Home away from home

SKY BAR

 

The darling tiny one whose blond ringlets cover her head is just sprouting her first wings. Her grandfather lifts her to his knees, spins his silver stool around and around. Little Lonnie laughs until she cries pink tears. Grandpa stops suddenly. She slips away and lands on a cloud that is soft and cozy, lies there until her grandfather calls her grand- mother to go find Little Lonnie but the old lady needs glasses and can barely see her husband, the clouds, the bar.

 

All of the angels still babbling at the bar leave their places, step slowly, carefully into the white cotton clouds. As they drift west, they whisper their fears. Every one has a comment to make. 'It is too late.'  'Little Lonnie has been taken from us.' ' Our Lord and Master is wise.' 'Lonnie and her grandfather are surely being punished for something. It is not up to us to find the reason.' ' Let us just try to help.' The full grown wings open almost as one. They flutter. Heads stare at the empty space left by Little Lonnie.

 

The chatter is meaningless. The diaphanous men float back to their silver seats at the bar. 'I'll have the nectar of the gods,' says Solomon.
'Bee honey for me,'  Joseph says in a whisper' 'Speak up, Joseph. When your turn comes back here where I am, you'll understand.' Mordecai wants cold, fresh water that falls from the rocks. Izzy gets off of his seat, begins an oration on the foolishness of imbibing when Little Lonnie is lost. 'Drink up. Let us go now. I, we, must find the babe.' Darius is the first to follow Izzy. The other males check their wings again and off they go in many directions.

 

They look at every cloud that sails past them, bend over, feel the softness but touch no babe. Lonnie's Grandpa has nothing else to say. He just watches the whiteness turn gray, then black. The bar has risen to where the sun rests, waits for morning. The wings of all the drinkers are folded close to their bodies. They nod, feel nothing, see nothing until a warmth comes over them.  One by one they stand, partially unruffle their wings. A ray of yellow sun is joyful. For sure they will find Lonnie today. That she had left earth forever is clear as well as there is no chance at all that she has been taken to hell. Heads nod in agreement. Lonnie cannot be in hell. Izzy speaks up, 'Before we start our search, let's go to the bar for cold glasses of sunny orange juice that will give us strength.' The search begins as the fluffy white clouds play hide and seek with the sun. Eyes squint, stare at space.

 

Lonnie's Grandpa takes the lead, spreads his wings until they creak and off he goes. A nose dive down and he sees something that just might be Lonnie. It is a heavenly white swan, the biggest he has ever seen and on it's back sits Lonnie. She is so happy with her ride, with seeing her Grandpa that she slips and falls into the lake.

 

Grandpa swoops low, low enough to grab his little grand child and they fly up, up, up into the clouds. He gives her a glass of cold orange juice and a great big hug.

Shared

PORTER'S HOUSE

 

The night is black, starless. Staring straight above me I realize it is not starless at all. It's full of twinkling, magical stars, planets, asteroids, maybe even Aliens. Clouds have gathered, hunched over each other and are ready to burst, let loose a deluge before morning. I'm chilly, feel a draft and follow it to the cellar door, turn the cold knob. The back door is open, barely open, but the cold air hits my ankles like a snowstorm. Before I even think how this could have happened, I slam the door so hard the window rattles. Loudly I call out, 'Who's in here? Who? Come out!' I add, 'You can't hide long. I'll find you.'

 

Cartons of junk are piled in corners, on the side of the wash tubs. Most are filled with memories, memories I've tried and tried to leave outside for the trashmen, but renege as I hear the truck coming down the alley. I can't move them. They feel cemented to the floor–to my heart. And they remain in their own private graveyard.

 

The 100 watt light bulb over the stairway blinks, fizzles and goes dark. I have no matches or flashlight handy. Barely enough kitchen light seeps under the cellar door. I step warily, hold onto the railing, and sense someone behind me. Like a bolt of lightning I push the door wide open, turn the cheap, cheeesy  key in the lock. There is silence. No footsteps retreat to the cellar. There's no tap on the door.

 

But there is a mild baffling smell. It creeps towards me, envelopes me, goes under my finger nails. I open the fridge and all is normal I check to be sure I have taken the garbage out, put the lid on tight. Casey, my next door neighbor, a growling pit bull who hates me, leaves his bone on the grass and comes yowling at me. As usual he is stopped by his owner's electric fence and slinks back to his house.

 

As the odor gets stronger I have to admit to myself that I am  frightened, and reluctantly go downstairs and slug down a semi-hefty shot of Jack Daniels, straight. It takes affect quickly. Returning to my bedroom, I hum a silly, childish song,  'Mary had a little lamb, etc. etc.–and I hear her little lamb–or something soft- a whirling gray diaphanous something gives me chills as it wraps around me, speaks.

 

'Mr. Marcus. I am the soul of this house, this house that I built. It was called Porter's House way back in 1950. I and my wife were so happy here.' His voice reeks with emotion. 'You, have not taken good care of it. Your memories fill the basement and have made no room for mine.
The angels finally let me come down to beg you to finally do what you have wanted to do for 40 years. MOVE. Take your memories with you.

 

You and I won't meet again, unless, unless? And he disappears.

 

First thing in the morning I check the basement, find the cellar door closed tightly. My memory cartons are stacked high near the exit door. In the distance the banging of trash cans being emptied into the big green truck push me, force me to start giving Mr. Porterhouse his house back.

 

Surely, we both have found closure.

Comeona his house

CHAIRLADY

 

After lots of tiring tramping thru furniture stores, I hit on just what I had pictured for our re-done kitchen that had miles to go from start to end. Our round kitchen table had to be donated to someplace or other. It's antiquated club feet were scuffed from years of using them for foot rests. I wanted more of an early American look without a butter churn in the corner. Joe, my usually adored, mate, took no interest whatsoever in my challenge. His wallet wasn't overflowing but he trusted me completely to stay within our limits.

 

'Joe, come with me Saturday. I love the chairs I found in Kopaks and a perfect table for our kitchen. Will you, will you?' 'Sorry, Babe, I have a golf date. Buy it if it's what you like.' That reply was unacceptable. My huff huffed. 'Either you go with me after your golf game or no anything nice for you at bed time.' My magic words worked.

 

Showered, changed Joe looked semi-happy. He wanted to go home from his golf game and just kibbitz around the house, do little things at his desk that have been neglected too long. 'Neglect them a little longer, Joe. Do you know where Kopak's is?' I asked. His face got a little pinkish when he barked at me, 'How can I not know? It's two blocks from my office.'

 

Inside, Mr. Jackson, welcomes us and leads us to the table and chairs I like. Joe is absolutely silent-not a smile, nod of his head, a yes or a no.'
'I assume , Joe, that you don't hate my choice. So, should we put a deposit down now? This time he winks an okay, leaves me discussing color, tax, delivery and looking for him to bring our charge card to the desk.

 

Two weeks later Mr. Jackson calls to set the delivery for the very next day. 'No good, Mr. Jackson. How's Thursday? I'll be here.' I contact Good Will to pick up the old set Wednesday A.M., work hard to clean away all signs of being used for ten years but the claw legs remain clawed. Watching out the front window I see Good Will drive past my house, phone them at once, and nobody knows anything. 'Be patient. They'll be there when they're there,' I'm told. The receiver clicks off. Thursday drags. The truck doesn't come

 

Friday our new table and chairs arrive at 10 a.m. Before they take the new set off the delivery truck, I hurry to them, explain that the old set hasn't been removed as promised by Good Will. The driver is less than pleasant. 'Where do you want this stuff?' I use my sugary voice and ask if he can come back later in the day and I will try to get Good Will here first. 'No can do. Your table and chairs are first off our truck. I can take your shipment into your house or back to the store. There will be an extra delivery fee.'

 

What a bloomin' mess! Nobody is nice. Nobody gives a rat's tail about anybody but themselves. A 45 watt idea comes to me. I call Mr. Jackson, explain what has happened and ask Mr. Kopak if their driver will put our old set on our lawn and cover it with a tarp, for an extra fee. 50 bucks and I'm in business. I get the furniture driver to tape the tarp several times around what was our kitchen set and bring in the new set. With my ingenuity at full mast, things are working out.

 

In the few minutes that our kitchen is empty, I notice the worn marks on the tile, scoff that off and wait for the new table and great looking chairs to come in. My choice was perfect. Joe comes home, agrees I did I nice job and goes to shower. I defrost a great dinner, set the table, add wine glasses and a bottle of Cabernet and sit down to wait.

 

Yikes! What the devil is in my back, pebbles? bricks? The round knobs in the back rest are miserably uncomfortable. I get a toss pillow from the living room and brace myself against it. First thing in the morning I am back at Kopak's making a big scene. He sells me a pad that fits over the pretty knobbed back and I ask for another one for Joe. He smiles and charges only $40. I never tell Joe.

 

In the morning I call Good Will and they tell me their truck was at my house at 8 a.m. There was no table/chair set on my lawn.

 

Somebody stole it for sure and I have a silly idea Joe has it stashed somewhere.

