart towards each other, struggle to serve the passengers coffee and plastic bags of peanuts that need a small scissors to get open. This is the time I pray hardest. ‘God, I’m up here, closer to you. Do you hear me? If this flight is going to crash, please don’t let it happen while the carts are in the aisle. Noone can escape such a condition. The throbbing, then silence of the jets makes me believe he tuned in.
‘I’ll have decaf coffee, black and a Sweet ‘n Low. ‘ ’We don’t have Sweet ‘n Low. We have Equal, the blue one. Want that?’ the stewardess asks. ‘Thank you Miss. Since I can’t get to the supermarket at the moment, I’ll accept the Equal. May I have two? Equal isn’t as sweet as my brand.’ She leaves me waiting. My tray is down. There is a napkin with a red plastic stirrer for my needed fix. I am ready but the passenger in front of me isn’t. Somehow he squeezes thru the carts, got to the toilet and back. When he gets to his seat that still has the plane skin to lean on and an armrest, he plops down hard enough that my tray wobbles and my coffee spills all over my skirt. He knows from nothing, isn’t aware what he caused until I buzz for the stewardess, hoping she’ll bring a towel or a few dozen Southwest paper napkins. Of course, the stewardess can’t get past the cart and keeps pouring coffee.
The Fat Lady hands me her paper napkin and I grab the opportunity to thank her and also ask her to get her bottom off my seat and lose my guts.
Maybe I have telepathic ability because she replaces the arm rest and we talk our way all the way to San Antonio.
It seems we taxi long enough for us to already be in San Antonio. My feet are frozen to the floor. We bank towards the ocean. I am ready to call a stewardess to have her tell the captain we are going the wrong way, when I come to realize he knows what he is doing as we head south along the coast, bank until we almost turn over and gain altitude faster than I like to dwell on the thought.
I’ve heard many times about the life raft under my seat, took notes of what happens when the oxygen mask falls in my lap, and still I remove the instructions that are in glorious Southwest color, where the exit doors are, how to open the emergency door. I’d still rather go cross country by ship. I can’t fly but am a good swimmer.
The captain tells us the route we will be taking, our speed and altitude and time of arrival at the lay-over spot. My lord, we will not arrive safely. The pilot is a woman ! I start to pray more seriously and stop when, without a word to me, Fat Stuff sitting next to me, lifts the arm rest so she can ooze out onto my reserved seat. Her buttocks are now pushing mine almost to the outside plane skin. I am upset as I consider the arm rest at least ½ mine. What a nerve she has! What chutzpah! If I don’t do something about this immediately, I’ll have no arm rest the entire trip–unless she dies.
The line to the mixed sexes rest room, where no one can sit or stand comfortably fills the entire narrow aisle. Stewardesses from each end of the plane push cart towards each other, struggle to serve the passengers coffee and plastic bags of peanuts that need a small scissors to get open. This is the time I pray hardest. ‘God, I’m up here, closer to you. Do you hear me? If this flight is going to crash, please don’t let it happen while the carts are in the aisle. Noone can escape such a condition. The throbbing, then silence of the jets makes me believe he tuned in.
‘I’ll have decaf coffee, black and a Sweet ‘n Low. ‘ ’We don’t have Sweet ‘n Low. We have Equal, the blue one. Want that?’ the stewardess asks. ‘Thank you Miss. Since I can’t get to the supermarket at the moment, I’ll accept the Equal. May I have two? Equal isn’t as sweet as my brand.’ She leaves me waiting. My tray is down. There is a napkin with a red plastic stirrer for my needed fix. I am ready but the passenger in front of me isn’t. Somehow he squeezes thru the carts, got to the toilet and back. When he gets to his seat that still has the plane skin to lean on and an armrest, he plops down hard enough that my tray wobbles and my coffee spills all over my skirt. He knows from nothing, isn’t aware what he caused until I buzz for the stewardess, hoping she’ll bring a towel or a few dozen Southwest paper napkins. Of course, the stewardess can’t get past the cart and keeps pouring coffee.
The Fat Lady hands me her paper napkin and I grab the opportunity to thank her and also ask her to get her bottom off my seat and lose my guts.
Maybe I have telepathic ability because she replaces the arm rest and we talk our way all the way to San Antonio.
BEGORRA
It’s been warmish for the middle of winter in Atlanta, 75 degrees today at 7 A.M. and this is before the sun has a chance to say, ‘Hello, Folks. Here I am again.’ I take advantage of Old Sol’s sloth walking a fast mile to the end of Dublin Rd. at least 5 days a week and a slightly slower pace going home.
Taking the last turn in my route I yell, ‘Why did you do that?’ to somebody who pushed me, knocked me down. My knee is skinned, but barely bleeds and I’m ready for a fight or maybe I’ll just sue the guy. There is nobody to call a name, to sue. The shiny black Cadillac that sped out of condo #7612 driveway would surely have hit me if that non-person hadn’t pushed me down. I try to put this strange happening out of my mind but it won’t go away.
At home the first thing I do is go to the medicine cabinet, get a fresh piece of gauze, soap it and gently clean off the gravel . The chance of there being enough Bacitracin left in the flattened tube that’s been on a shelf for months bothers me. I reach to the mirrored cabinet door again and a brand new tube tumbles out and drops in the sink. The sound startles me for only a minute. A little voice tells me something is goofy here. My mate, Patrick Ryan, didn’t replace the used up tube, even though I mentioned it a few times. He just wouldn’t do it so who did? I’m wacky sometimes but I’d remember this.
Toot, toot, it’s 5:30 p.m. and Patrick pulls into the garage, comes directly into the kitchen, twirling, spinning, stopping to do a few clog steps. He sweeps me off my feet. ‘Come on, Lassie, give me a big kiss.’ I do not have to be prodded. Our 30 years together have flown like a soft, summer breeze. Love has never faltered . We live and love as one.
I am on my way to the kitchen cabinet to get a whiskey glass for Pat when I see the door opening slowly by itself. ‘Patrick, did you see that?’ ‘All I saw was you. My fantastic clogging vibrated the cabinet door and that is why it opened, not some spooky ghost. You are so silly sometime.’ He hugs me again, gets his glass for his daily single shot of Bushmill’s 16 year old malt. He tosses his head back, swallows the strong stuff and grimaces his pleasure.
During dinner I tell him about the phantom who pushed me out of the way of a speeding car. ‘Don’t laugh. It’s true. By the way, did you buy a new tube of Bacitracin?’ He bangs the table, shouts, ‘Begorra, I forgot again. I’ll go get it now if you like.’ ‘You didn’t let me finish my story. There is a new tube in the cabinet and neither of us put it there. Explain that!’ Patrick has asked me many times, ‘Are you going loco on me, Darling?’ He rolls up the sports section of the Daily News and swats my rear.
Reaching to soothe myself, I notice a lump almost in the middle of the living room rug that doesn’t belong there. ‘Look at this, Pat. Where did this lump come from? We both get down on our hands and knees to study it. The lump starts to move. ‘Kill it! Kill it!’ I scream. ‘It must be a rat.’ ‘Patricia, we don’t have rats. Move back. I’m going to touch it.’ ‘No, no, don’t. It might explode.’ The lump keeps moving slowly.’ ‘Honey, bring me the old bat from the cellar, will you? I’ll finish off whatever it is.’ ‘You go. I’m not going down there by myself. Maybe another thing is down there.’
The lump keeps moving, is almost to the end of the rug. Patrick looks as frightened as I feel. We both stare as a green fluid seeps out and the edge of the carpet starts to rise. A short green gnome, just like the drawings in my grade school reader, appears. He’s only a few inches tall, holds a really tiny wooden sheleighli in one hand. A wee green derby is on his head. He takes off the derby, bows to us and in a voice so low we stoop to listen, says ,’Have a nice night folks.’ and evaporates.
Pat looks at me. I look at him. We can find no words for what we saw. We laugh and ridicule ourselves for believing this nonsense. We hold hands and walk slowly upstairs to bed. We follow the gnomes instructions and do have a nice night.
Taking the last turn in my route I yell, ‘Why did you do that?’ to somebody who pushed me, knocked me down. My knee is skinned, but barely bleeds and I’m ready for a fight or maybe I’ll just sue the guy. There is nobody to call a name, to sue. The shiny black Cadillac that sped out of condo #7612 driveway would surely have hit me if that non-person hadn’t pushed me down. I try to put this strange happening out of my mind but it won’t go away.
At home the first thing I do is go to the medicine cabinet, get a fresh piece of gauze, soap it and gently clean off the gravel . The chance of there being enough Bacitracin left in the flattened tube that’s been on a shelf for months bothers me. I reach to the mirrored cabinet door again and a brand new tube tumbles out and drops in the sink. The sound startles me for only a minute. A little voice tells me something is goofy here. My mate, Patrick Ryan, didn’t replace the used up tube, even though I mentioned it a few times. He just wouldn’t do it so who did? I’m wacky sometimes but I’d remember this.
Toot, toot, it’s 5:30 p.m. and Patrick pulls into the garage, comes directly into the kitchen, twirling, spinning, stopping to do a few clog steps. He sweeps me off my feet. ‘Come on, Lassie, give me a big kiss.’ I do not have to be prodded. Our 30 years together have flown like a soft, summer breeze. Love has never faltered . We live and love as one.
I am on my way to the kitchen cabinet to get a whiskey glass for Pat when I see the door opening slowly by itself. ‘Patrick, did you see that?’ ‘All I saw was you. My fantastic clogging vibrated the cabinet door and that is why it opened, not some spooky ghost. You are so silly sometime.’ He hugs me again, gets his glass for his daily single shot of Bushmill’s 16 year old malt. He tosses his head back, swallows the strong stuff and grimaces his pleasure.
During dinner I tell him about the phantom who pushed me out of the way of a speeding car. ‘Don’t laugh. It’s true. By the way, did you buy a new tube of Bacitracin?’ He bangs the table, shouts, ‘Begorra, I forgot again. I’ll go get it now if you like.’ ‘You didn’t let me finish my story. There is a new tube in the cabinet and neither of us put it there. Explain that!’ Patrick has asked me many times, ‘Are you going loco on me, Darling?’ He rolls up the sports section of the Daily News and swats my rear.
Reaching to soothe myself, I notice a lump almost in the middle of the living room rug that doesn’t belong there. ‘Look at this, Pat. Where did this lump come from? We both get down on our hands and knees to study it. The lump starts to move. ‘Kill it! Kill it!’ I scream. ‘It must be a rat.’ ‘Patricia, we don’t have rats. Move back. I’m going to touch it.’ ‘No, no, don’t. It might explode.’ The lump keeps moving slowly.’ ‘Honey, bring me the old bat from the cellar, will you? I’ll finish off whatever it is.’ ‘You go. I’m not going down there by myself. Maybe another thing is down there.’
The lump keeps moving, is almost to the end of the rug. Patrick looks as frightened as I feel. We both stare as a green fluid seeps out and the edge of the carpet starts to rise. A short green gnome, just like the drawings in my grade school reader, appears. He’s only a few inches tall, holds a really tiny wooden sheleighli in one hand. A wee green derby is on his head. He takes off the derby, bows to us and in a voice so low we stoop to listen, says ,’Have a nice night folks.’ and evaporates.
Pat looks at me. I look at him. We can find no words for what we saw. We laugh and ridicule ourselves for believing this nonsense. We hold hands and walk slowly upstairs to bed. We follow the gnomes instructions and do have a nice night.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
ASSISTED LIVING
She hasn’t been out of the house in four weeks. I’ve run out of ideas to ease her sadness. Lily’s days are spent staring out the window, looking at her wedding pictures, going over and over Bernie’s clothes still hanging neatly in his half of the closet. I’ve seen her caress a sleeve, smell the fabric, try on a sweater. Meals are picked at. Since Bernie passed this severe melancholia has possessed my darling sister. She’s lost weight. Her face is gaunt, her gray eyes grayer, bleary.
Carl and I sleep fitfully. Her bed creaks as she turns over and over and back again. My efforts to get her to a therapist enrage her. Just the other day, in front of Lily, Carl suggested I need to see one too. He added, ‘Let’s all see Dr. Greenberg together. Maybe we can get a group discount.’ I thought for just a second that a tiny smile began to crack on Lily’s face. Instead, she stomped out of the living room, shouting as she went, ‘Get off my back. Leave me alone!’
With no enthusiasm, Lily joined us for dinner. I hoped it was the tantalizing aroma of my Hungarian goulash, but it wasn’t. I watched her out of the corner of my eye, saw her eat one potato, dip her bread in the gravy, eat it and take another slice. She waited for hot tea and a sliver of lemon meringue pie before going upstairs. The phone rang as she was taking her last lick of the fork. I thought that would set off an alarm for her to find shelter in her room, but she stayed seated.
‘This is Rabbi Bernstein, may I please speak to Lily?’ ‘Rabbi, I doubt it but will ask her. Lily shook her head ‘no, so hard I thought it might fall off. I must have looked forlorn because Lily told me to ask him what he wants. ‘Lily, dear Lily, he only wants to talk, tell you about the donations made in Bernie’s memory. You do owe those people a call, a thank you note. Invite the Rabbi over.’ This time she said an almost impossible word, ‘Okay.’ A tiny step that was a truly big jump. I cut another piece of pie, said nothing, and placed it in front of her. ‘Rabbi Bernstein will be here Saturday after morning services.’
Lily was dressed neatly. The red rims of her eyes still looked like traffic lights that wouldn’t turn green. Rabbi Bernstein must have had his small beard trimmed Friday afternoon, well before evening prayers. He could easily pass for one of thousands of college students with Rip Van Winkle beards to overnight stubble. Carl and I were asked to join them but we felt he might reach Lily more easily if she had privacy. We stayed in the kitchen, straining to eavesdrop but heard nothing at all. That was a good sign. Their chat took about ½ hour. Lily walked him to the door, shook his hand and thanked him, then went upstairs to her room.
She called down to me, ‘Sylvia, do you know where the thank you cards are? The Rabbi said at least 20 of Bernie’s friends have made donations to the shule.’ ‘Come downstairs. I’ll help you address them, Lily.’ ‘No, I can do them myself.’
The phone rang. It was the rabbi again.’ I’d like to see Lily next Saturday. Will you ask her if I can come over?’ ‘I asked her, Rabbi and she said, ‘No’ she will be at services and will see you there.’
It seemed, with god’s help, he worked some kind of miracle, a spectacular one, and I strongly now believe neither Carl, Lily or I will have to see that therapist after all.
Carl and I sleep fitfully. Her bed creaks as she turns over and over and back again. My efforts to get her to a therapist enrage her. Just the other day, in front of Lily, Carl suggested I need to see one too. He added, ‘Let’s all see Dr. Greenberg together. Maybe we can get a group discount.’ I thought for just a second that a tiny smile began to crack on Lily’s face. Instead, she stomped out of the living room, shouting as she went, ‘Get off my back. Leave me alone!’
With no enthusiasm, Lily joined us for dinner. I hoped it was the tantalizing aroma of my Hungarian goulash, but it wasn’t. I watched her out of the corner of my eye, saw her eat one potato, dip her bread in the gravy, eat it and take another slice. She waited for hot tea and a sliver of lemon meringue pie before going upstairs. The phone rang as she was taking her last lick of the fork. I thought that would set off an alarm for her to find shelter in her room, but she stayed seated.
‘This is Rabbi Bernstein, may I please speak to Lily?’ ‘Rabbi, I doubt it but will ask her. Lily shook her head ‘no, so hard I thought it might fall off. I must have looked forlorn because Lily told me to ask him what he wants. ‘Lily, dear Lily, he only wants to talk, tell you about the donations made in Bernie’s memory. You do owe those people a call, a thank you note. Invite the Rabbi over.’ This time she said an almost impossible word, ‘Okay.’ A tiny step that was a truly big jump. I cut another piece of pie, said nothing, and placed it in front of her. ‘Rabbi Bernstein will be here Saturday after morning services.’
Lily was dressed neatly. The red rims of her eyes still looked like traffic lights that wouldn’t turn green. Rabbi Bernstein must have had his small beard trimmed Friday afternoon, well before evening prayers. He could easily pass for one of thousands of college students with Rip Van Winkle beards to overnight stubble. Carl and I were asked to join them but we felt he might reach Lily more easily if she had privacy. We stayed in the kitchen, straining to eavesdrop but heard nothing at all. That was a good sign. Their chat took about ½ hour. Lily walked him to the door, shook his hand and thanked him, then went upstairs to her room.
She called down to me, ‘Sylvia, do you know where the thank you cards are? The Rabbi said at least 20 of Bernie’s friends have made donations to the shule.’ ‘Come downstairs. I’ll help you address them, Lily.’ ‘No, I can do them myself.’
The phone rang. It was the rabbi again.’ I’d like to see Lily next Saturday. Will you ask her if I can come over?’ ‘I asked her, Rabbi and she said, ‘No’ she will be at services and will see you there.’
It seemed, with god’s help, he worked some kind of miracle, a spectacular one, and I strongly now believe neither Carl, Lily or I will have to see that therapist after all.
Monday, January 25, 2010
UNREACHABLE ALPS
In front and above me stands a Goliath who must be 6'6". I, 4'11" (only one inch taller than a midget) do not fear. My small voice yells at him, ‘You have a lot of guts taking the parking spot I was trying to back into.’ I’m not sure he hears or sees me. ‘Hey, up there, didn’t your mama teach you manners or was she too busy looking for the goose that laid golden eggs?’ To myself I ask what are these asinine words I’m muttering? That hunk isn’t worth my time. Get your alterations from Macy’s and forget about the jerk.
As I flippantly turn my back on him, he bends his knees, comes down from his perch and looks right into my eyes. ‘I apologize Miss. I should have seen you but didn’t. There could have been quite a crash.’ Looking more closely at his face, his eyes, I almost drown in their blueness. They are the real McCoy Blue Lakes, clear, deep, cool. And then he smiles to me and I am lost. Idiocy envelopes me. My heart races to where it has never been. These crazy, wild thoughts must be visible. I look away, tell myself to scram or clean up my mind. ‘Suzy, he’d suffocate you, crush you, rip your insides out. Go home. Cool off.’
I pay no attention to myself, offer him my hand as I apologize for being so huffy over nothing. It disappears in softness. I head towards the mall and Macy’s, stop dead in my tracks. A giantess is headed my way. Behind me is Goliath. I feel smaller by the second. The lady is lovely, a blond 6 footer, wearing perfectly tailored bone colored slacks that cover her insteps. Her dark wash denim jacket had to be tailor made. I am invisible as she walks past me without a glance. A picture of the giant and his giantess flashes thru my mind, embarrasses me. I flutter my eyes to erase the image and it is gone.
The giant comes closer. So does the giantess. If I don’t get out of the way they could crush me like being a Lay’s potato chip in a dip bowl. I pretend to drop something so they can meet and greet each other with no interference. In the blink of an eye, before I can straighten up, the stunner is behind me and Blue Eyes in front. They just happen to be two tall beautiful people, not lovers. I quicken my pace and try to catch up but can’t. Aimlessly I walk the mall for 30 minutes, looking in every men’s shop, hoping to find him again. I don’t.
I get my altered dress from Macy’s, drive home, do what I do too often, have a light supper, watch t.v. go to bed alone, enjoy my fantasy and fall asleep.
As I flippantly turn my back on him, he bends his knees, comes down from his perch and looks right into my eyes. ‘I apologize Miss. I should have seen you but didn’t. There could have been quite a crash.’ Looking more closely at his face, his eyes, I almost drown in their blueness. They are the real McCoy Blue Lakes, clear, deep, cool. And then he smiles to me and I am lost. Idiocy envelopes me. My heart races to where it has never been. These crazy, wild thoughts must be visible. I look away, tell myself to scram or clean up my mind. ‘Suzy, he’d suffocate you, crush you, rip your insides out. Go home. Cool off.’
