Stop, look and listen: SHOOFLY PIE

A young couple face each other, seated at a small round cocktail table. They don’t seem much interested in each other as they gaze out the window watching cars go by. The boy at last turns towards the girl, makes an odd sound and puckers up his lips. She looks at him and smiles. I look at him and know I wouldn’t mind tasting that honey myself. Soft words are said but I can’t hear them. He takes the check and they leave.

 

I’m not happy where I am and move over, find a busier spot and turn on my listening ears. Three tough, rough looking men sit down. A waitress appears immediately. They order a carafe of Caltibiano wine and three large pizzas with extra cheese, olives and anchovies. That’s my kind of eating. Almost unnoticed, I sit still and listen to their hushed tones. I think I pick up the word ‘bank.’ Did I hear right? They are going to rob the Sun National on Third St.

 

The pizzeria isn’t busy so I move again, keeping my back to them. The less I hear about that, the safer I will be. If they see me, I may be dead sooner than I expect. Just as the pizzas leave the kitchen two police officers come in. The biggest of the three robbers snaps his fingers at the waitress, tells her to box the pizzas, drink the wine herself and bring their check. She hurries to obey. I can see a hundred dollar bill on the table. They nonchalantly leave, never glancing toward the policemen.

 

The waitress knows me and my big family and doesn’t bother me. I can sit here all day and evening, barely eating, passing time. Customers begin coming in about 9:30. That’s when the Rialto, the movie on the next block,lets out. Teens, teens, teens should go home, finish their school assignments but don’t. They are noisy and pay no attention to me but I listen to them, hear it all. Jim doesn’t shave yet but brags how many chicks he’s laid. Solomon thinks his English teacher gave him an ‘F’ on his essay because she doesn’t like Jews. ‘Nah,’ says Donnie.’You can’t even spell right and don’t know a participle if one dangles in your face.’ ‘How about some service, Bea?’ Jim asks the waitress. Her pad and pencil are ready before he wipes the ‘better than thou’ look off his face. ‘I’ll have two slices, thin, very thin pizza, just sauce, a lot of cheese and crushed peppers on the side. Bring me a glass of Chianti, too,’Donny says. The waitress, Angie, tells him to pour the wine order down his pants. ‘You want a Diet Coke or not?’ She’s a toughie. Donny okays the coke.

 

All the talk of food , the smell are making me hungry. I take a chance and move to a table right next to the boys. Solomon stands, takes a large cardboard menu off the table to his right, looks squarely at me and swings. He’s fast, but I’m faster. 
 
 I fly to another wall and wait to be amused when his friends laugh at him.

Take care: SUNSHINE

It’s 8 A.M. The Today show is on but I fear it is a figment of my imagination. Staying away from windows, I cringe in the blackness of a raging electrical storm. The TV. is blaring. Weather reports interrupt every show often. One hundred thirty one lightning strikes have hit Boynton Beach, FL in the last hour. The slanting onslaught of rain already measures three inches. Are we going to be another Yazoo, MI that became a mere pile of splinters two days ago? Traffic drags, slips and slides. A tractor trailer has skidded, is upside down and is blocking I 95 from Jupiter to Lindsey.

 

My largest, brightest flashlight is by my side on the sofa, just in case. In case happens. The t.v. goes black.  Not a big deal. I have the A.C. turned off and the apartment is getting stuffy. The refrigerator and range are still working so I believe I am blessed. At least five lion prides rumble in the sky. Flashes of white lightning force the ceiling lights to blink on and off. How much longer will there be an ‘on’?

 

I take a quick peek out of the den window. The usual blue lake is brown and rising fast. The new mama duck and her seven ducklings must be in hiding. Blackness moves in. Day becomes night. I admit to myself I am scared. Above the din, the wind whistles thru the trees. I think I hear a knock on my door but shut the thought out. The knock becomes a pounding nuisance. Ordinarily I don’t open my door until I check who is there thru the round prism hole. This time is different. I throw it open and see the unbelievable. It’s the UPS man. He looks like a drowned rat that has been fed strychnine. The package in his hand looks no better. It’s brown paper wrap is soggy, wrinkled. The square box is almost flat. ‘Are you Ms. Brager?’ he asks. ‘Yes, come in, come in.’ ‘Ma’am, please sign this and I’ll be gone.

 

The weather has made me very late and other people re waiting for me.’ I get uppity and tell him I won’t sign unless he relaxes for a few minutes and has a cup of hot green tea with me. ‘Ma’am, I can’t do that. Please sign the delivery sheet.’ ‘Tell me what size shoe do you wear?’ ‘Why do you ask me such a dumb question,

 

Ms. Brager. I told you I have to get going.  I’ve left the lights and motor on in the truck. 8 ½ EE.’ ‘Now, what a coincidence, Mr. UPs Man. My husband wears the same size. Don’t move. I’ll bring you a dry pair with dry socks.’ ‘Thank, you, Ma’am but I can’t take your kind offer. Sign now or I’m taking the package back on the truck. If it’s ruined, put in a claim. UPS will cover it.

 

I pull my ace in  the hole. ‘Don’t leave. I’m all alone and so frightened of lightning. Did you know lightning comes before the thunder? ‘Yes, Ma’am, I know that. I am leaving.’ Not only am I frightened, I’m angry and disappointed. ‘Okay, go, go. I don’t care!’ He takes the wet box and goes. Where he stood there is a puddle of brownish water.

 

Fire engines come close, their sirens screaming over the thunder.
FP&L trucks are right behind them. I watch the action. The FPL workers climb poles, check wires. The lights in the building go out. No way can I stay alone in the dark, not knowing what is next. My flashlight helps me find some old rainwear and a floppy oil skin hat. In a corner of the closet are some old ankle high boots. I manage to get them on and take the elevator down ten floors, stand in the lobby trying to find out what is happening. The rain still falls making a Niagara Falls down the facade of the building. Firemen are inside, checking the storage room, the generator. I am told to go back upstairs. Reluctantly I go, wait thirty minutes and come down again. Nobody pays attention to me, tell me nothing. The fire dept. leaves. I corner one of the FPL men who has a softer, kinder approach.

‘You are all lucky. Lightning  hit the condenser around the corner. It could have caused not only a wide outage but a fire. We’re through. You can go upstairs and not worry. All is well.’ The storm has abated and all is returning to normal.

 

At eight o’clock I am startled by a knock on the door. I look thru the peephole but can’ recognize the distorted face. ‘Who’s there?’ I ask. The man replies, ‘ I’m the UPs man who was here this morning. May I come in?’ I unlock the door and there he is, holding my re-wrapped package and a bouquet  of aqua peonies. ‘Don’t get nervous. I’m a happily married man with two daughters. The flowers are for your thoughtfulness offering me dry shoes and socks.  I just want to repay you in this small way.’ I am overcome, almost wordless for a moment.

 

Then words come to me. ‘Mr. UPs Man, what is your name? Would you like to have that green tea now?’

FW: I'LL WAIT FOR RECONSTRUCTION: AMERICANITIS

 

To try something new (and now required) I select a cholesterol free egg white omelet from the delly menu. It has peppers and onions in it. In bold, the menu blares out how many items are included, none of which I want. In large black letters it states ‘no substitutions.’ Looking a bit humble, I ask if I can simply have sliced tomatoes. ‘No problemeh,’ the tall, strong Haitian tells me.

 

My hot decaf comes quickly. Around me dishes clatter. Bangs and riveting reach me from outside where ½ a  block of stores are being demolished and new bigger, better ones will eventually be a blessing to our community. Even though it is Sunday, work goes on. The men are happy to be working at all. Those who will remain have posted large signs in front of their shops, ‘We are open,’ ‘Open for business’, ‘Stop in 9 to 9.’  The parking lot is chaotic.

 

I am absolutely amazed that my delly has customers at all. It isn’t as busy as usual but starts to fill up right after my order goes in. My eyes pop. A fat lady in cut off cotton pants, an unbecoming  blue plaid over blouse walks in with a motley group. In it is an even fatter woman in a white knit top, the front a cacophony of printed bright flowers that cling to her bulbous breasts–that are about to burst thru the cotton. Her male companion is the fattest of all. I am almost sure the room is going to tilt right. With the group is an elderly, emaciated Asian woman who squints her eyes trying to read the menu.  Whoa! I had not seen the young child whose dark hair could barely been seen between his parents and the piles of saturated fat. Am I at a delly  or a circus, I wonder.

 

It is unreal. A man over six feet tall wearing a black matched set of cotton shirt and pants has a pigtail down to his waist. I play a game with myself and guess he weighs at least 450 lbs. My confidence is silent but I chalk up a win for my side. All 110 lbs. of me is still waiting for my omelet. That pigtailed man could make squash pancakes out of me and nobody would notice I was working my way thru his fat.