 

 

Great subjects

                                   DELLI-VISION

 

Two white baseball caps duel with each other as the husband and wife chew lunch. Their jaws grind slowly. They do not speak. A busboy, who I imagine speaks little or no English, swipes off the booth next to them.

 

Two booths away two bald men face each other. The heavy set one wears a blue and yellow plaid cotton shirt and the other a black washed- out knit. They jabber constantly, one starting before the other stops. Their coffee gets cold, their toast dries. A snap of his fingers and the washed-out shirt guy attracts the waitress and complains about the coffee. I get sore, lose interest in them and change my position.

 

Oh, how I love this early time at the delly. My observations, my environment, are more tasty than the lox.

 

A gargantuan  busboy with a navy blue/red/white baseball cap ambles past me, sees me writing, and walks back where he had come from, loads a tray of dirty dishes and carries it to the kitchen.

 

An elderly man with only snow white fringe on his head is partially hidden by a post, but I see his long, skinny legs, his feet in black flip flops, protruding from the post. They make me see him as a beautiful deer, its tan pelt torn, lying shot under a tree.

 

More customers, more fodder for me, come in.

 

The first to form a wait line happens to have on a heavy, clumsy neck brace. Holding a brown cane, he limps to the men's room. When he returns, the hostess has held a small table on the aisle for him and seats him immediately. Not only is he disabled, he is alone and I feel sorry for him, quickly turn away.

 

The kitchen door, constantly blocked my view of one whole area but this time I caught a momentary sight of a tanned, slender man, maybe about 50, very curly hair that is too curly, too long for his stature. On the table in front of him he has spread the entire morning paper, leaving no room for his lunch. What he does is lifts his plate with one hand, uses his fork with the other, takes a bite or a sip, puts it down and reads another column. Once I saw him my eyes glued on to his prowess and I knew that if I tried it, my eggs would instantly be in my lap.

 

A family of four is seated. Either they had been to or were going again to the beach. Mother, teen daughter and son, showed a lot of sun-burned skin, while the father, an unsigned up member of the baseball cap brigade, only nodded an occasional yes or no to whatever was said to him.

 

This piece de resistance I must tell you about and then I will go. A very fat lady, dark long hair, black dress, somehow sat down when I wasn't looking. There was a man with her but hard to see. She was in my view–just about all of her. Her shoes had been slipped off, one leg propped up on the bench and the other splayed wide apart on the floor. When I say I saw all of her, I did.

 

Her arrival, my leaving were perfectly timed. I'd had enough to eat, enough writing and definitely too much of her. 

 

 

 

 

FIXED

AUTHOR ARTHUR

 

My hands are shaking. My tongue feels like a scummy mop. My eyes blur. I'm stymied. A drink, that's what I need to relax. The cold Schlitz staring at me from the top shelf of my fridge is within easy reach, but I grab my temporary strength, leave it there, and shake a quart of Florida orange juice into a froth, pour it into my handy empty coffee cup. A weird sensation confuses my thinking. I hear myself mumble,  'stop the babble. Stop the babbling. Find your papers! Get busy.
 McGraw and Gray aren't going to wait much longer.'

 

The outdoors speaks to me, invites me to take a long walk in the sun, smell the roses. Jacketless, sweaterless, I obey. There is a slight nip in the air, not strong enough to send me back in the house, still angry at myself and the big black blank in my brain. Move, move your rear. I move it slowly with no purpose at all.

 

Right around the next corner the condo pool invites me in for a quick refreshing dip. My shoes and sox I toss on the brown grass and run, almost full speed ahead, to the pool's edge...and jump in. My scream brings Carlo, the condo's maintenance man. 'Help!', I yell. He climbs into the empty pool, lets me lean on his shoulder as I slowly manage to get myself up the few metal steps onto the peopleless, chairless pavement.

 

From nowhere my eyes begin to leak. I cry and laugh simultaneously. Carlo orders, 'Mr. Arthur, sit down on the grass. Tell me what you were doing in the drained pool.' 'Drained?' I ask. 'I saw cool, clean filtered water in there and thought a few laps would help me get on with my work.' Carlo's brows scrunch together. He is as confused as I. He walks me to building C, enters the monthly code for me. The elevator doesn't come. I ring it again. Not a sound does it make. Damn it, I have to walk  four flights up narrow stairs to my apartment, make it and reach in my pocket for my keys. Nothing in any pocket. What now? Walk down, Shmegegee, find Carlo, get the service people here again. They surely know their way by now. Carlo appears, accompanies me up stairs, opens the door with his pass key. What a stinkin' day this has been from when I opened my eyes. I close them, visualize my keys lying in the empty pool, go for that cold Schlitz right where I left it. It feels so great going down, like a mountain spring loosening daisies as it tumbles to the ground.

 

Where is it, where is my book? I have to have my book. Something is pushing me, giving me a leg up to get back on track and write the next chapter of 'Author Arthur.'

 

I'm ready, pen in hand, brain set on 'Go', my masterpiece begins with a strong opening. Where will it go? Stick around. It begins like this:

 

'My hands are shaking. My tongue feels like a scummy mop. My eyes blur. I'm stymied.'

Selfish?

 

MEL

 

This time the vibes were right. They were zinging. His picture in the dating book looked better than most, snow white hair, trim body, Goldwater glasses, really pleasant smile AND he played golf AND he was seeking a country club woman AND he responded to my request to meet him. Evidently my bio pleased him too. This was surely going to turn into something worthwhile. My usual negative attitude almost disappeared when I called him as his voice was strong, polite, and as close to anxious as I'd ever heard.

 

At first I suggested we meet someplace for lunch but he thought it would be much nicer if he picked me up. He slurped his coffee but that wasn't bad. He took me home and we would meet later. The time was set, my hair cut, my apartment more immaculate than ever, fresh strawberries, cherries, wine ready for when he could come back to spend more time with me. All of my terrace shades were up so the lovely golf course view would be impressive when he first entered. Music wafted softly through the rooms. My high hopes were dying as he didn't appear on time. I looked out the window over and over in case I saw him confusedly searching for my building. No Mel.

 

20 minutes after the appointed time I decided to call Security and was shocked that my phone was not working. Without it, Mel could not buzz me to be admitted. Nervously I hurried downstairs just in case he was waiting at the door. No Mel. Back upstairs to try the phone again and found one off the hook. My fault, my careless fault. I grabbed my car keys and rushed to the front gate and actually caught sight of a stranger with white hair trying to get through. I made contact with the man, calling him 'Murray' for some unknown reason, and got lucky. One second later and he would have been gone. From this point on I must take back my 'lucky' thoughts.

 

I felt terrible that he was so hot from driving around, arguing with the gatekeeper, but by the end of our visit I wish we hadn't met at all. We talked for a bit and then went to my selected restaurant, one I expected to be quiet but the noise of the young crowd was most annoying. Mel suggested we share something, a salad perhaps. That  was fine with me but that was all that was fine. The man seldom eats out, makes spaghetti and frozen dinners at home, has absolutely no interests other than saving things like string, barbed wire, doesn't belong to a club at all, reads only the paper, goes to movies alone, and has no social life. He  turned out to be a dud from Dudsville.

 

There was, however,  surprisingly some interesting conversation and he seemed very knowledgeable in a few areas, but I was quite sure I overwhelmed him with all of the things I do, interests I have. I tried to encourage him, excite him to tape his memories, his family history for his children, but he said he wasn't a good speaker. None of my suggestions to improve his poor attitude flamed any kind of spark and that alone doused mine. Finally he left, 3 hours together was more than enough for me, and so

 

I lay him to rest in my pile of discards, hoping he wouldn't call me again..and already wondering how to politely say, 'No thank you.' I'll find a way and then keep on trying to find that elusive somebody to make life even better.
My mind and growing file remain ready!

------------------------

Forgive me if this is a repeat. Thanks

----------------------------------------

My search

HELPING HAND

 

There was so little time. With every breath he tried to take, the minutes ticked away. My husband's big blue eyes became narrow slits. He barely mumbled but knew I was by his side, day after day and many miserable nights on a miserable cot next to his bed. A river flowed down my cheeks, neck, into my blouse and washed away my heart.

 

Details, details filled every waking moment I had, stuffed my dreams with ferocious lions waiting in the tall grass to jump out and devour me.
 My neighbors, friends, even small family, became burdensome. I could not smile, didn't want to get dressed to go out, relax. There was just too much to handle. When I really thought I should see a psychologist, Alfred came to me in a dream and told me what to do. He was so smart.
'Delly, get busy, get away from the house, the papers, the insurance. Find something new to fill your time, help others.' As I tried to drink my nuked instant coffee, something niggled at me about Alfred telling me something, but it had evaporated in the morning sun. I was on my own lonely island full of brambles and thorns.

 

'Delly, Delly,' my mind releases its chains and I know I have to stop pitying myself, get busy, invest in tougher woes others harbor and mine will lessen. Never having needed to read the Silver Star's list of the day's, week's activities, I begin reading what's on available what sounds interesting. The list is long, promising. Maybe, just maybe, this will be my medicine. I will be choosey, needing a convenient place near-by, bright, busy, where my foibles can be tolerated.

