One for the little one: THUS IT GOES

Supper isn’t finished yet. Mother and I are still arguing. She insists I eat my asparagus and I loudly tell her again, ‘I don’t like asparagus. You eat mine.’ Dad tells her to let me alone. ‘Sophia, Darla won’t be any healthier than she is if she eats every one or all of those squiggly things. I never saw one in my entire life until you put them on my plate fifteen years ago. I wouldn’t eat them then and still gag on just seeing them on a platter.’ My mother will not give in. ‘Carla, eat the asparagus or go to bed with nothing else to eat.’ I stand up and clop, clop my untied shoes to my room. I have to shut the door so I don’t hear those forever fights.

In my room I switch on the Emerson radio that sits like a queen on the small table it came with when Dad bought it on sale for my Christmas present last year. The Inner Sanctum door squeaks and I can picture it opening even with my eyes closed. Before the scary end, Daddy brings me a cold glass of chocolate milk and a Fig Newton. He pats me on my head, gives me a hug and tells me figs are healthy too. Most likely he sneaked past Momma when she went in the bathroom to clean the sink bowl of the toothpaste Daddy never washes away. ‘Darla,’ she calls.’

‘Turn off the radio and go to sleep. You have school in the morning.’ ‘Momma,’ I yell back. ‘I know I have school tomorrow. Let me alone. I can still smell that asparagus in my room! Just don’t save them for me.

I am not going to eat them ever.’

In the morning, breakfast is on the table. Daddy and Momma are fighting again. ‘Gil, you have to ask my mother to visit more often. She hardly knows Darla.’ Daddy’s face gets angry, mean. ‘Sophia, cut it out. Your mother hates me and I’m not too fond of her either. She isn’t welcome here.’ He turns to me, ‘Darla how would you like to stay with Grandma during Thanksgiving weekend? She will be very nice to you. She’s a good cook and won’t make you eat what you don’t like. What do you say?’ I surprise them both and agree to go to Grandma’s, eat in peace. ‘Let me tell you why I said I will go,’ I tell them. They stop fighting and listen. ‘Because I am sick of you two arguing all the time, over everything. Please ask Grandma if I can come.’ In the evening Daddy tells me Momma will take me on the bus to Grandma’s and bring me back on Sunday afternoon. I thank heaven at least one thing is settled.

As we often do, after supper we go outside, sit on the green wooden bench Daddy bought for us, not neighbors, not thieves. On Moving Night somebody steals the bench. When Daddy finds it missing in the morning, he flies into a rage, blames Momma and me for letting a kid steal his bench. I happen to be the one who finds it and get help to have it carried back to our house. Daddy goes right to the hardware store, buys a heavy chain and combination lock, attaches it to the cellar window frame and dares kids to pry it off.

As soon as the bench feels secure, we sit outside again. Daddy sits at one end, I am in the middle and Momma at the other end. We don’t touch. There is little to say for a long time. Finally, Daddy speaks up. ‘Darla, Mother and I have to ask you a question, a very, very important question. Don’t answer until you have time to think about it. Think hard.

Give us your answer in the morning.’ I sit still and wait for the frightening question. Daddy looks at Momma. She looks a t him. ‘Gil, you ask her.’ He starts and stops, starts and stops. At last I push him.’ So ask me already.’ Daddy says, ‘Honey, your mother and I have decided to get a divorce. Which of us do you want to live with?’ They have puzzled me. ‘What do you mean divorce?’ Daddy explains. Mother butts in. ‘Sweetie Pie, I promise if you stay with me I won’t make asparagus ever again. ‘ Daddy chokes on his words, ‘Darla, I am the money maker, I’ll buy you nice clothes, take you to the movies. We will have lots of good times. You know I love you more than Momma does, don’t you?’ I have to answer that one. ‘No, Daddy, I don’t know that. With that thought, I start crying, crying hard. ‘I don’t want to live with either of you. I want to live with both, like always. If only you try harder, not fight all the time, we can be one family.’ Momma and Daddy turn to me and I see they are crying too. Daddy takes my hand. Momma takes the other and they kiss my wet face.

We go inside together, sit down at the kitchen table without speaking. Momma goes to the refrigerator and takes out her super duper wonderful strawberry shortcake. She gives Daddy the biggest piece. I get the next biggest slice and she keeps a sliver for herself. Daddy reaches across the table, takes the sliver. She pulls it back in front of her. He cuts his big slice into three equal pieces and we all smile and dig in.

Mother takes the tiny sliver and slides it on to Dad’s plate.

 

Missing: INTO THE DARK

Day is just opening its eyes. My slippers are where I left them on the floor next to my side of the bed. They are turned so I can step right into them without bending over. Mary, my wife, barely moves but manages, in her still sleepy voice, to say ‘Goodbye, Lover. Be careful out there.’ She gets a quick but caring peck on her neck from me as I head towards the window to lift the shades.

I see nothing outside but gray, damp fog. It works magic on me and I get temporarily depressed. I pocket that feeling and go downstairs to fix my breakfast, a large glass of cold Florida O.J. to wash down my daily vitamin allowance, a package of Quaker instant oatmeal goes in the bowl Mary has left on the table for me as well as raisins in a plastic bag. I drown them in milk and they all get nuked together.

At 7:30 I am ready to go out in the gloom and add my black face to my neighbors as we head to the docks. The fog is almost impenetrable. I hear voices. Steps sound like they are in a distant cave. Nobody seems to see me. I feel invisible. Curley’s footsteps near me. He doesn’t stop. ‘Hey, Curley, what’s the hurry? Wait for me,’ I call. ‘Hey, are you deaf? Wait for me.’ Curley walks on and joins two of our fellow workmen, Jim and Malcolm.  Now I am really nervous. In the damp fog, I start to sweat. Are my buddies deaf, blind? Am I dead? My feet feel like they are in cement blocks yet I can lift them and rush ahead of Jim and Curley. Jim stops to pick up a quarter that may have fallen out of a hole in his pocket.

He swings right and still doesn’t see me. It’s as if I don’t exist. Like a whimpering child, I stand there, bewildered, really frightened. Malcolm asks, ‘Have any of you seen Tyrone since last night? ‘No,’ says Andy, ‘but I talked to him on the phone last night trying to set up a poker game. He couldn’t make it. I’ll call him now. Maybe he’s sick.’ I touch Andy’s hand but there is no response. I don’t want him to call Mary. She’ll worry too much. I knock the cell out of Andy’s hand. It drops on the cement pavement and may have cracked.

There are two huge container ships ready for us. Most of the gangs are ready. I am ready too but nobody knows it. Nobody sees me. The sun is making an effort to force itself into the day. I look up to where it should be and call out, ‘Hey, Lord, excuse my familiarity and my lack of coming to church every week, but I need you, need you now. Nobody sees me. Nobody hears me. If I am dead, just let me know. I’ll go anywhere you send me. Please, oh Lord. Help me!’

The sun begins to warm the sky, the air, the bay. The fog lifts its wings and flies north.

Curly, Jim, Malcolm have their backs to me as they get in line for assignments. I take one more chance and call out, ‘Hey, Curly, Jim, wait up. I’m in line behind you.’ The turn around and see me, actually see me. They wave. Curly yells the loudest, ‘Where the hell have you been. We’ve been worried about you, thought you might have died in the night.’

I pull myself together and say all I can. ‘Don’t sweat it, Guys. I’m here now and that’s good enough for me and will have to be good enough for you.’