 

It looks like the fatties have had their turn and now the waiting line holds up the lame, the aged. Two old fogies chat as they  push their walkers toward a table. One catches her walker on the carpet and almost falls. Directly behind them is a husky man about 38. His left leg is in a full cast. One crutch clicks against my table as he passes. His lady doesn’t belong in this circus. She is stunning.  Her long, blond silky hair reaches almost to her waist. Subdued make-up is barely noticeable. A toddler holds her skirt and bellows, ‘Mommy, Mommy, chocolate milk.’ Mommy tells him sternly,’Shut up now!’  They are seated and I still wait for my omelet. I grab my waiter as soon as he gets close enough to ask if he lost my order. Politely, he tells me it will be ready soon.

 

I sit and contemplate my surroundings. What else have I to do? This is not the breakfast I had anticipated. Nausea is finding its way to my gut. The lady with the flowered top, the mother in the group, waits for nobody. She takes her warm ‘everything’ bagel in her hands and chomps down on something or other that is covered with oozing melted cheese. I try hard to look the other way but now need to know what the devil she has on her sandwich. Whatever it was disappears in a flash. Non-stop she attacks her deep fried french toast covered with almonds. Nice mommie, nice mommie. She gives her young son a piece of toast to go with his chocolate milk. The daddy, sits next to me, partly on his chair, mostly with his rump hanging over. As soon s his plate is before him, he digs right into the four sunny-side-up eggs, hashed brown ‘taters  and grits, a toasted orange muffin.

 

I take my eyes off these fools and glance at the old Asian. Not a sound has she made thru all the eating and noise, nor has anyone spoken to her. From her purse she takes a package of cheese crackers and nibbles slowly on them until they are gone. She washes the dryness down with hot tea.  Wait! The extravaganza is not yet over. Opposite the Asian woman I can finally see a more normal looking person, a bit overweight, but next to the others she looks like a skeleton. The waiter brings her a stack of pancakes, piled to a towering height with whipped cream. It is so high a big blob falls on the table.

 

Gloriosky. My omelet arrives. It looks tasty. It is folded neatly and  browned just a little. The two pale tomato slices I put aside. With my fork I try the first bite of a cholesterol free omelet. It is so hot, I burn my lower lip. Letting it cool does not improve the blah taste. With all of the ingredients in there, I expect something spicy, interesting. It isn’t. Peppper, pepper, more pepper doesn’t help at all. Strict orders from my internist means cut out the salt. Guiltily I pick up the salt shaker and give less than a dusting of salt over the egg whites. I give another tiny shake and I still taste nothing Finally, I give up and call for my check. It is higher than usual but is, in its way, worth it. A movie would have cost more. At home I have a banana that is nearing over-ripe and some grapes.

 

Movie, I decide to go to a movie that has a 4 star rating. Luckily I locate an aisle seat near the rear. A couple start to sit next to me, realize the lady in front of them has wide hair and is eating pop corn, they move one seat away from me. The lights dim, the trailers are about to start. A male’s voice politely asks me if the seat next to me is taken. Honesty is my policy and I offer it to him, then regret it. He can barely get past me, steps on my foot and when he is fully settled, part of him laps over the arm rest onto my thigh. I shrink myself up as much as possible but give up and look for another seat. I find one, on the aisle, second row from the screen.

 

 Knowing I am not a giraffe and couldn’t possibly sit with my neck stretched tight for one hour and 22 minutes, I put my purse tightly under my arm, take it and my dignity and go home.

No coins in a fountain: my wants BIRTHDAY TIME

Evelyn was having a birthday party after school. She got the same present from me that all of my friends (at the least the girls) got and I was so embarrassed. Mama never gave games, never bought anklets. Mama never gave ribbons or berets or hair bands. Her idea of pretty, while at the same time useful, was two panties that she called paddies, pink, yellow or blue. The poor birthday girl had to show her presents to everyone so they could ooh and ah. The boys giggled. When the little white box with a piece of red ribbon around it said ‘Zelda’, she knew what to expect. We both did–a red face.

I was always glad we had our games first. Evelyn’s mother did the blindfolding and the turning, three times one way, three times back, so we would be mixed up and not go straight for the donkey’s tushy. My turn came, and even though I held my head high and tried hard to peep under the cowboy handkerchief over my eyes, I stuck the pin smack into Wally’s arm. I won the booby prize which was better than no prize at all. Mama used the lemon the next time she baked.

We played, ‘Heavy, heavy, hang over my head’ and my belt was hung over Beverly’s head, she guessed it was mine and I had to hop all the way from the living room to the kitchen and back. That was easy for me, because I was the hopscotch queen.

Finally it was sweet eating time.  Ruffle-edged pink party baskets were filled with tiny hearts declaring ‘I love you’, or pleading ‘Be Mine.’ There were Hershey silver buds, big and little gum drops of all flavors. I traded mine for kisses. My slice of harlequin ice cream, still in its white paper wrapper, was starting to mush. The little wooden spoon didn’t work so good. We could choose either bubbly cherry or grape soda. Mrs. Tamres poured our choices into small waxed Dixie cups and gave us seconds if we asked nicely.

Evelyn’s mother baked the birthday cake herself and my mouth watered. She baked much better than my mother. Ev closed her eyes, made a wish and blew out all of the candles with one breath. We all knew that meant she would only have one baby when she gets married.

While she was wishing I wished too. I wanted her mom to give each of us a slice of cake, but she didn’t. Mrs. Tamres told us she was sorry, but the family was coming over after dinner,  aunts, uncles, cousins. We got fig newtons. I hated fig newtons and gave my two to Joanie.

I still had another wish. This time I asked god to make it come true.
‘God, please make my mother stop giving my girlfriends panties. Nobody gives me any, not even my mother. She buys plain, white cotton ones for me.’ God must not have heard me. Carrol got silky yellow and blue panties.

I wore cotton ones until I was thirteen

Another bloopera: RICHARD II

At last, at last, a gentleman  selected me from my dating service bio. I was very pleased and anxious to read his and to watch his tape. As I did so, my anxiety slipped away as it was easy to see our differences , while I hopefully held tight to the few similarities. Consequently, I agreed to meet him. What the hell–Columbus took chance! After two unsuccessful attempts to reach him by phone, I dropped him a note.

Naturally, my note and his call crossed . Our conversation was more like ‘his’ conversation which left me almost numbed by its inanities.  Considering I was so quiet, I was surprised Richard was eager to meet me then and there. My gut feelings of that being an error when he set the ‘there’ at a less than popular ice cream shop in 30 minutes.  The place, the time, the voice, the attitude were all wrong...but did that hold me back?  No!

Reluctantly I dressed casually and headed for our rendezvous. I was surprised to arrive first, five minutes early. Had he not appeared on the stroke of seven, I would have been out of there without the excruciating (pleasure?) of meeting Richard.  A quick handshake, his averted eyes  and stubble on his face confirmed my pre-conceived picture.

Richard talked, oh, my lord how much he talked about himself and what he has been doing for the last ten years....bucking the system, fighting committees , writing thousands of letters to prove his point, win his battles. Attila the Hun could have done no more. His partially toothless mouth wasn’t pleasant to watch, as it hardly closed. It took my strongest concentration and terrific fakery to appear interested in his rambling.  And when, like a bolt out of the blue, he asked, ‘How do you like me?’ I was floored.  Thinking about his long description of purposely living in the street for a year, made me blurt out, ‘You are certainly different than any man I have ever met.’ Most likely he took that as a compliment but it was not.

With his fudge sundae finally wiped from his moustache and my coffee cup dregs cold, Richard had to dash off to catch his bus home.  No car, no evening together, no rapport (at least on my side), AND NO FUTURE. The usual polite remark of ‘I’ll call you’  was received with a smile but thoughts of ‘please don’t’. Back I drove to my beautiful home, not even disappointed. There was almost a smug feeling in my heart as I chided myself, ‘You were right, Dummy.’

Did I learn a lesson? NO. I’ll probably be foolish many other times as I keep hold of the wheel, trying to steer my own Santa Maria to a safe harbor.

Tomorrow: WE'LL SEE

WE’LL SEE

 

Two weeks have dragged by and now I am not thrilled to be on my  way to visit my Mom. Guilt warps my soul. My visit is always reluctant, hard to bear. It will be the same. Mom will be in the lobby doing nothing at all and when she sees me coming in with gifts for her, she’ll say, ‘Why are you late, Rhoda? Why weren’t you here yesterday?’ I ignore her oft asked questions, smile and hug her still soft body. ‘Mom, want to sit on the patio with me or take a walk?’ I ask and am ignored. She merely shrugs and walks towards the open french doors. ‘What will be talk about, Rhoda?’ The jolt of her calling me Rhoda or Jane or whatever comes to her mind, pierces my aching, selfish heart. It is useless telling her my name is Patty.