 

 First place I contact is the Cancer Society. I tell Ms. Yawner that I am computer literate, can type, answer the phone and want a busy, bright office to work in. She bubbles, gives me the address, which is not near my home but I go anyhow. The office is drab, has a single chair, several phones on the only desk, two files and a small window on the side of the   building. She tells me that women do come in to find out where to go to be fitted for false breasts. I tell the woman at the desk with the phones, that this is not at all what I want and put her down hard.

 

The following day I approach Fire Engine House #12, enter and see at least ten handsome young men sitting down to lunch. Two are cooking and serving. Several stand to welcome me, ask if I'd like to lunch with them. How could I not smile? My grin must have made me look like Little Miss Sunshine coming to see the mock turtle. 'Gentlemen, I am here to answer your request for a hostess in your station house, one who can type, handle your paper work and I can sure do that AND wash dishes. Captain O'Rourke 's smile is not as bright as mine was as he tells me the spot is filled. He asks for my name, phone, e mail address and suggests I try the Sheriff's office. I thank them all for their taking care of this district, always alert, always on hand, and bid them so-long.

 

My spirit is already sagging but the Sheriff's office does sound intriguing. I apply to assist wherever I am needed. Sheriff Olmstead has his handy records book on top of his cluttered desk, looks it over and starts asking me questions, telling me that I have to pass Security. The first thing on tap is to have my photo taken. He hands me a number to hold on my chest, tells me to relax but not smile. Click. In but a second there I am in my silk blouse looking like a frightened convict. It will take two weeks before a full report on me reaches him. I will be notified if and when I should return. 

 

In only twelve days I receive a call to come to Station 12 at Crawford Mall, across from Old Navy in the side court. 'Wear low heeled shoes. Be here promptly at 9:45 a.m. July 2. The mall will be busy and you will have much to learn.' Ah! This sounds perfect. My blood boils with excitement. I am there at 9:30, meet the Chief who will teach me what I have to do after lunch. 'In the meantime, Gloria Stazak will be here at ten and she'll give you a briefing.' He hands me a small, tinny looking badge to pin to my chest. I do as he says and think it looks stupid, sticking out like a pistol, but keep my mouth shut. There are two high stools behind the round counter and one low chair. I get the low broken down chair and have to stand to see if someone comes to the counter.

 

'This is important,' the sheriff says. 'Lean over, I'll show you how to take fingerprints.' Yowzie! He shows me. It's easy and I have special fluid to clean fingers. A young man approaches and Gloria takes a booklet from him, skims over it and asks Gloria what she has to do for him. 'Take his prints! He's applying for a government job. Never mind, I'll do it, she says. I'm tickled pink, I have to see it done more than once, then I'd liked to try doing my own print.

 

A lady with two small children stops by., 'Where is the ladies room, Miss?' she asks. I don't know. I don't use public loos. Gloria gives her directions. The next 'customer' is an elderly man who wants to know where he can get a heart shaped box of chocolates. I point across the large aisle to Wonka's Chocolates and tell him to go ask them. I have already finished the day's crossword puzzle, Sudduko and have done nothing but feel unneeded, unwanted. My shift is over at 3:30. Francine comes on and I go home, frustrated, disappointed, need time to rethink this whole new deal. At home, I fix a sandwich for myself, watch Law and Order, exhausted from my new job, I fall asleep.

 

Bad dreams wake me early. A fireman is taking my fingerprints and leads me to the gallows that is next to a candy shop. I will give this one more chance.

 

 I think–think some more and decide I won't.

Good morning?

SCHNOZ

 

The smell tantalizes me as soon as I open the vestibule door. Mickey Mouse follows an airy swaying snake right to the window sill of Minnie's house. It writhes in front of me, has me in its grip. Stopping only long enough to put my new third grade geography book on the table at the top of the stairs, I skip the rest of the way to Mama's kitchen 'Hi, Mama. I knew it! I knew it! You have an apple pie in the oven. Right? Are we going to have vanilla ice cream with it tonight?'

 

'No hug first?' I give and get one. 'Sherry, there are two pies baking. One is for us and the other for Aunt Mollie. She came home from the hospital yesterday with your new twin cousins. Aunt Molly is going to be busy with those two tiny tots. Will you go with me tomorrow to take the pie over and maybe we can take a peep at John and Joan? Would you like that?' 'Sure, Mama. I still have 75 cents in my piggy bank. Maybe I can buy them lollipops. Mama smirks. 'We'll have to wait a little while for that.'

 

We wait a long while. I spend my money, finish third grade and have eaten quite a few apple pies. More freckles on my nose do not stop my sniffer from being alert. Paste, I smell paste. I hear loud snip, snips coming from the third floor bedrooms. I bound up the stairs two at a time. My furniture is gone, my closet empty. All of my belongings are behind my brother's closed door.

 

 Mr. Golden, the paperhanger, has come at last. Wooden horses span the walls, holding a large clean board. Brushes, rollers, scissors rest on long nails on the horse's legs. 'Can I help you, Mr. Golden? Please, please, let me do some pasting. It's my paper you know.' 'Not now, Little One. You don't want lumps in your walls, do you?' He dips his brush in the paste can, gives it a shake and before I can see how he does it, he has put paste on a long sheet of paper, bent it over several times and is on the second step of his ladder. Carefully he pulls back the edge and tapes it to the wall, slowly lowering it to the floor, always smoothing, brushing it with wide sweeps of his arm. From his overalls he takes out a roller and goes over it again, but leaves a small piece undone near the baseboard, 'Sherry, here try it. Just roll this part smooth. I do it right and decide I might someday become a paperhangeress.

 

Before Mr. Golden cleans up for the day, he gives me part of a roll of paper to cover my school books. Mama helps me after supper and does the loose leaf and geography books. I do the arithmetic book myself. It isn't as good as Mama's but is good for me. Nobody in my class has such beautiful striped books. Daddy adds white stickers with the names on each cover.

 

When my room is finished and looks clean and pretty, Mr. Golden asks me to get him a big, clean empty mayonnaise jar. Luckily Mama has one on her pantry shelf. Mr. Golden fills it with warm, smelly paste for me. I am set forever.

 

The smell of grass being cut, of the street after a thunderstorm has washed the gutters, of roses and lilacs blooming in my grandmother's yard and my first niece's tush being dusted with baby powder are pure heaven. Soon I would smell hell.

 

'My appendix has to come out or burst? When? How?' Daddy answers. 'Yes. Friday. By surgery.' A strong, strange smell turns my stomach as soon as I get thru the revolving door at the hospital. Even the elevator stinks. Daddy and Mama have a card with a number on it and find my room, 306. I will have to share it with another girl. The place smells like a toilet that hasn't been flushed. A nurse in a stiff white dress, wearing a stiff white cap with a double black stripe around the edge, gives me a gown that doesn't close except by a short tie at the back of my neck. I feel a cold draft over my entire body.  Dr. Hyman comes in, talks to us and I just know I am going to die. Sleep comes and I forget where I am.

 

There is noise in my room even though it is still dark. I get no breakfast, not even a glass of milk. Two nurses get me onto a table, leave my bare feet hanging out from under a thin striped sheet and wheel me to an ice cold green room. No sun is needed. The lights are big, blindingly bright. Dr. Hyman,'s voice is recognizable behind his white mask. 'Don't be frightened, Sherry. You aren't going to feel a thing and will wake up in your room. Mom and Dad will be waiting for you.'

 

Without another word some rotten person puts a rotten smelling mask on my nose. I'm choking. I'm dying. I can't move! The smell burns. I want to scream but my mouth won't move. I'm in my bed, on the hard mattress I remember from yesterday. Mama and Daddy are standing near me. Mamma holds my hand. I feel her fingers softly squeeze mine.
She looks fuzzy. What is she saying? Boy, something smells terrible. I sniff and sniff and am sure it is me. 'Don't worry, Darling. You still have some ether in your nose. It will go away.'

 

It did–but has now come back. Can you smell it?

Done?

IRVING

 

The worst part of my 'blind but semi-arranged' date was
he liked me-liked me enough to ask me out again. That made the other worst parts pale. I knew from the first introductory phone call, from his voice, to his inability 4 times to understand the simplest of directions to my home, from his lack of desire to learn anything about me or to tell me about himself, to the sure knowledge that nothing would ever develop once we met AS HE DIDN'T DRIVE. Yet holding on to a very dim spark of hope that maybe she was not thinking straight, Ms. Pollyanna accepted a Sunday date.

 

One thirty, right on time, in came Irving, small, cheesy portfolio under his arm. While he was far from good looking, he was at least slim, acceptable, neat, but oh, those new white tennis shoes stuck out like Dorothy's red slippers. Nice smiles to each other, and a very definite surprised look of pleasure when Irving realized my weighing  300 pounds phone joke was far from reality. Getting to know each other was not easy as in just one minute the two of us became three!  From what he called his 'briefcase' came his son's calling card, his son's book (one of six already in print), articles on his son. AND from his mouth began a four hour salute to his honorable, devoted, famous offspring.
No question, I was impressed. The international notoriety of Richard's abilities amongst the political elite, his T.V. appearances, meetings with maharajahs, princes, kings, presidents while still being a devoted son, husband, father deserved every accolade which rained on my ears too long.

