The father lay in the bed, hands tied to the bed so he wouldn’t pull the thick tubes from his mouth. The machine breathed for him, providing pressure, while more tube reached out from the machines. The ventilator made a whooshing sound, breathing in and exhaling for the old man on the bed, and every few minutes another machine would grind on, filling the cup around his arm, testing his blood pressure.
Across from the father sat the son, fit, healthy, alert. He took short looks at the old father on the bed, noting the gaping, toothless mouth, jammed with tubes, the slow rise and fall of his chest, the way the arms twisted inside the constraints, and the old man’s shoulders buck on the bed, and the waist lifted up, trying to escape. But mostly he watched the numbers posted on the machine, especially the heart beat, how it kept climbing, over one twenty, then one thirty, finally pushing one forty, before it dipped again. Beneath the record of the too high heart beats, another line showed the rhythm of the heart beats, or rather the lack of rhythm and a blinking red light spelled the words “irregular heartbeat.”
A nurse came in, looked at the numbers and quickly left. When she came back she held a syringe.
“I call his cardiologist. He said we can give him this.”
She punched the syringe into the tube. Stood back, and both the nurse and the younger, sitting man watched the numbers. At first nothing happened then the numbers began to change. One thirty five. One thirty. One twenty five. One twenty. Like magic the heart beats began to slow down, all the way to eighty.
“Well that’s better, isn’t it?” said the nurse and left.
The son said nothing. He was still staring at the numbers, wondering how long they would hold at a level his father’s heart would finally burst.
Friday, December 25, 2009
If My Father Were Here - Cindy Rasicot
If my father were here he would be sitting in his favorite black lazy boy chair reading the newspaper. But he died thirty four years ago of cancer, so it’s hard to imagine him still with us. I remember as a small child waiting for him to get home from work, waiting for the rumble of the car engine to pull in the driveway. After he got home, the evening news would go on, Douglas Edwards, CBS news. Then my mom would make dinner, sometimes fried chicken, sometimes, tongue, sometimes liver and onions. There was always meat in the mix. We would all sit down at the kitchen table with the wooden benches. The table cloth with the small strawberries on it was my favorite. My brother and my sister and I would ask to watch T.V. but that wasn’t allowed in the evenings. We could watch Disneyland on Sundays, and that was the one program. We really looked forward to that.
I don’t remember my father saying much to us in the evening. He buried his nose in a newspaper or a book. My mom served him a bagel and a cup of coffee after dinner. Dad was more like a fixture than a person to talk to. That was okay with me. In a funny way, in his quiet chair I knew him the best of anyone in our family. We had a closeness, even in the quiet silence we shared.
I don’t remember my father saying much to us in the evening. He buried his nose in a newspaper or a book. My mom served him a bagel and a cup of coffee after dinner. Dad was more like a fixture than a person to talk to. That was okay with me. In a funny way, in his quiet chair I knew him the best of anyone in our family. We had a closeness, even in the quiet silence we shared.
It Happens When Nobody is Watching - Maria Robinson
Vera works late in the kiln. There's no food in the house.
Ted eats out with his grad students. One doing the paper on the relationship between structuralism and the French concept of liberty starts to look interesting. They start going out after seminars. Vera continues to refine the pieces for her first show at Fort Mason. The cat runs away. Ted doesn't come home one night and Vera doesn't even mention it.
There's no milk for cereal and no fine ground Arabica coffee anymore. Ted and Eva start meeting for breakfast at the "Paris Pat" before classes. Vera's show "The White Collection" sells out, and an agent takes her on. Ted tells her that he's moving out.
Vera shrugs and says, my lawyer will call yours.
Ted eats out with his grad students. One doing the paper on the relationship between structuralism and the French concept of liberty starts to look interesting. They start going out after seminars. Vera continues to refine the pieces for her first show at Fort Mason. The cat runs away. Ted doesn't come home one night and Vera doesn't even mention it.
There's no milk for cereal and no fine ground Arabica coffee anymore. Ted and Eva start meeting for breakfast at the "Paris Pat" before classes. Vera's show "The White Collection" sells out, and an agent takes her on. Ted tells her that he's moving out.
Vera shrugs and says, my lawyer will call yours.
It Happens When Nobody is Watching - Jennifer Baljko
It happens when nobody is watching. That’s the only time Evan can talk to his grandma. She doesn’t talk to him when anyone else is around. She thinks everyone else will think Evan is crazy if they see him talking to the wall. That’s what she told him once. See, Grandma Janice is dead, but every now and again she whispers in his ear. It first started a couple years ago, a few days before Christmas when Evan was playing in the backyard, trying to make a snowman from the first flakes of the season. Grandma Janice loved the first snow, how the trees looked like a lady’s long fingers dipped in marshmallow fluff. Christmas had been her favorite time of year. She decorated the house with a million lights, and ceramic snowmen found a niche in almost every corner of the house. Grandma was too old to believe in Santa Claus. But she never could tire of the magic that seemed to dance around the streets that time of year. She told Evan to look under the tree on Christmas morning. There would be something special waiting for him.
It Happens When Nobody is Watching - Darcy Vebber
Sam opened the front passenger side door of the car. Lisa heard the click of the handle and the noise of the door moving on its hinges and then felt the weight of him settling into the front seat, depressing the spring slightly. She did not sit up.
He cleared his throat. He seemed to like the sound of it and cleared it again, more dramatically. “You OK back there?”
She considered her response, searching for the right thing to say. A dozen possibilities moved through her agile mind but it did not occur to her that nothing she could say would make things any different. She had been taught that the right words always made a difference. The true words anyway.
Sam stretched out, legs over to the driver’s side, arms folded behind his head against the passenger window. “My mom and I lived in a car about this size this the winter I was five. We were in California, down by the beach. I liked waking up in the car, in the fog.”
She still couldn’t think of what to say but she rolled over onto her back, her bent knees in the air, to listen.
“I think it was the first time I was rescued,” he said. “I didn’t know then not to tell. She had to scrape money together for a motel room, just to keep me. I liked that car much better.” He fell silent.
Lisa tried to imagine Grace sleeping in a car. She imagined rumpled red hair, a perpetual scowl, blankets and pillows, amulets and half read books, Sam in the back, tucked up in a ball. “Where is she now?”
He knew she meant his mother. That kind of communication was always so easy, like a ball tossed back and forth. “Fresno. Near Yosemite? She’s still doing the fortune telling thing, still living with Bill. Man, he is one patient guy.”
“He loves her.”
“Maybe.”
She could hear Sam fiddling with something, a latch on the glove compartment or the radio tuner. “I love you,” she said. The true words.
Later she would have to acknowledge, at least to herself, that he did not hesitate or miss a beat. “I love you too, Lisa but –- “ He sighed.
Then neither of them said anything – what more was there to say? -- for a while, until Bobby came out. He peered through the windshield, then opened the door and slid into the driver’s seat, testing the atmosphere.
“What happened to that girl?” Lisa asked.
“Swam away,” said Sam.