 

At the patio stairs, I tell her to hold the railing going down. Back she comes at me, ‘Don’t tell me what to do, Rhoda. Enough people in this outhouse give me orders. See that bitch over there?’ I look at the young black woman in a pink uniform. ‘Her name is Hannah. She hit me hard on my back yesterday because I wouldn’t sit on the wooden bench in the shower. You know I like the warm water to run all over me. Can she make me sit there if I want to stand? ‘No, Mom. She shouldn’t force you.’ ‘Know what I did?’ ‘No, Mom, what did you do?’ ‘I hit her back. The warden in this jail refused to let me have the fudge cake for dessert last night. I got 10 stale peanuts.’ Oh, my blood is boiling. My dander is high as the sky. ‘Mom, come with me. We’re going to speak to Ms. Genderson together. Believe me, Mom, that won’t ever happen again.’ Suddenly I am choked with emotion. I feel low and sad for the wonderful Mom I used to have. Such indignities she bears.

 

I ask at the desk to see the manager, Ms. Genderson, at once. The handsome room that I thought was warm has turned to ice. There are cubes of it between Genderson’s desk, me and my mother. ‘Rhoda, I didn’t tell you this yet. Both of you listen, listen hard.’ I watch her, see how much of her is inside of me. ‘Rhoda, remember the picture I took of you at your college graduation? I kept it in a beautiful silver frame on my bureau for years and brought it here to this place and had it on the bureau in my room. Remember? ‘ ’Of course, I remember, Mom.’ ‘Well, it’s missing. Somebody took your picture out, left it in the trash can, and stole the silver frame. Ms. Genderson thinks I’m a liar. I’m not.’

 

I’m hot, ready for a face-off with Genderson. I give her the opportunity to deny the shower incident but no time at all to refute her refusing to give my mother dessert. My backbone is hard as steel, my tongue forked. With no hesitancy I ask my mother if she wants to stay in this place  or go someplace else. I don’t even flinch when she says, ‘Rhonda, take me home with you, please.’ Now my tears flow down my cheeks like a very blue Danube. ‘Mom, I can’t. You don’t remember but I work full time, even half days on Saturday. My house is small with two bedrooms, one for me and the other for your grand daughter, Melissa. She’s eighteen now and needs her own space. Listen to me. I have been searching for a new rest home for you and found a brand new one, much closer to my house than this one, so I can come see you more often. Come see it with me now.’ Mom has left me. Her eyes have glazed over and her hands run thru her gray hair, over and over.‘Ms. Genderson, my mother will be moving out tomorrow. I have paid for the month in advance and won’t ask for a refund.’

 

Mom holds my hand and I feel a warm electricity between us. In my car I suggest we sing and lead off, ‘Row, row, row your boat,’ and she comes in doing two part harmony. When finally we stop, we are both laughing tears.

 

‘See, Mom? Look at this place. It’s so new we can still smell the paint. Come meet, Ms. Martha. She runs this place and is really nice.’ I get no resistance. Ms. Martha shows us the indoor pool, up-to-date stainless steel kitchen, a cheerful breakfast room with white cane chairs and bright green cushions. The main dining room is large with plenty of indirect lighting. There is arts and crafts, a t.v. room with a white baby grand piano. She introduces my mother to several other residents who are playing canasta. There are men playing Gin in the game room. They look up, give us the once over and go back to their game.

 

As Mom and I leave the card players and head back towards the office where I can fill out the necessary forms, a tall man with a small white goatee slows down, stares at Mom and bows politely. ‘Madam,’ he says, ‘I hope you will be coming to stay with us. Are you?’ Mom is quiet. The gentleman extends his hand to her and they shake. ‘I’m Sam.’ ‘Yes, Mike,  I’ll be back, maybe tomorrow.’ He grins, bows again. ‘O.K. I won’t mind if you call me Mike. I’m on floor two in a front room corner, #200. See you tomorrow.’

 

I take Mom to the office, finish the particulars, have my credit card approved. Mom’s step is lighter and so is my heart.

Self-reliance: AN ILL WIND

A few flakes of snow kiss my window and instantly turn to water. The sky is just beginning to lighten. There is a deep rumbling of thunder that must have been waiting its turn to sound off since summer had flown away. The Buffalo Gazette is laying on the brown grass. I put on the warm, soft blue cashmere robe Ollie gave me for last Christmas, glance at the emptiness of his side of our bed and go downstairs to bring in the paper before it gets soggy.

 

The radiators begin to hiss like cobras waiting for me to move just an inch so they can spit their poison into me. My automatic coffee pot is bubbling. There is a rhythm of hissing and bubbling that makes me smile a little. I do a few twirls, tap my fingers on the cabinet mica, get my OJ from the fridge and sit down to first look over the Gazette weather report. It is a silly, dumb habit. Plainly I can see the snow is quickly coming down more quickly, heavier. This is going to be our first big snowfall of our long winter.

 

My car has snow chains I’ve never used surely rusting in the trunk of my Ford. Unless I just happen to be getting gas when all hell falls from the sky, who would I get to put those chains on for me? Nobody, for sure. All the shelves in my pantry are full. The freezer can supply me with good home-cooked meals for two weeks, if the electricity doesn’t go out as it does every winter. I am not thrilled about possibly being snowed in, marooned from humanity, but am not afraid either.

 

‘What the hell, ‘ I ask myself and answer. ‘Indulge, enjoy.’  I toast an English muffin and smear it with butter and raspberry jam, then devour it with my coffee. My anxiety provokes another coffee and a second muffin. This one gets clobbered with a thick layer of ground peanut butter. I lick its remains from the spreader knife, sit back, and relax.

 

Wham! The outside window shutters slam, bang the side of the house. I feel a slight shake and shiver just thinking how strong the wind is getting. It howls loud enough for me to believe there are wolves on the sidewalk ready to chew on any fool dumb enough to go outside today.

 

My robe is no longer cozy warm. For this, our first real winter day, I put on a worn but trusty bright red warm-up suit. Oh, for a beard and big fat belly and Santa would live. Nobody will be visiting me so I don’t care what I look like.

 

I must give the day some serious thought, decide I will finally vacuum all the carpets, even on the stairs. That way I’ll get the exercise I haven’t had for weeks. Before I open the closet door to get the monster, the phone rings. I.D. shows me its Gabriel calling. ‘Hi, Gabe. What are you going to do this white pre-Christmas day?’ I knew she had something on her mind and was not surprised to be invited to her house for Bridge. ‘I can call Esmeralda and Judy,’ she says and starts laughing. ‘What the devil kind of name is Esmeralda? Isn’t it horrible?
I think she has idiots for parents, don’t you? ‘ ’Gabe, if you invited Queen Mary I wouldn’t come out today. You must be crazy.’ I add on, ‘And you are calling Essie’s parents crazy? That’s not nice at all. Thanks for the invite. I’ll see you when we thaw.’ If she notices, I put the phone down harder than usual.

 

It’s almost ten a.m. ‘One Life to Live’ is on. So is ‘Grand Illusion.’ Neither is worth my eye strain. Ah, a surprise. Judge Judy appears. It must be a fill in repeat. She isn’t due on until four. What a character she is and what a rich one she has become. I let her rant and scold and look down her nose at the defendants. She keeps me company for a while until at last I head to the hall closet for the vacuum. An ominous quiet fills the room. Judge Judy isn’t yelling. I look in the den and the t.v. is dark.  In fact, my percolator is no longer perking.

 

 No switches turn on lights. Plenty of candles, matches are strategically placed around the house. I have flashlights of all sizes and lots of batteries, fooling myself that I am ready for come what may.

 

The street is no longer visible thru the East windows. What I see from the West is sent from heaven aiming to destroy us. The snow is up to my window sills, piled almost to the second floor of Gabriel’s house.
Evidently, my place is being swallowed up, buried too. The heat isn’t working and I am chilled. Holding the railing, I walk slowly up stairs to get high warm up sox from my bureau drawer. They quickly warm my toes but now I can’t put my shoes on or even my slippers. Aha, I put a second pair on over the first and I am okay for a while.

 

By 1 p.m. the first floor is dark. All of the windows are snowed over. Slowly it is dawning on me that this storm is a once in a lifetime catastrophe. Each snowflake minute worries me more. I should have gone to Gabe’s. At least she and her husband would be there.

 

There is a quick flicker from the den. If the house is on fire, I’ll be a cooked goose.  With hesitation I force myself to see what that light was. Judge Judy is distorted as she comes on screen and quickly disappears. I take that as a good omen that the Buffalo Light and Power Co. may be getting some power back to my city. Who can possibly be working outside in the vicious wind? I have heard no snow plows, seen no headlights since the first few snowflakes made me smile this morning.

 

I snack on an orange,  peanut butter and crackers, open a can of tuna, toss in some mayo and flash light my way to bed. The sheets are cold. An extra blanket goes over the two that are already waiting for me to curl up into a ball and fall asleep.

 

If the Buffalo Gazette is outside of my house when I wake, it would have to have been delivered by god. I listen at the window and hear what seems to be shoveling. From the West windows there are a few inches of light getting through. I hurry downstairs, have a glass of still chilled O.J.,realize the fridge lit up when I opened the door and perk my coffee.  Hallelujah!  The tv is working giving weather reports on every channel. Buffalo had a record 28" snowfall in six hours. Schools are closed. Extra ploughs have come in from Erie.