 

There were some respites, dealing with Irving's busy life on eight Boards of Directors of large firms. Each story was a prelude to more stories, and more stories. His flair, excellent vocabulary, remarkable recall, held my attention for a long, long time. Once in a while I was able to squeeze in an anecdote of my own but Irving's arm would fly up, hitting his knee in its descent and in a surprisingly loud voice, he'd exclaim, 'That reminds me of a story!' Off he'd go, his mind pulling out another and another.  Finally, at last, it was time for his designated driver, ME, to take him back to his area for dinner at his clubhouse.

 

On the way I learned why he didn't drive. His wife had been an excellent driver and was happy being the family chauffeur. She was gone. Besides that, Irving's peripheral vision had weakened and he was smart enough to give up his license. For that I gave him a lot of credit.

 

While we waited for our entrees, I managed to ask if he liked to travel and learned his son had been to every state in the union on business, plus London and Israel. In fact, oh, my lord,  had been to every country in the world. 'But what about YOUR travels?' I asked. 'Have you ever been on a cruise. Would you like to go out of the states?' He replied 'Not much...BUT when Richard was flying to the Persian Gulf with president Bush, blah, blah, blah.'

 

His recollections were becoming too long winded and began to upset me. I felt then very, very bad because he was nice and was taken by me, thought I was a good listener (who happened to have no choice.) I was much prettier than he expected me to be. I made him comfortable and he was totally pleased that he met me.

 

Yes, I was the first lady he took out since his wife died so I knew it had to be a difficult time. He was proud as a peacock at dinner, asking me to take the long way out of the dining room just in case he'd see friends and could introduce me. Would I come to his club to play golf, have lunch and drive home in daylight. Does he have a chance? Can I call you?

 

I had tried several times to make him understand that his life is no longer what it was and he should go out, meet lots of ladies, enjoy 'the brisket brigade' which would surely come as soon as his availability spread.  He should join the men's golf group, travel. The tiny microcosm which I quickly had become should not close his eyes to the new world that was available to him. But did he pay attention? No!
Did my mind and mouth work as one? No! Stupidly, instantly regretfully, to let him call me again.

 

However, I  made it clear I would not be his driver.

 

Two days past,  no call, and I clung to the  hope that his promise to work it out would not only be harder than he thought, but impossible, totally impossible. But that didn't happen and I became a rat who had to beg off enough times that he finally got the message. 

 

And I got one, too. I gave up writing and reading ads that might brighten my life.

Determination

CLOUD 8

 

The clouds are roiling, scudding today, moving fast across the sunny sky. An audience of fifty thousand Romans is protected by a canopy at the Circus Maximus. Their eyes are on the huge arena. Ben Hur lashes at his team of horses, urges them to reach the finish line of this race before the sun sets. Sweat pours from his mighty muscles as he nears the end. There are but two turns left to conquer.

 

As he gets closer, a chariot wheel hits an unseen rock, shakes and leans left. The crowd roars. Hur gathers his strength and wits, tightens his muscles until the leather digs into his arms. He braces himself, leans right and the chariot balances, flies forward. The shouting from the stands is deafening.

 

The last turn is yet to be made. Silence from the crowd. All eyes are on Ben Hur and his nearest rival, his young son, Ishmael. A quick turn of Ben's head and any concern he might have had that his son would out ride him, disappears. He will leave the Maximus still undefeated.

 

Shouts, flowers fly from the stands as the crowd quickly uses the two hundred exits, stop for sips of cold water in the fountains. Many go down more stairs, to the belly of the Maximus to watch gladiators, their bodies nearly nude, fight for their lives against wild lions.  When at last there are no gladiators left, the lions are coaxed elsewhere, fed, watered and left for the next day of action.

 

Ben is content. His honor is retained. He looks at the sky and silently thanks all the gods that be for pitting such poor racers against him. He knew from the first draw of names that he would be victorious, yet the closeness of defeat hung on. 'More care, Ben Hur, or you will no longer find Cloud Nine waiting for you some day.'

 

Ishmael, sweaty, worn out, offers his congratulatory hand to his father. 'Father,  I saw you look around to see how far behind you I was. That was foolish.' Ben Hur, the finest of all charioteers, replies, 'Son, you will not out-do me, nor shall any one. I will stop racing when I know my time is coming and be ready to live forever on my reserved place in the heavens, Cloud Nine.' 'Then, Father, have no fear. I know I shall never -0ut-do you but....when you get to your cloud, then you may look behind you and you will see me, saluting you from my spot on Cloud Eight.'

Too long a wait

                                     BIG FOOT

 

Never have I seen such big shoes! The tan and brown saddles were pristine, seemingly right out of a gun box. An unbidden obscene thought electrified my mind for a bare moment. As I followed the shoes up the pants legs to the man attached my smile disappeared. The slacks were almost empty except for bones covered with what must be wrinkled old flesh. From thigh to hips was concave as the man, surely  not as old as he appeared, tried to sit up and pass the time with me waiting for our cars to be serviced. His hollow chest barely breathed and I feared he'd be done before his car. A yellowed, sunken face showed barely a trace of life as his soft gray eyes now and then stopped staring into space and looked my way. Atop his head was a soiled and battered golf cap, signifying there were once better days. The more I looked at him the easier it became to not see him but to see my once healthy husband sitting there, mind wandering, still dreaming, waiting for his car, waiting to die.

 

My name was called and I got out of there as quickly as I could, but my double vision and my sadness still clings too long- too tight. I filled a paper cup with tasteless coffee, added a free donut, retrieved my car and went home. Next check up I'll not forget to take a love story book with me.

The Trip

DANCING WITH THE TARS

 

The Saint Lindstrom floats on the quiet sea tonight. Our sails are tightly furled. The decks are scrubbed. Grog is spewing out of kegs.
Bradley is high in the crow's nest watching the moon move against the starless sky. His horn blows and his deep voice calls out, 'Ship ahoy, NE 16 degrees. No flag visible.' Captain Lindstrom, dressed in his evening wear, takes the wheel, orders us seamen to unfurl the sheets. There is little wind and no need to work so hard but we don't argue with the captain. A mist comes from nowhere and hides the phantom ship. We deck hands relax and wait for dawn. Before it comes, we go below for grub. It's all slop but we have no choice and make do. Finding rat dirt in our porridge is not unusual but Mac once found a whole rat. He pulled it out of his dish, threw it away and ate his breakfast. Today a part of a potato swam in my sour milk.

 

The wind picks up a bit. England waits for us. Our families surely think we are goners. Sickness is aboard.  Shank, Billybud and Blake were fed to the fishes days ago. Captain Lindstrom announces we expect to reach England in less than one sennight. 'We must be careful of our words when we arrive. Do not gripe, complain. At three bells our cook  will slaughter our last goat and prepare it for dinner. We are out of salt so eat hearty anyhow.' The goat meat is tough but is better than gruel. Henry's gums begin to bleed badly. He covers his mouth with his hand and goes below to his hammock.

 

The last few nights drag. There is little for us to do. We play tiddlywinks, start a game of Faro that is short-lived, fight amongst ourselves and pray a strong wind moves us faster. The wind has shifted. Clouds and swallows guide us to London. As we approach it, a loud, familiar clopping, pounding noise alerts us to watch the ladder rise from the hold. All eyes look. A foot, the one we know belongs to Big John, appears. On his right foot is his hard shoe. Right behind it is his left clog shoe, then the bulk of him. In his hand is his treasure, the one his grandfather had left him, his Celtic hornpipe. He blows it and starts to dance. No one joins him as the dance is very complicated and is usually done alone in a small area. We follow Big John to our only cannon and wait. Casey holds tight to his slightly battered fiddle and almost plucks it to death. Little John moves far enough away from the other seamen and dances wildly, twisting his body as he folds his arms over his chest. His rhythm clashes with Big John's hornpipe but nobody cares. The plug from the last keg of grog is pulled. We drink, do the hornpipe dance, forget our troubles, our losses. London and our silver await.

 

Sea gulls, horns and flags of other lands welcome us into the harbor. Captain Lindstrom sets us loose while he stays aboard to complete many forms, put our coins in gray cloth bags. Ashore only the women parading, selling their wares, matter. We long to buy their services and for the captain to give us our bags of silver.

 

Cloggers' shoes are heard in every alley, every busy tavern. Sailors are happy. The ladies see the captain walking towards his men. His arms are laden with their pay. The women are happy too.

 

 

Learning experience

HAPPY DAYS ARE HERE AGAIN

 

I was happy all the time, well, maybe not ALL the time, as I had to be The Great Pretender. The Grandmothers' Club was an idea I had and had to make it work. Being the chief, the instigator, the planner, fell easily on my back. Daddy always said, 'The apple doesn't fall far from the tree,' but he also lectured, 'Lie down with dogs and get fleas.' He was such a hard person, outwardly cold. Personally, I called him The Last Angry Man, and yet he was my paragon, my devil on a pedestal.