“Breakfast?” asked Bobby as he put the key in the ignition.
“No,” said Lisa. It was the first time she had ever said no to being with them and it scared her a little. “Home, please.”
He cleared his throat. He seemed to like the sound of it and cleared it again, more dramatically. “You OK back there?”
She considered her response, searching for the right thing to say. A dozen possibilities moved through her agile mind but it did not occur to her that nothing she could say would make things any different. She had been taught that the right words always made a difference. The true words anyway.
Sam stretched out, legs over to the driver’s side, arms folded behind his head against the passenger window. “My mom and I lived in a car about this size this the winter I was five. We were in California, down by the beach. I liked waking up in the car, in the fog.”
She still couldn’t think of what to say but she rolled over onto her back, her bent knees in the air, to listen.
“I think it was the first time I was rescued,” he said. “I didn’t know then not to tell. She had to scrape money together for a motel room, just to keep me. I liked that car much better.” He fell silent.
Lisa tried to imagine Grace sleeping in a car. She imagined rumpled red hair, a perpetual scowl, blankets and pillows, amulets and half read books, Sam in the back, tucked up in a ball. “Where is she now?”
He knew she meant his mother. That kind of communication was always so easy, like a ball tossed back and forth. “Fresno. Near Yosemite? She’s still doing the fortune telling thing, still living with Bill. Man, he is one patient guy.”
“He loves her.”
“Maybe.”
She could hear Sam fiddling with something, a latch on the glove compartment or the radio tuner. “I love you,” she said. The true words.
Later she would have to acknowledge, at least to herself, that he did not hesitate or miss a beat. “I love you too, Lisa but –- “ He sighed.
Then neither of them said anything – what more was there to say? -- for a while, until Bobby came out. He peered through the windshield, then opened the door and slid into the driver’s seat, testing the atmosphere.
“What happened to that girl?” Lisa asked.
“Swam away,” said Sam.
“Breakfast?” asked Bobby as he put the key in the ignition.
“No,” said Lisa. It was the first time she had ever said no to being with them and it scared her a little. “Home, please.”
It Wasn't Serious - Camilla Basham
“Let me in.” she yelled through the screen door; her floral print bathrobe hastily buttoned and askew, pink plastic rollers in her hair, a sloppy attempt at applying coral lipstick all over the bottom of her face, her nightly rosary in one hand, a coor’s light in the other, barefoot. My mother flung open the screen door and jerked her inside from the mosquitoes that danced around the Mason jar that served as home to our porch light bulb.
Mom was angry; almost in tears, “I’m in the middle of making dinner, momma.” she said with a clenched jaw, “What is it now? Why are you running around outside half dressed at this hour? Did you forget to take your medicine this evening, and if you did take it, why in God’s name are you washing it down with beer?” She said rubbing her temples.
“Ruthie, did you see to it that your Maw Maw took her medicine this evening?” she yelled at me over her shoulder.
“Yes, mom.” I said, placing the dinner plates out on the table.
“Ruthie, did you sneak Maw Maw one of your dad’s beers this evening?”
I couldn’t help but laugh just a little under my breath. “No mom.”
Mom shook her head, wrung her hands, turned her face up to the ceiling and said a quick silent prayer to St. Jude, her favorite saint of lost causes. Maw Maw winked at me over mom’s shoulder. I winked back. She was a nut job and I loved her.
She followed behind mom and me, stumbling into the kitchen, alternating burps with apologies while readjusting the curlers that had come lose as a result of my mom’s rather violent means of welcoming her into the house.
“Is that chicken stew I smell?” Maw Maw advanced towards the pot simmering on the stove.
“Yes, it is and you know I’ll bring you some when it’s done. There’s no need for you to be roaming the streets at dark half dressed and three shits in the wind.” My mom said yet again looking up to the ceiling for some sort of relief.
“Well, I wouldn’t be if it weren’t serious.” she said sticking her bony finger in the pot of stew and licking it off.
“For crying out loud, would you stop that? You reek of Ben Gay and your sticking your dirty fingers in my food!” Now mom’s hands as well as her face raised to the ceiling.
Maw Maw and I both looked up at the same spot on the ceiling, then at each other. We then both shrugged simultaneously.
“Well, someone’s got a bee in her bonnet.” Maw Maw said with her hands on her hips, “So, Ruthie, what’s up with Hitler over there?” She then popped out her dentures and ran them under the faucet to make sure no stew meat had gotten stuck. This repulsed me and entertained me at the same time. It simply threw mom over the edge and she managed to smack both Maw Maw and me right in the butts with one sharp snap of a dishtowel while pointing to the door.
We went out and set side by side on the porch swing, swatting flies. She decided she couldn’t be bothered putting her teeth back in so she tossed them into the pocket of her bathrobe which caused her mouth to become like an empty cave on her face.
“So, what’s so serious, Maw Maw?”
“Huh, what’s that honey?”
“You said there was something serious.”
We swung back and forth listening to the creaks of the rusting metal chain that supported the old handmade wooden swing, the crickets in the distance, the sound of mom clinking pots in the kitchen and the sound of our own breathing. Maw Maw took a swig of beer and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand causing additional lipstick smearing. She tilted her head against the back of the swing, causing a few rollers to fall to the ground and looked up at the stars in the pitch-black sky.
She let out a sigh, “Ruthie, I’m seriously old.”
Mom was angry; almost in tears, “I’m in the middle of making dinner, momma.” she said with a clenched jaw, “What is it now? Why are you running around outside half dressed at this hour? Did you forget to take your medicine this evening, and if you did take it, why in God’s name are you washing it down with beer?” She said rubbing her temples.
“Ruthie, did you see to it that your Maw Maw took her medicine this evening?” she yelled at me over her shoulder.
“Yes, mom.” I said, placing the dinner plates out on the table.
“Ruthie, did you sneak Maw Maw one of your dad’s beers this evening?”
I couldn’t help but laugh just a little under my breath. “No mom.”
Mom shook her head, wrung her hands, turned her face up to the ceiling and said a quick silent prayer to St. Jude, her favorite saint of lost causes. Maw Maw winked at me over mom’s shoulder. I winked back. She was a nut job and I loved her.
She followed behind mom and me, stumbling into the kitchen, alternating burps with apologies while readjusting the curlers that had come lose as a result of my mom’s rather violent means of welcoming her into the house.
“Is that chicken stew I smell?” Maw Maw advanced towards the pot simmering on the stove.
“Yes, it is and you know I’ll bring you some when it’s done. There’s no need for you to be roaming the streets at dark half dressed and three shits in the wind.” My mom said yet again looking up to the ceiling for some sort of relief.
“Well, I wouldn’t be if it weren’t serious.” she said sticking her bony finger in the pot of stew and licking it off.
“For crying out loud, would you stop that? You reek of Ben Gay and your sticking your dirty fingers in my food!” Now mom’s hands as well as her face raised to the ceiling.
Maw Maw and I both looked up at the same spot on the ceiling, then at each other. We then both shrugged simultaneously.