I pay no attention to myself, offer him my hand as I apologize for being so huffy over nothing. It disappears in softness. I head towards the mall and Macy’s, stop dead in my tracks. A giantess is headed my way. Behind me is Goliath. I feel smaller by the second. The lady is lovely, a blond 6 footer, wearing perfectly tailored bone colored slacks that cover her insteps. Her dark wash denim jacket had to be tailor made. I am invisible as she walks past me without a glance. A picture of the giant and his giantess flashes thru my mind, embarrasses me. I flutter my eyes to erase the image and it is gone.
The giant comes closer. So does the giantess. If I don’t get out of the way they could crush me like being a Lay’s potato chip in a dip bowl. I pretend to drop something so they can meet and greet each other with no interference. In the blink of an eye, before I can straighten up, the stunner is behind me and Blue Eyes in front. They just happen to be two tall beautiful people, not lovers. I quicken my pace and try to catch up but can’t. Aimlessly I walk the mall for 30 minutes, looking in every men’s shop, hoping to find him again. I don’t.
I get my altered dress from Macy’s, drive home, do what I do too often, have a light supper, watch t.v. go to bed alone, enjoy my fantasy and fall asleep.
HEAVEN HELP US
As I run toward the accident on the corner of 12th and Violet, I know it isn’t going to be a pretty sight. With my first step my stomach gets queasy. With my second, I have my cell phone out and dial 911, give the little I know to the operator as my shoes click on the pavement. Whatever I can do, I will do but cross myself that I should be able to do what I should, what I must. No one is getting out of the car, at least not on the side visible to me. A loud cry, a child’s cry, reaches me. So far so good. The toddler is firmly strapped in his car seat. No glass is broken. No blood is evident.
A loud moan from the driver’s seat takes my attention from the child. When I open the front door I see the driver’s foot twisted almost backward. It must hurt like hell. Sobbing, her eyes dripping tears, she asks me if Tommy is alright. ‘As far as I can tell, Miss, but medics are on the way. Don’t you try to move.’ Sirens wail, one from the north and one from the east. They join forces close to where I am standing. It looks to me that the lady’s car was hit broadside.
The medic who seems to be in charge comes to me before seeing the injured person, people? I feel like I am on trial. ‘What did you see, Miss?’ ‘Nothing, nothing at all.’ ‘Were you in either car?’ ‘No, I got here as fast as I could. I think the driver has a broken foot or leg. She’s in a lot of pain. The child seems safe but I’m not a doctor.’ ‘Why didn’t you tell me there is a child in the car? The medic asks and I ask him, ‘Why didn’t you look? Are you blind?’ I hit a nerve.
In the other car 2 attendants have extricated an elderly man and a teenager. Neither looks to be the picture of health. The old man is on a stretcher, one arm hanging down, almost touching the ground. It is thin and lined with bulging veins. The teen is conscious and begging a medic to call his mom and grandmother.
The first medic is still with me. He has done nothing to help the injured. ‘Your name, address, phone number, please. Tell me again exactly what you saw.’ ‘ Put a simple big zero. I told you ‘nothing’. I heard the crash and ran towards it, calling 911 on the way.’ ‘Well, what did you do when you got here?’ ‘I did more than you are doing. I tried to help and you stand here asking me the same questions over and over. I must say, though, that you did make good time, time that I think you are wasting.’
He doesn’t like my tone and I don’t like any part of him. Nevertheless, I try to be civil. ‘I have to be getting home now but want to thank you and your crew for the wonderful work you do. You are great guys. Goodbye.’ I turn, look inside the two cars. Both are empty. One ambulance is gone and a driver is at his post waiting for instructions and for ‘the boss’ to get in.
As I go to my car I wonder was I too harsh on the medic or not harsh enough. I really don’t care and go home to tell my neighbors to drive carefully.
A loud moan from the driver’s seat takes my attention from the child. When I open the front door I see the driver’s foot twisted almost backward. It must hurt like hell. Sobbing, her eyes dripping tears, she asks me if Tommy is alright. ‘As far as I can tell, Miss, but medics are on the way. Don’t you try to move.’ Sirens wail, one from the north and one from the east. They join forces close to where I am standing. It looks to me that the lady’s car was hit broadside.
The medic who seems to be in charge comes to me before seeing the injured person, people? I feel like I am on trial. ‘What did you see, Miss?’ ‘Nothing, nothing at all.’ ‘Were you in either car?’ ‘No, I got here as fast as I could. I think the driver has a broken foot or leg. She’s in a lot of pain. The child seems safe but I’m not a doctor.’ ‘Why didn’t you tell me there is a child in the car? The medic asks and I ask him, ‘Why didn’t you look? Are you blind?’ I hit a nerve.
In the other car 2 attendants have extricated an elderly man and a teenager. Neither looks to be the picture of health. The old man is on a stretcher, one arm hanging down, almost touching the ground. It is thin and lined with bulging veins. The teen is conscious and begging a medic to call his mom and grandmother.
The first medic is still with me. He has done nothing to help the injured. ‘Your name, address, phone number, please. Tell me again exactly what you saw.’ ‘ Put a simple big zero. I told you ‘nothing’. I heard the crash and ran towards it, calling 911 on the way.’ ‘Well, what did you do when you got here?’ ‘I did more than you are doing. I tried to help and you stand here asking me the same questions over and over. I must say, though, that you did make good time, time that I think you are wasting.’
He doesn’t like my tone and I don’t like any part of him. Nevertheless, I try to be civil. ‘I have to be getting home now but want to thank you and your crew for the wonderful work you do. You are great guys. Goodbye.’ I turn, look inside the two cars. Both are empty. One ambulance is gone and a driver is at his post waiting for instructions and for ‘the boss’ to get in.
As I go to my car I wonder was I too harsh on the medic or not harsh enough. I really don’t care and go home to tell my neighbors to drive carefully.
DON’ T CALL ME
The phone is ringing off the hook. It is driving me insane. I lift the receiver and shout over and over., ‘Hello, hello,’ nobody answers. All I get is the dial tone. A T & T has checked and told me on my cell phone, over and over, that the lines are in order. My words run angrily together when I ask the service department why I can’t call them on my phone nor get a message from them. Neither the first nor fifth service manager has given me an explanation that makes sense. I thank the powers that be that there is silence between 5 p.m. and 6 a.m. That’s all I can say until I can say no more and rip the wires out of the wall.
My eyes bulge, my mouth tastes like chewed wood, my belly revolts as hundreds, thousands of little squiggly things swim out of the phone bracket. Jill and I have never, and I mean ‘never’, seen anything like this in our house, seldom see a stray garden ant. She and I grab our coats and run. We stand on the corner, gulping for air, not knowing who to call, what to do. Not even an exterminator would go into that zoo.
The world, my world, has turned black. I have the shivers, twist, kick in revulsion. Something is running up my back. It stops and grabs my hands, then lets go. A voice from nowhere, gravelly, rough is calling me. ‘Eddie, Eddie, open your eyes. Wake up. Look at me.’ My father is standing near my bed. I see him thru blurry eyes and hear him say, ‘Come on, Son, snap out of it.’ He sounds serious, calls to Jill to come in. The door opens and there she is looking as bad as I feel. Worry lines are clear.
‘Jill, what is going on? Where am I and why am I here?’ ‘Look at me, Eddie. See this huge thing I am carrying? You have had a most unusual reaction to anesthetics. Dr. Solansky was really worried and waited with us until now. In fact, here he is.’ The door opens. ‘Hey, Eddie, your signs are all okay now and you should be able to leave in about an hour. Take it easy for a day or two and don’t sleep with Jill.' 'Call me, Jill, if he gets rambunctious.’
I look at Jill’s huge ‘thing’ and everything clarifies in my woozy brain.Jill kisses my cheek, holds my hand and whispers, ‘We decided this together. Six children are enough. Enough is surely enough. No more, Sweet Prince.
Your vasectomy is over but don’t you dare ever consider that gives you free rein with anyone but me or I’ll have Dr. Solansky remove your apparatus entirely.’
My eyes bulge, my mouth tastes like chewed wood, my belly revolts as hundreds, thousands of little squiggly things swim out of the phone bracket. Jill and I have never, and I mean ‘never’, seen anything like this in our house, seldom see a stray garden ant. She and I grab our coats and run. We stand on the corner, gulping for air, not knowing who to call, what to do. Not even an exterminator would go into that zoo.
The world, my world, has turned black. I have the shivers, twist, kick in revulsion. Something is running up my back. It stops and grabs my hands, then lets go. A voice from nowhere, gravelly, rough is calling me. ‘Eddie, Eddie, open your eyes. Wake up. Look at me.’ My father is standing near my bed. I see him thru blurry eyes and hear him say, ‘Come on, Son, snap out of it.’ He sounds serious, calls to Jill to come in. The door opens and there she is looking as bad as I feel. Worry lines are clear.
‘Jill, what is going on? Where am I and why am I here?’ ‘Look at me, Eddie. See this huge thing I am carrying? You have had a most unusual reaction to anesthetics. Dr. Solansky was really worried and waited with us until now. In fact, here he is.’ The door opens. ‘Hey, Eddie, your signs are all okay now and you should be able to leave in about an hour. Take it easy for a day or two and don’t sleep with Jill.' 'Call me, Jill, if he gets rambunctious.’
I look at Jill’s huge ‘thing’ and everything clarifies in my woozy brain.Jill kisses my cheek, holds my hand and whispers, ‘We decided this together. Six children are enough. Enough is surely enough. No more, Sweet Prince.
Your vasectomy is over but don’t you dare ever consider that gives you free rein with anyone but me or I’ll have Dr. Solansky remove your apparatus entirely.’
MAMA MIA
It was almost dark when I left my house. Rain was coming down gently like eider feathers. A few umbrellas were opening. My mother had left me another pathetic message, ‘I’ve fallen and can’t get up. Help!’ Even though I chuckled to myself, how could I not go? Maybe this time she really did fall. The driveway lights were on when I got there. The living room shutters were open. I saw her limping to the kitchen and honked just to let her know The Lone Ranger had arrived to save her.
I unlocked the door with the key she had tagged for me ‘mother’. It clinked and there Mom was, dressed in blue satin slax, a tank top and sandals. Her bifocal glasses dangled from a chain in a double twist for security purposes. The frames rhinestone rims shimmered. I gave her the required hug and little kiss on the cheek and heard her grunt. With her legs apart, hands on her hips, she looked angry. Flames reddened her eyes. Her lips curled into a snarl. ‘What took you so long, Geraldine?’ she pouted. Mother only calls me Geraldine when she’s hot about something. Silence is golden but not in this house. Continuing, she questioned me,’Where have you been when I needed you, Geraldine?’ It was my turn to be nasty but I held my temper. ‘Mother, I was out. That’s all. I was doing what I had to do, like to do. I was shopping.’ The room became a morgue of silence. ‘Don’t be so uppity with me, Child. Where were you?’
‘Mother, do you have any of that heavenly fragrant Columbian coffee left? If you do, heat a cup for me. I forgot something in my car. I’ll be right back.’ She’s a pistol, that Mom of mine. Before I reached the door she wanted to know what I forgot and why I was careless in leaving it in the car.
Her rhinestone eye glass frames shimmered in the reflection of the driveway lights. And there she was, looking out the window to see what I would bring in. The small gift box fit into my jacket pocket. A little fib and I told her I must have left it on my kitchen table. ‘Well, mercy me,’ she exclaimed. ‘You must be getting senile. Make notes like I do and you won’t forget so many things.’ Oh, how I love to tease her. ‘Mom, I’ll go out and look again. ‘Here it is. It’s for you. It had slipped under the front seat.’ I handed her the package and she grabbed it like a squirrel that just found more acorns. ‘Gerry.’ I was Gerry again. She made a little curtsy and thanked me, carefully removed the crinkly blue ribbon, rolled it up and took it to the dining room server drawer to join a rainbow of other strings. The yellow polka dot paper came off, was flattened nicely. When she opened the box, the sparkle in her eyes made mine tear. ‘Oh, Gerry, what beautiful earrings. The clip on ones she had been wearing went down her bra. ‘Geraldine, have you hidden the earrings I just took off? That would be mean. Find them.’ I didn’t dare look.
‘Mother, where did you fall today?Were you hurt?’ With a shrug she asked me if she had fallen. ‘Wasn’t it yesterday that I almost broke my hip?’ My visit began to gnaw at me. Depression sometimes overcomes me when I visit her. It knocks my panties off, makes me grouchy, grouchy enough to need a therapist. Last week Dr. Grayson told me that if I get so upset, don’t go more than once a week, maybe longer. He knows the minute I walk into his office that I’m down again, need his help. I was softly told to sit in my usual large leather swivel chair, lean, back and relax. He spun me around a few times, made me laugh.
Then he took me upstairs to our bedroom, undressed me and I forgot about my mother–until the next time.
I unlocked the door with the key she had tagged for me ‘mother’. It clinked and there Mom was, dressed in blue satin slax, a tank top and sandals. Her bifocal glasses dangled from a chain in a double twist for security purposes. The frames rhinestone rims shimmered. I gave her the required hug and little kiss on the cheek and heard her grunt. With her legs apart, hands on her hips, she looked angry. Flames reddened her eyes. Her lips curled into a snarl. ‘What took you so long, Geraldine?’ she pouted. Mother only calls me Geraldine when she’s hot about something. Silence is golden but not in this house. Continuing, she questioned me,’Where have you been when I needed you, Geraldine?’ It was my turn to be nasty but I held my temper. ‘Mother, I was out. That’s all. I was doing what I had to do, like to do. I was shopping.’ The room became a morgue of silence. ‘Don’t be so uppity with me, Child. Where were you?’
‘Mother, do you have any of that heavenly fragrant Columbian coffee left? If you do, heat a cup for me. I forgot something in my car. I’ll be right back.’ She’s a pistol, that Mom of mine. Before I reached the door she wanted to know what I forgot and why I was careless in leaving it in the car.
Her rhinestone eye glass frames shimmered in the reflection of the driveway lights. And there she was, looking out the window to see what I would bring in. The small gift box fit into my jacket pocket. A little fib and I told her I must have left it on my kitchen table. ‘Well, mercy me,’ she exclaimed. ‘You must be getting senile. Make notes like I do and you won’t forget so many things.’ Oh, how I love to tease her. ‘Mom, I’ll go out and look again. ‘Here it is. It’s for you. It had slipped under the front seat.’ I handed her the package and she grabbed it like a squirrel that just found more acorns. ‘Gerry.’ I was Gerry again. She made a little curtsy and thanked me, carefully removed the crinkly blue ribbon, rolled it up and took it to the dining room server drawer to join a rainbow of other strings. The yellow polka dot paper came off, was flattened nicely. When she opened the box, the sparkle in her eyes made mine tear. ‘Oh, Gerry, what beautiful earrings. The clip on ones she had been wearing went down her bra. ‘Geraldine, have you hidden the earrings I just took off? That would be mean. Find them.’ I didn’t dare look.
‘Mother, where did you fall today?Were you hurt?’ With a shrug she asked me if she had fallen. ‘Wasn’t it yesterday that I almost broke my hip?’ My visit began to gnaw at me. Depression sometimes overcomes me when I visit her. It knocks my panties off, makes me grouchy, grouchy enough to need a therapist. Last week Dr. Grayson told me that if I get so upset, don’t go more than once a week, maybe longer. He knows the minute I walk into his office that I’m down again, need his help. I was softly told to sit in my usual large leather swivel chair, lean, back and relax. He spun me around a few times, made me laugh.
Then he took me upstairs to our bedroom, undressed me and I forgot about my mother–until the next time.
WAKE UP CALL
I don’t like the ones that make me gasp for breath, scream, sit bolt upright in my bed, scare the dreams into submission. Where am I? What horror did I pass thru? There is no memory, no explainable cause. All I know is my heart pounds as if Odin were trying to enter. My legs won’t hold me. They wobble and I fall back on my bed. No haunted houses ever appear, no bloody heads hanging loose from battered bodies. It scares me.
In trying to analyze what happens, I have come to the conclusion that electric shocks chase each other thru my brain. The blond hair on my arms wave like new wheat in the wind. I see brilliant lights bursting in air, glowing reds, yellows. There is no peace. A moment of thought and I don’t have any idea how long I slept. Dreams that are beautiful, seem to take a lifetime, only cause REMs for less than a minute. How long did I suffer, try to wake up? I don’t know. There have been times when my senses settle down that I feel my husband’s arms around me. I peep at him thru my fingers and see sweat on his face. Fright is fright and we share it.
Last nite it happened again and I believe I know the cause. I’m a big fan of Law and Order. Probably I’ve seen every episode more than once. I can sleep like a baby on a cloud of marshmallows, yet something must have struck my subconscious, sent shocks throughout my pale gray matter. The story was about a child abuser who did his foul deed and murdered 25 innocents. Naturally, he was caught, tried and was to die in the electric chair. Of course the theatrics of sparks flying from his head, burning flesh, was not a pretty sight but no worse than the dozens of other Law and order shows I’ve seen. Yet there I was, lying on the floor, threshing, yelling, until my husband saved me.
No more, no more. I heard the call and will revert to nonsense, serenity, comedy, musicals, Hershey bars until I puke from the absurdity of sweetness. I try ‘American Idol,’ ‘Desperate Housewives,’ stretch my limits to Jay Leno and give up. The new fall shows are full of action and inaction. None appeal.
Tuesday and Friday nights are Law & Order re-runs. I sit in the comfy den lounger so I don’t kick, scream, fall on the floor and enjoy my hour. My husband sits beside me and I watch unafraid.
In trying to analyze what happens, I have come to the conclusion that electric shocks chase each other thru my brain. The blond hair on my arms wave like new wheat in the wind. I see brilliant lights bursting in air, glowing reds, yellows. There is no peace. A moment of thought and I don’t have any idea how long I slept. Dreams that are beautiful, seem to take a lifetime, only cause REMs for less than a minute. How long did I suffer, try to wake up? I don’t know. There have been times when my senses settle down that I feel my husband’s arms around me. I peep at him thru my fingers and see sweat on his face. Fright is fright and we share it.
Last nite it happened again and I believe I know the cause. I’m a big fan of Law and Order. Probably I’ve seen every episode more than once. I can sleep like a baby on a cloud of marshmallows, yet something must have struck my subconscious, sent shocks throughout my pale gray matter. The story was about a child abuser who did his foul deed and murdered 25 innocents. Naturally, he was caught, tried and was to die in the electric chair. Of course the theatrics of sparks flying from his head, burning flesh, was not a pretty sight but no worse than the dozens of other Law and order shows I’ve seen. Yet there I was, lying on the floor, threshing, yelling, until my husband saved me.
No more, no more. I heard the call and will revert to nonsense, serenity, comedy, musicals, Hershey bars until I puke from the absurdity of sweetness. I try ‘American Idol,’ ‘Desperate Housewives,’ stretch my limits to Jay Leno and give up. The new fall shows are full of action and inaction. None appeal.
Tuesday and Friday nights are Law & Order re-runs. I sit in the comfy den lounger so I don’t kick, scream, fall on the floor and enjoy my hour. My husband sits beside me and I watch unafraid.
LIVIN’ AIN’T EASY
At 7 a.m. it was 12 degrees outside. Inside the sparsely furnished row house the temp might have been 20 but neither Johnny, Jane, nor their children had a thermometer to check it out. Josie, the younger child, was 5 plus 3 months and was lying very still in her parent’s bed, getting as much warmth as she could from their bodies. Jess, aged 10, was stoking the old pot belly stove in the kitchen, throwing in pieces of broken orange crates. They were all miserably cold.
The electricity was still working. The gas range enabled Jane to warm up some milk in a small aluminum pan and then pour the milk over instant Oatmeal. Johnnie and Jane had gotten out of their bed as quietly as they could, leaving the baby cuddled under two blankets. Josie has on so many layers she wobbled when she walked.
Johnny was the first to leave the house. He had a plaid woolen cap with only one ear muff still attached and a warm muffler his mother had knitted for him during last year’s hot summer that flew away too fast. The muffler he wrapped twice around his neck and tucked its ends inside his jacket, walked three blocks to his bus stop. The heat inside the bus made his toes tingle and his hands thaw. It was nice to unwrap the wonderful muffler his mother had labored over so he just leaned back on the leather seat and relaxed for a few comfortable minutes.
