Unsolved puzzle

THE ODD EIGHTSOME

 

The group of men walking down the busy street together crossed in unison as soon as the walk light began to blink. They all whistled almost in harmony, 'I'll Take You Home Again, Kathleen.' I walked a similar rhythm behind them, hummed along, and my passion for Kathleen rose. It surprised me so that I believe my face turned red. When the group reached the Poulton Food Market, they stopped and chatted, then walked single file through the electronic door. For the moment, I thought I saw them all shiver, but they walked quickly once inside.

 

My curiosity had also risen so I walked in too. Who are these men who seem to be such good friends? What are they going to buy? My learning to be a sleuth went back to my childhood, sitting on the floor to hear Inner Sanctum. When the door was going to squeak open, I used to cover my ears. Dick Tracy also told me to hide when following somebody and here I was following eight men, how could I hide, where?

 

My mind snapped into action. 'You are too obviously following these men. Do something. Get behind the orange display and stay still.' Taking short, quiet steps I managed to overhear someone speaking a strange language. It definitely was not Americanese, Spanish, French or Italian. With my super great knowledge of languages I assumed these men were speaking Hindi.Their soft, mellow, sing-song kept me glued to the floor.

 

Two men glanced around, surely didn't see me as they each touched the red, ripe tomatoes, dropped them on the floor. It looked to me that the tomatoes felt like balls of fire to them. They  blew on their hands until comfort returned. I snickered when the tallest, by about one inch, took two overly ripe bananas off the counter and gave one to his buddy. Each licked the skin, opened his mouth wide and took a large bite through the browning skin. Their faces wrinkled as they spit it the peel on the floor. Just at that moment, Mr. Young, the friendly manager, came by in a rare bad mood. Using a large dash of profanity, he frightened the friends. Their eyes began to glow an electric blue color, sending huge tears down their faces. Mr. Young was not impressed and took each one by the seat of his long pants and led him to the revolving door exit. He gave it a push to get the men out and they knew they had to push too. On their own they exerted their strength so the door went faster and faster until they were spinning like a whirlwind in Mumbai.  People trying to get into the market had to use the electronic door. By the time the police arrived, all they saw was what looked like  blue ink on the concrete. They considered giving Mr. Young a citation for calling them on a false alarm, but the bottles of wine he gave the officers calmed their anger.

 

I stayed behind to watch what the other men would do. My wait was fairly short. Several of them stuffed grapes in their pants. One smelled a cantaloupe, put it on his head and wrapped a blue band around it, tied it under his chin and walked out as if the melon was a golden crown. Mr. Young grabbed the happy King, whistled for the police to come get this crazy man. But the King also whistled, whistled the song I first heard them do, 'I'll Take You Home Again, Kathleen'.

 

My feet took on a life of their own and I found myself running as fast as I could to join the eight happy men.

 

 

COMO USTA ESTED??

FOOL HARDY

 

I am off to visit my niece Wilhelmina, daughter of my sister, Wilma. I haven't seen her since she was ten. Many times guilt troubled my mind but I chased away that niggling feeling because I just didn't want to face Wilma's strong, nasty, mean-to-me attitude one more time. Yesterday I was informed by phone that Wilma had died in her sleep and her burial would be at noon, Dec.12, just four days away.         .
It was to be at 'Heaven's Call' Mortuary 1027 Gettysburg Rd. An 
attorney, George Papadopolus, would like me to visit with him as soon as possible as I had inherited Wilma's cottage on the Severn River, plus some other items.

 

She had confiscated several treasures that my grandma had promised me. I can still visualize the glass doll that Grandma Mosely kept on her bureau top. She would let me play with it as long as she was with me but not touch it unless she was there to look out for both of us. There
should be the beautiful brass candelabra and her grandma's diary of the battle at Gettysburg. I remember it had a black leather cover that was scruffy. Grandma Martha cherished it and would read a few faded pages to me whenever I visited. What I don't want is that cottage on the Severn. That river is muddy and smells bad sometimes. If I am forced to accept it, I will immediately get an agent who may be able to get a decent price on it for me to share with him.

 

There is no real choice for me. I call the B & O RR for a reservation. They don't take reservations. A ticket on their new flyer is $90.00 each way. With no choice and much trepidation, I give them my Visa card info.

 

Dec. 10 th I wake to find a light snow has fallen during the night and only want to stay in bed longer, fix myself a good hot cup of Chinese ambrosia tea to enjoy with the tasty scones my neighbor bakes, but can't. My bag is packed and waiting for me at the front door. Driving on a slick highway worries me but out I go just as the grandfather clock in my foyer chimes 9. The suitcase is heavier than I thought or maybe I am weaker than I imagined. As I try to lift it into the car trunk, Geoffrey, the son of my scone making-friend, sees me and lifts the bag with one hand. 'Thank you, Geoffrey,' I say, look up to the gray sky and give our dear lord a thanks too fro sending Geoffrey to me when I was really in need of help.

 

Not once do I skid on the road and reach the Camden train station in plenty of time. It is a surprise to me that there are still a few porters to handle luggage. Mine, Jack by name, must be sixty years old at least. His white nappy hair brings the story of 'Gone With the Wind,' to mind the way blackies were portrayed. Jack lifts my suitcase onto the train, carries it to the nearest available window seat and wishes me a pleasant trip. I hand him two dollars and he looks at me as if I am a f'n freak. 'Here, Lady,' he says. 'You must need this more than I do.'

 

The train was as clean as trains get, I imagine. Already I was nervous. Whose going to lift my suitcase off the train? How am I going to roll it to the curb? Sometime luck runs by my side, sometimes it stomps on my toes. My train departure goes well. A tall, nice looking gentleman, surely an athlete, waits on the platform behind me and offers to take my bag off the train as porters are scarce as Indian head pennies.
Should I be lady-like and swoon? No, I simply give him my honest 'thank you, pull my large rolling carry on bag and follow the other passengers to the exit. 

 

Cabs are lined up for a long block. I start to go into the one closest to the exit and am astonished when the driver, eating a thick sandwich of some kind, tells me I have to get the first cab in line. He can surely see I'm upset to walk that long block while he eats his lunch. 'Lady, what year are you livin' in? More cabbies than passengers, nobody sneaks in the line.' I am indignant but don't argue.

 

My driver speaks very little English. I know adios, gracias and give him Wilhelmina's address. The ride takes thirty minutes. The meter reads  $25 and I only have $30 cash in my purse. He doesn't take Visa. I try to explain, show him my empty wallet. I can hear him grumble.

 

In spite of his distress he opens the cab door for me, gets my suitcase out of the trunk and takes me to Wilhelmina's door- waits for her to let me in, waves Adios and calls to me as he gets back in his cab, 'Gracias, Senora.'

 

 

Emergency

CHANNELS

 

He won't look up, can't look up. His computer screen enslaves him. Elmer- glued to it, his emails reach him with devilish speed. They arrive faster than seconds leave minutes. Harry glimpses names of senders, sometimes a topic and channels each to what he hopes is the best window where he will find them when he has time. Being his wife for ten years, I still am not able to understand Harry's passion for amount rather than importance of subject. I've caught him almost giving up, throwing his hands in the air, shouting, 'Stop! Stop! ' He breathes in deeply and his unbelievable  control returns.  There are moments when I catch a smile, a smirk, on his handsome face as he deletes two or three ads that are meaningless to him.

 

The strong smell of the brewed coffee and warming chocolate covered donut I ready for him, snakes down the basement stairs to his organized office. Harry calls to me, 'I'm not ready. Give me 10.' I turn off the coffee maker, tear the donut in half and relish both halves.   . Oops, my watch alarm let's me know eleven minutes have flown away and Harry hasn't called again for his morning pick-me-up. I micro-wave the coffee for ten seconds, do another donut for five, put them on the slightly bent tray that is always handy, sloppily juggle it down the stairs. A few hot drops hit my wrist.

 

I hear Harry's puter making sounds and let out an uncontrollable scream. Harry is lying still, absolutely still, over the screen. My face twitches. My heart beats loudly, erratically. Under the best of circumstances I have never been able to accurately take someone's pulse, but I try. I put my face close to his mouth and am almost certain I detect low, even breathing. 

 

A terrible thought zaps my mind. Maybe the computer can electrocute Harry. Knowing just about nothing regarding my husband's fantasy world, I start pulling plugs out of the electric sockets. I see the surge buster he mentioned once in case there is a power shortage or lightning strike and pull that out, too. I see no result except a little red light goes off.

