Control

PICK UP

 

'Carolyn, get your cute little tush in here. I've told you a thousand times I am your mother, not your slave. Come in here!' I take my ten year old daughter by the hand to her closet, a nice big one, open the door for her and give her a little push in. There are crooked empty hangers, shoes lying unpaired off the shoe racks. It angers and disgusts me. 'Ma, leave me alone. I haven't done my geography homework yet and better do it now.' It isn't easy but I refuse to let her touch her books until she straightens her closet. Casually, I sit on the edge of her bed, cross my legs, and wait for her to do what she is told. She grunts like a pig, makes faces and keeps poking her head out the door, giving me dirty looks. In fifteen minutes the place is presentable and I go downstairs to make breakfast, pack a school lunch for her.

 

'Carolyn, finish your cereal. Mrs. Frank and Greta are here to pick you up for school.' 'Mom, tell Mrs Frank I am sorry but I forgot to tell her Mrs. Harding and Clifford are picking me up on Tuesdays from now on.'
I return one of the dirty looks she gave me a few minutes ago. 'Tell her yourself, Carolyn. You really are the most inconsiderate kid I know.'

 

She skips down the front path just as though she were going to get in the car. Thank heavens I am out of ear shot to hear what ridiculous excuse she makes to Mrs. Frank. Mrs. Harding and Clifford don't show up and no amount of begging from Carolyn will get me to drive her to school. 'Walk,' I tell her.

 

As I drop her off in front of P.S.62, she takes her time. She slowly goes towards the school entrance. I can barely hear her yell, 'Pick me up at 3:30. Glee Club meeting 3 o'clock.  Still angry, writhing the way my daughter treats me, embarrasses me in front of friends, I have to
use a lot of self control to not get there before 3:45. No sign of her. I wait until 4:00, park and go inside to find her. The music room is empty. My brow wrinkles with concern. It's possible she was abducted, in some kind of accident, injured in P.E. The principal has left and the school feels deserted.  I call home and the little bad girl answers. 'Where were you, Mom? I waited until 3:30 and then Mrs. Harding and Clifford brought me home. Without uttering another word, I click off my cell.

 

The phone is ringing when I get in the door. 'Carolyn, darn it, pick up the phone.' There is silence for a few minutes and I start dinner. The phone rings again. 'Carolyn, my hands are greasy. Pick up the phone.' It rings until it gets tired of ringing and stops. Once more and I am ready to tear my hair out and beat Carolyn to a pulp. I answer. 'Sorry, Rosella, Carolyn isn't here.' A bit of guilt doesn't bother me at all. .In her sweet goody girl voice, she calls to me. 'Who was it, Mom?' 'Wrong number.' Another little lie isn't going to send me to hell.

 

'Dad will be home soon, please go pick up his evening  paper before it flies away.' 'I'll get it after I finish my geography homework.' My dander is blowing like the wind. 'Now, pick it up now, Kid.' My tone hits its mark. She puts the newspaper on Howard's Lazy Boy Lounger, opens the business section to the page where the Lottery numbers are shown every Thursday.

 

My vegetable soup needs stirring. It's nice and thick the way Howard and I like it. 'Fill the water glasses, 'Carolyn, put ice in before you pour.'
Our daughter picks out the lima beans and puts them on a small cake plate. Next she attacks the soft onions and removes them, too. Except for those she tells me the soup is good. My evening is made. Howard is a fast eater and tonight, I don't know why, but he is faster than usual.

 

As soon as he finishes his soup to the last tablespoon full, he jumps up, lets out a howl, pounds his chest. I turn and look for Cheetah. Howard's face lights up, is on fire. 'We won! We won $12000, 3 matches on the numbers. Here, Honey, check me out. I look slowly, carefully and jump higher than Howard did. We dance around the table like lunatics. Carolyn finishes her soup and runs with us. 'When do you get your money, Daddy?' she asks. 'Soon, soon as I turn my ticket in and there is no mistake.' To me he says, 'Let's go someplace nice, like Bermuda, far enough away, not too far.' My answer is happy, full of smiles. Carolyn asks, 'When will we go?' Howard and I, in unison say,'You aren't going. Grandma will come here.'

 

The three of us are in line to board the Seawave. Carolyn is carrying her own suitcase plus two geography books. She will study each morning on deck and should be an expert on Russia by the time we come home.

 

Howard and I are pleased she is studying and lock our cabin door.

 

 

Smart

THE WEIGH U R

 

She's a honey, my Bunny! I love her, adore her, can barely stand the wait for Harvard's spring break. I feel the cold February wind flowing thru my nylon jacket as snow beings to fall and forgets to stop. It covers the campus, the Quad, the city and worst of all, the airports.

 

My fingers fly over my puter keyboard. Emails somehow manage to find their way around the world in seconds while I am stuck here, wasting at least three days of cuddling Bunny in Maryland's unusual idyllic 80 degrees. She calls me. I call her. Our parents will have no trouble understanding why their February bills skyrocketed. Bunny's parents may just lay the cost on her while mine will be happy the lines weren't
crippled.      

 

My room mate, Morty and I, manage to study an hour or so a day and get together with other stranded brothers for poker games, a few Heineken. Christine, one of the ten female students in my final year, joins us in poker, watching t.v. She outlaws 'strip' but shakes her booty when 'Dancing With the Stars' comes on. Her aptitude excites my buddies, and to be honest, I'm not made of stone. Chrissie realizes she has gone a bit too far, snaps off the t.v. Loud 'Aws' fill the game room. We go back and concentrate on the cards in front of us.

 

By morning two, the campus roads and walkways are clear. The beautiful snowy white ground is mostly brown. Boston barely moves. United and all the airlines have been grounded. Plane service is expected to start tomorrow but that doesn't mean my seat will be waiting for me. All cancelled flights have to get back in line. The sky is going to wear polka dots for days.

 

Bunny tells me how much she misses me and about her social life while she pines. There have been a few banquets, luncheons at her parents'
 country club. Girl friends are going steady. Liz got engaged. Kathleen and Barbara had big, gorgeous weddings. The fabulous meals were too tempting to pass up. She adds softly. 'I've gained a few pounds. When you finally get here, let's live on salads!' 'Bunny, Bunny, I wail. I'd love you if you'd blow up and look like Rosie O'Donnel. I'm going to try to get to the airport in the morning. If I do, I'll stay until I get on my plane. I'll call you from the airport. So Long, Honey Bunny.'

 

The night is 24 hours long. I am at the airport by 6 a.m. along with thousands of anxious ticket holders. I stop for  at the Bagel Counter for a straight coffee and raisin bagel and hear my flight called. I leave my breakfast on the table and hurry to my gate. Flight 206 is boarding and my seat is empty. Everyone is either excited or worn out. The last passenger is an elderly lady, well into her eighties. She is carrying a computer, a knitting bag with no visible needles and her lunch that is in a ribbon bedecked colorful bag from Sports World. No choice, I must stand to let her into the middle seat. A fat man, really obese man, was already overflowing his window seat. His body leaks on the old lady. She starts to squiggle, pushes her frail body against me. All three of us are uncomfortable, don't even speak.

 

At last the jets roar and we slowly, very slowly, get in line to take off. There is a thirty minute torturous wait. Varoom, we are airborn.  Below the country side is still frozen white. By the time we cross the PA and MD border green is peeking thru, boats are sailing on the Chesapeake.
My heart is warming up. Except for the definite body odor of the fat man near the window reaching my nose, the flight is not one I want to cherish.

 

There she is, my Bunny, pacing, waiting for me at the luggage pick up area. She is wearing a new spring loose fitting coat. I grab her, lift her off her feet, kiss her cheeks, her lips. Then I am breathless, step back to look into her eyes. I am dumbstruck. Her face is swollen. Her chin is flabby. Words stick in my craw and when they come out, everything is different. Foolishly I let my feelings show. 'My, god, you really did eat too much. You'll have to go on a radical diet before we get married.' As fast as a fly gets away from a swatter, tears rush down Bunny's face.
She croaks out, 'I'm not going to lose weight, Darling. I'm preg, very preg.'

 

I've never passed out before but do it with this news. A stranger is kneeling on the concrete, feeling my pulse. 'Are you ok., Mister?' He and Bunny help me to my feet.

 

I take her softly in my arms and kiss her fat lips.

Win some--

ALPHA-OMEGA

 

'Thank you, Oh Lord. It's over. Nine months plus two days and I am free! 'He was what?' Sadye asks the doctor. 'Fourteen pounds nine ounces, the biggest baby everborn at La Cher's Mercy. I warned you, ordered you to stop eating so much and all the wrong things. I put you on a healthy diet so you could lose some of that cow you've been toting around so long, but did you listen?' Sadye laughs sarcastically. 'If I didn't eat so much, my son might have been a pipsqueak weakling. He might have died from malnutrition with the diet you gave me.' It is Dr. Solange's turn to laugh. 'Sadye, he's your bucket of trouble, your concern now. Good luck!'