As he was a fairly new cashier/bagger at Super Shop, he had ro stay outside with the few early birds until the door opened. As soon as he stepped inside, his glasses fogged up. With used, crushed Kleenex he managed to clear them and hurried to the employees room. There he hung up is jacket, put the cap in a pocket, and stuffed the warm muffler his mother knitted for him tightly into the left sleeve, then went to his station. The manager groaned a few times, cursed the cold and set up a hot coffee table near the main entrance, strategically place a ‘FREE’ sign on the door.
The sun was out all day but terribly weak. The city, for a short time, reached 30, which felt like being on a safari in Nairobi. By 4 p.m. the sun didn’t even blink. It just died. It was then 25. Customers were just about non-existent. At 5:30 the manager locked the doors individually, had the cashiers count and empty their registers and then let everyone go home early. He checked all the doors more than once and the lights dimmed.
Johnny had to face the wind again, have the chill shatter his bones and hated thinking about his family cold all day. He cried for them and for himself. His bus was running late so that even is teeth were dancing. The warm muffler was over his wool cap and he was still cold.
The bus came in sight at the same moment a young boy in a black cardigan sweater, black cotton turtle neck shirt and corduroy pants showed up. Johnnie looked at the walking icicle, pulled off the muffler his mother had so lovingly made for him, and without a word, put it twice around the boy’s neck and stepped on the bus.
The boy walked away, waving his silent thanks to Johnny. Johnny felt warm inside.
The electricity was still working. The gas range enabled Jane to warm up some milk in a small aluminum pan and then pour the milk over instant Oatmeal. Johnnie and Jane had gotten out of their bed as quietly as they could, leaving the baby cuddled under two blankets. Josie has on so many layers she wobbled when she walked.
Johnny was the first to leave the house. He had a plaid woolen cap with only one ear muff still attached and a warm muffler his mother had knitted for him during last year’s hot summer that flew away too fast. The muffler he wrapped twice around his neck and tucked its ends inside his jacket, walked three blocks to his bus stop. The heat inside the bus made his toes tingle and his hands thaw. It was nice to unwrap the wonderful muffler his mother had labored over so he just leaned back on the leather seat and relaxed for a few comfortable minutes.
As he was a fairly new cashier/bagger at Super Shop, he had ro stay outside with the few early birds until the door opened. As soon as he stepped inside, his glasses fogged up. With used, crushed Kleenex he managed to clear them and hurried to the employees room. There he hung up is jacket, put the cap in a pocket, and stuffed the warm muffler his mother knitted for him tightly into the left sleeve, then went to his station. The manager groaned a few times, cursed the cold and set up a hot coffee table near the main entrance, strategically place a ‘FREE’ sign on the door.
The sun was out all day but terribly weak. The city, for a short time, reached 30, which felt like being on a safari in Nairobi. By 4 p.m. the sun didn’t even blink. It just died. It was then 25. Customers were just about non-existent. At 5:30 the manager locked the doors individually, had the cashiers count and empty their registers and then let everyone go home early. He checked all the doors more than once and the lights dimmed.
Johnny had to face the wind again, have the chill shatter his bones and hated thinking about his family cold all day. He cried for them and for himself. His bus was running late so that even is teeth were dancing. The warm muffler was over his wool cap and he was still cold.
The bus came in sight at the same moment a young boy in a black cardigan sweater, black cotton turtle neck shirt and corduroy pants showed up. Johnnie looked at the walking icicle, pulled off the muffler his mother had so lovingly made for him, and without a word, put it twice around the boy’s neck and stepped on the bus.
The boy walked away, waving his silent thanks to Johnny. Johnny felt warm inside.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
THE GIANT KILLER
I was married, 19, 5'4" and weighed 90 lbs. A queasy, strange feeling was running thru my blood. Could I be preg? My internist gave me an OBGYN name but I needed more. I heart pump to get me onto Dr. Berger examining table. His nurse told me to slide down a little and put my feet in the stirrups and I must have turned green. ‘Do I have to?’ I asked. She said something like pshaw and motioned where I had to go. A large paper towel covered me. It immediately slipped off and landed on the floor. Nursie picked it up, crunched it and put it in the trash. She put another on me and told me to hold on to it. That was impossible. My hands were covering my bony hips so she tacked the towel under my arse.
A neat looking man, not much taller than my 5'4" came in. His small gray moustache was neatly trimmed, his eyes sunny and warm. ‘Mrs. Jordan, I’m Dr. Berger. Don’t be frightened. This culture won’t hurt. It will confirm or not what I believe to be true, you are pregnant.’ It didn’t hurt but my embarrassment made me want to grab some clothes, any clothes, and run. Mrs. Jordan, it looks to me that you are in about your third month. Does that seem plausable? I must have smiled because he smiled. ‘Sure, I guess it’s better than cancer.’
Driving home I wondered why I wasn’t thrilled, excited. Ralph is going to be shocked, maybe angry. This was not a planned child. As usual, the first thing he did when he passed the hallway was to take off his shoes, go upstairs and lie down to relax for a few minutes. This time I followed him to our room. I sat next to him and sprung the news. Ralph turned white, was actually speechless. Like a robot, he suddenly sat straight up, took my hand, hugged me tight and started kissing me from my forehead down to my belly button. Breathless, he stopped. ‘Gosh, Ralph, if my doctor had done to me what you just did, I’d have him locked up for eternity.’
Two days later I felt a little quiver and a lot of nausea. The morning sickness was upon me. Ralph bought me a dozen boxes of United Biscuits, just in case. It took two months before the nausea left and I had not only devoured all the crackers, I had managed to devour several thick chunks of Hershey’s Milk Chocolate Ralph brought from the market every Saturday night as my reward for getting thru another week.
Dr. Berger ordered me to cut back on the chocolate, the sundaes or I would be a blimp. I promised I would and did only eat ½ of the Saturday nite treat–MY half. Walking was difficult. I wobbled like a pregnant duck. Sitting was uncomfortable, so was lying down. Looking in the mirror I saw a freak with a beach ball in my stomach supported on skinny legs. My weight was 145, 55 pounds more than I used to be. I covered the mirror and vowed to myself not to look again until I was free.
My time came and all I really remember is ‘Push, Push,’ until somebody hollered, ‘Oh, my god.’ White uniforms were racing around, the doctor asking for unnameable things. I blacked out. My parents and Ralph looked worried and fuzzy around my bed. It sounded like he was in a funnel when he told me we have a healthy son. Then he was silent. I mumbled, ‘Can I see him?’ ‘Not yet. Later.’ I’d like to name him David Jackson Jordan.’ In my delirium I raised my voice, ‘Are you crazy? We decided on William. Where did you get that stupid name?’ ‘Darling, you delivered a seventeen pound boy, a record for this hospital. He is going to be something to handle and the name will be perfect, Jack the Giant Killer and David who slew Goliath. Tomorrow newspaper reporters will be here to photograph our son and us. We might get on the Today Show. He is going to start out famous and will have the world before him. What do you say?’ I say ‘No, David is okay but not with Jackson. Who knows he may want to be part of the Jackson Five or Michael’s family. I’ll go for William David. It has a nice ring to it.’
Dr. Berger came in at that point, pushing a large crib. ‘How are you feeling, Alma?’ He didn’t start calling me Alma until my ninth month. ‘There was no sense telling you that I expected to have to do a C Section on you. Want me to bring him to you to hold?’ ‘No way, he’s big enough to walk to me.’
‘Alma, the pediatrician has carefully examined him and says he’s in perfect condition. You, my dear, have some stitches that won’t come out for a week. Just lie there and rest.
Just picture this, Alma, all your friends who have already bought baby clothes for your son, have to exchange them and you will have to get a larger crib and have your husband exchange all the things you thought would fit a newborn. ‘
‘Dr.Berger, just think what would have happened if I hadn’t cut back on my chocolate fudge sundaes?
A neat looking man, not much taller than my 5'4" came in. His small gray moustache was neatly trimmed, his eyes sunny and warm. ‘Mrs. Jordan, I’m Dr. Berger. Don’t be frightened. This culture won’t hurt. It will confirm or not what I believe to be true, you are pregnant.’ It didn’t hurt but my embarrassment made me want to grab some clothes, any clothes, and run. Mrs. Jordan, it looks to me that you are in about your third month. Does that seem plausable? I must have smiled because he smiled. ‘Sure, I guess it’s better than cancer.’
Driving home I wondered why I wasn’t thrilled, excited. Ralph is going to be shocked, maybe angry. This was not a planned child. As usual, the first thing he did when he passed the hallway was to take off his shoes, go upstairs and lie down to relax for a few minutes. This time I followed him to our room. I sat next to him and sprung the news. Ralph turned white, was actually speechless. Like a robot, he suddenly sat straight up, took my hand, hugged me tight and started kissing me from my forehead down to my belly button. Breathless, he stopped. ‘Gosh, Ralph, if my doctor had done to me what you just did, I’d have him locked up for eternity.’
Two days later I felt a little quiver and a lot of nausea. The morning sickness was upon me. Ralph bought me a dozen boxes of United Biscuits, just in case. It took two months before the nausea left and I had not only devoured all the crackers, I had managed to devour several thick chunks of Hershey’s Milk Chocolate Ralph brought from the market every Saturday night as my reward for getting thru another week.
Dr. Berger ordered me to cut back on the chocolate, the sundaes or I would be a blimp. I promised I would and did only eat ½ of the Saturday nite treat–MY half. Walking was difficult. I wobbled like a pregnant duck. Sitting was uncomfortable, so was lying down. Looking in the mirror I saw a freak with a beach ball in my stomach supported on skinny legs. My weight was 145, 55 pounds more than I used to be. I covered the mirror and vowed to myself not to look again until I was free.
My time came and all I really remember is ‘Push, Push,’ until somebody hollered, ‘Oh, my god.’ White uniforms were racing around, the doctor asking for unnameable things. I blacked out. My parents and Ralph looked worried and fuzzy around my bed. It sounded like he was in a funnel when he told me we have a healthy son. Then he was silent. I mumbled, ‘Can I see him?’ ‘Not yet. Later.’ I’d like to name him David Jackson Jordan.’ In my delirium I raised my voice, ‘Are you crazy? We decided on William. Where did you get that stupid name?’ ‘Darling, you delivered a seventeen pound boy, a record for this hospital. He is going to be something to handle and the name will be perfect, Jack the Giant Killer and David who slew Goliath. Tomorrow newspaper reporters will be here to photograph our son and us. We might get on the Today Show. He is going to start out famous and will have the world before him. What do you say?’ I say ‘No, David is okay but not with Jackson. Who knows he may want to be part of the Jackson Five or Michael’s family. I’ll go for William David. It has a nice ring to it.’
Dr. Berger came in at that point, pushing a large crib. ‘How are you feeling, Alma?’ He didn’t start calling me Alma until my ninth month. ‘There was no sense telling you that I expected to have to do a C Section on you. Want me to bring him to you to hold?’ ‘No way, he’s big enough to walk to me.’
‘Alma, the pediatrician has carefully examined him and says he’s in perfect condition. You, my dear, have some stitches that won’t come out for a week. Just lie there and rest.
Just picture this, Alma, all your friends who have already bought baby clothes for your son, have to exchange them and you will have to get a larger crib and have your husband exchange all the things you thought would fit a newborn. ‘
‘Dr.Berger, just think what would have happened if I hadn’t cut back on my chocolate fudge sundaes?
ON A WING AND A PRAYER
People stare at me. I don’t like it but do what I have to do, hold on to the pink polka dot leash attached to my daughter, Ellie. ‘Hey, Lady, that’s a child,not a dog!,’ How’d you like to be tied to a leash? Shame on you.’Remarks are barbs in my heart but I seal my lips.
I am almost to Security insanity, shorten Ellie’s bond, lift her in my arms and show her Shh shh. She understands and is quiet for a few minutes. Ellie is almost 3 (and I use this term reluctantly) ‘she’s mentally challenged- slow).A kind passenger behind me quickens her step and offers to put my necessary carry-on items on the security table. Ellie reaches her sleeve and says , ‘Go Go. I have no idea what she means but am delighted she said anything at all. My helper follows me until we are both declared non-threatening and helps me put Ellie’s flip flops on her feet. Mrs. Wonderful takes a strong hold of my bag of medicines, a bottle of water, clean panties for Ellie, a toy or two and a book about goofy looking animals and insists on walking me to my gate.
My purse is secure and comfortable on my shoulder and Ellie is again on her leash. The walk to Gate 17B is far so I carry Ellie part of the way. Flt. 764 boards in 10 minutes. I turn to my left, right and all around, Mrs. Wonderful has vanished. Hopefully I had imagined she’d be on our plane and would sit with me. It doesn’t happen.
Ellie has her own seat on the plane, with the purchased safety seat buckled on. To prevent her from annoying the aisle passenger, I give her the window view. When a white haired lady with gnarled veiny hands and a few long hairs on her chin tries to put her carry-on case in the luggage compartment, she can’t. The man on the other aisle seat says nothing, simply gets up, helps her and sits down.
As difficult as it is for me to take Ellie to Johns Hopkins without my husband’s help, I am aware that there still are lots of nice people, so shut the vinegar mouths out of my mind. A not-too- young stewardess unstraps Ellie from her seat, hands her a Honey Bun doll and carries her to the exit for me. I add her to my mental thank you list.
As soon as we de-plane, I step aside to re-leash Ellie before we hit bedlam at the luggage pick up area. They stand out like the Beef Eaters at Buckingham Castle. My Mom and Dad rush over to us, start to take Ellie’s hand, ask for a kiss and she cries. On the ride to their house in northwest Baltimore, Ellie actually falls asleep on my mother’s lap and I wish I could fit on too.
Hopkins is in a world of its own, a new expanding one that has no limits. I still remember being a patient there when I was only five and needed ear surgery. The old red brick, domed hospital that was on Broadway is still there but the hospital has spread for blocks, has auxiliaries all over the suburbs. Glass, steel, buildings rise like well beaten pancakes.Construction goes on 24 hours a day. Endowments grow faster than dandelions.
Yet what hasn’t changed is attitude. Each patient is an individual, treated with respect and care. The learning students go from room to room, each patient studied, discussed with the department head. In two minutes Ellie is happy. Two aides handle her with warm hands and hearts. They play games with her, show her the colorful murals, the children’s play room where all sorts of toys are being used and each takes her hand to lead her to the doctor’s office. Ellie smiles to me and says, ‘Bye, Mommy.’ Did the plane have some kind of magic juice coming out its vents?
I am led to an office where I wait a few moments to meet Dr. Wilbert. His office is comfortably cozy and he exudes interest in what I have to say. I give him the reports from her doctors in Westborough and of course, I do not expect him to make a diagnosis then, but do pray that it happens. ‘Mrs. Franklin, I would like to see Ellie three times this week. Can you manage that? Don’t expect too much too fast, just know that whatever is wrong, we will find it and repair it, if possible. There is a knock at his door and then a lighter one, lower, closer to the floor. ‘Come in,’ Dr. Wilbert softly says. In come the two aides and Ellie, smiling, showing me the dolly she was holding. She walks over to the doctor’s desk and taps on it. I come close to bursting out of my skin.
The doctor asks her if she could sit on the floor with him so they could play Daddies and Mommies and the little doll will be the baby. Ellie doesn’t answer but sits down on the round rug that is in front of the doctors desk that looks like a rainbow snake. He asks her a few questions but she only looks blank, doesn’t reply. I visually concoct wheels already spinning in his brain.
‘Say Goodbye to the doctor, Honey.’ She doesn’t but waves and blows him a kiss. I make the first of many appointments.
I am almost to Security insanity, shorten Ellie’s bond, lift her in my arms and show her Shh shh. She understands and is quiet for a few minutes. Ellie is almost 3 (and I use this term reluctantly) ‘she’s mentally challenged- slow).A kind passenger behind me quickens her step and offers to put my necessary carry-on items on the security table. Ellie reaches her sleeve and says , ‘Go Go. I have no idea what she means but am delighted she said anything at all. My helper follows me until we are both declared non-threatening and helps me put Ellie’s flip flops on her feet. Mrs. Wonderful takes a strong hold of my bag of medicines, a bottle of water, clean panties for Ellie, a toy or two and a book about goofy looking animals and insists on walking me to my gate.
My purse is secure and comfortable on my shoulder and Ellie is again on her leash. The walk to Gate 17B is far so I carry Ellie part of the way. Flt. 764 boards in 10 minutes. I turn to my left, right and all around, Mrs. Wonderful has vanished. Hopefully I had imagined she’d be on our plane and would sit with me. It doesn’t happen.
Ellie has her own seat on the plane, with the purchased safety seat buckled on. To prevent her from annoying the aisle passenger, I give her the window view. When a white haired lady with gnarled veiny hands and a few long hairs on her chin tries to put her carry-on case in the luggage compartment, she can’t. The man on the other aisle seat says nothing, simply gets up, helps her and sits down.
As difficult as it is for me to take Ellie to Johns Hopkins without my husband’s help, I am aware that there still are lots of nice people, so shut the vinegar mouths out of my mind. A not-too- young stewardess unstraps Ellie from her seat, hands her a Honey Bun doll and carries her to the exit for me. I add her to my mental thank you list.
As soon as we de-plane, I step aside to re-leash Ellie before we hit bedlam at the luggage pick up area. They stand out like the Beef Eaters at Buckingham Castle. My Mom and Dad rush over to us, start to take Ellie’s hand, ask for a kiss and she cries. On the ride to their house in northwest Baltimore, Ellie actually falls asleep on my mother’s lap and I wish I could fit on too.
Hopkins is in a world of its own, a new expanding one that has no limits. I still remember being a patient there when I was only five and needed ear surgery. The old red brick, domed hospital that was on Broadway is still there but the hospital has spread for blocks, has auxiliaries all over the suburbs. Glass, steel, buildings rise like well beaten pancakes.Construction goes on 24 hours a day. Endowments grow faster than dandelions.
Yet what hasn’t changed is attitude. Each patient is an individual, treated with respect and care. The learning students go from room to room, each patient studied, discussed with the department head. In two minutes Ellie is happy. Two aides handle her with warm hands and hearts. They play games with her, show her the colorful murals, the children’s play room where all sorts of toys are being used and each takes her hand to lead her to the doctor’s office. Ellie smiles to me and says, ‘Bye, Mommy.’ Did the plane have some kind of magic juice coming out its vents?
I am led to an office where I wait a few moments to meet Dr. Wilbert. His office is comfortably cozy and he exudes interest in what I have to say. I give him the reports from her doctors in Westborough and of course, I do not expect him to make a diagnosis then, but do pray that it happens. ‘Mrs. Franklin, I would like to see Ellie three times this week. Can you manage that? Don’t expect too much too fast, just know that whatever is wrong, we will find it and repair it, if possible. There is a knock at his door and then a lighter one, lower, closer to the floor. ‘Come in,’ Dr. Wilbert softly says. In come the two aides and Ellie, smiling, showing me the dolly she was holding. She walks over to the doctor’s desk and taps on it. I come close to bursting out of my skin.
The doctor asks her if she could sit on the floor with him so they could play Daddies and Mommies and the little doll will be the baby. Ellie doesn’t answer but sits down on the round rug that is in front of the doctors desk that looks like a rainbow snake. He asks her a few questions but she only looks blank, doesn’t reply. I visually concoct wheels already spinning in his brain.
‘Say Goodbye to the doctor, Honey.’ She doesn’t but waves and blows him a kiss. I make the first of many appointments.
THIN CRUST
I love watching the pizza man twirl the thin dough over his head. More than that, I love to go in the shop and gorge on the lip-burning, spicy, cheese covered, anchovy topped thin pizza. More than that–I love the pizza man. One thing is wrong. He doesn’t know I exist.
Tonight I have a plan. When Bucky, that’s the name the bakers call him, finishes one huge umbrella base, I am going to tap on the window and when he looks at me, I’ll applaud.
It’s 9 P.M. and every small table is filled. A to-go line reaches from the cashier to the door. I clap before he starts another crust. His attention is distracted and his soon-to-be pizza drops on his head. He is terribly embarrassed, lifts the gloop and leaves the window. The boss sends in a replacement, one who doesn’t appeal to me at all.
