BIG MISTAKE: RED, WHITE AND VERY BLUE

It was almost midnight, July 3rd and the party was going strong. Jerry Sachs was going to turn fifty in just five minutes. 120 friends, relatives, neighbors, business associates were tooting horns, already throwing confetti. Corks were popping, music played. There was so much noise the explosion wasn’t noticed immediately. When it was mentioned, we all thought it was just another part of the party. A slight hush disappeared. In order, there was silence, then screams.
Jerry had been at the honor table with his wife by his side. His twin daughters sat to her left and their 2 teen sons to Jerry’s right.

It was impossible, suddenly Jerry was face down in the fillet minion, ruining the previous spotless white table cloth. Bewilderment, chaos exploded. Cell phones appeared from pockets, purses. Sirens, wailed as police, fire engines, medic emergency equipment lined the street outside the private club. They swarmed into the garden party, the party that was so suddenly over. Valet was blocked and guests became prisoners.

In the madness I caught a glimpse of Mrs. Sachs and family being lead to a large private meeting room. Her white beaded gown seemed to have drops of rubies on the bodice. As they were lead out, a white hatted police captain carrying his trusty bull horn came to the podium. It took a while before he semi-calmed us all enough to at least sit down. He had a curtain put around Jerry’s mutilated, lifeless body. It was the best he could do but it didn’t help quiet the fears and doubts of us all. The waiters brought in cold drinks and samovars of hot coffee. In a daze, many guests were crying as incredulity covered blank faces.

Buzz, buzz, mouths moved. I didn’t see the police asking questions but they must have had plenty.  As if I had someplace to go, I glanced at my watch and realized that a short twenty minutes ago everyone was happy. Hand shaking congrats filled Jerry with pride and pleasure. Waiting for the 4th of July celebration spurred us on. The moment I remembered that, the sky lit up, magical red, white and blue flares drew every eye skyward.

The police captain, using his bull horn again, brought our attention back to earth. ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, the emergency equipment is being moved shortly. Please have your valet stubs ready so that your cars can be brought quickly. All I can tell you at this time is Mr. Sachs was not murdered. His unfortunate death was an accident. As soon as details are verified the news will go out to all media.’ He turned away to attend to his business.

Early July 4th TV. news and papers blared the headline, ‘4th CELEBRATION ROCKET GOES ASTRAY. MAN KILLED AT HIS BIRTHDAY RECEPTION. Below that it only gave Jerry’s name and that the cause of the mishap is being investigated.’

Choose: THE DILEMMA

The chicken is trying to get out of the yard. The fox is out to get the chicken. The lady of the house is out to get the fox. Cluck, cluck calls the chick to its mother. She stops for a minute but has many other chicks to worry about. Her winglike arms do not help. That she can't fly, can't cuddle her babes, makes her peck one on the head. Under the wooden steps to the farm house, she lays more eggs. They are still warm when the tall, gray haired lady who lives in the house, comes out and gathers the eggs in her apron and goes back inside.

The lady knows the fox is waiting to go under the fence, to have a chicken dinner. Her loaded rifle leans against the porch door. Her mind is sharp. She bides her time. Thru her binoculars she watches the fox crouch and crawl, crouch lower, crawl a few more feet. He claws into the hard earth. It flies into his red coat, into his eyes. That only slows his progress, does not stop it. His sharp teeth hit rock and the angry fox yelps in pain, quiets down and moves to another spot, leaving a clump of his handsome fur stuck to the barbed wire. The old lady is joyous. With no one to hear her she lets loose, sings and dances around the kitchen table.

It is chick feeding time. One bucket of corn and one of vitamins are ready. 'Here, Chick, here Chick Chick.' They know her voice, know what is in the buckets. A sea of yellow feathers, yellow feet, open bills surround her. The lady talks to them, even pats a few. They make a lot of noise but not enough to cover the howl of the fox that is not far away. She gets her rifle from the porch, shoos the chicks into the hen house and takes aim at the sky. The howling stops as the fox runs in fright.

Fall has fallen and a big decision must be made, the same decision she has made year after year. It never gets easier. Her chicks are larger, ready for breeding or for the frying pan. 'Oh, Lord, Help me,' she wails.

Well, I can't help her and since it is my story, you are in charge, you make the choice.

carl samrock public relations inc.
330 north screenland drive  suite 205
burbank, ca  91505-3868
ph/818.260.0777 | c/818.422-2284 | f/(866) 260-0144

Surprised? : A LIGHT LIGHTS

My shoes and clothes are wet from the fast moving spring shower. I run thru it. I am soaked. As usual my Dad has left the front door unlocked for me and this time I am extra glad. My wet sneakers I leave in the hallway and go upstairs to dry off, change my clothes, attack my homework. Dad doesn’t hear my bare feet as he kneels in front of his bedroom door. I wonder, what in the world is he doing? He tears off a small piece of paper and with a screw driver he pushes it into the key hole. Another small piece gets stuffed in. Dad looks over his handy work, sighs slightly and enters his room. First thing I think of is ‘if I did that, I’d be grounded forever.’ What’s my old man up to? My sox don’t squish but are uncomfortable. I pull them off, drop them in the bathtub meaning to take care of them later. My concentration on getting my book report finished before dinner falters.

 

Dad helps me with the cover for my report. Sure, I know that is illegal, but I make suggestions, choose the design and colors and oversee his artistry so the inside work looks special. And..I know he is in his glory using his talent, something I would die to have. I inherited my mom’s clumsiness. She and I used to laugh at my stick men, crooked windows, clouds that didn’t fluff. Mom’s died last year and Dad and I miss her a lot.

 

She was independent, didn’t mention she was going to see Dr. Gold.
‘Come with me, Aaron. It won’t hurt if you get a check up, too. It’s been years.’ Dad goes, has a full exam and passes all tests. Mom does not. She submits to MRI, blood work, heart, lungs, everything. Months drag as Mom goes downhill. Our hearts grow heavier and heavier. No elephant could lift them. Dad’s spirit completely disappears. He mopes, his gray eyes become lack luster. He forces smiles when he visits Mom.

 

The house feels so empty. I can still smell her roast in the oven. I touch the clean sheets on my bed that the day worker puts on. They feel different somehow from when Mom changed the linens. And I miss the hospital corners the worker doesn’t make.