 

Sirens wail. The 911 team I called first, just found our house. Some stupid jerk knocks on the front door. I dare not leave Harry dying on his computer so yell, as loud as I can. 'The door is open. Come to the basement. Hurry! Hurry!  Flying feet of four men and one woman sound like music to me. The leader, wearing a 911 bright red cap, takes charge, looks over Harry, takes his pulse. An oxygen mask covers Harry's face. I stare but see no air bag going in and out. There is just no way I can hold back my tears, my fears. The woman who resembles a young girl except for her gray hair, puts a blanket over Harry as he is stretched on a gurney and is taken around the house rather than up the steep stairs. I follow the ambulance in my sports car that I don't even care about. What good will it do me if I am a widow?

 

With me right behind it, the gurney is rolled into the hospital. The crew stops for just a minute at the front desk and whoosh, Harry and I are on the elevator. Nurses are waiting on the sixth floor as we get off. Wheels clatter on the tile floor. Strange noises make the nurses stop in their tracks. I bump hard into the last one.

 

The blanket over Harry drops on the floor when he sits straight up, looks quizzically around him and begins to bitch. 'What's going on here? I was having such a long, much needed rest and you guys woke me up.
He looks straight at me, blames me and asks for his coffee and donuts. He keeps going, asking what happened to his emails.

 

'Did anybody disturb my channeling?'

Know him?

OILY OYL

 

His biceps are taut. They bulge like rounded rocks, barely squeezing thru his tightly knit sleeves. He's exercising almost every minute he isn't eating, sleeping or chasing his girlfriend around her bunk. Just about everyone calls him Pop, including me, although, I don't know for sure if he ever was married, has any kids. What I do know for sure is he's not my father, I wouldn't want to live with him. He'd be pushing me into his machines, his gadgets all the time. Pop teases me, slaps me around, wants to make a man out of me. Hell, he'd flip if he knew a I already have a hot girlfriend. Linda is her name. My bragging is a bit exaggerated as I only have a crush on Lucy and she barely knows I'm alive. 

 

Pop has his Fourth of July plans ready. They include Olivetta, his current lady and me. I tell him if he is taking her along, I would be a third wheel and thus am forced to mention Linda. He lifts his thick eyebrows and gives me a big wink with his only eye that has 20 vision. Often he wears a patch over his left eye. I have noticed how much he likes the attention when some nerd asks him what is wrong with that eye. Pop has a different tale to tell every time. Even I don't know the truth.

 

July 1, Pop invites me to go with him to rent a decent boat, not too big, not too little. What do I know about boats? Zippo, but Pop wants company and has me trapped. He has gone to the yellow pages and located a few rental shops listed on a scrap pad that has a  red, white and blue flag as its cover page. That reminds me at once that Pop has a large tattoo of our flag  on his left arm's huge muscle. It is almost always hidden by his striped knit shirts.

 

Using the process of elimination, we rule out canoes, kayaks, row boats,  fishing boats, yachts. What's left is a sightseeing boat that holds about thirty people. There are lavatories, a lunch counter, a non-alcoholic bar, benches, wooden lounges with folding cushions. Sight-seeing is meaningless. We'll float past the newly built City Hall, a light house from the 1800's that hasn't been lit once in our lifetimes combined. Pop brought along an ice chest for a few beers and ham sandwiches in plastic zip bags. We walk the deck, talk to strangers, smell the engine's oil. The odor gets stronger and stronger as Olivetta gets closer to the railing. She looks like she is about to throw up. Pop and I move back. 'Pop yells out, 'Thar she goes,' and Linda gags so hard she almost falls overboard. The oily odor envelops the boat. The captain in a cheap sailor's cap that must have come from the five and dime wears it rakishly over one eye. The loudspeaker squawks, 'Don't be alarmed folks. We ain't leakin'. Something is going on and I'm gonna find out what it is. Have a coke on me. No charge.'

 

He walks around the deck, sniffing, sniffing until he reaches the woman who is still hanging over the rail, calming her insides. He stops and sniffs, discovers Olivetta is the oil carrier. She cries out, 'Pop, Pop, Popeye! They know. They know who I am', but they don't. She stands up straight on her skinny legs and announces over the bullhorn, 'Ladies and Gentlemen, let my friend Popeye, the Sailor Man, show you what true love is. I am Olive Oyl, the stinky Olive Oyl, and Popeye has loved me since the 1930's. I'll move to the lea side until you can breathe easily again.

 

Look, look over there. I think a light has gone on in the old lighthouse. Write about your adventure in your diaries. Tell your friends about your experience. They won't believe you, but tell them anyhow. You may never see Popeye and me again, unless you find the falling down wooden house on Carpenter St. #1930. That's  where the funny papers play games on Sundays.'

 

 

I'm back

BRAGER VS MILT

 

Molly and Joe Brager opened their family delly next to Wilmer's corner pharmacy ten years ago. They invested just about everything they had to clean out the dregs of what the grocery store left when they folded. Show cases that had looked okay when filled with fresh fish, not only looked rusty when empty, they retained a most unpleasant odor. Joe put want ads in the paper for equipment, selected and ordered  eighteen rectangular wooden tables to comfortably hold four chairs each. He and Molly sandpapered the walls smooth, painted them a soft yellow. The new linoleum floor resembled, ever so slightly, ceramic tile. It was laid over the entire surface of the delly and into the kitchen.

 

There was so much to do and funds were already nearing low. Molly and Joe borrowed a few thousand bucks from their parents, with a legal paper drawn up as to how and when the loan would be repaid. That was Joe's idea, not his parents. As tough as the planning and opening were, they knew customers weren't going to be breaking their door down, at least not for a long time. During preparations Joe's mom had suggested they cover the windows on the inside with Bon Ami so nobody could see what was going on. Molly and Joe paid no attention as they wanted people to look in, see how nice the place was going to be.

 

Money, money,  money. Decent ads cost more than he expected. He located a 'John the Printer' in the yellow pages and ordered flyers to go in doorways rather than get involved with costly newspaper ads. Joe and Molly put them in vestibules themselves before the sun was high.

 

The Grand opening was not grand! A dozen or so customers looked around, ordered sandwiches to go, wished the newcomers good luck and left. By the end of the week they had lost money on fresh items that were no longer fresh and had to replace one chair a really fat guy sat on. When he leaned back on just two legs, he ended on the floor with the seat in his hand. He could sue Joe but made what was not a laughing matter into one.

 

The Brager's youth had faded but not their enthusiasm, That came later when a lot of activity began to happen in the middle of the block.
Where for years a children's shoe store had maintained  a steady business, it came to an end.  Mr. Radison, the proprietor, got along fantastically with the kids, their moms. But at 80 his rheumatism got him. Bending down, measuring, tying shoes, opening cartons of shipments sent him to a retirement home. It took six months until his vacant store was let to Milt Frazier. Mr. Frazier's plan was to open a bigger, fancier, more up to date delly than the Brager's. His university business training, his inherited income, jangled the nerves, tore into Mollie and Joe's hearts.

 

Customers, friends, had to at least try Milt's Delly Fantasy. With concerns and regrets Joe had to let Bubba, his best ever two deck Rueben sandwich maker, go. Molly wasn't even missed when she took a casual walk past Milt's at least twice a day. Her head and body held straight, she somehow managed to look in Milt's doorway to see how busy he was and report back to Joe.

 

The Fantasy was no longer a fantasy. Growth reared its head. On a Sunday morning, before the church crowd would come in after              services, Milt stopped  Molly as she passed his delly. 'Molly, I want to have a serious talk with you and Joe. How about we get together on neutral ground, like the Bistro on 12th St., say 8 p.m. next Tuesday, before the Cinema Verite' lets out at 10:45. You'll be my guests.' Molly stood stock still in front of him. Words wouldn't come out for a minute or two when she was able to answer, 'I'll ask my husband. He'll stop in later.'

 

A full bottle of Chianti loosened thoughts, words came easily. 'Joe,' Milt addressed both of his guests. 'We know the shoe store between us has been on the market for months. Saul is just about desperate. He stops in for his tuna melt on a bagel with crispy fries every Tues. His lease is up the end of this month. He's getting out. 'I want to enlarge the Fantasy, Joe. I've got great ideas that can include you and Molly. We'll need good legal advice, can call the new place Mike's and Joe's Extravaganza Delly' or I'll even go for ' Joe's and Mike's.' Joe responded off the top of his head, 'We'll think about it and talk to you in a few days.'

 

Joe's attorney had set up his and Molly's will years ago, which was
meaningless in this situation. Molly and Joe talked until three in the morning, weighing the pros and cons. What would it all mean to them? With sleep still in their eyes, the decision came easily was reached.