Once inside, 2 girls I know from school call me to their table. I give up the take out order idea and join them. The waitress heads my way but before she gets to me, someone taps me on the shoulder. I feel faint. It’s Bucky with a huge scowl on his face. ‘You’re the girl who tapped on the window and made me drop the pizza, aren’t you.’ I could not deny it. ‘Well, thanks for nothing. In five years of tossing not once have I had an accident. You come along and spoil my record. Don’t ever do that again.’ Clearly, and rightfully upset, he walks away into what I believe is the kitchen. I stare hard at his back, hoping he’ll turn around so I can apologize. He doesn’t.
Sandra and Michelle are lost, ask me what I did and I tell them but don’t mention the raging crush I have for him. We three are almost the last customers to leave the pizzeria , 2 contented and full, one crying to herself but full.
I wait all week before I return and will stick to a to-go pizza with everything on top. Bucky is doing his thing. I stay away from the window, stand near the curb. Finally, I go inside. As I pass his twirling spot I hold my breath but can not avoid glancing his way. He doesn’t see me. My take out is ready and my impatience overcomes me. If I could, I would eat the hot cardboard box, the inside so tempting. I stupidly lift the lid, reach inside to just pull off a small piece and scream to the heavens. I burn my fingers, drop the box. The pizza falls out and make a big with everything mess on the floor. Mr. Fazolli, the boss, gives me a dirty look but smiles and tells me not to worry.
Bucky sees my situation, my dilemma, and comes over to me. ‘You are the same pain in the neck who made me drop my crust, aren’t you?’ I didn’t mean to cower at his angry eyes, but must have. ‘What’s your name?’ Meekly I tell him Flora, almost like ‘flour’ but it means flowers.’Bucky laughs at the coincidence of it. ‘Flora, I am sorry, really sorry, I was so mean to you when I dropped the crust. You were being nice and I was a louse. Let’s move away so the cleaning staff can work.’
He takes me to a table sits down with me and calls for one of the waitresses to bring me whatever I want, no charge. Well, I ordered the ‘with everything’ that was too tempting. Bucky got a small cheese and pepperoni.
My young dream is coming true. I have my delicious pizza and Bucky to gaze at and hopes that next time he’ll gaze at me.
And he does.
Tonight I have a plan. When Bucky, that’s the name the bakers call him, finishes one huge umbrella base, I am going to tap on the window and when he looks at me, I’ll applaud.
It’s 9 P.M. and every small table is filled. A to-go line reaches from the cashier to the door. I clap before he starts another crust. His attention is distracted and his soon-to-be pizza drops on his head. He is terribly embarrassed, lifts the gloop and leaves the window. The boss sends in a replacement, one who doesn’t appeal to me at all.
Once inside, 2 girls I know from school call me to their table. I give up the take out order idea and join them. The waitress heads my way but before she gets to me, someone taps me on the shoulder. I feel faint. It’s Bucky with a huge scowl on his face. ‘You’re the girl who tapped on the window and made me drop the pizza, aren’t you.’ I could not deny it. ‘Well, thanks for nothing. In five years of tossing not once have I had an accident. You come along and spoil my record. Don’t ever do that again.’ Clearly, and rightfully upset, he walks away into what I believe is the kitchen. I stare hard at his back, hoping he’ll turn around so I can apologize. He doesn’t.
Sandra and Michelle are lost, ask me what I did and I tell them but don’t mention the raging crush I have for him. We three are almost the last customers to leave the pizzeria , 2 contented and full, one crying to herself but full.
I wait all week before I return and will stick to a to-go pizza with everything on top. Bucky is doing his thing. I stay away from the window, stand near the curb. Finally, I go inside. As I pass his twirling spot I hold my breath but can not avoid glancing his way. He doesn’t see me. My take out is ready and my impatience overcomes me. If I could, I would eat the hot cardboard box, the inside so tempting. I stupidly lift the lid, reach inside to just pull off a small piece and scream to the heavens. I burn my fingers, drop the box. The pizza falls out and make a big with everything mess on the floor. Mr. Fazolli, the boss, gives me a dirty look but smiles and tells me not to worry.
Bucky sees my situation, my dilemma, and comes over to me. ‘You are the same pain in the neck who made me drop my crust, aren’t you?’ I didn’t mean to cower at his angry eyes, but must have. ‘What’s your name?’ Meekly I tell him Flora, almost like ‘flour’ but it means flowers.’Bucky laughs at the coincidence of it. ‘Flora, I am sorry, really sorry, I was so mean to you when I dropped the crust. You were being nice and I was a louse. Let’s move away so the cleaning staff can work.’
He takes me to a table sits down with me and calls for one of the waitresses to bring me whatever I want, no charge. Well, I ordered the ‘with everything’ that was too tempting. Bucky got a small cheese and pepperoni.
My young dream is coming true. I have my delicious pizza and Bucky to gaze at and hopes that next time he’ll gaze at me.
And he does.
Friday, January 15, 2010
SAUSAGE HIS OWN
‘You don’t have to tell me, Millard. I know I eat too much of the wrong things and I’m fat! So just go to hell and leave me alone. When I’m ready, maybe I’ll meet you there.’ I’m on a roll and can’t constrain myself. “Do I tell you to stop seeing pros? That you had better see a doctor before it’s too late?’ Millard boils. ‘You’re damn right you do, Jerkess. You tell me not to wear amulets and dangling earrings You criticize my beautiful tattoos. I get enough, more than enough, from my father and don’t need your nagging, so, shut up already.’ I walk away and leave him babbling to thin air.
He has an appointment to get little hearts tattooed around his left nipple. The door to Jim’s Tattoo Emporium is wide open. As soon as Jim sees Millard he shuts off the buzzing needle to say, ‘Hi, Millie. Ready for the hearts?’ ‘Yeah, Jim, I’m ready but are you ready for a punch in the nose? I’ve warned you to stop calling me Millie. That’s a girl’s name. Mine is Millard, like Millard Fillmore the 13th President of the United States. How long are you going to be? I’ve got other things to do beside waiting while you tattoo the young girl who is clearly underage and didn’t have an appointment.’ Millard has said his piece and goes down the street for a latte with lady fingers–no chocolate.’
The afternoon is bubbling over with sunshine. The normal blue sky looks like it is aquamarine today. The warm orange ball is almost directly over my head. It’s noon. That’s my signal for lunch. I have started my diet today, skipped my 10 a.m. donuts and will use Sweet ’n Low in my iced tea instead of sugar, try to leave the mayo off my low salt Muenster on lightly toasted whole wheat bread. Juniors’ is packed. I wait in the slow singles line, barely move. After ten agonizing minutes of no movement, I ask the guy behind me if he would like to join me so we can get in another line. With a slight nod, he agrees and says, ‘Separate checks. OK?’ We move. I look him over and wonder what was my hurry?
He says nothing, concentrates totally on the menu. I put out my hand and tell him my name is Phyllis. ‘Really?’ he asks. ‘That’s a coincidence, mine’s Phillip. His eyes go right back to the menu. Not until the waitress appears do we say another word, until his mouth moves, ‘You order first.’ ‘Lo/salt Muenster, lettuce, tomato on whole wheat lightly toasted, iced tea and please bring two Sweet ‘n Low. I don’t like the Equal on the table. Thanks.’ Phil looks at me and the man does speak, ‘Why don’t you order something more substantial, Phyllis. A bird will starve on that.’ I get snippy. ‘Mind your own business.’ Phil orders a ham and cheese omelet, extra cheese, home fries and slaw, 2 sesame rolls. And save me a piece of that gorgeous cherry cheese cake on top of the counter. See, it has my name on it!.’
My stomach begins to growl as my eyes try to block out the coming image. I stiffen my resolve and wait for my sick looking sandwich. Phil’s omelet not only looks like the chef at the Waldorf made it, it smells like I think heaven must smell. Phil realizes I am uneasy and offers to share his ricotta cheese cake later. It hurts to say it, but I do, ‘No thanks.Silently I pray for somebody to help me, chain my arms to a chair, pour water over my head, save me from the monster cheese cake. Phil eats his omelet slowly, relishing every bite. I shift my chair so I can only see part of his meal.
Most desserts are costly and small, but this cheese cake will easily be enough for him and me and Coxey’s army. The ‘perfect’ waitress has brought an extra plate and fork for me. Phil starts to cut his down the middle but I stop his hand mid-slice. I think I see relief in his face. He eats it all and licks the fork. ‘Phyllis, your lunch, including tip is $5.’ I give him a fiver and we both leave together.
I am hungry and triumphant. I lived thru watching the over-weight hulk stuff himself. It wasn’t easy but I did it, knowing that this was a good lesson for me. I was on my way to becoming a filled Phil. Next time I stop for lunch alone, I resolve to stay in the single line, leave off mayo, use no sugar and slim down.
All I can do is try.
He has an appointment to get little hearts tattooed around his left nipple. The door to Jim’s Tattoo Emporium is wide open. As soon as Jim sees Millard he shuts off the buzzing needle to say, ‘Hi, Millie. Ready for the hearts?’ ‘Yeah, Jim, I’m ready but are you ready for a punch in the nose? I’ve warned you to stop calling me Millie. That’s a girl’s name. Mine is Millard, like Millard Fillmore the 13th President of the United States. How long are you going to be? I’ve got other things to do beside waiting while you tattoo the young girl who is clearly underage and didn’t have an appointment.’ Millard has said his piece and goes down the street for a latte with lady fingers–no chocolate.’
The afternoon is bubbling over with sunshine. The normal blue sky looks like it is aquamarine today. The warm orange ball is almost directly over my head. It’s noon. That’s my signal for lunch. I have started my diet today, skipped my 10 a.m. donuts and will use Sweet ’n Low in my iced tea instead of sugar, try to leave the mayo off my low salt Muenster on lightly toasted whole wheat bread. Juniors’ is packed. I wait in the slow singles line, barely move. After ten agonizing minutes of no movement, I ask the guy behind me if he would like to join me so we can get in another line. With a slight nod, he agrees and says, ‘Separate checks. OK?’ We move. I look him over and wonder what was my hurry?
He says nothing, concentrates totally on the menu. I put out my hand and tell him my name is Phyllis. ‘Really?’ he asks. ‘That’s a coincidence, mine’s Phillip. His eyes go right back to the menu. Not until the waitress appears do we say another word, until his mouth moves, ‘You order first.’ ‘Lo/salt Muenster, lettuce, tomato on whole wheat lightly toasted, iced tea and please bring two Sweet ‘n Low. I don’t like the Equal on the table. Thanks.’ Phil looks at me and the man does speak, ‘Why don’t you order something more substantial, Phyllis. A bird will starve on that.’ I get snippy. ‘Mind your own business.’ Phil orders a ham and cheese omelet, extra cheese, home fries and slaw, 2 sesame rolls. And save me a piece of that gorgeous cherry cheese cake on top of the counter. See, it has my name on it!.’
My stomach begins to growl as my eyes try to block out the coming image. I stiffen my resolve and wait for my sick looking sandwich. Phil’s omelet not only looks like the chef at the Waldorf made it, it smells like I think heaven must smell. Phil realizes I am uneasy and offers to share his ricotta cheese cake later. It hurts to say it, but I do, ‘No thanks.Silently I pray for somebody to help me, chain my arms to a chair, pour water over my head, save me from the monster cheese cake. Phil eats his omelet slowly, relishing every bite. I shift my chair so I can only see part of his meal.
Most desserts are costly and small, but this cheese cake will easily be enough for him and me and Coxey’s army. The ‘perfect’ waitress has brought an extra plate and fork for me. Phil starts to cut his down the middle but I stop his hand mid-slice. I think I see relief in his face. He eats it all and licks the fork. ‘Phyllis, your lunch, including tip is $5.’ I give him a fiver and we both leave together.
I am hungry and triumphant. I lived thru watching the over-weight hulk stuff himself. It wasn’t easy but I did it, knowing that this was a good lesson for me. I was on my way to becoming a filled Phil. Next time I stop for lunch alone, I resolve to stay in the single line, leave off mayo, use no sugar and slim down.
All I can do is try.
REALLY ! !
We thirteen Psyche II students are having a beach soiree tonight. Clair called me early this morning to beg off because of her severe Migraine. She was going to be ‘out of it’ for at least twelve hours. What could I say besides ‘hope you feel better soon?’ I neither believed nor disbelieved her sudden story but it sounded hokey to me. Her absence is no problem, except for mine. I have inherited a little bit of being superstitious since my parents believed in knocking on wood, three on a match is doom. Thirteen at dinner and somebody will die. I must face tonight, forget the nonsense of childhood.
By seven we are together and beach bound, anxious to get to the stand where two teens sell small logs for bonfires. They are entrepreneurs for sure with little outlay, no maintenance and a sell-out every evening, weather permitting. Jerry and Mike make two trips and we are set. The girls lay large terry beach cloths in the sand that we know gets cool when night winds blow. The roar of the ocean is distant music that will add to Mike’s tootling on his sax and Bonzo’s strumming guitar.
I poke Abbey. ‘Abbey, look, look fast, right at the sun. It’s the most gorgeous orange/red. Watch it, don’t look away for a second.’ We watch together. The sun drops like a ton piano when its hoist rope breaks. The sun has drowned! Magically it is gone. The sky loses its color and dims to dark blue grey and then black. Twinkling diamonds seem to pop out from Neverland. Mervin must have his mighty hand in this spectacle. I cannot restrain myself and applaud. Nobody comments. They are into their own thoughts.
My body begins to shiver. Goose bumps rise. I pull a sweater from my tote bag, look around and realize nobody else looks chilled. The fire is blazing, hot dogs broiling, buns ready to receive them. Most of the hot dogs fall into the flames almost as one. What the hell just happened?Whose playing jokes? We look at each other. No one had done anything to cause this craziness. The hot dogs are totally consumed by the flames in seconds. I think of a crematorium and walk away from our circle. Casey comes to the rescue. ‘Don’t worry. We have seconds and plenty of sticks for them. I’ll take care of it.’ One each isn’t sufficient but we make do and will have a scarey story to tell the class on Monday. No way do I mention my believing that our troubles may be starting. Thirteen people, this is not good. Little huddles, private talks, a circle forms, lets each one have a chance to brag, complain, let it all hang out. We are in class with no teacher, practicing. Bonzo’s strumming sends a message. Whoever wants to have sex, go ahead. The thirteen becomes eleven and I feel better, until- until the shivers come back. My hands feel like ice. A shadow passes slowly in front of me. It is diaphanous enough that I see what looks like bones. ‘Abbey, come here, right now.’ She is evidently ½ the team that made us eleven, and is busy elsewhere. ‘Gail, come here a minute, will you.? Gail is pretty, I think the prettiest one in our classroom and the smartest, too. ‘Do me a favor, look behind me, do you see anything strange?’ ‘No. What am I supposed to see?’ ‘You don’t see or feel something gray.’ ‘No. But I know where you can find a student to analyze what’s on your mind.’ She laughs at me and goes closer to the fire.
The gray thing drifts over to me. I feel its presence touch me. In it I recognize my mother. It talks and tells me I should not have come, go back to my room. If I talk to her my classmates will think I have flipped out, am sick and ridicule me. Her face becomes almost clear. This is crazy. Mother says, ‘Thirteen was no good. You have lost a friend.’ And she is gone. The chill is gone too. The sex pots have returned. I suggest we carefully put out what is left of our fire, clean up and head home.
My answering machine blinks. I listen. It is my mother’s voice. ‘Call Clair’s family. Clair died today.’
By seven we are together and beach bound, anxious to get to the stand where two teens sell small logs for bonfires. They are entrepreneurs for sure with little outlay, no maintenance and a sell-out every evening, weather permitting. Jerry and Mike make two trips and we are set. The girls lay large terry beach cloths in the sand that we know gets cool when night winds blow. The roar of the ocean is distant music that will add to Mike’s tootling on his sax and Bonzo’s strumming guitar.
I poke Abbey. ‘Abbey, look, look fast, right at the sun. It’s the most gorgeous orange/red. Watch it, don’t look away for a second.’ We watch together. The sun drops like a ton piano when its hoist rope breaks. The sun has drowned! Magically it is gone. The sky loses its color and dims to dark blue grey and then black. Twinkling diamonds seem to pop out from Neverland. Mervin must have his mighty hand in this spectacle. I cannot restrain myself and applaud. Nobody comments. They are into their own thoughts.
My body begins to shiver. Goose bumps rise. I pull a sweater from my tote bag, look around and realize nobody else looks chilled. The fire is blazing, hot dogs broiling, buns ready to receive them. Most of the hot dogs fall into the flames almost as one. What the hell just happened?Whose playing jokes? We look at each other. No one had done anything to cause this craziness. The hot dogs are totally consumed by the flames in seconds. I think of a crematorium and walk away from our circle. Casey comes to the rescue. ‘Don’t worry. We have seconds and plenty of sticks for them. I’ll take care of it.’ One each isn’t sufficient but we make do and will have a scarey story to tell the class on Monday. No way do I mention my believing that our troubles may be starting. Thirteen people, this is not good. Little huddles, private talks, a circle forms, lets each one have a chance to brag, complain, let it all hang out. We are in class with no teacher, practicing. Bonzo’s strumming sends a message. Whoever wants to have sex, go ahead. The thirteen becomes eleven and I feel better, until- until the shivers come back. My hands feel like ice. A shadow passes slowly in front of me. It is diaphanous enough that I see what looks like bones. ‘Abbey, come here, right now.’ She is evidently ½ the team that made us eleven, and is busy elsewhere. ‘Gail, come here a minute, will you.? Gail is pretty, I think the prettiest one in our classroom and the smartest, too. ‘Do me a favor, look behind me, do you see anything strange?’ ‘No. What am I supposed to see?’ ‘You don’t see or feel something gray.’ ‘No. But I know where you can find a student to analyze what’s on your mind.’ She laughs at me and goes closer to the fire.
The gray thing drifts over to me. I feel its presence touch me. In it I recognize my mother. It talks and tells me I should not have come, go back to my room. If I talk to her my classmates will think I have flipped out, am sick and ridicule me. Her face becomes almost clear. This is crazy. Mother says, ‘Thirteen was no good. You have lost a friend.’ And she is gone. The chill is gone too. The sex pots have returned. I suggest we carefully put out what is left of our fire, clean up and head home.
My answering machine blinks. I listen. It is my mother’s voice. ‘Call Clair’s family. Clair died today.’
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
HOLD THE PASTA
On Monday, Wednesday and Saturday we work side by side at a popular Subway diner. I put the meat, tuna, cheese on the buns once Ellie has the lettuce, shredded cabbage set in place. She slobbers whatever the customers want on top. It never ceases to amaze me how red and perfectly even the daily tomatoes are. The lettuce is clean, dried and crispy. The salami, roast beef have some substance not like the shaved thin meats in other diners. And what a bargain customers get when they cut the Sunday coupon from the paper, ‘buy one, get one free.’ If I didn’t need this job, I’d eat here any way.
One hot Saturday our A.C. went kerplooey, As customers walked in, most turned and walked out. Without an okay, Ellie and I gave away cold drinks to those who would order take out. Mr. Baer, the boss, thanked us because the refrigeration allowed us to keep most items overnight. His loss was minor.
Wednesday noon is usually the busiest time of the week. Ellie and I keep the food counter neat, in order, clean but can’t keep the floor behind the counter or in front of it constantly clean. Mr. Bauer is well aware of the situation and we now have a one man sweeper, mopper, garbage remover from 11 to 1 every day. As soon as he came in to work, I was sure he was a derelict from the re-hab center. Freddie is a mess himself, how is he going to clean Subway? He works haphazardly Monday and Tuesday. Wednesday, no Freddie. I call my boss’s house and ask him to come over and give us a hand. I know he doesn’t appreciate my advice but either this place gets cleaned up soon or the Department of Health will close it. The food is good, inexpensive. Ellie and I wear plastic gloves, don’t touch the food at all. As careful as we try to be, food does overflow the tray, does drop out the ends of our foot long subs.
