Bewildering

BLOOMERS

 

Just as expected, the Custodians, Gardeners of Canterbury Royal Gardens are waiting near the carriage lane to conduct the gentry to the show that will happen shortly. It is June one and everything is ready for the explosion. All the bulbs, cuttings will burst into bloom simultaneously. Eyes pop as the wild , breathtaking riot of colors become reality. The red roses are a field afire, pink tulips look like hundreds of baby cheeks. There is loud applause. Yellow jonquils have been cross -bred with blueberry iris and the blue sky grows on this blessed earth.

 

My pallet and easel, my brushes are ready and I splash my canvas with huge dripping globs of color. Miraculously they do not run together. God must be guiding them to remain pure, clean. The sun makes them glow like diamonds on the queen's crown. Fountains gently spray the flowers that continue to grow before our eyes. Surely they are all taller than the Prince of Aragon, almost six hands high. Yellow pollen from the chrysanthemums blow towards Sir Alfred's maze. Before the sun hides for the night they are visible above the hedges.

 

The astounding beauty, the strangeness of it all, loses its glory. Darkness frightens all to leave. Torches are lit. Faces that a short while ago had beamed with pleasure, excitement, have furrowed brows. The order and casual attitude of the officials, lords, ladies becomes dictatorial. 'Keep in order. Do not rush. Your carriages will be waiting.'

 

The groundskeeper is the first to arrive in the morning. There is much he must do to remove any bloom that may possibly have wilted, smooth the stone path, trim the hedges in the maze. He decides to do the most difficult job first and walks into the maze. Right turn, straight, pass two left ones, turn right twice, go into the first small opening. And there he finds something white lying on the gravel. It looks soft, not dangerous. He puts on the gloves he wears when handling prickly shrubs and picks up the white thing, fluffs it out and is aghast. 'My Lord,' he shrieks. 'These are bloomers. I recognize them. They are  Lady Aston's.' He stuffs them in his jacket, finishes the maze trimming, and secretly burns them in a discrete corner of the palace forest.

 

Lady Aston never asks if he happened to find them.

DEAL

BLUE PLATE SPECIAL

 

Every Thursday at 3:30 P.M., Max's Delly Emporium expels all lingering lunch customers to make way for the Early Birders. Doors open at 4.The first one there gets the honor of holding up a large sign on a broom handle that orders newbies to 'Go to the end of the line.' The idea is good but never works. Arguments start as soon as one person in line happens to see a friend walking to the end and invites him/her to get in front of his place. A bombardment of rolled up paper menus fly fast and furious at the interloper. There are boos, whistles and catcalls. They don't always work either. Why do I put up with this so often? I'll tell you. It's company for me. It's fun. Food is plentiful and a real bargain. I, personally, don't do it but watch doggie bags fill up, Sweet 'n Low, stuff pant pockets.

 

This particular Thursday a young couple asks if they can join me. I don't mind saying, 'Please do.' The one empty chair at my table fills quickly. We three don't get a smile, a 'hello' from the senior lady who is a bit overweight. She simply plunks herself down, squeezes her purse in her lap and looks me over.

 

My experience in such cases happens too often. I know the routine and put my mind in outer space, barely look at the woman next to me. In a second I notice her wedding ring finger has no ring. The unescorted widows come here hoping to find a susceptible man who may enjoy being part of the Brisket Brigade, being asked to their homes for a good Jewish dinner. We single men are vulnerable and many of us fall to the seduction. So far, I've avoided all temptations.
 
On this particular Thursday I am not impressed with this nameless woman but am polite and introduce myself as Joe Muldooney. The young couple don't know why I told her Muldooney when I told them Schwartz. I try to wink to them. Harry gets the idea and asks me when I left Ireland. His pretty wife looks confused, takes a big bite out of her warm potato knish. Definitely I realize she is not interested in Ireland or Timbuktu. Everything changes fast. The lady with no name yet has a soft, pleasant voice. There is a lilt to her tone. 'Were you born in Ireland?' she asks. 'It's a beautiful country. I lived in Dublin for five years until finally I had enough fear, came to America, where I've been hanging my jacket for twelve years.' I reply, ' My grandparents were from Ireland but my parents and I were born here in the States.'
Silence reigns at my table.

 

Choices of dinner are minimal, two. Max alternates weekly. Tonight we are served quietly and quickly, large bowls of fresh greens with either French or Russian dressing. We are not rushed but the empty bowls are gone without me noticing the waitress. Steaming hot chicken soup with tender noodles swimming in it come next. Impolitely, I blow on each spoonful until I feel comfortable going whole hog at the rest.

 

I still don't know the woman's name so have to ask. She seems surprised. 'Sorry, I thought I introduced my self. My name is Miriam Seltzer, just like what we put in our Passover wine. Do you come here often, Mr. Muldooney? I've been told this is a friendly place and singles can usually find a seat.' The young couple ignore us and start talking about politics.

 

Miss I(Mrs?) Seltzer suggests I call her Miriam.  I do not suggest she call me Joe. 'What are you having for dessert, Mr. Muldooney? Cheese cake or strawberry short cake?' ' They are both too fattening, Mrs. Seltzer. I'll just have the Oolong Tea and a cookie or two.' Max's is starting to thin out. The place has to be thoroughly cleaned and ready for the breakfast group by 7:30 a.m. Our waitress has unobtrusively placed our three checks on the table. The couple take theirs, tell me it was nice meeting me. I take my check and say goodnight to Miriam Seltzer. She looks so forlorn and disappointed that I pick up her check and leave her sitting alone. At the cash register, I look back and she is still sitting there. Our waitress is cleaning around her. I go back and ask her where she parked her car. 'I'll walk you to it, Mrs. Seltzer.' I should have guessed. Miriam came here by bus. I feel trapped, ask her where she lives. 'Not too far, down by the Glades, about two miles. I have a beautiful 2 bedroom apartment with a view of the harbor. 'Get in, Mrs. Seltzer. I'll drive you home.'

 

As soon as I pull in the circular driveway, she says the words I know are waiting to spill out. 'Mr. Muldooney, would you like to come in a while and let your dinner digest?' 

 

What can I say besides, 'How nice of you. Sure, I'll come in,' ?

 

 

It is whaat it is

BLACK & BLUE

 

The white marble steps are not white at all. There are pretty brown veins running thru them, but who seems them besides me once a week? That's when it's my turn to get rid of the soot and dirty shoe marks. My bucket of soapy water, plenty of rags and a lot of energy brightens the steps and my outlook. That feeling doesn't last long. I am not alone. The entire block, both sides of the street car line, have the same situation. We all manage to get used to it but it crushes our souls.

 

The Browns next door are too old, too full of creaks and pains to take care of their property. Sally Lu, only fifteen and ½ , and I, an ancient seventeen year old high school senior, take turns on Sunday mornings, before church to wash their steps for them. Mr. Brown offers to pay us but we don't accept. Mrs. Brown insists on giving us peanut butter crackers every week. Sally Lu and I take them, tell her we save them for after lunch, but don't. The crackers are never crisp and one time mine was moldy.

 

Another baby has arrived on our block. It's a girl, I was told, but I haven't seen her yet I can imagine too vividly that the babe will be beaten senseless or starve to death. Her Mother is Marcella. I don't often see her but do see men go in and out of her house in the evening. My mother tells me they must be visiting cousins from NY or Philly. She thinks I believe that nonsense. I know about sex, whores, drugs. I learned it in the 10th grade class. We were told about disease and given condoms with instructions. When the teacher left, some of the boys thought they were funny and blew them up. Chicki Langley asked a boy I didn't know if he wanted to try it on her. I hurried out of the classroom, into the girls' bathroom. I slipped on the wet floor but made it to the sink where I gagged and threw up.

 

Rainy days make me sad, except when they come on Saturdays, and they wash the steps for me. Otherwise, I get blue with no particular reason. The distressed feeling washes over me like a cloud of dust that doesn't care who or what it upsets. Nothing abnormal happens. It is the future that will happen and mine looks dreary, almost hopeless. High school days are nearing the end. My grades have always been more than satisfactory but even so, I'm not going to college. Scholarships are for the brilliant or for kids with parents who know somebody, who knows somebody. I haven't waited to apply for jobs, actually got three interviews, but not hired. No experience, no secretarial training, no anything except, 'Sorry, NO.' Pictures of Marcella getting paid for what she does is as far out of ever happening to me as becoming a famous movie star, winning the lottery.

 

Is my face, my body changing color? Oh, that it would! It's always been black, a dark shiny black. My hair is really kinky. In the mirror I see my brown eyes, dark skin and a bursting blue heart. It is not what I want but is what I have.

 

Now what?

The Big Shot

BLACK MOURNING GLORY

 

Cars are in line, almost at rest as far as the eye can see around the corner. There must be at least thirty behind and  heaven knows how many have been placed in proper lines for the procession. We move very slowly. As each family, each carload of friends, business associates reach the chapel door, the driver stops. His passengers walk slowly inside and the car behind moves a few feet closer to the first destination.

 

Jessie is dead. Two days ago he was vibrant, winner, a champion dancer, a lover. Now he is being honored when he is not cold yet. There is no more room behind the mahogany casket for more flowers, wreaths. Wanda, his lady, wears a simple black dress. A long strand of pearls hangs loosely around her neck.  She sends the overload of flowers to the atrium.

 

There is silence in the chambers as the priest, In his white robe and mitred hat enters the chapel, walks solemnly down the aisle, up three steps to the bier. Either he is a practiced actor or is truly overcome with grief. I opt for his acting talent. From where I sit, I can just see the tip of Jessie's large nose as he sleeps forever on the white satin
pillow. That is enough for me. The priest drones his adoration of a man he never met.

 

The woman seated in front of me, who I cannot help but notice, is wearing a bright flowered dress and is carrying on her shoulder a large yellow purse. She's whispering loud enough for half the chapel to hear her. 'This is a farce,' she declares. That Jessie was a put-on-fake. He was a lousy actor who got an undeserved break. His dancing was mediocre but he had such great partners, he got away with it, and a lover, no way. I knew.