 

Dad never liked whiskey but recently he seems to enjoy a glass of cherry Passover wine in the evening. It is sweet, inexpensive and brings memories to mind. It doesn’t matter that Passover passed over. He makes lots of charcoal drawing, an especially lovely one of Mom. Today I found it torn to bits in the trash can in the alley. That hurt me. I’m angry at my dad.  I would have framed it for my room. But, gone is gone.

 

Last night Dad slowly drank two glasses of kosher cherry wine, put on his jacket and told me he was going for a walk. I offer to go along but he wants to be by himself. I don’t press him. By 10:30 I begin to worry. Where had he gone? I lectur myself that he is a grown man and would take care of himself. My eyes tire by 11 and I go to bed. Opening them later the digital clock blinks 1:30. My ears pick up low strange sounds. Sleep grabs me by my pajama pants and I am gone again.

 

In the early morning I hear a rustling sound, find Dad in his bedroom changing the sheets. ‘What are you doing, Dad? Viola comes today.’ As he closes the door on me, he gets surly and tells me he can do it if he feels like it and he feels like it.  After breakfast he leaves for work. I go upstairs for my school books. Something glitters in the corner of the top stairs. It stops me cold in my tracks. I pick it up and feel my jaw drop to my chest. It is a dangling earring and not one of Mom’s! I cannot contain myself. I whistle. I laugh. My father had a woman in his bed and knew in advance that was going to happen. That explained the paper in the keyhole to his room. He didn’t want me to peep.

 

My god, I would never do that----or would I?

 

 

... and time marches on ... RETIRED

We are young, in our mid forties -semi-retired snowbirds in Lake Worth, FL. It is going to take effort, patience to fit in, meet new people, bend over backwards to be congenial, establish new friendships.

Mickey and I have joined the Worth It Club. He is set with a 13 golf handicap from up North and is quickly accepted into the bi-weekly tourneys. However, I am not a golf, swimmer, tennis player. Aerobics and I are strangers. There is a bulletin board in the ladies card room where I post my name for a weekly Canasta game. ‘ Excellent player. We can set our own rules or not. Snowbird. Available Tues. and Thurs. Contact Bev. 213-5605.’  No calls come. There are no notes asking for fill in players. Mickey suggests I take golf or tennis lessons. I laugh at the suggestion. He should know after 20 years that I am not an athlete.

Instead, I enroll in art class at the Norton Museum. My talent consists of drawing stick men and mountains that look like ice cream cones. Fortunately, the course is about art, not doing it. Martha and Blanche sitting beside me in the giant auditorium are new here too. A miracle happens. Their husbands are golfers, pars near Mick’s and they belong to the league. I like them and am anxious to give Mickey their husband’s names. They already gave me their phone numbers. This may be a start. And it is. Before long we are turning down dinners, luncheons, shows.

Five years fly faster than Hurricane Gilda did. Mickey and I are having a small cocktail party to announce we are no longer going to be snowbirds. We sold our house up north. Mickey has retired from his family’s firm and we are free, full Florida citizens. We are happy for a while, a few months at most.

I begin noticing changes in Mickey’s routine. He doesn’t get out of bed the moment he opens his eyes, stays longer in the bathroom. There is a slowness in his walk. His urge to play better golf is diminishing. Still he seems happy, contented with our lives. We seldom argue except when he keeps me waiting. That new quirk drives me nuts. Last night I was dressed for dinner with the Foxes and waited at the door for Mickey for ten minutes. My temper was about to blow. ‘What’s taking you so long, slow poke?’ I yell. There is no answer. I look down the hall to the spare room/office and there he is, standing at his desk, feeling every one of his pockets, even inside his jacket. ‘What’s keeping you, Mickey. I’m at the door.’ A rough voice, unlike him, yells back. ‘Leave me alone. I’ll be there when I get there.’ I am enraged, wait another five minutes and look again. Mickey is sitting at his desk, opening drawer after drawer, taking out nothing, just opening and closing each again and again. ‘Either we go now or don’t go at all. Our reservation is gone.’

Mickey calls, ‘Have you seen my Schwab June statement? ‘ ’No, Mickey, not this year or last. Do you need it now?’ My husband sends black darts into my heart and chills through the rest of me. I go into the garage, just in case Mickey comes out. I find his car keys in the ignition, take them inside and hand them to him. I see his hand form a fist and I step back. ‘Why did you hide them, Phyllis? No wonder I didn’t have them.’ Realization starts to set in. Mickey is in trouble and if he is, so am I.

We fly north to Hopkins. There can’t be many tests Mickey doesn’t have. Need I tell you the arguments he and I have, how he threatens divorce? He is fine. I am the one who needs a doctor, he says. There are medical conferences, and agreement. Mickey has a brain tumor that the doctors think cannot be cured. His health worsens. I sit by his bed and we cry to each other. Mickey refuses, no matter how I plead, to go thru surgery.

In the apartment we rented, so unlike the beautiful home we sold up north and the happy, but now vacant Florida house, Mickey makes an effort to teach me how to keep records, when to pay bills, what important papers are in the red carton. His words don’t register as he skips from one subject to another before I grasp the first. When he talks of cotton candy, alley fights, his parents,  our wedding, I have to work to bring him back to reality.

Tears flood my eyes, run down my cheeks. He doesn’t notice.

Clarified: GOD BLESS HER

‘Judith, get up!’ I hear her but don’t want to get up. My mother, her apron already tied around her waist, comes into my room. She pretends she doesn’t see me rolled up in a ball under my pink quilt. I start to giggle and her hands go under the cover, grab my legs and pull me out of bed. ‘Mother, I don’t feel good, really I don’t. Look, my homework is done. I feel hot.’ Mother leans over me, puts her soft lips on my eyelids, thinks a minute and does it again. ‘You do feel warm, Judith. I’ll get the thermometer.’ In a flash it’s in my mouth, under my tongue. Mother stares at her watch. ‘Okay, Judith, let me see.’ The window shade is up so she holds the thermometer where she can see the mercury more clearly.

‘Oh, dear, Judith. You are right. You have 99. Get back in bed. I’ll bring you a cup of hot tea with a lemon wedge. Daddy will go to the drugstore and bring Brown’s Mixture for you before he heads to work. If you promise me you’ll take it every three hours, I’ll tell him to bring a pint of vanilla ice cream too. I’m going down the cellar to bring up the bed pan for you. Don’t get out of bed until your temperature is normal. Hear me?’ As much as I don’t need, don’t want, the bed pan there is no use arguing.