It’s late for the derelict, Freddie, to come in but I see him as he opens the door. He looks mean, angry, motions to Ellie and me and roughly says seven words, ‘Open the cash register and shut up.’ I walk past the pastrami, hard boiled eggs, and surprise myself by thrusting my hands into the tomato slices and throwing them at Freddie, Subway’s former employee. Ellie fills her hands with pickle relish and aims at Freddie’s eyes. Together we almost clobber him. ‘Stop, stop,’ he yells. We pay no attention to his plea. A customer opens the door and gets a face full of mustard. He backs out and runs like a wapiti with a gnu after him. I catch a fast glimpse of him pulling his cell out of his pants pocket.Ellie grabs the broom and is hitting Freddie. He grabs it away and whacks her over her head. ‘Enough,’ he screams as he reaches the door and there are the mighty police, six of them, armed with billy clubs and tasers. They are bound by law to capture him but loathe the idea of touching the garbage heap.
Mr. Bauer arrives, huffing and puffing, glancing everywhere at once. He slides a few feet on some soggy lettuce but holds on to the counter and avoids falling. Ellie and I stop to breathe. I see her as a beat up clown and she says I look like hell twice over. We burst out laughing, can’t stop until we drop. Boss Man is taking pictures of everything, making hurried calls to a cleaning service, to his insurance company when he sees Ellie and can’t restrain himself from laughing. ‘Ellie, I’ll send you a picture of your carrot covered hair and the chunk of pineapple on your apron. Do your best to clean yourself up fast and make a sign for the door ‘Closed until Friday. Remodeling.’ ‘ What do I make it on?’ ‘Slide into the stock room and use a piece of a big carton.’ ‘And what do I write with, Sir?’ ‘Ketchup will look nice. Stand the bottle upside down when you finish. We don’t want to mess this place up, do we?’
He stops Ellie before she gets where he sent her. ‘Wait, wait a minute. I have something to say NOW. You two have cost me a lot of money and aggravation., but we are all lucky. The police notified me Freddie was carrying a box cutter. He could have killed you. You two are great kids and if your parents let you, be here Monday about 10. Let them not worry, my insurance will cover your clothes. You are heroes. Everything will be ship shape and sanitized by Monday. And you each will have a small raise in your envelope next pay day plus my gratitude.
‘Ellie, go. Make the sign and make it big enough to be read from across the street. ‘Opening Fri. Special on foot long subs. Buy one get TWO free.’
One hot Saturday our A.C. went kerplooey, As customers walked in, most turned and walked out. Without an okay, Ellie and I gave away cold drinks to those who would order take out. Mr. Baer, the boss, thanked us because the refrigeration allowed us to keep most items overnight. His loss was minor.
Wednesday noon is usually the busiest time of the week. Ellie and I keep the food counter neat, in order, clean but can’t keep the floor behind the counter or in front of it constantly clean. Mr. Bauer is well aware of the situation and we now have a one man sweeper, mopper, garbage remover from 11 to 1 every day. As soon as he came in to work, I was sure he was a derelict from the re-hab center. Freddie is a mess himself, how is he going to clean Subway? He works haphazardly Monday and Tuesday. Wednesday, no Freddie. I call my boss’s house and ask him to come over and give us a hand. I know he doesn’t appreciate my advice but either this place gets cleaned up soon or the Department of Health will close it. The food is good, inexpensive. Ellie and I wear plastic gloves, don’t touch the food at all. As careful as we try to be, food does overflow the tray, does drop out the ends of our foot long subs.
It’s late for the derelict, Freddie, to come in but I see him as he opens the door. He looks mean, angry, motions to Ellie and me and roughly says seven words, ‘Open the cash register and shut up.’ I walk past the pastrami, hard boiled eggs, and surprise myself by thrusting my hands into the tomato slices and throwing them at Freddie, Subway’s former employee. Ellie fills her hands with pickle relish and aims at Freddie’s eyes. Together we almost clobber him. ‘Stop, stop,’ he yells. We pay no attention to his plea. A customer opens the door and gets a face full of mustard. He backs out and runs like a wapiti with a gnu after him. I catch a fast glimpse of him pulling his cell out of his pants pocket.Ellie grabs the broom and is hitting Freddie. He grabs it away and whacks her over her head. ‘Enough,’ he screams as he reaches the door and there are the mighty police, six of them, armed with billy clubs and tasers. They are bound by law to capture him but loathe the idea of touching the garbage heap.
Mr. Bauer arrives, huffing and puffing, glancing everywhere at once. He slides a few feet on some soggy lettuce but holds on to the counter and avoids falling. Ellie and I stop to breathe. I see her as a beat up clown and she says I look like hell twice over. We burst out laughing, can’t stop until we drop. Boss Man is taking pictures of everything, making hurried calls to a cleaning service, to his insurance company when he sees Ellie and can’t restrain himself from laughing. ‘Ellie, I’ll send you a picture of your carrot covered hair and the chunk of pineapple on your apron. Do your best to clean yourself up fast and make a sign for the door ‘Closed until Friday. Remodeling.’ ‘ What do I make it on?’ ‘Slide into the stock room and use a piece of a big carton.’ ‘And what do I write with, Sir?’ ‘Ketchup will look nice. Stand the bottle upside down when you finish. We don’t want to mess this place up, do we?’
He stops Ellie before she gets where he sent her. ‘Wait, wait a minute. I have something to say NOW. You two have cost me a lot of money and aggravation., but we are all lucky. The police notified me Freddie was carrying a box cutter. He could have killed you. You two are great kids and if your parents let you, be here Monday about 10. Let them not worry, my insurance will cover your clothes. You are heroes. Everything will be ship shape and sanitized by Monday. And you each will have a small raise in your envelope next pay day plus my gratitude.
‘Ellie, go. Make the sign and make it big enough to be read from across the street. ‘Opening Fri. Special on foot long subs. Buy one get TWO free.’
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
THE GOLDEN GIRLS
We four young ladies all have long blond hair except Josie, who fakes it. She’s pretty careful though and touches up her dark roots every week. Not one of us has had our hair shortened in 8 years, but do have it shaped and styled in over one eye, tapered, cropped, twisted- whatever is new and becoming. As a group, we turn heads when we walk down the street, get on an elevator. We are not self conscious and ignore the envious looks. We are simply ourselves, pretty women with flair who have been close friends since childhood and feel almost like quadruplet sisters. We call ourselves The Golden Girls. Often we buy the similar clothes, particularly sun hats. The golden sun is fabulous but destroys our hair, part of our perhaps snobby pride.
For Christmas 2005 we got together to decided on gifts and chose to give each other identical gold bracelets to signify our bond. I thought a link bracelet is too masculine. Sherry has one. Margo wanted something simple, engraved inside. Margo wanted her birth stone set in.Discussions, not arguments, ended with a vote for the plain bracelet engraved with ‘The Golden Girls’ inside. The jeweler gift wrapped them individually, as well he should, considering he had a nice $600 sale and he does the engraving. I wear mine constantly, to bed, to shower, add something else for a special occasion. Having it on me makes me feel warm and connected.
Thursday evenings are always the best of the week. We do a pot luck supper, rotating apartments, then watch re-runs of the ‘Golden Girls’ for an hour on channel 7 and ½ hour of other oldies on 302. The lines are all familiar. I usually mouth Betty’s parts as I am considered the ding-a-ling of our group. It’s uproarious. When it is over, we all go in the kitchen and have cheese cake.
In the spring we are taking a short trip to Vegas. Our four gold bracelets don’‘t set off the airport security buzzer. Our hotel isn’t The Venetian because we have to stay at the more shoddy Golden Nugget. I’m not much of a gambler, stay away from the tables, throw my quarters into the money eating slots. The girls always wait for three empty seats together at the black jack tables. A crowd forms around them. They may bring good luck! They are applauded when they do well and mouths drop when they lose. We have set a limit of stopping when we lose $100 each nite. Their limits are filled quickly and they walk around watching other tables while I am breaking my arm at the slots. My new muscle feels like I have eaten a ton of spinach. Way in the back of the elongated room there are nickel slots and my three friends have fun there.
It’s night five and I have squandered less than $100 so far, what with the win a few, lose a few. I pull the bandit’s arm down faster and faster. Suddenly I realize, I am looking at five golden apples. Bells ring, lights flash, quarters fall out so quickly I can’t catch them in my skirt. An assistant rushes to me with a stack of plastic buckets. I slip off my chair as I try to catch the coins. My girls protect me, keep the losers who want some of my money away. When I have recovered somewhat from the shock and get all the buckets to the cashier, I find out I have won five thousand dollars.
I give each of my wonderful friends $500 cash so they come out clean.They argue with me, don’t want to take my money. I am stubborn, defiant, and insist. I smile and say to them, ‘This is what friends do. Take the money and shut up.’ They do, hug me and say ‘Thanks.
I hire a limo to drive us to the airport.
For Christmas 2005 we got together to decided on gifts and chose to give each other identical gold bracelets to signify our bond. I thought a link bracelet is too masculine. Sherry has one. Margo wanted something simple, engraved inside. Margo wanted her birth stone set in.Discussions, not arguments, ended with a vote for the plain bracelet engraved with ‘The Golden Girls’ inside. The jeweler gift wrapped them individually, as well he should, considering he had a nice $600 sale and he does the engraving. I wear mine constantly, to bed, to shower, add something else for a special occasion. Having it on me makes me feel warm and connected.
Thursday evenings are always the best of the week. We do a pot luck supper, rotating apartments, then watch re-runs of the ‘Golden Girls’ for an hour on channel 7 and ½ hour of other oldies on 302. The lines are all familiar. I usually mouth Betty’s parts as I am considered the ding-a-ling of our group. It’s uproarious. When it is over, we all go in the kitchen and have cheese cake.
In the spring we are taking a short trip to Vegas. Our four gold bracelets don’‘t set off the airport security buzzer. Our hotel isn’t The Venetian because we have to stay at the more shoddy Golden Nugget. I’m not much of a gambler, stay away from the tables, throw my quarters into the money eating slots. The girls always wait for three empty seats together at the black jack tables. A crowd forms around them. They may bring good luck! They are applauded when they do well and mouths drop when they lose. We have set a limit of stopping when we lose $100 each nite. Their limits are filled quickly and they walk around watching other tables while I am breaking my arm at the slots. My new muscle feels like I have eaten a ton of spinach. Way in the back of the elongated room there are nickel slots and my three friends have fun there.
It’s night five and I have squandered less than $100 so far, what with the win a few, lose a few. I pull the bandit’s arm down faster and faster. Suddenly I realize, I am looking at five golden apples. Bells ring, lights flash, quarters fall out so quickly I can’t catch them in my skirt. An assistant rushes to me with a stack of plastic buckets. I slip off my chair as I try to catch the coins. My girls protect me, keep the losers who want some of my money away. When I have recovered somewhat from the shock and get all the buckets to the cashier, I find out I have won five thousand dollars.
I give each of my wonderful friends $500 cash so they come out clean.They argue with me, don’t want to take my money. I am stubborn, defiant, and insist. I smile and say to them, ‘This is what friends do. Take the money and shut up.’ They do, hug me and say ‘Thanks.
I hire a limo to drive us to the airport.
I DO--BUT SHOULDN’T
I was fourteen, close to fifteen, when I was about to leave home. My suitcase was made of cardboard. It had two thin clamps to hold it together and no key, not even a key hole. In the pockets of my dirndls skirt I had a rubber band around fifteen one dollar bills. A purse with a faded picture of Elizabeth Taylor on its blue cloth outside held a ten and two fives. Besides all that money, I filled a drawstring bag my mom gave me for Christmas with a roll each of nickels and dimes. It was heavier than I thought it would be. Some of that money I got by running errands for the lady who has the cleaning shop on our corner and some my grandparents gave me when they visited now and then.
I was ready to run away from home to get married. My boyfriend, Jerry, was 17 1/2, cute and smoked Pall Malls. We met at my friend Fran’s 16th birthday party. It was the biggest party I ever went to. She even had a disc jockey so we could dance. That was something I didn’t think I did well but was asked to dance by 3 or 4 boys. One of them, the cutest, was Jerry. His dark hair was combed slickly into a pompadour and his dark eyes glistened. He wore cowboy boots with heels. When he asked me to dance, I almost said ‘no,’ believing I’d look like a clumsy dork, but Jerry turned me, twisted me, dipped me so low that I fell on the floor. Everyone gathered around laughing and I laughed with them.
That was the night I got my first kiss. I didn’t feel anything special but Jerry must have. Almost every word he said, I remember to this day. ‘Let’s go out on the porch, Belle. I need some air. I watched you dance with Mel and Barney and knew I would give you a better lead. Did they tell you how pretty you are?’ Being nervous, I didn’t answer.Harvey and Candy were on the porch making out. I had never done that and didn’t want to until Jerry took my hand. His was warm, a little sweaty. The glider with green with white pillows and was empty so Jerry and I sat on it and started to swing. What did I know about magical moons, twinkling stars, holding hands? Just about nothing, except my mother told me when I get old enough to go out with boys always keep my legs closed. She never mentioned wandering hands but I knew it wasn’t a nice thing to do and I shouldn’t let Jerry feel my body. The trouble was I liked it, liked it more the next night when Jerry took me to the park. He kissed me and held me tight. It was 9 o’clock and my mother was waiting for me when I got home. Jerry hadn’t stayed long enough to talk to my mother, but the greatest thing was at the curb he told me he loved me and maybe would marry me some day.
For me, for us, I thought that some day was no more than a month away and made my plans. I wrote what I thought was a beautiful note to my parents. ‘Dearest Mom and Dad, Jerry and I love each other and are eloping to get married. Don’t worry about us. We have some money and Jerry has a part time job, so if you’ll let us have my bedroom for a few months, we can pay for our food. We should be back before 11 tonight. We’ll wake you up. I love you very much! Belle.’
The train station waiting room was busy. I found a seat close to Gate 12, where the train I had bought tickets for was to be. I sat and watched and watched for Jerry. The train was in, was boarding. Jerry never showed up. I sat there on that hard, miserable bench for an hour, crying so hard several people stopped to help me. To tell them why I was crying was not possible. It was too hard just believing myself that Jerry had lied to me.
Did I think of getting hungry, having to go to the bathroom all that time? No, but did think about going home and what I would say to my mother. A station guard came over and asked if I was o.k. I forced a stupid smile on my face, finally picked up my cheesy suitcase and spent the money for a taxi to take me home where I belonged.
I never saw Jerry again. If anyone knew where he went, they didn’t tell me. It took a long time for me to realize what an idiot I had been.
Five years passed and I did get married. When my father gave me away, he didn’t really. Donnie and I moved in with them for a while. Donnie covered our cost while I awaited our first baby.
My old cardboard suitcase is still in the cellar, empty and falling apart, but is a good reminder to me, of how lucky I was Jerry never showed up.
I was ready to run away from home to get married. My boyfriend, Jerry, was 17 1/2, cute and smoked Pall Malls. We met at my friend Fran’s 16th birthday party. It was the biggest party I ever went to. She even had a disc jockey so we could dance. That was something I didn’t think I did well but was asked to dance by 3 or 4 boys. One of them, the cutest, was Jerry. His dark hair was combed slickly into a pompadour and his dark eyes glistened. He wore cowboy boots with heels. When he asked me to dance, I almost said ‘no,’ believing I’d look like a clumsy dork, but Jerry turned me, twisted me, dipped me so low that I fell on the floor. Everyone gathered around laughing and I laughed with them.
That was the night I got my first kiss. I didn’t feel anything special but Jerry must have. Almost every word he said, I remember to this day. ‘Let’s go out on the porch, Belle. I need some air. I watched you dance with Mel and Barney and knew I would give you a better lead. Did they tell you how pretty you are?’ Being nervous, I didn’t answer.Harvey and Candy were on the porch making out. I had never done that and didn’t want to until Jerry took my hand. His was warm, a little sweaty. The glider with green with white pillows and was empty so Jerry and I sat on it and started to swing. What did I know about magical moons, twinkling stars, holding hands? Just about nothing, except my mother told me when I get old enough to go out with boys always keep my legs closed. She never mentioned wandering hands but I knew it wasn’t a nice thing to do and I shouldn’t let Jerry feel my body. The trouble was I liked it, liked it more the next night when Jerry took me to the park. He kissed me and held me tight. It was 9 o’clock and my mother was waiting for me when I got home. Jerry hadn’t stayed long enough to talk to my mother, but the greatest thing was at the curb he told me he loved me and maybe would marry me some day.
For me, for us, I thought that some day was no more than a month away and made my plans. I wrote what I thought was a beautiful note to my parents. ‘Dearest Mom and Dad, Jerry and I love each other and are eloping to get married. Don’t worry about us. We have some money and Jerry has a part time job, so if you’ll let us have my bedroom for a few months, we can pay for our food. We should be back before 11 tonight. We’ll wake you up. I love you very much! Belle.’
The train station waiting room was busy. I found a seat close to Gate 12, where the train I had bought tickets for was to be. I sat and watched and watched for Jerry. The train was in, was boarding. Jerry never showed up. I sat there on that hard, miserable bench for an hour, crying so hard several people stopped to help me. To tell them why I was crying was not possible. It was too hard just believing myself that Jerry had lied to me.
Did I think of getting hungry, having to go to the bathroom all that time? No, but did think about going home and what I would say to my mother. A station guard came over and asked if I was o.k. I forced a stupid smile on my face, finally picked up my cheesy suitcase and spent the money for a taxi to take me home where I belonged.
I never saw Jerry again. If anyone knew where he went, they didn’t tell me. It took a long time for me to realize what an idiot I had been.
Five years passed and I did get married. When my father gave me away, he didn’t really. Donnie and I moved in with them for a while. Donnie covered our cost while I awaited our first baby.
My old cardboard suitcase is still in the cellar, empty and falling apart, but is a good reminder to me, of how lucky I was Jerry never showed up.
ROUND SIX
There is no mat, no ropes are around the square, no wild crowd is booing or encouraging the fighters. We, my husband Chas and I have an entire two story house and club basement for our battlefield. There were a few times he slapped me around and I cowered. I got a little braver as months went by and pushed him out the front door, yelling like a fish wife,’ We’re through. Get out and stay out!’ He leaves every time and is back in a few hours begging on his knees that I let him in. ‘I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?’ He wins me over with his sweetness, his hugs and we make-up.
What I am slowly learning and believing is that he does not regret his actions, his tone of voice. I am coming to the conclusion that he doesn’t love me and is using me for his own reasons. There is something I didn’t know before we tied the knot. He is a compulsive gambler. If kids had the money, he’d bet on the winner of a hopscotch game. He’s a Gin freak, a poker player with big hopes and little money, my money. My Dad left me enough to live comfortably for a while but my ’while’ is dwindling. Chas gave up his office job. When I strengthen my determination and deny him a few dollars, he borrows, has even cut a few lawns, washed a few cars. It is beneath him but he wants those dollars. The well will run dry and then what? Stealing?
He got a new idea from a buddy recently and wants me to give him $25 to get a prescription filled. ‘Prescription?’ I ask. ‘What’s wrong with you? You haven’t been to a doctor since we met.’ I’m stern. I’m strong. He’s crazy. He’s strong, too. Standing right in front of me he tells me his pal Joey got a prescription from his doctor for medical marijuana and has sold the juice. He made $50 the first time and is going to another doctor in a different area to get a new prescription. ‘Come on, Gladys, give me $20 at least.’ ‘Not on your life.’
My face is on fire. I’m boiling mad at this jerk. ‘Get out of this house, now, Chas. or I’m calling the police and telling them your foolish plan.’ ‘You wouldn’t, would you?’ ‘Darn right I will. Don’t underestimate me.’ I leave him standing in the hall, his face contorted in anger. From the basement I bring up two soft pack suitcases, put them in front of Chas and tell him to take his stuff and get out! ‘This is my house, Mr., and you are not wanted here any more. ‘ Chas grabs my arm and almost twists it out of the socket. Then he punches me in my mouth. I spit blood and a front tooth. He looks at me, doesn’t even offer me his handkerchief, doesn’t apologize, doesn’t pack, takes $25 out of my purse and saunters out the front door.