 

The sky is blue. The sun is at work. A stream of melting snow runs from my slanted roof. Snow is being piled up along the curbs. I hear and then see, a plow go past,followed by a large van with WBFL displayed on its roof. It is surely photographing our neighborhood. Gabe is outside, standing in the narrow path her husband cleared in the dark.

 

I want to get in the picture, dressed in all of my layers, and open the front door and shut it fast. Isolated for how long? The t.v. beckons. There, there is Gabe, laughing, waving. Esmeralda and Judy are waving too.

 

Hind sight is the pits. Had I gone to Gabe’s, not been so snotty, I’d have been with good company instead of fearing my shadow all night.
I also most likely would have won the Bridge game and been out  side with everyone this morning waving, laughing, being on T.V. 

 

No tears. I survived on my own and that is darn good !
 
                                   

All in a day's work: TIME FLIES TOO SLOWLY

My coffee is almost cold. For me that means undrinkable. From the window over the kitchen sink, I see my little Margy, the youngest of my four children, slowly walking to the curb to wait for the yellow school bus. Her sister and two brothers leave before Margy as she is only in kindergarten. I take one more quick glance and my daughter is gone. The cup rinsing can wait. There had been no sound of her bus stopping. Like an enraged mad man I rush outside, yelling as I do, ‘Margy, Margy, where are you, Honey?’  There is no answer, no Margy.

 

‘Paul, did Margy’s bus come early today?’ I ask. ‘No Ma’am. I think it’s coming now. I’m not going to school today. My Mom made a dentist’s appointment for me. I saw Margery but then she just disappeared. I figured you came out and drove her to school.’ Well, I didn’t and she is gone!’ There is nothing left for me to ask Paul. From my slack pocket I pull out my cell and hit 911.

 

It takes ten minutes for a police car to pull up. I don’t give the driver a chance to ask me anything and just blurt out, ‘My daughter is missing. I think she has been kidnaped.  Help me!’ ‘How old is she. When did she disappear? What was she wearing?’ The questions come out like bullets, my answers are concise and clear. ‘Margy is advanced for her five years. She selects her own clothes. I think she wore cotton shorts that have a white line on the side. And she loves her blue knit shirt that has yellow circles. That’s what she wore plus white toeless shoes. Officer, don’t move. I’ll be right out. I have a new picture of my daughter on the table near the door. It won’t take me 2 minutes to get it for you.’

 

‘Ms. Goldfine, I can’t tell you not to worry, but can tell you we will find your little girl. There is no way to control my tears as I explain how well I have taught her. Don’t get in anyone’s car. Don’t take candy or a little puppy from a stranger. Run away fast if a man stops his car near you.’ By then my voice is cracked, trembling. My knees buckle suddenly when I see Margy’s red drawing pencil lying in a gutter puddle. I start to pick it up but am stopped abruptly. ‘Don’t touch it, Ma’am.’ Officer Forney tears off a piece of his notebook and removes the pencil with it, then drops them both in a plastic bag. Visions of Law and Order terrify me. Has my baby been raped, murdered?

 

Police car two arrives. As they step out of their car, two bright, shiny badges glare in the sunlight. Officer Forney brings them up to date on the little he knows. Together they go house by house asking questions, taking names, notes. Several neighbors are still in their night wear, some dressed ready for work. They stand on my lawn in near silence. They have nothing of value to add.

 

I am smacked in the head by a missing thought and fly indoors, dial Ben. How could I have forgotten to let him know? I jump right in. ‘Ben, Ben, Margy is missing. The police are here. Come right home.’ I say nothing else and hang up.

 

I pant, feel woozy, rush outside and sit down on the brick stairs to watch the policemen when they come out from each house. Each time I detect a sad shrug, a nodding ‘no’, hands raised furtively. Officer Forney asks me to get in his car to cruise the area and then go to the  station house to make a formal statement. He’s kind enough to lend me his phone to call Ben back to tell him I have locked the door and he should meet me at Station 12 on Calvert St.

 

Will I live that long or die of fright right here in the police car? Gruesome pictures from detective shows pepper my brain. I can do nothing but depend on these men. It isn’t enough. My baby is gone.

Ben is beside me. We hold each other close. He thinks I don’t see his tears, but I do. A female lieutenant brings me a large manilla envelope that has fifty copies of Margy’s new picture. ‘Start putting these up on trees, poles, any way you can. The faster the better,’ she says and adds  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll find her.’ I tell the desk we are going home and plead with them to keep in touch with us often.

 

Ben and I hardly speak on the way home. He is distracted enough with worry as he drives. It is almost two and Margy’s bus should be stopping in front of our house, but it goes right past. We are one block from our place and I scream, ‘Ben, look, there she is!’ My yell startles him so much he jams on the brakes and I bang my head on the windshield, barely feel it. He pulls in too far from the curb. It doesn’t matter. We are out of the car as if our seats were on fire. Running to Margy, our arms fly towards her. She looks upset. ‘Where were you, Mommy? The door is locked and I can’t get in.’

 

Hysterics enfold me. ‘First tell me where you were. Why weren’t you on your bus? Daddy, I and the police have been searching for you all day.’
I give her no chance to answer as I grab her close and hold on for dear life. Suddenly my mood changes and I am angry enough to want to smack her, but don’t. ‘How did you disappear so fast that neither Paul or I saw you go? You knew I was coming out in a minute to kiss you so long.’ Ben added, ‘Answer Mommy. Where were you? How did you get to school?’ We scared her enough so all she could do was say, ‘I’m sorry.’

 

When at last we were all fairly calm she told us. Her friend, Josie, the one with the long brown curls, hurt her ankle yesterday and her father was driving her to school. He stopped and took her too. That was so much nicer than going on the bus. ‘Mommy, I thanked him and gave him a little hug. Was that okay?’ Maybe my answer was wrong but I told her it was not okay. ‘You should have come in the house and told me you were going. Got it?

 

I showed her the big envelope of photos the police gave us to put on trees. Little Margy smiled and said, ‘Cool, Mom. Can I give them out to my best friends?’ ‘Take all you want, Darling. Dad and I are so happy we don’t have to hang them outside.’

 

‘Ben, I’m notifying Officer Forney that Margy is safe.’ Maybe my thanks were melodramatic to him but I could tell he much preferred this than the alternative. As I was about to hang up, I heard him whisper, ‘Thank god.’

Long story 'bout a short-lived man: PHIL

Another call Friday afternoon from Phil, asking me to a movie and lite supper, (against my better judgment) elicited an affirmative reply. With that ‘o.k.’ doors to the torture chamber opened. Phil turned out to be the man I slightly remembered who played golf with me and my husband in an inter-club tourney. He appeared before me a little shorter (like all of us). His now bulging belly was encased in a brown and white striped shirt that pulled and popped as it tried to hide his added girth. Any moment I expected a button to pop off in my face.

Denny and I used to laugh at a comic strip in which one of the characters always had a button flying off with the words ‘nov shmooz ka pop’ in the bubble over his head.  Jumping far ahead in my tale of misery, after Phil left and I looked at Denny’s picture by my beside, I told him ‘nov shmooz ka pop’ and burst out crying.

 

Being a small man, Phil looked lost behind the steering wheel of his very large Caddy. While I fought for my independence when Myer used to insist on opening the car door for me, somehow I resented Phil not doing it. I guess it wasn’t the door–-it was him.

 

Unfortunately, at the delly I met a member of our Board of Governors who answered Phil’s question by telling him, as a single resident,  I CAN have golf guests as often as I like, contrary to what I had said. Oy! Phil was in heaven.  As we ate, I imagined every swallow of his matzoh ball soup loosening a button. Service was bad which kept us from making the movie I wanted to see. It didn’t matter because what I wanted to see was not important.  Phil liked comedies, pie-in-the face comedies, while I abhor them.

 

We returned to my house and he took out his Walkman with two tapes so I could listen to his combo play dinner music at a club and one of ‘The Blues Brothers’ in which his son had a part and played in the band.

There was no escaping either. But–I tried to pay him back by showing him my ‘Permanently Yours’, story. He gave it the most cursory glance, shunted it aside, and inserted a tape in the VCR, expecting me to watch the entire horrible movie. With the ear phones pounding very rinky-tink-tink music and simultaneously hearing Phil jabber, I wanted to scream. Each time I asked him to put the movie on fast forward, get to his son’s part, he seemed insulted. When I lowered the sound,  he was hurt yet my short story was of no interest to him.

 

For five hours and twenty-five minutes, less perhaps the few minutes I squeezed in a word, Phil talked about his wife, divorce proceedings, his brothers, children, cheese  business, deceased wife, family problems, his father, his school, union rackets, health (his, of course), his golf and the many clubs at which he plays, his generosity, business success and losses, his travels, on and on ad infinitum.  Once he actually asked me what I want from a man. I got as far as warmth, someone to share the things I like, and suddenly he was off again telling me what HE wants. It was his ego trip and my misery.