 

Mama must have loved him once, but most of her feelings evaporated as Daddy's tyrannical foot kept her nailed in a world of cooking, mending, obeying his stern commands. Sometimes, as my childish mind matured, I seemed to hear her sighs, saw her thinking with a tear in her eye. 'Oh, Sadie, what went wrong? This Is Your Life.'  Once she got the nerve to join a small democratic club which was nothing more than a social gathering of ladies who met at the butcher shop on Thursdays and the corner A & P whenever they had an excursion from the house. Mama came pretty close to breaking her bonds when she was nominated to be Sergeant-at-Arms but Daddy ridiculed her and she resigned herself to being an eternal nebbish.

 

Instead of resenting all of Daddy's negatives, I chose to see, to emulate, his determination, his wisdom, his interest in living, not for, but in spite of Mama. Going back to when he was a young admirer of the prettiest girl in the neighborhood whose older sister let him and Sadie sneak away from a party for their first kiss, their marriage was ordained. Even then she had no character,  no strength to say, 'I'm too young. I'm not ready.' Instead she acquiesced and the dastardly deed was done.

 

Children came. Mama reaped rich rewards, trips to where Daddy wanted to go, a fur coat he liked, a 3 times a week maid who spent almost all of that time cleaning his office. Eventually Mama got a driver's license.  Yet she couldn't drive without him in the passenger's seat, constantly pushing his foot to the floor. 'Quick, open your window! Signal, signal! He commanded.  With hardly a wince Mama took his badgering but eventually gave up and he drove or they stayed home.

 

One thing Mama never realized, her little girl was smart, learning from her example how not to be like her. As my father, my dead father, began to molder in the grave he dug for himself, my spine grew straighter, my firmness more resolved. My eyes seemed to mirror his image. If I wanted something done, I did it myself. Ask little, do more, take no guff, let no deadwood pile around my feet. These things were branded into my mind, my soul. 'Come on, Ceil,' 'Join us Elly.' 'You HAVE to come.' 'Harriet, we'll reminisce, play Canasta. Eat some chocolate cheese cake. Friday night, my house. I won't take NO for an answer.'

 

So the apple did NOT fall far from the tree. It was my turn to be a leader and I smiled.

Live life

DANCING WITH THE STARS

 

I'm ethereal. Really, I am. If you don't want to believe me, that's okay as I have trouble believing you are a chunk of meat, that you do ugly things, have wars and kill each other. My friends and I bother no one. We come and go with the breeze, with the raindrops. We soar. We feel the beauty in every blade of grass, leaf on a tree. You see leaves to be raked, grass to be mowed, bagged, burned. You are pitiful.

 

'Since I believe in you, how come you don't believe in me? You do sense me, feel me circling around you. I am making your brain hear me as your ears are good only for your world. Stay still. I am going to teach you how to taste love. Look up into the blue sky. Feel that blue. Now taste it. Ah, your brain told you it tastes like blueberries. It does, doesn't it? Put your hand in a white cloud and that will be your dessert, whipped cream on the berries. Savor it and wait for me. I'll be back.'

 

This fool, this figment of my imagination, cannot fathom being like I am, ethereal. The ocean is wild, ferocious, but calm too. Salty air weighs me down. I struggle, rise above it. An albatross flies by and I hitch a ride. It doesn't feel me tucked in, warm comfortable under its huge wing. Its feathers are sharp but do not cut me. Down below is a white ship, thousands of those like the thing I am teaching are on it. They make sounds, motions, look around but don't see the small turtle swimming hundreds of miles from shore. How did it manage such a task? Another ethereal like me must have wafted him here. He is going to be made into soup and is content. 'Look up again. The sun is special. Sometimes it tastes like fresh squeezed orange juice, sometimes red strawberries, yellow butter. Think about it, Mister. It's more than a sun. It is life itself. '

 

The wind feels me floating, sailing. It lifts me, glides me and drops me in the middle of a double rainbow, lets me slide up and down as if I were riding on a camel's hump. '

 

There is a loud noise. I get angry and call out, 'Damn, it's Wednesday again. ' I open my window and yell at the garbage men to stop the rattling. No sense going back to bed. I lean over to get my terry cloth robe, put my feet on the cold pine floor and feel something gritty.

 

Little sparkling chips are everywhere. A glass iridescent butterfly wing sits amongst the pieces of stars. Something clicks and a voice reaches me. 'Mr., you with a brain and no soul, are you reading me?'

Dining Out

ELBOW  ROOM

 

Outside of Phil and Flo's delly, the wait line extends to the curb. I take a rough count of 20 standees and am able to visualize twenty more inside, snaking their way past the take out counter, past those who stand as close as they can to the A.C. ducts.

 

Those in the wait line bump the one's waving numbers to the take out clerks. The take-outers grumble, push back those who try to squeeze themselves in. The counter men work fast. If too slow on a week-end, they will not be there the following week-end.

 

A hostess stands in front of a chain for the parties of two. Another hostess guards the four and more line. I pity a party of 3. How long will they wait? Fives and more have to wait until two tables next to each other empty at the same time. My mind races in numerals, wonder how this place exists at all.

 

I happen to be a loner today, have important things I want to do at home, like make a few phone calls, answer e mails, mow the lawn or be ready to have a hatchet in my head when my wife, Lenore, asks me again to cut the grass.

 

Yahoo, I see another loner, an old lady who looks confused, tired. I motion to her to join me. I am ignored. A threesome doesn't want me either. Should I leave or move over to the take-out line and bring Lenore a piece of cheese cake? I do nothing but eat my heart out.

 

I move and actually get to see the lunch counter, way to my right. It is full but daringly, I leave my position and walk past the two lady guards, find someone who seems about ready to pay his check  and stand behind him. He motions to the counter man for another cup of Joe , adds a slice of blueberry pie. He eats slowly, relishing every berry, doesn't wipe his blue chin before he stands. When he does, I can't help but notice how low his dirty jeans are. His crack is half exposed. Too long it has been up against the short back rest of the stool which he swings around before he leaves. My choice is take his place or not. I choose 'not', sacrifice my turn to a young woman and feel a bit guilty. She doesn't glance my way, does not respond to my 'good morning' orders a cup of tea with lemon and a brioche.

 

I am not even hungry any more. What the hell am I doing in this nut house, I wonder. Before I walk out I have to pass the take-out counter one more time, am absolutely amazed that the chaotic wait if over. One man has already placed his order for a rye bread sliced with half a lb. of very lean corned beef, a pint of sauerkraut and fries. The  pot is hot, the oil bubbles and the potatoes brown fast.

 

My turn! My turn! 'Give me what the man in front of me just ordered but give me a whole lb. of corned beef. You can leave a tiny bit of fat on some slices.' One, two, three, before I have time to decide on which dessert Lenore might like,  my order is on the counter top.

 

'Oh, add a slice of apple pie and a slice of chocolate cake.' My waiter gives me a dirty look and makes out a new check. I take it to the almost empty line at the cashier and head home.

 

Lenore is waiting. 'Where have you been so long? I fixed myself a cream cheese and jelly sandwich already. Want one?' ' No, thanks.' The corned beef smells so good, I make a thick sandwich for myself, give my wife her choice of desserts and wait, simply wait for her next words----

 

'When are you going to mow the lawn, Big Shot?'

Done in

BOO

 

Holding my wife's brand new scrub bucket filled with small plastic bags
of M & Ms, Hershey's miniatures, candy corn, I open the door and shout, 'BOO' The children laugh and dig into the bucket. Before me are a clown with a red rubber nose, a witch with a battered broomstick and high black cone shaped hat, twins with paper mache'  pumpkins on their heads They get a bit greedy, turn and run down the driveway where our neighbor, Mr. Donaldson, waits to watch over the candy-lovers, makes sure each kid stops a moment, waves to me and hollers, 'Thanks.' I appreciate it but do believe it takes a bit of the fun out of the begging.

 

'Mary Sue,' I call to the oldest child in the group. 'Come closer. I have something special for you.' She runs to me. I hand her a paper bag full of candy make-up, a caramel colored lipstick, a licorice eye brow stick and marshmallow earrings attached to junk ones my wife found in the 5 & 10. Mary Sue didn't have to be told to thank me. She adds a big hug and a tweak to my nose.

 

The last child in this group is somewhat shy. Mr. Donaldson has to take her by the hand and bring her to me. Oh, she is cute, adorable. She has
white transparent wings that flap a little if she pulls a string. Her blonde hair hangs in tiny curls to her shoulders and even in the semi-dark I can see her eyes twinkle like starlight. Almost cooing, in her soft voice, she asks me to make her wings flap. 'Please, make them fly me into the sky, please, please, Sir. My Mommy is in heaven and I just have to see her.' Tiny silver tears wet her rosy cheeks.