The merry whistle of the tea kettle warns me that Mother is just about ready to smother me with love. ‘Here you are, Darling, hot brewed tea with toast, smothered with raspberry preserves. If you want anything else, don’t yell. Just clap your hands and I’ll be right up.’ I’m not yet finished with the tea and toast when Mother brings me the bed pan, still wet from the good washing she must have given it first.

Dad’s horn honks and Mother hurries down the stairs again. He hands her the Brown’s mixture and vanilla ice cream. As soon as she closes the front door, she puts the treat in the ice box. I hear her thumping upstairs again. ‘Judith, Dad told me to take your temperature again and if it is up, I am to call Dr. Krause. Mother shakes the thermometer until I fear the mercury will fly out of the end. It is thrust into my mouth. While we wait the three minutes, I make silly google eyes at Mother. She laughs and laughs. I hand it to her. Bells ring. An alarm goes off. Mother looks white. ‘Judith, you are sick. You have 100 now. I’m calling Dr. Krause.’

Before she can take a step, I grab her apron strings and hold tight. ‘Mother, Mother, I just drank hot tea. Of course, my temp went up. I’ll take it again about ten. O.K.?’ ‘O.K.’ she replies, smiles and goes down the steps again.  5 of 10 my mother stands before me, the thermometer ready. ‘You are sick. You now have 100. All in one breath  she asks if I want the bed pan.  ‘Mother, ‘ I plead. ‘Please don’t call Dr. Krause yet. Honest, I don’t feel real sick. Let me take the Brown’s mixture and see if that helps. I’m not throwing up, sneezing, coughing. I’m just a little bit nauseated., that’s all.

Mother goes downstairs and I hear her working in the kitchen. By 2 the wonderful smell of her chicken soup wafts towards my nose. Mother brings in a tray. The soup is overflowing with noodles. There are Sunshine crackers and a salt shaker too. ‘Mother, your soup is always perfect. What’s with the salt? ‘You don’t want salt? I’ll take it off the tray. My words stick in my throat. I jump out of bed and rush to the bathroom. Mother is right behind me but I am fast and kick the door shut. Just barely I make it to the toilet and upchuck the soup. A headache forms right above my eyes. I call her ‘Ma’ instead of Mother as I cry out, ‘I’m sick, Ma. I’m really sick. And I’m scared. I’m bleeding. Am I going to die?’

Mother starts to laugh out loud. She holds me close and tells me I’m not going to die. ‘At least,’ she says, ‘if you ARE going to die, you won’t die as a child. Remember I told you that some day soon you will be a woman. Well, Honey, today you are.’ She gives me a sweet, tender smack on my face, a kiss on my cheek and a bear hug. Mother leaves me there not sure of what has happened, what I have to do. Before she gives me what she has had ready for me, Mother calls Daddy at work.
‘Harold, we lost our little girl.’ I can hear him scream. ‘What happened? What are you saying? Don’t make jokes. Where is Judith?’

Our daughter is our daughter, will always be our daughter, but now she is a woman and we still have much to tell her about.

Neighbors ain't like this any more: UNFORGETTABLE

Next door to Crook's corner grocery was the first of the Davis Hardware stores on my block. Its windows were drab, unwashed and unattractive. There were no beautiful posters or lights--or anything I wanted--but--what the Davises had that I liked were three kids, Harry, Florence and Adele, known as Delly. Mr. Davis had Mrs. Davis, one of Mama's Saturday go-to-visit friends. The store had shelves piled high with Dutch Boy paint and bin after bin of nails, bolts and screws. The wooden floor was rough and full of splinters. There were saws, hammers, ladders, plungers and PUTTY-wonderful putty. Sometimes Mr. Davis was very nice and let me have an oily piece. I can still feel its graininess. It was better than modeling clay and was free. Mama got angry when I got the grease on my clothes but that didn't keep me from asking Mr. Davis for some.

 

The Davises lived up the street from their store. Four marble steps (creamy and veined) led to their vestibule. Inside, to the right, was the living room with shutters almost always closed so the dark brown sofa would not fade. Delly and I were never allowed to stay  in there. As many times as I played in that house, I can't recall anything else about it other than the cellar. Because Delly could use her mother's clothes lines running from end to end down there, we strung our 'show' curtain on them  and the cellar became our theater. True, it smelled sour  and was kinda dark, but we didn't care. Our costumes were beautiful (made of crepe paper that sometimes faded on us), towels and old clothes. We sang; we danced; we became movie stars, comedians, acrobats. Giggy did her expressive recitations that were really good (she took elocution lessons once a week). I was jealous and wanted to be as cute as she was, have curls like she had. Admittance was one pin or one button. If the show was extra good we charged one cent.

 

One day we charged a pin AND one cent. I was the Star.

How did e exist without it? - AS THE WORLD TURNS

My 9 a.m. Wednesday drive is uneventful. The Tampa Public Library on Berkely St. is a comfortable 30 minute ride from my apartment. Being the way I have always been, I allow time in case I get a flat, am held up by an accident. I am confident I will be an early bird being one of the first inside. Today turns out to be that unexpected exception. The parking lot is full. Having made two complete surveys, I get lucky, spot a lady pulling out all the way at the end, next to the many trash cans. It is a squeeze for her and a tighter one for me but I make it.

 

The library has not yet opened its doors. The usual small group of readers has swollen to at least twenty adults and 30 teens. My mind swirls. What do these people know that I don’t know? What’s going on? Then I see it, a sign on the entrance post, ‘Wed. 10 a.m., the Rockers will be reviewing their new book, ‘Rock It To Me’ and will be giving out 25 free discs.’ Egads! Maybe I should go home. No, stay the course. My portfolio tugs at my arm, tells me to let the kids do their thing and I shouldn’t let them turn my day to crap.

 

Once inside I walk quickly to the computer area but not quickly enough.  Every ‘puter is already taken. Rude though I know I am, I ask several teens of all sexes how long they expect to be. One, with a mean snarl on his face, replies, ‘As long as I want, Old Man.’  I’m hot. I’m angry. I’m 39 and not an old man. The first 15 minutes I pace, go up and down the aisles of busy computers. The young people give me dirty looks. I return them as I point to my watch and am ignored.

