A tale

                                      ATTENTION

 

'Ms. Josie, come in here. I need you now.' Dr. Bloom told me to stand behind his patient who was barely covered with a thin sheet. She was lying still as death on a long table. 'Don't talk to her. Do nothing unless I tell you to. Unfold your arms!' Mine dropped almost to my shaking knees. 'Stand up straight, do your best to look like you' re not new here. ' I barely whispered, 'But I am. This is my first job.' Dr. Bloom turned a pale shade of green but kept his mouth shut. My mind traveled by leaps and bounds. 'Josie, you have a job, a real one day a week job to start'. So I stood straighter and felt like I was spreading a peacock's rainbow tail.

 

Almost a roar came from Dr. Bloom as he noticed the fake silver and gold circle pin I had on my blouse top. 'Take that god awful thing off.
You aren't at a party. Didn't your father explain what I expect of you in my medical practice?' I was stunned, didn't understand what he meant. My lips felt like they were glued together. I removed my pin and didn't know where to put it. With no purse, no pockets, I dropped it in the trash can.

 

The patient stirred. Dr. Bloom gently removed the sheet from her body and I almost threw up. The lady had only one breast. A long cut had fiery red stitches down it. I saw the patient's hand clutch the side of the table as a tear ran down her cheek. Her head tilted back a little and she saw me standing still, surely saw Dr. Bloom putting on fresh rubber gloves.

 

Was the room spinning around?  Were my feet as cold as they seemed?
Why, oh why, did my father ask his friend, Dr. Bloom, to give me a job other than to get me interested in something besides boys? The doctor's strong, yet warm voice, merely suggested I leave the room, talk to Daisy at the front desk. 'Watch her, pay attention to how she answers the phone, what questions she asks the caller. Now, get out of here. I'll call you if I need you.' My peacock tail shrank to a duck's behind. 

 

The ringing phone kept Daisy busy. Her voice was soft and pleasant. Sometimes one or two words to the caller sufficed. 'Tomorrow,' 'July 12, 2 p.m.' and she would end the call by lowering the receiver gently.
The lady with the horrible scar down her chest came out of the doctor's examining room. She smiled, toodle-oohed me and was gone.

 

At dinner I told my father about my terrible day, how gruesome it was.
'Then you want me to tell Dr. Bloom you won't be back, that you have no guts, aren't willing to learn, to help, that you don't want the $25?' 'Daddy, I didn't say that exactly. I can be helpful at the desk, weigh patients, always smile. Please call him for me, ask him if I can try again.' 'Straighten your spine, Girl. You call him.' Evening had already dropped its curtain and I knew for sure office hours were over. That put the skids on my bare feet.

 

Sleeping was fitful, bloody, gory. Broken dreams swirled, tossed me from side to side in my soft, usually comfortable bed. A weight was pressing on my mind. By the time the sun was making my room glow with pink lights, I knew what I had to do. I looked around for the brass pin I had been wearing at Dr. Bloom's and remembered how I trashed it. That proved to me I was an idiot. My parents had fixed their own small breakfast and left the crumbs for me to clear away. The sun, and our kooky cuckoo clock finally let me know it was almost noon.

 

Gingerly I dialed Dr. Bloom's office and heard Daisy's voice. 'Dr. Bloom's office, may I help you?'  'Daisy, this is Josie,  can I possibly speak to Dr. Bloom now? Soon? ' I could hear the little buzzer she had on the side of her desk to reach the doctor. Oh, God, let me get my words out right!' Somewhat grumpily, Dr. Bloom asked me what I want.
My heart pounded so loudly I was sure he heard it. I straightened my back a little and apologized for my mis-steps yesterday. 'Dr. Bloom, I am absolutely sure, with Daisy's guidance,  I can do a good job as a receptionist. I watched her, listened to her for two hours after I left you. She is so good at what she does but was definitely frazzled at times.' There was an eternal few minutes of silence before he suggested I come in after office hours Friday, 6 p.m. to discuss it.

 

Could he see my huge smile thru the telephone lines, hear my sigh of surprise and joy? That was my real  beginning with the medical profession. I did become good at my job full time, five days a week.

 

The one dark spot was I had the phone constantly buzzing in my ear
while  Daisy had Dr. Bloom wrapped around her finger, letting the sun make her two carat diamond sparkle.

story

                                  ECHOES

 

'Marybella, where are you?'  Her voice could have been heard while Niagara Falls fell. Three times she called me, three times I ignored her. The fourth time my anger escaped, became nasty, rude.  Her bellowing, would stop, if only she wouldn't call me Mary bella. In at least five of my 13 years, I've begged her to call me to dinner, call me to take a bath, but don't call me Marybella.

 

The last call had her usual threat, 'Daddy will put his strop to your rear, Child, if you don't show me respect.' I couldn't let her nagging get to me again. I answered her call,' Mean Machine, leave me alone. ' I hurried down the stairs with her right behind me. 'Careful Old Lady. Your knobby legs are showing,' and I escaped again. Outside I made an ugly face to her and ran like the wind, slipping a little on the snow that was just starting.

 

Daddy told me yesterday that we were having company for lunch today and I should behave myself. 'Who? Who?' I asked. 'Wait and see. They're family you never met. You'll love them. Wear a nice outfit, comb your hair, be polite.' That was a lot for him to ask me to do but I promised–if he would tell Momma not to call me Marybella.

 

At 11:30 a.m. the little bell over our front door tinkled and Daddy headed down the steps to see if family was waiting. I was right behind him. Everyone shook hands...except me. I got patted on my blond curly head. Momma had taken off her apron,  put on too much lipstick. Daddy introduced my cousin Alan to me. 'Alan,'this is our Marybella. She is tall for her age, isn't she? She must take after you.' Momma winked at Alan. I fell in love.

 

Darn, I was angry. 'Cousin Alan, 'Momma calls me Marybella and I hate it. Tell her to stop.' Alan  just waited while his beautiful wife came in. She had been in the bathroom taking off her black leather galoshes that had black fur around the top and high heels. She had to be a movie star. In comparison to Momma,  Momma was a witch. My cousin Alan looked at me, smiled, patted me on the head and did the 'no no'. 'Marybella, what grade are you in?' If I were a bit older and a lot taller I might have clipped him. Instead I stared at his gorgeous wife and her goulashes.  My snow boots had metal clamps that cut into my skin when I had to buckle them. If only I had real goulashes. Stop dreaming,' I told myself.

 

Cousin Alan introduced me to his new wife. 'Marbella, this is Valereigh. She is from France and doesn't know too many American words.' Then he whispered in my ear, 'I'm teaching her. I saw you  looking at her goulashes. Do you have any like hers?' I wanted to say I had two pairs but couldn't lie. 'No, Cousin.'

 

'Valereeee? Spell it for me please. I never heard that name before. It is so much nicer than what Momma calls me. Alan brought a folding chair into the living room and motioned to his wife to sit down. As soon as she did, he removed her goulashes and put them on me. Oh, my lord, I felt tall and beautiful and French. Valereeee still had her black furry hat on.  Something odd came over fourteen year old me. My name was going to be changed. 'Announcement, announcement!' I said loudly as soon as Alan and Valereee left. 'My name is now changed. It is Valeere and if you do not call me that from now on, I will neither see nor hear you. First thing the next Monday I told my friends, my teachers , that unless they called me Valeere, I would not not speak to them. Oh, how they laughed at me–but I stood straight and determined. Finally my parents gave in. They often stuttered, stopped on Mary–.

 

I fought the world. I loved my new name and gradually I won, reached eighteen and had my name officially changed at the Court House.

 

It became Zel Valeere Bass, then Zel Valeere Magee. So now you know that determination, desire, CAN work. I close, suggesting you not do as I did. It was tough going just to get my way and made too many people miserable.

 

I still don't have goulashes with fur on them.

#3

                               NEW WAYS- NO WAY

Joseph, whose Mom still insists on calling him, Yussel, unlocked his office door as usual the same way he did the other six days of the week- 9 a.m.-promptly 9 a.m. His portfolio tucked safely under his arm, he was anxious and ready to get the day moving. In his bones he was sure this would be the beginning of an upswing.

Wrong! Aging ungracefully, Miss Gladys was not at her desk. A guttural gasp shook him into shock. The desk top was helter skelter. Framed photos of grown children and her grandchildren were lying on the floor. Shards of glass almost sparkled when sunlight came thru the office windows. Miss Gladys' swivel ladder back chair was over-turned. Its attached pillows held on tightly. The phone was on the floor, silence filled the room, except for Joseph's heaving, wringing his hands.

 

In a turmoil he wept out loud, spouting words to Miss Gladys he had never dared say. 'Where are you? Where are you? I need you. You  are everything to me, my right hand, my very life.'