Smarter than I knew: RING-RING, KNOCK-KNOCK

It’s 5:30 a.m. Without being aware of it, this is my deep dream time. The phone rings. My heart jumps into my throat. In half a second I am sure something bad has happened to my daughters, my son, my granddaughter. My shaking hand lifts the receiver. The receiver drops on the floor. Retrieved from where it had slid under my bed, I get a tight grip on the black devil and shout, ‘Hello! Hello!’ With a loud question mark in his reply, one calm word is said, ‘Dorothy?’ I bellow back, ‘This isn’t Dorothy, you jerk. Dial more carefully.’ I slam the phone down, start to crawl under my blanket and the phone rings again. This time I am not frightened. I’m just angry, burning angry. ‘Dorothy?’ ‘NO,’ is all he hears besides the fast cut off bam.

I’m up, take a quick trip to the bathroom. With little chance of falling to sleep, I still try and lie down on my bed, put both pillows over my head and can hardly breathe. The hell with it. The pillows, almost on their own volition, go sailing across the room. One hits the night light near the door and creates a quick flash and fizzle. The bulb shatters.

There is little on my calendar for today so I need not hurry to dress. In my robe and slippers I go to the kitchen, put four cups of water in my percolator and 6 spoonfuls of coffee in the filter, turn it on but the red light doesn’t obey. Oh, Oh. Maybe the breaking of the night light caused a short someplace. I manage that fine and the coffee begins to perk. Still angry at the demons who started my day so badly, I take a swallow of hot coffee and burn the roof of my mouth. Better get back in bed or I might burn the house down. ‘Wuthering Heights’ waits for my third enjoyable reading. After a few pages my eyes start to close.

Did I sleep? The clock shows 7:30 so I assume I did. The door bell rings. Again I am almost scared to death. Maybe the police are bringing me terrible news. A quick glance outside calms me, no police car, but there is a long black car at the curb. Knowing I can’t be heard outside from the upstairs hall, I yell down anyhow. ‘Who’s there?’ It’s unbelievable. In the same deep voice I heard at 5:30, I get an answer that remains a question. ‘Dorothy?’ At the top of my lungs I reply, ‘There is no Dorothy here. Go away or I’m calling the police.’ Once more he asks, ‘Dorothy?’ I watch from my window and see a well dressed man, looking quite debonair, walking to the black car. He drives away to I know not where and I feel better.

In the kitchen I run my tongue over my scorched palate, use my long pinkie finger and peel back the thin tissue. I wait about ten minutes and take a chance tasting barely warm coffee. Morning almost passes with little else happening. Haphazardly I dust the furniture, select what I will wear that is just right for such a pretty day doing nothing specific. My new blue walking outfit, the price tag still on the sleeve, speaks my name. It needs no alteration so I snip off the tag, fix my hair a little, attach my pedometer to the my waist band and set out for a half hour stroll.

That’s when I notice the mail box flag is up. The mail doesn’t come until late afternoon. It must be a neighborhood flyer. Let it rot in there. My pedometer in place on my waist band, my emergency cell phone in my jacket pocket, a few sheets of Kleenex in the other pocket, I start out.

Two blocks down the street at 2139 Peppermill St. I see what I am sure is the same black car that had been parked at my house. There, there, I shake. I see clearly it is the man who knocked on my door. Once or twice I’ve seen the lady who lives there but have only said hello to her. She has opened the door for him. It closes. Cautiously I walk up the path, reach the front steps and hear a blood curdling scream, and then absolute silence. My hands grab at my cell phone and I hit 911. As fast as I can I tell what I heard and about the man who had been to my house and beg for help–fast help.

Three police cars arrive almost instantly. I am questioned briefly and told to move away, go home. Well, I wasn’t going home but did cross the street. The man who went is has not come out the front. One police car has already gone around the back way. Two officers, guns drawn, approach the door while 2 stand on the sidewalk to keep the curious away. Another police car arrives and puts a boot on the black car. It will be there a while, for sure.

Next I see an ambulance, a Medical Examiner’s car pull into the driveway. All of the occupants go inside. One officer has yellow ribboned the entire area and then comes across the street to talk to me. ‘I need to know everything you saw and heard. Your name, address, etc.’ I am Mrs. Priscilla Morgan, a widow. I live alone at 2023 Peppermill St.’

He asks me if I knew Mrs. Dorothy Slatin well. I tell him only to smile to if I happened to see her. I have to check this out, ‘Officer, did you say her name was Dorothy?’ ‘Yes, Ma mam.’ ‘ Well, the man you have in custody was looking for her and called my house by mistake.’

I go home, call a Security company to install protection, throw out the coffee that has lingered too long on the sink and make fresh, thinking how lucky I am that my name is not Dorothy.

Save me one: WAKE UP CALL

At the weekly conference meeting I usually sit directly across the long, oval glass table from Marjorie Meadows. We pass each others desks often, smile or at least nod a hello. I don’t know if Marjorie is as sneaky as I am sometimes when once in a while I pretend I’m going over notes and ignore her.

The notice for today’s weekly conference meeting stresses full attendance required. All seats are taken before Mr. Carruthers, president of E Z Hair Color, has us all stand to salute the American flag.  It’s a quirk of his and we don’t object. Only Marjorie delays us while Carruthers calls her desk to tell her to get her rear in the meeting room NOW. Her being five minutes late cost her the one chocolate cream puff that has her invisible name on top. I shamelessly snatch and devour it. Coffee mugs remain on the table for refills from the big silver samovar Carruther’s mother gave him, a relic of her days in Russia.

Marjorie walks in, sits in her designated spot, relaxes in the tan butter milk soft leather chair. Mr. Carruthers coughs from deep in his chest and stands to make the important notice that we all knew was coming. He announces that E Z Way , our new product for mostly middle aged men, will be on the shelves of 5000 shops by next Friday. We all applaud. He goes on and on about his great expectations, figures to be made, T.V., magazine ads. ‘We will hit like Joe Louis hit Max Schmeling in their second bout. Louis beat hell out of the German Nazi. We’re on our way to great things!’

My mind wonders as Marjorie seems to be staring at me. I look her in her eyes and she drops them to repair a rough finger nail. While her attention is on the emery  board, I realize that she has many wrinkles I had not noticed before. There are deep furrows in her forehead. Today, of all days, her lipstick is too red and has smudged in the corners of her mouth. Her eyebrows are definitely penciled in with taupe brown to cover a few straggly gray hairs. They don’t. Marjorie starts going over the notes she made while Boss Man boasted of his business prowess and what he expects soon.

I try not to stare at Marjorie but can’t help myself. She has on stunning, dangling crystal earrings that touch her shoulders. Hasn’t she noticed her ear lobes have stretched, have no more elasticity? The jewelry today is clear but she has all colors, very elaborate or some plain as Jane. An avid sun worshiper means she has some kind of goop to cover the brown spots that don’t show under the long sleeved blouses she usually wears.

My name is called. Mr. Carruthers asks me if I am still conscious. ‘Have you heard any of what I have been saying for twenty minutes?’ I fumble with my notes and from a distance, hold up my ledger to show him how many pages I have filled. Big mistake! He asks me for the book so he can look over my thoughts when he returns to his desk. I am trapped.

Marjorie stands up and accidentally knocks over the dregs of hers to cover on to my notes. I gasp and wait while the coffee seeps into the pages. I then pass them down the table. As Mr. Carruther’s personal secretary reaches for them, amazingly, her coffee spills on the notes too. She apologies and wipes up the mess with monogrammed paper napkins. I am saved for a while.