 

We had arrived home about 8:30 and it took until 11:10 for me to get the opening to say, ‘I’m tired and ready for bed.’ Believe me, I have not exaggerated this miserable evening.  No words I can conjure up can relay my boredom, my loathing and constant wish for him to leave. I pray he will call me before another date HE had set in advance so I can cancel it.

 

There is absolutely NO chance for us to gel! Telling him ‘NO’ is not only not tough to do-but is absolutely necessary! So long, Phil !

No truer words have I ever written: ALMOST PERFECT

I scream, You scream. We ALL scream for Hendlers’ ice cream.
Except I didn’t usually have to scream. Mommie and Daddy were well aware that Hendlers ice cream was rich in milk and fat so I could have my treat almost daily.

Across the street car tracks and a few doors from the Easterwood Democratic Club was a small ice cream shop. It didn’t have a lot of customers but the lady behind the counter recognized me as soon as I opened the screen door and walked towards her. However, she was never sure, nor was I until the last second, if I would have a cup of butter brickle or pistachio. The wooden spoon sometimes let the ice cream go down my chin instead of into my mouth, but I was able to lick it back where it belonged.

On my side of the street, there were some choices to make. At Weltners Drug store, on the far corner, all kinds of goodies were available. At first it was hard to get on the turning high stool at the counter, but I wiggled, held on and eventually could see over the counter. A tan cardboard cup sometimes was already in the soda jerk’s hands. He’d look at me and I’d say one of several things, ‘Vanilla, please, with lots of fudge, whipped cream and a cherry,’ or ‘Chocolate, pineapple –wait–put dry nuts on it and then a lot of whipped cream.’ A lid went on my prize and off I’d go to maybe sit on the curb and enjoy it. My sundaes only cost 10 cents as Dr. Weltner got business from my daddy as well as from his patients who sometimes needed prescriptions.

 

A few blocks away was an Arundel’s Ice Cream store that had strange flavors, mint, peanut butter, strawberry, coffee, but there I was more interested in quantity than flavor so took chocolate or vanilla. Later on I learned from my new brother-in-law, who was lucky to get a job there, that soda jerks were taught how to scoop the ice cream out of the large containers so there was a big hole in the middle which fooled the customers into thinking they got large portions. I never went back there after that.

Right in the middle of my block was Bridge’s grocery that also sold Mello Roll ice cream. The ice cream was wrapped in white paper and put into a cone. I had to be very careful taking the paper off or the whole thing would fall on the pavement. It happened once and that was the only time.

But, the very, very most enjoyable ice cream of all was the simple vanilla cone my Zadie bought me. When he would stop by, sometimes he’d see me playing outside, gently take my hand and walk me to Weltners for a vanilla cone. I’d lick it slowly while still holding Zadie’s hand.

And to this day I’d gladly give up Bridge’s, Weltner’s sundaes, Arundel’s, the flavors, whipped cream, nuts, cherries, all of them, to once again walk with my Zadie.

Reality: DRY WISHING WELL

The morning dawns with dying embers. For me it looms large, empty, part of a widow’s world. Looking toward the sun, I vow the downcast days will not beat me in unconsciousness. Plans, I must make plans for things to do after I  have my usual six ounces of O.J., cold cereal with a raggedly sliced banana, slopped over with fat free milk. It is not manna from heaven.

 

My horoscope read, laughed at, bed made, I shower and dress. The high intensity lamp I use to apply the little make-up I wear and to position my contact lenses correctly, suddenly fizzles and goes dark. Without it I feel lost. I struggle, insert my lenses opposite to how they should be, remove them and try again, until my eyes are red and blurry. Drops help a little, barely enough for me to scan the Sunday paper. It, with the daily deliveries, go in the recycle bin within ten minutes of my looking at the frightening headlines.

 

My car still smells like my husband. I breathe it deeply and head for Home Depot, the only place I know who carries the special light bulb I need. The little trip is nothing more than something to do this morning. I dawdle amongst the nails, hoses, lawn mowers, all things I will never need again. That prospect drags me down. For the first time, there are no customers ahead of me at the cashier’s desk and damn, I am out of there too fast.

 

My preparations for Action #2 lead me to the Garden Mall. There I will continue the survey of Single Senior Males that I have originated and think it has possibilities to lessen my monotonous days—and nights.
Hesitance walks beside me. Snakes coil around my gray intestines. What I plan to do can be fun , interesting, but is neither.

 

After one slow circle of the Mall, my paraphernalia, pen, clipboard, questionnaire have not been used.

 

I want to scream, run, go home but I start circle two. Finally I see a man sitting alone on a stone bench who doesn’t look too bad. His back is towards me. Hesitating, I take the plunge, walk in front of him, ready to introduce myself and fib a little by telling him I am doing research on single senior men for radio station WFRL. Thru my bifocals that are almost falling off the tip of my nose I see his hearing aids, then his cane leaning against his left thigh. His bulging eyes, extremely soft voice and polite attitude surprise me. He seems pleased to try to help me but I realize his hearing aids must be set too low as I must repeat every question several times. Most likely he hadn’t heard me say Single SENIOR men. His wife appears, asks no questions and drags him away.

 

This is a tough thing I am trying to do, useless for sure. The hardest part is not just to find single men but to find men who meet my criteria. It is impossible. A dangling cigarette, the smell of a cigar, rate zero. There can be no paunches, no canes, no walkers, bandaged knees, sloppy clothes, too short, too fat, too old or a bad toupee . One plus is definitely his ability to drive at night. What chance do I have? None!

 

As I rest contemplating the half dozen men sitting around the palm-draped fountain, looking at all the wishing pennies in the water, wives carrying shopping bags, waving, ‘Here I am, Sam.’ I slip my pen in my purse and  strut, like the Queen of the May towards the mall’s exit.

 

I had no pennies and wouldn’t waste my quarters throwing them into the fountain. They would do no good. Wishes are for fools. I tear up my survey papers and go home.

My Son's Trip to Easter Island

The Baltimore Sun printed a photo and a blurb from my son Steven Sass' about his trip.

http://bit.ly/cNhsW7

Another week, another story from Zela Bop: KNOW NO WAY

He looks at me with such penetrating eyes, I start to sweat. His onyx eyes have yellow cat rings around them. I think he must be part Chinese but his pigment is pure Caucasian. Still, somewhere in his family there has to be a Chou or a Ming Fu. Those eyes glare. They are doing their best to look down my blouse. Straightening my back, I sit erect across from his huge desk.

 

Would I want to work for him, with him? Perhaps too quickly I am telling myself no. Still, I am here and don’t want to mess up what may be a super opportunity to be bigger than I am. There is no other way so I go for it, lean over his mahogany desk to hand him my bulging dark green portfolio. With a decent smile on my face, I say, ‘Look this over, Mr. Danson,’ and instantly regret it as he looks down my blouse. ‘Mr. Danson, I am referring to my portfolio. If you look where you should be looking,  you will find that I have an excellent record of jobs I have completed, with references, of course.

 

My art school credits are listed, there are photos of rooms, houses, club houses, even restaurants I have furnished from bare walls to opening splendors. It wasn’t easy but I am good at what I do. With money no object I can put you in a palace fit for the King of Siam or simply re-do your wife’s bedroom.’

 

Mr. Danson  looks at me strangely and asks, ‘Ms. Genovese, how did you know my wife sleeps in her own bedroom?’ I didn’t know, Sir. I was only making a presumption. But now I do know and can re-do the room for her if she wishes.’

 

The man before me is an entrepreneur, has his hands and expertise in many areas, areas I’d like to work on. Danson Construction has started building motels in Georgia, N. And S. Carolina and Virginia. They will have to be decorated, furnished and I am going try my best to get the contract. ‘Mr. Danson, I want to make the motels you have started into showplaces with handsome, furniture, bright, happy colors, none of the rusty browns and cheesy carpets. I can do this at less cost to your firm than anyone you are considering. Will you let me have a rough lay-out of your plan so I can present you with my ideas?’ My face and attitude , and maybe my low blouse, seem to be reaching him.

 

The sun shines into the big window behind his desk. He ruffles much too fast thru my portfolio. My heart is pumping hard. There is a long silence. ‘Ms. Genovese, do you have any idea at all how many young, anxious, artistic people like you come to me almost daily? I seldom make errors in judgement. Leave your portfolio with me for a week and I promise you my secretary will call you one way or the other.’I thank him, shake hands and start to leave. 

 

As I reach the door, he calls me back. ‘I am ready now to take a small chance. Would you like to look over my wife’s bedroom to draw up a plan? She is into art deco this season and will be thrilled with a re-do.’
‘Of course, I would like that opportunity to prove myself but I tell you now, looking over your wife’s bedroom does not include my visiting yours. Deal or no deal?’

 

Two weeks pass and no call from Danson Construction.  Sobeit!  I throw some more kindling into the fire that burns my very being and have an appointment for tomorrow with Crenshaw Decorators.