 

Trying to clear his mind, he reached to lift Miss Gladys' chair and pulled back. Mumbled words dropped from his lips. 'Stupid man. Don't touch anything. Call the police.' He pulled his perfectly folded handkerchief from his back pocket and lifted the phone, set it straight on the messed up desk  and got a dial tone. 411 answered at once and he babbled out what he could. Sirens sounded quickly. Kerchief still in his hand, he opened the office door and let the Captain in first. What seemed like a mob of officers followed the white hat. Each had his own notebook, pens and pencils in their jacket pockets. Captain Belmore assigned each man a small section and the two women officers were to classify the desk area.

 

My god, Jussel mumbled. 'Captain, Captain, my right hand is missing!' He bellowed. 'Gladys, Gladys, where are you?' His tears could not be held back.
The brilliant Captain looked at Joseph and declared Joseph's hand was ok, still attached to his arm. 

 

No one laughed when the Captain hit the floor.

 

 

DONE

                                      RED READY

I clenched my teeth and growled, 'Stupido!' at myself. Griped further, 'your tongue is bleeding!' From my purse I pulled out a small stack of crumpled pink Kleenex. It looked germy. With some hesitation I dabbed at the red spots. My tongue was really bleeding more than I expected it might. Yet, I was absolutely unable to swallow the blood. Being somewhat of a health nut, I spit on the pavement, endangering others and then I realized my cell phone wasn't in my purse. In the ladies room at 'Croix d' Glamour' I pulled out all the rest of the pink Kleenex, my make-up, my wallet, an old red lipstick I hadn't even missed, a few loose coins, sun glasses and keys. My purse was absolutely empty. 

My tongue may have still hurt but it was no longer important. Where can my cell phone be? The only logical place was back in my car. Hep, ho, with my stiletto shoes not yet fully broken in, I hurried back to my car and mysteriously knew already, my cell was not going to be in there. After a thorough search, three times, plus 4 in the empty trunk, I gave up.

My bleeding tongue was forgotten, the corned beef sandwich I meant to get at the deli for my light supper became unimportant. My head was swimming. Who do I call to report my cell missing?I needed a tonic…something to get me out of my funk.  Ahhh – the window of Sal Chasseure was just about glowing as I nearly passed it in haste.  I literally walked backwards to take a long look at some of the most mouthwatering stilettos known to man.  Louboutins…ruby red from toes to heels to soles. I heard them whisper my mother's name. 'Clarissa.' 

I heaved open the heavy Victorian door and entered the Louboutin sanctuary, aware of a lingering stare from a tall, handsome salesman in the middle of the store.  'And what can I do for you today, my beautiful?' said Mr. Gorgeous Italian god almost salivating with sexuality. He held in his hand a new slipper not yet on the deluxe turning display. Its beauty took my breath away. I wanted it, wanted it badly.

'I would like to try on the new Cirrus stiletto. It is my dream shoe, 5 1/2 narrow, please.' His arms were behind his back and as he turned towards me he showed me another surprise. His fly was bulging, about to unzip itself.

He lead me to a soft luxurious red sofa in an alcove I had never seen. As we approached it, a red velvet curtain enveloped us mechanically. My semi-worn, slightly scuffed shoes fell unaided to the floor. His hand slipped under my dress. My lacy red panties  evaporated. His investment paid off and so did mine.

I smiled as he handed me two pairs of  5 1/2 narrow redder than red, stiletto sandals. Two strong hands re-opened the red velvet curtain. One motioned to my handsome lover to get the hell out of there as he, Monsieur Louboutin,  entered.

Back with you ???

                                   OWL PLAY

 

Barry had to raise his head, lift his chin a little to kiss Amelia. She was not very cooperative as she turned slightly away. Her clumsiness did not stop Barry. His muscled arm slid easily around her waist as he pulled her closer, then closer still. When she kicked off her stilettos  heeled shoes, he was taller than willing Amelia and he was right in her face. The softness of her breasts on his chest aroused him. His left arm around her waist, his right hand holding hers, they walked down the paved park path to the unlit gazebo. The night was cool but Barry was sweating.

A little scurrying noise made his conquest jump in fear. 'It was probably a squirrel. Don't be afraid!' She snapped at him, 'Maybe it's a rat!  Let's get out of here!' Sounding very much like whatever it was, destroyed Barry's thoughts and hopes. Compared to other possibilities Barry had no fear, other than, Amelia might evaporate.

High above them, shiny black eyes stared at them, disappeared and suddenly re-appeared. Amelia let out a scream, was sure a real Boogie Man was out there someplace. Barry ridiculed her and got a punch in his belly for it.  'You ARE stupid, Girl, it's only an owl. Didn't you know an owl can turn it's head around half way and see its back?' Amelia  laughed like a silly child, glanced downward. Barry asked, 'What's so funny?'  Her voice dropped an octave as her eyes glanced at Barry's trousers. He looked at his pants too, thought for the moment he had brambles on stuck to his front.

By then her voice could barely be heard. 'Can owls really do that, Barry? We don't even look at ourselves sometimes, don't realize how we look to other people. Right? Her eyes wandered down his body and stopped at when his masculinity could not be disguised. With a new lilt in her voice she asked, 'What do you know, Lover boy? Want to use that thing?' She purred. He unzipped and the owl hooted at just the right moment.

 

A CHANGE OF PLANS

With rolling black clouds, distant thunder rumbling their warning to get inside, I quicken my three block walk to the Rialto to see a new movie that had a 3 1/2 star rating from the local reviewer. From the past I felt that was 'the kiss of death'. My thoughts race as fast as the scudding, fierce blackness rushes towards the box office -- or I must make a turn and head back to my car. As I dawdle a moment, something on the cracked tar surface of the pathway to the Rialto catches my eye. I skid to a stop, bend down and retrieve several coins--two quarters and two pennies and when I look closer at the pennies, an Indian Head stares at me. Yikes. It seems to have a glitter, has a flirting eye right at me.

 

I jump. I scream as a bolt of lightning streaks thru the sky, is surely aiming directly at the movie roof. My feet land in a puddle and loud cuss words fall out of my mouth. Something warm and instantly welcome grabs my arm, keeps me from falling. A large hand, somewhat tannish, reddish, is strong and gentle. A face, a smiling face, looks at me. Eyes, black as the darkest night,  gleam.  Thoughts of the movie fly from my mind. My attention zings onto my savior. A soft, almost angelic voice speaks a name. 'I am Sitting Tall', chief of the disappearing Hwanko Tribe. Once we were a great Indian tribe, strong, virile, but when the buffalo hunters came with their rifles we no longer had furs to keep us warm or food. Our tribe lost its leaders. I am the great, great, great grandson of our last chief. Manitoki took his own life.' He is silent for some time then asks, 'Will you walk with me, talk to me, instead of going to that silly movie that you were so determined to see?' I hesitate, wonder who he really is. I am afraid yet intrigued by Sitting Tall.

 

The sky lightens and my fears fly away. For the first time I notice the Indian carries a woven knapsack of many colors, geometric  designs. It is surely ancient. Sunshine, lovely warming sunshine peeps out of the fading black clouds. It smiles at us. We walk past the movie, the parking area, the cut rate shops. Sitting Tall leads me to a small garden I had never noticed before. Without a thought, a care, we sit on the wet bench and just stare at each other.

 

I show Sitting Tall my two pennies with Indian Heads on them. 'Chief Tall, the year the pennies were made, 1887, can still be seen. And honest to heaven, one Indian DID wink at me. Oh, how he laughs. 'My great, great, great grandfather must like you.' It is my turn to laugh and tell Sitting Tall he should change his name to Silly Tall.

 

He laughs at me, opens the pouch. From it he places a string of white beads around my neck. They are really shells. 'They are my wampam. They are my tribe's money. 'If I had the dark purple beads, you and I would be rich.'

 

'Come let us walk towards the rainbow.' We hold hands, talk and walk, never reach the rainbow.

 

True

CHANCES WERE

 

The blue sky burns hot. Sidewalks seem to sizzle.  And I don't know what to do with myself. Loneliness is a curse for which I have found no magic words, no balms to attract a friend, no smile big enough or wink flirtatious enough to 'make my day.'

 

I watch the newspaper small ads telling me all the activities for the week but none draw me. The plans are too far away for me to even find the locations or the timing doesn't fit into my food shopping or for a doctor's appointment. I know very well what I need but so far haven't found any who need me. The library is my haven. While I seldom read a book any more, spend time writing my own stories, I spot a showing at Elkton's main library where a documentary film will be shown at 1:30 p.m. this coming Fri. I call in, put my name on the list and at least have something of interest ahead.

 

Oh, I haven't mentioned yet I am eighty-eight years old, still look damn good. I'm slender, 5'5", dress fashionably but not wildly. The library is my sanctuary!  Readers are the friendliest of people. Just a glance at mothers bringing their tots to story hour, makes my heart open, feel the warmth. They are so adorable I stop one after the other to tell them how cute their pink shoes are, or ask about the dress the little blonde is wearing. Mothers kvell, enjoy my interest.