 

The doctor I have adored walks out of my life just as Dr. Cummings, the pediatrician, walks in. 'Hello, Sadye. Where are you hiding your gorilla?' On our first meeting I have already taken a dislike to him and tell him so. 'My son is not a gorilla. He is gorgeous, strong and healthy, has a full head of dark hair, and that's more than you can say about yourself. If you don't want to take care of my son, you can be replaced right now.' His breath shortens and his composure slips a lot.

 

Seated in a wheel chair to take my son, John's son, home from the hospital, the attendant can't help but laugh when I tell her I don't want to carry the child home. 'He's big enough to walk.' That silliness helps us to choose a name for him. We decide on Hugh Moses. Hugh is a version of 'huge' to us and Moses stands for strength and leadership.

 

As a family, we make page two of the Stanton Chronicle, are invited to appear on the Today show, with expenses paid, plus $1000 towards a college fund. Hugh is not a freak and we turn down the offer. Gifts come pouring in for which we are grateful as all the infant clothes we have ready for the child, must be returned. How long he will be able to stay in the crib with the cute little bunnies painted on the headboard, we don't know. Our world is upside down. I think a lot about what I happily stuffed into my body while I carried Hugh. Trying to breast feed him is difficult, painful, uncomfortable, for both of us. Dr. Cummings increases his intake with soft baby foods, applesauce, strained peas. Nothing much changes. At age one he reaches twenty two pounds, at three he weighs thirty one, is three ½ feet tall and has all of his baby teeth. Neighbors continue to stare at him, keep their 'normal' children at bay's length.

 

John and I don't know what to do. Dr. Cummings suggests we take Hugh to Johns Hopkins as they have specialists in just about everything.
Work is being done to increase  growth but there is nothing yet to stop it, outside of surgery to shorten legs. We do not consider that at all. 

 

It is a lonely troubled life Hugh lives. School classes are easy, his grades always excellent. His efforts to get into sports offer wrestling or football. He sticks to one and puts everything into muscle strength, slyness of movement. I cut back on his food and he balks, sneaks an extra sandwich now and then. At seventeen his growth miraculously stops, but not his girth. John and I give a donation of thanks to St. Mary's that we will gladly double if Hugh gains no more weight. We finally try to stop nagging him, continue to keep saturated fats out of meals. Chocolate, even dark chocolate, is verboten. I have slimmed down and feel great, except I worry constantly about Hugh's weight, at age twenty one, five hundred and fifteen pounds, a lot of muscle and a lot of fat make him a definite candidate for a heart attack.

 

At his 23rd birthday dinner in our dining room, Hugh seems to hesitate but gets around to asking us, 'Mom, Dad, I am going back to John's Hopkins. I think they can help me be who and what I want to be. Will your insurance help me out?'  John does not hesitate. 'If it doesn't, we will cover what you need.' He thanks us, finishes dinner and goes upstairs to pack.

 

He calls us three days later to tell us he has had surgery on his eye lids and is fine. 'Don't be too shocked when I see you next week. I have slanted eyes. I look almost Japanese. Mom, Dad' he says. 'I will be going to Japan soon to study, to learn how to wrestle Japanese style, Sumo. I want to be as good as Tajiri Yoshihiro, a great champion in 1998. Mom, don't be upset, this is what I do well. Nobody makes fun of me and I can make a lot of money, repay you for some of the sacrifices you have made for me.'  John and I are terribly upset, concerned, hate the idea but have no alternative than to let Hugh live his own life.

 

He goes and let's us know that he has won a few matches, never mentions any losses. We receive checks from him with warm words of gratitude. The money goes in a savings account for him. Hugh never needs what we have ready for him as he wins the 2005 five day championship, is on the front pages of the Yokahama Herald. We are proud but lonely. We want our son back with us.

 

He returns soon after his big win, in a specially built casket, with a rising sun flag attached to the lid.

A Waste

THE FIRE

 

The A.C. is on plus three ceiling fans set on high. They turn non-stop between 11 p.m. and midnite. Rough, vile language spills from the mouths of rough, vile men. The beautiful young bodies, about as naked as they can be, contort themselves, swing madly around the six chrome poles. One lady in particular, must still be a child, fourteen at most and I wonder if she fooled Johnny, the manager, or not. He has been known to be greedy, looking out for business.

 

My eyes are enchanted. Her youthful body doesn't have a mark on it, not even an appendix scar. Soft, pliable breasts that don't flop or sag, are topped with a red and tasty cherry. They belie her youth. That fantastic body is hot, hot in every respect. Beads of perspiration begin to trickle down her spine. Cat calls, whistles, dirty remarks, grabbing hands touching private places with fifty dollar bills stimulate me and disgust me.

 

Although I've occasionally been to booby traps like this, I begin to wish I hadn't come to this one. I couldn't turn down Lee's invitation to his bachelor party, could I? 'Hey, Lee,' I call over the cacophony of shouting and laughter. 'I'm going to move to Harold's table, mix with the guys.'

 

Who was I kidding? Lee's table is bulging with Lee's friends and strangers. It is only one foot away from the stage. Lots of action there. The young beauty I have been staring at stands in front of me, sits down on the edge of the stage and spreads her legs wide in my face. I know the routine, stuff a bill or two way up there, but I can't do it. The child is smart. She quickly moves to the next man without losing her timing. He grabs her leg and starts pulling her to his lap.

A hush comes over the table. Little Lady, Little Lady kicks him in his gonads with her high silver heels. His yelps rings from the ceiling. Johnny is there in a split second with two strong goons who just about lifts the customer and throws him out the door. The place settles down. The music, the humping and thumping grows rowdy again. I have a beer and another beer and that's enough. 'Hey, Lee. Good luck Sunday. I'll be sitting in the first pew on the left. Smile going down the aisle. It might be the last time you do.'  No sense saying so long to all the guys. It might break up the party so I leave while still able to walk and drive.  

 

Our automatic house lights are on. The garage door is closed. Nobody is home.  I must smell bad and foolishly take an invigorating shower, climb into bed. Still a little beer dizzy, I see the beautiful hot child dancing on my ceiling, take care of her and fall asleep.

 

Monday 6 a.m. news broadcast tells of a body found in the back of a bar on 12th St. I jump to a foolish and frightening conclusion. I turn the set on louder and learn that the body is female, young, fully clothed. Whew. That wouldn't be the one I watched, could it? The evening news tears me apart. A photograph is asking for a name. I don't need one. That she had used false papers to get a job in a bar, left Johnny pretty much in the clear.

 

For days and nights she stays alive. I dream about her but each night her hot body cools off a little more. I go to the police station to tell them about the over anxious patron who got his gonads disjointed, but they know that already.

 

The case goes cold and dies.

Fairyland

THE ROUTE

 

Stan and Walt have an itch to visit Oxford, think it will be interesting, different. Walt, more computer literate than Stan, Googled Oxford and almost crapped. 'Hold on, Stan, let's think about this, calmly. There are thirteen states in the USA that have cities, towns, villages named Oxford and Canada has three of its own. Let's go wild and really do something different, visit all the Oxnians this summer or would they be Oxen or Oxnards?'

 

Stan speaks with a slight lisp. Walks sort of swishy. He gives Walt a soft, easy hug and shows a great enthusiasm for the long rides, beautiful sunsets they will see and the different people they will meet. Walt slows him down. 'How much time can you take off this summer, Stan? Give a guess what you think this trip might cost. We'll need lots of maps, reservations. I'll have to put my car in the shop for a good going over, buy new tires. We would have to share it all. What do you say, Buddy?' 'Oh, Walt, Honey. You are so much smarter than I am. You plan it. I'll pick up lots of maps at Borders.' Stan's eyes light up. 'Hey, if we can swing it, we can let a travel agent arrange it for us. They could even make reservations in good motels, recommend eateries. Isn't that a good idea, Walt?'

 

'Sure, sure, we could do that but I like the challenge and can Google every town, find out how many people live there, their religions, their incomes, where the lakes are, so why should we pay a travel agent to plan for us? Buddy, Boy, how about your other summer plan? Didn't you try out for a stock production of Cabaret?' Stan gets a tiny bit teary when he replies, 'I didn't get it.' Walt offers sincere condolences and the past becomes the past.

 

'Let's go over the locations on line. Come here, sit close while I do my Googling.' Stan moves closer. 'Stan, I can't type and read when you sit so close. Move back at least a few inches.' Stan grudgingly moves back. 'How about we look into Georgia, N. Carolina, MD for the first lap and  CN and Maine if we want to go further–or–we can start in the mid-west ALA, Idaho and Kansas. Finding the states won't be hard, some  of the pipsqueak towns may be back in the hills, making mash. Move over. You are too close.'