1933: DAYLIGHT SAVING TIME

In the top lower drawer of Mama’s white kitchen cabinet neatly wrapped in rubber banded books were S & H Green stamps and Octagon Soap wrappers.

 

They were Mama’s problem. I had my own. I needed silver from Hershey Bars so I could make a silver ball bigger than Theresa’s. If I ate Hersheys every day and twice on week-ends, I was sure mine would never be big enough. Her brother, Tony, knew who would buy it but wouldn’t tell me. Tony was going to sell his sister’s and get part of the money. I told him I wouldn’t give him any of mine.

Maybe my friend, Shirley, knew the person but her daddy never gave her money for candy.

 

From gutters I often found empty cigarette packs that had silver paper in them but they were hard to separated from the white paper they were stuck to. Most of the time I got scraps that were no good and went back in the gutter.

 

Daddy smoked Raleigh cigarettes. Whenever he could find a minute between his patients, he lit one and then, if the weather was right, opened the window in his office. Mama always got excited when a box came from Raleigh. She liked the eight new water glasses and put the assorted odd ones we had been using for a long time into the cellar.

Daddy got her six steak knives. ‘Why six?’ I asked. ‘You are the only one Mama makes fried steak for.’ Daddy’s answer was, ‘Because I’m the Boss.’

 

While looking in the gutters every dry day of the week, plus the better days when it rained hard and rivers flowed down our street to the sewer, there were always great things for my many collections. Popsicle sticks, like little canoes, floated to my hands. Those I saved in an empty cigar box, hoping to get enough some day to get learner skates free.

 

I had another cigar box where I kept my personally licked clean Dixie Cup lids, each with a different movie star. Ginger Rogers, George Raft, Wallace Berry. It didn’t matter too much if I already had the same one. There were plenty of lid savers like me.

 

Wait, I had another cigar box. By the way, I saved cigar boxes too. I got them from the corner druggist’s back yard trash. This one I kept tied with a big red ribbon. It held my bubble gum cards. Talk about trade, talk about shooters, a flattened tin can pounded around a couple of cards made the best kind and that was the kind Robert always had. Robert also had big hands with long dirty fingernails and could span his fingers further than any of us players. Naturally his pile was the biggest.

 

What I kept waiting for, hoping for, was that he would slam his hand into something sharp one day, break all of his nails, and I could get some of my cards back.

 

I never did. 

SMARTY PANTS

A tremendously loud silence rang in my ears. ‘What? I didn’t hear you. What did you say, Mr. Findley?’ ‘I said, Schmuck, Stupido. You’re fired!’

He offered no explanation nor did I ask for one. That he had seen me pat his wife’s ass, and a nice round apple ass it is, as it passed my desk, was his last straw. My meager desk belongings quickly filled a cardboard box which made it simple for me to exit my ex-employer’s building. Had he known my gentle tush pat had been invited several times at the Bide Away Motel, I was sure I wouldn’t even have had time to clear out. I would have been dead meat.

Christmas was only two weeks away. Not only would I not get my bonus, I had little back-up funds in the bank. Stupido I was and continued that treacherous path. I returned to Mr. Findley’s office to tell him he owes me a full week’s pay and two weeks’ vacation money. The startled look on his face when I walked into his office without bothering to knock was worth my effort. He almost exploded, grabbed my around my shoulders, lifted me off my feet and tossed me in the hall. I yelled at him, went so far as to shake my finger in his face and blurt out, ‘Now you are in trouble. I am going to sue you for assaulting me. You will hear from my attorney shortly.’ ‘What have I got to lose?’ I thought. ‘Not much,’ self replied.

 

As I left parking space #110 in Findley’s employee parking lot visions of taking my case all the way to the Supreme court jumped thru my mind like Rice Krispies when cold milk is poured on them. The photo of my parents, sister Mary Lou and brother Randy I stuck on top of my bureau. The few magazines in the carton were oldies I saved to re-read in the men’s room again and they got no further than the re-cycle bin in the basement. The few pens and note pads may come in handy what with the expected attorney calls coming in. Unintentionally I had picked up several customers’ files. If old man Findley calls, apologizes to me, I will be glad to return them.

 

My friend, Bucky, recommended attorney Harvey Hallerman to me. He couldn’t discuss anything with me with Christmas so near and he was going on a Caribbean vacation for two weeks. Another name was given to me, Jim Lucas. Lucas and I met the next day in his less than pompous office. Two full yellow lined legal pages he filled with my story. He thinks I have a good case. At least he thought so, until I careless mentioned the rendezvous I had had with Mrs. Findley.

 

‘Do you have any idea of what you are opening up, Mr. Waldman? You may be causing a divorce in which you would be cited as the interloper. Without a contract that you were to get a yearly bonus, without anything in writing about vacation pay if you are fired, you won’t get a penny. You have open only the fact that Mr. Findley  put his hands on you which might give him a chance to do public service for a few weeks. My suggestion is you mail his customers’ files back with an apology. Then, start looking for a new position.’ My hopes of being famous, perhaps appearing on the Today Show flew into outer space with just a wink of my eye. Mr. Waldman handed me a bill for his advice $150.00. I asked, ‘Can I put this on my Visa card? ‘ ’Sorry, Mr. Waldman, no charges. Cash or a check.’

 

I wrote a check, handed it to him and hurried home to borrow $150 from my Dad so my checking account wouldn’t get a hefty overage fee. Falling asleep at last, I realized Mr. Findley was smarter than I was.

 

Schmuck and Stupido fit me perfectly. New Year’s Resolution one- no hanky panky with a boss’s wife. Number two, buckle up, get smarter, find a better job and on Jan. 3 go to the Unemployment Service.

Fun: CELLARS

Yes, Delly had a cellar and we had one too. Both smelled funny all of the time. It was impossible to say which was worse. To reach our cellar we used the back porch steps, left under the porch, one deep step down and Voila! Another world to investigate.

 

On a raised platform made of wooden boards were two wash stands with discolored brass faucets, a black gas range with a white door. On its ledge sat a box of safety matches. Only Mama was allowed to light the range. There were two galvanized (whatever that word meant) wash tubs in which she boiled and blued Daddy’s white office coats.

One tub, deeper but smaller, was kept for sterilizing glasses for patients to use when they swished water around their mouths. That one seemed to always be boiling. Could Daddy have been such a busy dentist that he needed so many? I think not, as I can still see his black appointment book lying on Minnie’s desk, large Xes marking off noon dinners, evening suppers, Fridays off and many blank spaces.

 

Near the rusty sink was a long black hose, snaking on the floor, water leaking from the detached end. We had to re-attach it to wash the concrete back yard and garage, PLUS the garbage cans. Two of the bestest things I could do on a stifling hot day were to squirt the dirt down the drain pipe to the alley and to hose down the oily garage. What a challenge that was! The grease made beautiful rainbow rivers as it slid smoothly under the doors but never disappeared completely. Mama didn’t tell me to do it, but I really liked to blast the maggots right off the walls when they crawled out of the garbage cans.

 

Under the porch was a small pipe carrying wires for the garage mlight that Roz and I and my other friends used for chinning, skin-the-cat and as a hose-holder-upper. When we got the hose settled, just right, icy cold showers were ecstacy. But, to sit in the tubs, we had to wait for Mama to shlepp kettles of boiling water to add to the cold so we wouldn’t freeze our tushes off. Poor Mama. She had to go up and down the stairs a lot of times, carry her dented, steaming hot, tea kettle.

 

Sometimes I felt sorry for her. It was a shame she was too big to fit into our tubs.

Smiling Pain: THE CARDBOARD CARTON

The promised morning sunshine lingered momentarily then scudding clouds crossed the yellowing rays to turn the sky gray, threateningly glum, a  day to deal with. The carton, so long left in the corner of the closet seemed to whisper, to plead with me, ‘It’s time. Time you opened me, looked inside of me again.’ Reluctantly, but purposefully, I pulled it out, tore off its binding tape and began to cry with the sky.

 

Memories flooded the rest of the day, forming a leaky Hoover dam down my cheeks. Stacks of birthday cards-received with wide smiles, letters to and from family, friends, rambling writing, thoughts preserved, ran the gamut of time. Some of the words were childishly done, haste clearly visible in others, despair and longing in most.  Pictures told stories, images brightened for a moment and faded, just as the photos had. Unrecorded dates swirled questions marks. I aged while my children grew younger and younger. So many still in my heart, still in my carton, still and forever in the earth. Curtains opened. Curtains closed. Time flew backward faster than forward. The pace and my pulse quickened.

 

A now and then smile kept me turning, shuffling, wanting, yet hoping, not to reach the bottom of my self-imposed task. At last it was done and I began putting everything back the way it was–--

 

everything except my twisted, ragged Kleenex and my feelings

AN EFFORT: MIRROR, MIRROR

I don’t bother closing the sleeping couch as I’d only have to open it again tonight. Nevertheless, I take pride in my neatness and straighten the sheet and smooth the fading green blanket over it, turn down one corner. My small flat is definitely small but fits my needs perfectly.
There are two windows that easily slide up and down, giving me a view of the Hudson. Something is always going on out there. Once in a while the fire boats put on a display, complete with rainbow colors. I’ve witnessed ferry boats get in trouble. Watching is usually better than some idiotic TV. show.