 

I am much too early for the film showing so I amble over to the aisle where I assume mystery books will be lined up like stalwart soldiers on guard. Rows and rows of authors, their books still looking brand new, never touched by human hands, until I remove a new James Patterson book, read page one and return it to its space. I try another, don't bother opening it at all and walk out into the large and active lobby.

 

Along one wall in the lobby are very comfortable armed chairs, separated with about 3 feet of space. I make myself comfortable, pretend I am reading. I shut Patterson and look again at those coming in and leaving. Time barely moves. No one has yet lined up at the door where the film will be shown. I am getting a bit antsy. A lady, younger than I but not by much, sits in the chair on my right and we get into a discussion about politics. She is waiting for a friend and keeps her eyes going back and forth to the door.

 

I swear I do not notice anyone approach me but suddenly, from the chair on my right, I see a blur just about ready to sit down. By the time his rear end is set ok  he is leaning towards me. 'Hello,' he says. 'I'm Bob? What's yours?' Well, we are in the library and I came to be with people so I reply, 'Susan.' 'And where are you from, Susan?' he asks. I smile and tell him with my fake Southern drawl, 'Why Georgia, Bob. Can't you tell? At that he turns towards me. Words fall quickly from his mouth which looks like it has held many cigarettes. 'Come outside with me, Susan.' I beg off. Bob repeats himself, 'Come outside with me, Susan' and I repeat , 'No, thank you, Bob. I'm staying right here.'

 

There is a definite change in his voice. It deepens, seems coarse, showing a sign of anger. 'I said,' he says, ' I told you to come outside with me now!' The lady sitting on the other side of me starts to squirm. I do not. He insists it is lovely outdoors and I tell him he's wrong. 'It's hot as hell out there and I'm staying in this nice air-conditioned building.'  Bob storms out, telling me to wait, he'll be right back.

 

Now, dear Reader, would you wait? I waited to see what he would do and of course, Bob never returns.  Chills go up and down my spine as I picture being inside the trunk of his car, bleeding, dead.

 

The lady sitting near me is very upset, not for me but because her friend hasn't showed up. Readers are piling in for the film and I sit, trying to concentrate on it, but just can't. What should I do? Bob may be waiting for me outside. Then I realize I still have James Patterson's book on my lap and have to return it to the shelf. Like a jackass, I walk silently right past the librarian. Where was my mind? Why didn't I tell her about Bob, have her call the sheriff? Why? I guess I'm stupid.

 

You, however have been warned. This man who at first seemed so friendly wasn't. This time he met his match but you, dear Reader had better be alert. Look around. Study strangers. Accept no invitations. Who knows, Bob may be Harry today and may be waiting at the library door for you.

It's been a long time but here is an almost true tale

 

After much thought, none of it positive, I decided to change dermatologists--but to whom? That's when my unit's ad jumped out of the monthly paper, hit me like a slew of magic bullets. On the front page I saw a large ad for a new dr. right across Copperfield Ave. maybe three blocks from my apt. I called the given number. First thing I asked was, 'Is Wherewithall really the doc's name?' It was ! Whoever I spoke to set an appointment for me for the very next day, 1:15 p.m. The secretary? told me to look for 8060 which will make it easier for me to find Dr. Wherewithall.  That was the beginning  of insanity! Riding up and down the one way streets, no left turns, I finally found in big letters on the end building 8060.

 

A full block away was a car space that didn't have anyone's name on it so I parked and walked, opened the door to 8060 and was tossed for a loop. This was not the dermatologist's office at all.  Some of you, like my family, Jerry, Steve,would recognize --ZUBERA'S!  A tiny office packed with colored folders. Colors meant a lot to Zubera, to me they only meant I was not in a doctor's office. The girl at the wee desk was on the phone, ignoring me. She seemed to wake up from a dream as she asked if she could help me. 'Hope so, Kid. Where is Dr. Wherewithall's office? She's supposed to be at  8060.

 

'I'll take you to the elevator,'the twerp said, opened the door and lead me right, left, another left, a right and I had to ask, 'Isn't that an elevator over there?' 'Yes.' I walked the distance and got on the elevator, got off where twerp told me,third floor and there I found 2 young ladies at a table in a tiny room. I was given papers to fill out, 4 sheets in small print, listing every possible skin disease still on this earth, to check the ones I've had--NONE. The questions had questions, names of former drs., birthday, SS (that I exed out) . Finally I was zigzagged again and left in a room with no windows, no magazines or table and one closed door. It was almost scary. Then I saw a sign over the door. THIS IS THE QUIET ROOM. It did  not need that sign. I stayed about 7 min., opened the door and clapped my hands until someone came to find out who was making all that noise. I let her know I was angry I and I didn't want to be in a Quiet room.

 

Again zigzag, zigzag, totally discombobulated until I was put in a room with one chair, one table, one magazine and a shelf and one long cotton swab stick under the shelf. Dr. Wherewithall came in and I pointed out the stick, told her I wouldn't pick it up because I didn't know where it might have been. She was brave and trashed it. There was no sink which accounted for her not washing her hands.

 

OK. Dr. W. smiled. I think graduation glitter was still in her hair. Whoever brought me to that room had wanted me to have a full body exam and I refused, giving my reasons. All I wanted was for the dr. to look at something I scratched on my back that bled. At that point I told her my former dr. was King of the Zappers and I wanted no zaps unless absolutely necessary. She is NOT a zapper. I showed her other things that my reg. dermatologist never explained to me. She looked at the small rarieties and she and only told me there was nothing to worry about.

 

We smiled to each other and I asked for a map so I could find my way back to my car. Explanations of changes  that were going to be made  shortly in construction poured from her mouth. It seemed to be a good internal outlet for her- but didn't help me at all. Instead she called for an invisible guide dog who wore a short skirt and had legs up to her neck. Gorgeous young woman! She stayed with me until I reached the elevator where right outside I saw  my car awaited.... and my story is done!  VAL

Whew !

HOT STUFF

 

It's summer. The sun is so hot I believe I can actually see it quiver, hide behind a lone gray cloud. The cloud is stirred by the wind that is high, very high above the earth. Not a single tree shakes. Not a single drop of rain falls.

 

Our kitchen window is open. The smell of what my Mom is baking tantalizes me. Not so my Dad. His gruff voice is angry. 'Sophia, what the hell are you baking ? Isn't the house hot enough without you setting us on fire?' She swings her head around, calls to me, ignores him. 'Come in, Sweety. Sit down with us and we'll have a good, cold glass of iced tea. On the table covered by a plastic cloth is a large thermos jug, 3 tall blue glasses wait for us. Lipton tea and cubes drop in, clunk and bang. It's like music to my ears. I recognize Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue. Little taxi horns beep and I am there in Paris. The Eiffel  Tower is aglow. Honeysuckle climbs thru the steel, winds its way up, up until it is out of sight.

 

Flecks of burning charcoal fall from the sky, foul the air. What is on fire? Engines fly wildly down the Champs Elysee. I am caught in a crowd of lovely young girls holding hands, skipping down the wide street, hastily stepping onto the cobblestones to let the firemen do what they do. Huge brown hoses unwind themselves, reach across L'Avenue Deux. The lovely girls let go of each other, chase the handsome firemen. They look hot. Their blouses are low cut supposedly keeping them cool. Instead they and the firemen lose their way, let the wooden barrels roll down to the arch. Their motion brightens the flames that suddenly die in the grass.

 

There is much shouting and applause from the tourists enjoying the odd spectacle, getting more up-set moment to moment as the elevators stop running and they must walk down 502 steps before they are able to smell the green trees instead of gray smoke. I do not hurry, don't mind the smoke that curls into snakes. It hisses at me and I curl into myself, wait, wait, wait for the gray smoke to evaporate. My wait has to end soon. I am seating like a pig roasting over red embers. There is a sound, a push, a shake and I feel hands around my shoulders, hear a voice from a distant place.

 

'Jeff, Jeff! Open your eyes! Where has your unexpected nap taken you?' My shirt is soggy. My mouth is dry. I obey the voice and open my foggy eyes just a slit. Raising my head, I make out the closed oven door, recognize my mom's voice, see the tall blue glass of cold iced tea just a few inches from my finger tips, raise it and down it in one long delicious swallow.

 

My mom is standing close to me, a plate of chocolate cookies still slightly warm from the oven, is laid on the plastic table cloth. I need no invitation to partake of the treat, wash the deliciousness down with the tea. Looking all around me I see no lovely curvacious girls , no French rues, no fire men, no Eiffel tower

 

–and no father. Where was he while I was in Paris? The patter, the splatter of the rain storm cools the kitchen, the paved streets and Mom pours the last of the iced tea in my blue glass.

The Unknown Future

THE BIG HOUSE.

 

The sun makes the drops of dew sparkle like diamonds in the grass. I am up early and, as usual, am aware that Jerimiah is sitting in his bedroom, big black rimmed eyeglasses on the end of his nose. He holds back the faded nylon curtain just enough so he can peek out the window, watch for the maids, the dairy truck, even the lawn people to cheer his day.  Not that I want to ignore him but if I look deep into my own mind, I guess I really would prefer my view, my day to be better. With him one never knows.