 

Before they could possibly change their minds, Joe called Mike early and explained he and Molly decided to call it quits themselves. 'Our lease has only four months left and we are tired of the fresh sliced rye bread, chicken soup with matzoh balls. We are going to retire and move to Israel. Mike, your equipment is in excellent shape. The slicing machines are practically new. You can have whatever you need at fabulous savings.'

 

He put the phone down, clapped his hands, kissed Molly and went to make the matzoh balls.

 

 

0PPONENTS

THE STAND  

 

It's a normal July day, really hot in Loosiana. May Beth begs her momma to let her sell lemonade under the tree near the curb. Her momma tells her for the hundredth time to say ' Louise-iana correctly. She adds on, 'No, you can't sell lemonade without a license.' Not to be stopped, May Beth whines, 'Violet's momma let her sell lemonade yesterday and she didn't have no license.' 'May Beth, speak correctly, Violet didn't have 'A' license, not 'no license.' 'But Momma, Violet gave the men in the police car each a glass of free lemonade and they thanked her a lot, drove away.'

 

Mrs. Wilkens thinks over her daughter's wish and agrees to let May Beth sell orangeade, not lemonade. May Beth can't even argue. She knows too well that there are three very large orange trees in her back yard and they are loaded with big juicy oranges. Neighbors take what they want and new oranges grow. 'May Beth, why should we buy those itsy, bitsy, already drying up lemons when we have healthy, fresh oranges coming out of our ears? What do you say, Daughter, orange ade or no ade?'

 

Without really answering, May Beth gets a large black plastic bag off the kitchen roller. In the garden she leans the ladder against the biggest orange tree, climbs up three steps and drops the biggest oranges she can reach into the bag. She counts to twelve and knows the bag is as heavy as she can handle, climbs down, takes them into the kitchen where her momma already has two orange squeezers ready for her. On the kitchen cabinet an old tin pitcher that was her grand- mother's, waits for the makings of the orangeade. There is also a big crockery one with a Santa Claus sticker on it and the biggest of all, a green glass one that she knows she won't be able to pour from. 'Momma, do you have another pitcher instead of the green one? I can hardly hold that when it is empty.' 'No, May Beth, if you do sell your lemonade, bring the empty one to me and I'll fill it for you and bring it to the table.' May Beth knows which side of her bread is buttered and gives her mamma a big, wet kiss on the back of her neck.

 

'Ma, help, help. My customer says the orangeade isn't sweet enough. She wants sugar. Will you bring out a bowl for me? I can't leave my place.' 'Sorry, Little Manager. Come in for it. I'll let you use the box of straws I bought for you when you had a sore throat. Leave them in the box in case somebody wants one. If they want two, charge them a penny. 'May Beth sells one mother 4 straws and gets two pennies. Business is good.

 

'Again you're calling me, May Beth?' Beth runs into the kitchen. 'Momma, Momma, hide me quick. A police car is coming down the street. They may take me to jail!' 'Behave yourself, little baby. You won't go to jail. Smile to the policemen, hand them cups of your fresh orangeade with a straw in each.' The police car goes right past May Beth. Her mother comes out to find out what happened and indeed, sees tears in her daughter's eyes.

 

'Ma, the officer on my side opened his window and told me they just had great lemonade down the street. It was ice cold and was bitter like lemonade should be. Then he warned me to tell you I had better get a license soon or I might go to jail. He laughed but I didn't see anything funny at all.

 

Will you help me close my store, Ma? We can put some orangeade in the ice box for later. Will you be angry if I use twenty cents I made and get myself an ice cold lemonade from Violet?'

Music hath charms

COUNTRY SONG

 

We live alone on a sky-reaching mountain in Colorado...but are never lonely. The first rays of the morning sun send me a bit of joy, of warmth. An eagle friend of mine who I named 'America' sweeps down from its towering aerie. She flaps her wings to me. I wait a few minutes and America returns, comes close enough for me to see the fish she has caught, still twisting in her claws. Breakfast must be served and with a swoosh she is gone until tomorrow.

 

The rattle of breakfast dishes on our wooden plank table reminds me that Mama can use my help. I take just a very few minutes to put on my jeans, a clean white starched blouse and the black turtle neck sweater Mama made for me last Christmas. It's still chilly but I'll be comfortable without my sweater by the time Pop, Jimmy and Storm finish breakfast. Storm butters me up. 'Robin, you're the best dish washer in our family. Will you do my share today? I spilled some maple syrup on my jeans and would like to take care of it right away.' Even without the butter, I would have done it for her.

 

'Don't be embarrassed, you may ask if you wish, why in this peaceful place did our parents name my sister 'Storm.' They had their reasons and have told us many times how the lightning flashed, how noisy the thunder was, how the mountain shook until Storm was born and just as wild as it had been, as soon as Storm cried, the sky cleared, the sun sang to the flying clouds until the sky turned blue again.

 

We do have wonderful neighbors, like the 6 coyotes who howl their thanks for the spare rib bones we set out for them about once a month. Mama has those mouth-watering ribs air air dropped to us and refuses to just bury what's left in the garbage heap. The coyotes howl louder those times than usual.

 

The last of the mountain top snow is melting fast. It makes its own turns when it feels like it and the gurgles are light, mellow. When the snow melt really races for a short time, we can hear it during lunch. It's like rolling drums, drums banging out paradiddles. When the run-off circles around saplings, I am sure violins are tuning up.

 

Sometimes when Jimmy and Storm feel like it, Jimmy plays his guitar and Storm makes up words as she accompanies him. Dad and Mom claim they can't sing a note, but I have heard him singing love songs to her thru our connecting bedroom doors now and then. Once he sang, 'I Love You Truly, Truly, Dear,' and I mentioned his wonderful singing voice at breakfast, suggested he join the choir group at the Brethren's Church of God. He said he would, if they brought the church up the mountain.

 

 Our Dad is not a college graduate but is not a stupid man. He knows a lot about cyberspace, electronics, teaches us all the time. We have a wide screen t.v. and two computers in our den area. Dad said he will be getting an I Pad for us when the price comes down.

 

Storm and I tell him the truth. We don't want any more gadgets. Music is everywhere. 'Dad, just be you. Let us be us. You can sing.' While we tell him how we truly feel, a grumph, grumph croaks near our front door. Jimmy opens it and in jumps a great, big, toad. It lands on Dad's lap who, I know, doesn't like frogs particularly, and Dad sits there motionless, just trying to be calm until the frog gets off of him.

 

We sit, wait, twiddle our thumbs until, a much louder roar, passes our door and keeps on going. As soon as I open the door, the frog leaps out. There, just a few feet from the door step are the huge footprints of a grizzly, small bits of brown fur cling to our mulberry vine.

 

I, for one, don't like deep bass bear grunts, our mulberry bush broken in spots. I close the door tightly and turn on the t.v.

BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE

 

Gorgeous she is. Hilda is perfect from her long, straight sandy hair to each toe, each toe nail. In spite of her fame, an even more perfect woman enters the group. She is mentally x-rayed. ‘I’m Helda,’ she announces. Her voice is soft, mellow, sexy. Aqua marine eyes look like sparkling jewels each time she blinks. Muscular arms reach for her, are struck down by a mere glance of her magical eyes. The hungry men disappear. Only their dust remains on the marble floor. The remaining men cower behind each other, back away slowly from Helda.

 

There is silence as sweat rolls down smooth hairless faces. Hilda, too, grows warm. Her clothes stick to her perfect body. There is fear, worry. Is she going to join the dust that was just a moment ago men? Helda is calm, She is dry and alert. Flecks of gold dust settle down through the warm air, cover her voluptuous breasts. How tempting they are! A groups of men, young boys, make plans to divert her attention, so the elders have a go at her. They foolheartedly believe they can outsmart Helda. They do not and are sent to fuel the furnaces and are not seen again.

 

Hilda bides her time. Her sweet goodness is a charade she plays. Meaness hides between her manicured toes. Helda is her target. The two sit side by side as dinner is brought steaming hot to the table. An overly heavy porker, still breathing, makes strident, ear piercing sounds as knives go into its guts and blood spurts out on Helda. She shows not a sign of unease as she licks her arms and purifies herself.

 

A stranger, a very old man with a long white beard, holding a carved wooden cane, walks in circles around the diners. He is not invited to sit with them. For that he is grateful as he has a job to do and sitting, chatting, would keep him from his task. From under his ragged shirt he pulls a scroll, unfurls it, and chants five names. No one comes forward. He calls the names again and two men in white clothes stand, line up behind him. The other three hold back until the stranger bangs his heavy cane more loudly, more assuredly, on the floor. They turn as one and wave goodbye to Hilda, blow kisses to Helda and vanish into thin a
air.