It’s heavenly quiet with him gone for a week. Being the nervous wreck that I am, I make an appointment with a therapist because I know I have to deal with Chas and that he can still use his wiles on me and get back into my semi-good graces or he can break a window and get inside without my permission. After my therapist visit, I apply for a licence to own a hand gun, fill it out completely and tear it up.
The therapist has offered me good advice. Contact the Domestic Violence Hotline, keep a weapon of some kind near my front and back doors, talk to my neighbors who can warn me if Chas is hanging around. Most important, I am told to report the abuse to the police and have that phone number glued to my brain. Go to the station and take out a restraining order, she advises. I do it but know it will be useless.
Before I follow through with even half of what I must do, I hear his familiar banging on the rear door. ‘Let me in, Gladys. I’m a changed man. I won’t ever hit you again. I promise. Let me in, please.’ With not a moment’s hesitation, I answer, ‘Go away. We’re thru. That last wallop ended our loving relationship. Now go away, forever, or I’m calling the police.’ The big jerk whines. ‘You wouldn’t do that to me, would you, Honey?’ Let me in. I’m your husband, let me in or I’ll break the damn door down and your neck after that.’ While he’s pleading, I take his old baseball bat out of the guest closet, pick up the phone and dial 911. Sirens wail. Two police cars pull up in front of my house. Four officers, armed but not showing their power, rush to my door. Charles is out of sight.
I lock the door, take my largest, sharpest bread knife upstairs, put it on the nite stand and try to fall asleep. It isn’t easy.
Chas will be back!
What I am slowly learning and believing is that he does not regret his actions, his tone of voice. I am coming to the conclusion that he doesn’t love me and is using me for his own reasons. There is something I didn’t know before we tied the knot. He is a compulsive gambler. If kids had the money, he’d bet on the winner of a hopscotch game. He’s a Gin freak, a poker player with big hopes and little money, my money. My Dad left me enough to live comfortably for a while but my ’while’ is dwindling. Chas gave up his office job. When I strengthen my determination and deny him a few dollars, he borrows, has even cut a few lawns, washed a few cars. It is beneath him but he wants those dollars. The well will run dry and then what? Stealing?
He got a new idea from a buddy recently and wants me to give him $25 to get a prescription filled. ‘Prescription?’ I ask. ‘What’s wrong with you? You haven’t been to a doctor since we met.’ I’m stern. I’m strong. He’s crazy. He’s strong, too. Standing right in front of me he tells me his pal Joey got a prescription from his doctor for medical marijuana and has sold the juice. He made $50 the first time and is going to another doctor in a different area to get a new prescription. ‘Come on, Gladys, give me $20 at least.’ ‘Not on your life.’
My face is on fire. I’m boiling mad at this jerk. ‘Get out of this house, now, Chas. or I’m calling the police and telling them your foolish plan.’ ‘You wouldn’t, would you?’ ‘Darn right I will. Don’t underestimate me.’ I leave him standing in the hall, his face contorted in anger. From the basement I bring up two soft pack suitcases, put them in front of Chas and tell him to take his stuff and get out! ‘This is my house, Mr., and you are not wanted here any more. ‘ Chas grabs my arm and almost twists it out of the socket. Then he punches me in my mouth. I spit blood and a front tooth. He looks at me, doesn’t even offer me his handkerchief, doesn’t apologize, doesn’t pack, takes $25 out of my purse and saunters out the front door.
It’s heavenly quiet with him gone for a week. Being the nervous wreck that I am, I make an appointment with a therapist because I know I have to deal with Chas and that he can still use his wiles on me and get back into my semi-good graces or he can break a window and get inside without my permission. After my therapist visit, I apply for a licence to own a hand gun, fill it out completely and tear it up.
The therapist has offered me good advice. Contact the Domestic Violence Hotline, keep a weapon of some kind near my front and back doors, talk to my neighbors who can warn me if Chas is hanging around. Most important, I am told to report the abuse to the police and have that phone number glued to my brain. Go to the station and take out a restraining order, she advises. I do it but know it will be useless.
Before I follow through with even half of what I must do, I hear his familiar banging on the rear door. ‘Let me in, Gladys. I’m a changed man. I won’t ever hit you again. I promise. Let me in, please.’ With not a moment’s hesitation, I answer, ‘Go away. We’re thru. That last wallop ended our loving relationship. Now go away, forever, or I’m calling the police.’ The big jerk whines. ‘You wouldn’t do that to me, would you, Honey?’ Let me in. I’m your husband, let me in or I’ll break the damn door down and your neck after that.’ While he’s pleading, I take his old baseball bat out of the guest closet, pick up the phone and dial 911. Sirens wail. Two police cars pull up in front of my house. Four officers, armed but not showing their power, rush to my door. Charles is out of sight.
I lock the door, take my largest, sharpest bread knife upstairs, put it on the nite stand and try to fall asleep. It isn’t easy.
Chas will be back!
HOP TO IT
I’m a born and bred New Yorker with a never yet realized yen. Trying to cross W. 44th St. the other day, as usual, pedestrian traffic was packed to a tight standstill. Beeps, drivers on the tails of those in front moved at a snail’s pace. The three minute delay had me antsy for no reason other than I disliked being held prisoner. This time the wait was worth it. In spite of all the street noises I got lucky. Two well dressed young ladies were in front of me and I happened to hear them talking about a Cattle Call. Well, there I stood, straining to hear ‘when, why? where?’ The light changed but I stayed on their tail and gathered all the schmaltz.
Meryl Streep, who I believe is the today’s finest all around actress, singer, dancer, comedienne, is going to star in a new musical this fall. The money is already on the table. The call is for vocalists and dancers at the St. James Theater. My steps bounced, almost flew, there. I opened the side entrance and entered my dream world. Lots of young girls in leotards, funky clothes, were sitting in awkward positions on the stage. Others were doing exercises that I have only seen on t.v. They looked like their bodies might split in half. Nobody glanced at me, asked any questions. I took off my fleece jacket, rolled up my shirt sleeves and plunked down amongst all these strangers. One young hopeful did ask me if I had signed in. ‘No, I’ve never been to a Call before. I’d appreciate your help. What do I do?’ Priscilla was her name. ‘I don’t have much experience either but go ask the man standing near the piano, the one with the walking stick.’ ‘ I tried that already and he told me to get away, sit down someplace.’ So, I sat there for three hours. At 5 P.M. the man with the walking stick bellowed over his mike, ‘Casting is over for today. Everyone go home. We start at 8 A.M. tomorrow.’
Dejected and hungry, I stopped at Nate’s for a mile high corned beef sandwich on fresh rye, onion rings, slaw and a Dr. Brown chocolate fizz. I had to force ½ of it down, got a box for the rest, and have my dinner for tomorrow. The fizz was flat and I left it there.
At 7:30 A.M. I was back at the entrance door to the theater and was about the 100th person in line. The would-like-to-bes and the novices were mooing, were anxious to get inside. A new sign was plastered on each side of the box office, ‘ Opening this fall, Meryl Streep in a blast of a musical ‘A Frog He Would–-‘ tickets on sale September 10.’ Most of the hopefuls knew about this before I did and were wearing green outfits. Some had papier mache’ frog masks. All I had was my own face and determination to try out for this show.
What I know is I can cha cha, go way down low under the limbo pole, and if no experts are watching, can do a mean tango. What I can’t do is lift women over my head, pull them thru my legs. I can’t even toss my hat in the air and catch it without falling. Still I won’t give up and was at the side door 6:30 for two full weeks.
Mr. Jackson, the man with the walking stick, nodded to me once. My spirit soared. On the 16th day of my vigil he motioned for me to come up to the piano. I felt faint, didn’t know what, if anything, I could show him. The pianist clomped the keys. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought it was I trying to do what I can’t. The beat began to clarify and it seemed something was jumping from place to place. I got it, fell to the floor, put my hands between my legs and began making grrumph, wordless sounds, jumping as my deep, guttural voice croaked. Mr. Jackson didn’t throw me off the stage. In fact, he smiled and actually said, ‘Mr. Frogie, don’t leave until I tell you. We will talk after lunch.’ The next day I was made the frog for the entire run of the show. I had to join the Actor’s Guild and ended up with a pittance and satisfaction.
At home I jumped and made loud noises until I began to think I looked like a frog, was going to be the best darn frog there ever was on the stage. Meryl was her usual fantastic self and every nite when she shinnied up a tree to kiss me, my costume seemed to magically disappear and as the curtain came down, I stood straight and became the prince I had always dreamed of being.
My yen to be an actor was over and I went back to being a plain born and bred New Yorker whose lips will always taste like pure Meryl Streep.
Meryl Streep, who I believe is the today’s finest all around actress, singer, dancer, comedienne, is going to star in a new musical this fall. The money is already on the table. The call is for vocalists and dancers at the St. James Theater. My steps bounced, almost flew, there. I opened the side entrance and entered my dream world. Lots of young girls in leotards, funky clothes, were sitting in awkward positions on the stage. Others were doing exercises that I have only seen on t.v. They looked like their bodies might split in half. Nobody glanced at me, asked any questions. I took off my fleece jacket, rolled up my shirt sleeves and plunked down amongst all these strangers. One young hopeful did ask me if I had signed in. ‘No, I’ve never been to a Call before. I’d appreciate your help. What do I do?’ Priscilla was her name. ‘I don’t have much experience either but go ask the man standing near the piano, the one with the walking stick.’ ‘ I tried that already and he told me to get away, sit down someplace.’ So, I sat there for three hours. At 5 P.M. the man with the walking stick bellowed over his mike, ‘Casting is over for today. Everyone go home. We start at 8 A.M. tomorrow.’
Dejected and hungry, I stopped at Nate’s for a mile high corned beef sandwich on fresh rye, onion rings, slaw and a Dr. Brown chocolate fizz. I had to force ½ of it down, got a box for the rest, and have my dinner for tomorrow. The fizz was flat and I left it there.
At 7:30 A.M. I was back at the entrance door to the theater and was about the 100th person in line. The would-like-to-bes and the novices were mooing, were anxious to get inside. A new sign was plastered on each side of the box office, ‘ Opening this fall, Meryl Streep in a blast of a musical ‘A Frog He Would–-‘ tickets on sale September 10.’ Most of the hopefuls knew about this before I did and were wearing green outfits. Some had papier mache’ frog masks. All I had was my own face and determination to try out for this show.
What I know is I can cha cha, go way down low under the limbo pole, and if no experts are watching, can do a mean tango. What I can’t do is lift women over my head, pull them thru my legs. I can’t even toss my hat in the air and catch it without falling. Still I won’t give up and was at the side door 6:30 for two full weeks.
Mr. Jackson, the man with the walking stick, nodded to me once. My spirit soared. On the 16th day of my vigil he motioned for me to come up to the piano. I felt faint, didn’t know what, if anything, I could show him. The pianist clomped the keys. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought it was I trying to do what I can’t. The beat began to clarify and it seemed something was jumping from place to place. I got it, fell to the floor, put my hands between my legs and began making grrumph, wordless sounds, jumping as my deep, guttural voice croaked. Mr. Jackson didn’t throw me off the stage. In fact, he smiled and actually said, ‘Mr. Frogie, don’t leave until I tell you. We will talk after lunch.’ The next day I was made the frog for the entire run of the show. I had to join the Actor’s Guild and ended up with a pittance and satisfaction.
At home I jumped and made loud noises until I began to think I looked like a frog, was going to be the best darn frog there ever was on the stage. Meryl was her usual fantastic self and every nite when she shinnied up a tree to kiss me, my costume seemed to magically disappear and as the curtain came down, I stood straight and became the prince I had always dreamed of being.
My yen to be an actor was over and I went back to being a plain born and bred New Yorker whose lips will always taste like pure Meryl Streep.
‘HELLO’, ‘GOODBYE’, ETC.
My sister, Josie, called me too late. I couldn’t catch a morning flight to Norfolk. The snow had upset all flights in and out of Laguardia. I was able to get on standby for a 5 p.m. flight and lo and behold, one ‘no show’, and I was on it, in Norfolk by 8:30. Josie was waiting for me at the luggage area even though I had none. My stay was to be short simply to attend my Aunt Mollie’s funeral and console my mother as best I could and return to N.Y. It took not much more than a minute before I realized I had made a big mistake and should have been prepared to stay in Norfolk for an undetermined time.
My mother was in Josie’s living room on a large brown leather chair. Her feet were raised on the foot rest. She looked comfortable. As I walked towards her I extended my arms and said, ‘Hi, Mom. Glad to see you.’ She looked at me, smiled her still beautiful smile and said, ‘Hello’, turned her head and looked out the window. ‘Mom, is that all you can say? How about a hug?’ Her brow furrowed. ‘Do I know you? What’s your name?’ she asked. Josie had told me two months ago that Mom was going downhill and suggested I come to visit soon. I meant to go but had more important things to take care of. Now a noose tightened around my throat. I could barely swallow. ‘Mom, it’s me. David, your son. David.’ This 65 year old lady needed time to remember me. I waited. ‘Yes, David, yes. I know you. Do you have a sister?’ ‘Mom, Josie who takes care of you, whose house you are in, is my sister, your daughter. She just brought me in to see you.’ Mom drifts away.
I gently take her hand and she looks at me. ‘What do you want, David?’ ‘Tomorrow Josie, you and I are going to Aunt Mollie’s funeral. Do you remember your sister, Mollie?’ I see a photo of my mom and Aunt Mollie on the end table. It goes back too many years. ‘Mom, this is your sister Mollie 25 years ago. ‘ She looks at it and tears cloud her blue eyes but she says nothing.
Josie brings her sassafrases tea and coffee for herself and me, plus a heavy blue cardigan sweater she had knitted for Mom. ‘Mom gets testy. ‘You don’t have to help me put on the sweater, young lady. I made it didn’t I?’ ‘You sure did make it Mom and it fits you perfectly. Are you ready to go to your sister’s funeral? She would want you to come.’ Mom takes one more sip of the already too cool tea, stands erect and gets the sweater on and correctly closes all the buttons except the top one.
I sit in the back with Mom. Josie drives. She knows the funeral parlor direction too well. We are the first mourners there and are directed to the family room. ‘Isn’t this a lovely room, David?’ I am surprised and pleased she called me by name. Mom continues. Pointing to a green striped chair, she winks at me and says, ‘I’m going to get Dad a chair like that the next time we re-furnish the house. Don’t tell him.’ I ache for her, for myself, for Josie who has seen this coming on but held back its fast advances.
Family I don’t know, others I slightly remember, three cousins with whom I do business over the internet and cell come into the family room, pay respects and go to sit in the chapel. Mom calls a few by name. Mostly she sits and stares into space, thinking of what? The room empties. Josie, Mom, I sit in the front pew. The chapel is only half filled. There is no loud sobbing. The rabbi tells a few stories about Mom’s life that he learned when he visited Josie’s last night. It is a decent eulogy. When it is over, he makes synagogue announcements as well as memorial prayer times for my aunt. He starts to leave.
My mother touches my arm and stands. ‘Not yet, Mom. Sit down.’ She pays no attention to me, With her eyes almost closed, she straightens her skirt and walks to the podium. Not a soul moves, not even Josie or I. Mom looks at the casket covered flowers, the baskets of lilies and roses on the side, and moves closer to the mike. ‘Ladies,’ she begins. Did you see all these lovely flowers? They are beautiful, aren’t they? But my sister can’t see them. She loved flowers. We used to pick them in the park when we were very little. Daddy punished us because it was against the law to pick them.’ That was all she wanted to say. I brought her back to her seat and couldn’t help but kiss her cheek.
The limo, followed by a short procession of cars, reached the cemetery in 20 minutes. Short prayers were recited before everyone returned to Josie’s house for a catered simple lunch buffet.
The dining and living rooms are empty except for Mom sitting on the brown leather chair with the foot rest up, just the way I found her yesterday. She is holding the photo of her sister and herself that had been on the end table. ‘Mister,’ she says to me. ‘I forgot your name. Look at this picture of my sister, Mollie. It’s an old one. I don’t recognize the lady next to her. Do you?
That opened my tear ducts as wide as they go. Josie and I hugged Mom. She didn’t hug us back.
My mother was in Josie’s living room on a large brown leather chair. Her feet were raised on the foot rest. She looked comfortable. As I walked towards her I extended my arms and said, ‘Hi, Mom. Glad to see you.’ She looked at me, smiled her still beautiful smile and said, ‘Hello’, turned her head and looked out the window. ‘Mom, is that all you can say? How about a hug?’ Her brow furrowed. ‘Do I know you? What’s your name?’ she asked. Josie had told me two months ago that Mom was going downhill and suggested I come to visit soon. I meant to go but had more important things to take care of. Now a noose tightened around my throat. I could barely swallow. ‘Mom, it’s me. David, your son. David.’ This 65 year old lady needed time to remember me. I waited. ‘Yes, David, yes. I know you. Do you have a sister?’ ‘Mom, Josie who takes care of you, whose house you are in, is my sister, your daughter. She just brought me in to see you.’ Mom drifts away.
I gently take her hand and she looks at me. ‘What do you want, David?’ ‘Tomorrow Josie, you and I are going to Aunt Mollie’s funeral. Do you remember your sister, Mollie?’ I see a photo of my mom and Aunt Mollie on the end table. It goes back too many years. ‘Mom, this is your sister Mollie 25 years ago. ‘ She looks at it and tears cloud her blue eyes but she says nothing.
Josie brings her sassafrases tea and coffee for herself and me, plus a heavy blue cardigan sweater she had knitted for Mom. ‘Mom gets testy. ‘You don’t have to help me put on the sweater, young lady. I made it didn’t I?’ ‘You sure did make it Mom and it fits you perfectly. Are you ready to go to your sister’s funeral? She would want you to come.’ Mom takes one more sip of the already too cool tea, stands erect and gets the sweater on and correctly closes all the buttons except the top one.
I sit in the back with Mom. Josie drives. She knows the funeral parlor direction too well. We are the first mourners there and are directed to the family room. ‘Isn’t this a lovely room, David?’ I am surprised and pleased she called me by name. Mom continues. Pointing to a green striped chair, she winks at me and says, ‘I’m going to get Dad a chair like that the next time we re-furnish the house. Don’t tell him.’ I ache for her, for myself, for Josie who has seen this coming on but held back its fast advances.
Family I don’t know, others I slightly remember, three cousins with whom I do business over the internet and cell come into the family room, pay respects and go to sit in the chapel. Mom calls a few by name. Mostly she sits and stares into space, thinking of what? The room empties. Josie, Mom, I sit in the front pew. The chapel is only half filled. There is no loud sobbing. The rabbi tells a few stories about Mom’s life that he learned when he visited Josie’s last night. It is a decent eulogy. When it is over, he makes synagogue announcements as well as memorial prayer times for my aunt. He starts to leave.
My mother touches my arm and stands. ‘Not yet, Mom. Sit down.’ She pays no attention to me, With her eyes almost closed, she straightens her skirt and walks to the podium. Not a soul moves, not even Josie or I. Mom looks at the casket covered flowers, the baskets of lilies and roses on the side, and moves closer to the mike. ‘Ladies,’ she begins. Did you see all these lovely flowers? They are beautiful, aren’t they? But my sister can’t see them. She loved flowers. We used to pick them in the park when we were very little. Daddy punished us because it was against the law to pick them.’ That was all she wanted to say. I brought her back to her seat and couldn’t help but kiss her cheek.
The limo, followed by a short procession of cars, reached the cemetery in 20 minutes. Short prayers were recited before everyone returned to Josie’s house for a catered simple lunch buffet.
The dining and living rooms are empty except for Mom sitting on the brown leather chair with the foot rest up, just the way I found her yesterday. She is holding the photo of her sister and herself that had been on the end table. ‘Mister,’ she says to me. ‘I forgot your name. Look at this picture of my sister, Mollie. It’s an old one. I don’t recognize the lady next to her. Do you?
That opened my tear ducts as wide as they go. Josie and I hugged Mom. She didn’t hug us back.