“Well, someone’s got a bee in her bonnet.” Maw Maw said with her hands on her hips, “So, Ruthie, what’s up with Hitler over there?” She then popped out her dentures and ran them under the faucet to make sure no stew meat had gotten stuck. This repulsed me and entertained me at the same time. It simply threw mom over the edge and she managed to smack both Maw Maw and me right in the butts with one sharp snap of a dishtowel while pointing to the door.
We went out and set side by side on the porch swing, swatting flies. She decided she couldn’t be bothered putting her teeth back in so she tossed them into the pocket of her bathrobe which caused her mouth to become like an empty cave on her face.
“So, what’s so serious, Maw Maw?”
“Huh, what’s that honey?”
“You said there was something serious.”
We swung back and forth listening to the creaks of the rusting metal chain that supported the old handmade wooden swing, the crickets in the distance, the sound of mom clinking pots in the kitchen and the sound of our own breathing. Maw Maw took a swig of beer and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand causing additional lipstick smearing. She tilted her head against the back of the swing, causing a few rollers to fall to the ground and looked up at the stars in the pitch-black sky.
She let out a sigh, “Ruthie, I’m seriously old.”
It Wasn't Serious - Melody Cryns
It was just me and David Hirrell from around the corner at it again – David Hirrell was the biggest, meanest kid in the neighborhood and he had dark eyes that pierced right through you when he stared. Sometimes we’d have staring fights, both of us staring at one another for as long as humanly possible, me looking into his chubby face and perpetually big red cheeks, and him looking at me…only for me it was tougher because I’m blind in one eye. So he usually won.
David Hirrell wasn’t always a mean bully – only sometimes. He had a dog named Bandit and he was always nice to his dog, always. I’d bring my dog Nicky over to the greens which is a corner of Golden Gate Park tucked in close to Kezar Stadium, or what used to be Kezar Stadium – with delightful bushes, trees and a place that we called “the big bush” because when you walked inside, you felt like you were inside a cave of trees. Next to the big bush stood the strong oak tree that I dubbed, “my favorite tree” because I’d climb it often and spy on people from way up high – a lot of times, people didn’t know I was there – but David Hirrell knew. He always knew everything, like where I was and how to find me – he knew all of my secret hiding places.
At least I could climb the oak trees, not like those eucalyptus trees that lined one side of the Greens – so many of our kites got stuck in those trees and we could never climb up the slick bark with no branches sticking out to get to them, so once your kite was stuck, it was gone forever.
So David Hirrell was either my closest friend or my worst enemy because sometimes we’d get mad at each other – it was usually a disagreement over something really stupid, like I knew something about the Beatles that he didn’t, or he accused me of trying to “take over” when we’d play games such as being on the Starship Enterprise in Star Trek. “I’m the captain!” he’d shout, his face turning even redder. “I’m the one who tells everyone what to do!”
Sometimes that really irritated me, but everyone else playing, even the Solis boys from up the street, just kept quiet because they didn’t want to get beaten up by David Hirrell. They knew he was bigger and stronger than him. But, see, I had one advantage. I could run faster, so when I’d mouth off to David Hirrell, I’d run as fast as I could, hoping that later he wouldn’t catch me as I was walking around a corner – something like that.
Yet sometimes David and me were the best of friends – it wasn’t serious, not really, but sometimes our hands would touch as we walked down the street, and our bodies would touch just a little, but nothing ever happened, of course. We were just kids. One summer he and his family went away to Ireland and I missed David and his little brother Barry terribly, and so did my brother and sister. They were our major playmates, our cohorts in crime – but at least we still had the Solis boys who lived up the street and never got to go anywhere during the summer – just like us.
When David Hirrell returned, we all got together and sat on our front porch – ours was the best because it was a wide porch with stoops on either side to sit on. David Hirrell always sat on the stoop to the left and no one ever questioned it. I ran outside the door one cold, foggy late summer day and there he was just sitting there on the stoop waiting for me – as if he knew I’d be running out the door right at that time. His dog Bandit sat by his side – he never needed a leash for Bandit who spent the summer with one of their friends.
“Hi, what do you want to do today?” he asked, looking at me with those piercing dark eyes, his daringly longish blondish brown hair hanging down to one side – boys’ hair was just starting to get longer back then. “Let’s go to the greens!”
“Okay.”
We walked side-by-side towards the greens and David Hirrell opened up his hand – there was something in it.
“Ohhhh, what’s this?” I asked, kind of excited because none of the boys in the neighborhood ever gave me anything – I had to trade board games for time to ride the boys’ bikes – they had the stingray bikes with the banana seats and the big handle-bars.
“Oh it’s just a little something from Ireland – my mom made me pick out something for you.”
I smiled. Of course his mom made him do it. Why else would he have anything?
Somehow it was perfectly okay.
I opened up my hand and David handed me a small basket that fit in the palm of my hand. In the basket were two ceramic kitties and underneath the basket in tiny letters was a golden sticker that said, “Made in Ireland.”
“It’s beautiful! I love it and I’ll keep it always!” I said, holding the small basket with the ceramic white cats close to me.
David looked down on the cement. “Ohhh, it’s nothing,” he mumbled. “My mom…”
“Oh it’s okay! Thank you David. C’mon let’s go.”
We walked to the greens and I held that small basket with the ceramic kitties all day long. When I got home, I put it on my dresser and I still have that basket with the ceramic kitties to this day.
David Hirrell wasn’t always a mean bully – only sometimes. He had a dog named Bandit and he was always nice to his dog, always. I’d bring my dog Nicky over to the greens which is a corner of Golden Gate Park tucked in close to Kezar Stadium, or what used to be Kezar Stadium – with delightful bushes, trees and a place that we called “the big bush” because when you walked inside, you felt like you were inside a cave of trees. Next to the big bush stood the strong oak tree that I dubbed, “my favorite tree” because I’d climb it often and spy on people from way up high – a lot of times, people didn’t know I was there – but David Hirrell knew. He always knew everything, like where I was and how to find me – he knew all of my secret hiding places.
At least I could climb the oak trees, not like those eucalyptus trees that lined one side of the Greens – so many of our kites got stuck in those trees and we could never climb up the slick bark with no branches sticking out to get to them, so once your kite was stuck, it was gone forever.
So David Hirrell was either my closest friend or my worst enemy because sometimes we’d get mad at each other – it was usually a disagreement over something really stupid, like I knew something about the Beatles that he didn’t, or he accused me of trying to “take over” when we’d play games such as being on the Starship Enterprise in Star Trek. “I’m the captain!” he’d shout, his face turning even redder. “I’m the one who tells everyone what to do!”
Sometimes that really irritated me, but everyone else playing, even the Solis boys from up the street, just kept quiet because they didn’t want to get beaten up by David Hirrell. They knew he was bigger and stronger than him. But, see, I had one advantage. I could run faster, so when I’d mouth off to David Hirrell, I’d run as fast as I could, hoping that later he wouldn’t catch me as I was walking around a corner – something like that.