 

There are no pearly gates. There are no gates at all. The five men, led by one named Josiah, walk endlessly up and around a curved road. The pass no others but many, many pass them by as the go down and around the same curved road. ‘Josiah,’ says one. ‘We have waited a long time and  were soon to partake of Hilda’s beauty, and if not Hilda’s, the new beautiful  Helda’s. We know not why we are being punished.’

 

Josiah raises his cane and explains they have been punished enough and were to shovel coal for all eternity after their last dinner. ‘You five men, Rabbis all, have been re-judged. You will reside with the angels when next the moon turns blue. That may be a very long time. Until then, you will take care of those who come to us each day. Judge them carefully.

 

The fires of hell may still devour you.’

Oh, my Papa

THE SLY FOX

 

Hymie saves things, coins, old, new, valuable, fake. He is a real phenomena. Most every time we take a walk or just go to the malt shop
together, he stops in his tracks when he sees a quarter, or even a penny, on the pavement. 'Finders keepers,' he laughs and puts the found coin in his baggy pants. I don't know what his baggy pants remind me of, but something niggles at my brain.

 

Just a week ago he spotted a shiny Indian head penny, right in the street car tracks. When he looked at it closely he showed me the year on it, 1934. It excited me. It was my birthday and I asked him to please give it to me. But he wouldn't because  Indian head pennies were worth fifty cents each in the Davis's coin shop and I could  buy one there. 'It wouldn't be the same, Hymie. I would treasure the one you found and gave me. I would never sell it or lose it.' The stubborn donkey closed his ears and opened his wide pants' pocket.

 

His shoe- string was loose and when he bent down to re-tie it, darn if there wasn't another penny under his shoe. He hadn't seen it. He hadn't felt it, yet I saw it with my own eyes. Hymie's face lit up. Want it?' he asked. ' No, I want the 1934 one.' Then find one for yourself or go buy one from Davis. He's got every year from 1910 to 2000.' I was ready to fight. 'You are a mean person, Hymie. I don't think I want to be your friend any more.' 'Then don't.' Before I could find a good answer, he was running down the street without stopping once until he got to the malt shop. As a few kids went in and some came out, my ex friend, just stood near the door, watching for me.

 

All the way home I searched each pavement, looked in gutters, under benches, saw ants and candy wrappers, a bent paper cup, but not one coin. I began to feel stupid, unlucky, when I heard Hymie's whistle. He was panting when he got to me. 'Here, want this 1933 penny?' My nose went in the air as I told him not to talk to me. He wasn't my friend anymore.

 

My mother listened to my tale of woe, how hurt and angry I was at Hymie. 'You are right to be hurt, Sherry, but you are hurting yourself to give up your friendship. Let's talk it over with Dad at dinner.' And so it happened that the wise ones came up with a possible way to repair the ill feelings.

 

In his deep, gravelly voice that is always covered with molasses, he told my Mom he would be home for dinner a little late on Friday, maybe twenty to thirty minutes. Dad leaves a small white box tied with plain grayish cord on the key table near the front door,  washes his face, enjoys a brandy and we sit down to dinner. After dessert and his place is cleared away, he calmly asks me to bring in that little box from the key table. It's light as a feather and clinks a little when I shake it.

 

"Magicadoola, look at all of the coins Mr. Davis gave me for almost nothing. There are some old ones that date back to the 1500's but they aren't in good shape. Look at this big one with Caesar on it. Look closely. The clothes are like Caesar of Rome but the face is Sid Caesar of New York. Hymie won't notice. Here, see these Chinese coins, dated 948? Mr. Davis told me there were no Chinese coins then. Here, this is the best. It's a 1934 Indian Head penny, shiny as if it was yesterday, and it probably was.

 

Sherry, tomorrow before lunch, I'll call Hymie to tell him you are very upset and don't want to lose his friendship. I'm going to invite him to join Mom, you and me at the malt shop for a light lunch. 'He'll come. I know he will.' 'But Daddy, I don't want to be his friend any more. I told him that and meant it.'

 

'We are going to fix him good. He won't tease you anymore about coins.

 

At 10  you,  Mom and I will walk slowly to the malt shop. We'll drop these coins off of our path, make them barely visible, but plain enough for Hymie to find a few. Being an actor with two beautiful
actresses, we can ooh and ah, be so surprised at his great luck. After our lunch, I'll suggest to him we take his rare coins to Mr. Davis who will talk to him about each one until–until-Hymie almost pees in his pants from excitement. We'll embarrass him enough that he'll maybe change his high falootin' superior attitude about himself.'

 

Dad's plan works perfectly, just like he thought it would. Every coin Hymie finds he drops in his baggy pants. His disappointment when he learns the truth, brings a few real tears out of his sad eyes.

 

Sherry hurts worse than Hymie, puts her arm around his shoulders and tells him she apologizes and wants to still be his friend. Dad hands him a real, true American $5 bill and sends us to a Saturday movie.

 

'Buy her some Silver Buds, Hymie. Sherry loves them.'

Inheritances

THE RED THREAD 

 

The baby is pushed out of its mother's womb into a strange new world. It makes piercing, squealing sounds that are ignored by the doctor, nurses who move quickly, practically by rote, to take care of the newborn. Thru her spread legs, her head moving side to side trying to clear her thinking, Kelley Bogovich manages to mumble, Where is my mother? I need her now! Is it over? Do we have a son?' and drifts off without hearing where her mama is or the 'yes.'

 

Her private room is waiting for her and so is her lover, her Douglas. As soon as the door knob clicks, he opens it all the way, waits only long enough for the dozing Kelley to be transferred to her slightly tilted bed before he kisses her forehead and sits beside her, waiting for their son to come in. Kelley stirs, feels the hard bed with her hand and wants to get up. 'Get my mama. I promised her.' 'Lie still, Kell. Everything is fine. Our son should be with us in a few minutes. Close your eyes. I'll wake you when he gets here.'

 

'Get up, get up, Kelley. Here's Edward.' The nurse holds him so mother and father can get a good look. Doug gasps when he sees a thin red line going from the baby's almost bald head down to his chin. Silent question marks move from his eyes to the nurse who puts her index finger over her lips to tell him to shut up. The nurse raises the bed high enough for Kelley to sit almost normally, puts the baby in her arms and says, I'll be back in a few minutes,' and leaves the three of them alone. Douglas cootchy coos him, doesn't mention the red line, nor does Kelley. He feels the tiny feet, smooths his forehead, touches his little belly button that protrudes maybe more than it should. 'Douglas, call my mother. I promised her.' 'Kelley. You must still be drugged. Your mama passed away about ten years ago. Don't you remember? Tears form and Kelley us sobbing when there is a light tap on the door that doesn't wait for a 'come in.' Dr. Mansfield, the pediatrician, lifts Edward, puts him back in Kelley's arms and asks, 'Are you having him circumcised, Mr. Bogovich?' The question startles the new parents. Doug asks first, 'Why? We hadn't thought about it.' 'No particular reason but your name sounds perhaps Hungarian or Russian and I thought you may be Jewish.' The Bogoviches don't bother giving an answer. Instead they ask questions. 'Is our son okay, is he healthy? Does he have the right number of toes and fingers?' Kelley wants to know why her mother isn't here. ' How long do we have to stay in the hospital?' There is some hesitancy in the doctor's reply. 'We will check your signs tomorrow morning, Kelley and if all is as good as I expect it to be, you may leave after lunch.' The baby has to stay for a few days while I consult with a specialist about the red line on his face. I am not worried but want it checked.' Kelley forgets for a moment she just had a baby and sits up straight in bed, with fear in her voice, she asks Dr. Mansfield, 'What red line? I don't see a red line.' Doug keeps his mouth shut and waits for an answer.

 

'Look, carefully, Kelley. Don't you see it? Doug, do you see it? Sit up straight, watch my finger.' He traces it while Kelley stares at his every movement. 'No, I don't see a red line. I see hair on your knuckles. It is not a pretty sight. And you have a brown spot on the sleeve of your white coat. Maybe you need glasses.' Doug can't restrain himself and agrees with the doctor. He sees the thin red line.