DON’T CRY
Lying on the sparse grass under the sad, drooping bowels of a huge weeping willow, I weep with it, talk to it, bare my soul. ‘Tree, what is wrong with me? Graduation day is three weeks from now and four guys I’ve invited already have been asked, but I don’t believe them. I’ve run out of possibilities except for two nerds who are not fun material. My eyes overflow with sadness, Tree. On top of this, I earned the right to be Valedictorian but the seniors voted for Betty, the Boob Queen of Brisbane. ‘
I am sitting on the ground, crying and talking to a tree. Dry up eyes.They do when I start laughing at myself. ‘Get up, fool.’ As I stand a soft breeze makes the willows arms dance. One dances faster than the others and smacks me on my back. The ground comes up and hits me. I’m angry. I hurt but am still laughing. Smaller branches caress me, bind me prisoner. My laughing stops. I’m going to die and rot here. Nobody knows where I am. It takes a bit of strength but I manage to twist my head from side to side and see nobody anywhere. Weakly I call for help. Struggling tightens my bonds. Only the increasing sway of the branches give me hope.
A strange sound passes my ear. It is a fluttering noise. And the flutterer is a beautiful butterfly as colorful as a double rainbow. It tickles my nose, softly rises and rests on my head. Yellow bumble bees buzz, buzz around my arms. I stay perfectly still. The bees go into funnel formation. A drone leads them to a clump of buttercups. The sound of their contentment makes me unafraid. They disappear more quickly than they came. Other strange sounds fill my ears. Someone, something, is playing a harp. The music is soft, tender. A veil falls over my eyes. They close and I try to relax. ‘Tina, Tina,’ a small voice says. Excitement boils thru my veins. Help must be here. ‘Where are you?’ I call. ‘I am here, right here in your mind. Picture a young man, maybe one you know. He’s in a golden chariot racing around the arena. His horses are a full lap ahead of all others. He is strong. Caesar has given him a thumbs up. Does the young man look familiar?’ My concentration is remarkable under these strange circumstances. ‘Yes, I think the driver looks like Rubin, the nerd who hasn’t been invited to the closing prom yet, and I’m not going to be the one to ask him.’ The small voice is louder. ‘T’ina, you don’t deserve to be Valedictorian. You make good grades and have holes in your brain. Rubin is a nice guy. He studies hard, and is surely going to be somebody important before he’s thirty. ‘I’m angry at myself but adamant. Rubin and I won’t look good together. I’d rather stay home and I will. The voice peeps out. ‘You are dumb. It’s your choice. You can stay home and pout or take Rubin to the dance and have some fun. ‘I’ll stay home. Go Away.’
The sun is going down and I am still trapped by this ugly weeping willow. One leg is twisted, may be broken. I call for help again and again. A voice, a real person’s voice and the yip of a small dog brighten my spirits. The voice tells Booksie to ‘make’. There is a short silence and the voice says, ‘Good Boy, let’s go back.’ ‘Help,’ I yell and the voice comes closer. ‘Tina, what in the world are you doing lying on the ground?’ ‘Rubin, I’m playing Tiddlywinks. What do you think I am doing? This stinky old tree has me trapped and I think my leg is broken. ‘
Rubin lifts a few branches, wipes away the dirt, my sadness, my fear. I am free, smiling and walking on both feet. He holds my arm as we and Booksie walk together to my house. Rubin starts to leave and I stop him before he reaches my front gate. The words pop out of my mouth so easily, they flow. ‘Rubin, would you like to be my date for my senior prom?’ I was positive he would say ‘yes’ and he did. He happens to be a good dancer, teaches me a few moves. We laugh and have a good time.
That little inside voice stays with me. It says, ‘You won’t regret your decision, Tina. ‘ And I don’t.
I am sitting on the ground, crying and talking to a tree. Dry up eyes.They do when I start laughing at myself. ‘Get up, fool.’ As I stand a soft breeze makes the willows arms dance. One dances faster than the others and smacks me on my back. The ground comes up and hits me. I’m angry. I hurt but am still laughing. Smaller branches caress me, bind me prisoner. My laughing stops. I’m going to die and rot here. Nobody knows where I am. It takes a bit of strength but I manage to twist my head from side to side and see nobody anywhere. Weakly I call for help. Struggling tightens my bonds. Only the increasing sway of the branches give me hope.
A strange sound passes my ear. It is a fluttering noise. And the flutterer is a beautiful butterfly as colorful as a double rainbow. It tickles my nose, softly rises and rests on my head. Yellow bumble bees buzz, buzz around my arms. I stay perfectly still. The bees go into funnel formation. A drone leads them to a clump of buttercups. The sound of their contentment makes me unafraid. They disappear more quickly than they came. Other strange sounds fill my ears. Someone, something, is playing a harp. The music is soft, tender. A veil falls over my eyes. They close and I try to relax. ‘Tina, Tina,’ a small voice says. Excitement boils thru my veins. Help must be here. ‘Where are you?’ I call. ‘I am here, right here in your mind. Picture a young man, maybe one you know. He’s in a golden chariot racing around the arena. His horses are a full lap ahead of all others. He is strong. Caesar has given him a thumbs up. Does the young man look familiar?’ My concentration is remarkable under these strange circumstances. ‘Yes, I think the driver looks like Rubin, the nerd who hasn’t been invited to the closing prom yet, and I’m not going to be the one to ask him.’ The small voice is louder. ‘T’ina, you don’t deserve to be Valedictorian. You make good grades and have holes in your brain. Rubin is a nice guy. He studies hard, and is surely going to be somebody important before he’s thirty. ‘I’m angry at myself but adamant. Rubin and I won’t look good together. I’d rather stay home and I will. The voice peeps out. ‘You are dumb. It’s your choice. You can stay home and pout or take Rubin to the dance and have some fun. ‘I’ll stay home. Go Away.’
The sun is going down and I am still trapped by this ugly weeping willow. One leg is twisted, may be broken. I call for help again and again. A voice, a real person’s voice and the yip of a small dog brighten my spirits. The voice tells Booksie to ‘make’. There is a short silence and the voice says, ‘Good Boy, let’s go back.’ ‘Help,’ I yell and the voice comes closer. ‘Tina, what in the world are you doing lying on the ground?’ ‘Rubin, I’m playing Tiddlywinks. What do you think I am doing? This stinky old tree has me trapped and I think my leg is broken. ‘
Rubin lifts a few branches, wipes away the dirt, my sadness, my fear. I am free, smiling and walking on both feet. He holds my arm as we and Booksie walk together to my house. Rubin starts to leave and I stop him before he reaches my front gate. The words pop out of my mouth so easily, they flow. ‘Rubin, would you like to be my date for my senior prom?’ I was positive he would say ‘yes’ and he did. He happens to be a good dancer, teaches me a few moves. We laugh and have a good time.
That little inside voice stays with me. It says, ‘You won’t regret your decision, Tina. ‘ And I don’t.
ALL THIS AND HEAVEN TOO
Snow falls as fast as from a newly opened box of Kelloggs’ Corn Flakes.Each crispy yellow bite is smaller than the white, cold ones dropping endlessly on Baltimore. The wind twirls them in merry whirlpools at bare grey maple limbs. They pile on top of each other until their support bends, bows, and sends them tumbling to earth. There is no sound as the arms receive another load of cold.
I sit at my picture window, wrapped in one of the heavy, colorful afghans I have knitted over the years. The panorama that entrances me is like an old silent film. A small wren lands on Charlie Chaplain’s shoulder. He doffs his derby and the bird flies away. Ben Turpin’s eyes miraculously uncross as he walks towards Charlie. Arm in arm they walk out of sight.
Looking up, the sky is iced like a gigantic birthday cake. It’s overstuffed with more snow. How much can it hold before it all comes down so the sun can show its sunny yellow face again?
T.V. is still working. Snow trucks are not yet able to do so. The weather channel warns of a 24" fall. Impossible, I think...but the report is right and I am wrong. Our two teens are restless, beg me, to let them go outside to organize the biggest snowball fight in the world. My ‘No’ is meaningless. My husband’s ‘Not yet,’ is law. They read, play cards, start a 1000 piece jigsaw puzzle on the kitchen table. That gives me no choice but set up a light dinner in the dining room.
I sit down at window and continue to watch the snow fall. My attention is drawn elsewhere, yet all I see is snow. There is no kitchen, no fireplace, just snow. ‘Daniel,’ I scream. ‘I can’t see. Everything is white. Help!’ ‘’Get away from the damn window now. Dorothy.’ You are snow blind. Get away now.’ He comes to my side, takes my hand and leads me to our basement where there are no windows. There is one light in the laundry room and that is where he puts a chair for me. I lean on the ironing board. ‘Keep your eyes closed, Dot, not squeezed tight, just normally. I listen to my doctor husband but still see white snow flakes. It takes about twenty minutes until normalcy returns. I was scared, really scared I was blind.
I closed the heavy living room, dining room drapes, pulled the cotton kitchen curtains across the pole so I would not be tempted to watch the snow again. My boys opened it. ‘Close the curtain, Boys,’ Daniel orders and they are closed at once.
Gray snow clouds had made day into night, a long night. They are gone in the morning and that sunny sun peeps out. I wear sunglasses to ease the glare and decide then and there that when I want to see an old silent film with Charley Chaplin, Buster Keaton, I’m using Netflix.
I sit at my picture window, wrapped in one of the heavy, colorful afghans I have knitted over the years. The panorama that entrances me is like an old silent film. A small wren lands on Charlie Chaplain’s shoulder. He doffs his derby and the bird flies away. Ben Turpin’s eyes miraculously uncross as he walks towards Charlie. Arm in arm they walk out of sight.
Looking up, the sky is iced like a gigantic birthday cake. It’s overstuffed with more snow. How much can it hold before it all comes down so the sun can show its sunny yellow face again?
T.V. is still working. Snow trucks are not yet able to do so. The weather channel warns of a 24" fall. Impossible, I think...but the report is right and I am wrong. Our two teens are restless, beg me, to let them go outside to organize the biggest snowball fight in the world. My ‘No’ is meaningless. My husband’s ‘Not yet,’ is law. They read, play cards, start a 1000 piece jigsaw puzzle on the kitchen table. That gives me no choice but set up a light dinner in the dining room.
I sit down at window and continue to watch the snow fall. My attention is drawn elsewhere, yet all I see is snow. There is no kitchen, no fireplace, just snow. ‘Daniel,’ I scream. ‘I can’t see. Everything is white. Help!’ ‘’Get away from the damn window now. Dorothy.’ You are snow blind. Get away now.’ He comes to my side, takes my hand and leads me to our basement where there are no windows. There is one light in the laundry room and that is where he puts a chair for me. I lean on the ironing board. ‘Keep your eyes closed, Dot, not squeezed tight, just normally. I listen to my doctor husband but still see white snow flakes. It takes about twenty minutes until normalcy returns. I was scared, really scared I was blind.
I closed the heavy living room, dining room drapes, pulled the cotton kitchen curtains across the pole so I would not be tempted to watch the snow again. My boys opened it. ‘Close the curtain, Boys,’ Daniel orders and they are closed at once.
Gray snow clouds had made day into night, a long night. They are gone in the morning and that sunny sun peeps out. I wear sunglasses to ease the glare and decide then and there that when I want to see an old silent film with Charley Chaplin, Buster Keaton, I’m using Netflix.
Monday, January 4, 2010
GOODNIGHT
Mary is gone, gone with the wind, gone to her god, gone to hell. I don’t care where she has gone just so it is forever from my life. I have beentortured too long, tolerated her fits, her depressions, screechy voice for 25 years and now have my just rewards. She left her bed unmade, her coffee mug still ½ full and disappeared, poof, into thin air.
Her separate closet looks unchanged. Our car is in the driveway. I hurry to my desk and find my bank book properly in place. The wall safe in my bedroom holds our stock, her jewelry and two thousand dollars for emergency. Nothing is amiss except Mary. Her vanishing frightens me. Am I next? I pace the floor, go over again all that I have checked. What do I do next, dare to call the police? They will ask questions, over and over, and I have no explanations.
The phone rings. My heart jumps. My lips mutter by themselves, ‘Mary, Mary, where are you. Please let me hear your voice.’ Instead I hear a deep, heavy tone, ‘Mr. Crystal, we understand your wife, Mary, has vanished. Is that correct?’ ‘Yes, yes, but how do you know?’ The voice only tells me that two detectives, Lts. Morrison and Schwab are on their way to my house.
Such timing. The doorbell rings and there stand the Bobbsy twins, except one is Caucasian and one is not. Schwab, the white one, enters first and heads directly to the sofa in the living room. The two men sit side by side, each holding a yellow lawyer’s pad and a pen on his lap. They write in about the same rhythm any answers I give to their endless questions. ‘When did you see your wife last?’ Morrison asks. ‘Last nite when she went to her bedroom about 9.’ ‘And then what?’ he asks. ‘Then nothing. I came downstairs this morning at 7 a.m. and her mug of coffee still was warm on the table. I called her but got no answer. She was not in the house, garage or outside in the yard. So far, I’ve found no note.’ The questions continue. ‘Anything seem missing besides your wife?’ I tell the men exactly what I have checked so far. They ask if they may look around. I step back and give them free range to go where they want. Schwab hands me his card and tells me to call tomorrow morning even if there is nothing to tell them. ‘We have to wait 24 hours from the first report.’ They leave me as discombobulated as I was before Mary disappeared.
By 11 I have called her few friends, her hairdresser, been to the bank and our safe deposit box. It is as it should be. Nothing is missing. I keep telling myself I don’t want Mary back but my curiosity is torturing me. No windows are broken. There is no blood. No medications are spilled on the floor, in the sink. The toilet is clear, nothing in it except blue water. I see no unusual footprints outside, nothing on our doorstep.
I can’t think of anything else to do except walk from room to room and think, think, think. Father Calhoun, the priest I have known since childhood, offers a prayer for Mary’s return. I do not have the guts to tell him I don’t want her back, want only for her to be safe and well.
By noon my stomach talks to me. I answer by pouring myself a hefty glass of Jack Daniels, followed by a bologna, cheese, tomato sandwich on rye and another shot of J. D. My belly is sated but my mind is not. ‘Mary, Mary, where are you? Don’t come home. Just answer me, where are you?.’ Mary doesn’t answer. By the time I should be having my usually silent dinner with Mary, Old Jack D. has done its job. I fall asleep watching some asinine t.v. show and wake at 3 a.m. I stumble to my room, pee Jack down the toilet and fall, fully clothed, on my bed until 7:30. My head aches. My bed looks like a cyclone hit it. Mary wouldn’t like that so I straighten my sheets, fluff the pillows and go downstairs.
Steaming coffee burns my tongue. Cold O.J. gives temporary relief. I call Lt. Morrison. The department will put out an APB on Mary. At noon Mutt and Jeff knock on my door. They have a search warrant in hand but politely ask my permission to go ahead. I give it easily. Two other officers follow them inside. Every closet, every drawer is opened and closed neatly. They toss both beds, check the tile basement floor, find nothing suspicious and tell me this case is being investigated and I should not leave town. ‘Where would I go, Officers? I’ll be right here.’
I do go someplace, to my church. The donation plate gets a fairly heavy addition from me. Father O’Toole tells me not to worry. ‘Mary will come home.’ It isn’t easy to muffle my snickers but I do. I tell him the truth. ‘All I want is for Mary to be safe and happy. ‘
Weeks go slowly. There are no clues, no suspects. I have answered the same questions dozens of times, taken a lie detector test and was exonerated. My life has become a drag. There is nobody to argue with, nobody to ignore. Work, grocery shop, fix my own meager meals and I have had it. Everything is in order except my mind.
In the bathroom I gaze at my lean, gray face, open the medicine cabinet, fill the pink and red plastic glass Mary liked and I detested, with water. In my hand I drop every pill that says ‘one a day.’ Without counting them, without knowing why Mary took them, I swallow them several at a time.
I go into her bedroom, lie down in the center of her bed, fold my hands on my chest, close my eyes and wait to meet Mary again.
Her separate closet looks unchanged. Our car is in the driveway. I hurry to my desk and find my bank book properly in place. The wall safe in my bedroom holds our stock, her jewelry and two thousand dollars for emergency. Nothing is amiss except Mary. Her vanishing frightens me. Am I next? I pace the floor, go over again all that I have checked. What do I do next, dare to call the police? They will ask questions, over and over, and I have no explanations.
The phone rings. My heart jumps. My lips mutter by themselves, ‘Mary, Mary, where are you. Please let me hear your voice.’ Instead I hear a deep, heavy tone, ‘Mr. Crystal, we understand your wife, Mary, has vanished. Is that correct?’ ‘Yes, yes, but how do you know?’ The voice only tells me that two detectives, Lts. Morrison and Schwab are on their way to my house.
Such timing. The doorbell rings and there stand the Bobbsy twins, except one is Caucasian and one is not. Schwab, the white one, enters first and heads directly to the sofa in the living room. The two men sit side by side, each holding a yellow lawyer’s pad and a pen on his lap. They write in about the same rhythm any answers I give to their endless questions. ‘When did you see your wife last?’ Morrison asks. ‘Last nite when she went to her bedroom about 9.’ ‘And then what?’ he asks. ‘Then nothing. I came downstairs this morning at 7 a.m. and her mug of coffee still was warm on the table. I called her but got no answer. She was not in the house, garage or outside in the yard. So far, I’ve found no note.’ The questions continue. ‘Anything seem missing besides your wife?’ I tell the men exactly what I have checked so far. They ask if they may look around. I step back and give them free range to go where they want. Schwab hands me his card and tells me to call tomorrow morning even if there is nothing to tell them. ‘We have to wait 24 hours from the first report.’ They leave me as discombobulated as I was before Mary disappeared.
By 11 I have called her few friends, her hairdresser, been to the bank and our safe deposit box. It is as it should be. Nothing is missing. I keep telling myself I don’t want Mary back but my curiosity is torturing me. No windows are broken. There is no blood. No medications are spilled on the floor, in the sink. The toilet is clear, nothing in it except blue water. I see no unusual footprints outside, nothing on our doorstep.
I can’t think of anything else to do except walk from room to room and think, think, think. Father Calhoun, the priest I have known since childhood, offers a prayer for Mary’s return. I do not have the guts to tell him I don’t want her back, want only for her to be safe and well.
By noon my stomach talks to me. I answer by pouring myself a hefty glass of Jack Daniels, followed by a bologna, cheese, tomato sandwich on rye and another shot of J. D. My belly is sated but my mind is not. ‘Mary, Mary, where are you? Don’t come home. Just answer me, where are you?.’ Mary doesn’t answer. By the time I should be having my usually silent dinner with Mary, Old Jack D. has done its job. I fall asleep watching some asinine t.v. show and wake at 3 a.m. I stumble to my room, pee Jack down the toilet and fall, fully clothed, on my bed until 7:30. My head aches. My bed looks like a cyclone hit it. Mary wouldn’t like that so I straighten my sheets, fluff the pillows and go downstairs.
Steaming coffee burns my tongue. Cold O.J. gives temporary relief. I call Lt. Morrison. The department will put out an APB on Mary. At noon Mutt and Jeff knock on my door. They have a search warrant in hand but politely ask my permission to go ahead. I give it easily. Two other officers follow them inside. Every closet, every drawer is opened and closed neatly. They toss both beds, check the tile basement floor, find nothing suspicious and tell me this case is being investigated and I should not leave town. ‘Where would I go, Officers? I’ll be right here.’
I do go someplace, to my church. The donation plate gets a fairly heavy addition from me. Father O’Toole tells me not to worry. ‘Mary will come home.’ It isn’t easy to muffle my snickers but I do. I tell him the truth. ‘All I want is for Mary to be safe and happy. ‘
Weeks go slowly. There are no clues, no suspects. I have answered the same questions dozens of times, taken a lie detector test and was exonerated. My life has become a drag. There is nobody to argue with, nobody to ignore. Work, grocery shop, fix my own meager meals and I have had it. Everything is in order except my mind.
In the bathroom I gaze at my lean, gray face, open the medicine cabinet, fill the pink and red plastic glass Mary liked and I detested, with water. In my hand I drop every pill that says ‘one a day.’ Without counting them, without knowing why Mary took them, I swallow them several at a time.