 

Today he knocks on my door, hands me the Morning Tribune and sneaks in his brilliant idea. 'How about lunch together?' I don't even get a chance to say yes or no. 'I'll meet you near the movie house at noon and   keep an eye out for Katie. She's my favorite dish but could be tastier if she'd get rid of her childish inhibitions. That gal needs me but doesn't know it yet.' I give Jerimiah a crooked salute and come close to squashing his foot in my doorway.

 

He returns to his 'too little house' cussing its size. It's just not  big enough for him. I try to get out of his plan but he must have unplugged  the phone  again. My lunch time is doomed. I'm stuck with Jerimiah.  I look at the clock over the kitchen sink and can't help but smile. The clock has only one hand that moves. The other fell off when I tried to oil the clock when it worked on batteries. Giving it some thought I don't remember telling my neighbor about my dumb looking clock. I knock on his door, explain the emergency, the absolute necessity of my replacing the clock immediately. He's a sucker and bites, let's me shop. 'Go, go, enjoy lunch just keep away from Katie. She hates you!.' His back arches. His eyes become thin slits and the color drains from his face. Hate erupts from the deep creases in his throat. I am sure he is going to beat hell out of me so I hurry to my car and head to Walmart.

 

 

 

For no reason at all, I turn left and left again and am outside the recently re-modeled Booker's Library. I've actually wanted to come over for weeks. The parking lot is bustling, shopping bags of books go in and out. I am free of baggage (and Jerimiah). My eyes open in wonder. I can't take it all in at once. Something is amiss. There is total silence. My god, the soundless space makes me think it is a morgue. Where are the children, the busy librarians, the American flag? Dozens of people sit around relaxing on big, maybe too stiff, lounges.  High, wide windows argue with at least a hundred ceiling lights. I am the only person who makes a sound. My small cough sounds like I'm in a cavern. Readers look up, stare at me. Luckily I have a box of Tic Tacs with me, open it, put two in my mouth and the rest of the box empties itself on the new carpet.  My embarrassment knows no end.

 

My eyes just roam, don't have time to waste, want to see all I can, maybe enroll in this place. While I'm checking things out I count 28 computers, separated by soft, muted print fabrics. To my left is a woman seated on a double lounger. She wears a bright red buttoned blouse with 3/4 sleeves, dark faded shorts barely peek out. Her untanned legs sprawl forward but she looks comfortable in laced running shoes. Where will she run when she wakes? Mousy hair is piled on top of her drooping head which shows off a stupid looking poorly tied knot. At any second I expect the heavy book she still has opened on her lap, will fall and wake the dead. Time is flying slowly. An hour has passed and I don't recall a single person raising his head as he searches the web, sends off private messages. We all are intimidated by the silence, the stillness. I feel my body turning to stone. I want to indulge myself, write, talk, meet strangers but foresee no chance of that. The air conditioning has just about frozen me to my chair. No one has touched the thermostat.  Employees  must rely on god.

 

I take notice of a young girl curled up like a dying worm in a large straight chair, revealing  a large part of her snow white spine. Is she drugged, asleep or dead? Has her lover left her? My pen is almost the only movement in this dream library. A black  lady with dread knots in her hair is wearing a colorful short skirt. She rises from one of the computers. A white haired man with a Van Dyke beard, unframed eyeglasses resting on his big ears, starts to wander towards one of the magazine sections, moves slowly to new books, fantasies. Where will the powers that be place my stories, my books, when I am dead and finally famous?

 

The cold air has bitten my nose. I put my pens and  writing book into my small white cloth tote bag, carry it proudly so that the side with  'I'm proud to be an American' will be seen by all who pass me. The revolving exit door causes no trouble and I head home in my not so new Camry. Excitement is abrew in front of Jerimiah's house. Police cars, a paddy wagon and an ME station wagon have attracted a big crowd. Jerimiah has to lower his head to get into the wagon. He sees me, waves and calls out, 'I didn't do it! Katie must have gone on a vacation!' His legs are shackled. I say nothing to him or to anyone.

 

My neighbor has told me many times that he longed for a bigger house than the one he has.  I realize that it looks like he is about to get one. The state Big House awaits him.

 

I may write a story about him, his past, present and future. It may be my route to fame. WATCH FOR IT !

SPIN

WHEEL OF FORTUNE

 

It's not my very favorite t.v. show, but I do make an effort most nights to watch the fat contestants, the nervous stuttering ones who in less than a minute have to tell Pat and the immediate world, their names, where they live, how 'wonderful' their mates are and how many children, grand children they have. I yawn thru that part. Each show I check out Pat's hairpiece. It is set to perfection on his naked head. Could it be glued on? I can't help but snicker at my own silliness. My boyfriend, Brad,  has a nice piece but it slips a little. Once when we were caught in a brief thunderstorm, the toupe turned into a drowned rat.  He ran like a mad man to catch it just before it fell into the gutter. Not a word was said about the unfortunate demise of the toupe. I told him how good he looked without it but he didn't believe me for a second. Oh, vanity, vanity–thy name is not all feminine.

 

I apologize as I have already transgressed too far from my story. Pat is a short amiable guy whose oft time words of sympathy when a contestant goes bankrupt seem to placate the losers but the audience, including me, can just feel their disappointment as they won't be going to The Sandals for a two week joy ride. They won't even get a chance to solve the final puzzle, maybe win one mil. 

 

As to Vanna–she looks the same in all of her gorgeous gowns that she swears she cannot keep. Before she steps on stage, gently takes Pat's arm, I make a secret guess what color she'll wear, how low her gown will be, how many beads, rhinestones will glitter in the spot lights. As she takes the same number of footsteps every single evening,  I count them – sixteen. If only I could shout at her, 'Get a better hairdresser. Your hair is too long, too straight, too damn boring. She's set. She's ready, standing beside the letter board. Pat looks upset when the guest asks for a 'T.' 'Sorry, no 'T' he mumbles and the next contestant calls 'D'. Vana smiles, walks the walk, clicks three 'D's. I take a quick break, return to find all players are broke. Pat spins the big wheel that stops dead center on five thousand for each correct letter called. The audience rises, applauds. I sit on the edge of the sofa and wish, even pray, that I had the chance to be on that show. Jim Powers wins twenty thousand but doesn't come up with the spin answer.

 

Pat almost cries but holds himself in check to make a big announcement. The Wheel of Fortune bus will be going thru north and south Carolina from Feb. 2 thru Feb. 10, selecting new , interesting contestants for March programs. I scream loud enough for Pat to hear me in Hawaii. I will find that bus. I will. I will. I will make it on the show and get rich.

 

My plan doesn't work right. Carolina St. has cars, trucks, motorcycles lined up as far as Georgia Avenue. Police cars keep some form of sanity to the parking area. It takes me three full days of trying different ways to get on the bus. On the fourth day, as I am nearly at the bus door, a car swerves out of line and hits me hard. My leg is broken. The police have all the details, make room for the ambulance.

 

My mishap makes it on the front page of the Chronicle and I am mentioned on t.v. AND more. The driver who so carelessly hit me had great insurance. All of my expenses were covered, plus I received $50000 for my pain and suffering.

 

I think about the car wheel that squashed my ankle and made me rich. Definitely, surely, I turned out to be a winner on The Wheel of Fortune. Pat and Vana each sent me cards and I will appear on their Christmas show.

Tick tock

THE WAIT

 

I've been lying in this bed for weeks. Whispering sometimes inches in thru the old transom. Voices change from day to day. When my door begins to open even a tiny crack, I smile inwardly and just guess who is about to come in. 'Is that you, Millie?', I ask. I'm not sure what the day is, as they are all pretty much the same, but I do know it is not Saturday because Millie goes to the Rialto every Saturday, even if she's seen the film half a dozen times. She's a bit tetched in the head but I still love her.

 

When my baby sister, Carrol, softly opens  my door, I can smell the Lifebouy soap she still somehow locates in specialty shops. Because she has such vivid memories of our father using it in his office, she knows  it has to be good. Recently the odor is not as apparent as 100% Ivory took over and now she's on a Camay kick. These thoughts are nonsense but better than being comatose–or are they?

 

The highlight of my boring week is when Dr. Solomon, about half my age, visits. I used to hope he'd make a pass at me, but even seeing me naked, never tempted him. His visits now consist of checking my pulse, listening to my heart beat, chatting and having me sign a slip so I can keep a record of Medicare charges. Once in a long while, he helps me out of bed, leads me to the bathroom, never peeps while I take a shower, has a big towel and my robe ready when he hears me turn off the water. It's the closest to heaven I have come so far.
       