 

'Doug, darling. Is my mother really gone? I dream of her so often I swear she is alive. Tomorrow when I get home, open the safe Mama had in her room. She told me not to open it until I have a baby. We have one now. The code is in a small white box in my father's old closet, in his straw hat box. Could she possibly have left her first grand child a million dollars?' They both laugh but inside wonder if that is what is in the box. It feels empty. Kelley takes off the scotch tape that is crunchy, has no stickum left. The box holds one thing, a letter from her mom.
'To our darling daughter, Kelley,

 

You are only six as I write to you but will be a grown, married woman, with a child of your own, when I explain why I never mentioned my secret. You know your grandparents, great and great, great grand- parents  were from Russia. A family trait has followed us for generations. Almost every boy baby is born with a thin red line on his face from his scalp to his chin. Each parent fears the mark of our family. Crazy Russian words are said, candles are lit but the trait goes on. If you have a son, do not despair. It will lighten and by the time he is three or four and it will be gone..

 

You may never see it. Kelley never does. Doug does and his family is from Scotland.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Don't ask-

BACK YARD BLUES

 

I have to believe that my shivering house does not foretell an earthquake. In a slight lull, I throw open the front door, see swirling dust and begin shivering myself. The entire Jackson Township, a mere two miles from Anderson, disappeared six months ago. It was all over the t.v. national news for days. What happened was, with no warning, a huge hole opened in the earth and nearly half of the town's long time residents, their homes, everything fell in.

 

Ropes, extension ladders, chains went down, never hit bottom. Whatever went down before the useless help got there, stayed down.
Flowers soon circled the pit. Candle light prayers were offered every night. Chanting, tears just went on and on, giving no solace, no peace of mind.

 

It was ironic that the morticians should have been in heaven with lots of work to do, but no bodies were available. Monahan's Funeral Home happened to be near the Appleby's who drove over to look down the hole, ran their car into the library's brick wall and both were killed.

 

The quivering in my house has stopped for a while. I chance taking a walk. Everything is still. All that has happened recently is like a dream, a nightmare. Dust begins to blow. The loud noise of heavy bulldozers, vibrations under my feet, send me home fast. Along my route workers are putting up a billboard. My curiosity is not quite strong enough to keep me there watching to see what is coming.

 

Since Jackson Township disappeared nothing is the same. Reporters still show up, take thousands of pictures of the giant claws dropping endless dirt into the darkness. Now and then someone makes fun of the effort, talks about the hole being a big toilet, letting stuff come in and sending it on its way. I feel at those times like Molly, old Fibber McGee's wife, who always got a snicker when she said, 'tain't funny McGee.' I think about that and don't remember it wasn't funny then and isn't now.

 

The billboard is up. It just is there, no ads, nothing coming. If they don't put something on it soon, the wood paneling will disintegrate in the dust and help to fill the hole. A panel truck, shiny new and white, makes a circle thru the grass, around the sign, parks at a 45 degree angle from the barren sigh. The driver and three workers bring wooden horses and flat boards to lay their long ad sheets. Vats of liquid paste, brushes with handles about ten feet long are piled around the sign. A crowd begins to form. I'm close enough to be part of 'the crowd.'

 

We wait expectantly for two hours, watching, trying to make sense out of sheets being pasted on from each of the four corners inward. Evening is coming fast. So are rain clouds. The workmen gathered their tools, don't finish their task. They leave a lone watchman to guard their equipment thru the storm, thru the night. No one shows up for work the next day.

 

If the storm hit, I didn't hear it. I slept well for a change. No nightmares, no fears. Right after sun-up I notice that the sky is already a most gorgeous shade of blue. My little barren garden that has been nothing but yellow sand seems green this morning. In my robe I go outside to see if I need new glasses or my garden has grown over night. I step on something squishy and see my feet are purplish. Blueberries are bursting from the ground.

 

Neighbors on both sides of my house are on their steps, watching me.
The Franklins, on my right, have two overflowing bowls of fresh red strawberries. On my left, the Thomlinsons are picking oranges off a tree they didn't have yesterday. The dusty soil that has been powdering us for months has settled down.

 

I don't know about any one else, but I don't want to eat my blueberries. The soil has grown too rich, too fertile.

 

It's strength can only come from one place. I shake my head hard, go inside and put the berries down the disposal.

Back to the future

LOOKING BACK

 

My fifth birthday party was too far away. Every day I asked my mother, or my father, or both, 'How much longer for my party? Can I invite Charlotte now? 'No, you can't even tell her about the party. You'll spoil it for everyone. Go play outside,' Mama tells me I'm smart because I can count to 100 without stopping. She tests me. ' This month is March. It has 31 days in it and today is the 11th day. Can you subtract 11 from 31?' 'No, Mama, I can only count up not back.' 'Sorry, Honey. Forget it, you have sixty two mornings to get up before your fifth birthday. So stop, please stop asking or Daddy and I won't give you a party at all.' I remember that scolding well. The days moved so slowly I thought they would never come. It was a great party. I had lots of presents and we played games. Daddy took moving pictures of us and a clown made balloon animals for everyone. And I became five!

 

The trouble with that was 6 barely moved. My childhood dragged, felt like I was pulling elephants on a string. The days, the years, went slowly until suddenly they moved fast, too fast. I was eighteen, didn't need a party. My best friend, Charlotte, had eloped to get married and had a baby before she was nineteen. My aim was higher than that. I was in college and would be a teacher in four years. A little war started here and there, I had a boyfriend but allowed no messing around. I was a virgin and intended staying one until I lost my will power, which was foolishly too soon. 'Everybody's doin' it!' Doin' what? I found out it wasn't 'The Turkey Trot.'

 

There were no brakes to slow the days down. Gary, with his MBA proudly in his pocket, decided to be a boss, eventually have stores galore. He added me, his work horse, to his assets. I was beside him, keeping records, going over inventory. Saying so myself is easy, I was also an excellent Mother Hen. Our three babes were out of high school before I could count to 100, backwards and forwards as I couldn't do on my milestone fifth birthday. My world began to spin. There was joy, sadness, trust, love. Every bite of life was a delicious cold Granny Smith apple, until a nasty green worm worked its way out and I bit into its slime.

 

Gary died of brain cancer only two months after it was first diagnosed. The big house is mine but I only use the kitchen, bathroom, what was our bedroom. A day worker comes in two mornings a week and that is plenty. I make no mess, leave no dishes on the sink.

 

It becomes my turn to check out some itchy, scaly places I have been feeling on my back for a few months. I drive myself to my dermatologist who performs what are three almost painless biopsies. His assistant actually does the scrapings and hands me a sheet of directions how to take care of the areas.

 

At home, I take a few minutes to read over what I must do for myself, happen to have the needed swabs, dressings, neosporen, peroxide in my medicine chest. I re-read the instructions that start about 24 hours after getting home.

 

I sit at my dressing table, trying to figure out how to do this simple task alone, twice a day. I can't see my back, can't feel the band aids. 'Gary, I need you,' I sob. I twist my neck as far as I can but can't see where the band aids are. I wrap my right arm around my back and grope up and down, feeling nothing but saggy skin. Ah! I do have a large magnifying glass on my dressing table and a wall mirror in front of my chair. On the first try, I drop the mirror on the carpet and a 'whew' comes out of my dry lips. It didn't break. I go at myself from another angle and see my back. It is flabby, doesn't look at all like my back should look. Trying to be less sorry for myself, I hold the mirror over my head and confirm that my back IS flabby, down right ugly. ..but it is an eighty eight year old back so why did I expect it to look like a twenty two year old one? I don't like what I see, don't like the outside of me. I am a fool, I tell myself, looking back at my back solves nothing. I lecture myself to face the now before there is none.

 

As I somehow manage, I think, to get each bandage on the spots that have to be covered, I hear Sharon's key in the front door. 'Sharon, I call,' 'Where are you, Mom,' she calls back. 'Come upstairs. I need you.'

 

Silver arrives with Tonto just in time for me let go of my aloneness. She'll be here every day to take care of my ointments, my band aids.

 

I'm a damn lucky old lady.

Just Joshing

JIMMY BOY

 

There's James, Jim, Jimmy, Jonas, John, Jerry, Joe and our smallest Jay is Jake. We're all neighbor's who live on Jefferson St. We are close in age and been friends for always. Macon's Saturday's-Sunshine edition did an article on us last Fourth of July and wanted to do another this year. With a few of the parents acting as chaperones, we filled a small jitney bus to Gracy's fire work extravaganza. Three reporters, one about our Joe's age, eighteen, met us at the front gate and gave us each a stack of free tickets to use on anything we liked. He apologized and said, 'but there is a caveat.' What, what is that? Where can I buy some?'  John asked. We were all in the dark but quickly got the message, had no trouble at all being special, being looked at, smiled at, envied.