 

The Rockers walk in together, all six of them. 90% of the computer users stand and applaud. I stand still and grimace. Soon their talk will begin in the Studio Room that is surely going to be inadequate. I haven’t mentioned yet that the few users who aren’t Rocker fans (besides myself) are seniors and toddlers. Some of the seniors hit delete instead of send and then look puzzled. ‘Where did my spell- checked email go?’ The Web is an unknown monster. Mothers try to teach 3 and 4 year olds how to do the alphabet on line, how to click on ‘funny face.’ At last a young mother, holding her child’s hand, motions to me she is leaving and I can take her computer. I do so, thank her and add with a smile, ‘I love you.’

 

I sit down, make myself comfortable, set up my folder and touch ‘on.’ Nothing comes on. The few tricks I know don’t help. A Rover passes and I am able to get his attention, explain the puter won’t work. He asks me, ‘What did you do to it, Mr.?’ My honest, simple reply is ‘Nothing. I just sat down.’ The Rover promises to get a tech over to help me as soon as he can and suggests I not hold my breadth. He disappears amongst beckoning arms.

 

Luck comes my way. Within 5 minutes I am in front of a working world.
For some foolish reason, I go to the web looking up The Rockers. There are dozens of URLs. I choose # 3 and am not surprised. The Rockers are ‘the new kids on the block.’ The youngest is 12, the oldest 18. They come from Australia and they have 5 new albums on the market. That was as much as I wanted to know.

 

My email awaits me. There are 60 messages less 2 spams. Starting at the bottom, the earliest sent during the night and work my way up to the most recent. As I do so, ‘You’ve got mail’ lets me know what is going on. I do amaze myself as I believe I find something of interest to share with each of my cyberspace pals. Sometimes we discuss politics, argue, agree and drop it. Once in a while the discussion leads to a parting of the ways. I joke with flirtatious girls, not ever believing anything they write and maybe they aren’t even girls. They may be government people looking for predators. Who knows what they are thinking about me?

 

The elderly lady across from me starts to put her papers together. I follow suit, ready to switch computers, get an extra hour. New mail is arriving faster than I can answer. One is from Australia and I don’t know a soul there. How the person I assume to be female got my address I don’t know. She explains in her reply to my reply that Lillian in Amsterdam is a friend of Charles who is a pal of Mike’s who lives in Santiago and is part of my ‘group’. I am learning more about Australia daily than I learned in Geography Class 101 in high school. We chat for almost ½ hour when my time runs out. My new notes have almost crowded out my old ones. I’ll need a bigger folder before I return.

 

I walk towards the book check out counter, pass the puter that a tech was to fix and see it is still dark.

Oh! RATS! - NIGHT SOUNDS

She ran as fast as she could, to the corner, around it, down the alley, another alley, a cross over alley. Ducking into a backyard, she bent over, breathed hard, let her heart slow down. Casey peeped thru the climbing rose bush, didn’t see Jack, and started running again. The drug store was at the end of the cross over alley. It had a high wooden fence with a swinging door that had a loose lock.

 

She went in, pushed two large cartons together and climbed in. Her breathing was almost normal when a squeaky sound made her cover her mouth to stop from screaming. The sound was right outside of her box. There were short sniffing sounds. Small beady eyes looked into hers. It was a rat that was as afraid of her as she was of it. She leaned against the cardboard, bent her knees , put her head on them and her hands over her ears. Without realizing it, Casey fell asleep.

 

Sounds reached her, affected her dreams. There were sirens, whistles, ambulances. People were searching, searching, looking in car trunks, vestibules. When she woke there was silence—for a while.

 

Shuffling feet came closer and closer to the swing door with the  loose lock. The rough edge creaked as it opened. Footsteps stopped near her. A carton bumped her carton. Someone was humming a song she didn’t know. It stopped. The carton beside her moved. A black hand reached into hers, grabbed her by the shoulders, shook her, pulled her out of her hiding place. ‘What the heck are you doing here?’ he asked twice. At last she was able to answer, ‘I’m hiding.’ ‘Any fool can see that. What from?’  She answered truthfully, ‘From Jack. He hates me because I told on him and he is going to beat me to a pulp, he said.’ The black man asked more questions. Her answers explained the sirens, the police in the area, the same people he didn’t want to see.

 

‘Call me Mason. You don’t even know that the police, your family, friends are out searching for you, do you? Come on with me.’ Casey was afraid to stay where she was and afraid to go with Mason.

 

She chose Mason. He took her up and down alleys, trying to find the ones she had used. At last she relaxed enough to tell him her house was around the next alley. There were two policemen talking to her parents who were sitting on the old green bench near the curb. The rest of the street was empty, house lights dim. Casey and her parents saw each other at the same time and ran to each other, bumped hard and laughed.

 

The officers handcuffed Mason, tried to get him into their car. He kept hollering, ‘ I didn’t do nothin’.’ Casey pulled out of her mother’s arms and rounded on the back of one officer, yelling, ‘Let him go. Let him go. He didn’t do ‘nothin’. ‘ Mr. Mason saved me from the rats and from Jack catching me and then beating me to a pulp. Please let him go.’

 

They did --but first got Jack’s full name and address.

What a day! - LOST

Macy’s elevator was packed almost to the overload limit. I had been one of the first on and was pushed to the rear wall. My stop was to be the third floor. As I tried to get thru something, someone, groped my leg. On my left was a gray bearded man, long curls twisting from his sideburns.  His large black hat cleared away any doubts I might have had. I could recognize and orthodox Jew from twenty five yards away. My parents’ parents lived the holy life but it wasn’t for my parents, nor for me. We became agnostics. The bearded Jew could not possibly be the groper.  Two gabbing ladies intent on reaching the lunch room before it became over-crowded, weren’t feeling my leg either. They got off and I spotted the feeler, a child, or maybe a midget with   reddish-blond hair, green eyes, a fresh pinafore dress and Mary Jane black buttoned shoes was the culprit. Taking a wild guess, I figured her to be 3 years old. Darn, I had missed my floor, got thru the thinning group on five.

 

The child had hold of my skirt, looked up at me and tearfully said, ‘My Mommie is lost.’ Adorable or not, I wasn’t her Mommie, or anybody’s Mommie. I told her to get lost like her Mommie did. She cried harder. ‘Sorry, Kid, I came to buy new pillows not be a nursemaid.’ The child didn’t let go of my skirt. ‘’What’s your name, little girl?’ I asked. She must not have heard me so I asked again. Her tiny voice answered, ‘Annie.’ Progress. ‘When did your Mommie get lost, Annie?’ There was silence. There was no choice. My arms went around her. ‘Come with me, Annie. Let’s go find her.’