 

Oh, Walt. You are so smart. Are you positive we have to have twin beds? ''Damn right, Stan. Ask me one more time and I go alone. You know I like you, Stan. You're fun and easy going. I can relax with you but not in bed, on the floor or in the shower. You're a careful driver too, so we can take turns at the wheel...and Friend, if I ever have to remind you to keep your hands on the wheel, leave my leg alone, I will leave you off at the very next bus station. Then my amby pamby will have to find his way back to Essex, won't you Kootchy Boy?'

 

Stan gives me a serious look and asks me if I know there is an Essex in England, too. 'Walt, Google Essex next and maybe we can do Essex next year.'

 

 

Fwd: all kinds

NOW SHOWING 

 

Carrie is an angel. It's an absolute delight to be with her. She's  polite, overly so at times, pleasant, helpful, fun. I find her to be a paradigm of a friend. If she gets upset, angry, she hides it well.

 

When I broke my right ankle, Carrie grocery shopped for me, was my chauffeur for weeks. My point is I never asked for her help, didn't even hint at it. When my father passed over, Carrie sat with me and my family during the service, rode in the limousine on the way to the cemetery. Last week she noticed a small red button missing on the blouse I was wearing, went home and scrambled thru an old sewing kit until she found one that looked perfect for my blouse, came over and insisted on sewing it on for me.

 

She, Jane and I got along so well, we bunked together at Raleigh's Ranch for a week's vacation. We were grown up children, trying everything, afraid of nothing. I actually roped a calf on my first try. Jane rode the wooden bucking stallion until she fell off, unhurt and hysterically laughing. What memories we took home.

 

Using her facilitator training, Carrie did volunteer work at Bradford Jr. High. Teens came to her rather than to their mothers. As a special guest, Carrie allowed me to sit in the rear of the room to possibly learn to do what she did. There were no cat calls, no impropriety. Carrie was respected. These girls were troubled about sex, how far to go. Two had already started taking drugs and were afraid they were hooked. Nothing was tabu. The room was a place as warm as a rose garden for them.

 

There wasn't a movie Carrie disliked. She always found good points, beautiful scenes, interesting characters. Sometimes I pictured myself looking for my friend and when I finally find her she is dissolved like sugar in tea.

 

There did come a time, only once, that I could have strangled her. We had a date and she didn't keep it. I was to drive us to D.C. to go thru the  Holocaust Museum. The tickets were in my purse. I arrived at Carrie's house fifteen minutes earlier than she expected me. I rang the bell, I knocked and finally she came to the door, still in her robe and slippers. 'What's wrong?' I asked. 'Are you sick?' She nodded No. Words almost failed me but somehow I managed to chastise her. 'Get dressed. We were leaving early to avoid the heavy traffic.' Carrie looked straight into my eyes and told me she changed her mind, she wasn't going. 'I was only going to please you but decided that wasn't good enough.' My mouth had to be wide open but words were stuck in my throat.

 

Carrie's color had changed to ashen gray. 'Go yourself. I don't give a damn and don't care what happened to the Jews. In fact, I'm on the Pope's side, the one who swears there was never a Holocaust. It never happened. You aren't Jewish, stay home with me and we'll go shopping.'

 

Now words, emotions, poured from my lips. 'It just so happens, Former Friend, that my mother is Jewish and that alone makes me Jewish. And you are an idiot if you deny the millions who suffered and died. Both of my mother's parents went into the ovens. I'm going to the Museum and you can go to Hell.'

 

I drove away, proud of myself and feeling right, despising Miss Goody-Two Shoes from that moment on.

Fwd: all kinds

 

WOOF WOOF

PAPER CHASE

 

I heard it thump on our wooden front steps but didn't move. The furnace had just clicked on and I had no intention of getting out from under my wool blanket topped by a thick quilt that had a smiley red rose pattern all over it. I gave my husband a medium kick in his rump and told him in no uncertain terms, 'Joseph, it's your turn. Bring in the paper.' Oh, the grumble, the usual grumble, annoyed me but the bed creaked a little and I knew Joseph would be going outside to get the  Thursday Early Bird special of weekly coupons soon. He couldn't waste time or else Rastas, the big, slobbering next door mutt,  would get it and tear it into nothingness. I gave Joseph another second or two and then  another push. He grabbed his flannel robe, tied the belt around his waist and headed for the front door. In two minutes he was back, empty-handed, growling like a wolf crying to the moon. 'Damn that dog. He beat me again!'

 

As soon as I saw Millie, Rastas' owner, bring out her recycle bin to put near the curb, I opened my front door. With fire in my voice, I called, 'You hoo, Mrs. Flax, you're damn dog got our special again.' She stomped over to argue with me. ' Rastas didn't take your paper. He isn't even here. He's been at the vets for two days with some weird skin trouble.'
With a most indignant sneer on her lips she went back inside. If she had slammed her door like she usually did, I'd have done something nasty but nothing came to mind at that particular moment. I'll be sure to note it on my scrap pad so I'll have a goodie ready when she slams that door again.

 

As soon as I warmed  Quaker Oats, with raisins and cinnamon for Joseph and I waited while he did what he does in the bathroom every morning of the week, I sent him to get a copy of the coupons from our super market. 'While you're there, get these things for us.'

 

While Joseph, the slow poke, was out, and wouldn't disturb me, I had time to go over our bills and write the monthly checks. This job was just one of the regular ones that was not given to me. It was thrown at me years ago. Joseph never was good with numbers, his knowledge was junior high training. It lacked a lot. It was the 29th of the month and I went to my meticulous folders in the desk drawer to get started. My eyes popped wide open. Everything was in order except our due and paid bills were missing. Where could they be? Who would steal them? Why? My search was useless. My 'cool' had turned to ice. My fingers cramped. It was tough holding back the nausea that overwhelmed me. I looked in the mirror and talked to myself. 'Calm down. There has to be an explanation,' and then I gagged, took a deep breath and, and, and, Joseph came home. I heard him put the groceries on the kitchen table, his jacket on the stairway rail. He saw me then, lying prostrate on the den sofa.

 

I gave him no time to ask what was wrong. I spurted it right out. 'My due and paid folders are missing from my desk. I've been searching for 45 minutes and am a nervous wreck. They are gone. Put the groceries in the pantry, will you, Joseph?'

 

This time he moved fast. He enfolded me in his strong, warm arms and kissed my forehead. 'Honey, I wanted to surprise you,' he whispered. I bought a small calculator and the clerk showed me how easy it works. The invoices are all in order, the credits and totals are correct.  I'm almost finished. All you have to do is write the checks.' My vigor in hugging him back surprised us both. 'Want to see the good job I did?' he asked. 'Later,' I said. We sat in the kitchen and talked and talked. I calmed down, kissed Joseph and he kissed me back.

 

We were rudely interrupted when Rastas started to bark and Mrs. Flax slammed her damn door.  I went to our door and slammed it harder than she slammed hers. I felt better and everything was copesetic!

Distraut enjoyment

THE OUTING  

 

The young children stand, watch every motion. They laugh. They clap. This time there is no remote to click, no restricted programs. Judy punches Punch. Punch punches her back, wallops her over her head. Sugar floss candy gets stuck in Sandy's hair. A melting popsicle stains Janet's pale pink blouse. To me, the chocolate and pink together look like blood. I turn away and concentrate on the happy children.  

 

Charley starts the motor but it doesn't react. He tries it again and again with no response, contacts the service department for help. The kids jabber, don't seem to care that we are stuck for heaven knows how long. Not one but two parents leave their seats to ask the driver how long we will have to wait. He stands and announces, 'Thirty five to forty minutes. You may leave the bus but if you aren't back then I will leave without you.' Little Maybelle screams. 'Jimmy, punched me and hit me with a rolled up comic book. 'His Mom grabs him by his shirt and pulls him off the bus.

 

Our driver honks the horn to get our attention. In a loud, gruff voice, he warns everyone to behave or get off and stay off. Most get off and start to wander around aimlessly. The fair rides entice the children but I suggest we all stay close together rather than getting lost in the crowd. The thirty minutes move quickly for some, drag to others. I go back to the bus alone for more info. To appease me, the driver calls service again. Sheepishly he hangs his head when he tells me it will be another hour. The few on board who decide to get off too and I return to the fair. I tell whoever I meet that I will try to get a refund  for the cost of the bus. Nobody is angry at me, hardly complain.