Yet sometimes David and me were the best of friends – it wasn’t serious, not really, but sometimes our hands would touch as we walked down the street, and our bodies would touch just a little, but nothing ever happened, of course. We were just kids. One summer he and his family went away to Ireland and I missed David and his little brother Barry terribly, and so did my brother and sister. They were our major playmates, our cohorts in crime – but at least we still had the Solis boys who lived up the street and never got to go anywhere during the summer – just like us.
When David Hirrell returned, we all got together and sat on our front porch – ours was the best because it was a wide porch with stoops on either side to sit on. David Hirrell always sat on the stoop to the left and no one ever questioned it. I ran outside the door one cold, foggy late summer day and there he was just sitting there on the stoop waiting for me – as if he knew I’d be running out the door right at that time. His dog Bandit sat by his side – he never needed a leash for Bandit who spent the summer with one of their friends.
“Hi, what do you want to do today?” he asked, looking at me with those piercing dark eyes, his daringly longish blondish brown hair hanging down to one side – boys’ hair was just starting to get longer back then. “Let’s go to the greens!”
“Okay.”
We walked side-by-side towards the greens and David Hirrell opened up his hand – there was something in it.
“Ohhhh, what’s this?” I asked, kind of excited because none of the boys in the neighborhood ever gave me anything – I had to trade board games for time to ride the boys’ bikes – they had the stingray bikes with the banana seats and the big handle-bars.
“Oh it’s just a little something from Ireland – my mom made me pick out something for you.”
I smiled. Of course his mom made him do it. Why else would he have anything?
Somehow it was perfectly okay.
I opened up my hand and David handed me a small basket that fit in the palm of my hand. In the basket were two ceramic kitties and underneath the basket in tiny letters was a golden sticker that said, “Made in Ireland.”
“It’s beautiful! I love it and I’ll keep it always!” I said, holding the small basket with the ceramic white cats close to me.
David looked down on the cement. “Ohhh, it’s nothing,” he mumbled. “My mom…”
“Oh it’s okay! Thank you David. C’mon let’s go.”
We walked to the greens and I held that small basket with the ceramic kitties all day long. When I got home, I put it on my dresser and I still have that basket with the ceramic kitties to this day.
What Was in His Pocket - Judy Albietz
Climbing into his car, David willed himself not to look back at her. No, he hadn’t gotten over her. His heart still had her packed away in a pocket. Until recently all women since Lindsey were just a sexual blur. But three months ago David met Kate on his weekend volunteer project. He was the architect, designing the rehab for an Oakland neighborhood community center. Kate showed up that day to be the general contractor. They had a lot in common. They liked the same movies and the same music. She even cheered for his teams.
But this evening, just when his life was moving on, Lindsey appeared. David wondered if it had been good or bad luck that he had gone to Zach’s to pick up a pizza. Kate was out of town. He had planned to eat at home. What made him put that steak back in the freezer? As soon as he entered the restaurant he spotted her at the back counter, placing her order. She looked good in her jeans and fleece jacket. Her brown hair was a bit shorter, shoulder-length but still messy. She still fidgeted with it, pushing strands behind her ears. Then she turned completely around as if she expected him.
David had to unzip his windbreaker as the heat flooded up from his knees. Lindsey nodded and he waved. In slow motion, he walked towards her, pushing aside the thick air in the room. His fool heart told his arms to ache to hold her. He remembered how they were like magnets, never being able to keep their hands off each other.
But this evening, just when his life was moving on, Lindsey appeared. David wondered if it had been good or bad luck that he had gone to Zach’s to pick up a pizza. Kate was out of town. He had planned to eat at home. What made him put that steak back in the freezer? As soon as he entered the restaurant he spotted her at the back counter, placing her order. She looked good in her jeans and fleece jacket. Her brown hair was a bit shorter, shoulder-length but still messy. She still fidgeted with it, pushing strands behind her ears. Then she turned completely around as if she expected him.
David had to unzip his windbreaker as the heat flooded up from his knees. Lindsey nodded and he waved. In slow motion, he walked towards her, pushing aside the thick air in the room. His fool heart told his arms to ache to hold her. He remembered how they were like magnets, never being able to keep their hands off each other.
Putting Out Fires - Patricia Spencer
Putting out fires. That’s what he said was the reason why he couldn’t talk to me when I called him at work yesterday. Ever since Sam became a mid-level supervisor at the firm, he’s changed. I remember that night when we celebrated his promotion. He insisted on Chevy’s. That’s really where he wanted to go. The Chevy’s around the corner from the building where his firm’s office lived. A couple of our friends, Maty and Russ came round and we drank several rounds of weak margaritas before Sam started in with the shots. Russ went along for the first couple and then begged off. Russ carried on like some sort of late bloomer frat boy. Me and Maty weren’t even gonna go there. Sam said all the managers at his firm did shots and he needed to build up. When we got home Sam spend nearly an hour in the bathroom throwing up. I kept my mouth shut. It was his special night after all.
Sam wasn’t always like this. He used to work as a lawyer for the Earthjustice up in Montana, but some stuff happened and he doesn’t do that anymore. He spent about a year in the hospital and then we moved here to San Francisco. He eventually found a job at a small downtown commercial litigation firm as an administrative assistant. Not exactly his dream job, but the economy isn’t like it was a few years ago.
Sam wasn’t always like this. He used to work as a lawyer for the Earthjustice up in Montana, but some stuff happened and he doesn’t do that anymore. He spent about a year in the hospital and then we moved here to San Francisco. He eventually found a job at a small downtown commercial litigation firm as an administrative assistant. Not exactly his dream job, but the economy isn’t like it was a few years ago.
Putting Out Fires - Randy Wong
Vince Rawlings had been a fire chief for over thirteen years. Throughout that time, he’s seen acts of heroism, suffered personal tragedy, and experienced the destructive force of nature’s most powerful element. He’s experienced all types of danger in this line of work. The environment itself can sometimes be more hazardous than the fire itself.
Whenever Station 47 would get a call about a jack-knifed big rig, Chief Rawlings shook his head. Tired drivers behind the wheel of a large semi-truck along with high speeds and hazardous road conditions were always a recipe for disaster. When they arrived on the scene, the big rig was lying on its side and stretched across several lanes. The highway patrol had already formed a block on both sides of the freeway as a precaution. The truck was engulfed in flames and the bed containing cargo was already melting.
The driver had survived the accident and he told them that his brakes had locked when he tried to come out of a pinwheel turn onto the freeway. The tires locked and the truck turned onto its side. With the truck skidding to a stop, the driver was able to jump out of the truck to safety. However, the friction of the semi across the freeway on its side ignited the fuel, and that is how the fire started. The driver said that wine was his cargo, and he was hauling it from Napa to receiving yard in Oakland.
Chief Rawlings decided to douse the area with water in an attempt to cool down the area. It was unlikely that they would put out the fire to save the cargo, but they were concerned that the heat of the inferno would damage the freeway structure itself. So, he ordered firemen Hatfield and Dennis to engage the water cannon to continuously douse the truck with water. The water cannon roared, deluging the entire area with hundreds of gallons of water. The air sizzled with a crackling and popping as cold water battled hot metal.