My crewel work, my afghan needle are out of my reach. Just yesterday Carrol put them someplace where they wouldn't stare at me. Was she being nice, kind, or is she going to take art needle work someday? Do I care? Not too much. There is a draft coming in from a new place. Millie's clopping shoes startle me as they come up the stairs. The little draft has grown into a wind. Somebody has left the door open. I call out in a voice I can barely hear myself, 'Millie, you must not have locked the door. It's open. I'm cold. Please bring me another blanket. Her clopping shoes descend. It takes her a long time to come back  but eventually she does and lays my favorite heavy chenille robe across my legs. It's still soft and just full of memories. 'Why don't you take off those noisy shoes of yours?' I ask. Like a child, she sticks her tongue out of me and clops downstairs and back up carrying my dinner tray. The warmth of the homemade vegetable soup brightens the room. A few Uneeda biscuits with grape jam wait for me to slurp my soup while Millie holds a paper towel under my chin. I can't control the tickle in my throat and cough. The soup spills over. I am sorry. She is angry, calls me a klutz, a pain in the rear. Lowering my standards, I apologize.

 

Time crawls. I am ready, as ready as I will ever be. Leaning against the wall I see Willard holding a jar of Schmucker's Grape Jelly. He announces clearly the name of each person who has reached 100 years of age, 102, 105.  'Isn't she lovely?' ' This is Mr. Saloman. 103 and his wife of 83 years, still dancing at 102.' I stare at the T.V. I think the old farts are wrinkled and ugly.

 

A new and welcome feeling comes over me. I am ready. My eyes droop. My heart makes another jump as I whisper, 'Goodbye.'

Keep the change

RICH RALPH

 

Tall and skinny, Ralph searches thru the dumpster. Rats precede him.
Cats follow. He delves deep and spots one laceless tennis shoe. It is not much better than the worn thin flip flop he is wearing. He sticks the worse of the two in a baggy pocket of his sweater and searches for some string to tie his 'new' tennis shoe. A carefully rolled up newspaper, taped shut, intrigues Ralph. Visions of counterfeit money or sexy magazines that some prude tossed out excite him.  That is rare in his shabby life. Reaching high as he can he tries to grab hold of the rusty edge of the dumpster. A little blood runs from his thumb.
                                       
Wham, bang, Old Lukey Jones is trying to crawl in. The two bump heads and laugh for the first time today. Ralph tries to hide what he hopes will 'make his day' but Lukey is wise to him and makes a grab for the parcel. His feet slip on some slimy stuff that he just doesn't care to look at. Loud truck sounds fill the air. The two men watch the parade of garbage trucks climbing the man-made hill. There must be ten of them. The whole twisting road stinks. The acrid smell of their own juices isn't noticeable.

 

Something is going on, something unusual. The two men make an effort to escape but the entire dumpster begins to rise. All of the dumpees leave space, lots of space between each other. Garbage, trash, fall in great heaps.  Police sirens wail. Cops step out of their cars, kerchiefs tied around their faces. Luckey Jones and Ralph stay low, afraid to try to run away, afraid to stay to see what is happening. Cops step out of their cars, kerchiefs tied around their faces. Luckey Jones and Ralph stay low, afraid to try to run away, afraid to stay to see what is happening.
 
The gravel road remains clear until it is filled with layers of debris, smoothed and examined as a Goliath of a search begins. Each section receives a pole with a numbered flag and when there is no more hope of finding a treasure of some kind, the workers move to the next spot that receives a pole with a numbered flag. Ralph pushes Luckey Jones ahead of him, signals to a police officer who looks like a rag man in his torn, filthy uniform. 'This man is a vagrant. Get him out of here.' Without asking a question, the officer grabs Lukey by his drooping pants and turns him over to another officer.

 

Ralph turns to the next truck load to be dumped. His action attracts no special attention as he walks around the edges of the junk falling to the ground. A gray and what must have been purple burlap bag, held together at the top by a heavy metal band, grabs his attention. It's heavy but not too heavy to drag to the side.The cloth rips and out of it falls a still recognizable silver tray. A tarnished one follows. Silver serving pieces that remind him of things he saw at his grandmother's home years ago, make his eyes pop. He stands up, yells, screams, attracts attention from drivers, from policemen, from a man still clean, still dressed in formal wear. The only presentable man cares not about what he must walk thru, gets to Ralph, kneels, looks at the sky and says aloud, 'Oh, thank you god.' He pulls a  fountain pen from his jacket. 'What's your name, mister?' he asks Ralph. 'Why? I didn't steal anything.' Before he gets an answer, he is ordered to wipe his hands. Ralph wipes them on the writer's coat.

 

God makes no sound as the man looking up to the sky lets big tears flow down his cheeks. A hearty chuckle reaches Ralph's ears as he accepts a check for ten thousand dollars, notation on the bottom, 'Reward.'  Ralph and Steinbeck's photos are on the front page of the Morning Sun newspaper commending Ralph for finding the stolen family silver.
       

Ralph is hereafter called Rich Ralph and luxuriates in his great fortune.

Yes? No?

SMILING BUCKETS

 

He loves me. He loves me not. The last petals from my small bouquet of white shasta daisies lie at my feet. I stand on one foot, then the other behind the still closed synagogue door waiting for Shelley. My parents are running around like lunatics. Bess, our Maid of Honor, paces, barely opens the door to the decorated pews. Quiet fear races thru our parents who are as bewildered as I am.

 

Cell phones ring. Guests snap photos. Heads turn to the chapel's  main entrance. My father, meaning well,  looks up to the balcony, nods for the three violinists to play. They start with the always tear jerking melody, 'Is this the little girl I carried.' My Aunt Sophie hurries up the stairs. All eyes are on her as she motions to the group to stop playing that song.  Even from the pews one can read her lips, 'play different songs.'  I, surely the most worried, try to look calm, at ease, but inside I am a shivering nut case.

 

The guests are restless. I can understand how male relatives, close friends just want to get home in time to watch the bulls run at Paploma
or take off their shoes, put their feet on the hassock, and grab a few winks. Most likely before the hour is up and Shelley still isn't by my side, those guys will do just that....leave. Aunt Dorothy, my absolutely prettiest aunt, is fading. I nudge her, tell her one eye lash is coming off and I can feel her crawl in embarrassment.

 

'Dad, please, please, talk to somebody, get some hors deuevres,  cocktails served. Tell, don't ask, Stanley to gather his drinking band, and wake up everyone. Rabbi Lender walks down the flowered aisle to the Bima and starts to tell jokes. I? I hide. I cry. My make-up is a running mess. Upset, sympathetic Mom sits me down and cries with me.

Cell phones continue to ring. My father calls the police, reports Shelley missing, is told there is nothing they can do for 24 hours.
Sirens wail. I can't tell if they come from police cars or ambulances. My nerves jangle. Thoughts of my husband-to-be lying in a pool of blood, shot dead by a sniper, makes me want to just lie down beside him and drown in his redness. My breathing is irregular.

 

Chills shake my body, shake it again and again. I scream and turn over. My mom is standing beside my bed, shaking me, waking me. Her voice sounds far away. 'Wake up, Sleepyhead. We have a lot to do this morning.

 

The sun is shining.'

(no subject)

NO CHAINS

 

Nothing scares me. I've heard the moans, the noises since I was abandoned by my supposed mother. Through my narrowed eyes I watched her gather leaves of all colors, sizes, pull them into what should have been a nest for me. As she bent to kiss my little fingers, I tasted her breath, seemed to rise to her touch. Then the wind came and she disappeared in a trail made from my unfinished bed. They followed her until the sky threw away the stars and went dark.

 

A large bird with huge eyes and spotted wings flew low, cocked its head, turned it almost a full circle, and forgot about me. A new, very soft noise was coming from my hungry body. I realized how thirsty I was, needed water, better still, milk. No mother, no milk. As my insides made more noise, an even louder sound turned my ears towards the trees. Their boughs were creaking, bending. Dazzling white specks dropped onto the trees, softly, uncomfortably wet. They tortured me. My mouth seemed to call for my mother but no noise left my lips. I curled myself into a ball and waited for what? For freezing? For dying?

 

The ground moved. It shook. Something was coming close to me and I was very scared. The 'something' had sharp nails on four strong legs. I knew I was going to be the animal's next meal, closed my eyes and awaited whatever was going to happen. Wet, black fuzz touched me gently. As wet as it was, it warmed me, held away the cold wind. Were the clouds bumping together, roaring wildly? My tongue touched the black thing and I lapped at it, had a drink of water. Little bubbles  burned as they floated down my throat. I tried to roll over, let the bubbles escape but they wouldn't go.

 

Far away where the sky touched the trees, the earth. Rain was falling, making a small lake or perhaps the beginning of a river, an ocean. I was lifted by the black warm, wet thing, held between its huge jaws that remained wide open as I clung to the grizzly teeth. Was it forever I was carried or just a dream? The sky was barely turning reddish as the sun rose and I was laid on the edge of the lake. The fuzzy black thing put me down in the water. It turned and walked away leaving me to take care of myself or drown. I chose to live, spread my four skinny, long legs and paddled myself across the water. What was there? A rock, some stones. I hopped, jumped got on top of the biggest rock and burped, burped loud and often.