When we are dismissed I thank my two cohorts. Marjorie asks me if she smudged her lipstick when she had part of her second cup of coffee.
‘No, Darling, you look lovely as usual,’ I tell her. She makes sure Mr. Carruthers is not in sight and puts her notes thru the copy machine, hands them to me and suggests, I don’t use them verbatim.

The day is over. I stop at the best bakery in all of Pittsburgh and buy a dozen and a half chocolate cream puffs, have them put on a platter with a dome cover. They are there on Marjorie’s desk, along with a vase of lovely pink tulips, when she arrives at her desk in the morning.

Alone together: LUST LOST

Jan and I have discussed a vacation together for years and always come to the same conclusion, it won’t work well. In 2008 we believe we have mellowed and it is time we seriously consider going someplace in Europe together. There are many advantages to be had. Single rooms cost as much as double so we can get twins beds. Guides, cabs rates are divisible by two. We decide to see a travel agent but don’t know of anyone in particular and go on line. Yowee, there must be 20 within two miles of our apartments.

Before we make a decision we argue if we should go on a Greek cruise or land trip through Italy. We both want both. The childish and only way to decide is a coin flip. Jan tells me to flip. She has chosen heads, Italy. I want to go on a cruise thru the Greek Islands. I flip the quarter too high. It wobbles and rolls in the gutter. We lose it. I toss a nickel and it lands tails up for Greece. The die is cast. Jan looks a bit glum but doesn’t bitch. My exuberance is held in check.

The biggest, most interesting URL on line for travel agents in our area is Acropolis Tours and we head over there. Andrea, the agent, loads us with brochures, suggests we use a Greek ship that is run by Greeks and many natives vacation on it. It is smaller than French and American ships, much friendlier and less costly. Meeting Greeks will give us a real taste of the islands. Jan and I promise to decide soon but we don’t. It takes us two weeks and by then the Parthenon is fully booked.

I give Jan hell. ‘It’s your fault. Now we have to select another ship fast or the islands will be overflowing with college students. That’s when I am shocked. Jan has changed her mind. Let’s go to Italy!’ She calls Margo, the agent who gave us all the Greek info, and Margo no longer works for Acropolis tours. We call another agency, the Globe,
explain what we are after and are asked if we can come in as soon as possible. ‘As soon as possible?’ I ask. ‘How’s fifteen minutes?’ Carla has lots of brochures piled on her desk. Jan and I think this is a good omen. This agent is on the ball. First we give her the dates we want, two weeks between May 1 and 30,  Rome is a must, Venice a double must, Venice a high priority, the Sistine Chapel.  If possible, we would like to go to Capri. We definitely want escorted tours, shared rooms in decent hotels, private baths, breakfasts available. Our conversation is taped. Carla studies her computer, finds the best routes, plane connections, discounts, even suggests tour guide tips. All this she prints out for us and gets serious.

‘Are your passports in order?’ ‘Oh, my lord!’ Jan and I shout out as one. ‘No, we don’t have them yet!’ The agent gasps. ‘How could you not have gotten them yet? How could you not realize they take time?’ Carla gives us a pre-printed list of where to go, what we have to bring and the cost. I don’t know about Jan’s heart but mind races wildly. ‘The cost for a rush passport is now $150. First we have to get passport photos made by next Monday and then stand in line at the passport office, probably most of the day. It is possible you won’t get discount plane tickets, but that doesn’t matter much as the discount prices disappear as all airlines charge for baggage now.

Carla goes on and on. ‘You really should have cancellation insurance. That costs $500. ‘I want to help you ladies but doubt that I can. I can’t book anything until you have your passports in hand. I suggest you do that and come back in June so we can make early fall arrangements for you. That would be after August 15 when thousands and thousands of college students return home and October 15 when weather can be iffy. Non-stop, Carla remarks, ‘Call me this afternoon so I can check to see if there is any possibility you two nitwits can go where you want, when you want.’

Jan turns bright red. She is broiling hot, ready to spit. ‘How dare you call us nitwits! You are the nitwit. Put your brochures back in their slots and erase our taped conversation.’ She roughly hands me my purse and thrusts hers under her arm.. With her head held high enough that her nose could freeze, she stomps out of the travel agency. I tail behind her.

We stand outside and I tell her I can’t spend so much money on photos, a passport, insurance and besides, I can’t go any place with a hot head like she is. I am forced to drive her home. As she gets out of my clinker car, I call her. ‘You were right, Jan, to be so insulted but Carla was right too.

See you tomorrow. Maybe we can make plans for skiing in Vermont for Christmas.’

A question: SMART SOME OF THE TIME

Hop, shuffle, flap, step, step. My shiny leather shoes had taps, big, heavy metal taps and gro- grain ribbons tied across my white anklets. How I prayed for them. Finally Mama, after talking to my Aunt Sarah, agreed I, along with her daughter Roz, my best friend and cousin, could take tap dancing lessons. Oh, how happy we were. We all went together. Mama give Miss banks five dollars.
There were eight other girls in the class but Roz and I were the only news ones. We did try hard to do everything Miss Banks told us to do but our feet got mixed up and she had to make everybody start over. If only we could dance our own way, the way we did in our shows, we'd be ok.
One problem was Carsey who was put between Roz and me. She was so pretty with her long brown curls bouncing as she did her military tap. Her new teeth came in straight and very white. She had black silk shorts and a long sleeved white satin blouse. All Roz and I had were our shoes and two mothers who thought we were Shirley Temples. They found out soon enough that no Bill Robinson or James Dunne was waiting for us.
After three lessons Mama and Aunt Mollie both knew they were throwing their money away and had us removed. My mother tried to sell my tap shoes to a new girl that came in before we finished our last lesson but they didn't fit her. I was glad because Mama had bought my shoes one size too big and had stuffed the toes with cotton. That meant the shoes were mine and I could tap every Saturday morning when Uncle Jack's Kiddie show was on the radio. I pretended I could see Pepper and danced on the hardwood floor until my Daddy sent a signal from his office below me, to stop that noise.
Be that as it may, nobody could convince Daddy that his little girl was not another Michelangelo. Saturday nights we bought the American from the boy on the corner but waited for the Sunday Sun to be delivered in the morning. Two papers were extravagant, but a good investment, as they kept my hands busy for hours. The mischievous Katzenjammer Kids, Mutt and Jeff, Andy Gump with ugly, but I could copy them perfectly. Min, Colonel Hoople, Popeye were all my friends, fun to read, then to draw. Miss Belaga, my father's secretary, had lots of typing paper in the top right hand drawer of her desk and Daddy had a pencil sharpener attached to his office wall. What more could I want, what more did I need?
Daddy called me downstairs to show my drawings to fat ladies with their mouths stuffed with cotton, to mothers standing near their frightened kids, to men with fingers tightly gripping the dental chair. They were at his mercy. Of course, they nodded, smiled at my efforts. My daddy believed them, told me over and over again that I was going to be a great and famous artist when I grew up.

Daddy was very smart about a lot of things, but not about his talented daughter's future. He goofed.

Strange: GOLDEN HEART

This is the story I wrote 2 days before I received an email to watch and listen to the New Tenors. I was stunned  that my story has my character, Donnie , as an ending doing what the tenors do and more. The same song IN Italian, the same ability the tenors have. It darn near frightened me.  Would love to know your thoughts.

It’s easy to see, recognizable immediately. His mongoloid eyes betray him. Donnie waits near the men’s room or the elevator or at the revolving door. He is an idiot, a wonderful, happy, helpful idiot. His big smile makes me want to hug him, be nice to him but this boy wants nothing except to do little things for the world.