 

I give those tears no chance to become a river and sweep the darling child into my arms, swing her around and around until we are both dizzy. 'Did you know your Mommy is watching over you? She told me on my iPod that you should have fun, flap your Halloween wings and you will fly part of the way to her. Don't look for her because she is invisible but she can see you!' That doesn't work. She begs me, Mr. Strong Man, make my wings flap. I have to go to heaven to see my Mommy.'

 

I pull the strings, pull them hard. One string breaks. I pull on the other and it flaps, flaps, fast and hard. The child rises, floats upward, high towards the tree tops, waves to me and disappears.

 

A skeleton in a black suit with painted on white ribs shakes me, wakes me from my goofy dream. My own seven year old son has been waiting too long for me to take him Trick or Treat. He bops me on my head and tells me to hurry before all the good candies disappear.

 

I hurry.

Oh, so nice

SUGAR & SPICE

 

Bennie Sugarman is anything but sweet, nor is he a man. What he is, is a shrimp in love with himself, his musical knowledge and ability to win over just about any woman when he has an itch, an urge. Ladies, real ladies, know him, know him too well, to be taken in by his mellow notes and twinkling toes.

 

Karioke night and there he is, at the bar, drinking, practicing. Over and over he sings to the noisy crowd, a la Frankie, 'I've Got You Under my Skin.' I can't help but watch his body hunches, the twinkle in his eye, the sudden stops and hand-rolling. I hate to admit it even to myself, Bennie is good. Yet I can hear him whine, bitch about his bad breaks, his small demeanor. Well, he never really used that big word to me, but I felt good teaching him something.

 

After some professional coaching, he believes he is ready to try-out for Dancing With the Stars. He surely considers himself a star  but he doesn't even twinkle. Try-out #1 is a big flop and almost bursts his balloon. The wait to get into the Cat Call area is over before he gets half way to the door. For a whole week he must be hiding in his apartment, planning the next step, what trickery he has to use to get someplace else. His usual haunts are glad he is gone for a while.

 

Each day he goes earlier and earlier, finally reaches the entrance, enters and is in yet another line. This line requires credentials, where one has entertained, when, results. Bennie has little to offer. Dishonestly, he fills out the forms with fictitious places in other cities, the reviews he got and moves ahead. It is then that he notices a gorgeous young woman smiling, getting an envelope from the man at the desk. She must pass Bennie to exit. His wiles take action, his foot extends into the narrow space between the lines and he trips her.

 

Helping her stand, his apologies flow like soft silk from an Asian worm.
Just a bit shaky, she smiles at him, is glad to say she broke nothing but her thumb fingernail. Bennie temporarily forgets Dancing With the Stars, introduces himself, and offers to take her to lunch and then a manicurist he happens to know. With no hesitation she accepts, tells him her name, Ginger Cravers. 'Maybe you've seen my name on the credits for Stars.' Bennie almost passes out. Liar, liar, his pants catch on fire. 'Of course, Ginger, you don't mind if I call you that do you?'

 

Conversation never stops as they have lunch at the El Camino. The light meal is delicious, everything that should be hot, is hot, and that includes Benny and Ginger.

 

She saunters over to the registration desk, is greeted by name, given the key to 701.

An Unlearned Lesson

CHUCK
I knew it was coming and tried to be prepared for widowhood. Yet when the heavy crying slowly dried up, I was empty, lonely and needed help. I know there is somebody out there for me, but where is he hiding? Being a widow isn't fun. I don't like it and have decided to change my status while keeping my standards and morals high. Is the man who will make my life happier the writer of personal ads? Does he belong to a dating service, a country club? Does he go on cruises alone looking for me? Does he live in an area similar to mine? Does he play golf, enjoy cards. theater, music, movies, traveling, conversation--warm and meaningful? If so, I'll find him somehow, someplace but before I do, start out on the road with me as I take my first step into a world strange, foreign and scary.

Fearfully, tearfully, I had placed my first ad. How I agonized over the few short, expensive words I wanted to convey. As I saw the ad in print I wondered if any man in his right mind would reply to a senior widow's cry for help. Why would he? Column after column of 'gorgeous gal, lovely young miss, absolutely super lady, I've got what you want' ads made mine ridiculously ashen.

Three days later one call on the 900 line came in so I set aside my scant replies, except for Chuck's which had some very vague possibility. Just a little phone call, a little hope, and there he sat, hound dogged looking like my Uncle Harry. Although I had written that I lived a country club life style, was a JWW Sr., non-smoker and lived in Hampton, my resurrected uncle was none of those.

I looked closely at the stranger having lunch with me and thought 'What am I doing here?' Myself silently answered, 'You're waiting for the Bluebird of Happiness to land on your shoulder. It's time now to spread a little bird seed.'

His face brought my dear Uncle back to me.. He could have been any one of my father's six male siblings, each bearing an extremely strong resemblance to one another. Their eyes, being blue or gray, were the one outstanding difference. Jowls beginning to sag, hair a striking beautiful shade of almost blue white, broad noses, supposed laugh lines on faces which I seldom saw smile, came back to me from their graves.

Smoke curled from Chuck's nostrils, yellow stains covered his fingers. He was wearing khaki pants with a wide belt and plaid suspenders. Our religious faiths were different. He had no interest in golf (or- as it turned out--ME). What Chuck liked was picking his own fruit, walking the beach, fishing, none of which he mentioned as we spoke on the phone.

Had I not been outgoing, inquisitive, silence would have reigned. It was like the proverbial tooth pulling to yank some words from his coffee filled mouth. He coughed into his paper napkin and laid it on the table. Ugh! We were on totally different wave lengths. As I tried to eat my dry tuna sandwich without choking, I did learn something. Chuck wanted more than I would be willing to give him that afternoon or ever in my life time. He knew a nice, clean cozy motel down the road. 'Maybe some other time, Chuck. Let's go. I have a doctor's appointment.' The lie didn't even burn my tongue.

I needed something sweet with my coffee just to try to get the smell of him away but skipped it. The waitress brought the check and darn if he didn't ask me to split the $10 tab in half. With no hesitation I gave him five dollars. 'What about the tip, Honey,' he asked. 'Chuck, I paid for the ad and wasted my money. You pay the tip. You at least got service.' That was mean. that was wrong and I didn't care.

Outside I watched him go to is his little pick-up truck with the right fender badly dented. I got into my nice, comfy, undented Camry, locked the door and headed home. That elusive Bluebeard of Happiness had messed on my head.

Chuck and I didn't even say GOODBYE.

Blessed? event

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 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 at 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 Tigress in privacy. She looks so darn smug, I could kiss her.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Saved?

HEAVY LOAD     

 

I need a hug. The full basket of life I have had for so many years has been hit by a truck. At first it moved slowly and then sneakily the driver released the brakes and let it roll downhill full speed ahead, bumping into the world, turning it upside down. Black clouds darkened the sky. Anger, inability to cope with the spreading hatred is not simply destroying me. It's out to get all of humanity.My strong husband, Earl, has been nagging me to see a psychiatrist. 'Come on, Baby, you don't realize that you need help that I can't give you. See somebody, please.' I give him the finger treatment, turn my back to him and go upstairs to work on a plan. Earl's red Mazda slides smoothly from the garage and I am alone with my thoughts, relishing the quiet. I make a list of possible action, topping it with 'Suicides.'

 

1. See the psychiatrist, impress him, get a prescription and over-dose on it.  2. Jump from the Bromo Seltzer Tower. No good. I might kill, survive or kill a pedestrian.  3. Brake on a wet curve, swerve and crash into Randall's Gulley? No. I might be crushed but not dead enough.
4. Go off the Tappinzee Bridge? No. I hate water but can swim and might do it at the last second.  5. Slit my throat, my wrists, in the bathtub? No. Too messy, too gross for Earl.

 

My eyes are too heavy with tears to stay open. They close until the phone rings and wakes me from my gruesome reverie. Bev asks me if I am watching the horrible news on t.v. I tell my friend, 'No. I don't want to see more doom.' With a slam I hang up, knowing most likely I have one less friend now. They have been disappearing off my computer address list quite often lately. This needs special thought. I concentrate on my personal small phone book that I keep in the night stand. Listed were fifteen close friends going back to high school days. Now lines are drawn thru ten. When did I do that? Why? I start to cross out the Florence who called a little while ago but hold back. It doesn't matter. Most likely she has already crossed my name off of her book. 

 

Earl used to bring in the morning paper. He'd read it, folded it carefully, leaving the puzzle and anagram untouched, waiting for me to enjoy both. Recently he has been taking the paper with him. That is fine as even the puzzle no longer tempts me. It has come to pass that most of my email is Spam. My correspondents are still out there in cyberspace while I realize I've side-tracked myself into a mental depression.

 

I have lined up world teams on the battlefield.  I can no longer place my bet on the U.S.A. Everything changed when The Towers went down. That was my black hole moment. Chavez, Taliban, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Israel, Palestine, the stock market, bubbling forever the Gulf oil spill. I can't think right anymore. This can't go on much longer or I will find a way to do myself in. No maybe about it. I must take Earl's advice.