Fireman Dennis was manning the water cannon. While he kept an eye on the water pressure gauge, he felt something hit him in the arm. It was so sudden and sharp that he gave out a yell in pain. “What the hell was that?”
“Dennis, what’s wrong?”
“Chief! Something hit me in the arm! It feels like I’ve been shot!”
Before he could process that message, fireman Hatfield, who was standing next to the fire engine, screamed out. “Ow! What the …?”
Chief Rawlings had heard enough. “Everyone get down! Someone is shooting at us!”
The fire crew hit the deck and some hit behind the engine. Chief Rawlings caught the attention of one of the patrol men. “I think someone is shooting at us!”
With the declaration, the highway patrol immediately when into response mode. Within minutes, a police chopper flew over the area and began to cover the area in a tight circular pattern. Several more patrol cars appeared in the area. Between the smoke, the crackling and popping, and incredible heat, it was difficult to pinpoint the source of the attack. Finally, the chopper gave the “all clear” – whatever was happening, they did not find a shooter or any other evidence of being fire upon.
“If we’re not being fired upon, then what the hell hit us, Chief?”
“That’s a good question, Hatfield. You know, with all this heat and all those bottles of wine, I wonder …”
Chief Rawlings stopped as he felt something and blunt hit him in the chest. The object was soft, but it was traveling at a high rate of speed. The impact was quite painful that he let out a yell. His eyes caught a brownish blur bounce off his chest, kick straight up in the air and spin several times before it fell to the ground, bouncing around like crazy. His fingers went to the impact area on his chest and he could already feel the welt starting to develop. He bent down to pick up the object that did the damage. It was a wine cork. The incredible heat had caused the internal pressure of the wine bottles to increase so drastically that it caused the bottles to explode and eject the corks like a bullet shot out of a gun. All the bottles had similar amounts of pressure, so they all more or less were exploding at the same time. The Chief told his crew to back everything up so that the corks would not hurt anyone. It took several hours to put out the fire. In the aftermath, cleanup crews had to deal with broken glass and rubber corks scattered throughout. Cleanup was going to take hours.
Whenever Station 47 would get a call about a jack-knifed big rig, Chief Rawlings shook his head. Tired drivers behind the wheel of a large semi-truck along with high speeds and hazardous road conditions were always a recipe for disaster. When they arrived on the scene, the big rig was lying on its side and stretched across several lanes. The highway patrol had already formed a block on both sides of the freeway as a precaution. The truck was engulfed in flames and the bed containing cargo was already melting.
The driver had survived the accident and he told them that his brakes had locked when he tried to come out of a pinwheel turn onto the freeway. The tires locked and the truck turned onto its side. With the truck skidding to a stop, the driver was able to jump out of the truck to safety. However, the friction of the semi across the freeway on its side ignited the fuel, and that is how the fire started. The driver said that wine was his cargo, and he was hauling it from Napa to receiving yard in Oakland.
Chief Rawlings decided to douse the area with water in an attempt to cool down the area. It was unlikely that they would put out the fire to save the cargo, but they were concerned that the heat of the inferno would damage the freeway structure itself. So, he ordered firemen Hatfield and Dennis to engage the water cannon to continuously douse the truck with water. The water cannon roared, deluging the entire area with hundreds of gallons of water. The air sizzled with a crackling and popping as cold water battled hot metal.
Fireman Dennis was manning the water cannon. While he kept an eye on the water pressure gauge, he felt something hit him in the arm. It was so sudden and sharp that he gave out a yell in pain. “What the hell was that?”
“Dennis, what’s wrong?”
“Chief! Something hit me in the arm! It feels like I’ve been shot!”
Before he could process that message, fireman Hatfield, who was standing next to the fire engine, screamed out. “Ow! What the …?”
Chief Rawlings had heard enough. “Everyone get down! Someone is shooting at us!”
The fire crew hit the deck and some hit behind the engine. Chief Rawlings caught the attention of one of the patrol men. “I think someone is shooting at us!”
With the declaration, the highway patrol immediately when into response mode. Within minutes, a police chopper flew over the area and began to cover the area in a tight circular pattern. Several more patrol cars appeared in the area. Between the smoke, the crackling and popping, and incredible heat, it was difficult to pinpoint the source of the attack. Finally, the chopper gave the “all clear” – whatever was happening, they did not find a shooter or any other evidence of being fire upon.
“If we’re not being fired upon, then what the hell hit us, Chief?”
“That’s a good question, Hatfield. You know, with all this heat and all those bottles of wine, I wonder …”
Chief Rawlings stopped as he felt something and blunt hit him in the chest. The object was soft, but it was traveling at a high rate of speed. The impact was quite painful that he let out a yell. His eyes caught a brownish blur bounce off his chest, kick straight up in the air and spin several times before it fell to the ground, bouncing around like crazy. His fingers went to the impact area on his chest and he could already feel the welt starting to develop. He bent down to pick up the object that did the damage. It was a wine cork. The incredible heat had caused the internal pressure of the wine bottles to increase so drastically that it caused the bottles to explode and eject the corks like a bullet shot out of a gun. All the bottles had similar amounts of pressure, so they all more or less were exploding at the same time. The Chief told his crew to back everything up so that the corks would not hurt anyone. It took several hours to put out the fire. In the aftermath, cleanup crews had to deal with broken glass and rubber corks scattered throughout. Cleanup was going to take hours.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Eating Animals - Darcy Vebber
“Delicious!” Sam put down his sharp knife and his fork and winked at Lisa across the table.
Bobby’s mom fussed a little, not quite able to accept this praise without a few disclaimers. It’s the butcher, it’s my sister’s recipe, it did turn out good -this time. She was still standing, next to her place closest to the kitchen door, looking over the table.
“Sit,” said Bobby’s dad at the other end. “Or we’ll eat without you.” The oval dining table was white and gold, like everything in the dining room. (Versailles Bobby had said the first time Lisa saw the room. In a matchbox. It embarrassed him but Sam and Lisa both liked the warmth, the sparkling little chandelier over the table, the filigreed gold sconces on the walls.)
Sam had one side of the table to himself, his broad shoulders and long arms already almost too much for the little room, his legs stretched out, his feet resting between Bobby and Lisa’s on the side they shared. He went on praising the meal, apparently tickled somehow to be performing the part of enthusiastic young man. Every time Bobby’s mom demurred, he gently chided her.
It took Lisa several bites of brisket and a mouthful of potatoes to get that he was flirting. He was flirting with Bobby’s mom. And look how happy it was making her. This is what Sam did, this kind of happiness, this generous affection. Lisa felt her heart expand; she loved him and she wanted to be his, to be included, tucked under his arm, close to him, joined and acknowledged. His girlfriend, part of his life, with him. She wanted it so much, her throat ached and it was hard to swallow even the soft potatoes.
Bobby’s mom sat and raised her glass of water in a toast, her small round face shiny in the overhead light.