 

I have an adequate kitchen, a counter top microwave and an old bathtub on claw feet that has a rubber hose attached for my showers and I am a happy king of my domain.

 

Assets, assets, I have assets. There are only four apartments on each of four floors in this miniature brownstone building. My haven is on floor two with an elderly, quiet woman who looks about 65 next to me on my right hand. She’s cordial and pleasant, doesn’t bother me nor do I annoy her. To my left is a stunning knock-out young woman who I wouldn’t mind bedding on my sleep couch if I had any guts at all.

 

Many nights I fantasize about up-grading my living space, going to something brighter, more modern, more opportunities. I can afford it but should I? Who do I have to impress? Nobody! It takes a moment and that stuff gets filed in a blank hole in my mind.

 

Right now I am working on a way to get my arms around Debra who is singing in her shower. Pictures of the warm water running down her back thrill me. Hesitation kills me. She and I smile to each other when by chance we meet on the stairs. Once she had a heavy bag of groceries and I carried it to her door. The load of cans felt like feathers. The ‘thank you’ and smile she gave me lit up the hall, my day.

 

I have lots of time to think about how I would run the U.S. if I were president, which far away country I would like to visit if I had company
and too often, not enough, I try to analyze my short comings, see them but can’t take a step to move on. Why am I shy with women, great with guys? I am straight, straight as William Tell’s arrow so it’s not a hidden desire to come out of the closet. I’m not in one. Ladies can be lovely. I adore them yet am tongue-tied, get nowhere.

 

Wolfe’s Tailoring Inc., where I have come up as far as I expect to go, Jr. V.P. , offers me chances for dates, for commitments. Dolly has hinted she’d like to go out with me but I turn a deaf ear. Rhoda actually suggested we get together for dinner the following week-end. I tell her I am busy. ‘How about next week?’ she asks. Not too fast with excuses, I have none . Dinner goes well. Food is excellent, better than Rhoda’s company. Seldom do I use the word ‘hot’ but do believe she is hot for me or any man in or out of his trousers. Somehow I manage to dodge her offered lips at her door, keep my pants zipped up, warmly shake her hand and tell her, ‘ I’ll see you at Wolfe’s in the morning.’

 

Back in my car, my self hatred explodes, my inadequacies torment me. I grip the steering wheel as if it were my own neck. Home is not far. It is puny, empty, yet the thought soothes me until I taste bile, bitter as vinegar. ‘Call Rhoda, Dork.’ I will, I promise myself–sometime I will.

 

From next door I hear music, put my ear against the wall. It’s Linda Ronstadt, my all time favorite singer. I can see her wanting so much ‘Someone to Watch Over Me.’ ‘It’s an omen, god. This is an omen!.’ God doesn’t answer but somehow lightning strikes me. Perhaps it's just that my pants got too tight. I take a bottle of white wine from the fridge, wrap a piece of foil around it, comb my hair, walk a few steps to knock on Debra’s door.

 

Her hair is damp, her robe somewhat revealing. ‘Feeling lonely, Debra?’ I ask.  ‘May I come in?’ ‘How did you know I’m feeling lonely tonight? Do come in. I’ve been wondering for a long time when you might try to get acquainted. ‘ She checks her robe, holds it closed, takes the Volare’ wine, we talk. 

 

 We make music together and I don’t have to go next door to my sleep couch.

A trip: WHERE? WHEN?

 

The patio lights going on annoy me. Bess knows I treasure my solitary solitude in the dark before we go to bed. Moonlight entrances me. Stars shine and speak to me. I have, at times, imagined I'm in a space ship rumbling fire from its tail, zooming thru the sky as other astronauts and I pass Mars.  Trying to restrain myself, but can't, I yell up to our window, ‘Damn it, Bess. Turn off these blasted lights. I'll take care of them when I come in.' The patio goes dark.

Little gnats attack me, annoy me. A mosquito lands on my arm and I squash it too late. It dies drinking my blood. More mosquitoes come to its funeral, buzz, make a lot of droning noise. Strangely they don't stop for their supper. They disappear and I am alone.

I stare up at what was a golden moon, now turned to silver. Narrow black clouds ripple across it and become part of the vast unknown background of outer space. It is unimaginable.

 

What's out there has been discovered to a point but then what? Does space just stop? Is there a curtain of some kind blocking us from seeing the other side? I want to know. I want to know.

 

There is a sound in the garden that I don't like. ‘Go home, Busby,' I call to the dog who lives next door. Something is moving in the grass. ‘Busby, go home I said.' A loud bark comes from next door where Busby is running in circles, yipping and barking. I sit up straight in my rocking chair, alert to the sound coming closer. I grab the mop Bess has forgotten and left near the path. I aim the stick as if it were a rifle. ‘This is silly,' I say to the air. Dropping the stupid mop, I walk toward the house. Something solid is in front of me. It feels like a wall but can't see it.

 

The mop is still where I left it. I pick it up and try to force my way thru the wall. The invisible wall is impenetrable, unless, maybe a fire truck can break it down. ‘Bess, come down here right away. I need you. Hurry!’ She sticks her head out of the window to tell me to jump in the lake.She’s going back to bed. I go in the house and dial 911, tell the volunteer about the invisible wall and beg for a fire engine to come quickly and see what is going on in my yard. The line goes dead but then a deep man’s voice asks if I am okay, do I need a doctor.  ‘No, I do not need a doctor. I need a fire engine.’ ‘Where is the fire, Sir?’ I slam the phone down to try again, get another volunteer.

 

‘Dumb jerk,’ I say to myself. ‘Walk around it.’ I get to the gate but can’t open it. The entire house, garden, porch are all inside the wall. ‘
‘Bess, come down here now! We are in big trouble.’ The kitchen door opens. Bess in her robe and slippers stands still. Her arm is raised in the air and her hand grasps a baseball bat. She instantly reminds me of the Statue of Liberty. ‘Come here. Try to open our gate.’ Bess asks me if I am crazy . ‘Okay, so it’s stuck. Where the hell are you going ten o’clock at night?’ With that she turns and goes back inside.

 

Oh, god, what should I do? What is happening to me? I can’t even get in my house now. I will have to sleep on the porch until Bess gets up. Night is a month long. As the sun rises I open my eyes, squint at the bluing sky. My house is gone. Bess is gone. Strange somethings are coming towards me. One blows smoke at my face that is so cold I shiver. All sorts of squeaky sounds, clunks and plunks, a long buzz, and then faces with masks appear. I toss my head frantically from side to side and everything seems to calm down. There is a semblance of peace.

 

A hand, a warm hand, touches my face. A light kiss on my lips and I peer into Bess’s eyes. ‘What is going on, Bess? Where are we? Is this Mars? I ask. ‘You are doing fine, Harry. You can go home on Thursday. Here, let me wet your lips with some cracked ice. Later you can have a little ginger ale. Can you hear me, Harry?’ I blink twice  and hope she understands.

 

‘Dr. Watson was going to cut off your dingaling but changed his mind.’
‘Bess, what are you saying. My dingaling?’  Bess laughs loud while I lie in bed waiting for her answer.’

 

‘You don’t remember now but will. Your appendix ruptured and you now have a jar on the tray that you are not to eat. It contains your appendix. You can take it home but please don’t bring it in the kitchen.’

 

A nurse comes in and gives Harry his allotment of ginger ale and leaves.

PLEASE LISTEN TO JON VOIGHT

This man is more aware than many of you to whom I am sending this important message. America is in trouble and it is getting worse caused by errors our president is making.

 

Although Mr. Voight and I have never spoken politics, I met him personally, joked with him and once when he was on a plane with my daughter, she called me in flight and he got on to day' Hello, again.' That doesn't make him a 'big man but what he has to say makes him a giant.

 

http://bit.ly/alMym2

Smart Girl: Plan II

He’s exaggerating, trying to make points, like we used to say when I was sixteen. Now I’m 18 and a half, know I am pretty, but not, as he says, the prettiest young lady in all of Baltimore. Maybe I’m about 100 in the line up, but certainly not tops.

 

Adam is a hunk, a real hunk, and when I tell him how good looking he is, how strong his abs are, he totally believes me. And he should. Four days a week he is with his personal trainer at the gym. He shaves his face smooth twice a day and gets his hair trimmed every Saturday morning. IF he has a skin blemish, it’s in a private place and I haven’t seen it, have no desire to do so.

 

I’m starting U. Of MD in late August and am  running over with excitement. The university is huge, spread on lovely acreage. The choices of curriculum are astounding and a great advantage is, it is only a few miles from my ancestral home in Towson. That is the only home I’ve ever known. Mom and Pop couldn’t be more pleased with my choice.