Today he recognizes me before I come thru the revolving door. He leans in and pushes hard making it faster and easier for me to get my small brief case through. One step out and there he stood, erect like the soldiers he sees on Tov. I don’t give him a chance to ask for my brief case. I just hand it to him. He salutes me and walks me to the elevator. A few times I’ve seen his loving mother bring him a brown lunch bag or a few cookies in a zip lock bag. When she leaves, he gives the cookies to the first child he sees.

My friend, Irma, and I ask Donnie’s mother if we can take him to lunch and buy him a sweater for his birthday. At first she says ‘No,’ then changes her mind and asks Donnie if he wants to go with us Saturday. His joy is complete. He claps his hands and lets his head wobble like the Groucho Marx doll on his daddy’s dashboard. ‘Yes, yes! I want to go!’
At 10 a.m. Donnie and his Mom are waiting for us Macy’s . Donnie smiles, salutes us and wants to carry our purses. We draw the line but wait for him while he goes around the revolving door three times.

We head to the sweater department and he runs around picking up hangers that have fallen on the floor, talking to a little girl in a stroller who is drinking from a baby bottle. He pats her belly very lightly and tells her to be a good girl. Donnie looks at the piles of sweaters, slip over, button down, turtle neck and decides he likes a red turtle neck. When he tries it on, he likes it so much he doesn’t want to take it off.

He sits down on the floor and won’t budge. The clerk needs the sweater to record the sale but Donnie is adamant, won’t give it to her. She brings a small scissors and cuts off the tag. We are all happy.
‘Ready for lunch, Donnie?’ ‘Yes, Miss Irma. May I have a pizza?’
We head to California Pizza, wait in a long line, keeping our eyes on Donnie who wants to take customers to their tables. At last he settles down and asks if he can stand and sing a song. Irma and I tell him that would be nice even though we only expect ‘Row, row, row your boat.’

Donnie holds on to the back of his chair, straightens his back, tossles his rich black hair and opens his mouth. Out comes a rich ‘che bella nosa na jurnata ‘e sole.’ ‘Irma and I recognize it but don’t understand the words. It is the beginning of ‘O Sole Mia.’ The diners around us stop talking, applaud and ask Donnie to sing the whole song. He tells them his pizza will get cold. ‘Maybe we can come back tomorrow and I will sing for you.’ Wow, wow. What is this phenomena? Not another word is said except to the waitress. ‘May we have our check please?’ We get it and leave.

Near the escalator is a grand piano. When alone I always find a comfortable seat and just listen to a few melodies the pianist runs off without music in front of him. He is playing ‘Moonlight Sonata’ as we pass. Donnie doesn’t ask us, he just walks over to the piano, sits down next to the pianist and starts playing the high keys. Silence reigns around us. The solist gets up and Donnie plays thru the entire piece of music. A crowd gathers. There is surprise. There is applause. Donnie salutes everyone and is ready to go home, show his mother his new red sweater. At his door, Irma and I just bubble over, tell his mother how Donnie sang, played the entire Moonlight Sonata without music.’ Mrs. Adams glows until I think she must explode. ‘People call my boy an idiot and he is a Savant Idiot. He can do many wondrous things. Next Tuesday he will be on the Today show, 9 a.m. ‘Thank your friends, Donnie.’          

He does and we thank him back.

VERY, VERY POWERFUL. VERY, VERY TRUE!

There is not one fabrication. Not one enlargement of the truth.

Do take the time to see this. For the non-believers, BELIEVE what you read, what you see with your own eyes.

Click HERE.

Blind?: PLANE OR GAIN?

 PLANE OR GAIN?

It’s 10:30 a.m. on a gorgeous Sunday morning. I, unlike my neighbor, Jim Crawford, have not yet started my lawn mower. He woke me and most every one else on this block at eight. In spite of my disgust at his disregard for others, I give him a ‘good morning’ greeting. Maybe he wasn’t looking but he did not acknowledge my presence. ‘Nuts to you, Jim,’ I say to the whirring lawn mower next door and start my own
chore.

I work systematically, starting at the farthest edge near the alley, follow the outer edges, end in the center of the lawn. Jim lets me know I am stupid and should walk in circles like he does. More than once I have told him to mind his own business. Today he is just finishing as I start and I feel relief.

As he cleans the motor, starts to rake, I hear a loud noise in the sky. It cannot be thunder. My first frightening thought is two planes have crashed into each other. I run under the porch in case debris starts to fall and I laugh at my pitiful attempt to protect myself. Jim must not have heard it as he has gone inside.

There is another boom and a flash. Guesstimating I figure 150 feet above my house. That is too close for comfort. Maybe 1000 would be better. The flash flashes again. ‘Mollie, Mollie, come quick. My Mollie is making pancake batter. She opens the screen door and I point, ‘Look, look up there, way over the chimney. What is that silver thing? ‘How do I know, Gary? You’re the scientist in this family.’ ‘O.K., Molly. I’ve ruled out a plane, a lost condor and a meteor would have hit by now. Then I give a bog ‘YOW!’Mollie it looks like a person. Go call the newspapers, the police.’ My wife tells me I am insane and she refuses to make such inane calls. I don’t argue, run in the house myself and am ridiculed off the phone by fools.

As I return to the lawn, there is the loudest explosion of all. Grey smoke, flames burst near the horizon. Sirens, fire engines fly in, from and to all directions. I catch a fast glimpse of something metallic, gold colored, roundish, sailing upside down to oblivion. On the bottom that might be the top, I make out the dome of a mosque, the one way over near the Pentagon.

The giant of a person I thought I saw before the explosions comes down, closer to me. My god, it IS Superman in a new outfit. His cape is shiny silver. On his chest is a is a big red crest with a shiny Silver ‘S’ in the center. As he comes even closer, he gives me two thumbs up and whoosh he is gone. Another blast, another mosque dome, white, twisted explodes. Super man and the domes have gone their separate ways.

Women in our neighborhood, women I have never seen before, come out of the woodwork. There are dozens of them, veiled, enclosed in their burqas except for their frightened eyes. Where have these women been hiding? I am nervous wondering what, who else is ready to wipe out the USA?

I don’t want these people here. Let them go back to their own countries. Call me names, call me stupid. I don’t care at all.

Once more I look to what was the beautiful blue sky and it is gray. My day, my sunny day, and heaven knows what else, has been ruined. Smoke blows in every direction, settles down, messes up my home, my neighborhood, my life.

My cell phone jiggles in my pocket. It is Jim Crawford. ‘Hey, Buddy, when you finish your lawn, want to take a ride with me to see what happened to the downtown mosque?

All I can say is. ‘No thank you. I know what has happened to it and am looking forward to seeing more of them go up in smoke. You go if you want.  So long, ‘Buddy.’

Stranger in the day: STRANGE FELLOW

It is said that the large white house (truly a mansion) is occupied by Arnold Goodfellow. Not I, nor any of my acquaintances has ever seen this man. We have nicknamed him ‘The Phantom Awayfellow.’ On the rare occasion I drive past his manicured lawn, the white marble lady in the fountain is spurting water from her breasts. No caretakers are in sight, no cars, no limos, chauffeurs in the long driveway. Next to the black wrought iron gate is a large bronze letter box. A chain and lock keeps its contents out of nosey hands, hands such as mine might be, if the occasion to peep comes up unexpectedly.

My route to work doesn’t pass Goodfellow’s but I force it every few weeks, drive by slowly and am disappointed every dang time. Nothing  happens, little changes. The grass remains manicured without a single mower mark. Not once have I seen the front door or any window open.