Bobby’s mom fussed a little, not quite able to accept this praise without a few disclaimers. It’s the butcher, it’s my sister’s recipe, it did turn out good -this time. She was still standing, next to her place closest to the kitchen door, looking over the table.
“Sit,” said Bobby’s dad at the other end. “Or we’ll eat without you.” The oval dining table was white and gold, like everything in the dining room. (Versailles Bobby had said the first time Lisa saw the room. In a matchbox. It embarrassed him but Sam and Lisa both liked the warmth, the sparkling little chandelier over the table, the filigreed gold sconces on the walls.)
Sam had one side of the table to himself, his broad shoulders and long arms already almost too much for the little room, his legs stretched out, his feet resting between Bobby and Lisa’s on the side they shared. He went on praising the meal, apparently tickled somehow to be performing the part of enthusiastic young man. Every time Bobby’s mom demurred, he gently chided her.
It took Lisa several bites of brisket and a mouthful of potatoes to get that he was flirting. He was flirting with Bobby’s mom. And look how happy it was making her. This is what Sam did, this kind of happiness, this generous affection. Lisa felt her heart expand; she loved him and she wanted to be his, to be included, tucked under his arm, close to him, joined and acknowledged. His girlfriend, part of his life, with him. She wanted it so much, her throat ached and it was hard to swallow even the soft potatoes.
Bobby’s mom sat and raised her glass of water in a toast, her small round face shiny in the overhead light.
It Was Almost LIke Real Life - Camilla Basham
A good showerhead and her right hand:
the two best lovers she’s ever had.
Her friends tell her death
is the easy way out.
She thinks they're clever,
because nothing gets her high anymore
and alcohol:
it only makes her tired.
On her bedside table:
a picture of her, younger,
with green eyes
and a cocaine smile.
She shivers, unclothed
descending from her bathroom scale;
another lovely victim
of the mirror
Her friends tell her death
is the easy way out.
She thinks they're clever,
because nothing gets her high anymore
and alcohol:
it only makes her tired.
On her bedside table:
a picture of her, younger,
with green eyes
and a cocaine smile.
She shivers, unclothed
descending from her bathroom scale;
another lovely victim
of the mirror
It Was Almost LIke Real Life - Randy Wong
Ben Gaston stormed into house and threw his book bag onto the floor. With an effort, he pulled off his off track running shoes and tossed them into the foyer.
“Mom! I’m home! I can’t stay for dinner! Kelly bought tickets for the matinee, so we have to go like right away!”
Ben ran into the kitchen and sees his mother tending to a boiling pot on the stove. He opened the refrigerator to see what he could grab.
“I think I will just grab an apple and a cheese stick. I know, you want me to eat a full meal, but don’t worry. I will grab something from the concessions.”
When his mother wouldn’t respond, Ben rolled his eyes. “All right! Geez! I know you think that concession stand stuff is crap and a filled with salt and high fructose corn syrup, and all that garbage! But, at least that stuff taste’s better soy bean this and tofu that! Ugh! I hate that crap. What are you cooking?”
When his mother did not answer him for the second time, he finally looked at her carefully. She was going through the motions of stirring the contents in the boiling water with a wooden spoon. She watched the contents carefully without emotion.
“Mom? Is everything all right?”
Laura Gaston did not look her son in the eye. She continued to stare at the boiling pot. Ben looked into the pot and could not identify the strange items being tossed around by the flotsam and jetsam of hot water and electrical heat.
“What are you cooking there, mom?”
For the first time in the conversation, Laura Gaston turned to face her son. “It’s edamame. It’s Japanese.”
Ben groaned. “Edamame? More soy? C’mon mom!”
Laura Gaston turned off the heat. As the two watched the water bubbles subside, Ben noticed something odd. In a sea of green, he saw one yellow pod being tossed around. The yellow pod was also a lot larger than the others.
“What’s with the yellow one? You should probably throw it away.”
Laura picked up the yellow pod with her fingers which surprised Ben because that pod was probably still quite hot. He noticed that his mother did not even react to the heat.
“Actually, the yellow ones are quite nutritious. They are quite special. You should try it.”
“No thanks, mom. I hate those things. They are waxy and weird. “
“No, they are not weird. They are exotic. They are beautiful. They are quite powerful … nutrition-wise. I’ve been eating them all day. I feel great.”
Ben stared at the yellow pod for a bit. It seemed to have a weird glow about it. As a rule, he hated all soy products. He hated steamed soybeans as much as he hated boiled green peas. They just felt weird when you chewed them.
“Ben, you should bring Kelly for dinner this week. We will have an Asian buffet night. Perhaps she would like to east sushi and edamame. Or, perhaps one of your other friends.”
“Mom, do you have like a year supply of this stuff?”
Laura paused and said, “No. I just thought your friends might like to have dinner here.”
Ben sensed his mother’s unusual mood. He didn’t like to see her this way.
“No, thanks man. I gotta go. Kelly is waiting for me. See ya!”
Before Laura could protest, Ben was out the door in a flash. She continued to stare at the yellow pod. It was strangely soft to the touch. She placed the yellow pod on the counter top. Laura considered the oversized yellow edamame for a bit. She ran her finger from end of the pod to the other in a soft caress. In response to her touch, the yellow pod pulsated, its body rising and falling as if taking a breath.
“Mom! I’m home! I can’t stay for dinner! Kelly bought tickets for the matinee, so we have to go like right away!”
Ben ran into the kitchen and sees his mother tending to a boiling pot on the stove. He opened the refrigerator to see what he could grab.
“I think I will just grab an apple and a cheese stick. I know, you want me to eat a full meal, but don’t worry. I will grab something from the concessions.”
When his mother wouldn’t respond, Ben rolled his eyes. “All right! Geez! I know you think that concession stand stuff is crap and a filled with salt and high fructose corn syrup, and all that garbage! But, at least that stuff taste’s better soy bean this and tofu that! Ugh! I hate that crap. What are you cooking?”
When his mother did not answer him for the second time, he finally looked at her carefully. She was going through the motions of stirring the contents in the boiling water with a wooden spoon. She watched the contents carefully without emotion.
“Mom? Is everything all right?”
Laura Gaston did not look her son in the eye. She continued to stare at the boiling pot. Ben looked into the pot and could not identify the strange items being tossed around by the flotsam and jetsam of hot water and electrical heat.
“What are you cooking there, mom?”
For the first time in the conversation, Laura Gaston turned to face her son. “It’s edamame. It’s Japanese.”
Ben groaned. “Edamame? More soy? C’mon mom!”
Laura Gaston turned off the heat. As the two watched the water bubbles subside, Ben noticed something odd. In a sea of green, he saw one yellow pod being tossed around. The yellow pod was also a lot larger than the others.
“What’s with the yellow one? You should probably throw it away.”
Laura picked up the yellow pod with her fingers which surprised Ben because that pod was probably still quite hot. He noticed that his mother did not even react to the heat.
“Actually, the yellow ones are quite nutritious. They are quite special. You should try it.”
