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.