 

I could not take another word of the degradation that woman was espousing, touched her shoulder and merely said, 'Madam, shut up.' She said a lot more, stood defiantly and walked up the aisle and out the door. The priest had not stopped his orating, didn't even notice the commotion.

 

A lovely voice came from the balcony. I thought immediately it must be one of Jessie's wives. The lady sang like an angel who just got her wings, but she couldn't finish 'I Love You Truly'. Her voice quavered, her head lowered and poof she was gone.

 

I looked again at the open casket. Jessie's nose was more visible. Was I imagining it or was I just sitting straighter? I slumped a bit. The service was over. The casket was about to be sealed when bedlam broke loose. Jessie rose, laughing, prancing around, 'You guys thought I was a lousy actor, didn't you? Now you know I wasn't. Outside, everyone, outside! There's eats, drinks and me to talk about. Time, Newsweek will be running this story next week. I expect to be on the Today show, too, maybe The View.

 

Right now I'm going to wash this white stuff off my face and find that lady who almost sang 'I Love You Truly.'  And he did.

Revenge

KNOCK KNOCK

 

Gerry is all dressed up today. She has had her hair done by our Mom's hairdresser and her finger nails filed neatly. Mom has allowed her to have colorless polish put on. We are all excited as Saturday is our brother's Bar Mitzvah day. Today he is still a boy child but Saturday after he reads from the Torah, thanks our parents and is blessed by the rabbi, he will be a man. Uncle Maish, who lives in Canada and can't come to the celebration, already sent David an electric shaver.

 

I was allowed to invite two of my girlfriends to the Sabbath luncheon. We all have on our best dresses and feel quite grown up. Barbara, a distant cousin, has to say 'hello' and more to Gerry. Miss Sweetness tells her that her nails look nice but why didn't she color them instead of wearing namby pamby colorless. Then she adds, 'One of your nails must be rough. It looks like you have a run in your panty hose.' I see Gerry gasp and look at her legs, her fingertips and all of her pride just sizzles and goes out.

 

The synagogue is almost full. David is called up to the bimah to read his part. If he makes any mistakes, nobody but the rabbi and cantor will notice. Mom, Dad are  so proud of him. Family, friends shake hands with him, congratulate him, hand him envelopes with checks inside. David's friends crowd around him and sing Hatikva in the aisle. It is warm and wonderful.

 

Gradually the guests, cousins, aunts, uncles, friends go in for lunch.  David is at the head table with our immediate family. Rabbi Hirsch brings him a gift of the traditional prayer book. Right behind him is Barbara. 'David,' she says. 'You should have shortened your slax. I was sure you would fall on the steps. And your tie was crooked. Why didn't your Dad fix it for you?'  I can't control myself and suggest roughly, 'Barbara, go sit down with the rest of the girls. This is the Honor Table. Your seat is at #12 along the wall.' She leans over my shoulder to tell me my face is pale and I can use her rouge if I want.

 

It isn't nice, I know, but I am going to get back at her somehow. A tiny idea comes into my head, one that is not proper for this special day. The luncheon is great. All of the adults drink wine, eat until they are ready to plotz, shake hands and leave, knowing that Sunday will be the big dinner party. It will be just like a wedding without the wedding cake. All the close relatives get their turn walking down the carpet to shake hands with David and light a candle in his honor.

 

My dress is beautiful. It is more than a dress, it is a gown, my first. I burst with pride. Compliments, congratulations swell my head until Barbara approaches me. 'Sandy, I think somebody let wine dribble on the back of your gown. I hope it comes out but red wine on silk probably won't.' That does it. 'Barbara, turn around. There is something on your dress too.'
          
Her face turns to ashes when she feels my foot making a wine print on her behind. Yes, I will be punished, might even have to use my whole allowance for a few months to buy her a new dress but she gets the message and that is good enough for me.

NAMESAKE

GIRL WITH A BLACK HAT

 

Two teen girls, best friends, wanted one thing more than anything else in the world. They wanted boys to know they were alive, to like them, ask them to a movie. I was one of the two girls who had no luck.
We loved to jitterbug, but had no partners to toss us over their heads, through their legs. Some times in the evening when the grocery store had closed and their lit long tiled entrance was swept clean, Betty and I would practice our steps there. Our hopes of getting some attention, a partner or two never happened.  In retrospect, if I were a boy, I wouldn't have stopped for those two dopey girls either.

 

Betty was a newcomer to America. She and her whole family moved here from Puerto Rico. There were eight of them who managed to live on the second floor above the grocery store. Betty never invited me upstairs to see their place or meet their family, but she met mine. Okay, Betty had a big family but more than that she had big tits and I was still flat. Betty forced me to wear a bra and fill it with tissue paper. It was uncomfortable and always lopsided. I packed it away in the bottom of my dresser drawer for future use.

 

One evening after dinner she didn't meet me, nor the next evening either. I rang her doorbell and her mother yelled out the window, 'Ella, no esta aqui.' I knew no Spanish but knew what Mrs. Danzig meant. Night three not only is Betty where we always met, she is holding hands with a really cute boy. With a big, gloating smile she introduced Roy to me. 'We're going to Wally's for Root Beer Floats. Want to come along?' she asked and added, 'Dutch Treat.' I was glad for Betty but angry at myself, The Dud. Like the Three Musketeers, we walked three abreast, with Roy in the middle, had our floats and I gave Roy my fifteen cents while he paid the other thirty.

 

Our friendship, our lives changed a lot. Betty and Roy were together almost every evening, Saturdays and Sundays. My mother kept begging me to make new friends, join a club, go to the YWHA and stop crying around the house like a weeping willow ready to die. I tried and finally met Lucy who loved dancing too. We went to all the Astaire/ Rogers, Donald O'Connor, Anne Miller movies, but it was not the same as when
Betty and I practiced.

 

Terrible news was spreading around. Betty ran away with Roy to Elkton and got married. Her parents threw her out of the apartment. I heard more news, all nasty, all ugly, and ached for my old friend. She and Roy were living in a tiny apartment, really awful–and she was getting fat. Out walking just to fill some time, I bumped into Betty, tried to avoid staring at her belly, but didn't think I succeeded. I did manage to hug her and ask 'How are you, Betty? Are you happy?'  Her eyes lit up like fourth of July rockets. 'Our place is small but will you come visit us? Roy has a really great, close  boyfriend named Brandon. You'll love him. We are 1121 Woodmont. Saturday at 2, O.K.? Betty didn't wait for my answer. She waved as she wobbled away.

 

I was excited, had a sort of blind date and knew just what I would wear. My mom had her dressmaker measure me and make a new fall outfit for me just in case we had someplace to go or I got a real date.
I wore a new bra because the hidden one I never wore was  way too small. My black velvet pencil line skirt and green/gray tweed short jacket fit perfectly. Black pumps, short leather gloves and my pride, a wide, black velvet hat, something like English ladies wore to tea, mAde me feel pretty, impressive.

 

Betty was waiting outside for me. She tried to whistle but only spit came out. We both laughed. The stairs were tricky for her so I stayed behind to be sure she didn't fall. I was sweating with a bad case of nerves.  Roy was standing at the railing waiting for us. He had a glass of beer in his hand, offered me one, but I declined. 'Come on into the kitchen, Rhona, Brandon is anxious to meet you. My heart raced. The look on Brandon's face startled me. There was a glow as if he saw an angel, or maybe god. He gulped before he could say, 'Hi, I'm Brandon. Are you a movie star? You look gorgeous. I love your big black velvet hat. It really becomes you. ' The flattery darn near floored me. 'Let's go someplace nice for lunch. The treats on me.' We agreed on Burger Bill's and enjoyed everything. Betty couldn't eat the fried onions she said as they made her sick.

 

Brandon and I knew that something magical, electrical, had happened to us. He had me wear my big black velvet hat everywhere we went. He loved it and me.

 

When spring came, I bought a big, white straw hat and got engaged to Brandon. Betty named her daughter after me, Hattie.

Forever

STICK  LIKE  LOU

 

Laura looks adorable in her new pink party dress. And why shouldn't she? Today is her sixth birthday and her mom has used a curling iron on her straight hair. It's only one o'clock and her party doesn't start until 1:30 but mother's are already ringing the doorbell. The mothers hand gaily wrapped presents to their children who, in turn, hand them to Laura and wish her a Happy Birthday. Lou  is carrying a heavy red and white striped box by himself. His mother tells him to hand it to Laura but he won't. She pulls it away from him and gives it to her.

 

Holding her son by his ears, she turns him around and takes him home. Lou sobs all the way there. 'I wanted to have some orange soda and get a basket full of candy. You are mean, Mother. Daddy picked out the building block set but I told him she wouldn't like it, and I would. He bought it for her anyway because it was on sale. Laura is a baby. She still plays with dolls and cut outs.' Mrs. Johanson whacks her son over his head. 'I'll tell you again, Lou. The present  was for Laura. Her mother is surely going to exchange the present, but you had to go and make trouble, embarrass me. You are a selfish boy, don't deserve a  candy basket. 'Come on, Lou, let's go home. I'll give you a glass of orange soda with a straw and a chunk of ice.'

 

Right after Lou, his 9 year older sister, Roseanne, and their parents finish dinner, the phone rings. His sister reaches it first. 'Lou, it's Laura. She wants to talk to you.'  'Lou has a girlfriend, Lou has a girlfriend.' She hands him the receiver and tells him, 'Talk to your girlfriend, Lou.'  'Hello,' he says. 'Lou, this is Laura. I'm sorry you missed my party. My mother wants me to give you my present. She saw how much you wanted it for yourself and will bring it and me to your house in a few minutes. OK?'  Lou asks his mother and of course, she says yes.

 

Mrs. Johanson takes off her apron and hangs it on the back of the kitchen door. She makes sure the table is cleared away, fluffs up her hair just a tad and answers the door. Laura is holding the still wrapped box. Lou looks at her and feels very sorry for how he acted. 'Can you stay a little while, Laura? We can build a house or a bus station. I'll show you how.' 'Mrs. Johanson, will that be alright with you? I can come back for her at 7:15?' A decision is quickly made. Lou's father will take Laura home.