 

Little Joanie begs to see Punch and Judy again but the curtain is closed, no sign is posted for the next show. That doesn't stop my kids from groaning and applauding to nothing. Joanie asks her mom to pick her up. When she is high enough, Joanie tries to pull the curtain open. Her mother slaps her hand and puts her down. That gives me an idea. As nonchalantly as I can, I leave the group, walk around behind the stage where I find an elderly couple sitting on folding chairs, smoking and drinking something cold. 'Are you the performers of Punch and Judy?' I ask. They nod a yes and I tell them my tale of woe and how much my group enjoyed them and ask the impossible. 'Could you do another show for them?' Well, their exuberance shocks me. They will gladly do it, free. This is their joy, their life. The gray haired man says, 'Go, Go, gather the children. We will start in just ten minutes.'

 

I look across the parking lot and see our bus is where it was. There is no second empty bus nearby. At a fast walk, I manage to tell him where we will all be and how soon we will return. All thirty children and six parents are accounted for. We wait to see Punch and Judy again. Instead, canned music comes over the loud speaker. As the curtain slides back I recognize the singer's voice. It is Leslie Caron singing 'Hi, Lily, Hi, Lily' and chills run down my back. Marionettes dance. Everyone on and off the wooden stage is happy. The old lady controls the strings and lets Lily bend over, bow a thank you, throw kisses to the audience. White gloved hands toss lollipops to the children. The music stops  and the curtain closes.

 

We all board the new bus that has arrived. Its motor purrs. Once we are on the road, I start to sing, 'Hi Lily, Hi, Lily, Hi, Lo.' The bad part of the trip is soon forgotten.

 

Each child now owns a disc of 'Hi Lily' given to them by the old couple who live to do what they do.

The lady

A JOURNEY

 

I don't know how she got in, where she came from but there she was standing near my bed. The lady was transparent, had diaphanous wings.
Seeing my bureau thru the tiny holes in her white chantilly lace dress scared me nearly to death. Her long blond hair was as soft as melting butter, her smile as bright as Venus. Was I awake? Dreaming? Dead? I shook my head in disbelief, blinked my eyes many times and she was still there. The ceiling light clicked to my touch but offered no illumination. No sound came from my throat. My lips were dry, my feet like lead.

 

I was helpless, could not control my body. It began to turn slowly by itself until I was face down, flat on my belly. Zing, something sharp pierced my left shoulder. Another zing hit my right one. The sharp pain evaporated quickly. Although I couldn't speak, I could still think. All sorts of nonsense swirled, mixed itself up as if my mind was a milk shake blender. Dreaming? Fantasizing? Dead? Which is it?

 

The zing on my back began to swell and swell until I was sure my skin would burst wide open and all of my insides would slop onto my white sheets. When I could turn my head a little, I could still see the winged lady. She hadn't moved an inch. How was I going to lie still on my belly, be unable to move?  I felt a churning inside of me, a lightening up of my leaden feet. My toes could move again. Was it morning? Was I waking up? No. Out of my window I saw the moon, a lovely blue moon. The man who lives there had a sharp nose. His legs swung over the moon's cusp. It was so beautiful, peaceful, didn't care if I had died and gone to heaven.

 

A zephyr wind rolled over my body. A soft, almost unfeelable hand took mine, helped me sit up, stand up. I asked out loud, 'What's on my back?'
The lady said nothing. I felt a tug, something like a parachute opening. My feet left the floor and I began to fly, fly right behind the diaphanous lady. She lead me thru the open window, over my garden. We stopped, rested on open tulips, sipped nectar from their pistils, flew again and fluttered around my neighbor's Dalmatian asleep on the porch. My lady blew into its ears and they stood to attention. His slight growl of annoyance sent us off towards the statue of Abe Lincoln in DC. Military guards in uniforms walked stiffly back and forth, their heels clicking as they turned. I began to sing God Bless America. Lady floated down and let her wings touch Lincoln's eyes. He winked at us.
What wonders now? Where will we go?

 

 Up, up, so high I could see only the blue moon and I fell, fell hard on my marble floor.  My shoulder hurt. I felt for my wings. They  were gone.

No picnic

BLUES DAY

 

It's a lovely Sunday morning, nice enough to go to the beach. The sun is not yet high but it rides thru an azure blue sky like a knight about to slay a dragon. I call up to my boyfriend, Bobby, 'Get up Sleepyhead. You're wasting our beautiful blue sky morning.' Bobby and I live together, love each other, but are marriage shy. This way we still have our independence, can share or not, go or not, do or not. It's been working perfectly for this entire year.

 

Bobby comes bobbing down the stairs, gives me a hug, and a so-so kiss.
'Want scrambled eggs and ham, Dr. Suess?' I ask. With no hesitation Bobby replies, 'No thanks. All I want is you. How about coming back to bed with me? ' I explain that he tempts me but have decided on something else for a change. 'Come on. Bobby. I'll fix sandwiches, a jug of ice cold lemonade and I'll slather you, you can slather me with sun protection. Then we can lie on the warm beach and do nothing at all. Come on. Coffee and O.J. are ready. I can butter a croissant for you and warm it through. I'll fill our wicker picnic basket with goodies. OK? I sense his lack of interest but he gives in with a soft 'OK.'

 

After his breakfast he brings the lemonade jug and picnic basket up from the basement. I finish the lunch prep. Bobby gets his swim trunks, lotion, towels and I put on my new black bikini. Together we get everything set inside the car and take off on the half hour drive to Ocala that is west of LA. We both need sun glasses as the sun is brilliantly gold and the sky a dazzling cloudless blue. Bobby presses his hand against my leg while he's driving and I slap it, move closer to the door. He laughs and warns me to keep a close watch on his hand. 'I'm quick,' he says. We laugh and I tease him, squeeze his thigh. 'That's not funny, Liz, I darn near side-swiped the red Corvette that just sped past us.

 

I turn off the AC and open the windows, feel the breeze, smell the salty ocean. It's heavenly. Bobby finds a parking meter close to the beach path, drops two quarters and two dimes in the slot. The meter does not register and the coins are not returned. 'We'd better move the car, Bobby. How much more change do you have?' He has one more quarter and I only have a couple of dimes, two quarters and far too many unusable pennies. 'You stay here, Bobby. I'll go across the road to the diner for change.' As I close the door, I hear him crack his knuckles, know he's spitting angry.

 

It takes less than ten minutes to get back and am face to face with a police car and it's occupant. The officer may believe Bobby that the meter is broken but insists he move the car. 'What about my money and all the other money people are going to waste in this broken meter?'
'Send us a bill,' the officer laughs and pulls away.

 

We drive in circles until Bobby maneuvers our car into a very tight space, one that leaves only my side as a possible exit. I reach what I can from the back seat and floor but can't lift the lemonade jug. The picnic basket is too big to get out, too, so I reach in and grab the sandwiches, squeeze them into my purse and wiggle out the door. Only by crawling over the wheel, banging his knee does, Bobby manage to get out. 'What a lousy kettle of fish this is, Liz.' 'Don't get so upset, Honey. I have change and we can get cold drinks, ice cream bars from the stand near the water fountain. Come on, let's go enjoy the rest of the day.'

 

The sun at noon has become an orange ball of flames in a perfectly clear blue sky. The sand is warm but not yet hot. We spread our towels out and begin to get comfortable. Boom! Boom!, a tremendous clap of thunder rumbles, shakes the earth. Not one flash of lightning mars the blue sky. As suddenly as the thunder hit, rain tumbles down on both of us and our sandwiches. My bikini and Bob's swim trunks never reach the ocean. It feels like the ocean is coming to us. Everybody is watching the strange sky and running to their cars. The whole lovely day is already a disaster. Getting back into our car is tougher than getting out. Bobby grunts, blaming me. 'It was your fault, Liz.' He kisses his hand and puts the kiss on my wet leg.

 

As soon s we get in the door, throw all of our wet paraphernalia into the kitchen, Bobby takes both of my hands and guides me upstairs, talking and winking as we go. I did what you wanted, Liz, now do what I want. He's right and I don't offer any argument.

 

I climb into bed, snuggle close and hand him seventy cents to cover his meter loss.

 

 

 

 

It tip-toes

SOULESS HEART

 

I feel strange, different. Two men in white, one in blue, wear little hats that remind me of the yalmaka I used to wear to synagogue when I was younger than spring.  They turn their backs  and I can't hear what they are saying about me, but I know.  Sitting in a lounge chair on the other side of me is Lottie, my wife, my life for fifty years. She turns to stare at the wall, closes her ears, her mind to what is being said.

 

Hear? I don't have to hear. I know, I know. I am going to die soon. A nurse, actually wearing a formal nurse's cap, jabs a needle in my arm and instantly I take off, start to fly. Calender pages ripple backwards. Dates get mixed up. There are screams and pieces of flesh falling on my chest. A gruesome bloody face stares at me, screams, 'Don't kill me, please don't kill me!' I don't listen and push my bayonet right thru his gut. He falls dead on top of an American soldier. I am out of control and stab him again and again. The German is dead and I am glad.