 

Adam is happy, too. I explained to my parents that Adam is a Junior at Whartons, U. Of PA which is only one hundred miles from Tortoiseville and Adam can cover that with his eyes shut and one hand on the wheel. Mom turns red, then green and looks like a traffic light. I’m forced to explain, ‘Mom, I was only kidding. I was just trying to make you realize how close we will be to you.’

 

Thursday Mom and I shop, she more frugally than I hope. Her grimaces at price tags put the skids on me. Yet price is no object for sheets with high linen count, extra large soft terry towels. She wants my dorm to be clean, pretty and special. ‘Mom, stop, will you? I don’t even know how many will be in my dorm, what colors they like, whether we will have pots, pans, dishes. Let me concentrate today on new fall clothes. OK?’ ‘Maybe you’re right, Marcia. Let’s go to Macy’s, get you a few casual outfits, new p.j.’s, and a robe. Your old ratty chenille one will be in your closet when you are home. The day disappears much too fast as do Mom’s checks. I hug her almost to death. ‘My god, Mom, it’s almost dark already and Adam is taking me to dinner at seven. Let’s get a move on.’ I drive maybe a little too fast. Mom grips the door handle. I slow down a little. Dad is waiting for us and helps us carry in the loot. ‘Thanks, Dad, I’ll model all my goodies for you tomorrow. Has Adam called?’

 

I don’t wait long enough for the warm water to reach the shower. The chill brings out goose bumps but goes away in a few minutes and I sigh to myself. What I want to do is plop down on my eider quilt and sleep thru the night or dress with an oldie that Adam has never seen, think it over and decide to out-do myself for his last night here, cut off the price tags on my new deep blue cashmere sweater and bone swirl skirt. I add my silver earrings with the blue lapis stones. He’s going to take a deep breath and whisper in my ear how beautiful I look.

 

Dinner is in a cozy corner of La Boheme. Adam orders a rich Bordeaux wine and lets me taste it. The first sip is nice. I have a second sip and that is all Adam will let me have. He drinks the rest from my glass and finishes the bottle before our coffee. I talk almost non-stop thru dinner, almost talk him deaf. My excitement bubbles over. Adam tells me what to expect at college, how to deal with roommates and stops long enough to tell me again I am the prettiest young lady in Baltimore.

 

We skip dessert. As we near my house he makes a right turn and heads toward the park.  ‘Where are we going, Adam? I’m exhausted and ready for bed.’ He laughs and keeps driving.’I’m not letting you go home yet, Marcia. You know this is our last night together before we start school. There are important issues we have to clear up.’ I begin to get nervous. ‘We can talk in my house. I don’t like the park. This place is dangerous even in the daytime.’ I check the doors. They are locked. ‘OK, I’ll stop here,’ he says and pulls over to  where one lamp is lit on each side of the road. He takes my hand, leans over and kisses me softly, sweetly. I like it. He kisses me again and again, getting stronger each time. Fear starts to crawl up my legs as does Adam’s hand. ‘Stop, stop it now, Adam!’ And he mumbles, ‘I can’t. Relax, Marcia. Relax.’ I push, push him hard and he bangs into the steering wheel. The horn begins to blow.  I have seen more than I want to see. In the lamplight a big birthmark on his backside is more than I bargained for.

 

I unlock my door and step out onto the road.

Recent event: FORTITUDE

 

Marco and I were the second couple to buy one of the 20 condo houses in a what promised to be a lovely, pleasant section of a similar group now ten years old. We had  met the couple who will be our next door neighbor in a few weeks and had liked them right away.

 

The furniture truck came thumping down our street. Marco greeted the driver as if he were the president of the United States.  As soon as everything was inside, in the right rooms and approximate positions, Marco left me to fill the drawers, put the lamps where I wanted them to go, while he got his gardening tools that he had brought along in our car and went to work on the lawn which badly needed his green hand. He spread fertilizer and with tender loving hands planted rose bushes in the back yard and bougainvillea on the driveway poles.

 

Anything that is red he planted in the back. Red roses, lobella and hibiscus were almost ready to bloom. Geraniums, red of course, went along the front path. Coleus and red salvia, not very hardy but lovely, were set for the front of the house. He didn’t care too much about timing or soil, he just had to be surrounded by red.

 

Home Depot arrived. Three men unloaded the truck, stacking slabs of flagstone on an extra large dolly, bags of cement, buckets, trowels and piled it all in the back yard. As I looked out the window I saw Marco’s eyes light up like a thousand suns. He was so happy. His dream barbecue was going to become a reality and he alone would make it so.

 

I could tell at once when Marco came into the house before the Raven/Cowboy game was over that he didn’t feel well. Just a ‘hello’ and a wave is all I got and he went upstairs to lie down. I brought him his Pink Pepto Bismol that he takes too often, watched him make an ugly face as a tablespoon of it went down and then I left him alone to sleep it off. About 5:30 I heard him pussy-footing down the stairs and then heard his whining voice, ‘What’s for dinner, Angi?’ ‘Nothing yet, Marco. Go check the fridge and tell me what to give you.’ To do that he had to walk past the dining room window and that was when everything changed. He yelled loud enough for the devil to rise. ‘Angie come quick! Look out the window!’ ‘What do you want?’ I asked. ‘Just look.’ I looked and ran to the front door. How had I not heard what I saw? The T.V. was on loud and I was deep into Egypt on the Discovery channel, but still should have heard the police cars, the ambulance, the fire engine blocking the street between our house and the Mangionie’s directly across the way. Lights were flashing, police officers were running into Anita’s, medic’s hurried up the front path carrying a stretcher between them, skipped steps and disappeared inside. Neighbors, strangers, were being pushed back, away from the yellow tapes stuck to the front railings and sapling trees near the gutter.

 

Being more than a neighbor, I was a very good friend, wasn’t stopped by the flashing lights and walked with great determination up the path almost to the front door. A police captain, his white hate, bright in the fire engine headlights, took my arm and led me back. Anita saw him and told him to let me go. She was the one who had instantly called 911. The police pleaded with her to come outside but she would not leave Joe, even though she knew he was dead. The crowd wasn’t yet sure of what had happened.

 

Anita had already called the funeral parlor, her attorney, but was stopped before she could cover Joe with a sheet. The officer was polite and spoke softly. ‘Please don’t move anything, touch anything. We have to take pictures, measure. Leave any medications where they are., Please, Mrs. Mangionies come outside with me.’

 

Anita stayed where she was in the turmoil even though she was frightened and had asked me to stay with her in the kitchen. I didn’t want to go as I had to pass uncovered Joe, but took strength from my friend and was surprised that there was very little blood. The room was nothing like LA Law. I saw no blood splatter, no gruesome, twisted body. The officer had a medic check Anita. Her blood pressure was 210 over 111 , which was dangerous. He wanted to send her to the hospital but she could not be coaxed.

 

The squad cars, ambulance, everything began to clear out once the Medical Examiner had Joe’s body removed. Anita did not want me to stay with her while she called her grown children, aunts, uncles. ‘Go,’ she said. ‘I’ll be okay.’ Of course, I was reluctant but forced myself to go home, thru the remaining curious and caring neighbors. My answers were simple. ‘Joe killed himself. He had been depressed for some time and was under a doctor’s care. Anita is taking care everything herself and thanks you for your concern.’

 

Mario was holding the front door open for me when he finally saw me coming. His warm, comfortable hands smoothed my back. Hot coffee and buns were waiting for me on the kitchen table. We sat and talk, mourned in our own way and went to bed.

 

I lay there and tossed and turned believing I would never sleep again. ‘Mario, how do you feel? Are you okay now?’ I mumbled. My eyes were heavy from crying with Anita and closed quickly. The morning light woke me. Mario was already downstairs.

 

‘Mario, are you sure you are okay?’ I asked and could not help myself but suggest to him, ‘Mario, please add some yellow tulips, blue hydrangeas to our garden. We don’t want Anita to see red  when she looks out her window.’

NO GEM: JULE

Ten little Indians, and now there were eight. Jule went down right after Emile.  That he was tall, straight, active, busy meant little as he was also a liar.  68? Sweet? Understanding? Considerate?  Loves Conversation? None of these. Somewhere in his two hour long-winded, one-sided conversation with himself he admitted to being eighty-one!

Oh, he looked good, remarkably good, unbelievably good, but a man 81 is not the man with whom I had arranged a date. Had I been aware, I would not be sitting here right now, in a lovely restaurant, a view of the lake in front of me, tuxedoed  waiters  graciously tending to our simple needs. Those things paled in the sunlight. Had I been aware, I wouldn’t now be bored listening to his past escapades, family problems, health conditions, stock market investments.

My hopes of making a friend, at best a relationship, crashed quickly, dashed against the rocks of Jule’s total absorption in himself. Our getting-to-know-you calls were promising , offering a bright light, someone who really sounded like the right man, one with whom I would strike a spark to warm our shared lonely world. His efforts at rubbing two sticks together managed only to rub me the wrong way, extinguishing any small flicker that might have grown.

 May Jule live many more years but for me he is dead, buried and I will await the next Indian, peace pipe in had, tomahawk at the ready.