 

Laura and Lou take the box down the basement. He unwraps it and she tells him he is very strong. 'Lets make the floor first, like this, Laura.'
They build the walls, the roof and have such a good time, that Laura asks if she can come  back on Saturday afternoon so they can build a bank or a big school. Lou holds her soft white hand so she won't trip on the steps. He smiles and waves good bye.

 

Roseanne must have been Merlin's helper. She was right. Lou is already nine and has his first girlfriend. She's only six and Lou is her first boyfriend. They build. They play tiddlywinks. He teaches her to play Chutes and Ladders. Laura saves her small allowance for Lou's tenth birthday and, with her father's assistance, buys Lou a bigger building set. Together they make bridges, skyscrapers.

 

Weeks become months, months years. They are a team, have dated only each other. Lou at age twenty has become an architect. With the family all around, Laura gives him a miniature steel building set as a graduation gift. He has a very weird looking gift to give her. It is tall, wide at the bottom and tapers to a small bulge near the top. She slowly opens it, doesn't quite know what it is until she reads the label, 'ELMER'S GLUE - IT LASTS FOREVER.' Lou kisses her and tells her 'I've been stuck on you for twelve years. Will you marry me?'

 

Her wild hug, her smothering kisses are her answer.

 

 

 

 

Wet, wet, wet

RAIN DROPS KEEP FALLIN'

 

A deluge has attacked Brockton for eight days and nights. That's more than one interminable full week. The rain is ceaseless, shows no mercy for the children who can't go out to play, to go to school (most of which are closed anyhow). Our roof, thank heavens, doesn't leak. The sump pump throbs and pumps as we had had it checked before we knew Noah might be sailing by.

 

True, my pantry shelves no longer remind me of West Point cadets, perfectly in line, standing at attention. What they now remind me of is to make a new dental appointment. Every time I see an empty space in Heinz baked beans, in Chicken of the Sea tuna cans, they look like black, rotted teeth have been extracted.

 

Before Gary swims home, I spray our bedroom with rose of attar to try to cover the damp odor that is creeping in around us. He tells me to stop because he doesn't like the smell and besides that, it makes his nose run. I hand him box of Kleenex and spray just my side of our room.

 

Once he has left for his office where business is slow, where typists don't show up, I straighten closets, drawers, cabinets until I am out of odds and ends to do. When I realized the kitchen what-not drawer had been done before and was too neat to tolerate, I mixed everything up, put it back in its normal chaos. That gave me as sense of accomplishment and time to play Solitaire again, read a book and take a quick half our nap.

 

The phone rings often. I make calls often, but am at the point of disconnecting every one, temporarily, of course. The same 'When's this damn rain going to stop' conversation is as boring as the rain. On day six, Comcast deserted me and probably millions of other recluses. Service ended abruptly at 10 a.m. just when  'One Life to Live' came on. No big loss, but when Comcast was off until 7:30 p.m., let Alex Trebek introduce himself and the four college students to show their brilliance and went off immediately after Sally Schnook made a mistake, I blew a gasket, cussed Comcast, Alex and poor Sally Schnook. I waited a few minutes and the show was on. How wonderful, I was able to hear Alex say 'Goodnite.' I was so angry I could have spat tacks.

 

A fool there was, my husband Gary. He actually volunteered to drive his co-workers ti and from Blacher's Boys' Wear, Inc. as long as the current rain situation continued. Did anyone bring an extra sandwich for Gary? No. Did anyone offer to pay for gas? Of course not. Sometimes AI think Gary is a fool but I love him anyhow. Yesterday he
stopped at the Icecream Igloo to refill our freezer that was getting low. He bought a pint of Ben & Jerry's Velvet Fudge Road (my favorite), a pint of Strawberry Patch for himself and three pints of Pecan Perfection. We gorged and forgot for a short time about the running rivers still flowing down our windows.

 

I have been marking each rain filled day on my kitchen calendar. It already has ten big red exes. Before Gary and I went to bed last night, the weatherman offered no hope for the morning. Something, not Gary, woke me at 6:15 a.m. I knew it was 6:15 because the sun was shining brightly on our stainless steel digital clock. I gave Gary a mighty kick on his rear, followed by a tender, soft massage. I pointed to the window and he saw what I saw. Without getting up, he clicked on the t.v. to check channel 58, the weather report. The pretty lady was waving her arms, showing where the rain was going next.

 

Comcast remained Comcast. There was no sound and we didn't mind at all.

 

Lonely visions

WAKE UP CALL

 

The brass Persian has been holding the world on his shoulders for at least a hundred years.  His body is dull, pitted, frozen in time. Near him stands a brown skinned man whose sightless eyes glow green. A big chested woman has her black hair tied behind her head. Her red dress has a round neck but no sleeves. They are neither friends nor enemies. They just are. Amongst them , much taller than all of them, is a tower of naked men. Only their private parts are covered with layers of gold leaf.

 

I watch them from my wheel chair, wait and watch, sure that if I move, they will eventually follow my lead. There have been hundreds of sleepless nights where only the sound of my coughing lets the Persian know I am coming. I talk to these silent people, plead, make undoable promises if only they will let me join them in their solitude. The Persian I have recently named 'Ah Med.' It sounds Persian to me and reminds me what I say when nurse Fish Face hands me the little white cup with my two green pills in it. I giggle and say, 'Ah my Meds' are here again.' She watches me like a swivel headed owl. Without looking me in the face, she knows I have pocketed the pills.

 

The tower of tall men puzzles me. One man looks effeminate, has long wavy hair and bowed lips. One has huge feet that the man below him holds tight in his hands. Those guys I gave one name, 'Tom Mix'. They are all different, mixed up.

 

Visitor days come and go. My uncle Leon comes when he can, which is seldom. My old dad would probably stop by if he weren't in the penitentiary. He writes to me once a week and asks if I still am in a wheel chair. There is so little to tell him that I skip lots of weeks before I reply. Yesterday I received a letter from the Warden's office. My dad had died peacefully in his sleep and  was, as per his instructions, buried at the Holy Redeemer Cemetery. Instead of crying, I smiled, because my Dad had taken care of that by paying in advance out of the money he had stolen from a bank or two.

 

An odd feeling overcame me after dinner, an uneasiness, a need to be with my silent friends. With the hallway lights on dim and only one attendant behind the sign in desk, I watched from a distance until his eyes closed and rolled myself slowly, as quietly as possible, to the visitors' room. Mr. Lathrum did not hear me but my friends did.

 

They were all as they have always been, in the glass case, sitting, standing like the inanimate objects they were. I came closer to them then I had ever been, put my hands on the glass and felt a shiver down my back. The Persian, Ah Med  moved a little, took the heavy world off his shoulders and put it in front of Tom Mix. One by one, the naked men lowered themselves from the towering group, bent their knees in what seemed to be prayer. A tear drop ran down the wooden face from the sightless eyes.

 

A voice disturbed me. Mr. Lathrum, softly asked me what I was doing in the visitors' room. I was at a loss for words but managed to just say, 'I couldn't sleep.' Back in my bed, I, too, let teardrops wash my face.
Each day, each night, I went back to see the Persian man and the others. They never moved again but might soon, as a new silent person, a gift from a visitor, joined them.

 

She was white porcelain, half as tall as Tom Mix. She wore silver dancing shoes.

BOUY-WHAT A LIFE !

TOUGH STARTING

 

I could hear nothing at all except the ferocious wind roaring in and out, between the houses and the scratching of long oak tree branches as they wanted to come into my bedroom. In all of the clatter, every once in a while, the three-quarter white moon showed its face. Venus could look down on me. The weirdness was wild and wonderful. I gathered my writing book, my pens, to start a new story but opted to leave my puter in sleep mode. Maybe something would pop into my head. I began:

 

'I could hear nothing at all except the ferocious wind roaring in and out'. My pen fell out of my hand and rolled on the chilly oak floor. A pang of desire came over me, a sweet, a sweet, my kingdom for a sweet. My white silk chemise was lying limp on the chaise while on my bed was the warm chenille old lady's robe my mom insisted I keep for a stormy night. Reluctantly I accepted  and made a big deal how glad I was to have it. That made my mother smile. I saved it for five years, , far in the back of my large but filled closet. Never did I give it a thought.

 

Tonight, when I hung up the woolen suit I wore to work,  I almost fell on something laying on the floor. Who could have been in my closet? Nobody. So how did it get on the floor? Carelessly, I picked it up and tossed it on my bed. A slight smell of Lifebuoy soap made me sneeze. 'My god, Mom, are you still here? Why did you use that orange, strong soap for so many years?' There was no answer but the odor got stronger making me sneeze again and again. I felt like I had inhaled all of it and I must have because the air cleared suddenly.

 

A branch hit the window so hard, I was sure the glass had broken, but it hadn't. The smell of chocolate covered graham crackers replaced the soap. Hmmn, a hot cup of tea would get me started writing. I began again. 'I could hear nothing at all, except the ferocious wind roaring in and out.'

 

The box of graham crackers had only two broken ones left. It would not assuage my desire. A slice of defrosted twelve grain bread with raspberry preserves helped. Still no writing ideas came to me. Everything inside of me felt clogged. Nothing, damn it, nothing.

 

The wind stopped. The tree limbs settled down. A calm came over everything. Something had to be brewing yet there was no lightning, no thunder. All was still, hushed until I felt a draft, just a little wind on my feet. Where was the draft coming from? I went room to room and the draft stayed behind me like a dog without its leash following its master.  My thought became reality. A dog barked. No, it howled like a wolf. As long as I was in the kitchen, I opened a box of pudding, mixed it, poured it in a bowl and let it sit a few minutes. One taste and the rest went down the sink.

 

That was enough. I went back to my bedroom and found my computer on. Facing me was the web site for 'How to be a Successful Writer.' I should have read it but was too frightened as who would have turned my computer on, offering advice?