 

At the first cashier’s desk I interrupted the clerk’s ring-up. ‘This little girl’s mother got lost. Will you please contact the right place so her mother will come here for her? I have things to do, not be a nurse maid.’ The nasty cashier replied, ‘So do I. I am waiting on a customer and you and the child can be patient.’ My temper was rising near the boiling point. The careless customer couldn’t find her charge plate so the cashier had to get other identity, call in for approval, while I paced the floor. Annie stood next to me, still holding on to my skirt. I turned my attention to the customer and asked her to please let the cashier take care of the child. Her answer was, ‘I have things to do too. Let the little girl wait.’

 

I gritted my teeth, barely held on to my wrath and walked to the next station. It was unattended. Annie looked up at me, tried to whisper, I have to make wee wee.’ Just what I needed. ‘Hold it, Annie. We’ll find a place.’ Not ten feet away I saw an arrow on the wall leading to the rest rooms. The perfumed odor immediately nauseated me. But I managed to get to a booth, cover the seat with toilet paper like my mother taught me to do, and lift Annie up. All of the tissue went into the toilet. Her pink panties were around her ankles and still dry. ‘Thank you, Lord,’ I mumbled. Annie was trained. She went directly to the sink and spread her hands for me to wash them. The little girl definitely has a mother someplace.

 

My shopping trip was curtailed. The pillows would have to wait. Around the bend where Jones NY was on display, were two salesladies and a gentleman wearing a Macy tag with ‘ Mr. Dunlop, Manager’ scrolled in red. ‘Excuse me, Mr. Dunlop but you are just the person I need to see. ‘This little girl, her name is Annie, told me her mother got lost. Would you please announce over the store emergency line that Annie is looking for her mother? I don’t even know Annie’s last name.’ Mr. Dunlop asked her if she has two names. She shook her head ‘yes.’ Well, what is it, Child?’ ‘Dat.’ ‘Annie Dat,’ she answered. Of course, none of us thought that could be her name but it was  all we had. ‘Annie,’ I asked,’ do you have one more name?’ This time she answered, ‘Honey. Mommie calls me Honey.’

 

The manager called his office and got things rolling. The message came out with too much static. My ‘ ward’ and I were taken to the Security office where the sound system was cleared. We sat and waited and waited for Mrs. Dat to appear. Several ladies came in to tell us they saw an excited woman running around the store, calling for Annie, saw her go out the door about 10 minutes ago. Without rapping, a harried, frantic woman almost fell into the office. Her hair was wild. Her face was lined with exhaustion. Annie ran to her. ‘Mommie, why did you get lost?’

 

‘Mrs. Dat, Annie was holding my leg on the elevator and must have thought I was you. She was very frightened and wouldn’t let go of me. She thought you were lost. I couldn’t leave her on the elevator so we both went looking for you ‘

 

After calming down and thanks were given, Annie’s mother asked me why I called her Mrs. Dat?’  ‘Annie told us that was her second name and Honey was her third. Mr. Dunlop and I opted for ‘Dat’ because Honey didn’t sound right either.’

 

‘Thank you again. The family name is Dataria, too much for my three year old to say.’ She turned to Annie, took her hand and said, ‘Let’s go home, Honey and you can practice saying Dataria.’

 

They left me feeling happy but drained. Mr. Donlop gave me a gift certificate for two pillows of my choice, value $50. I still had time to make a selection.

A start that ends itself: A TALE TOLD

The events in this story are based on police records. All names and locations have been altered to protect the innocent. Read my tale with a large box of Morton’s  Salt beside you.

 

It is December 1 and winter has set in and I am set out on the street. Mr. Goodson, my landlord, (I scoff at his name) sent the police to evict me from my one and a half room lodging. The half consisted of a small area that held a sink with no sideboard and a single cabinet on which I kept the microwave I picked up at Goodwill. There were three narrow drawers that held my forks, knives and spoons, odds and ends, plus a hammer, two screw drivers, a stapler and note paper. One double wall socket had to suffice as did the ceiling light that sometimes flickered.
My bedroom had a lumpy sleep sofa, a single chair, a nite stand and dresser with wobbly knobs. The usually occupied bathroom down the hall had a shower in the tub and 4 tenants trying to cooperate with each other, keeping the place clean.

 

I am sitting on the cold cement steps on 14th St. My few possessions are in two cardboard cartons the super market allowed me to have. Passersby glance at me, ignore my plight. So far I have not asked for alms but that day may be nearing. A single snowflake wets my nose. The gray sky is ready to let loose. Other flakes gently fall around me.

 

A black still shiny, undented sedan pulls into the curb in front of what was my home. A neatly dressed man gets out of the driver’s seat, looks me over and approaches. He nods to me and asks if I live in this building. I reply, ‘ I did until yesterday.’ Another and another question follows. ‘What are you doing out here with those boxes? Do you have a job? Do you have any place to go? What is your name? Would you like to have breakfast with me?’ I ratatattat my answers. ‘Waiting, No, No, Harold Kopinski, Yes, I would, thank you.’ Whoever he is, whatever he wants, I am ready to hear him out.

 

‘Mr. Kopinski, you can leave off the ‘Mister’ and just call me ‘Angelino. Let me help you with your cartons. I think they will fit nicely in my trunk. Then we can walk around the corner to a pleasant, warm all nite automat. Have you ever been to Augie’s?’ ‘Not in a long time, Sir.’ Little, itchy nerves begin to go down my back and I hesitate to go, but not for long.

 

I carry the heavier box that has all of my clothes and some towels, 2 pillow cases and two sheets  stacked on top of the microwave. The lighter one has a few cans, Sweet ‘n Low that I got from wherever I see it available, a plastic cup, three plates in different colors, and two water glasses. Small but important items are in a pouch over my shoulder. My razor and blades, shampoo, two bars of soap, ½ box of Kleenex pretty much cover my belongings.

 

Mr. Angelino hands me two one dollar bills before we go into Augie’s. He suggests I change them to coins and I tell him, I wasn’t born in Siberia. ‘Just don’t treat me like I’m dog dirt.’ We put our selections on trays and get down to business. ‘O.K., Mr. Kopinski, I need a smart man to do something for me I can’t do.’ I stop him cold. ‘I am not a killer. I won’t even hurt anyone for you. I won’t steal or start a fire.’
‘No, you won’t have to do any of those things. Let’s go into my car and I will explain.’