“No thanks, mom. I hate those things. They are waxy and weird. “
“No, they are not weird. They are exotic. They are beautiful. They are quite powerful … nutrition-wise. I’ve been eating them all day. I feel great.”
Ben stared at the yellow pod for a bit. It seemed to have a weird glow about it. As a rule, he hated all soy products. He hated steamed soybeans as much as he hated boiled green peas. They just felt weird when you chewed them.
“Ben, you should bring Kelly for dinner this week. We will have an Asian buffet night. Perhaps she would like to east sushi and edamame. Or, perhaps one of your other friends.”
“Mom, do you have like a year supply of this stuff?”
Laura paused and said, “No. I just thought your friends might like to have dinner here.”
Ben sensed his mother’s unusual mood. He didn’t like to see her this way.
“No, thanks man. I gotta go. Kelly is waiting for me. See ya!”
Before Laura could protest, Ben was out the door in a flash. She continued to stare at the yellow pod. It was strangely soft to the touch. She placed the yellow pod on the counter top. Laura considered the oversized yellow edamame for a bit. She ran her finger from end of the pod to the other in a soft caress. In response to her touch, the yellow pod pulsated, its body rising and falling as if taking a breath.
Separating - Patricia Spencer
When my brother Ricky was eleven when dad brought home a grown up dog name Tufty. Tufty was a tall lanky creature covered in soft, often matted, tawny fur. That spring Ricky got hit by lightening and had to stay home from school for a whole month. Mom helped him keep up with his schoolwork and Tufty stayed by Ricky’s side the whole time. Sometimes Mom found Tufty sleeping in Ricky’s bed. Mom never scolded them because Ricky was pretty depressed at the time. I think his fingernails were still black and his eyebrows hadn’t grown back yet.
Tufty got really upset when Ricky had to go back to school. Mom said he’d pace around the house all day whimpering. When Ricky returned at 3:45 Tufty would get so excited that he’d sometimes knock Ricky down in the living room. Then Tufty became protective and possessive of Ricky. He’d snarl and threaten to bite anyone who got too close to Ricky, except for mom. One time he bit me on the arm when I sat near Ricky on the couch. He did the same thing to dad, except dad threw shoes at him afterwards. Tufty was always watching. If anyone but Ricky tried to enter his bedroom, Tufty would first snarl and then go into a fit of barking. Mom tried to keep him outside but this made Ricky feel sad and since he was already seeing a therapist twice a week mom gave in.
Finally, mom and dad decided we had to get rid of Tufty after he attacked Granny. We’d warned her, but she never listened to anyone and wasn’t about to start now. We even tried to make sure Tufty and granny were never in the same room. The day after she arrived, on a Saturday, mom had to go out to buy some milk and bread at the corner shop. Granny and Ricky were playing cards in the living room and Tufty was outside barking. Granny let Tufty into the house and returned to her spot on the couch next to Ricky. That was it. Granny’s ok now. We were glad she didn’t try to run away from him and break her hip. Tufty bit her on the leg and when she stood up he knocked her down. Then he just barked and snarled at her until mom got home.
Ricky wasn’t as upset as we expected. He loved granny and was very shaken up after the attack.
Tufty got really upset when Ricky had to go back to school. Mom said he’d pace around the house all day whimpering. When Ricky returned at 3:45 Tufty would get so excited that he’d sometimes knock Ricky down in the living room. Then Tufty became protective and possessive of Ricky. He’d snarl and threaten to bite anyone who got too close to Ricky, except for mom. One time he bit me on the arm when I sat near Ricky on the couch. He did the same thing to dad, except dad threw shoes at him afterwards. Tufty was always watching. If anyone but Ricky tried to enter his bedroom, Tufty would first snarl and then go into a fit of barking. Mom tried to keep him outside but this made Ricky feel sad and since he was already seeing a therapist twice a week mom gave in.
Finally, mom and dad decided we had to get rid of Tufty after he attacked Granny. We’d warned her, but she never listened to anyone and wasn’t about to start now. We even tried to make sure Tufty and granny were never in the same room. The day after she arrived, on a Saturday, mom had to go out to buy some milk and bread at the corner shop. Granny and Ricky were playing cards in the living room and Tufty was outside barking. Granny let Tufty into the house and returned to her spot on the couch next to Ricky. That was it. Granny’s ok now. We were glad she didn’t try to run away from him and break her hip. Tufty bit her on the leg and when she stood up he knocked her down. Then he just barked and snarled at her until mom got home.
Ricky wasn’t as upset as we expected. He loved granny and was very shaken up after the attack.
I Imagined Every Bit of It - Marigrace Bannon
I imagined every bit of it, but it was mostly an influence of the movies. Mary Poppins, that Darn Cat, Patty Duke and then there was Gidget. A flying nun and flash forward to the beach dancing in a bikini and looking really cute. What a combo, pious and sexy. Is that what I wanted in my life? I’ve imagined many things over the years. Early on I believed in great blazing love, which really turns out to be passion that ignites, smolders and then someone has to take out the garbage. So you never see the garbage in the movies or the bill paying or even the light bulb burning out. And when the light bulb does go out, and they do, doesn’t it always come as the biggest surprise going on? And then you go through that bulb’s history. When did I last change it, it couldn’t have been that long ago, was it? Did someone hold the ladder for me, or did someone just change my bulb? I believed in the romantic notion of marriage and children, but that wasn’t the script of my movie. I remember in my forties, that reality was hard to grasp. Like I was left out. The extra in the non-descript scene. But I became a director with many scene changes…
Separating - Carol Arnold
Mr. A called me into the den and closed the door. He walked over to his desk and leaned on it with his hands. I’d have to wipe off the sweaty palms later, when I did the dusting. That’s what I was thinking when he said what he said, the thing that made my stomach heave.
“Spidee, what’s this I hear about you and Horace not getting along?”
Bernice had done it! She had told even after I begged her not to.
“Not getting along?” I opened my eyes wide, talked sugary like I ‘d never heard something so silly in my life.
“Well, it sounds that way to me, you complaining about him to Bernice. You know, I rely on Horace, he’s good with the cows, knows how to boss ‘em, good with the hands too. Can’t have any trouble with Horace, Spidee, you know that.”
“Hmm, hmm.”
“So’s here’s what I propose. Mr. Houssian needs someone to help him out with his restaurant in town. I told him you’re a pretty good little clean-up gal, do what you’re told. He said he could take you in, teach you to be a fry cook. Got a little room in back even. You could stay for free.”
I sucked in my breath and held it there, like maybe I would die if I held it long enough. I had met Mr. H once, when he came out to the ranch to deliver bread to Mrs. A, flat things that looked like pancakes that Mrs. A liked to mush around in her food. All I remembered is the way he smelled, a mix of B.O. and garlic and some kind of sourness that made my eyes sting. I had looked up his nostrils when he handed me the package, two hairy holes as deep and dark as poison wells. As bad as Horace was, at least I knew about his poison. Mr. H’s was just floating around out there making fumes.