 

And then I knew as the smell of Lifebuoy soap filled my nostrils.

Ho! Ho! Ho!

HAPPY HOLIDAY?

 

'Twas the night after Christmas and all thru the house each little baby and the fat Mama Mouse were having a party. The kitchen floor was sprinkled with cookie crumbs and snips of coconut. Colorful bits of M & Ms made the babies squeal and squirm and steal each other's sweets. They were getting full and were ready to take a deserved snooze, when the floor shook. Mother Mouse squeaked, 'Take cover. It's an earthquake.' The little ones had never heard of an earthquake and so ignored her. The shaking stopped. The little mice scampered every where, into cracks, under a mat, looking for more treats to take into their hole and have another time.

 

Mama Mouse rubbed her four feet together and called, 'the sun is falling. Run. Everybody run! Petey, the smallest baby of all, would not run. He stayed very still, stretched his little neck and looked up high, high as the tallest mountain must be. The sun was not falling. It had only gotten brighter. Thunder rolled. Silently something fuzzy was coming down a big ladder that had things the mice could curl their tails around. The fuzzy thing stopped suddenly. There it was, a moon shining on the fuzzy things. A giant, that's what was in the fuzzy things. A loud noise made all the little ears stand up straight. Half of the mice ran into their hole, carefully peeped out and saw the giant go up the ladder. They were happy again. The sun had not fallen. It was still high in the sky while the moon was hiding.

 

Mother Mouse sniffed. Her whiskers twitched. 'All of you get in our house now. I smell a cat. I know it's a cat because I saw one eat your daddy.' She sniffed again on the other side of the room and saw, smelled a Christmas present-- a big chunk of cheese. 'Stay back, children. Keep away! I will get that cheese for us. Be warned, you might hear a very loud noise and I will have to try again to get the cheese. Stay back!' The expected noise makes the babies shake, cover their littler ears. 'When the sun gets dark, I will get that cheese and we will have a good dinner. Just don't follow me.' The little mice obey their mama and scamper, looking for more M & M's.

 

Suddenly that same loud noise happens. Some of the babies climb on their sisters' and brothers' backs, peep out of their hole. They squeal, terrible squeals. They see their mama lying very still with the piece of cheese in her mouth, red water on her neck.

 

They wait until the sun disappears to get the cheese and they have a tasty party.

Getting it done

A PLACE NAMED GINSBURG

 

The big billboard sign at the edge of the narrow path into a wooded area gets my attention. It is a real eyesore to the residents of the lovely, well-established surrounding area. 'Construction to begin April 1, 2000. 30 large residential homes offering all conveniences. Plans and plots available now. Contact: Charles Bradley-302-954-1060. We will work together to build a new paradise.

 

Marilyn and I look at that sign every day for two weeks, see no action, no stakes going into the ground, no basic markers of property sizes. Our interest is more than curiosity. We are at the point in our lives where we can afford our dreams. 'Let's at least inquire, Larry. It can't hurt.' And so our adventure began.

 

Mr. Bradley was delighted to go over the firm's plans at our convenience, which we arranged for the following afternoon . His office at Grand and 12th, Suite 2001, was attractive in a flashy sort of way. My Marilyn happens to be a constant planner. She makes lists, plans ahead. Her grocery list is in order a week before she'll shop. Appointments are written down and what she will wear two or three days later await her, being checked off when accomplished. To meet Mr. Bradley she had prepared two full pages of questions. He was ready to answer them all.

 

The model homes will fit architecturally with the surrounding community. Anything at all we want, we shall have. Marbled walls? Stainless steel kitchen with eating island? A lanai? Hardwood floors?
All included! Two fireplaces? A large lot with nice view? All we had to do was give a substantial deposit to get started. I saw stardust already in Marilyn's eyes. I, on the other hand, was not yet convinced. I shook hands with Mr. Bradley and told him we'd think about it. We played it cool and didn't call him for two weeks. Marilyn finally did the calling 'just to go over a few things.' She was told that two prime lots had already been sold. Names were in ink on the plans. 'Mr. Bradley,' she asked, 'if we give a small deposit will you hold lot 308 for us for ten days?' He agreed to only one week as another couple was considering that very lot. I figured he was pushing our buttons, but he accepted my check for half the required deposit. That set up another red flag.

 

Marilyn and I had a great deal to do, turn our present home over to a real estate agent and wait to get lucky.  Buyers were not ringing our chimes. Nothing had started at the site by the proposed April 1. May 10, after a hard spring rain, two trucks laden with equipment were mired in the narrow muddy lane. It took 3 days before they were extricated. Trees, beautiful old trees, were knocked over like bowling pins, quickly sawed into moveable pieces and were hauled away. Marilyn used wide red ribbons to mark every tree on our lot that we did NOT want cut down. The workers were either stupid, blind or deaf. They cut down all the ones Marilyn marked to be saved in one sad afternoon. Mr. Bradley was angry at us for being angry. We had no right to give orders to his men. 'We have no time to take care of everyone's whim's, Mr. Kaplan. Those trees were in our way. We will plant new trees when construction is complete.' With his tirade over, he said, 'Good day, Mr. and Mrs. Kaplan.'

 

Six homes were growing taller every day. Ours was under roof by the middle of October. In the meantime, the quagmire of mud had not ended. A bronze Lexus was trapped, its wheels spun until they smoked.
Raging with anger, Mr. David  Goldburg (with a 'U') stepped into the muck and introduced himself and his wife, Miriam, who will be moving into 304 eventually. He was not going to stand for this mess any longer.'Don't worry, Mr. Kaplan. I will take care of it.' Trucks got thru. Men dug out heavy dead tree roots, storm drains and sewers neared completion. In one week the lane was widened, leveled and paved.

 

That did not stop the complaints. Twelve homes were ready for inspection. Ours was not. Complaints, complaints echoed amongst us. Bathroom tiles were not installed properly. They looked like checkerboards. Blind men must have put them up and then had to take them down, resurface the walls and do them right. Our stainless steel kitchen had a white sink. The lanai hadn't been started. I mentioned these things to Mr. Goldburg and he told me not to worry. 'I'll take care of it.' Marilyn almost blew a gasket when the electric range was gas fired. Mr. Bradley told her she will get used to the gas range.  Mrs. Goldburg had the same problem.' Don't worry, Mrs. Kaplan, my husband will take care of it.' Three days later we and they had electric ranges in our kitchens.

 

As spring approached more grumbling hit the fan. No promised sod was down, no beautiful shrubbery had arrived. As a group we met with Mr. Bradley and complained about the poor everything. Mr. Ginsburg, who by then we all called 'Davy', gave his usual sigh, turned his hands up to heaven and proclaimed, 'Don't anybody worry. I will take care of it.'

 

Mr. Bradley was a wreck and, without telling any of us, flew off for a rest in Europe. Before he returned, miracles had happened. Green grass, bougainville trees, tall bamboo plants, exotic shrubs were taking root. Street lights were in.

 

At our first neighborhood get together in our handsome club house we met to discuss many things. The first was regarding the street name on our two corners, 'Bradley Lane.' There was talk, dislike of the name. We were not going to let that nincompoop manager be in our faces forever. Mrs. Finklestein, who bought lot 101, suggested we name our street 'Ginsburg Place' and be sure it is 'Ginsburg' with a 'U' she added.
I piped up. 'How can we do that? The Bradley Lane is registered with the state, the police, fire departments. One familiar voice was louder than all the others. Mr. Ginsburg rose, smiled, waved to everyone and said , 'Don't worry, I'll take care of it.' And he sat down.

 

So now you know how Ginsburg Place became the only street with such a name,

 

 

A GOAL

GINGER SNAPS

 

Oh, how I envied Ginger and Pepper. They were almost teens, dancing, singing every Saturday morning on the Rialto stage's Kiddie Club show.
If I could manage to save twenty five cents, I could see them, the jugglers, acrobats and stay all day to see the movie, cartoons, serial over and over until supper time. If I didn't have the quarter, I would listen to our Majestic radio that ruled our household. The problem for me was Pepper danced on roller skates and all I could hear was rolling, banging and clapping. Ginger was so pretty. Her long blonde hair was curly and when she danced in a soft pretty dress she looked like an angel to me. She sang, too, better than Jeanette McDonald who sang opera while Ginger sang the songs I learned from the weekly five cent songs sheets Woolworth sold. Even when I saw Ginger on the stage, knew she sang better than I could, I sang with her. Whoever was sitting near me always told me to sing with my mouth shut.

 

One day when I still had most of my box of white chalk left, I drew a lopsided heart on the curb of my house, lettered in P.B. loves J.B. and added an arrow for good measure. Nobody would guess they were my initials and Peppers until somebody did and that somebody told somebody else and they all teased me. Mama filled an empty milk bottle with water, carried it downstairs for me and washed away my heart.

 

It seemed like forever before I finally was ten years old. Mama and Daddy gave me my very first birthday party. Most of my classmates came. Some brought me beautiful jewelry from Woolworth's that I wore on my wrist and fingers until they turned green and Mama made me throw them away. I hated her. Mama and Daddy had no present for me at my party. I hated both of them until everyone had left.

 

They would always clap when I sang along with the Roxford group on Friday evenings. I would curtsy, wave when  each song was over, back into the hall and come in again as they clapped louder each time. 'Jeanette,' mother said. 'How would you like to take singing lessons? Daddy and I know of a very good teacher who lives just a few blocks from us. She used to teach Ginger Swaboda until Ginger was good enough to sing on her own.' I screamed. I jumped up on the sofa and Mama told me to get right off of there. 'Yes, Yes. I want to learn to sing better than I do. I want to sing Like Ginger. When can I start?' 'Miss Crawford will have to listen to you sing first.' Miss Crawford listened, wrinkled her nose the moment I started to sing 'By the Waterfall', told me I have to stand erect, hold my head up and practice the scales.' She did not give me a time to come back. Mama felt bad but not as bad as I did. Instead of the singing lessons they took me on a long trip to see the Niagara Falls. I think I cried enough to make the falls fall louder.