 

We return to his sedan and there is a ticket on the windshield. Angelino flies into a rage. The officer wrote the driver was parked too close to a fire hydrant. ‘Send check to the DMV by Dec. 12.’ Angelino starts to tear it up, stops for a moment, folds the ticket carefully and slips it into his jacket pocket.

 

When he calms down a little, I learn what he wants me to do, kidnap his son. His wife had absconded with his five year old son when the judge awarded joint custody to each of them. He has been searching for them for six months with no luck. They certainly are not in NY but must be in the States as her entire large family is here, spread in at least eight states, in big cities- LA, Philly, Chicago.

 

I listen. He makes a fantastic monetary offer to me but no money, not even his money, would get me to traipse around this country searching for a mother and child. Tears, real tears run down his face. My heart is tender, about to break but it is a ridiculous thing he is asking. ‘Tell me no more, Angelino. You picked the wrong guy. ‘ But, but, I didn’t even tell you about expenses, cars, hotels, that I’ll pay for. I’ll put it all in writing for you and get it notarized.’

 

He has locked all the doors in his car. I can’t get out. Our voices rise. I push him, he pushes me back. I take a swing at his head and he falls on the steering wheel. That is my chance. I reach over him and unlock the passenger door, jump out and start to run down the street. Angelino comes after me, screaming, yelling, ‘Help, help. Stop that man.’ A policeman blows his whistle and stops me. I am accused of stealing Angelino’s wallet and when I am searched, it is found in my pocket.

 

This was a wild, an insane day that worked out well. I had a good, hot breakfast that didn’t cost anything. I proved to the officer that my belongings were in the trunk of Angelino’s car and I have a place to sleep for a few nights while the snow melts.

 

My possessions I was told are in the locker area and I have a solitary cell in jail. It’s better than on a park bench.

Stop him. He's goofy: SPARE THE ANCHOVIES

Sal leaned over the red checked table cloth to give me the first slice of our favorite thin, 12 inch pizza. The smell curled around my face, corkscrewed up my nose and I sneezed, sneezed hard. Sal jumped in surprise and the entire tray fell to the floor. The clatter turned all eyes on us.

A busboy came from nowhere, gathered the greasy mess and disappeared. In another minute busboy two appeared with a wet mop. He slopped it around and dried the floor with paper towels. Mickey, our waitress, was a cool cucumber. With a slight look of disgust, she managed a smile, cleared our table and told us a new pizza was already in the oven for us. ‘Mr. Thomaso said there will be no charge for the new one.’

A buttinski at the table next to us touched Sal’s shoulder to give him good advice. ‘Be smart, sue this place. Their trays should have higher edges.’ Sal and I gave him an acid-cold look. ‘Who asked for your advice, Bub? Mind your own business.’ Mr. Butt, didn’t like Sal’s attitude, pushed his chair back enough so he could stand, and poured a glass of water on Sal’s head. That did it. The brawl began in earnest.

Mr. Thomaso reached the men quickly, too quickly. He slipped, banged into our table and landed flat out on the floor. Rising, he brushed off his white coat, straightened his big chef hat and addressed both men at once, ‘And just who do you want ME to sue?’ The big mouth instigator was quick. ‘Go screw yourself, Mr. Thomaso,’ and adds an apology. ‘I meant to say ‘go sue yourself.’ Some of the anger lessened but did not end.

Either our waitress or Mrs. Thomaso had called the police. Two officers, billy clubs ready, took immediate charge of the melee. They looked around and asked, ‘Who started the trouble. Who hit who first?’ Sal and I pointed directly at buttinski. ‘He claimed I dropped a piece of pizza on his shoes and ruined them.’ Could I keep quiet? No. ‘If any of the sauce from the pizza that accidentally slipped off our tray, found it’s way under our table, under his, I’ll lick it off myself. It just couldn’t have happened.’ In a second the trouble maker slipped off his shoe and showed the officer some sauce and a piece of drying up spaghetti on the toe of his shoe. ‘Mister,’ said the policeman, ‘ how can you can tell where that tiny bit of sauce came from? Does Mr. Thomaso put name tags on his pizzas? Now all of you, go back to your tables, get your belongings, pay what you owe and skedaddle.’

Mrs. Thomaso came out of the kitchen carrying two pizza boxes. They were wilting with steam. She handed each of us a pizza at no charge. Now go home.’  I took one and headed for the door. Mr. Butt opened his box and got as red hot as the pizza. ‘Mrs. Thomaso, I had ordered a Chicago style pizza with anchovies and pepperoni. This one is plain and too thin. Are you trying to cheat me?’ I took Sal by the hand and insisted we just get out of there fast.

As I pushed the door open, I heard a screechy scream, turned and saw Mr. Butt wearing a pizza hat. He tore it off his head and threw it on the floor. Not satisfied, he made a fist at Mrs. Thomaso and let out his breath.

‘You’ll get yours soon. I’m suing you for all your worth.’

She threw a garlic roll at him and he left.

Don't go, please don't: A LONG, LONG TRIP

If these legs of mine could only talk instead of walk, what stories would be told. They have seen it all and treasured the sights, the memories. There were dead dogs in the street, glorious, brilliant flowers dazzled my eyes. The rim of Mt. St. Helens has felt my step. Dances, streets, parades, kicks and fondling, sensations that still hurt,  please my mind.  Bristly hair has been shaved, broken bones set in heavy, miserable casts for too many months. The burning sand has set my feet, my legs on fire and glaciers have frozen them blue. Prayers said on straw mats, on velvet, on fur, on my knees, frighten, sadden me. My legs keep going. So do I.

I’ve done my time. My attached limbs are long, lanky, need do nothing but lie still in bed, feet resting on two stacked pillows to make my ankle swelling go away. The dermatologist has found brown, scaly spots to be zapped, spots caused by the hot sun on yellow sandy days.  Varicose veins look like road maps to nowhere. Toes curl under. Small ones get longer. Long ones shorter.  My legs cry for the old days but no one hears, no one except me. They are my legs, my feet, and they have been good to me, taken me where ever I have ordered them to go. Now I must turn the tables on them, treat them kindly.