 

'Mother, where are you?' I cried. Anger rose inside of me and I coughed, croaked a new sound. Fear and anger poured out of me. I hiccoughed, could not stop. When finally I did, I was  mad enough to spit frogs and old enough catch a few and have the first good meal I had in a long time.

Fixed

DOUBLE TAKE

 

It's June, Promenade Ball time.  Excitement fills the air. This season forty of us young, mostly attractive, young ladies have shopped until the majority of us want to back out of the whole cotton-picking nonsense. We've had fun but, the 'but' is ruining everything. As of May we have become  society and need escorts. Escorts are not easy to find. My blue eyes are wide open while my 'escort card' is still blank. I'm not the only eighteen year old girl who, just four weeks ago before the formal invitations were hand delivered to each of us, had dates. Not every week-end but now and then we got lucky. Right now I am worried, afraid I'll never find an escort, won't be in the procession.

 

I sit at the dressing table in my bedroom, quickly turning pages full of acquaintances, school mates, friends, even second and third cousins. My stomach churns into twisted knots. I seriously pray I catch pneumonia or break a small bone in my foot. Either will release me from being embarrassed, not having an escort or of having a dweeb for one.

 

My parents are more generous than I expect. My mom hands me a personal charge card with my name and a long number on it. She watches me autograph the back and pats me on the head as if I were a kitten. I try to give it back to her, insist I don't want that responsibility yet, but wax is in her ears. She throws me to the wolves. 'Stay away from Macy's, Child. Check out Alexander's, Nordstrom's, C'est La Vie. Ask for the department manager or a shopper. Oh, and this is important. Go by yourself so you won't be looking for dresses for your friends, stopping for cokes too often. Just don't grab the first thing you like. Choose carefully!' and poof, Mom goes into the kitchen and tells Tillie, our cook, what  time to have the fillets ready. She is so bossy, sometimes I'd like to put tape over her red lips

 

My new charge card gets hidden in my top bureau drawer, underneath  my regular stack of every day panties. Often I find my few lacy ones in disarray, yet never have I caught my brother, Jimmy, in my room without my ok...but I know he goes in. Sometimes I am sure he squirts my  small bottle of Heavenly Bliss toilet water on the back of his ears.

 

As much as I dread shopping for school clothes, I am going to detest searching for a Promenade gown. For my high school graduation prom Mom decided I should wear something very simple, preferably in cotton. 'Pale yellow or light blue will be nice.' I cried when I went to bed with the plain Jane dress hanging like a shroud on the closet door. My date didn't bring me a wrist corsage or any flowers at all. His disappointment in my outfit was almost as great as mine seeing his empty hand.

 

There are walking rehearsals, holding the escort's arm lightly, keeping one's eyes straight ahead. It's all easy, a waste of time. I'm not going to have an arm to hold and I'm not going shopping for a gown either. Two whole week ends in a row my mom is on my back. I can't escape her nagging. The big night is right around the corner. Food doesn't tempt me until Tillie serves us each a gorgeous piece of broiled salmon. I can smell the lemon before my plate arrives. French string beans, thick slices of Maryland juicy tomatoes,  roasted potato wedges and I eat like there is no tomorrow.

 

Still I am at a loss. It's too late, impossible to find an escort. Tillie brings in the pie and my father stands to salute her. He walks over to me, stands quietly next to my armless chair and offers me his arm.  His voice is raspy, almost as if tears are running down his throat. 'Fair daughter of mine, will you give me the honor of being your escort for the Promenade?'  I don't know if I should laugh or be grateful and choose 'grateful'. Dad wipes a few raspberries off his goatee and escorts me to the den. Mom has my high heels waiting so I can practice walking on carpet. Somehow I feel I have managed to make my parents believe I am happy about the situation

 

A little bit of sharpness finds its way from Mom's mouth to my heart.
'So, Daughter, no escort, no dress, no Promenade?'  Ice runs down my spine. 'Mom, enough is enough. I'm not going!' Her face droops. From nowhere I realize she needs a face lift already but wouldn't dare mention that now or ever. My closed mind opens, it's partly my fault. I get behind her chair, lean over and whisper in her ear, 'Mom, I love you. I'll go to C'est La Vie tomorrow morning. Mrs. Horney will have a special dress left in my size. If not, she'll search the other shops for me.' A gorgeous white satin gown bowls me over. It doesn't need a single alteration except the rhinestone narrow straps have to be shortened  1/4 inch.

 

Still I am at a loss. It's too late, impossible to find an escort. Tillie brings in the pie and my father stands to salute her. He walks over to me, stands quietly next to my armless chair and offers me his arm.  His voice is raspy, almost as if tears are running down his throat. 'Fair daughter of mine, will you give me the honor of being your escort for the Promenade?'  I don't know if I should laugh or be grateful and choose 'grateful'. Dad wipes a few raspberries off his goatee and escorts me to the den. Mom has my high heels waiting so I can practice walking on carpet. Somehow I feel I have managed to make my parents believe I am happy about the situation.

 

The lights are bright in the club house. Valets take away the new cars. Old classmates walk towards the lobby while I hold my father's arm securely, keep my head high, and enter. He and I are not alone. The best kept secret ever stuns us all. Every girl has her father as her escort. Each and every one smiles broadly, including the fathers, including the mothers who have circled the floor.

 

Indeed, it is the best night of our lives, so far.

 

 

Watch yourself

CRACKS

 

I walk proudly down our white marble front steps. In one hand I hold up my brand new double  box of white chalk. In the other I have a surprise little gift from my dear Mom, a box of colored chalk and a used rubber heel from Carol's father's work shoes. Mr. Myers Shoe Repairary usually has one or two for us kids. Many times he tells us to send our Moms in for the old heels. He admits sometimes they bring along their own shoes to be soled.

 

Zel and Irene are waiting for me. Irene holds up a small paper bag for me to see, doesn't have to tell me what she has. I recognize it and know she must have candy cigarettes in it to share. We are great pals, great pretenders when we lean against the tall green mail box on the corner as we send imaginary smoke rings from our mouths. Carol is peppy, ready to play hopscotch, lets her cigarette melt in her mouth. We set off around the corner where there is little traffic and go eenny meeny for who plays first. Carol wins, tosses the heel and it rolls away, lands on a big crack in the pavement. She drops to her knees, picks up the heel and whines. 'That wasn't my fault. It was the pavement's,' and starts to toss again. We don't let her. I have to pull the heel away and throw it perfectly. It lands on sevenzees so I hop and I jump, can rest, pick up the heel and hop back. However, I do not finish first and break up the hopscotch game.

 

The bad boys from Hansom St. are playing wall ball as we walk towards Irene's house. Jerry's throw hits a crack in the wall and the hard pinkie flies back, swirls in the air and hits me in my eye. The boys don't care. They keep on playing and tell us to go someplace else. I feel my face, make sure I still have both eyes and we girls skip away.

 

Somehow the morning gets used up and we have to all go home for lunch. I hate the lousy lunches my mom leaves for me when she is working. Usually it's a pbj or a Campbell's can of tomato soup, already in a small saucepan so I won't cut myself. Once in a whole there is a surprise for me and this is the day. Passover is almost here and there is a big bag of groceries on the kitchen cabinet with a note for me to put everything away. I do as told until I come to a treasure, a large bag of walnuts (still in their shells) and another of almonds. Darn it, I can't find the nut cracker, go down the basement and bring up Daddy's hammer. Sitting on the floor, I take careful aim at the first walnut, bring down the hammer on it, and it jumps, slides under a chair. I try another and it does a double hop, a roll and disappears. On my third try, I hit the middle and the splitting shell sounds like music. One half of it is in one good, tasty piece, the half is ground to smithereens. I wipe it up in a paper napkin with the broken pieces of shell and trash them together. After dinner, I watch, try to learn how my daddy can put two walnuts in one hand, squeeze and crack both shells with one blow, know I'll never be able to do that. He sees me watching and cracks a few nuts for me. I do love my daddy.

 

Irene wraps at the front door. 'Common out. Let's take a walk , go past the Catholic church and try to see if any of the nuns have hair under their big white hats. 'Who cares?' I ask. 'That's a silly waste of time.' 'How about going over to the Palace, see what movie opens Monday. If Brad Pitt is in it, let's all save our candy money. Right near the box office, the pavement is cracked  a little. Naturally, clumsy Zel trips, falls on her rear end. As soon ass she stands up, I notice her dress is torn. 'Bad luck, Dummy. You let the old crack get you.'

 

I watch my step as we go home but can't help it and step on another crack. I walk faster and faster worried that I broke my mother's back. Irene and Zel try to hurry with me but gall back, calling out to me, 'Wish your mom good luck!' Ma, I shout from the street. Ma, Ma, where are you?' She hears me, opens the door and I see her apron flutter in the wind, catch the door know and the door slams my mother hard but she doesn't complain and tells me to get washed. 'Daddy will be home soon with a surprise.' Nobody on earth can wash as fast I do when a surprise is coming. The kitchen table is set. The wonderful smell of pot roast with fried potatoes smothered in onions makes my belly growl.