 

Trouble found us when we went overboard on our privileges. Only Jake wasn't anxious to go on the racer dip. We called him a baby, and he sat down in the las open place. With him along, we filled one entire car. The ride was wild. We screamed enough to wake the dead. And we had plenty of tickets to take one more ride. The ticket taker made no attempt to stop us. We got all the kids in line waiting their turn, very, very angry. Some of them had Sugar Daddy suckers. There were guys with cell phones, cameras. They took a few pictures of the Jays. We knew we did wrong but did it anyhow. What a swell super ride we had. That is, all of us except Jake, who barely managed to reach a trash can when he left the car, tried to throw up in it, missed and fouled his shoes. The guy with the camera must have got a good shot of that mess.

 

Miss Helferstay, a reporter for Saturday's Sunshine, gathered us all around the entrance to the Penny Arcade, posed us making silly faces.
We argued with her about making us into idiots but she laughed and told us she didn't. We already were idiots. None of us thought that was funny at all. A clown in full array was strutting around, stopping little kids, showing off his big shoes and red nose. Mothers holding little hands brought their kids to say hello to him. Miss Helferstay somehow left us alone and snapped the clown and the little girls. 'Come on Guys, your jitney awaits you at the exit. Let's go.' We had all had it and were ready, all except Jake. He wanted to watch the clown.

 

John called him a baby and he got so mad he raised his voice and hollered back, 'You guys want to see something? Want to have a nice surprise to end our day?' 'Sure, Jake. Make us laugh and we'll get on the bus.' Jake stands straight as he can, orders us to make a small circle around him. 'Close your eyes, Guys, until I tell you to open them. No peeping!'

 

'Open, Sesame!' Jake is standing in front of us, his pants around his ankles, his private part is showing. Who yells first we don't know but we all know what we see. Jake is a girl!

 

In total silence we all walk to the bus, get on. Jake takes the last seat. She cries and laughs, laughs and cries. Our July Fourth ended again with a bang.

 

 

 

 

Going, Going ????

KING LEOPOLD THE FIRST

 

The King's first born reached manhood years ago. He stands in full military regalia on the top marble step of the palace at Claremont. His visored hat has a double row of braid around its crown. Gold braided epaulets almost drip to his shoulders. Down his impeccably pressed trousers are identically sewn two stripes, two inches wide.. A sheathed scabbard hangs from his black leather belt. It somewhat restrains a bit of the girth he has been accumulating recently.

 

The King of Slavancia, Vinholder, is being borne to the hearse for his last ride on earth. Ten casket bearers parade slowly to the rat a tat tat of the drummers. Aside from that, only their slow shuffle can be heard. All else is silent. Even the wind is hushed.

 

It is said that the concrete coffin is encased in pure silver. When the sun hits it on its way to the abbey, it sparkles like diamonds. There the king, in his splendor, will be buried in a vault ten feet below the marble floor. No one has ever been dug up, no graves have been robbed in this abbey. 

 

The Prince mounts his white stallion and follows the hearse to the abbey. Mourners hit themselves, cry, some turn away as their grief tears them to pieces. It is more difficult getting the coffin out of the hearse than getting it in. The weight calls for assistance. Guards carrying standards bear some of the weight and together they manage to get thru the bronze doors, over the ceramic tiled floors to the gaping hole that awaits the king. It is done. Several shovelsful of soil are thrown in and pleas to god to keep the king safe in heaven echo thru the chambers.

 

Prince Alphonse knows his place. He will be declared King after the mourning period of two weeks is over. Each day he walks into the throne room, looks at, but does not touch the throne. Doing so, it is said, can bring sorrow to him and his countrymen. While his grief is honest, it does not stop him from seeing his mistress nightly. Lady Celia feels the pangs of greed, goes to him without being called. She is fair. She is young and enjoys the ravishing. Together they foresee the wealth, the tributes, that will be laid upon them. Celia tells of her dreams of children who will grow tall and strong and follow them when their own time has passed.

 

When the weeks of mourning are over, Alphonse has the trumpeters call the township to castle. They come in droves, expecting more taxes will be heaped on them and are ready to fight. The not yet crowned king steps out on the balcony. Celia holds his arm and stands beside him. The announcement of their coming marriage surprises few. Castle staff has loose tongues.

 

Preparations move quickly. Spinning wheels create new cloth. Seamstresses measure with reeds from the pond, the waist of Lady Celia, the length of the gown she will wear. Alphonse will again wear military clothing but this time it will be red and black, no saber by his side. It is believed that is a sign of a peaceful reign.  

 

Everything is ready. Leaders of many countries come with servants, with gifts for the Prince and his lady. Horses over-load the stables.
The bugles blow into the wind, slightly muffling the cacophony of noise.
Prince Alphonse has let it be known that he will be officially crowned king in the throne room, immediately following his marriage to his beloved Celia.

 

They and their attendants turn to go inside when shouting, banging of drums, waving of flags stop them in their tracks. The large door behind them opens wide and from the great hall steps King Vinholder the First. He looks hearty, strong and bows over and over to his people. All are surprised, muddled beyond belief. A perfect silence falls over them. Ceil and Alphonse hurry inside to wait for King Vinholder's explanation.

 

He wishes them well on their marriage but gives no explanation, not then not ever, lives a long and happy life, has eleven grandchildren. Prince Alphonse and his wife never rule Slavancia and when Alphonse's time comes, he is buried in the grave that supposedly was for his father.

Stsarting out

POLLY WOLLY DOODLE

 

The children come from all directions. They skip. They sing. They are happy to be free. It is June 10th.  Grammar and junior high schools have closed for the summer. Green window shades have been rolled down. Doors are locked. City swimming pools and playgrounds are about ready for the onslaught of the children who won't be going north for the summer.

 

The drinking fountains have been tested and several still need to be fixed. A few concrete steps for the young fry to reach the water  remain in bad condition. Playground attendants and mothers will have to help until –well, no date is set.

 

Miss Polly McDorsey , only twenty years old, is in charge of Playground # 11, Western Park's kids. Her experience is next to nothing but her smile and demeanor (and lack of other interested young people) gets her the five day a week job. She is aware of the skimpy salary, but needs the experience and most of all she needs the joy of being with children.

 

In going thru supplies, Polly sees two of the ten pins are cracked, the beanbag board can't stand up, the Rec Room used for plays, for stormy days, is musty, dusty. Everything is carefully written down to give to Mrs. Wycliffe who puts the list in a folder and thanks Polly for her vigilance. The semi-easy job Polly attacks first. In the supply room there is a large bag of rags. Before dusting she tries to open the one small window for fresh air but it won't move. Not only does she manage to dust the desk and tables, she brings a new bottle of polish with her the following day. The ten pins, she has decided, are too far gone to repair but the bean bag board is fixable. Her first stop after work, her first full day, is the hardware store near her home. The owner, Joshua, glues a wooden wedge on the back of it, lays it flat, and asks Polly to come back for it the next day. 'How much does the city owe you, Josh?' she asks. 'Are you kidding, Polly? No charge. Watch out for my daughter, she loves the playground and goes almost every day. I'll tell her to say 'hello' to you. Her name is Gloria. She's six years old, adorable and smart, knows the entire alphabet and all the presidents' names in order from Washington on.'

 

The swings are full before Polly arrives. No one is yet on the sliding board but she knows they will be there in the morning before the metal gets too hot. She has to sign for three bags of sand for the sand pile and delights as they are emptied around the sliding board. As she watches, little girls tug at her skirt. One tugs harder than the others, looks up into her face and says, 'I'm Gloria. My daddy fixed our bean bag board.' Whoosh, Polly lifts her up, swings her in circles and puts her down. How foolish she was. Every child wants to be swung. Each gets heavier and heavier until her legs and back give out. Slowly she walks to her office and is followed by all those who weren't swung around yet. Lesson one has been learned.

 

June moves into July. It is hot. As the temperature reaches 98 there are less and less children to watch over. The older boys stick around. Polly sees them with their cell phones, their cameras, their decks of cards. She's familiar with the wonders of cyberspace, modems, I pods, has her own, but worries that these boys have grown up too fast, became young men before they were boys. The future is becoming the past before she and they can enjoy the now. The city gives the play area almost nothing.

 

Mid-July the thunderstorms hit about 4 p.m. four or five times a week. Her small salary is really too much for what she does and a sort of guilt hangs over her, hanging on the ropes of boredom.  It is time to go elsewhere, progress. Polly, never before a quitter, resigns.