I go into her bedroom, lie down in the center of her bed, fold my hands on my chest, close my eyes and wait to meet Mary again.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
ONE SIDE
He’s after me and I don’t want to be chased, at least not by him. Mr. Uncle of my Boss is a jerk. He works, if one calls it work, in the same complex as I do and is my nemesis. Harvey is at least thirty years older than I am, is pudgy, wears a toup and doesn’t smell as fresh as his mouth. Taking off his bifocals, wiping his eyes, then his glasses, he winks at me, winks and blinks, winks and blinks. I can’t keep my mind on my work.
‘Hi, Sally, it’s only 8 a.m. you can’t have a lunch date set already. How about joining me? I’ll get my nephew to give us an extra hour?’ I tell him a white lie. ‘I’ve brought my lunch today. You interrupt me so many times, I don’t have time to go out. I’m eating in the employee’s lounge.Go away, Harvey.’ His smile is gone. He is defeated, crestfallen. Perfect. I have no lunch with me and only wait for him to go in the lunch area to grab my jacket and head to Macy’s for a peaceful lunch.
Sherry, a fairly good office friend of mine, is well aware of Harvey’s quest and suggests two things to me. Tell the boss to keep his uncle out of your hair or you will have to quit work here. ‘Sherry, I’ve spoken to T.J. more than once and he tells me to ignore the old F...up. Yes, he says the words. I don’t want to quit. A slightly new position with a good raise is awaiting me before Christmas.’ Oh, oh, now I did it. My fairly good friend is going to do what she can to force me to quit so she can move into my spot.
A thought begins to gather. Why don’t I give in and go out with Harvey? I can act goofy, spill my drink, tell crumby jokes. Maybe I won’t be the angel he thinks I am. And so, I am on a see saw, waiting for another invitation, hoping I don’t get one, but I do.
‘How would you like to go to Aruba with me, Sally? My nephew says I can take my vacation soon.’ I am underwhelmed. ‘No, thank you, Harvey, I’ve been to Aruba and there isn’t much to see or do there.’ ‘We don’t have to do much, just sit in the shade, have a few drinks, good dinners. I’m a good dancer, I’m told.’ He is pitching hard but not hard enough. ‘Sorry, no.’
The very next morning at 8, he is waiting for me at the Security station. ‘How about dinner Saturday. We can go to the Copa and dance between courses. I’ll pick you up at 8:30. What do you say?’ I can’t take it any more, must have gone nuts, and accept.
I ready myself in work clothes, wear flip flops, kinK my hair and wait for Harvey. He’s on time, takes one look at me and tells me I look beautiful. Oh, my god, I am doomed. Short of jumping out of my 5th floor window, I’m going to the Copa.
Dinner was excellent. Harvey is a good dancer, but he didn’t like my jokes, didn’t like me licking my fingers, didn’t like me getting a little tipsy and falling off my chair. He paid the check, took me to my door, turned and drove away. Yes, I felt bad about hurting him but it had to be done. I slept fitfully, guilty beyond my own belief.
Monday I went in at 9 instead of 8 and didn’t see Harvey until I got to my desk and there he was on the other side of the room wiping his bifocals and blinking at Sherry.
‘Hi, Sally, it’s only 8 a.m. you can’t have a lunch date set already. How about joining me? I’ll get my nephew to give us an extra hour?’ I tell him a white lie. ‘I’ve brought my lunch today. You interrupt me so many times, I don’t have time to go out. I’m eating in the employee’s lounge.Go away, Harvey.’ His smile is gone. He is defeated, crestfallen. Perfect. I have no lunch with me and only wait for him to go in the lunch area to grab my jacket and head to Macy’s for a peaceful lunch.
Sherry, a fairly good office friend of mine, is well aware of Harvey’s quest and suggests two things to me. Tell the boss to keep his uncle out of your hair or you will have to quit work here. ‘Sherry, I’ve spoken to T.J. more than once and he tells me to ignore the old F...up. Yes, he says the words. I don’t want to quit. A slightly new position with a good raise is awaiting me before Christmas.’ Oh, oh, now I did it. My fairly good friend is going to do what she can to force me to quit so she can move into my spot.
A thought begins to gather. Why don’t I give in and go out with Harvey? I can act goofy, spill my drink, tell crumby jokes. Maybe I won’t be the angel he thinks I am. And so, I am on a see saw, waiting for another invitation, hoping I don’t get one, but I do.
‘How would you like to go to Aruba with me, Sally? My nephew says I can take my vacation soon.’ I am underwhelmed. ‘No, thank you, Harvey, I’ve been to Aruba and there isn’t much to see or do there.’ ‘We don’t have to do much, just sit in the shade, have a few drinks, good dinners. I’m a good dancer, I’m told.’ He is pitching hard but not hard enough. ‘Sorry, no.’
The very next morning at 8, he is waiting for me at the Security station. ‘How about dinner Saturday. We can go to the Copa and dance between courses. I’ll pick you up at 8:30. What do you say?’ I can’t take it any more, must have gone nuts, and accept.
I ready myself in work clothes, wear flip flops, kinK my hair and wait for Harvey. He’s on time, takes one look at me and tells me I look beautiful. Oh, my god, I am doomed. Short of jumping out of my 5th floor window, I’m going to the Copa.
Dinner was excellent. Harvey is a good dancer, but he didn’t like my jokes, didn’t like me licking my fingers, didn’t like me getting a little tipsy and falling off my chair. He paid the check, took me to my door, turned and drove away. Yes, I felt bad about hurting him but it had to be done. I slept fitfully, guilty beyond my own belief.
Monday I went in at 9 instead of 8 and didn’t see Harvey until I got to my desk and there he was on the other side of the room wiping his bifocals and blinking at Sherry.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
MAD KILLER
I’m going to shoot her. She is such a bitch, mean, nasty, ornery, selfish.Melinda is also beautiful, talented and rich. Liking her is too much trouble for me. I’ve tried to be friendly, give her advice when asked, knowing before hand she will laugh at my suggestions.
A plan is beginning to organize for me. I remove a new scrap pad from my desk drawer, one of at least twenty I get free in the mail. Charities want donations and I want them to leave me alone. Bribery isn’t necessary for me to give to whom I deem worthy.
My hand quivers as I start a list of necessities to shoot Melinda. I boldly write her name on the top line and quickly realize I can become the chief suspect. White out, white out. Use a fictitious name. Helen will work. Mental pictures of Melinda , sobbing, begging me not to kill her, excite me, encourage me.
First- NEEDS. Apply for a hand gun license. That would be stupid. I scratch it out. Find someone on the street, maybe a junkie who has an in and wants money. A little star goes next to that. *Be careful.’There are shooting ranges, teachers. Check the phone book, the web. My list is getting too many cross-outs, warnings. I put a match to the list and begin again, neatly, in order of what, when, how.
Page 2. ‘Watch the witch. Check out her routines, her friends. I can’t imagine her having any and scratch that out too.
Page 3. I’ll need an iron-clad alibi. *Read good old detective stories. Follow Law and Order. Make notes. My morning stirs my mind.Getting caught will require a good attorney. A court appointed one won’t be good enough. On my list I add, ‘talk to Jack.’ He had two traffic tickets and a speeding citation. His lawyer got him off with no classroom time, no fines. *Jack Thompson 215-62-1342.
I’ll need a disguise. Get Nice ‘n Easy, dark blonde, #914. Cut my hair short and jagged. Buy comfortable shoes with no tread design, in case I have to run. Make a separate list of people who don’t like Melinda. Carla, Mel got her fired; Joni, Mel slapped her for being blunt about her tight skirt; Lennie jilted her. My scrap pad goes into a fresh desk folder. What should I label it? ‘Kill Melinda Plans’. I smile at that nonsense and call it ‘Taxes 2008.’ ‘Relax, Lady. This is serious stuff. Go out for lunch. Stop in Borders for mystery books. Look on the Sale table.’
Nordstrom’s lunch room lures me. It’s almost noon and the wait line is long. None of these ladies has anything to do as important as what I plan. They yak while I have no choice but to wait ½ hour. One small table for two opens up and I am the lucky winner. My regular Cobb salad, iced tea and Danish order goes in. From my purse I remove a fresh note pad, cheap Papermate blue pen and ponder. ‘Think, think, buy cotton garden gloves, no prints on the gun.
Someone taps me on the shoulder. I look up right into Melinda’s lovely face. ‘What luck, to find you here, Robin. May I join you?’ Before she dies, I might as well be nice. ‘Sure.’ She calls the waitress and duplicates whatever I had ordered as she was sure it had to be good. We wait while she brags about the six honor students she is sending to Rome to study for a year and the cruise she and her husband will take next fall. They are as ordinary to her as my describing the lovely Majorca glass bowl I gave my mother for her birthday.
‘Robin, I’ve always liked you. You have given me some excellent ideas that worked out well. This happenstance is perfect. Next Wednesday I’m having an intimate tea at my house, just 6 ladies and myself, making the lucky 7th. You know Martha Gold and Sherry Harland. They’ll be there. Please come.’ She hands me a white card from her purse with her name, address and phone printed in simple form. This is great. I need those numbers for my list. Melinda picks up the bill and shoos me away with a wave and warm smile. ‘See you Wednesday.’
What was I thinking? I like her. At home my first stop is at my desk where I remove the folder ‘Taxes 2008' and put it thru the shredder. I do a double take when I look where my folder was and there it still is. I scream out loud. ‘Yikes, I shredded my real tax papers.’ The murder plans are still filed. I grab it roughly, shred it, call my accountant to send me a duplicate of my 2008 taxes.
I look in my closet and decide on my pale blue suit with a navy blouse to wear for Melinda’s tea
A plan is beginning to organize for me. I remove a new scrap pad from my desk drawer, one of at least twenty I get free in the mail. Charities want donations and I want them to leave me alone. Bribery isn’t necessary for me to give to whom I deem worthy.
My hand quivers as I start a list of necessities to shoot Melinda. I boldly write her name on the top line and quickly realize I can become the chief suspect. White out, white out. Use a fictitious name. Helen will work. Mental pictures of Melinda , sobbing, begging me not to kill her, excite me, encourage me.
First- NEEDS. Apply for a hand gun license. That would be stupid. I scratch it out. Find someone on the street, maybe a junkie who has an in and wants money. A little star goes next to that. *Be careful.’There are shooting ranges, teachers. Check the phone book, the web. My list is getting too many cross-outs, warnings. I put a match to the list and begin again, neatly, in order of what, when, how.
Page 2. ‘Watch the witch. Check out her routines, her friends. I can’t imagine her having any and scratch that out too.
Page 3. I’ll need an iron-clad alibi. *Read good old detective stories. Follow Law and Order. Make notes. My morning stirs my mind.Getting caught will require a good attorney. A court appointed one won’t be good enough. On my list I add, ‘talk to Jack.’ He had two traffic tickets and a speeding citation. His lawyer got him off with no classroom time, no fines. *Jack Thompson 215-62-1342.
I’ll need a disguise. Get Nice ‘n Easy, dark blonde, #914. Cut my hair short and jagged. Buy comfortable shoes with no tread design, in case I have to run. Make a separate list of people who don’t like Melinda. Carla, Mel got her fired; Joni, Mel slapped her for being blunt about her tight skirt; Lennie jilted her. My scrap pad goes into a fresh desk folder. What should I label it? ‘Kill Melinda Plans’. I smile at that nonsense and call it ‘Taxes 2008.’ ‘Relax, Lady. This is serious stuff. Go out for lunch. Stop in Borders for mystery books. Look on the Sale table.’
Nordstrom’s lunch room lures me. It’s almost noon and the wait line is long. None of these ladies has anything to do as important as what I plan. They yak while I have no choice but to wait ½ hour. One small table for two opens up and I am the lucky winner. My regular Cobb salad, iced tea and Danish order goes in. From my purse I remove a fresh note pad, cheap Papermate blue pen and ponder. ‘Think, think, buy cotton garden gloves, no prints on the gun.
Someone taps me on the shoulder. I look up right into Melinda’s lovely face. ‘What luck, to find you here, Robin. May I join you?’ Before she dies, I might as well be nice. ‘Sure.’ She calls the waitress and duplicates whatever I had ordered as she was sure it had to be good. We wait while she brags about the six honor students she is sending to Rome to study for a year and the cruise she and her husband will take next fall. They are as ordinary to her as my describing the lovely Majorca glass bowl I gave my mother for her birthday.
‘Robin, I’ve always liked you. You have given me some excellent ideas that worked out well. This happenstance is perfect. Next Wednesday I’m having an intimate tea at my house, just 6 ladies and myself, making the lucky 7th. You know Martha Gold and Sherry Harland. They’ll be there. Please come.’ She hands me a white card from her purse with her name, address and phone printed in simple form. This is great. I need those numbers for my list. Melinda picks up the bill and shoos me away with a wave and warm smile. ‘See you Wednesday.’
What was I thinking? I like her. At home my first stop is at my desk where I remove the folder ‘Taxes 2008' and put it thru the shredder. I do a double take when I look where my folder was and there it still is. I scream out loud. ‘Yikes, I shredded my real tax papers.’ The murder plans are still filed. I grab it roughly, shred it, call my accountant to send me a duplicate of my 2008 taxes.
I look in my closet and decide on my pale blue suit with a navy blouse to wear for Melinda’s tea
Friday, January 1, 2010
TWO ENDINGS
Except for her nose that is slightly bent from the break her father caused years ago, Elly could be a movie star or a Georgia peach, she’s luscious. Her figure is flawless. It moves slowly like melting glass. Wide awake blue eyes, blond arched eyebrows, grabbed my attention the first time I saw her. Wait. She couldn’t be a movie star because she can’t sing on key, loves dancing but only likes ‘hold me close’ music. Act? She’s too darn honest to act.
I first became aware of her at the funeral of a long time friend of mine. Barrie, was simply walking to the supermarket, when a speeding motorcycle got out of control, ran up on the pavement, into and over Barrie. I try to believe he never knew what hit him and died instantly, but I don’t know. Mourners filled the sanctuary. The line to sign the Friendship Book reached thru the lobby into the gardens. By the time I put my name down, there was not a moment to spare as the service was about to start.
Barrie’s Uncle Marty, asked me to sit with him but I found a single seat directly behind the family and was comfortable, feeling like I belonged there. As I waited for the service to begin, I heard sobs, saw women wrenching their handkerchiefs and heard their tears fall on the prayer books. Most men wore yalmakas, a few pulled old felt hats out of basement boxes. Small lace kerchiefs covered the women’s heads. A hush came over the center as Rabbi Elly Schwartz walked to the podium.
Her white robe was traditional, her face angelic. In a moment she was more than the rabbi, she was one of us, feeling our pain, wanting to help us understand the terrible tragedy. She stood still, had no book, no paper to read to us. Instead she recited a sad and tender poem, honestly getting choked up when the little boy in the poem tells his mother goodbye, closes his eyes and is gone. I was unable to concentrate on the words but felt them. It was of love, all kinds of love, familial, sexual, country, god. It was all there in 3 or 4 stanzas, coming directly from her heart. Barrie’s mother lost control, cried so hard, the Rabbi asked us to remain seated as she left the podium, gathered the distraught mother in a warm embrace and walked her back to a private room. They weren’t gone long.
Together they returned, Mrs. Blaustein trying hard to keep control. Her eyes were bloodshot, still leaking but she had a clean white handkerchief tucked in her sleeve, and wiped the tears away for a bit.The service tore hearts out but inserted tranquility, understanding. Which moment was the most tragic? Rabbi Schwartz pulled no punches. It was time to call the pallbearers forward. Before the procession to the waiting hearse and limos began, the Rabbi came outside to say the Shamah. It was a simple heart felt gesture. Eyes reddened again, even mine. It was sad, all of it. It was over.
Rabbi Schwartz had awakened something in me, something I had as a young man, that vanished when women came into my life, religion. Her calm control, her soft voice, her love of Torah squirmed back into my veins, my mind, my groin like a new viper breaking thru its shell. I did some homework and learned she is unattached, as am I, at Shomrei Emanuel Congregation in Abington. Friday evenings there is always a Oneg Shabbat after service, tea, cookies, sometimes hot cheese kugel. Hell, I’ll try it, meet new people, relax, maybe get to like it.
My first Oneg Shabbat I met an old high school friend who was anxious to rope me in as a new congregant, by making a big deal out of his knowing the rabbi very well. He took me over to meet Rabbi Schwartz. I gave her the biggest smile I could manage without cracking my face. She gave me her hand. It was warm and welcoming. Was it God standing behind me or Cupid? I didn’t know but was instantly in love with the Rabbi. By the time we finished our cookies, I was calling her Elly. By the following Friday, I was phoning her daily. By the third Friday I found out why her father broke her nose. After that it was smooth sailing.
WE stopped counting days, counted nights, and Elly and I will have Rabbi Lerner perform our wedding ceremony in May 2011.
I first became aware of her at the funeral of a long time friend of mine. Barrie, was simply walking to the supermarket, when a speeding motorcycle got out of control, ran up on the pavement, into and over Barrie. I try to believe he never knew what hit him and died instantly, but I don’t know. Mourners filled the sanctuary. The line to sign the Friendship Book reached thru the lobby into the gardens. By the time I put my name down, there was not a moment to spare as the service was about to start.
Barrie’s Uncle Marty, asked me to sit with him but I found a single seat directly behind the family and was comfortable, feeling like I belonged there. As I waited for the service to begin, I heard sobs, saw women wrenching their handkerchiefs and heard their tears fall on the prayer books. Most men wore yalmakas, a few pulled old felt hats out of basement boxes. Small lace kerchiefs covered the women’s heads. A hush came over the center as Rabbi Elly Schwartz walked to the podium.
Her white robe was traditional, her face angelic. In a moment she was more than the rabbi, she was one of us, feeling our pain, wanting to help us understand the terrible tragedy. She stood still, had no book, no paper to read to us. Instead she recited a sad and tender poem, honestly getting choked up when the little boy in the poem tells his mother goodbye, closes his eyes and is gone. I was unable to concentrate on the words but felt them. It was of love, all kinds of love, familial, sexual, country, god. It was all there in 3 or 4 stanzas, coming directly from her heart. Barrie’s mother lost control, cried so hard, the Rabbi asked us to remain seated as she left the podium, gathered the distraught mother in a warm embrace and walked her back to a private room. They weren’t gone long.
Together they returned, Mrs. Blaustein trying hard to keep control. Her eyes were bloodshot, still leaking but she had a clean white handkerchief tucked in her sleeve, and wiped the tears away for a bit.The service tore hearts out but inserted tranquility, understanding. Which moment was the most tragic? Rabbi Schwartz pulled no punches. It was time to call the pallbearers forward. Before the procession to the waiting hearse and limos began, the Rabbi came outside to say the Shamah. It was a simple heart felt gesture. Eyes reddened again, even mine. It was sad, all of it. It was over.
Rabbi Schwartz had awakened something in me, something I had as a young man, that vanished when women came into my life, religion. Her calm control, her soft voice, her love of Torah squirmed back into my veins, my mind, my groin like a new viper breaking thru its shell. I did some homework and learned she is unattached, as am I, at Shomrei Emanuel Congregation in Abington. Friday evenings there is always a Oneg Shabbat after service, tea, cookies, sometimes hot cheese kugel. Hell, I’ll try it, meet new people, relax, maybe get to like it.
My first Oneg Shabbat I met an old high school friend who was anxious to rope me in as a new congregant, by making a big deal out of his knowing the rabbi very well. He took me over to meet Rabbi Schwartz. I gave her the biggest smile I could manage without cracking my face. She gave me her hand. It was warm and welcoming. Was it God standing behind me or Cupid? I didn’t know but was instantly in love with the Rabbi. By the time we finished our cookies, I was calling her Elly. By the following Friday, I was phoning her daily. By the third Friday I found out why her father broke her nose. After that it was smooth sailing.
WE stopped counting days, counted nights, and Elly and I will have Rabbi Lerner perform our wedding ceremony in May 2011.
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