 

'Hey, Every body, I'm home,' shouts my father as he comes in the back door. He has a shopping bag that looks heavy and a  box of chocolates. My heart sorta sinks. That's the surprise? Daddy and Momma talk about his work day and what she did the whole day long. Momma tells me more than once to eat more slowly but I can't. I know there's something coming after we clear the dishes. Daddy turns on the basement light and tells us to follow him. 'Bring a big glass bowl,' he shouts from the bottom of the steps.

 

When Momma and I see him, he is sitting on newspapers that cover ½ of the floor. 'Sit down, Ladies..' We sit and he brings a big, heavy hammer out of the bag he was carrying. Then he shows us what else was in the bag–a really great big coconut, still in its shell. Little brown whiskers make it look like a monkey's head. 'Move back, Ladies. Give me room.' Crash! Baam! With one mighty swing, the shell cracks wide open. He tries to catch the juice in the bowl. Most of it is on the newspapers but Daddy says, the milk is very healthy. 'Vivian, bring us three glasses from the kitchen. Don't fall.' While Momma is upstairs Daddy starts getting the shell off the small pieces of coconut. He tells me it is so healthy we could live on nothing else but that forever.

 

I hear it coming. Momma's bedroom slipper reaches the floor before she does. She falls, hit the edge of the furnace but isn't hurt very much. No, I don't explain, but I know for sure it was the loud crack that almost did her in.

 

Shhh. Don't tell Daddy or he'll never buy a coconut again.

Unfinished Lesson

TEENIE WEENIE

 

Here comes my daddy! He looks tired until he sees me. I run to him and am swept up in his arms. Oh, what a big crunchy hug he gives me. Up on his shoulders I go, squirming, calling for help. Mommy comes running in to save me. Daddy twists me, makes me do a somersault and land on my feet. Once in a while I miss and he makes a funny face at me . That gives him time to go upstairs, take off his shoes, his tie and his leather belt. The belt he hangs on the bathroom room door knob. He keeps it there just in case I get snooty, won't help Momma with the dishes. He thinks that belt scares me but it doesn't because he loves me a lot and won't ever hurt me.

 

Daddy never complains about Mommy's cooking but I do and get a dirty look from him and a little pepper on my tongue. Before I even try to swallow it, Daddy hands me a glass of water and warns me not to complain or there will be hotter pepper, maybe the red kind, the next time. Actually I think I would rather have more pepper than smell Daddy's stinky pipe. Instead of telling him how bad his meerschaum smells, I hand him a big ashtray and a cold bottle of beer, wait for him and Momma to go in the living room to listen to Jack Benny on our new big radio while I cut Winnie Winkle paper dresses out of my fun book.
Daddy tells me to go in the other room because my scissors makes too much noise.

 

It's lonely in the kitchen and I just don't know what to do by myself. Daddy and Momma laugh and then I hear them sing the whole ending song, 'I'd love to spend each Sunday with you.' We can't see the audience but hear them clap and clap. I clap too because Daddy is going to bring me a glass of cold chocolate milk and some kind of cookie, then maybe tell me a story before I go to bed.

 

Instead of a story he tells me to sit on his lap. He wants to draw for me. There isn't much room on that lap of his because, as Momma says, he drinks too much beer. First he lets me take off his heavy work shoes and of course, he shakes both of them until some pennies fall on the floor. I get to keep all I can find and save them in my yellow jar that looks like a chef. Daddy has a little green book that has drawings on the first few pages. They aren't very good drawings but Daddy explains that they are eggs, strange eggs and there are others that have little tails. The ones with tails swim after the egg ones and when they catch the eggs, sometimes babies hatch. Well, he laughs and I keep quiet, until I ask, 'What kind of babies? Chickens? Fish?'

 

Daddy really guffaws out loud, calls Momma to tell her what I said.
I don't think my question is funny at all. Well, I get so mad, I jump right off of Daddy's lap, stamp my foot and go to bed.

 

He never finishes his story and I have to wait a long time to find out for myself how the babies got there.

Short Ride

THE END OF THE LINE

 

The 8th Avenue bus stops right in front of me. Inwardly I smile as I feel this is going to be a great, a lucky day for me. As the door opens, some jerk with a closed umbrella jabs me in the ribs and tells me to 'step on it. You're holdin' up the line, Lady.' As I grab the door bar, she gets a really dirty look from me. Making the one high step with little trouble, I drop my four dimes into the coin box. They jingle and disappear. The driver gives me a dirty look and says loud enough for the world to hear, 'Lady, you're short one dime.' Surely my embarrassment turns me into an Indian. I refute the driver, tell him I did drop four in as I had been holding them in my hand while I waited for him to appear. He argues with me and I argue back. I know he will win because those behind me are already complaining.

 

My wallet is in a fashionable huge purse, way at its bottom. Standing on one leg, trying to feel around the bottom of the purse, I want to crawl in a hole and die. I can't find a coin and my purse falls on the dirty floor. A heavy hand touches my rear end, reaches under my arm and holds out two nickels for me. He hands me my purse and my indebtedness may last a lifetime.

 

The bus is almost filled when we start off towards 12th St., our normal next stop. Fortunately I am able to find a seat, any seat, but one at the window cools my distress, lets me relax, use the aisle one to hold my big purse. The bus hits a small bump and darn if my purse doesn't fall over, land right in the middle of the aisle. Scwooching over, I bend down to retrieve it and it jumps up to bite me. Of all the people on the bus, about 40, the gallant giver of perhaps his last two nickels sits on the outside of the seat across from me. He hands me my purse.  It isn't heavy at all so I hold it tightly on my lap and offer the seat to my assistant. He takes it and I start fooling with the inside of my purse. Why am I carrying so much stuff I don't need? Where the devil is my wallet? Three lipsticks, a small unopened package of Kleenex, two pens that I know are dry and worthless, one that still writes, my house and car keys, a small but decorative hand mirror, my cell phone, all there. As I retrieve the phone from almost inside the purse lining, I hold it up and mumble, 'My heavens, where have you been for two days? You need charging.' Mr Noname, my new best friend, seems to be entranced by passing cars, annoyed by an adorable but noisy child, yet I wonder, am I imagining things? Is he glancing at me. Is he going to make a pass? 

 

The bus is about to reach 16th St. where I get off. I excuse myself and start to climb over the nice 'gentleman.' He stops me, looks squarely into my face and speaks, 'Miss. While you have your purse handy, will you try to find a dime down there in the dark? 

Re: A Leader? Some rewrighting.

I really, really really did much of this--starting off with  green  steps.

Neighbors thought I was causing trouble but I didn't care. I actually hung out my second floor windows and painted the outside wood frames a very pale yellow.

THE YELLOW DOOR

 

Things are changing around the single home division we live in. Everybody knows everybody. We have two schools, grammar and high. They sit side by side near our little lake that freezes in the winter and in summer we can dangle our lines in for small fish. Sometimes they are so small we let them go. Once I caught a frog and my daddy couldn't get the hook out of its leg. He had no choice at all except throw the frog and the hook back in the lake.

 

Daddy is a mailman. He never misses his route unless he is very sick or the weather is too much for any man, woman or child to go walking.  Momma is a good cook and she can paint walls, furniture, pretty pictures. I love to help her or just sit and watch the magic she makes.
         
When school let out for the summer of 1968, Dad came back from his route, rumpled, tired, with news of what he learned. The empty dressmaking shop, next to the empty barber shop, had a big sign in the window. He showed Momma and me the pamphlet he had taken from a table inside.  'Coming to Kirks–Charles Lansing Lm. Brick row houses to be built along Maine St. Construction begins August 1, 1968. Come in and talk to us, see our model plans, get the best locations.'

 

I could see Momma's face turn all colors. She said loud and clear, 'I'd rather die than move away from here.' Daddy sat at the dinner table, praised her meat loaf, the crispy fried onions, kissed the back of her neck, and managed to drink two large glasses of iced tea. Sunday we three went to look at the drawings of the row houses that were available, if one wants a change in lifestyle and has a customer who wants to buy our house. It took a long time but the Manor's showed up eventually and a bargain was struck.

  Unhappy, bothered, we moved in. I really, really really did much of this--I started trouble. Neighbors called on me , told me I was causing trouble but I didn't care. I actually hung out the second floor windows and painted the outside wood frames a very pale yellow.

Momma wouldn't talk to Daddy or me. She walked around the house, around the block, looking like a washed out ghost. Soon it got too cold to walk around so we stayed inside. I helped collect cardboard boxes for moving. Momma carefully put her paints and canvases in flat cartons, turned the rest over to Daddy who had a heck of a lot to handle even after he gave so much furniture, odds and ends to Good Will.  His retirement fund from the Post Office helped. Every Saturday we rode over to see how our block of houses was coming along. The grass lawn in front was tiny but Momma bought small sections of a picket fence and hammered them into the dry sod. She hated our concrete porch with a steel railing. It was drab, colorless until she painted it a shiny bright green. New neighbors complained. That didn't bother her. In a few weeks other porches were green, all shades of green which took away our 'oneness. '

 

 Unhappy, bothered, we moved in. I really, really did much of this--I started trouble. Neighbors called on me , told me I was causing trouble but I didn't care. I actually hung out the second floor windows and painted the outside wood frames a very pale yellow

 

As spring neared, Momma asked no one and decided to paint our white door, a sky blue. Neighbors rang our bell, a few threw eggs at our door. But did Momma get upset, angry, no? She just waited until other doors were blue, all pretty shades of blue.