 

Time went faster once I was ten and in a wink I was twelve. 'Ma, Ma, guess who I saw in the movie with Robert Taylor today.' Mama couldn't guess so I told her. 'I saw Ginger Swaboda, recognized her right away. She wasn't pretty like she used to be. Her long blonde curls are gone and her hair is short, dark, almost the color of yours and looked like a wig.  In her scene she was standing near an open window, singing a song I don't know, shut the window and I never saw her again for the rest of the movie.

 

Mama, maybe Miss Crawford wasn't such a good teacher after all. Now I'd like to really know is what happened to Pepper'

neither as borrower or-----

MADE TO MEASURE

 

Why now? Our 1990 t.v. has been working well for 20 years, never put a penny into service departments–until now right in the middle of the final contests in The Great Race, the screen flutters. 'Gertie, are you ironing again with that antiquated iron of yours?' My wife tells me if I want a clean shirt tomorrow she will have it for me. 'If you can iron it faster than I can, come on down here. I have two more shirts already sprinkled for you.'

 

Gertie disconnects her iron but not her husband. He raves the t.v. is still flickering, 'and by god, it went black.' Angrily he kicks the t.v.  stand and the t.v. falls lopsided to the floor. Howard sets it back but it leans a little. 'Gertie, I'm calling Comcast.' He dials and starts bitching when he has to hit '1' for English. He hits it and waits forever, pacing, following orders from a machine until at last a human voice comes thru. He's so thrilled, he accidentally touches a number on the key pad and is disconnected. 'Gertie, come upstairs. Get Comcast on the phone for me.' Her master has spoken so she dials and goes through the long automated rigamaroll. 'Here, talk to this human, Howard.' 'Yes, you may help me. Tell me if you are having blackouts in my area 33926. I'm watching the end of the Great Race and my screen went dark. I'll never know who wins.' 'I'm glad to tell you we are not having any trouble but I'm sorry for your inconvenience. Would you like us to send a service man?' he asks. 'Well, I sure as hell can't fix it. Can he come now?' The service man's answer throws Howard into a fit. 'We can fit you in Wednesday between one and five. OK?' Gertie is standing by Howard's side and sees his face turn red. He yells into the phone, 'What do you mean Wednesday? This is Monday. Doesn't Comcast work on Tuesdays?' 'Sorry, Sir, that's the earliest possible time.' With anger writhing inside of him, he accepts the time and slams down the receiver.

 

'Gertie, here, call that thief back and cancel the call. I see no reason
to pay Comcast at least fifty bucks and then maybe find out the goof can't fix it. Why don't we splurge a little and get a new t.v. with HD Blue Image? What do you say, Sweetums?' Howard is surprised that his 'rock' agrees. He gives her a tight hug and a big wet kiss. 'Why don't we go shopping tomorrow?  Ikea is nearby.  We can look around at what they have to hold the new t.v. we're going to buy. Our table has seen its last day. It's going out in recycle tomorrow morning.' The two of them seem to be walking on air, happier and more excited than they've been in a long time.

 

Just as Howard gets his measuring tape out of the kitchen what-not drawer, Gertie walks in, see him with the stretched out old yellow tape measure and laughs.'Where is your good metal retractable tape, Howie? Throw that piece of garbage in the trash can.' Howard remembers having loaned it to a neighbor several years ago and never getting it back. His temper flares again. 'Why didn't Gary give it back? Hell, I forgot about it and he moved away last year. I'd better buy a new one before we measure anything.' The new metal retractable tape cost $10.99 and only reaches six feet.  Howard is not a happy person.

 

It takes them over an hour to measure the one living room wall and the height to the ceiling. 'Let's select the t.v. first, Gertie, then we'll know we have plenty of room for it. Together they choose a silver colored Samsun on sale. Howard measures height, width and depth, writes it on a little pad he brought along. It will be delivered and set up the following day.

 

Off they go to Ikea. They love the walnut wall case that has book shelves, drawers. 'It will make such a difference in the living room, won't it Gertie?' The next day they wait impatiently, pray the wall unit will come before the t.v. It doesn't. When it does arrive and the two men who put it together at an extra large fee leave, the Samsun arrives.

 

The technician looks at the new wall unit, praises it and asks Howard where the wall socket is. He points to where the old t.v. was for twenty years but the wall socket is no longer visible. Harold and the two t.v. men angle the wall piece enough to see the socket. It could not be reached. The t.v. could not be installed. An electrician is needed to run a line in where the bookcase is. The books will cover the socket and wire. That is only the beginning. The furniture looks too shabby; the carpet is worn thin in places; The walls need re-painting, the curtains are faded.

 

Gertie hugs Harold. 'It's not your fault, Honey. It's your former friend's fault. He didn't give your good metal tape measurer back.'
                     

 

 

Sad Solution

CAT'S MEOW 

 

'Shut that damn thing up!' I hear Mrs. Harney's bedroom window slam. Her light goes out. A dog barks and a cat hisses. Mrs. Harney opens her window again. The shrillness of her voice sends shivers down my spine as my blood curdles. Her words shock me. 'Kill her, Bowser. Kill her!' I let her words froth from my mouth. 'Kill her, kill your mistress, Bowser.' The idea grows in my brain. Mrs. Harney is a bitch. I can instigate a neighborhood ban against her, really make her miserable. If we get lucky, she'll move away.

 

In the morning I am the one who rages. My newspaper isn't on my lawn. I find it in the gutter, sopping wet, dirty. No question, my nemesis has walked her dog without his leash and he is the one who did the foul deed. This boils my vitals. Holding the sloppy mess between my thumb and middle finger, I ring Mrs. Harney's door. She opens it cordially, smiles to me and invites me in for coffee. Indignant, I wave the paper in her face and plainly blame Bowser.' 'Why, Mr. Tweedel, Bowser hasn't been out of the house yet this morning. He's not feeling well. He threw up on my kitchen floor.' I ask her if she is sure Bowser didn't throw up my paper. With no hesitation she has an answer for me. 'I didn't particularly like cleaning up the mess, but don't happen to own a microscope so I could examine it. Are you sure you wouldn't like a cup of coffee?' I don't thank her, leave saying loudly and with great authority,' Keep that dog of yours on a leash or I'm reporting you to the police.' Mrs. Harney, slams the door and Bowser barks, scratches the wooden panel. I cuss and hope he breaks a paw.

 

'Hey, Sammy,' I call to my neighbor, the jerk who gets in every walkathon he hears about within fifty miles. 'Did you hear Mrs. Harney last night yelling out the window for Bowser to kill some skinny alley cat?' 'Sorry,' says Sammy, 'I went to bed early to be ready for the Cancer 5K today. Well, did Bowser kill it?'

 

Mrs. Blacksburg, a real gorgeous young, married neighbor, gives me a friendly 'good morning.' I ask her if she heard Mrs. Harney yelling at Bowser to kill the alley cat last night. 'No, Johnny and I were at the Rialto to see a 3 D film. It was terrible. I was scared almost to death.' I ask her if she knows who owns the gray Manx cat and who is feeding it but she hasn't the foggiest answer to either question.

 

I stop at the super market to pick up the Wall Street Journal and see the biggest Georgia peaches I've ever seen. I buy two. Each weighs one pound and is over-ripe by the time I decide to eat one for breakfast. I ask the pharmacist where I can buy mace, mace I can use on either Bowser or Mrs. Harney. If he knows, he doesn't tell.

 

Night times flows into day. Mrs. Harney is yelling to or at Bowser again. 'Catch that damn cat or you're going to the pound by 2 o'clock.' The woman is an idiot. Bowser might think the pound is where he'll get a big, juicy burger and I'm an idiot, too, for even coming up with the idea that dogs think as we do. 

 

Night has quickly returned. I don't care if Im loud. I call Mrs. Harney  while she's yelling at Bowser, insisting she take her damn dog back in the house or go out and sleep with him. 'Take his leash with you, Mrs. Harney.' She doesn't answer, nor does she slam her window. Am I getting to her?

 

For two whole nights I hear neither Bowser, the cat or Mrs. Harney. But, when I hear her again, she is screaming loudly in front of her house. Cars are jamming on their brakes, neighbors are running outside to see what the commotion is about. Mrs. Harney is on her knees in the middle of the street, trying to lift Bowser who is bleeding from all ends. She is out of control, yelling at the bus driver who killed her Bowser. Oddly, my heart aches for her pain. I regret having been so mean to her. Bowser was her imitation child, one who didn't understand he must not go in the street. Mrs. Blacksburg and Johnny stay with her and Bowser's remains until a vet comes to take him away. At midnite I see her bedroom light is on. She is sitting at the window, staring  at nothing. Neither Bowser or the cat make a sound.

 

After a week of fitful sleep, I do something drastic. I buy her a new pet, a beautiful white angora kitten, put it in a pink basket tied with a wide white bow and invite Mrs. Harney into my home to just share a cup of coffee and strudel. She accepts. Her face is still streaked with tears, age lines are deeper and her back slumps. With shaky hands she almost spills her coffee. Conversation is slow, depressing. I ask her to stay a while longer, to sit in the living room. 'Excuse me, Mrs Harney. I'll be right up. I have to get something from the basement. I take two steps at a time going down to get her present and with a big smile on my face I give her the ball of fur. 'I've named her Munchkin but you can change it,' I tell her. She's so soft and cute and never has to go outside. She'll stay with you a long time.' Not a word does she say. I feared she would have a fit, cry in rage, go crazy. But no, with great warmth she picked up Munchkin, cuddled her on her lap. A small red tongue licked her hand and a perfect blendship, a new friendship was born.

 

And I felt good, warm too and gradually got rid of the memories of wanting to save Bowser and destroy Mrs. Harney. Munchkin has a scratching pole in her new house, in the living room where she and her mistress can watch t.v. Her litter box is in a corner of the kitchen, a ball of yarn is almost always in sight.