This week I see a gold colored flag on the mailbox. In its center is a purple circle. My curiosity piques, is about to erupt. What does the strange flag mean? I begin asking my friends if they have noticed the flag. Some have and some have not. I suggest the colors somehow make me think of Afghanistan, Pakistan, and any other ‘stan’ thousands of miles from here. My lady friend, Janet, says the gold colored flag only signifies money. ‘Nonsense. The mansion alone smells of wealth beyond our most beautiful dreams.’ I offer a second guess. The flag is a signal to the mailman to hold all mail. Janet goes along with this dumb guess.

Purposely, I take different routes to work, don’t like being so absorbed in the Phantom of Albemarle Road. Of course, that makes my curiosity bloom. It happens. The gate is open. Two large vans are in the circular driveway. I park across the road and watch. Taped cartons of all sizes come out, get stacked in van one. Lots of furniture, mostly heavy, is covered with white sheets. That goes in van two. Each piece looks massive, important. The moving people do not rush. They move slowly, carefully.  Who is where giving them instructions? I see no one except the movers. Egads! I‘m late for work, start my car but keep looking in my side view mirror until the vans leave. The gate closes automatically. The flag on the mail box has been changed to somber black.

From a flag pole near the front winding stairs, I notice a flag pole that I had not seen before. A black flag hangs at half mast. It flutters gently in the cool evening breeze. My drive home is filled with more questions, questions I will simply file in my dead letter mind.

A small ad on the back page of the local section of the paper catches my eye. ‘Large historic home for sale, 9015 Albemarle Road. Auction Thursday, 10 a.m. Arnold Goodfellow antiques offered. Cash only. ’In the obits, in bold print, is ‘ Goodfellow, 85, passed over April one. Service Private.

That lets me out. I stay home, go on line, search the web for Arnold Goodfellow. Nothing comes up.

 

Patience: PROUD LADY

I’m hurting but not ashamed, not embarrassed. Roy and I are going thru rough times. As I wait for the Langley bus #604 a chilling rain begins. My husband is using our shared car again today to get his weekly unemployment check. There hasn’t been a day since Calais Clothing Inc. closed its doors that Roy hasn’t scanned the want ads. applied to all possibilities for an experienced cutter. No offers yet. Each day he comes home tired, demoralized. Our savings account is dwindling.

 

The drizzle is now wind blown, stings as if sharp needles were pricking my cheeks. I turn my back and let it make my old raincoat shabbier than it is. The Langley bus slows down as the driver sees me struggling with my umbrella. Stagnant gutter water splashes my shoes. I struggle to get up the two slippery steps, drop my quarter and dime into the coin box. There are few riders aboard, each sitting alone, glances as I walk past and sit opposite the center exit. No one speaks. The driver hits almost every red light and I cuss each time. I had wanted to be early at Helping Hand, maybe get lucky. The shop is almost deserted.

A lone cashier smiles to me and I smile back. In the maze of racks and racks of worn clothes, I have to ask, ‘Which way to women’s wear?’ She points and I head there, finding gorgeous beaded evening gowns on the first rack. Who would buy such beautiful gowns and give them away? My slight urge to just try one on is stifled, forgotten, as I look for sweaters.

 

There are four sweaters that may be right for me. I take them over to the mirror and try them on. Only one looks good, fits well, but it is black and has a hole in the left elbow. The price stuns me. $50.What was it new? I return them all to where I found them, hang them neatly and move on.

 

What I really came for, a new raincoat with a removable lining, must be in the rack after sweaters. Laying on the floor between the two racks is a tan coat that nobody has bothered picking up. My dander explodes as I slide the sweaters section to the right so I can reach the coat on the floor. I mutter to myself, ‘Rotten, rotten people.’ When I hang it correctly, the tag comes out of the sleeve and I see an ‘S’ on the coat, a Small, just what I wear. It is a rich chocolate brown, the chemical smell of a cleaning shop still slightly clings to it. I examine it closely. All the buttons are in place. The belt is in both loops and the price is $18. With a slight bounce to my step I take the coat to the cashier. She folds it neatly, puts it in a large double plastic bag, with a handle.I thank her and remove it, put the old coat in the plastic bag and my new ‘old’ coat on myself. I feel somewhat smug to have found such a great coat at such a reasonable price.  

 

The rain has stopped. The Rockland bus #603 is only a few blocks away. My quarter and dime again go in the coin slot and I sit across from the center exit door. I do feel good, take my house key out of my purse and put it in the pocket of my coat. Something is in there. It feels like paper. It is paper, a twenty dollar bill folded neatly in half. I take in a deep breath and smile like the Cheshire cat. I try the other pocket and damn if there isn’t another $20 bill.

 

This cannot be an accident. Whoever donated her coat to Helping Hand wanted to do more and had to have put the money in the pockets.
I am floating on air, can’t wait to tell Roy. It isn’t even noon but our car
is outside the house. Taking my bagged coat, I hurry in, afraid of what Roy is going to tell me. Instead, he hears me unlock the door and is waiting for me when I walk in.

 

‘Honey, I’ve got a job, a good one. It pays more than Calais used to pay.’ He hugs me. I kiss him and save my new coat story for later.

THOUGHT OUT: DONE

The sun has just set, yet my bedroom is bright enough for me to read the Evening Post, if I so wish. I do not wish. I drop the bamboo shades until they hit the windowsill, shudder and lie silent. Faint light still disturbs me. Pulling the heavy drape cord completes the job, plunging me into darkness. It tastes black, smells like death. Perfect. I want to lie in the coffin next to Donnie. He should have murdered me, let me be first in our double grave.

A faint odor comes in the keyhole. It curls like a rattler about to strike my face. I sniff, sniff again. It is body odor, Donnie’s body odor after sex. Teasing, I would push him out of bed, kick his ass and call him ‘Stinko.’ Together we’d laugh. Sometimes, special times, he’d push me away, whip me with a handy towel. ‘Get in the shower, Stinky,’ he’d say. I’d obey and have company before the water was  warm.

The heavy drapes flutter a tiny bit. My heart flutters a lot. Nausea climbs steadily up my throat. Donnie had all the windows weather stripped last year. What has moved the drapes? I pull the cord and they slide easily back. There, down near the sill, is a round hole in the bamboo shade. A pebble lies between it and the drapes. The window isn’t broken, not even cracked. It seems to speak to me. I hold it, kiss it, taste semi-sweet chocolate. My clothes get heavy, begin to drag me down. My blouse unbuttons itself and flies to the bed. The zipper in my slax slides open, chills me, thrills me as they drop at my feet. Stepping out of them, I crawl into bed, throw back the quilt and lie on the cool silk sheet staring at the ceiling.

‘Wait, wait, Stinky. Wait for me!,’ I sob. He looks white. His handsome face is bloodless. Wide open eyes have no pupils. I cannot look further. ‘Go away, go away, Stay where you have been put. Just as we planned, our marker has both of our names. All that is needed is to fill in my date.’ I go in the shower and wait for Stinky to join me. He doesn’t.
When I come out, I don’t dry myself completely. Still damp, I go to my desk, take my will out of the file drawer, read it slowly, carefully and leave it on display.

From the bathroom medicine cabinet I remove every pill for longer sleep time, depression, anxiety. It takes two cups of water to swallow the foul, garbage tasting, peace producing prescriptions. I lie down on the bed, cross my arms and close my eyes.

Somebody will find me Sunday.

She is special: SNOOKUMS

She’s going to be one next week. We love her with a love we didn’t know exists. Every blink of her eye, tongue stuck out brings us joy. In her new highchair Allison reigns the kitchen. When her spit bubbles and she says Ma Ma, I quiver, take her out of the high chair and almost hug her to death.