 

The repaired bean bag is locked up with the basket balls, the ten pins, the crayons, colored papers, dull scissors. Polly has a bag full of memories. She walks between the raindrops and hears laughter, singing. Under their colorful umbrellas are dozens of children, singing Polly Wolly Doodle all the Day. They hand her cookies their moms had made especially for her, brownies, a slab or fudge that begins to melt. Two of the older boys use their i- pads to take photos.

 

Polly lifts Gloria to the fountain as the step never was fixed. Gloria kisses her cheek and Polly waves goodbye.

Digging in

LOOK AT ME

 

'Stand beside me, Lilyan, face to face, eyeball to eyeball'  Jessie says. 'I need you, dear friend, to be honest, brutally honest with me.' You have never really been in the fifty years we know each other. You have always fibbed, exaggerated, put me down, just never gave straight answers. My pockets always had some salt ready to take with me when we played together. I'm hoping this time you will realize I am serious and truly need to straighten my thoughts before it is too late.

 

I know now I shoulda, coulda, been a better person, that I can't change what I was but hope that somewhere I made a difference, helped, supported, cared about important things besides what game I wanted to play, what I wanted for Christmas. Why was I  mean to my parents so many times? Do this for me, Lilyan and if I survive, maybe you will want me to take you apart.' She gives Lilyan a broad smile and adds, 'It wouldn't hurt.'

 

Lilyan's first reply is, 'Get away from me. You've flipped out. I'm not interested in going back over nonsense.' Jessie gets teary, whines, gives her 'friend' a love tap on her fat rear and stands firm. She calls her a chicken and then Lilyan  erupts, compliments fly at Jessie like dry leaves in a fall windstorm.

 

'You aren't getting it, Lilyan. I want you to see me as I was, as I am. Last night, for instance, I stood in front of my full length three way mirror and got scared almost to death. I was there alright, wearing a yellow ruffled dress with a crinoline under it. My hair was straight as a ten inch ruler, but there I was , Shirley Temple, dancing and singing 'On the Good Ship Lollipop,' and I couldn't carry the tune. I concen- trated on dancing and fell forward, hitting my head on the mirror.
Look, you can see my bruise. Do you remember being five, Lilyan?'

 

'No, Jessie, but I remember we were seven in the same class with Charles Nachowitz and Bobby Schloss. We used to both have crushes on them, switching back and forth. You were the teacher's pet, Miss Langford, wasn't it? You were the cutest, smartest kid in our class, learned how to write with a straight pen and ink before any of us. I poured the ink in the desk wells until I finally dropped more on the desk than where it should be and Miss Langford gave my job to Bobby. If my memory is still good, you were glad I wasn't ink monitor any more. You laughed at me and told me to learn how to hold my hand still. I hated you then. You complained about your father, your mother, how much you hated them except when they gave you candy and ice cream money.' 'Was I really that bad, Lilyan? Do you know my father has lung cancer? I'm going to stop in the super market on my way home to get him some chocolate ice cream and serve it to him with a big hug and maybe even a little peck on his cheek. Darn, I forgot, my library books are due today. I'll get the ice cream for him tomorrow.'

 

'Jessie, you weren't all bad. I remember when we were twelve, you asked your mom to teach us how to knit and we formed a club, ' Les Knits.' Remember? We made dozens of scarves for the servicemen overseas. You collected used cooking fat from neighbors up and down Metropolitan Ave., turned it in for 'our boys'. Hey, I remember you used to walk with your father when he was blackout warden. You told me you were afraid he'd fall and there'd be nobody to help him.'

 

'Jessie, I guess I did some good things but mostly I remember being selfish, boring. I argued with everyone, had to be a leader, the boss. I still have a few years ahead of me. I'm going to the pharmacy now to get my dad's prescription so Mom won't have to go after dinner. I'll get the chocolate ice cream for him at the same time.'

 

Jessie laughs loudly, tells me not to change too much, too fast, or my mom might faint.

Away We Go

PLAIN JANE

 

Jane Amelia, barely six years old, stood on the top stone step into the row house where she, her Momma, Poppa and older by 3 years brother, Charles, lived. Cute as a butterfly kissing a buttercup, she stood with a smirk on her face , a terry cloth towel behind her shoulders and jumped to the pavement. The towel had no time to fluff out, float her down. She landed one foot on the bottom step, her twisted ankle on the sidewalk. Hurting, crying, she called, 'Momma, Momma, I fell.' Mrs. Taylor, in the large kitchen in the rear of the house, couldn't possibly hear her angel crying. Nonetheless, a strange feeling ran down her spine, forced her to put down the frying pan she was about to grease with salt free butter and walk to the front screen door. Jane Amelia heard her coming and managed to cry crocodile tears. 'Help me, Momma. My wings didn't open and I fell down the steps. I didn't dirty your towel very much.'

 

Mrs. Taylor examined Jane Amelia's foot, saw a little scrape, carried her into the kitchen, removed her Buster Brown shoes and white anklets. 'Oh, my, Jane Amelia,' she said. 'I had better call Poppa to come home and take you to the doctor to have your foot cut off.' Mrs. Taylor didn't realize how much her idea frightened her darling child until Jane Amelia began to cry real tears, held her tight and begged her not to call her Poppa. To improve the situation she offered her daughter two Hershey silver buds. That did the trick and deserved a kiss.

 

As they walked back to the front door a loud buzzing sound whirred above them. 'Quick, quick, let's go see the airplane. Poppa and I haven't seen one all week,' Mrs. Taylor's excitement made Jane Amelia forget her hurting ankle. She got to the door before her Momma, went thru it and let it bang shut on her Momma. 'Come back here, you little Sugar Plum Dumpling, and close the door softly without hitting me.'

 

The plane rose high, high above the new twenty story National Insurance Building that had ten stories more to go before all of the shops and offices opened for business. Jane Amelia threw questions at her Mamma. ' How high can buildings get? How much higher can airplanes fly? Will you take me for a ride in an airplane when I am seven?' A few words silenced her for too short a time. 'Honey, I don't know. But Poppa and I will take you and Charles to the amusement park next Saturday and you can ride in the Airplane Wrangler together. How's that idea?' The child liked that but it wasn't good enough. 'Yes, Momma, but that's for children and I want to go in a real airplane before I get too old.' Momma laughed.

 

Before that Saturday came, Jane Amelia had a great idea. She got the biggest terry cloth towel in the closet. It wasn't brand new so she figured she could use it, wouldn't get it dirty but stopped in her tracks. She couldn't open the third floor windows, didn't know how the men fixing the roof next door got out there. Sitting in the corner of Charles' bedroom, she thought and thought, picked up her terry cloth wing and put it back in the closet. With little anticipatience she had to  wait for the Wrangler ride.

 

The day was beautiful. The sun made it warm enough to think about summer and a new bathing suit. Momma put Charles' leather jacket in the back seat, a sweater for Jane Amelia and a little wrapped package into Poppa's pocket. He drove too fast and Momma hollered at him. We missed the Amusement Park and kept going, past fields of corn and a lake with water as blue as the sky. Poppa slowed down and turned into a place we had never been. 'Momma, what does the sign say?' Momma told her, 'Airarium.' Poor Jane Amelia never heard that word and asked her Momma what that meant. Momma told her to be still, she'd find out.

 

When she did, she thought she had died and gone to heaven. There were two airplanes on a long street. They were making noise and shaking a little. A man came out of a building to speak to Mr. And Mrs. Taylor, looked at her and Charles and asked Mr. Taylor if he was sure he wanted to do this. He got angry and told the man that if he wasn't sure, he wouldn't be standing in front of him telling him he's sure.

 

Charles had to put on his leather jacket. Jane Amelia was given her sweater and told to button it. They were led to an airplane that had a door on each side. The man lifted Jane Amelia up high and set her down on the seat next to where he was going to be. Charles and Poppa got in the back seats. Straps were buckled around every body. Poppa opened the small package Momma had for him and put one little something into each ear so the noise wouldn't hurt them.

 

The motor noise almost split Jane Amelia's ears but she didn't care. They were moving down the long pavement, going faster and faster, then up and up. Looking down thru a strange shaped window they could all see the Amusement Park, the lake. Poppa yelled out, 'Look that's where we live.'

 

It was a short ride, seemed like it didn't really happen, until Jane Amelia was lifted down and threw up her entire breakfast on her Momma's sweater.

 

As soon as she got home she found the heavy towels that were going to let her fly and hid them behind the new furnace in the basement and gave up flying forever.

Starlight, Star Bright?

HOLLYWOOD

 

What faces! What bodies! I never tire of watching the hopefuls, the future big movie stars answering the cat calls. They make an endless line past the casting studios. Determination, ambition fill their minds. Fame, money is everything. A few elderly women, needing no make-up for an occasional part, continue hoping to be in the right spot at the right time and move up the line as slowly as the others.