 

And I, the perpetrator of good and evil am treated weekly to a pot of delicious soup and a chance to hold Munchkin.

A qwazy, qwazy world!

THE SECRET

 

It's magical, really magical. Mr. Callahan, my best friend's father,  walks into their house, waves his arms and the lights go on. He has no wand, touches nothing, says nothing. As he leaves the room, snaps his fingers, the lights go off. I am positive I've seen him walk across the room without his feet touching the floor. My buddy, Patrick, insists my imagination is running wild. His dad is not a wizard, can't do prestidigitation. He's a simple, normal, hard working man who runs a tight ship, makes a good living. I've asked Patrick several times just what his father does, but he has yet to give me an answer, other than he really doesn't know. My dad has told me not to ask any more as it is none of my business.

 

Of course, my mind comes up with silly, dumb, even scary ideas. 'Patrick, does your dad work for the CIA, the FBI? Is he on the Supreme Court? Is he a bank robber?' My friend takes action, pretends he is going to kick me in my jewels, and I jump back like a frightened rabbit. He laughs at me and calls me a sissy.

 

Mrs. Callahan is not a friend of my mother or is she an enemy. I'm not sure they've ever met although we have only one house between ours. But she knows me, likes me, and has had me over for dinner two or three times. My mom gives me a box of bon bons or a coffee cake to take when I go. This coming Friday's invitation has me worked up. I need to know something about Mr. Callahan's job and the magical things I've seen him do. While the men are watching the t.v., discussing politics, news, Mrs. Callahan is overseeing the kitchen. For sure the rich smell of a lasagna baking reaches my nose. Then it suddenly changes to something I don't recognize.

 

The maid in a clean white apron, a small headband holding back her long hair, motions to Mrs. Callahan that dinner is ready. So am I.
We cross from the foyer to the still unlit dining room. Barely inside, the large centerpiece, a silver candelabra, lights by itself. All of the candles burn brightly. No one touched them. There was no mechanical click. I took particular notice of Patrick who didn't seem surprised at all. There is no lasagna. I am served a large bowl of bad smelling soup. Mrs. Callahan smiles and tells me to eat up. She made Mulligan stew especially for me to try. I didn't like it but stuffed my mouth with soft white bread and eventually got it down. The rest of dinner was more to my liking, especially the ice cream flambe'.

 

After dinner, Patrick and I went to his room to play Dragons And Dungeons. I could not hold back any longer. 'Patrick, how did the candles light themselves, go out themselves? The maid was in the kitchen and she didn't do it, you and I weren't excused from the table until your parents said we could go. You had better tell me soon if your dad is a magician or some kind of freak. As usual, he ignores me, says nothing.

 

The next night I watch out of my window for Patrick to come over so we can do our homework together. I open the door before he knocks. 'Hey,' I say. 'How come your father's car is parked at the curb? Your lawn mower is just sitting in the middle of the driveway, must be in trouble. Mr. Callahan walks past the mower and goes into his house. I let out a yell. 'Patrick, the mower is moving itself off the driveway.' His reply is, 'So what?' 'So what? Your father is in the house, that's what. Does he have a gadget to do that?' 'Of course not. I'm going to let you see something special, Harvey. Watch our car!' I watch. I see. I hear the motor purr. The car backs up with nobody driving it. The steering wheel turns itself and the car pulls into the driveway, into the garage.

 

Patrick realizes he may have gone too far. 'Harv, keep staring at the empty driveway, you just might be able to see something you aren't supposed to see. I stare, blink, focus and refocus my eyes. 'What's that? Who's that?' I whisper. 'Pay attention. If you tell anybody, you'll regret it. I'll regret it. That thing is my dad's personal leprechaun. His great-grandfather passed the him to my grandfather and my grandfather passed him to me. Everybody but me was born in Belfast. The little green man has been with us too long to trace. If you tell a living soul, honest, he will die. So stop asking questions.' I stop, hurry home and tell my dad what a dumb story Patrick told me. He thinks its stupid, too.

 

In the morning I bring in the Star Trumpet for my dad to read before he goes to work. It looks strange. When I pull it out of its plastic bag, the paper is not black and white. It is damp and is light green with forest green print.

 

Mr. Callahan is fooling with his car, trying to get it started.

The devil, you say

HOT STUFF

 

'Hell, no!', Norman screams as he gets closer and closer to the fire. 'There is no hell. I don't believe in it!' The furnaces roar, spit out flames. A devil with real horns and a pointed tail push him nearer, nearer. He can't bear the heat. His heavy sweating will not help him escape.

 

The early morning sun, brighter than usual, wakes him. Feeling how wet his under arms are, how his p.j.s cling to his body, for a moment his senses go berserk. As he steps out of bed, his foot collides with something metallic. Picking it up, the bright red toy pitchfork instantly puts him back in hell. It falls out of his hand like a hot potato. 'Jonas, get in here right now!', he calls to his son. A sleepy voice answers, 'What do you want? It's Saturday. I don't go to school today.' Norman replies, 'You'll find out what I want, when you get your tush in here.'
Jonas, still in his bear-de-boo p.j's, rubs his eyes and obeys his dad. Holding the red toy pitch fork in two fingers, Norman wiggles it in his son's face. 'Why is this piece of junk on my bedroom floor? Isn't your room big enough for you? ' Curling up inside himself, Jonas asks, ' You woke me up for this? Bejesus, Dad, I never saw it before. Christ, I'm nine years old. Do you think I still play with baby toys?' Norman merely waves his arms wildy and sends him back to bed.

 

Marcia already has the washing machine going. It's swish swish sound can be heard from the basement. 'Jonas, in case you remember where you got the pitchfork, I'll be downstairs.' My wife comes upstairs to the kitchen when she hears me open the fridge. She has already set the Saturday breakfast table. When Norman gives her cheek a short peck, she feels his wet p.j.s and must, of course, ask Norman why he didn't shower and put on his garage cleaning outfit before coming down.
That is all he needed. From his pocket he pulls out the red toy pitchfork. With a scowl and rough voice he asks, 'What the devil is this junk doing on my side of the bed? I woke Jonas and he said he never saw it before. That means you must have put it there. Right?'  Marcia is bewildered. 'I told you I never saw it before. Calm down. Throw it in the trash and forget it. I'll hold your breakfast until Noah comes down.' At that, Norman's blood pressure soars. 'Oh, no, either he comes down to eat with us or we eat without him. Do my eggs over light. First give me the apple juice.'

 

Marcia takes the eggs and butter out of the fridge and tells Norman her lips are dry. She needs her mauve lipstick and will be right back.
'Noah, Noah, get up quick. Daddy's waiting downstairs for breakfast. Here, don't tell him I told you. Put on this old T shirt and jeans and skedaddle down, fast.'

 

Nitpicking from morning until night is not unusual but this time it destroys any chance of peace. Norman fingers the pitchfork and breaks off two tines. His hand begins to sweat, burn. He decides a cold shower will make him feel better. Naked, he opens the shower door and sees something red on the floor tile. It is smokey, starts to rise, becomes big enough to push him against the door.

 

All he can remember after that is the noise, the roar of furnaces and then he remembers nothing.

Winner

FAIR GAME  

 

I've been feeling punk for weeks, been hanging around the pool hall, the bus station, just passing the days away. The wants ads offer nothing I can or want to do but still, I search thru my neighbor's newspapers when he puts them in his yellow bin for re-cycling.

 

Today I decide not to walk past the barber shop, open the door, hear the chime ring and give Tony a smile and a pat on his back. 'Give me a trim, Tony,' I say. 'In fact, shave off this scrawny beard I've been trying to grow. It remind's me of my wife's rose bushes. They grow so damn slow it's fall before a single flower blooms. Millie is frustrated and swears every year she's gonna pull them all out in September-but she won't. Tony criticizes me. 'You're awfully hard on her, George.' As he covers my face with a steaming hot towel, I grimace, grip the chairs arms and when the heat eases, so do my fingers.

 

Relaxed, my eyes closed, I try to ask about Clayton but Tony tells me to shut up while he shaves my chin. He shrugs, sighs and asks me how long I've been out of work. Barely moving my lips, I tell him, 'One month,' and he tells me Clayton, his #2 barber, has joined the unemployed line. I really can't afford the cost of my hair trim but am too embarrassed to tell Tony to skip it. His being owner of the shop, I don't tip him.

 

'Millie, I'm home. Of course there's no answer. She must be in the back yard fiddling with her unproductive rose bushes. 'Millie,' I call again. This time she answers. 'I heard you the first time, Georgie.' Oh, how she riles me. For fifteen years I've been telling her not to call me Georgie. As a kid, I remember well being sung to, 'Georgie, Georgie, Puddin' pie, kissed the girls and made them cry.' And I hated it. 'One of these days, Millie, one of these days,' and I never finish the sentence.

 

'Georgie,' she says,' Selma next door told me the high school is sponsoring a fair next week and all profits go to them for after school activities. It's going to be inside and around their track and in both gyms. Can we go? It doesn't cost anything. I want to enter my seven layer chocolate frosted cake in their baking contest. I have it all thought out, coconut heavy on the top and almond slivers around the sides. Can I? Can I? I have all the stuff except the coconut.' 'Sure, Millie. Will you bake a three layer one for just us?'

 

Alex, our next door neighbor, sees me talking to Millie and asks me if I want the Sunday newspapers before they are recycled. 'Sure, and when I'm thru I'll put them in my yellow bin.' The paper is heavier than usual. Want ads offer me one  possibility. 'Experienced house painters wanted for new small development nearing completion. Contact Jim. 265-3232.' It's evening but I call anyhow. Jim is there. We talk and I impress him enough to ask me to stop by 8 a.m. Monday. It's the first nibble I've had in a whole month and am excited and nervous at the same time. Ten men and one woman are hired. Fortunately, I am one of them. The pay isn't great but it is better than zilch and the project is only a mile from our daughter's junior high school. Millie calls when I come in the house, 'George, did you get the job?' I am very aware that she didn't call me 'Georgie,' today and I swoop her up in my arms and give her a big smoochy kiss.