 

Thru narrow slits in my eyes I can make out the doctors turning towards me. One voice is louder than the others. It's the skinniest one who asks, 'What the hell do you think he is laughing at? He must know he isn't going to last much longer.' Somehow I manage to shake my head, let them all know that I am still conscious and intend on living.

 

They leave the room together and I turn a little towards Lottie, jiggle
 my bony fingers so she knows I am still here. She takes my hand, pats it, holds it, kisses it. I feel a warm spring wind on my face. She fades as the morphine takes me to Never- Never Land again.

 

Refugees plod in ragged columns along a muddy, pock marked road. They carry all that is left of their possessions, baskets with bits of uncovered bread, old photos, crying infants. One ragged peasant makes a quick move, pulls a luger from his basket and aims directly at me. I am younger, stronger and rat tat tat him dead in a second. I spray those near him and kill them all. Distant thunder, maybe cannons, roar, or maybe god is angry but I don't care if he is. I am glad I killed those Nazis, those Hitler ass kissers and walk faster to catch up to my squadron. No one talks to me, criticizes me. That is unimportant. I know I had to do what I did.

 

Less than semi-consciousness returns. The thumping of my heart scares me more than the refugee who was ready to murder me. Bells ring. A nurse hurriedly pushes a cart into my room, pulls it close to my bed. Lottie gets up and walks towards the door. There is a lot of silent discussion. Beeps go slower and slower.

 

'Lottie, Lottie, don't leave me, don't leave me!' She disappears and I can't believe I am dying–but I do.

I did love those grapes

                                       STILL AROUND 

 

The 5 gallon cans are arranged neatly in three rows on the long clothless table. Three men that I hardly know, more or less work for my grandfather. They keep busy or he fires them fast. Fat grandpa dyes his hair orangey red or is it reddish orange? It changes in the summer time. If anybody laughs at his hair, he gets very angry, huffs and puffs and shakes his fist at them.

 

Mokie, his chief worker, orders three men to shake a leg. 'We have a lot of deliveries to do this afternoon. Move it!'  They start pouring smelly stuff into big tin funnels that squishes into big five gallon cans.
Each big can is sealed closed and one by one carried to Mokie's car, some go into a truck that has fruit painted on each side and some into Grandpa's special car. When I look in, I don't see the cans. They have magically disappeared. 

 

My father can always tell when I have visited Grandpa because my clothes smell bad and he hollers at me. I just don't know why he doesn't like his own daddy–and I don't care. Grandpa grows grapes on vines in his large back yard. Once a year I go over and pull them from the vines. Each grape is bigger than my favorite marble shooter. It is always the same dark purple, so sour it tastes sweet. Sometimes the grapes are so sweet, I think they are sour.  I never bother to wash them either. Mother lets me visit Grandpa if I promise to bring her a big bag of Concord grapes. She gives me a cloth bag she uses when she goes to the corner A & P and tells me to try to fill it without mashing the grapes. I eat so many that I get sores in my mouth and have to have it swabbed with awful tasting medicine. Since then, I don't pick them any more and Mama buys sweet green ones up to a pound and a half. They never make it to dessert time.

 

One day I asked her for grapes and she just stared at me, finally screamed, 'Who do you think I am, a millionaire? Do you think grapes grow on trees?' 'No, Mama,' I answer. 'They grow on vines.' Mama got red in the face and called me a smarty pants and never bought grapes again.

 

Fall came back and so did the Concord grapes. Grandpa was home, said 'hello' to me and left me in the kitchen with the smelly cans. I stuck my finger in one that was not yet sealed and tasted what was inside. Oh, Lord, it was terrible, worse than Castor Oil. While I was wiping it off my lips, somebody knocked loudly on the back door, turned the knob and walked in. He saw me at the cans, pulled a gun, a real gun for sure, and yelled, 'Joe, get in here Now!' Joe was Grandpa's name but mostly he was called, 'the Old Man'. As soon as the stranger saw Grandpa, he put his gun back in his waist band and shook hands with him. The policeman was very angry, called my Grandpa bad names and was going to take him to jail for letting me drink mash. 'Mr. Policeman,' I asked, 'What is mash? Please don't take grandpa to jail. I didn't drink any of that stuff. All I did was taste it and won't do it again.' But he wouldn't stop yelling. His face got redder and redder until Grandpa put his hand in his pocket, pulled out a bunch of money that had a silver clip keeping the bills straight and handed it to him. 'Thanks, Joe. Just get the kid out of here and keep her out. And you come with me.'

 

Grandpa hugged me, kissed my cheek and said, 'Goodbye, Little One,' and handed me two quarters. I never saw Grandpa again. Daddy told me his father went away. I didn't spend the quarters. Instead I pasted them in my memory book next to the page with dried Concord grapes on it.

 

 

Close to true

                                   TWO LEFT SHOES

 

How good it feels to be home again. I am totally exhausted. I need a regular vacation from my vacation. The hardest thing I did this trip was to attempt climbing the 1001 jagged white steps almost perpendicularly up a mountain just to look at the Dahlai  Lamas' pillared  palace, a place he hasn't lived in for many years. There wasn't a wisp of breath left in me by the time I saw the 75 step marker. Looking upwards, I found looking downwards much more inviting It was a breeze. So I was looked upon as a pussy. So What? Let the other tourists mock me, no skin off my back. Nepal is high, high in the Himalayas. The air is rarified, thin. I am thin too and am 82 years old while the majestic mountains are thousands of years old. Millions of tourists will still be treking to Nepal's crest and I salute them from the rusty chair I happened to find on the side of the stairs. Somewhat  rested I began my walk towards the market area.

 

Woven mats of various shades of diarrhea brown were spread on the sidewalk. Women of all shapes and sizes, ages, tried to push their wares on me and any other tourist who for even one second glanced at the colorful beaded bracelets, strung together on elastic bands that looked like they came from old ladies' bloomers. The beads were all gaudy, cheap, but I was trapped.  Nepalese ladies surrounded me, offered me a free bracelet if I bought something from them.

 

Two of the most wizened, wrinkled women took me by the hand, stared at my arms in disbelief. They beckoned to their friends to come look at the freak, ME. They did not speak English, yet I could tell from their eyes that they were afraid of me. They pointed at the many brown spots on my arms caused by too much sun on childish arms. The ladies hunched their shoulders and began to hedge away. I couldn't help myself and laughed at them. It was my turn and I took the hand of the closest woman, I mimicked my old age by pretending I had a cane and could hardly walk. I pointed to the sun and pretended I was sweating.  An actress I was not. They didn't get it. An idea came to me and I motioned for one old woman to follow me behind a big banyan tree. When I raised my blouse and showed her my lily white skin, pointed to the sun again, made finger drawings of spots on my belly, she understood. Her arm went around my waist as she motioned for her friends to come examine me. It was humiliating but our minds met and the trouble was worth it. Actually, I was the bewildered one. Children, these brown skinned women, spent practically their entire lives in the sun with no protection, yet they had no marks.

 

No longer afraid they would get what I had, I was surrounded and hounded to buy, buy, buy. Bracelets were forced on both of my arms, all the way to my elbows, and was gently pushed to sit down on one of their pukey brown blankets. From my purse I managed to get out all the American one dollar bills I had and gave one to each lady. Big, toothless smiles flooded their faces.

 

On my walk back to the Hilton, I stopped at a large metal waste can and threw all but one bracelet into it.  In the marble lobby was a Yak Club where I ordered a bottle of cold lemonade, 'no ice, please,' sat and listened to disc music of Indian music. It jangled my ears, was harsh and metallic.

 

Back in my own territory, my spotless, air cooled apartment, minus the few valuable bracelets in my safe deposit box, I fully relaxed as my interesting memories formed, filled my dreams.

 

No regrets!

the inevitable

      NAIVE 

 

Her fingers were tired from daily turning the Want Ad pages of the Georgia Gallery. It was a little, dinky paper for dinky  Greenville, Clara's home town. There were about 7000 residents year round, plus at least 50, maybe 60 hobos who rode the rails daily, jumped off when the trains slowed down for crossroads.

 

Clara happened to have been born there twenty-six years ago. In 1941, before Pearl Harbor, her parents bought a shingled private house that looked like 19 others on the same street. When Mr. Withers passed, the responsibility of helping with never ending expenses fell on Clara.
For over a year she was a waitress, and I have been told, a darn good one, in the only decent restaurant in twenty miles. Most likely she brought home somewhere near $125 a week, a pittance toward house upkeep. All the doors and windows needed weatherstripping. The old furnace was just about taking its last breath. The roof leaked. Mrs. Withers wanted to take in laundry but Clara explained that nobody was going to pay her for doing what they can do themselves.