 

I call him at work and ask for the name of the psychiatrist his buddy mentioned. He starts to tell me and stops. 'I'm busy, Bev. I'll call you back soon.' I manage to squeeze in, 'Don't. I want it now.' He is still hanging on. I say, 'Do you know what, Earl? I don't need a hug. I need a hell of a lot more. Get the damn name NOW!' His desk drawer has a familiar squeak when it opens. 'I've got it. You know I love you, Bev,' and he pauses. That felt like he was tapping me on my head as if I were a puppy who chewed up his shoe.

 

With what sounds more sincere, I hear him offer to go with me to see Dr. Zaffron so we three can work together to bring me back to my former self.
I make the appointment and also make Earl's favorite dinner, smooth out my prettiest night gown and am ready to start.

Ha Ha-Ta Ta

THE WAVE

 

As soon as the sun rises, the sand sweeping machines chug across the huge littered white beach. Each worker has his own marked territory, reverses back and forth until 9 a.m. when the first sun lovers, ocean swimmers, come out of their holes. There is a camaraderie of sorts between the drivers during a coffee break when day after day they share complaints about the slobs who don't give a damn about the beach.

 

June 30th a new sweeper begins her job. Lila Hurley is the first woman hired to cover sections three and four, or any sections at all. Her long blond hair is wrapped in a bright sunny yellow bandana. As she climbs aboard, she waves to the guy behind her who will be going in the opposite direction. She can't see him wave back.

 

For her first hour at the new job she is aware of the sounds, tinkling, crushing, pop cans, shells, stones. They are musical notes to her so she imagines a scale and sings her do, ti, la, sols over and over, sets a rhythm banging on her heavy steering wheel. A deep loud horn reaches her from behind just as she catches sight of a toddler running towards her. She is startled, frightened so badly, she's a little slow jamming on the brakes. The child's mother grabs her errant child and shakes her fist at Lila, surely spitting out mean, ugly words and heads toward the Boardwalk. The little boy is dragged away, laughing, waving to Lila until she is calm enough to wave to him and continue on her way.

 

By 8 a.m. the beach is in pretty good shape. Lila isn't. Her body shakes with the sensation of the loud motor, the vibrating itch in her hands from the steering wheel that has already caused a blister about to burst on her right hand. A few swimmers have ventured into the ocean. Their delight invites her to enjoy the same thing as soon as her work is thru at 9.  Before that happens, the worker who had been behind her honks loudly from his padded seat, cleans his sunglasses and jumps down to offer her a cold Coke. 'I'm Josh, begosh,' he says. ' How's it goin' so far?' There is a dab of idle chit chat while she swigs down the delightful cold drink and puts the empty can in her pocket. That fast she knows Josh is carefully, shamelessly, giving her the once over and reciprocates his gaze. Not bad, not bad at all. He suggests she follow him back to the huge empty building where the machinery is cleaned, serviced daily. They get in line and snake slowly to their destination. Josh is already out of his cab when Lila pulls in beside him. 'How about coffee and a fresh chocolate covered donut with me?' We have a snack bar waiting in the annex. Off they go, jabbering about the 'almost' tragedy with the little boy and the need to always be alert.

 

Lila is sure she has a new sunburn and maybe a new guy in her life. Her legs ache from the pressure on the brake. She welcomes the cushioned chairs around the long table. 'What would you like?' Josh asks. Lila makes what she thinks is a cute retort. 'I'd like to wear a pretty dress and have dinner with you sometime soon.' Her snack mate is dumbstruck, pauses, sips his coffee slowly and replies. 'Lila, my wife wouldn't like that. I might but will have to forgo the pleasure.'

 

They are uncomfortable together, finish their coffee, donuts and head back to their vehicles, start out again, back to back, turn to each other and wave. Out of Lisa's sight, Josh asks the foreman to change his position in the morning. 

 

The same little boy who Lila almost ran over is on the beach in the morning. He waves to her, asks for a ride, which Lisa is not allowed to give.  He pouts, runs to his mother and waves one more time at Lisa.

 

Josh is not behind her. A new, elderly, strong looking man with a small gray goatee replaces Josh. Lisa waves and starts her motor going.

I Remember It Well

NOT REALLY GONE

 

Years before Mauldin lampooned the military brass in WWII, before "Kilroy was here" became a symbol of national unity, the Golden Years  of Childhood enveloped me in their womb without letting me know how lucky I was. Lindbergh crossed the Atlantic and later lost his son to a kidnaper. Knickers were in for boys until they were men. Salk hadn't yet found a solution to save us kids from a life inside a big silver machine from which there was no escape. Hitler may as well have been on the moon, as we never heard of him. Life  was easy, life was fun.

 

Petty squabbles, friendly arguments, excitement, long do-nothing days ate up my youth. Going to school with the same neighbors year after year made tight bonds between us. Everybody knew everybody so that we could almost always find someone to play school, step and dodge ball, Puss in the Corner, Hide and Seek. We roller skated thru alleys , chalked houses, cut movie star pictures from old magazines, rummaged thru drug store trash for crepe paper and empty cigar boxes. Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney had nothing on our shows. Old sheets sufficed for curtains and Mama's aprons and beads became costumes.
The cost of the lemon and sugar was given to Mama after the entire pitcher of lemonade at one cent a glass was sold. We were, unbeknownst to ourselves, very rich poor kids.

 

I must have been one of the richest because we had a Radio, a big Majestic, with a large dial and big knobs to make the sound louder than the passing street cars. It was a magical machine that took me to India with Daddy Warbucks, Punjab, Orphan Annie and 'Arf' Sandy. I sent away for Annie's secret coded ring but it quickly went out of shape when I tried to fit it to my tiny finger. Jack Armstrong, All American Boy, kept me from supper evening after evening. Mama always hollered but I wouldn't go in the kitchen until the program was over. Buck Rogers and Flash Gordon flew me to Fantasy Lands, lands that had to be way out in the sky someplace. The 15 minute shows were my world
for an hour. I wouldn't go to the store for Mama to get ½ bread for five cents, enough for our family of five, always claiming my shoes were off and my sister should go. I won every time. Later, after suppers, Daddy was in charge of the radio. There had to be silence when Jack Benny was coming on. He didn't like Fred Allen as much as Benny but we all listened because Daddy said so.

 

We loved the Manhattan Merry Go Round, in fact, went to a broadcast in N.Y. I had had so many Pina Coladas to drink from the street vendors, that I almost peed in my pants. The 'Silence' sign was on during the show, doors were locked and I sat there squirming, almost fainting, before Mama finally managed to get me out of the studio.

 

It certainly was better listening to that show and all the rest of my favorites, shoeless, lying on the floor, right in front of my best friend, Mr. Majestic.

HOWDY

RAISING KANE

 

The ground has been leveled. Huge trailers bring steel beams to Hartford county. Cranes lift them off and they crash, bang, make thunder roll thru the streets, make houses shiver, sidewalks crack.
Just what we don't need will be rising along the bay's shore. Two banks have shut down recently for want of customers, for loss of depositors, home buyers. Am I nuts? Are the executives of Salisbury United off their minds? Well, I know I'm sane and just about ready to pull out of this fading township myself.

 

Orange steel helmets, clean Levis, young men, muscular women wander around, giving the area the once over. They form little groups, point, make awkward motions toward the steel beams being piled in several locations. Barrier stakes are markers for the official ground breaking event. A huge striped awning rises, gives the awaiting owners, guests, contractors, succor from the sun when Richard R. Kane begins his self-grandizing speech. No question, he is a is 'a self-made man.'

 

While this is all going on, our only Public Library has moved down the street to a smaller, less costly, less helpful, less comfortable old building. Donations come in slowly. Hope is almost, but not entirely gone. With little else to do with myself since I lost my position at Welby's Bakery and have found nothing available that 'makes my day', I idle around the construction site, put cotton in my ears to muffle the noise. On my eyes is a pair of old, but still useful, Grant sunglasses. I definitely need them as the glare of the sun on the steel beams and small lake forces too much refracted light on my irises.

 

Drums roll, the loudspeaker blares the coming of Richard R. Kane to the podium. Hard hatted men and women move in close to the stands, try to capture Kane's eyes, stand out in a crowd. Two buglers toot their lungs out as they parade twice around the wooden stand, stop directly in front of Kane, give one more loud toot and disappear. There is no formal intro when Kane reaches the mike. He starts right in, making promises, offering jobs. It is clear he has made similar speeches before. He has a slight Southern accent, a most pleasant, warm, friendly smile. I am immediately intrigued. Where did this Wonder Man come from? His ability to make us believe in him and what he will do for our town, mesmerizes standees and me. I applaud maybe too often, but it is from my heart. I see him in rags, turning water into wine.

 

Why my applause does not cease when others do, I can't really understand and just stay where I have been since Richard R. Kane came to the podium. Did I wink to him without noticing my eyes flutter? Did I stare at his smile? There is some applause as Kane leaves the mike. Surely he has been noticing me staring at him. Handshaking over, the trucks reverting to the noise they make, I feel a gentle tap on my shoulder, turn and am face to face with Mr. Kane, who instantly tells me he watched me thru most of his presentation.