But there was a change this morning. She showed a temper, screamed, didn’t want me to take her out of her highchair. Her pink sippy cup went flying to the floor. I asked her, ‘What’s wrong, Baby?’ All she did was stare at the cup on the floor and cry. I guessed she wanted it back but first I  put it in the dishwasher and brought her a clean yellow one. Before I could pour apple juice in it, Allison threw that one on the floor too. Her face reddened. She laughed an actual laugh. I did not think that was cute. My anger got to me. I scolded, ‘Bad girl. Bad girl.’ Allison cried so loud Mac came running in from the living room where he had been watching Tiger apologize for his infidelity to his wife, to the world, for too long. Mac asked me what was going on, what had I done to Allison. I was rewarded with a sweet tap on my rear and words of understanding, ‘You did right, Honey. She’ll get over it.’

I lifted my former angel out of her throne and she bit me. With only four baby teeth showing, she did no harm, except to tell me in her own way, not to hit her again. Surrounded by dolls and chenille balls and her favorite fuzzy bunny, I left her in her play pen. In a second, she stood, held onto the side and walked to where the bunny lay on its side. My mouth dropped open. She picked it up and threw it out, hitting Mac on his knee. He gave it back and got hit a second time. Next she threw out one of her dolls. My patience was exhausted. I carried her upstairs and was kicked all the way up. Heading towards her crib and a nap, we passed the hall bathroom. Allison stopped kicking, crying and became quiet. I saw her look in there. Why? Her sweet smile bloomed again. What did she want?  Her Pamper was surely sopping wet so I laid my daughter on the bathroom mat and removed the uncomfortable Pamper.  It went right into the plastic bag kept near the trash can. Allison’s eyes definitely were on the toilet. She stared and stared. I took the brand new toidy seat out of the closet where it was meant to stay until she was almost two, and attached it to the adult toilet seat. Allison put her arms out to me and I seated her, strapped her tight and safe. In a few minutes my little girl began to make big girl grunts. There were some plop plops. Allison looked at me, her arms out again. I looked in the toilet and flushed. A fresh Pamper in place I carried her back downstairs, put her in the play pen again. Tiger was finally finished apologizing and Mac was watching a wrestling match.

I interrupted his concentration to tell him what our daughter had done, how smart she was to toilet train herself. Neither of us really believed that happened, but it did. Allison was her young self again, happy. She pointed to her bunny laying on the floor. I gave it to her. She smiled her biggest smile and said, ‘Mother,’

Mac told me I fainted and I am sure he was right.

BOY ? - SONNY BOY

The eight handsome chairs stand like stalwart soldiers around my etched glass dining room table. During the night I sometimes hear them whisper, ‘Where is he?’ ‘ Why doesn’t he come?’ I weep but the soldiers don’t hear me. Dreams, very vivid dreams often wake me. They are usually repetitious and have become so real that I get out of bed, walk barefoot to the dining room and see the chairs filled with guests. My husband is at one end, I at the other. He looks drawn, yellowed. Arnie fades away and my son’s face replaces his. Norman looks just like his Dad thirty years ago. He doesn’t smile to me in my fantasy world. I dim the chandelier lights and silently return to bed.

Tonight I am praying for a new dream, a happy one, one I’ve longed to be a reality. Norman e- mailed me this morning that he is coming to Lake Worth on business and will plan on three days with me, if I want him. I reply with an enlarged font, point 18, red and bold. My fingers fly  over the keys. I make lots of errors but correct them all. ‘Want you? Of course, I want you! When?’ He does not reply for two days. I e-mail again and again, call him. No reply. On Friday AOL lights up, ‘You’ve got mail.’ Big deal. I have email every day but this day my eyes stop on ‘Norman.’ I open it first.  ‘I’ll be arriving. Wed., Oct. 4, Virgin America, flt. 708 at West Palm Airport. Leaving Sun. Oct.7, 8 A.M. okay?’ I speed dial Norman and get a busy signal, over and over. Out of patience. I e-mail back, ‘Great! Come ona my house. Arms waiting for you. Love, Mother.’

I get busy, walk on air, clean his clean room, make space in the closet where I keep odds and ends. My mood is exuberant. My mind spins. What does Norman like to eat these days? We’ll be dining out except the first night. I’ll go hog wild and prepare his favorite veal parmigiana, gooping with melted cheese. Breakfasts? No idea what he eats. I’ll get berries, melon, bagels, cheese, O.J. with lots of pulp. I shop. I over shop. I want this short visit to be perfect, want to know my busy son, look at old home videos together, share Arnie with him again. My beautician squeezes me in for a cut. Each day of waiting sparkles.

Dreams, night time dreams become reality. When I wake each morning, I am nervous, need half a Valium just to keep myself under control.

From Roanoke friends I have heard how involved Norman is in his growing business and is considering running for state senator. He has many, many friends and some enemies too.  These have been silent excuses not to visit me. They are lame ones that don’t work for me.

His arrival is next week. The see saw I am on tosses me high into the blue sky. What is Norman going to be like? What will he call me? As he grew to his teens, he slowly stopped calling me Mom. He changed to Ma and finally called me nothing, starting right in on the little he had to say.

It’s Wednesday morning, Oct. 4. I’ve set the dining room table for two, just to make the morning special. I’m dressed neatly, as usual, in a casual stylish outfit. I chose light green., his childhood favorite color. Heaven knows what it is now. His plane is late. At noon the doorbell rings and I hurry to open the door.

I know the man in front of me is my son but barely recognize him. He has a small goatee and thinning brown hair. His body is strong, muscular, his smile barely noticeable. Oh, my god, I think. He doesn’t recognize me! Have I changed so much? I don’t ask as my mirror has talked to me too often.

Norman puts his briefcase and small carry-on on the floor. He puts out his hand to shake with me but I don’t give him mine. I am already bursting, can’t control myself. ‘Norman, what’s this crap? A handshake?

No hug, no kiss on the cheek?’ I get both grudgingly. I start bubbling inanities. ‘How was your flight? Did they charge you for a blanket? Are you well? Want lunch?’ Norman replies, ‘Not yet, Ma am.’ My hair stands on end. ‘When did you start calling me Ma am, Son? What’s wrong with Ma, Mom, Mother?’

‘There you go, just like always, nagging me. No wonder I don’t visit you often.’ I stand my ground. ‘Are we going to spend three days arguing or have you grown up, care about somebody else besides yourself?
He stays silent.

I cannot control my disappointment, my pain, and walk over,  put my arms around him, hold him close. ‘Son, ‘ I say, ‘I’m so happy you are here. It’s been unbearably long since we saw each other. Let’s be nice.’ I shut up but don’t move away from him. Norman doesn’t move either. I suggest we have lunch and seat him at the head table. ‘ I hope you still like my chicken salad. I found sweet white sugar corn for us and I even made my own applesauce. Remember how you loved to lick your bowl?’ ‘Yes,’  he nods and grins. I’ve making  your veal parmesana for dinner.’

So, Son, how was your flight?’

 

Who would have thought this: START TO FINISH

The sky was raining confetti. From every skyscraper, every window red, white and blue scraps of paper fell down covering cars, the streets. The hugging, kissing, dancing joined, competed with the horn blowing, drums pounding. Japan gave up. They and their yellow faces, sly, slinky eyes, were destroyed and it was America who did the bastards in.

I was swallowed up, became air borne, a dot in the jumping, screaming cacophony. How I was lifted off my feet, almost drawn and quartered, I can’t remember...but...can still feel hands grabbing me, passing me over heads, heads, heads. Fear took over. The crowd was endless. Am I going to be crucified, stamped on? What have I done? The lights went out. Everything disappeared into blackness. Only the sensation of  moving clung to my ribs.