 

The day finally came when she found a want ad that had possibilities. 'Young woman wanted to assist manager of new disco/bar opening soon in Glades Center. Inquire 406-531-4307, 8 a.m. to noon, Mon./Sat.' No question, she called immediately and was lucky enough to get an interview for the next day. Using the moxie Clara learned waiting tables, she exaggerated about her experience at bars but had lots of confidence in her ability to learn fast.

 

After a short preliminary interview she was sent into the office of the manager-to-be. Her long, dark eye lashes, soft, subtle make-up and damn good body for a twenty six year old woman just about convinced Mr. Wexler to give her the job then and there. Did she want the chance? Wow! She surely did!  Her starting salary was to be $150 a week, plus a medical policy, 6 evenings, 5:30 to midnite, off on 
Mondays. She batted those long black eyelashes at Mr. Wexler and was a shoo in. They shook hands and Clara felt a tiny electric shock. Mr. Wexler told her it was from the carpets but she doubted it. 'You might as well call me 'Howard' we are going to work close enough for that.' 'OK, Howard, when do I start?' 'Our big opening is two weeks from now. T.V. ads start at 8 this evening. I would like you to be here before the opening, next Thursday 5 p.m. Can you arrange that?'

 

Harold didn't wait a week to see Clara. He called her the next evening. They chatted for a few minutes until he got to the crux of his call. 'Will you have dinner with me tomorrow evening? Her 'yes' came so fast he had to ask, 'What did you say?' And that was the real beginning of a hot love affair. Decent, in fact, good restaurants were across the Peach river. The world was rosy. The sun lit the sky twenty four hours a day. The disco got off to a fantastic start.

 

The dinky Georgia Gallery covered its front page with two inch headlines, 'Woman's body found near train tracks at cross over 411.'
The story took an entire column. 'Information wanted, a semi- description of the body, contact numbers.' The body was too close for comfort to Clara's mother's house. Fear for her mother made her give up her trysts with Howard. She left the bar before 11 and was home by 11:30 for two weeks in a row. The story faded but was revived with the finding of another body, dismembered and gutted. There was no face to write about. The crime occurred on the banks of Peach River.

 

Within one month there were four murders, each a little different from the others, but all ghastly. They all made the front page of the S. Carolina Charter as well as the Georgia papers. The fifth made the New York Times.

 

This time the body was identified, Clara Withers of Greenville, GA. 'A suspect is being interrogated.'

 

 

and I thought

                                  DADDY SAID...MOTHER SAID

 

I must have been about four years old when my father lifted me high, sat me on the wooden stool in our kitchen, and began to teach me the rules I must follow as I grow up. In my twenty-four year old mind, I can still clearly hear his throaty voice. 'Don't lie, Angie, don't ever lie.' He shook his finger in my face and repeated himself. 'Don't lie, don't lie. Promise me you will never be a liar.' Not being exactly sure what a liar was, I answered. 'Daddy' I promise, I won't lie.' My father lifted me off the stool and firmly, loudly, told me that I already broke my promise. 'You will lie, lie many times. That's what people do.' Daddy frightened me so much that I started to cry. 'I won't, Daddy. I won't.'

 

It turned out he was right, except mostly I call my lies 'little fibs.' A few out and out lies surely surfaced now and then but I don't believe I caused trouble or hurt anyone. OOPS! That's a lie, a rarity, but a definite lie.

 

My best friend, Rosa and I told our third grade teacher we saw a boy we didn't know come into our room during recess and steal two boxes of white chalk from the cloak room. We told her he was fat and looked like a sixth grader. He had dark, curly hair. Of course, our teacher wasted a lot of time looking for him. Rosa and I took the chalk for our hopscotch games. Daddy had also warned me not to steal and I knew that he, or god, would punish me one day soon.

 

Mother taught me in other ways. Molasses cookies were baking, filling the house with a wonderful smell. Waiting for them to come out of the oven tortured me. I would give my soul to make the minutes fly faster.
On the kitchen cabinet, Mother had placed a chipped dinner plate with waxed paper on top. Using a large spatula, she put half the finished cookies on the plate and handed me one, just one. 'Angie, take these over to Mrs. Cranston's house while they are still warm. They might cheer her up a little. You may have two when you get back. And, if you promise to eat your dinner without my lecturing you to use your knife and fork correctly, you may have two more cookies with vanilla ice cream. I ran like a wild cat to Mrs. Cranston's without swiping a single cookie. I was rewarded after dinner with the ice cream and cool cookies. They tasted as good as the warm ones.

 

Sunday, after church, Daddy had me sit at the kitchen table to lecture me again. 'Did you understand, Angie, when Reverend Carter talked about envy?' He had already warned me to never lie so I told him the truth. 'No, Daddy, I don't know what he talked so long about.' And I had to listen as Daddy started. 'I know you have seen the new Studebaker Rosa's father bought. You can't miss seeing it can you? He's outside every Saturday, washing it, polishing it until he can see himself in the driver's door. Do you want me to get a new car like his, Angie?' I almost fell off my chair. 'Oh, yes, Daddy, yes. Can we get a new Studebaker soon?' I would love it and so would Mother. When will you buy it? Will you drive me to school when it rains? ' 'Yes, Angie, I would drive you to school when it rains, just like I always do with our old tin Lizzie. Lizzie is still a darn good car for being five years old.'  My face got long and Daddy didn't like how I looked. 'Our car is paid for. The tires are good. Angie, you envy Rosa. Being envious is not right. You must not envy what other people have. Be satisfied with all you have been given, especially, your health.' All I could answer to his long speech was,'Okay, Daddy. I won't ever envy anyone again.' The lie bell rang in my head.

 

But...when Rosa got a much prettier graduation dress than my mother bought for me, I envied her and didn't like my mother much either. I waited and waited for god to punish me but so far he has been too busy punishing other wrong doers.

 

For graduation Mother let me have my hair curled at Bonnie's Beauty Parlor. She gave me money for my first manicure. 'Be sure to get a pretty light pink polish, Angie. Would you like to wear my silver clip on earrings to your prom? ' All I could do was say, Yes. Mother.' Of course that wasn't enough. 'Angie, you forgot something.' 'What?,' I asked.
Haven't you been taught to say 'Thank you when someone does something for you?' The words came out like velvet from my lips, soft, easy, 'Yes, Mother, thank you so much.'

 

I felt pretty, prettier than Rosa was going to look. When I opened the door for Larry, he handed me a florist box filled with a large, beautiful white orchid, tied with a lavender ribbon. He pinned it on my shoulder, suggested I hold his arm as we walked to his father's Studebaker.

 

Rosa and her blind date were at the decorated gym before us. She started to come over to say 'hello', looked at Larry, taller, better looking than her blind date, got a good look at my white orchid, waved to me and walked in the opposite direction.

 

Poor, envious, very envious, Rosa, had carnations tied to her wrist with a red ribbon.

Different Flavors

BEFORE AND AFTER

Sandra and I were leaving the late movie at the Brookline. I had tried to get out of seeing ‘Stranger’ but Sandra kept telling me it had four stars, so it had to be good. She had to just about twist my arm to get me to agree until finally, I did. The movie house was almost filled. I spotted three seats with only one man sitting in the middle. Politely I asked if he would mind moving over so my friend and I could sit together. He didn’t reply, just lifted his jacket, and moved to the aisle seat. The third seat in remained empty. Sandra and I put our coats on it.

Just as I figured it would be, ‘Stranger’ was not my cup of tea.  It was more like drinking a bottle of arsenic. The murder scenes were perhaps works of theatrical excellence, deserving of an Oscar in April, but my eyes and mind were closed to it most of the time and I could not offer a fair judgement. Besides I don’t watch those long-winded, boring Academy shows and have no vote anyhow.  

‘Let’s stop in Dunkin’ Donuts,’ I suggested to Sandra. I can use some good coffee to get that foul taste out of my mouth.’ I ordered two custard filled donuts and Sandra asked for one chocolate mousse and one butterscotch. Taking the last bite of my first custard donut, I felt Sandra poke me in the ribs. ‘Look, look who just came in.’ I looked but saw nobody special. ‘Turn a little to your left. He’s just sitting down. You know, the man who moved for us in the movie.’ ‘You’re right, Sandy.’
Sandy warned me again, ‘Don’t look at him, don’t.’ My attention moved to squeezing the last custard out of its empty doughy shell.