I lie in bed almost constantly. If I could cut a pee hole in the mattress, I might never get up. My ‘home’ is near the window that I have covered with heavy drapes. People, people, up and down the street, up and down the stairs, the curbs, into cars annoy me. I don’t want to see them anymore and they sure as hell don’t want to see me either. There is little time left. It sometimes frightens me, enchants me to try to do it all over again, go where I want, wrap my legs around bodies I chased away.

My grandson softly taps on my door. ‘Can I come in Grandma?’ Oh, how I want to sing out, ‘Of course, of course,’ yet barely whisper, ‘Yes, Georgie, come in.’ He asks if he can sit on my bed and hold my hand. I pat the bed and direct him where to put his soft, young tush, take his hand in my yellow, bony fingers and look into his blue/green eyes. ‘Grandma, will you tell me the story again about the volcano? We are studying them in school and I can tell the class what happened to you.
I begin. ‘Georgie,  Georgie, Puddin’ pie. I kissed a man and made him cry.’ ‘No, grandma, the volcano story!’

‘O.K., Georgie. A guide was taking me and six men to the rim of Mt. St. Helens. Smoke and strong smells burned our noses. Fiery heat made us sweat and shake with fear. The day was sunny and clear. The world was spread before us. Suddenly we felt it shake. A terrible, terrible rumble of noise roared from inside the hole. Smoke and hot ashes flew out. Our guide screamed, ‘Run, run, run!’ We all tried. Fire was falling around us. I fell and started to roll down, down. My body felt like it was breaking into tiny pieces. I cannot explain how I reached safety but somehow I did. The guide and six men were never found.

And here I am, Georgie, my handsome young man, telling you a story I’ve told before, but now have another, a new one to tell you, if you promise me you will never, never tell a soul. It is my secret.’ ‘I promise, Grandma, I promise. Tell me, tell me.’

‘Georgie, I never went on that volcano trip. I never did any of the things I said I did. But, I haven’t lied to you. Since I was little and had a terrible disease called Polio, I have not walked out of this room of mine but my imagination soared me to  places that my mother told me about. She made drawings, showed me pictures from magazines, read to me about Christopher Columbus, the Pilgrims, Egyptians. My mother became my legs, my eyes so I could see, feel, touch everything.

But soon, Georgie, I will be going someplace that is going to give me peace and when I get there I believe with all my heart, I will walk again. What I want you to do for me, for yourself, is write my stories, maybe do an entire book, publish it. You and I may someday be famous. Call it , ‘Just Stories- Stories My Grandma Told Me.’

Now go downstairs, eat all your vegetables, watch the History Channel.  Start a Writing Book, maybe do the volcano story as the honest truth.’

Give me a cuddly hug. Good night, Georgie.’

 

 

 

Danger? SENT IN - ONE CLOWN

I walk alone. The streets are dark, empty. My heels click on the broken sidewalk. For me to imagine I am fearless, would be folly. Adrenaline flows hard and destructively like lava down Mt. Vesuvius. Tonight is my first big battle, my self-challenge to serve, to beat the odds. I have studied Tai Kwon Do and have mace tightly held in my hand. From my unzipped purse I can reach the small, but effective and licensed hand gun I bought 2 weeks ago. I have practiced, feel confident I can use it if I have to.

 

A heavy step behind me moves quickly, passes. The man is not interested in me but I am interested in him. I watch closely as he reaches the corner, crosses  back. A fast turn of my head and he is one block behind me. It’s not like me to sweat but I feel a wetness under my arms, on my forehead, my nose. ‘Don’t speed up. Don’t let him feel your fear,’ I tell myself, but am losing control. A smartness in a mind I didn’t know I had wakes me up. ‘Fool. Do you want to die? Cross the street to the lit pharmacy on that corner. Take refuge.’ The thumping heart tells me to listen. The determination I have been taught tells me ,’walk on. Be ready!’

 

And I am ready. I walk alone on the dark side of the street, hear what sounds like the same heavy step getting closer. ‘Pull yourself together. They are not the same. His heels scrape as if he has a slight limp. Let him pass you.’ I take a deep breath, lean on a parked car to wait for the limper to go away, but he seems to have  evaporated into thin air. I look behind me, stare straight ahead.

 

Only two loud teens, maybe coked out, are laughing, coming my way. I give them room to pass, but not enough. One grabs my purse. The other grabs me, knocks me down on the cold pavement. I scream and he hits me in my mouth. Not a soul sees or hears me. He jumps on top of me, starts to rip off my clothes. Blood fills my mouth. My Police Cadet badge falls in the gutter.

 

I lie still and see a huge clown balloon rise above me. It bumps into a bent maple tree. Air hisses out as it falls over me. We die together.

2nd CHANCE: FR0M HERE TO-----

It is not unusual that I am surprising my children today. They are perfection, adorable, smart and I love them to pieces, spoil them and don’t care. Kim and Steve don’t ask for things. They don’t have to. Homework is done as soon as they come in. A hot or cold drink, a snack is waiting for them. Friends are always welcome. The wonder of it is I am appreciated, thanked. Jonah, our leader, lets me do as I wish but is not a spoiler. I am enough for both of us.

 

Our children don’t come home from school until 3:30 which gives me plenty of time to shop, shop, shop for them. Kim is seven, Steve is twelve. My favorite place for new clothes is Mel & Clair’s Young Set. Help is pleasant, well-trained, doesn’t push. They know me, my children’s sizes and preferences. Still I enjoy just looking around, imagining how Kim will look in this or that. Today I see a mannequin being newly dressed in a soft green pleated skirt, topped with an orange blouse with small yellow flowers and green leaves. A green sweater is tossed over the shoulder. I love it and so will Kim.

‘Claire, Steve fell and the knee on the jeans I bought last week can’t be fixed decently. Do you have another pair?’ Charge card approved and I head home, happy as a lark.

 

Everything goes like greased baking pans. Kim sets the table while I fix a delicious dinner. Steve finishes his homework and starts making phone calls. Jonah comes home punctually at 5:45, has a beer, watches the 6 o’clock news and I serve dinner at 6:30. After the dishes are loaded in the washer and the kitchen is spick and span, a tap tap on the bannister alerts us that Kim is about to model her new outfit. She comes into the den, twirls, spins and bows. We, including Steve, all applaud. Kim goes to bed at 9:15, Steve at 10:30 and I am asleep by 11, not knowing when or if Jonah comes to bed. Night flies away on moonbeams. Dawn breaks up the dark sky. I wait until 6 before dressing, and, as usual, go down stairs.