It seemed to me time was not moving. My eyes had tiny slits, enough to barely see white and khaki uniforms around me, strangers kissing strangers. From deep in my chest I managed to let out a shrill scream, then another. It was swallowed up by laughter and happy voices.

Two hands on each of my legs, I don’t know how many on my body, a big strong one held my head, kept it from falling off into the crowd. Together they got me down from my funeral pyre. It was awesome. The noises, the kissing were just the way it was in the beginning. Confetti was still falling before I went into a black hole. Church bells rang. I crossed myself and looked up to where I thought god was and thanked him for the service men who had survived and for the good fortune America had to find the secrets of atomic energy before Japan.

I was aware these were not good thoughts but didn’t care. Somebody,  let me, get me,  out of this wonderful madness. I pushed my way toward the McCormick building on the corner. It took forever. Bruises were blossoming on every part of me. As I felt the coldness of the building’s stainless steel facade, I was grabbed from behind. I twisted my sore body around and faced a yellow skinned Jap. With all the strength that remained in my hand, I slapped him in the face and was ready to spit on him. He bowed to me, gave me a broad grin, and politely said, ‘How do you do. I think you would like to know that I was on the Enola Gay when the bomb went off. It was something beautiful. We didn’t know then what was happening on earth. We service men rejoiced at what we had done.’ His smile had turned somber.

My conduct, my ugly words embarrassed me. I wanted to get back in the crowd and fade away. The soldier’s hand reached for mine. We shook. ‘Miss, my name is Chinwo Greenberg. I am a Chinese American Lieutenant in the United States Army. Good day, Miss.’ And it was a good day as were many after that.

My name became Mrs. Mary Chinwo Greenberg fifty years ago and still is.

Come along: OPEN EYES

                                         OPEN EYES

This morning’s roof is a light blue. Soft angel clouds scud west towards the park, then the golden yellow sand. I watch the trees from my bedroom window. They bow gently and I must go outside, share the marvel of the day with them. A speck of loneliness goes with me. No need to hurry. I walk slowly, carefully, stopping to inhale the beauty of the lavender jacaranda trees. My gait remains slower than I want it to be since I slipped on the loveliness of the flowers covering blocks and blocks of sidewalks. I hold them no ill will.

The rusting black park gate is wide open. Surprisingly I don’t see Max, the regular guard. I do, however, recognize the uniform coming in but not the person.  ‘Good morning,’ I say with a smile and ask if Max is ill. ‘Are you the new guard?’ ‘Yes, Ma am. I’m new but have been with park services for ten years. Max is on vacation for a week. Have a nice day,’ he says and turns away from me.

Already my legs are tired but I make it to the next green bench. It is in bad shape, worse than the one I will try to reach later. A seat slat is missing. The left wrought iron arm rest is rusty. Before I put down my small back and tush pillow, I look over the jagged name and dirty words cut in the wood by unforgivable nasty kids. ‘DR,’ Hmnn. Is that for doctor or Diana Ross? Silly me. There is a long serpentine scar from one end of the bench to the other. I’ve seen this before. A new one, not yet turned rusty brown, says one word, ‘HEIL.’ It bodes no good.

The tangerine in my shopping bag beckons to me. It peels easily, the sweet juice teases my tongue and I eat each segment as if it were the last tangerine on earth. From a re-used small plastic bag, I take a few Kleenex tissues, wipe my fingers and dripping chin and neatly put the remains in the shopping bag.

Each time the birch trees bend a little in the breeze, bright sunlight almost blinds me. I gather my pillow and the remaining cookie snacks I still have and move my seat to the other side of the path. The bench is just like the others, beat up, abused.

I close my eyes and day dream about my Douglas, the times we sat in the park smooching, the prelude to our too short marriage. It’s not a good idea for me to linger on the ‘what ifs, the whys.’ A nanny pushes a stroller showing off adorable twins. For no reason I can see, she stops, looks at the girls, wipes their precious faces and kisses each lightly on her cheek. I like her and wish I had a child and such a good nanny.

Almost two hours of morning have disappeared. It is time for me to walk slowly home. I turn and go back towards the gate, the way I came
in. It got longer walking out than in and I must stop for a short rest. This time I don’t even glance at the names, the carvings in the slats.  All I want to do is gather my strength, make it home. Am I imagining I hear a kitten? I’m not sure what that tiny muffled  sound is but walk towards it. There, under the next bench is a cardboard carton, a blue blanket over its partially covered lid.

I kneel down, pull the box towards me. The blanket moves. When I take it off a meek meow melts my heart. There is a crayoned note under the kitty. It has only six simple words, ‘Please take care of my kitty.’ I lift the cardboard box with the gray striped kitty still inside.

It opens its blue eyes, blue as the sky above and I walk past the guard at the gate, wave and tell him, ‘Have a nice day.’

YOU SHOULDA BEEN THERE

In case you haven’t seen…

Watch this. It will be the best treat of your day.

I loved it and wish I could join in!

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YOU SHOULDA BEEN THERE

In case you haven’t seen…

Watch this. It will be the best treat of your day.

I loved it and wish I could join in!

YOU SHOULD BEEN THERE.

In case you haven’t seen…

Watch this. It will be the best treat of your day.

I loved it and wish I could join in!

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch_popup?v=hN8CKwdosjE

You shoulda been there: CRAZY MAISIE

Maisie, I and my folks are driving to Wild Kingdom tomorrow. Personally, I have no interest in the open zoo. T.V. gives me as much as, more than enough. Lion cubs being taught by their mama how to kill, elephants scratching their backs on baboa trees, crocs chomping the stampeding gnus way before they can cross the river, turn my stomach.

Maisie and I are twins, the most un-identical twins one can imagine. I’m fair and she is olive toned. At 16 I’m three inches taller than she is. We don’t like the same foods, colors, school subjects or boys. Yet, there is a bond between us that has a lot of knots, knots we so far have overcome.

Today is a perfect example of our differences. She has longed to visit Wild Kingdom since we were small and today she gets her wish. She read about the new baby elephant born to Madam Aida and will just die if we don’t take her. Dad and Mom drive and pay the 40 bucks to get in. I think they threw out Dad’s hard earned money.

I am the first to see a rhino coming towards our car. It’ s too close for my comfort. Thru the closed window Maisie calls the rhino over. I yell, ‘Cut it out, you’re nuts. That thing can knock our car over and eat us all for lunch. Duck down. Don’t wave. Please don’t wave!’ My disobedient sister waves. The rhino gives our car the once over, isn’t impressed and plods heavily away.

Dad drives very slowly, dares not honk the horn. I softly mention to Maisie, ‘I think I see a lion resting under that tree.’ It breathes, lifts its head and roars. Maisie is really exited. ‘Look, Betsy. Look at Santa’s reindeer. Wow, they do have big antlers, don’t they?’ I reply, ‘Yes, they do. Why don’t you ask Donner where he left Santa?’ Mom and Dad are getting agitated over us and warn us if we don’t behave, they will throw us out of the car so the buffalo can stomp us to death.

Maisie gets very quiet as she stares out the back window. Then she changes and practically screams at us, ‘Look, quick, Look! There, over there is a white tiger and a lioness. ‘They aren’t doing anything. They’re just standing there.’ Mom and Dad don’t see them either. ‘But, Mom,’ she goes on, ‘They are right over near the stream. They almost look like statues, but I saw the tiger take a drink. Look. Look. The lioness is coming our way.’ Dad tells Maisie to stop that nonsense but she insists she sees them. ‘Daddy, I think they love each other. The tiger is rubbing the lioness’ rear end.’