To pass a little time, I ordered six assorted donuts to go. Timing was perfect. The stranger had left. Sandra and I were concerned about getting my car. I had to park on the rear lot and now those lights were ½ out. The ½ that was on was inadequate.  My car key was in my hand as
we walked quickly towards my silver Hyundai. Something was wrong. The key wouldn’t turn. ‘Sandra,’ I shouted. Let’s get out of here NOW!’
She asked no questions, ran to my side. Together we made it to the street where there was lots of traffic, a few cabs going by. I managed to flag one. Our ride was only a few blocks but that gave us time to realize that we were making a lot out of nothing. The movie had frightened us both.

I dropped my friend off in front of her house, watched while she unlocked the door, switched on some lights and went in. Before I came to my place, sirens were screaming, police cars were flying in the opposite direction from mine. My driveway light came on automatically as soon as I turned up the path. The Security alarm had not been triggered. I hit the code numbers and went inside.

 All night my entire house was lit, from the basement to my attic. If a      floor creaked, I held my breath, pulled my blanket tighter around me.
 Surely there were dreams, times where dreams were motionless. It seemed forever until morning came and I could go downstairs, switching off lights, fixing my breakfast, dressing for work. Sandra didn’t answer the phone when I called to check on her. Where could she be so early in the morning?

As usual, I turned on Tov. news so I could relax with a second cup of coffee and one of my donuts. Oh, God, I screamed aloud when I saw ‘Woman murdered behind Dunkin’ Donuts last night.’ The few released details were very similar to the movie ‘Stranger.’ Before doing anything, I gave it a lot of thought and called the police to tell them about the man Sandra and I thought was following us. An officer arrived within fifteen minutes as did Sandra. She had heard the news and wanted to talk it over with me before she called the police. Together we described the man as best we could. The officer wrote it all down.

When I came home from work, there was a voice message for me. It was from Officer Horton who had been to my house in the morning.
He thanked me for my careful description. The man had been identified. He happened to be the Manager of the Dunkin’ Donut eatery where we had seen him. He loves murder mysteries and took the evening off to see ‘Stranger.’ Of course, I called Sandra but he had also left her the same message.

We both felt kind of stupid but had no regrets about calling the police.
As I said before, I don’t like murder stories, scary movies.

The bill at the Brookline changes weekly. This week we will see what I like, a re-run of ‘Chicago.’ Sandra’s foot tapped all the way through.

 

Well Said

 

The following was written by Ben Stein and recited by him on CBS Sunday Morning Commentary.

My confession:

I am a Jew, and every single one of my ancestors was Jewish. And it does not bother me even a little bit when people call those beautiful lit up, bejeweled trees, Christmas trees... I don't feel threatened.. I don't feel discriminated against.. That's what they are, Christmas trees.

It doesn't bother me a bit when people say, 'Merry Christmas' to me. I don't think they are slighting me or getting ready to put me in a ghetto. In fact, I kind of like it. It shows that we are all brothers and sisters celebrating this happy time of year. It doesn't bother me at all that there is a manger scene on display at a key intersection near my beach house in Malibu . If people want a creche, it's just as fine with me as is the Menorah a few hundred yards away.

I don't like getting pushed around for being a Jew, and I don't think Christians like getting pushed around for being Christians. I think people who believe in God are sick and tired of getting pushed around, period. I have no idea where the concept came from, that America is an explicitly atheist country. I can't find it in the Constitution and I don't like it being shoved down my throat.

Or maybe I can put it another way: where did the idea come from that we should worship celebrities and we aren't allowed to worship God as we understand Him? I guess that's a sign that I'm getting old, too. But there are a lot of us who are wondering where these celebrities came from and where the America we knew went to.

In light of the many jokes we send to one another for a laugh, this is a little different: This is not intended to be a joke; it's not funny, it's intended to get you thinking.

In light of recent events... Terrorists attack, school shootings, etc.. I think it started when Madeleine Murray O'Hare (she was murdered, her body found a few years ago) complained she didn't want prayer in our schools, and we said OK. Then someone said you better not read the Bible in school. The Bible says thou shalt not kill; thou shalt not steal, and love your neighbor as yourself. And we said OK.

Then Dr. Benjamin Spock said we shouldn't spank our children when they misbehave, because their little personalities would be warped and we might damage their self-esteem (Dr. Spock's son committed suicide). We said an expert should know what he's talking about.. And we said okay..

Now we're asking ourselves why our children have no conscience, why they don't know right from wrong, and why it doesn't bother them to kill strangers, their classmates, and themselves.

Probably, if we think about it long and hard enough, we can figure it out. I think it has a great deal to do with 'WE REAP WHAT WE SOW.'

Funny how simple it is for people to trash God and then wonder why the world's going to hell. Funny how we believe what the newspapers say, but question what the Bible says. Funny how you can send 'jokes' through e-mail and they spread like wildfire, but when you start sending messages regarding the Lord, people think twice about sharing. Funny how lewd, crude, vulgar and obscene articles pass freely through cyberspace, but public discussion of God is suppressed in the school and workplace.

Are you laughing yet?

Funny how when you forward this message, you will not send it to many on your address list because you're not sure what they believe, or what they will think of you for sending it.

Funny how we can be more worried about what other people think of us than what God thinks of us.

Pass it on if you think it has merit.

If not, then just discard it... No one will know you did. But, if you discard this thought process, don't sit back and complain about what bad shape the world is in.

My Best Regards, Honestly and respectfully,

Ben Stein

 

Looking at Me: LOOKING OUT

I cough. I wheeze. I fight like a tiger when my mother tip-toes into my bedroom, a big bottle of bitter cough syrup behind her back and a clean tablespoon in her apron pocket. ‘Get away, Momma,. That stuff is awful and isn’t making me better.‘ My mother knows that but asks how I know it. ‘Marilyn, if you hadn’t taken the C 14 all week, you might be dead already! Take this.’ Reluctantly I follow orders and take it. I also take the two miniature Milky Ways she gives me every time.

By Saturday my temperature has reached 102. I can hear my mother dialing Dr. Robinson but not what is said. She comes upstairs carrying a painted white basin, almost overflowing with cool water and a brand new soft wash cloth. I tell her to take off the price tag so it doesn’t scratch my face. The first cool dab is comfortable, feels good against my warm skin until I begin another coughing, wheezing bout. I spit up the useless C 14 and a little bit of the Milky Way. Just looking at the mess on my sheet, gags me. I come close to making the mess worse.

My mother is not discouraged. She changes the cool water to luke warm, gives me a quick wash from my face to my belly button. ‘Mother,’ I say. ‘Thank you. You know I love you, don’t you? I see her smile, wink, feel her warm kiss on my forehead. She leaves me to take a nap.

Sleep is not what I want. Outside is where I want to be. My bed is my jailer. I get out of it, put on my cotton slippers, a summer robe, move my light weight vanity chair near the window and forget to cough for a while. The maple tree near the gutter, already bears green leaves. The bright sun makes them shine. The ice cream truck is at Johnson’s Drug Store. Johnson’s soda jerk helps the driver bring in gallons of chocolate, vanilla and pistachio. ‘Mom,’ I call to her. ‘Could you get me some ice cream from Johnsons? Not pistachio. The nuts might make me cough again.’

I look at the cheap watch my Father bought me last year. Lots of times I forget to wind it and have to ask him or my mother what time it is. They get upset and criticize me for not taking care of the watch properly. Today it happens to be working and tells me it is 11 a.m. ‘Mother, can I have the ice cream soon?’ I force a few loud coughs to encourage her to buy a quart of chocolate that we all like.

The street has lots of people I can watch. Things happen all the time. Wow! There goes an ambulance. Our neighbors shop, talk. The ones inside their houses come out. The ones outside go inside to put away all the things they bought on their walks.

Mrs. Bliner is showing off the big perambulator her husband bought for their first baby. Two ladies stop and look in, say something surely nice to Mrs. Bliner. I love babies and wish I could see her. I knock on the window, get Mrs. Bliner’s attention and wave. She lifts her baby out of the perambulator, holds the tiny fingers and has the baby wave to me, too.

‘Mother, bring me another dose of that delicious sour medicine. I want to get better faster.’ My mother brings it right upstairs to me. I taste it and start to cough.

 

PURPLE - ROYAL FLUSH

I was being born, born to Queen Anita of Spain. My father, Alphonso was her consort, who I learned later in life, was killed in battle a week before I arrived. A wet nurse took me from my screaming mother and placed me in a huge, cold room where I would spend much time alone. A white bed with wooden bars was entwined with pink rose buds. A soft down pillow was changed every day. The wet nurse leaned over me, smiled, untied her shirtwaist and fed me warm milk. I gulped greedily and fell asleep. She did this several times a day and I was content, hardly cried. My mother, the Queen, came in to see me once a day, just looked and left.