 

When I put her down, I realize I had not noticed the wonderful odor of the two cakes cooling on the kitchen counter. She gives me the chocolate mixing spoon to lick and I feel like a child for a moment or two. Together we carefully take Millie's magnificent seven layer cake to school. Mentally, I am sure Millie's cake is going to be the highest, best looking cake there and she will win the $20 cash prize.

 

All kinds of attractions are around the track. In the middle is a ferris wheel, not a very big one, but big enough for me to buy two fifty cent tickets and take my wife around the world. I, we, feel rejuvenated what with me having a job and Millie's cake winning the prize, we are pretty near delirious. There are booths for mind readers, prophesy makers, hand tricks. Millie and I walk past them and wonder how people can spend their money on such nonsense. Sugar candy and toffy are for sale. A teen is eating a tasty looking caramel apple on a stick. He talks to the man next to him, points to me, and I am offered the chance of a lifetime if I buy a few raffle tickets. I buy one for five bucks, sign my name and phone number on the receipt for ticket 704. I double check what I put down and burst out laughing. On my receipt it actually says, 'Georgie Glass.' 'Millie, look at this,' I show her and we both laugh. The
smile comes off her face when she sees the $5 cost.We dawdle, watch a man make long skinny balloons into giraffes, round fat ones into bears. Somebody donated hundreds of balloons and the blower may need a donation himself if he doesn't rest a while. 'Millie, let's go home. I have to be on the new job at 7:30 tomorrow. We hold hands and walk home happy as a hummingbird at a honeysuckle vine.

 

At nine, the harsh phone wakes me. Tilly hasn't come to bed yet. I hear her scream and start to run down the stairs, bump into her as she is running to me. 'George, George, Georgie Pie, that was Mr. Garland on the phone, Principle of Carlin's Jr. High. You won, Georgie. We won the raffle for $500.!' 

 

'Millie,' I say, we haven't been to church in a long time. Let's go Sunday. I want to thank somebody for our blessings and god is the right one.'
Sunday the rain is coming down so hard all morning, I suggest we wait
 for Noah to come by. Millie has a large umbrella and a raincoat. I have Millie. 

 

At the door to the church I find a newly minted quarter, go inside and thank god for that too.

Years pass

FRIENDSHIP

 

Sherry is a dancer, a dresser, a wingless angel. She and I grew up as pals way back to when we began kindergarten the same time. No matter our childhood squabbles, kicking, scratching, not talking to each other for, at most, from lunch to dinner, we made up. Our parents each have bloated scraps books, full of photos that have cracked and dried out. They are treasures of yesteryears that our walking separate paths now doesn't seem possible. Yet it is happening now as I relate it.

 

Sherry is trying out for a new ballet group that will open with Swan Lake at the T.T. Tennessee Auditorium come next April 10th, only four months from tomorrow. I know she is good, above average and have every confidence in her making the cut. Her Tuesday afternoon call squelches the tiniest fear I've allowed myself to harbor. She made it, isn't the Swan, but will be doing her first sem-starring pas de deux professionally.  On the phone, we laugh and cry together, jete' and say goodbye. Rehearsals begin in two days. We will not meet again for months.

 

My path, my talent, send me down a different road. I teach twelfth grade English at Randallstown  High five days a week. Anxiously I await weekends so I can write my heart out. My meals are made of alphabet soup that overflow the bowls. My thoughts mix together, collide while my computerized fingers fly over the keyboard with a single word, half a sentence. I don't think about my nagging hunger, my need to go to the supermarket. All I want is solitude, self-time. Mama Jessie tiptoes on the stairs, picks up the phone after only one ring. She is my backbone, my mentor.

 

It's April 12 and I am tied up, involved, can't seem to find the right word, a better way to express what my character, Haley, is experiencing. Crying, sobbing, weeping when she gets the call from her internist that her ovarian cancer has spread. And I pause as the door chime startles me, makes my mouth go dry. My Mama Jessie opens the door, signs for the Fed X  package addressed to me. She sees before I do, that Sherry has sent it to me. Opening the box, white feathers fly out, surprise us both. Under them are two DVDs of Swan Lake. I shut down my computer and ask Ma to join me watching the ballet. Carrying a tray of hot tea and half a dozen chocolate covered cookies, we sit together in the den, eyes glued on every dancer, searching all the time for Sherry. 'There she is,' I yell. 'That's not Sherry,' Mama says. We argue. I replay the pas de deux but we cannot agree until I make the decision that the ballerina near the end who has performed far more perfectly than any other dancer had to be Sherry.

 

My morning pleasure has removed my need to write about the sobbing, crying, weeping of a young woman who has ovarian cancer. I re-start my computer, open my Word Perfect document and delete half of it. Golden sunny thoughts change my outlook, my path. I send two dozen long stemmed roses to Sherry as I envision her meeting new people, maybe a 'fella'. Calls to her apartment and to her parents in Randallstown accept my messages but no replies come. My assumption is they are there in Tennessee with Sherry, enjoying every moment, gloating about their daughter, the ballerina.

 

At last, I feel the electricity in the phone. Without hesitating, I lift the receiver and blurt out, 'Hi, Sherry. What took you so long to call me?' There are no words, just sobs, loud crying spells. Taking  control, Sherry tells me that she has been in the hospital, learned only today, that she has breast cancer third stage. 'Dear, dear, Friend. I didn't want to tell you–but– but–I am going to beat this thing. Don't you dare worry. My folks are worrying enough for all of us.'

 

In a cracking voice she says, 'I love you,' and the call ends.

Weird

FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH

 

What dear friends I have! 'Joyce, you look so well tonight. I love your new outfit.' 'Where did you get those super shoes? They make your feet look tiny.' 'Do you have a new hairdresser? You're cut is really becoming.  Give me her name and shop. I'll call you tomorrow. OK?' I smile from ear to ear but don't believe any of the kind remarks they throw at me.

 

I see me, the real 82 year old lady who can still put her key in the keyhole without dropping it. I can glue on false eyelashes without gluing my lids together. What I can't do is read small print without my bifocals. Carrie often asks  how I stay so slim and trim but never stays still long enough for me to answer. In case you want to know, I'll tell you. 'I don't do anything purposely. At my age I have learned that taste buds lose their power. Nothing has much flavor anymore unless I over-load already loaded foods with salt.

 

My three way mirror shows me my flat behind, sagging breasts, wrinkled arms and varicose veins, thriving big brown spots. At my dressing table my large magnifying mirror surprises me daily. Thick eyebrows that have always needed plucking are only slivers of what they were and my lashes have silently fallen out so I look dead. Hair is growing places it never grew before and I intend to soon buy a razor and shave daily.

 

Yesterday was different. I can find no sensible answer for what happened. After sharpening my blond eye brow pencil, ready to draw thicker ones, they didn't need my pencil. All the lost hair was miraculously back. I accept this with great pleasure, tell no one since no one ever mentioned the loss to me. Exactly one week later my eyebrows have company. My eye lashes  re-appear, long and curled.
This time Gretchen and Flo notice. They question me wanting to know if I have been using the wondrous new eyelash product that truly restores one's lashes. My simple, strong, 'NO,' makes Flo's eyes roll in her head. She does not believe me.

 

Janet joins Flo, Gretchen and me for lunch at Macy's. I really am not hungry but the smell of vegetable soup as soon as we step off the escalator whets my appetite. My stomach growls silently. They order first and I decide on a large bowl of clam chowder, a double decker club sandwich with turkey and lots of mayo, large order of fries. I am more surprised at myself than my lady friends are. When my order comes, I devour it like a lion eating his fresh kill. The ladies eat slowly, politely, have English tea, while I order a marshmallow sundae. Every bite is heavenly. The girls surely must believe I flipped, am getting senile. What that think is immaterial to me.

 

Another week passes and I am acutely aware that almost all of the liver spots on my arms and legs are fading fast, some are gone completely. Each day new, better things are happening to me. On Tuesday the varicose veins on my right leg have disappeared and Wednesday the left is smooth as glass. I don't have to shave either leg.

 

'Joyce,' I tell myself, 'this is insane, impossible. It's time to see Dr. Helman but he isn't going to believe me.' The idea evaporates and I let things go the way they are going. An idea sparks in my fresh brain. I will take a three month cruise and not have to discuss my position with anyone. They wouldn't believe me anyhow or else they'd be jealous.

 

Gretchen offers to shop with me as she compliments me on looking so healthy and young again. 'Joyce, you need an entire new wardrobe.' 'Thanks, but I've taken care of my own needs. How come you've never asked me about my rejuvenation? Nobody has and that is fine. Don't ask now.' I'm happy, thrilled and ready to sail. I leave her hanging on a limb, angry and upset with me.

 

By the time I board Treasure of the Seas my breasts are firm, my slight belly is flat, my eyes are bluer, clearer and I can read the menu without my bifocals. I look no more than 25 and feel even younger. There is no god, no angel, no leprechaun , no witch to thank so I just roll along enjoying my good fortune.

 

The lovely, friendly companions for 3 daily meals have finally stopped complimenting me. It is a blessing in disguise. Dr. Smithson, who usually sits to my left, constantly warns me I am getting too much sun and should use more lotions. I buy three kinds at the ship's shop. Weeks one and two have flown too fast. The very first day of week three and fear stalks me. My real eyelashes have disappeared and I have no false ones with me. I feign an upset stomach and have dinner in my cabin. I am retrogressing rapidly.

 

Debarking instructions are loud and clear several times a day. I can not pack or walk. I manage to put tips for the steward and stewardess on the table, envelopes for my waiter and fall asleep until I hear the tug boats bringing us into the wharf. My eyes are cloudy. I seem to be in jail but realize it is a crib.  I call out for help, yelling only, 'Ma, Ma, Ma.'
The stewardess comes in and screams. She rings an alarm. My cabin fills quickly. 'Everyone is yelling the same thing. 'Whose baby is this?'

 

I roll over, feel my diaper is wet and cry louder.