We are all ready to leave, all except Maisie. ‘Please, look, look again. There they are in front of us on our right. ‘ Dad tells Maisie he will make an appointment for her with a good eye doctor tomorrow. He purposely drives slowly right where Maisie said her two ‘friends’ are. A loud roar bounces against our windshield  Even Maisie is frightened.

On the way home we stop of Mac’s for salads and shakes. Dad, of course, gets a triple burger with cheese and raw onions. Mom gives him a foul look, pats his growing girth and drinks a cup of water.At home we watch ‘the Great Escape ‘ on t.v. and Dad teases Maisie that the white tiger must have escaped from Lions’ Country. My sister is angry, hurt, disappointed that we didn’t all enjoy the animals the way she did. Bedtime.

At 7:30 a.m. Dad comes running upstairs with the morning paper. ‘Come see this, everybody.’ The headlines blare that four people who don’t know each other saw a white tiger  and a lioness making love at Wild Kingdom Saturday. They were the only ones who saw them. People were lining up out the zoo by 5 a.m. to see god’s miracle.

Maisie laughs and says they won’t ever see god’s gift to us. They have moved to Kings’ World where god is going to stop crowds from bothering them. God told her, during the night, that the Tiger is going to father a Tigess in privacy.

She looks so darn smug, I could kiss her.

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE UNEXPECTED: AMERICA, I LOVE THEE

I stand alone in a crowd, listening to the fountain gurgle and plop. In my hand I hold a coin, a lira. In my mind I hold a wish that I had two friends beside me, or even one would be better than none. Three coins in the fountain, be damned. Why waste two? Why waste one? Trevi is for lovers. I had one but he is gone, gone forever. My Luigi got ptomaine poisoning in the Casbah where medical aid goes back to the Phoenicians.

My Luigi died but I talk to him every day and night. Now I stand amongst strangers arguing with myself. Should I toss my lira into the fountain or not? The choice is not mine. A lady, if I can call her that, pushes hard against me and my coin and I fall into the fountain.  The water isn’t deep but my humiliation rips thru my gut. Laughter brings me back to reality. I walk slowly over to the flowing water, stand under it and pose for cameras. Rousing applause makes me realize what I must look like. A few hands beckon, want to help me out. ‘Gratzi, gratzi,’ I say. The policia arrive, motion to me to come to the edge of the fountain to be helped out. As I walk to the mustachioed, bulging eye one, I stoop, bend, gathering in the wet coins. I unbutton my sopping blouse and drop them in my bra.

The fattest policeman yanks me up, puts a blanket over my shoulders and handcuffs on my wrists. Knowing next to no Italian, I put a quizzical look on my face and ask, ‘Porquoi? Porquoi?’ He speaks English much better than I speak Italian (or French) and replies in three simple words, ‘You are a thief.’ The surprise I give him knocks his hat off, into the water.  It floats in circles and he is boiling mad.

I open my blouse all the way, slide one arm at a time out of it and then the bra with the Trevi coins. His mouth opens wide as he leads me to his patrol car. ‘No swimming allowed in the fountain. You will have to pay a fine or go to jail. I suggest to him to let me count the coins I have collected. His kindness overwhelms me. I count. ‘Not enough, Lady,’ he says. I open my purse that is ruined into uselessness and give him the few wet bills from my wallet. Ah, I have reached his nasty soul.  He silently puts them in his own pocket, unlocks my cuffs and the louse takes away my blanket.

I was unaware how huge my audience had grown. Paparazzi are taking my picture. A newspaper crew wants to interview me. The Italian sun is at high noon. It’s hot, really hot.

Most likely, though, I’m the coolest one in the crowd.

 

Sound familiar? - HELP, PLEASE HELP

No, no, not again! There’s an Indian bug eating me. Killing me. His name is Aadi Shalandria. I figure somehow he is connected to the Maharanee of Rashmeri. She has become the highest female president of any company in Mumbai. Her control is total over employment of computer technicians.  From Aadi himself I have learned there are 40000 technicians working 24 hours a day. Each one has hundreds of large books in every known language at his finger tips. They explain what to do, how to fix computer problems. Shalandria, for some unknown reason, seems out to destroy me.

My computer is only four years old. I’ve had three others before I bought my current Dell.  Netscape and AOL are my carriers. The Dell is my personal puter and my best friend. It keeps me alive, offers me the world –most of the time. Today trouble began. Suddenly and without me touching a key, my icons went crazy. The tool bar that has always been on the bottom of my screen, went unaided to the top. It is most uncomfortable for me and I see no reason for the puter to rule me.

At 6 a.m. I dial, 1 800-246-7216 and an animated voice says, ‘Thank you for calling Netscape.’To be rotten, I don’t say to a nobody, ‘Glad to be here.’ The hidden person gets the action started. ‘What are the first seven letters of your screen name? I tell it, ‘Sweet52.’ He comes back and tells me that is incorrect and reads me what he recorded. The bout goes on. ‘Of course it’s wrong. You left off the 52.’ I do feel stupid talking to nobody and the nobody is making mistakes. When that gets straightened out, I am asked for my home phone number in case we are disconnected.  To dead air I say, ‘Good idea,’ and add ‘562-7417.’ The phone seems to be getting heavier and heavier, hurts my ear. Then I realize I goofed and didn’t give him the area code. Immediately my phone goes dead and I almost wish I were.

Instead I got a big slice of chocolate cream pie from the fridge, gobbled it down with a glass of cold milk. Unsatisfied, I took another smaller slice. Being so angry and upset I knew would solve nothing. I washed my hands and dialed Netscape again. Everything went well until a technician asked if he could help me. Another automated voice said, ‘Your wait will be approximately eight minutes.’ I told the shadow to go to hell and hung up again.

A TV. break and quick nap and I dialed 1-800-246-7216. Finally thru with all the technicalities, I was able to discern a human voice. It asked if I would mind if he called me Harold. ‘No problem,’ I reply and ask’ What is yours?’ He told me what sounded like ‘Oh Cash’. ‘Will you  please spell that for me, Oh Cash?’ I asked. ‘ A like in apple, a like in apple, k like in king, a like in apple, s like in sugar and h like in hall.’
I couldn’t help but laugh, ‘That’s a lot of applesauce Aakash.’ He didn’t get it.

The tech called me Harold and asked me what the problem was. Before I was going to be disconnected again I sped through my trouble. He listened to my tale of woe about the icons and tool bar moving by themselves and asked me to please hold on. He would be back quickly.
After he found the correct book, he began to give me instructions to follow on my computer. I could not understand his accent, complimented him on its softness only to be told he couldn’t understand me well either. That was it. I quit.

In the morning I checked the want ads and found dozens of computer techs who would come to my house. I chose one who sounded knowledgeable and his price was fair. In one hour he was seated at my computer. He put the cursor on the tool bar, clicked the left one once and then the right one twice and the task bar switched to the bottom of the screen. Each icon he locked in where I wanted it to be. I almost could have kissed him.

Instead I gave him a check for $50 and the last piece of chocolate cream pie that had been laying on the kitchen table for hours. He went away happy and I was back in business ready to email my tale of woe to my entire address book of friends.  My phone rang. ‘This is Netscape calling you back. We were disconnected this afternoon, a slightly familiar voice explained. ‘May we help you?’

Loud enough for him to hear me across the Atlantic Ocean, I shouted, ‘NO!’ and hung up.