For my first birthday, I was allowed out of the room, where a new, younger lady in waiting, held my hands while I learned to walk, run, play games with other children. However, my mother, the queen, warned me to stay away from the marble staircase. ‘It is too dangerous for you now. I will tell you when I think you are ready and be the first to lead you down,’ she said. I took it as a warning.

When I was five, children were allowed to come up to my quarters to keep me company. We played Hide and Seek, Rolly Polly and Just Pretend. I also was given a desk, parchment and a quill pen on a brass ink stand. A tutor came and taught me how to write, how to draw little animals. He brought me red ink I had never seen that before and wrote my name on my hand. My lady in waiting washed it off before my mother saw it.

On my tenth birthday, a beautiful new long dress was laid out on my bed, white shoes that tied up to my knees, long silver earrings that my lady in waiting had to put in for me sparkled like sunshine. My blond hair was combed, brushed, made into curls hanging to my waist. I did look pretty and somewhat grown up. Down the marble stairway was the Receiving Room. I was taken there and seated on a carved wooden chair that had a high back. It was uncomfortable and I thought quite ugly.
A trumpet sounded. The wooden door was opened and in walked a young man who bowed to me, took my hand and asked me politely to walk around him several times. He watched me intently. ‘Princess Margaret, you are a beautiful child. I bid you farewell for a while.’ He backed out of the room and was gone.

Dame Essex, her hair now all white, explained that Prince Balfour was here to look me over, to see if I would make him a good wife. ‘Your mother has already sanctioned it as has Queen June of Laurentia. We will all wait to see what dowry may be arranged. ’Do not be afraid Princess Margaret. There will be no wedding until you are fourteen and capable of giving Prince Balfour an heir.’ ‘What? I give an heir?’ My friend, Dame Essex, tells me not to worry. She will explain when the time comes. ‘You are royalty you know, a true blue blood. All will go well.’

I have tried and tried to put this out of my mind. I like to play marbles, Catch Me If You Can, and a new game called tennis, but night- mares haunt me. I am only ten, want to be eleven. ‘Dame Essex,’ I ask ‘when will you tell me about giving Prince Balfour an heir?’ ‘When the time comes, Princess, when the time comes.’ I ask another question. ‘What is all this blue blood nonsense about? I cut my wrist on purpose yesterday and my blood is red.’ I go up the marble steps to tell the Queen, I will not marry Prince Balfour as I am not good enough for him and his blue blood. My mother laughs, then slaps me.

My fourteenth birthday is nearing. Preparations for the wedding are being made. Silver, china, jewels, a Palomino horse are brought to the castle. Seamstresses sew lovely gowns for me, make a coned white hat with silk chiffon hanging from the point. I am excited. Prince Balfour arrives and he is tall, handsome has a moustache and goatee.
Dame Essex comes into my chambers the night before the wedding. She lights a candle near my bed and sits beside me to tell me about my duty, what the Prince will expect. ‘It is not possible that he will make me do that,’ I reply. ‘It is not only possible, it is an assured action. You may get to enjoy it and give the Prince more than one heir.’ I think back to when I was three, four, Dame Essex has always been my friend and so I believe her.

The pageantry is over. The prince and I are escorted to a new chamber, our chamber. He slowly undresses me and we get into bed.
He blows out the candles and I am glad My Prince Has Come.

 

The Learning Process: FATE

I shoulda’, coulda’ been Queen of Sheba but I was born too late and far away from Sheba. I coulda’ been, shoulda’ been Queen of England but her dresses were too heavy for little me and she was ugly. I am cute. I coulda’ been The Queen of May but Greta had longer blond curls, a prettier face and was a senior. I was a lowly high school freshman who got only one vote—my own. I did get to hold the May Queen’s long train out of the wet grass and ruined my new white shoes.

I was beginning to realize that what I was a Shmuck. Mother told me that was an ugly word and I shouldn’t say it. ‘What’s so ugly about it?’ I asked her. ‘Well, it means the person is a fool, doing nice things for other people who do nothing nice in return.’ Gremlins and toads walk in my footsteps. They point me out to neighbors, supposed friends and turn me into a fool, to be used whenever they need a shmuck. I get used and abused and it is my own fault.

I shoulda’, coulda’ been Florence Nightingale but I’m not allowed to carry candles, even when we have a storm and the lights go out. Mother has bought me a flashlight of my own. So far I haven’t told her I played ‘Spooks’ in my closet and the flashlight won’t work any more.

I shoulda’ been, coulda’ been Cleopatra. I’d have had servants do favors for me, take me for a boat ride down the Nile, but hating earth worms as I do, how could I let a snake crawl up my body? No way could I do that.

When it snows and our next door neighbor, Mrs. Bloomburg sees me outside, she opens her door and hands me a shovel. I take it and shovel a nice, clean path across her pavement for her. Two fingers of my new woolen gloves get holes in them. I ring Mrs. Bloomburg’s doorbell and return her shovel. She pats me on my head and says ‘thanks.’ The sweet smell of butterscotch cookies reaches my bright red nose. Old lady Bloomburg doesn’t bring me even one. Maybe I am a shmuck. I should have told her right away my making the path will cost her one dollar. I didn’t do it.

Mr. Carruthers lives at the end of our street. He has the biggest lawn and a beautiful brown and white sheltie. Almost every afternoon he throws a frisbee for Baron. When Baron misses it and it falls in the dirty gutter, Mr. Carruthers motions to me to bring the frisbee back to him. I do. He takes it and tosses it again and yes, Baron misses it again and I retrieve it for him. Yep, it is becoming more and more real to me. I must be a shmuck.

I should be, could be wiser and am working on it, so-------
If you don’t like my story, don’t read it. I’m not going to spend forty-four cents to mail you a copy. I’ll spend it on myself.

Go figure: B 1--I 14

His name is Bingo. Yes, that’s his name, the name I gave him when I won him at a Bingo table. He’s white as snow, has a brass chain around his fat neck and is taller than our three year old son. Jerry has not yet gotten used to him, won’t let me put Bingo in his room at night. I don’t push. We just prop him on the sofa every night before Henry and I go to bed.

The two nights a week we have dinner in our dining room, I put Bingo in the chair across from Jerry. Henry and I include Bingo in all of our conversations, address questions to him and  put a plate with a sweet roll in front of him. ‘Bingo,’ I say, ‘Isn’t Jerry a good boy. Look, he ate all of his vegetable soup.’ Addressing Bingo, I ask if he wants to play with Jerry later,  walk behind him and shake his head ‘yes.’ Jerry ignores us.  He eats and accidentally spills his milk on his shirt. I give him a few paper napkins to wipe himself off. He tries. He cries, ‘Bingo do it.’

I give up temporarily and tell them all, ‘Mommie’s going to do the dishes. Henry, you and Jerry walk Bingo into the living room and watch Dora the Explorer. I’ll be in soon.’ Jerry whines. ‘I’m sleepy, Mommie. Take me upstairs and tell me a story.’ I tell him Daddy and Bingo will take him upstairs but he wiggles off his chair and goes by himself.

Henry and I have had it with Bingo. He takes the bear down the cellar, sticks him in a corner and throws a seedy blanket over him. I hear him coming up the steps to read to a book to Jerry who asks, ‘Where’s Bingo?’ Henry tells him the truth. ‘Daddy, read the new Dora the Explorer book to me. I will find the apple and the river.  And he does find both before his eyes close and a slight smile peeps from his lips.

At ten, Henry and I go to bed. We talk awhile, kiss lightly, squeeze hands and our eyes reach Sleepville.  It seems just a few minutes but it is 3:30 a.m. when our security alarm scares us almost to death. I run to Jerry first. He is still sleeping thru the clatter. Jerry is already downstairs, a five iron in one hand and a heavy Montifiorrie paperweight in his other. The police drive up, see our lights on and ring the bell. ‘What’s the trouble, Sir? We received a break-in call from your service. Jerry just shrugs and tells them he has no idea. Both officers unsheathe their weapons, turn on the basement light and walk down the wooden stairs. ‘Stay up here, Mr. Christian.’ One calls up to ask us to come down. ‘The basement door has been jimmied. Notice anything missing?’ he asks.  Henry looks at the cartons of old clothes for Good Will, his no longer working computer.’ Everything looks OK, Officer.’
‘Well, somebody got in here. Any explanation, Sir?’ Neither Henry nor I have any. He suddenly realizes Bingo is gone and tells the officer about the toy and its sheet cover. They laugh at us, tell us to get a new security system that covers the entire house  and they drive away.

‘Too much excitement,’ I tell Henry. ‘Let’s go back to bed. I’ll just look in again on Jerry.’ ‘Henry, Henry, come in here,’ my wife calls.

Jerry doesn’t even know we are in his room. Bingo is sitting on the floor, next to Jerry. In his lap is a paw full of black, coarse hair.