 

It's June. The sun is hot. Feet in six inch heels cramp. The Charlie Horses need massaging, but the stoic ones can only rub the pain, stamp their feet. They do this shamelessly while keeping smiles on their faces. It rarely happens, but when it does, arguments can get loud, now and then semi-violent. An RKO official stops the fuss and sends the trouble makers to the end of the line.

 

Twenty-five portable potties are along the building wall. Eyes watch for doors to open. 'Hold my place and I'll hold yours,' need not be whispered. Politeness flies away. Verbal battles begin softly, can reach screeching heights. The cattle call in itself is a show without tickets. It goes on morning after morning longer than Moses parting the Red Sea.

 

I recognize many of the ladies, call them by name. Holly seems special to me somehow. There is an electric charm to her walk, to her 'hello' wink. Carole, who uses the last name 'Bard' surely believes she is the next Carole Lombard, but she has miles to go before she is Minnie Mouse. I wonder if she ever saw Carole Lombard, realized the stars in the sky were there for Miss Lombard.  When her screen image smiled without saying a word, thousands more smiled too. Carole Bard might do better as Carole Bore.

 

I break my self-made rule for the first time when I start a conversation with Holly. She is quick witted, pleasant, and so exceptionally warm. Love bites me hard on my nose and another extremity. Holly is to be the next one thru the door to the stage but is stopped dead. The monitor uses a megaphone and calls out for all to hear, 'Calls over. Try again tomorrow.' The sighs, the growling, go thru about twenty five upset, disappointed ladies. Holly walks to the exit as they all disburse, smiling to them telling them not to give up. Stragglers bitch, blame the immediate world then fade away until the next call.

 

Holly, puts her shoulders back, her chin high. As she reaches to close the gate, I hold it for her. 'Don't be upset, Holly, I say. 'I've watched you wait in line many times. You are made out of iron. Don't you ever wear out, want to give up? How about having a good steak dinner with me instead of going home by yourself. That will cheer us both up.'

 

It takes her a few minutes to absorb my invitation before she says, 'I'm sorry. I would go with you but I can't. I'm married so laugh at this, Holly Would but Holly won't. I'll see you next call.'

 

I watch her take off her high heels and walk barefoot on the grass.

OOPS--SORRY

I SENT THIS TO YOU YESTERDAY

 

A new one will be sent Tuesday.

 

VAL

Hard head

BLACK JACK

 

He could play the tables. He could drink all the rot gut he felt like drinkin'. He could lay all the ladies who laid him back and still be up for more.  He could eat at a lunch counter or the Ritz, except, except, Jack really is black, so black his skin shines blue when under a fluorescent light. He hates that skin of his. He should be somebody because he knows for sure he is somebody, somebody special and is going to be famous, make a mark on this old earth.

 

His Mama has taught him to be honest. He told her what she can do with honesty besides starve. His father has warned him about ladies of the night and to not catch syphilis or he'll go blind. He has warned his Pop to be careful himself because his Mom knows her man fiddles around.

 

Jack has his 22nd birthday alone. He sits by the hazy front window and hears sirens scream. They don't scream for him this time. A little excitement runs thru his body. Plans are in the work. Joe, his former best pal, knows a lot of people, knows bank routes, delivery, take out times. Joe has been a free man, rather semi-free man, for six months now and has to report to his parole board twice a week for ten years. Jack is not gonna wait ten years for him to be on the street again.

 

He talks to Joe's Ma and finds out where he stays all day, gets a phone number, gives the old lady five bucks and goes looking for Joe. There is trouble right away as Joe wants no part of muck-up Jack. His former pal thinks he's god's gift to the ladies and to him. He isn't needed. The Ralston bank is little on the outside but handles lots of big company pay rolls. It's at most a four man job and Jack would make five. Nobody wants him. They put the problem on Joe. Get rid of him, any way you want. Just do it.

 

Jack, in the meantime, is planning something on his own. Why should he work hard, take most of the big chances and split the pot? 'Ma, come with me, I need to get into your safe deposit box for Dad's stocks from Algonquin Oil. I can triple what they are worth for him, for you. The price of oil keeps going up and the company is splittin' it's britches. It's making money faster than the mint prints it. 'Don't tell me 'no, Ma. Get your key and we are going over to Ralston Bank. You go in. I'll wait outside. We can't get in any trouble, Ma. They're your stocks too. Turn off the gas range and go, go now!' She's strong but he knows she'll give in soon. And she does. They have to take the bus to the bank as neither has a car. Jack sits down and feels eyes staring at his blackness. The sun streaks in the closed window and makes little yellow lines across his black face. He can't see them this time but remembers other times and stares hard into the faces of the other passengers.

 

Three blocks before the bank he tells his ma to get off the bus and walk to the bank.' Go inside. Wait there for me, near the front desk.'
Everything is going well. His head is covered by a grey wig that looks better than his real hair. He takes his time, looks in the window of a photo shop next door and walks into the bank.

 

At the same exact minute Joe and his pals, rifles, machine guns spitting fire in all directions blast into the bank. The Manager of the bank is miraculously able to reach the emergency foot peddle for the police. Mama dies fast, without ever knowing what happened to her or her son, Jack.

 

Jack knew almost nothing but heard someone leaning over his leaking body, 'Hey, look at this killer. There's so much blood on his black  muscled chest, he looks like a checkerboard.' 

 

Maybe he thought he would be famous as the Checkerboard Killer and died happy.

Have fun with this

BLACK JACK

 

He could play the tables. He could drink all the rot gut he felt like drinkin'. He could lay all the ladies who laid him back and still be up for more.  He could eat at a lunch counter or the Ritz, except, except, Jack really is black, so black his skin shines blue when under a fluorescent light. He hates that skin of his. He should be somebody because he knows for sure he is somebody, somebody special and is going to be famous, make a mark on this old earth.

 

His Mama has taught him to be honest. He told her what she can do with honesty besides starve. His father has warned him about ladies of the night and to not catch syphilis or he'll go blind. He has warned his Pop to be careful himself because his Mom knows her man fiddles around.

 

Jack has his 22nd birthday alone. He sits by the hazy front window and hears sirens scream. They don't scream for him this time. A little excitement runs thru his body. Plans are in the work. Joe, his former best pal, knows a lot of people, knows bank routes, delivery, take out times. Joe has been a free man, rather semi-free man, for six months now and has to report to his parole board twice a week for ten years. Jack is not gonna wait ten years for him to be on the street again.

 

He talks to Joe's Ma and finds out where he stays all day, gets a phone number, gives the old lady five bucks and goes looking for Joe. There is trouble right away as Joe wants no part of muck-up Jack. His former pal thinks he's god's gift to the ladies and to him. He isn't needed. The Ralston bank is little on the outside but handles lots of big company pay rolls. It's at most a four man job and Jack would make five. Nobody wants him. They put the problem on Joe. Get rid of him, any way you want. Just do it.

 

Jack, in the meantime, is planning something on his own. Why should he work hard, take most of the big chances and split the pot? 'Ma, come with me, I need to get into your safe deposit box for Dad's stocks from Algonquin Oil. I can triple what they are worth for him, for you. The price of oil keeps going up and the company is splittin' it's britches. It's making money faster than the mint prints it. 'Don't tell me 'no, Ma. Get your key and we are going over to Ralston Bank. You go in. I'll wait outside. We can't get in any trouble, Ma. They're your stocks too. Turn off the gas range and go, go now!' She's strong but he knows she'll give in soon. And she does. They have to take the bus to the bank as neither has a car. Jack sits down and feels eyes staring at his blackness. The sun streaks in the closed window and makes little yellow lines across his black face. He can't see them this time but remembers other times and stares hard into the faces of the other passengers.

 

Three blocks before the bank he tells his ma to get off the bus and walk to the bank.' Go inside. Wait there for me, near the front desk.'
Everything is going well. His head is covered by a grey wig that looks better than his real hair. He takes his time, looks in the window of a photo shop next door and walks into the bank.

 

At the same exact minute Joe and his pals, rifles, machine guns spitting fire in all directions blast into the bank. The Manager of the bank is miraculously able to reach the emergency foot peddle for the police. Mama dies fast, without ever knowing what happened to her or her son, Jack.

 

Jack knew almost nothing but heard someone leaning over his leaking body, 'Hey, look at this killer. There's so much blood on his black  muscled chest, he looks like a checkerboard.' 

 

Maybe he thought he would be famous as the Checkerboard Killer and died happy.