 

 

Passover passes over

CHOCK FULL 'O NUTS

 

It's April, 1934, Passover time again. 'Mama, Mama, please, please buy me a big bag of nuts, the round hard ones,' I beg. Mama must have cotton in her ears and pays no attention to my begging. She and Daddy are too busy taking baskets of every day kitchen things,  wrapped in newspaper,  down to our cellar. They bring back other baskets that have been in one corner for the whole year and start unwrapping those.
'Goldie, come help us, Darling. You take away the old papers, smooth them out a little and pile them in the dining room corner near Uncle Louie's picture. 'Later, Mama. I have to go watch Harry and Leon playing 'Nuts.' Mama tells me I can watch some other time. 'Mama, if I make the newspapers straight enough, when you go to get walnuts, almonds, will you buy me a bag of the round hard nuts so I can play too?' 'Goldie, I told you last year they are called hazelnuts, not 'round nuts.'  Learn it.' Then she turns nicer. 'OK., I'll buy one pound of hazelnuts for you. A pound costs fifty cents and if you lose all of your hazelnuts, I will take five cents a week out of your allowance for only five weeks. If you win, you can use our nutcracker and eat all the nuts you want.' I am so happy I make a big stack of smooth newspapers and go outside to watch Harry and Leon practice.

 

Harry and Leon are taking turns rolling one nut at a time to try to knock over the little pile of six nuts close to the house wall. Yow! Harry's hazelnut hits the pile and knocks it down. He wins them and all the others that never reached it. I clap for Harry. Leon gives me a dirty look and hollers at me, 'Go home baby and drink your bottle.' I'm not afraid of him and yell back,' Nyah, nyah, you're sad and I'm glad,' and go home.

 

Passover dinner is the next night. It's such a wonderful night. Mama has cooked and baked all day. First we have gefilte fish with hot horse raddish. Mama does not force me to eat it. But I eat two bowls of her hot chicken soup with two matzoh balls floating in it. Daddy isn't very good at saying the prayers so we skip over a lot. We have roast chicken, potato pancakes and asparagus. I flatten my asparagus and play with it until Mama makes me stop and takes away my plate. Daddy lets me take a tiny sip of Passover grape wine. For dessert there is a big dish of macaroons. My brother, Alfred, and I have been waiting to find the matzoh that Daddy has hidden somewhere in the dining room or kitchen. Alfred finds a piece first, underneath Daddy's tea cup, and gets a quarter from him. I have to find another piece, look and look and just can't find it. Mama gives me hints with her eyes. At last I see it underneath my plate that has the mashed asparagus. Daddy laughs, lifts me up and gives me a big hug, sloppy kiss and ten cents.

 

My ten cents I put in my sock drawer to buy more nuts just in case  I lose, but know I won't. Mama had the bag of hazelnuts already bought and surprised me with them. I practice rolling them on the carpet but they barely move. The cellar cement floor is much better but two of them roll into the coal bin and are gone. 

 

Early in the morning I go out to the sidewalk to practice. The nuts won't stay up straight until I figure out to put three big ones on the bottom, two mediums on that and the smallest on top. I go to the curb and start, don't even get half way up to our house. Mama makes me come in for breakfast but I have to pick up my nuts first. She stands at the door, arms folded in front of her. I hurry. Hot, buttery fried matzoh is waiting for me. It is so good, gives me strength to aim better.  'Stay in here, Goldie, wash the dishes before you go out again.'

 

Harry and Leon aren't outside yet. My pile is ready and I roll the nut. It goes up in the air, hits the ground and rolls right at the pile but stops before it gets there. The big boys laugh extra loud. 'Goldie, don't even try this game. You're too little and a girl. Go get your dollies and play Mother's and Fathers.' I feel so bad I start to cry. Harold takes my hand and walks me to our granite steps, opens the vestibule door for me and waves goodbye. 'Good Pesach,' he says as he goes back to Leon and I go in the house, right to the kitchen and get our silver nutcracker. I am stronger than Leon thinks. I sit on the kitchen floor  and crack  walnuts and  almonds until Mama shows me how to do the 'hard nuts.'

 

They are delicious but it  will take a long time for me to eat them all.

POP GOES THE WEASEL

CRIME AND NOURISHMENT

 

The 24 hour I Pop really is open 24/7. When George and I go to our favorite Italian bistro for an early bird dinner, a movie, by 11:30 p.m. we're really ready for a cold soda and a choice of varied wrapped sandwiches. At first we were reluctant to give the shop a try, but once we did, we were hooked. I've had a honey cured ham sandwich on a hoagie roll that was so big and tasty, I saved ½ for lunch. George is fanatic about his cheese  burgers, now avoids Mc Donald's, Wendy's, but relishes every bit at Pops. I've been with him when he orders a second one.

 

Maybe we are wrong, but have convinced ourselves that the kitchen is as clean as the counters, the floor and doesn't even have fingerprints on the door- at least not for long. When George and I go late in the evening, it is seldom busy. Yet there is always a truck driver or two, a policeman and a couple of teens breaking curfew.

 

Joey and Carla are usually on the night shift. They rakishly set little white hats bearing I Pops' red logo on their heads. I've noticed Joey go back to the office a lot, maybe every 25 minutes or so. George thinks I am imagining it, but I think Joey is putting receipts in a safe so, if trouble comes, Pops won't lose a lot. Carla doesn't seem to mind and takes care of everybody. When the franchise owner, Pops, is on the floor, I can see a club under his armpit, down his long sleeve. His jacket buttons are always open.

 

Thursday night George has a semi-yearning for a burger, smothered with melted cheese. I'm tired, don't want to go but finally I give in. My plan materializes quickly, a chocolate malted with a bag of Cheez-its.
Several customers are ahead of us. We strike up friendly  conversations and wait patiently. George, I, Carla and Joey are alone. At 11:30 two tall men wearing gorilla hoods come in. Dark eyes are visible in the slits. The huge mouth reveals crooked teeth, a gold inlay on the bottom right. Bandit number two doesn't talk. Number one growls at Joey to open the register, 'Fast!'  Joey obeys but tries to reach something under the counter before he gives him the scanty collection. Another order roars, 'Give us everything or die.' Joey tosses him 3 rolls of quarters. 'That's it!' he says quite sternly, considering the position he and we are in. Big man raises his voice, looks at Carla and asks, 'Where is the safe?' Carla answers quickly, 'We don't know. We just wait on customers.' Gangster #2 tells her to get the boss out into the store but she stays calm and tells him the truth. The Boss is off tonight.
A change of tone comes unexpectedly when the tall guy tells us that we got lucky tonight. He looks lasciviously at Carla and tells her in no uncertain terms, 'Put burgers on the grille for us with lots of cheese.,' and to his buddy, the fool says, 'Casey, you're gonna love these. They are the greatest!' Just as they take their burgers and head for the door, it opens. Pop pops in, sees the masks still on the robbers and presto his revolver is in his hand.

 

The young men freeze while their burgers get cold.

 

 

CRASH

COLOR ME HAPPY  

 

Tony Alacio is already shaping his little black moustache to be just right for his wedding. He's marrying me, Selma Horowitz. I have beautiful long red hair that I will have shortened one inch in exactly two weeks.

 

Tony selected the 1½ carat engagement ring himself and has the platinum and diamond wedding band in his bedroom safe. Both mothers went with Selma to select the wedding gown. She tried on many, listening to both mother's comments. Her future mother-in-law was first to suggest Selma make the final decision. Knowing her daughter would look lovely in a horse's blanket, Mrs. Horwitz nodded her approval to Selma's choice.

 

Mrs. Alacio wants Selma to come to their house very soon so she can learn how to make a wonderful lasagna and her thick, spicy spaghetti sauce. Tony has been to the Horowitz home many times but now must learn how to eat Jewish cooking. 'Taste, taste,' it will only burn for a minute,' she tells Tony as she puts a forkful  of gefilte fish with Tulkoff's red hot horse raddish in his mouth. Tony chokes, has some water to cool his mouth and tries another bite with more fish less horse raddish. 'That's very good gefilte fish, Mom,' he says. It was the first time he called her that.

 

The ceremony is in order. There will be a rabbi and a reverend. The couple will be under the chupah and Tony must wear a yalmukah and break the traditional glass. The two families are phenomenal, each giving and taking, learning about each other.

 

140 people have received tasteful wedding invitations. 130 have accepted. The ten who declined are all Jewish. Selma takes great offense and tells that to her mother. Mrs. Horowitz replies that she will look into it. 'There must be a reason.' And there is. The ten friends will be on a cruise and are sorry they will miss the festivities. That very day a check comes in the mail from the Steins.

 

Tony is supposed to go to the rabbi with Selma but tells her he can't go. His buddies are giving him a stag party that night. Selma insists Tony go to the rabbi first. Tony is stubborn, offers ridiculous excuses   and they argue.  Before he storms out of her house, he tells her he 
hates that gefilte fish. He is stops at the door. Selma comes right back at him.s stopped at the door. She isn't going to make that heavy spaghetti sauce either. She'll be a goyshe pig. Tony leaves without kissing her goodnite and doesn't call until the following night, the night of the stag party. She doesn't see him then either.                             

 

Time is short for the wedding. Both families don't know what is wrong but sense something is amiss. When at last he stops by for a short while, Selma asks how the party went. Tony can barely speak, but somehow manages to tell her that it was wild, they all had girls there and lots of sex. He was drunk and really had a great time.  Selma smacks him in the face, rants, 'You had sex with not one stranger but god only knows how many.' She works off her engagement ring, puts it his hand and shows him the door. There are no tears. It is over. She tells her parents right away and leaves it to Tony to explain to his.

 

Mrs. Horwitz is the crying  one. She has to cancel everything, rabbi, call the caterer, contact all the guests. The wedding gown is paid for, the money lost. Selma will return any gifts she and Tony had already received and mails Mrs. Alacio a note asking her to call her friends. Mrs. Alacio can barely speak as she, too is crying.

 

Selma sobs alone. ' I am happy. Just color me happy and smart.'