 

Wow! He asked my name and if I would have lunch with him at the Astoria where his office is. I couldn't turn down the soft, sweet invitation, smile my best smile and go with him to his limo. I must have been a tasty lunch as he devoured me and made me an offer I could not refuse.

 

His suite on the top floor of the Lincoln Tower knocked my clothes off. He surely had x-ray vision. Richard was ready for me. I definitely
Raised Kane.

 

Wouldn't you chance it? I did and am much better off than I was that very morning.

Where now?

DONALD

 

Another date at a new place, the marina ! I'd never been to the lovely restaurant there, right on the water's edge but followed directions and made it. Of course, I was a little early and not sure where to go, but as I got out of my car, there was a tall, swarthy, nice looking man leaning against a post, with his eyes on me. 'Are you Sarah?' he asked. 'Yes. You're Donald Schwartz?' A nod of his head and he said, ' Wow! I'm so glad to see you. I saw this hot babe getting out of her car and hoped against hope.' I was wearing the only jeans I owned, snug but not too much, a great looking light blue polished cotton shirt AND my terrific straw hat with a wide blue band around the crown. That was the right start to a delightful lunch and walk around the area commenting on the yachts.

 

Two hours went quickly in pleasant chit chat. I could sense his interest as I gave him a lame excuse I had to be back at my apartment by 3.
First thing in the morning Donald called  wanting to see me again. It was easy to say 'Sure'. Then we had to decide where and when and he asked if I had ever been to the Miami zoo. 'No.' 'Would you like me to take you?' That was a different approach and sounded good to me.

 

Two days later we were on our way, down I-95, getting lost twice, but did finally got there.. What a zoo! What a joy to stand for almost an hour just looking at, commenting on, the silver backed gorillas. Donald's sense of humor about them kept me laughing all the way home. We had some lunch and saw a lot of other fantastic animals in what looked so natural habitats. The day was a treat for both of us.

 

And so Donald was into my life and stayed there for a few months. First he sent me a very good drawing of the gorillas with a joke under it and soon he was coming to my apartment often, most of the time sitting on the lounge in my den, never making any advances to me. I sat on the sofa. We watched T.V.,  played board games but mostly listened to Sinatra sing away evening after evening. We never got bored with that. His few family joys and problems were endless. He was divorced, had two grown children, each involved in things he didn't like and they had little communication with him. It was very easy to feel his pain.

 

He took me to the public golf course and hit his drive out of sight. I dribbled off the tee, hit my next shot a big fifty yards--into the rough. Red-faced, very embarrassed, I  would have quit then and there, but his understanding, help, was gentle so I stuck it out but played no more golf with him.

 

Once he invited me to a dance at his club house.  Not knowing what to expect perhaps I over-dressed but pleased Donald , and that was my intention. We danced and danced, or at least I did–especially the Twist. He stood there and watched me shake my booty and laughed at me. In some ways we were so close, without ever touching, other than holding hands.

 

Donald  received a call rom Canada, telling him his mother had a heart attack and died. She had left him a small house in a fishing village in New Foundland and he had to go there to take care of things. He begged me, begged me again and again, to go with him. I would have my own room, total privacy if I wanted it. He showed me pictures of the place and I knew I could not go there. I would hate the environment, the old maple furniture, the lack of Jewish people in the town. It was then I learned that in spite of his Jewish name,  Donald Schwartz was a Baptist. He was very disappointed and hurt when I made up reasons that I couldn't go (some true) but I had to stand my ground and so ended Donald.

 

Two full years later my phone rang one evening and the voice was Sinatra singing 'Come Fly with Me'. I listened and knew, knew it was Donald. He began to cry as he told me how sick he had been since I left him, had been hospitalized because he still loved me and couldn't get me out of his heart and mind. He HAS to see me !

 

That was going to be trouble so I told him 'No, please go on with your life and don't try to see me. You will not be admitted at the gate. I was really frightened even though he couldn't get in, he could wait outside my complex. I was very watchful for weeks but finally relaxed.

 

Now, even with about eight years gone since he called and sounded so pitiful, I still feel bad about our ending and keep on the lookout just in case he is lingering someplace near by–

 

MAYBE THE MARINA.

Self flagellation

THE LOOKING GLASS

 

Here I am, alone, wearing only a piece of paper that can open all the way down the front or back, depending on what part of me my dermatologist will want to see today. An assistant opens my door a speck and tosses in paper slippers for me and advises me Dr. Gray is going to look between my toes during my sixth month check-up. My predicament is always a horror full of cob webs, tears and icicles. Two more times the door opens but the doctor is invisible. Sheila quickly grabs what she was sent to get and disappears. Rosalyn merely looks in, flutters her overly thick black eyelashes at me and lets the door slam.

 

I look at the framed paintings around the examining room. I read the instructions on boxes that explain to the doctor what products are used to make rubber gloves. I look at all the knives and needles Dr. Gray has ready to remove any little itsy bitsy brown mark or worse. In comes Sheila again, opens a locked cabinet, gets something she doesn't let me see and is gone in fifteen seconds.

 

The room is so cold I am sure my goose pimples have goose pimples. From the hook on the wall near the only door, I take my jacket, get a tube of lipstick from my purse and apply it without a mirror, sit down on the examination table to wait.  On a hot sterilizer, I can see myself and don't like what I see any more. Distortion taken into account, I am a me I don't recognize.

 

My appointment  was for two o'clock. My entrance to the refrigerator was at one forty-five, just in case Dr. Gray would be waiting for me. The tiny buzz of my wrist watch alarm tells me it is two-fifteen. My mental camera lights up and I see visions of my young blemish free face (accept for a few nose freckles). Did I really have dancers' legs, long, straight, shapely? The legs still hold me up but now have many brown spots, bruises, purple veins, swollen ankles and both big toe nails are growing painfully into my skin. My back is slightly curved, not as bad as Quasimoto's, but may be soon. Young men used to wink at me. The last wink I remember was at the zoo when the elephant was lead outside into the sunny afternoon.

 

Charlotte, the doctor's A 1 assistant, sticks her head in my doorway to tell me the doctor won't be much longer. I suggest he stay out, see another patient, go home for dinner or go to hell. I seriously start to say, 'I'm getting dress—and am out of here,' when in walks Dr. Gray. He's jovial, warm, a big smile lights up his face. He asks, 'And what are we going to do for you today, Mrs. Bloom?' My fuse is spurting and I let it explode. 'You have kept me in this miserable paper gown, in a refrigerator for almost an hour. Instead of a dermatologist, I might have done better with an Eskimo who would at least let me wear a walrus jacket while I waited for him.

 

Dr. Gray is not amused and sits down on his rolling stool, thinks a moment, and decides on his own, that I need a full body exam. From the air, he finds a metal wand, runs it quickly thru my hair. I pipe up, 'Dr. I don't have cooties, haven't had them since I was in third grade.' He shuts me up by explaining he was checking my scalp for signs of cancer. Oy, how could he know I am cancer free so fast? He pats me on my shoulder and repeats , 'Your scalp shows no sign of cancer.' I certainly don't want to argue him into saying, 'Maybe we should check further,' so end that discussion.

 

His 'real' exam finally begins. 'Mrs. Bloom, I see a few brown spots on your back that I believe need removing and biopsied. Most likely they are harmless but it is better to be sure. Shall I do it?' he asks. I reply, 'I'm here because you are the doctor, so do what you think is right.' The job is over in two minutes, but my mind is alert. Visions of Medicare charges of $700 will allow him about $400. I do not worry about him at all.

 

As he puts on his rubber gloves, made in China, he checks between my toes. I consider kicking him in his arse when he bends over me. Reconsidering, I tell him only one toe is uncomfortable and I can live with it a while longer. He gets antsy and tells me the receptionist will give me the name of a good podiatrist. I pull no punches and let him know I have one without his help and get a dirty look from him.

 

I must tell him the main reason I have come in. 'Please measure again this growth that is now almost in my eye. He is reluctant and tells me again, 'It is nothing', changes his mind and takes ten or twelve seconds of his valuable time to re-measure and mark the size on my chart.

 

Picture me. No, don't picture me. I am ½ in, ½ out of my wrinkled paper gown. The door opens and a patient's face peeps in. He tells the impatient woman he will see her in a few minutes, tells me I am fine and should get dressed.  As he closes the door on me, through a fake smile, he almost hums, 'See you in six months, Mrs. Bloom. The girls will call you with your biopsy report next week. Make an appointment with Sheila now for your next check-up.' Three calls to Sheila and finally get the long awaited report.

 

I don't have carcinoma squamas cell cancer on my back and the doctor wants to re-measure the growth on my nose, almost in my eye.
She wants me to make an appointment.

 

 'Give him Mrs. Bloom's  message. 'Dr. Gray, spring for cloth wrap arounds for the ladies instead of paper or I will find me that Eskimo dermatologist I mentioned. I might even do it with decent cover-ups. Be sure they have belts to keep the wraps closed while we wait for you.'

 

'So long, Sheila.'