 

What was left for her? Momma re did our blue door for yellow, added small orange polka dot and was very pleased when the editor of House and Garden stopped by, discussed our row houses and ran a two page article, complete with Momma and her paint brushes on the cover.

 

I am grown, married and have no regrets for what My mother did to bring anger, then calm, then pleasure to our neighborhood. Inside our house Mama just had to do something else, something pretty, something precious. She painted a picture of my young sister on her bedroom door, as a messenger from god. Tiny gossamer wings, pale pink and blue  shimmered from her tiny shoulders. An angelic face belied the twinkle in her eyes.

 

Daddy bought her canvases, pallets, paints of all soft colors, Japanese brushes, many shapes and sizes. Momma 's desires, abilities, faded slowly, so did the portraits. They seemed to disappear without our realizing they were fading or that Momma was fading too. She did not look well, was tired. Her skin color changed to muddy yellow. She stayed in her room too long, finally came out in a box. On her chest were directions to paint her coffin in wild, colorful swirls before it goes underground. 'I will be safe, happy and remembered. 'I bequeath my love of color to all of you. When the rain stops and a rainbow glows, I will be there helping god keep his sky beautiful.'

 

The blue and white casket is taken to its home

A Leader?

THE YELLOW DOOR

 

Things are changing around the single home division we live in. Everybody knows everybody. We have two schools, grammar and high. They sit side by side near our little lake that freezes in the winter and in summer we can dangle our lines in for small fish. Sometimes they are so small we let them go. Once I caught a frog and my daddy couldn't get the hook out of its leg. He had no choice at all except throw the frog and the hook back in the lake.

 

Daddy is a mailman. He never misses his route unless he is very sick or the weather is too much for any man, woman or child to go walking.  Momma is a good cook and she can paint walls, furniture, pretty pictures. I love to help her or just sit and watch the magic she makes.
         
When school let out for the summer of 1968, Dad came back from his route, rumpled, tired, with news of what he learned. The empty dressmaking shop, next to the empty barber shop, had a big sign in the window. He showed Momma and me the pamphlet he had taken from a table inside.  'Coming to Kirksville–Charles Lansing Lmt. Brick row houses to be built along Maine St. Construction begins August 1, 1968. Come in and talk to us, see our model plans, get the best locations.'

 

I could see Momma's face turn all colors. She said loud and clear, 'I'd rather die than move away from here.' Daddy sat at the dinner table, praised her meat loaf, the crispy fried onions, kissed the back of her neck, and managed to drink two large glasses of iced tea. Sunday we three went to look at the drawings of the row houses that were available, if one wants a change in lifestyle and has a customer who wants to buy our house. It took a long time but the Mandorf's showed up eventually and a bargain was struck.

 

Momma wouldn't talk to Daddy or me. She walked around the house, around the block, looking like a washed out ghost. Soon it got too cold to walk around so we stayed inside. I helped collect cardboard boxesfor moving. Momma carefully put her paints and canvases in flat cartons, turned the rest over to Daddy who had a heck of a lot to handle even after he gave so much furniture, odds and ends to Good Will. His retirement fund from the Post Office helped. Every Saturday we rode over to see how our block of houses was coming along. The grass lawn in front was tiny but Momma bought small sections of a picket fence and hammered them into the dry sod. She hated our concrete porch with a steel railing. It was drab, colorless until she painted it a shiny bright green. New neighbors complained. That didn't bother her. In a few weeks other porches were green all shades of green which took away our 'oneness. '

 

As spring neared, Momma asked noone and decided to paint our white door, a sunny yellow. Neigbors rang our bell, a few threw eggs at our door. But did Momma get upset, angry, no? She just waited until other doors were yellow, all pretty shades of yellow.

 

What was left for her? Momma made orange polka dots on our door and was very pleased when the editor of House and Garden stopped by, discussed our row houses and ran a two page article, complete with Momma and her paint brush on the cover.

A meeting

BLUE JEANS BLUES

 

What a sight! Tight really tight blue jeans expose her belly button in the front and the crack in her back. Our gang dribbles. I cough and almost choke on the excitement. Johnny Q.  whistles and the dish turns full face to us. Our spirits turn into ice cubes. Her nose is long, crooked, surely broken at least once. Lips, red as just spilled blood, are not kissable. We guys walk faster, get a few steps ahead of her and hear cuss words as foul as any sailor would ever use.

 

Slight pangs of guilt and regret slow me down. I wait for her to catch up to me, apologize, but she ignores me,  decides to cross Holly St. catty corner. Brakes screech, tires smoke while Red Lips makes it unscathed to the other side. She is untouched, doesn't seem to realize how close she came to being a messy pancake.

 

Sure of my ability to go undetected, I hug the wall of the stores but she sees me. Tight jeans stops abruptly, waits in front of the Croisantery, wiggles her fingers at me and invites me inside. My head strongly shaking 'no' upsets her and her vile cussing upsets me. Nevertheless, I am intrigued and, perhaps foolishly, pull up an old fashioned ice cream chair and introduce myself. 'I'm Wally,' is all I get out of my mouth before she tells me her name in Florence Klutz. 'Klutz, your name is really Klutz?', I ask. 'No, it is really Katz but I am so clumsy, my parents use the Jewish word for me. I trip often, twice I burned myself on a easy to use toaster oven, fell over my own feet when I was ten and broke my nose. And I almost got run-over today.'

 

I say silly things like 'tsk, tsk,' 'oh, no.' My eyes wander down her blouse and she gives me a dirty look. ' Florence, why do you wear such horrible red lipstick?' Before she answers, she pulls at least ten paper napkins out of the holder on our small table and wipes her lips down to their normal color of soft pink. A fat waitress finally shows up at our table. I'm not hungry but order a raisin croissant, very lightly toasted and a cup of steamy hot cocoa. 'Sprinkle a little cinnamon on it, will you please?' 'What would you like, Florence?' She seems astonished, surprised,  thinks a minute and comes up with, 'Make that two.' While we wait I ask more questions. 'Why do you use such un-lady like ugly language?' 'Because I damn well, f'n want to, that's why.'

 

Our hot cocoa without the cinnamon takes fifteen minutes to get to us. Florence uses several of her cuss words, but lifts the hot drink to her pink lips, and drops the cup. The hot drink goes down her chin, down her blouse and she starts to cry. Florence stands, puts two dollars on our table, and waves goodbye to me.

 

I wave  back and call after her, 'See you around soon, Klutz.'

Looking glass

THE GIRL ON THE SECOND FLOOR 

 

Eighteen? Twenty-one? I don't know, don't even have an inkling of who is at the wheel of the shiny silver Lexus purring at the curb. She walks slowly, carefully as she goes down the wide ten steps of the brownstone building we share with other owners of all five floors. The lay-out of each is identical. A full, large kitchen equipped with now semi-new appliances, cabinets, room for even an old fashioned large round oak table, plus a living room/den that has a cozy working fireplace facing the busy street. We each have a large bathroom and a guest room with its own facilities. AC, of course.

 

I am somewhat of a loner, slow to make friends. I have published three books on the history of Egypt, the income from them has barely covered my basic needs, but the investigating, the love of research kept me alive and still interested in delving further. As do others, I believe the Egyptians were visited by aliens who taught them all they knew and left abruptly to find others in our world to teach. My current book should be finished before the first snowfall covers New York.

 

Traffic has not yet reached its morning climax when I see the young lady who lives on the second floor catch her heel on the pavement and fall to the ground. Her position is frightening even from my third floor view. She is twisted over, left leg seems to be going the opposite direction of the right one. Both shoulders are hunched while the right arm is squashed under her rump. The driver of the Lexus gets out of the car and as he approaches her, I can see him use his cell for help.
He is a brute of a man, tall, muscular, with a small graying goatee. Perhaps he is her father.

 

How I wish I looked like him, had a luxury car like he has, maybe have a lady friend as attractive as the one I see clinging to the goateed gentleman, her uncle, her dad? 'Oh, Nefertiti, come to life, to me,' a lonely man in need of you or the lady who lies almost still on the broken pavement right in front of my dull gray eyes. Enough of the Egyptian workers, building pyramids, dark, silent, airless walkways to bury kings, princesses, children too numerous to count. I do nothing but stand and watch and despise myself for being a writer of little consequence. My loneliness appals me.

 

I look in the bathroom mirror and smile as I realize at last I do get joy out of being pathetic. It is better than no joy at all, isn't it?