 

Steve, I don’t recognize. This man is about 30 years old. He comes in for coffee before he goes to work. I ask him if the new jeans fit ok. ‘What jeans, Mother? I haven’t worn jeans in 10 years. ‘ I get frightened, dizzy. I think I am going to throw up.

 

A pretty young lady, surely in her twenties, comes over and kisses me, ‘Good morning, Mother,’ she says. I wretch. ‘What happened to the green pleated skirt I bought for you yesterday? It won’t fit you now,’ I say to this stranger.

 

A bright yellow light explodes in my head and I grab my grown children, almost suffocate them with love. ‘I know what happened. I fell asleep while old films of Martin Luther King reciting his famous line were shown for the millionth time. ‘I have a dream,’ and I must of dreamed you were still my little darlings.’

 

And you are except I’ll change your title to ‘ You are my not so little darlings. Come here, give me a hug and go where you have to go.’

 

They go and I am alone to ponder, to remember, to enjoy their childish times again.

Do you know her? AGING

My mother is getting old. Her eyes have already lost their glow. Her skin is yellowing, crinkling like faded newspapers. There are moments I believe she has a slight tremor in her hand and I worry, worry a lot, without mentioning it to her. Sitting with her and Dad at their dinner table, I can catch glimpses of them nodding to each other as if email was going back and forth under the table.

Mother still loves to cook. She can make and serve a bologna sandwich that will taste like a juicy burger. To have a bowl of soup, you will need a knife. Just about every imaginable healthy veggie goes in. To this day she saves the meat and bones for me. I like to suck out the marrow and have my claim in since I was a child.

It has reached the point that I can’t help noticing her grow shorter as her spine begins to curve. ‘Mother, do try to throw your shoulders back when you walk. You look so much better when you do,’ I tell her. Spit and vinegar pour from her lips and a sneer creeps from her mouth. Her green eyes turn to ice. ‘You mean I’m not pretty any more?’ she whines and then astonishes me when she bursts out laughing. ‘Daughter, I am not only getting old, I am old, but I still have my wits. My eyelids droop yet I can see most things without glasses and what I see is not pleasant.’

With that, Mother abruptly changes the subject. ‘How about helping me back an apple pie? I’ll put the dough together and you can roll it IF
you use the rolling pin that’s on the top shelf of the right hand kitchen cabinet. That was a wedding gift my mother got75 years ago,  and it is still good.’ ‘Mother, calm down. of course, I know that. You must have told me 500 times. Do you have enough juicy apples?’ The question riles her. ‘Would I ask you to help me make an apple pie if I didn’t have apples? There is a five pound bag, each apple carefully examined before I bought it, in the fridge. The peeler is where it always is. Let’s do it!

We do ‘do it’. We laugh, have fun but Mother can’t take the pie out of the oven. Her arms feel heavy. She looks frightened but not enough to stop her from telling me what to do. ‘Put the silver trivet on the counter before you take out the pie.’

‘Yes, Mother.’

Good Old Days: HAVING FUN

Carnival time! Pulaski was blocked off from North to Presbury St. When the sun went down and ‘Myrt and Marge’ was over, everybody, well almost everybody, headed for the Carnival. Daddy gave me a whole quarter and told me not to spend it all in one place. I didn’t. My first nickel went to the ferris wheel man. When an empty cage came around, he stopped the wheel, motioned for me to come up the ramp and held the seat steady for me to get on. ‘Are you all by yourself, little girl?’ he asked. ‘Sure, I’m by myself. I’m not a baby. I’m seven.’ He locked the pole across the carriage. I held on to it with all my might.

 

The grinding started. I moved one space skyward and stopped while somebody else got off. Somebody else got on. Higher and higher until all the seats were taken and I was at the very tip top of the wheel. Street lights sparkled, colors were everywhere. The moon was there to be touched and I was just a teeny bit scared. Passing the attendant the ride was smoother because all seats were full. I saw Mama and we waved to each other. Did she see how I was holding on like she told me? Did she see how high I went? I guess she did because mothers see a lot.

 

When my feet returned to the ground, I wasn’t sure what to do with the other twenty cents Daddy gave me. I walked past the penny pitchers whose pennies plopped in water. Nobody was winning anything. Spun sugar was bad for my teeth, Daddy said, but he didn’t mention chocolate apples on the stick with coconut. I bought one and oh was it good.

 

The merry music from the carousel beckoned but I was past that. It’s for babies. Mommies have to stand near their children, hold on to them, if their horses go up and down. Where should I go? What should I do with my money? I looked and looked for my mother to help me decide but couldn’t find her.

 

The clicking and clacking of wheels turning excited me. What is going on over there? People were crowding around a man wearing  a big red and white hat. He was calling out, ‘Step right up folks! There’s a winner every time! Put your money down, we’re ready to roll.’ In front of him was a long table covered with black oil cloth. There were big white numbers on it from one to the end. I could only see 20. ‘How much does this cost, Mister? Can I put my penny on seven? I’m seven years old. ’ ‘Sure can, Missy. Hand it to me and I’ll do it for you.’ Whirr, whirr, the wheel went round, slowed down and stopped, right on seven. The nice man patted me on the head and gave me a choice of a box of Post Toasties (I hated them) or a yellow box of Domino sugar.

 

I still had money to spend but I wanted to give my Mama a present. I could already taste the cold lemonade she would make with it. I raced home and happily showed her the present. ‘ It only cost me one penny to win it for you, Mama and if you want, I can help you squeeze some lemons.

 

Mama hugged me, thanked me and told me her lucky number was thirty six so she couldn’t play that game. ‘What, oh, what can I do with this penny I found,’ she asked. Taking my little hand, she cupped it and gave me back the penny I spent and two lemons to squeeze. 

Awakening: DID YA EVER SEE A DREAM WALKIN'?

I would like to say ‘yes’ because at first I thought I was dreaming—
but I was not. My sleep was interrupted by something bright like a silver star exploding. It frightened me so much that I screamed aloud. My heart beat as fast as Tito Puente’ pounded his bongo drums. The bedroom was almost dark, lit only by the moonlight that peeked thru the drapes. It felt like I was glued to the bed. I couldn’t even sit up–but I was up–wide awake.