“Mr. A, I will never complain about Horace again. It was my fault, the whole thing.” This time my eyes were bigger than even Mrs. A’s old serving platters. Only they had a little wateriness to them, a wateriness I tried to blink out but it just stayed there. Bernice had betrayed me. But that feeling I got when she crushed me to her boobies was something I hadn’t felt in a long, long time. I couldn’t leave it, not now or ever.
“Spidee, what’s this I hear about you and Horace not getting along?”
Bernice had done it! She had told even after I begged her not to.
“Not getting along?” I opened my eyes wide, talked sugary like I ‘d never heard something so silly in my life.
“Well, it sounds that way to me, you complaining about him to Bernice. You know, I rely on Horace, he’s good with the cows, knows how to boss ‘em, good with the hands too. Can’t have any trouble with Horace, Spidee, you know that.”
“Hmm, hmm.”
“So’s here’s what I propose. Mr. Houssian needs someone to help him out with his restaurant in town. I told him you’re a pretty good little clean-up gal, do what you’re told. He said he could take you in, teach you to be a fry cook. Got a little room in back even. You could stay for free.”
I sucked in my breath and held it there, like maybe I would die if I held it long enough. I had met Mr. H once, when he came out to the ranch to deliver bread to Mrs. A, flat things that looked like pancakes that Mrs. A liked to mush around in her food. All I remembered is the way he smelled, a mix of B.O. and garlic and some kind of sourness that made my eyes sting. I had looked up his nostrils when he handed me the package, two hairy holes as deep and dark as poison wells. As bad as Horace was, at least I knew about his poison. Mr. H’s was just floating around out there making fumes.
“Mr. A, I will never complain about Horace again. It was my fault, the whole thing.” This time my eyes were bigger than even Mrs. A’s old serving platters. Only they had a little wateriness to them, a wateriness I tried to blink out but it just stayed there. Bernice had betrayed me. But that feeling I got when she crushed me to her boobies was something I hadn’t felt in a long, long time. I couldn’t leave it, not now or ever.
Separating - Judy Albietz
Saying goodbye is never easy but usually you get to take your memories with you. Lily had only a few minutes. Then she had to leave Sam. It was bad enough that she would never again see the dog she had grown to love in the last two days. Also bad was she wouldn’t remember any of this because she had to travel back to the day before this whole thing started.
When her grandmother died, Lily’s mother told her that she would always have her memories of Gram. That was five years ago when Lily was seven years old. Even now she remembers the delicious smells in the kitchen from Gram’s brisket. It felt to Lily like it was just yesterday when her grandmother taught her how to make hot chocolate. Lily will never forget the rule that after you put your spoon in the liquid, you couldn’t use the same spoon to get more sugar from the sugar bowl.
Lily wanted to remember everything about Sam and all they had been through together—every one of their conversations, every near-death experience they had shared, every minute of the last two days. She thought about all the times Sam risked his life to save her. If she could save just one memory, what would it be? Giving Sam a hug and seeing the look in his eyes as he told her he had never been hugged by a human before. Sam surviving the fight with Mort, when he came out of his coma, lifting his huge brown head with a wimper.
When her grandmother died, Lily’s mother told her that she would always have her memories of Gram. That was five years ago when Lily was seven years old. Even now she remembers the delicious smells in the kitchen from Gram’s brisket. It felt to Lily like it was just yesterday when her grandmother taught her how to make hot chocolate. Lily will never forget the rule that after you put your spoon in the liquid, you couldn’t use the same spoon to get more sugar from the sugar bowl.
Lily wanted to remember everything about Sam and all they had been through together—every one of their conversations, every near-death experience they had shared, every minute of the last two days. She thought about all the times Sam risked his life to save her. If she could save just one memory, what would it be? Giving Sam a hug and seeing the look in his eyes as he told her he had never been hugged by a human before. Sam surviving the fight with Mort, when he came out of his coma, lifting his huge brown head with a wimper.
This Was The First Time He Ever Did It - John Fetto
The first time he ever did it was at a cabin in a state he had never been before. It took nine hours and two transfers before he stepped off the jet, rented the car and pulled into the cabin. He took his suitcase, and carried it to the door where he set it down to find the key under the mat. Inside, the air filtered through large floor to ceiling windows, looking out on the woods. The fall leaves had faded from green to rust. The sky was overcast and woods stood without shadow. But the cabin had two stories, a hot tub and three bedrooms all for one couple.
She arrived a half hour later, carrying a bag of groceries, smiling, like a wife home from work. She went straight to the kitchen, efficient, skilled, enjoying the fresh, whole food like his wife had before she died. When the sauce was finished, and the room filled with the smell of sweet tomato, she lifted a ladle to taste, smiled and winked, and savored the taste in a way that made him think of what they would savor soon. But he sat and ate, and didn’t do anything more proactive than chat about the film he brought and tinker with the video and the tv then return to the feast they had made. He talked, he must have, he talked all the time, sometimes talking about what he was thinking but usually not. In his mind he’d convinced himself he deserved this, as if it had been given him. He ate the food she made, drank the wine he brought, and looked at her, looked at how young and beautiful she was, and let himself forget she was someone else’s wife.
She arrived a half hour later, carrying a bag of groceries, smiling, like a wife home from work. She went straight to the kitchen, efficient, skilled, enjoying the fresh, whole food like his wife had before she died. When the sauce was finished, and the room filled with the smell of sweet tomato, she lifted a ladle to taste, smiled and winked, and savored the taste in a way that made him think of what they would savor soon. But he sat and ate, and didn’t do anything more proactive than chat about the film he brought and tinker with the video and the tv then return to the feast they had made. He talked, he must have, he talked all the time, sometimes talking about what he was thinking but usually not. In his mind he’d convinced himself he deserved this, as if it had been given him. He ate the food she made, drank the wine he brought, and looked at her, looked at how young and beautiful she was, and let himself forget she was someone else’s wife.
This Was The First Time I Ever Did It - Melody Cryns
I never leave my cell phone on silent all night long, never…I always make sure it’s on just in case – oh I don’t know what, but just in case. So last night when I returned from my final class I still had the phone on silent, even when I set it down on the bedside table next to my bed. I felt tired, very tired…as if I had just climbed a huge mountain and now the journey was finally over and I could relax for a while and enjoy the upcoming holidays…
Who’d have known that the one night my cell phone was on silent my son Jeremy would attempt to call me at 6:00 am and then again at 6:30 am…if he tried the house phone no one heard it because it’s in the living room…
Who’d have known I’d receive a simple text from Jeremy’s girlfriend Jen that I wouldn’t look at until around 8:00 a.m. this morning? The message at 6:48 a.m. this morning said, “Floyd just passed away.”
Suddenly everything was spinning and I felt my whole world had just crumbled…
“Oh no!” I yelled.
“What?” Megan ran into the kitchen. “We have to go Mom, we’re late…are you okay?”
“Floyd’s gone,” I said simply…
“What?”
We held each other and cried – Floyd-the-dog so noble and beautiful…how could he be gone? And the one night I had my phone on silent Jeremy tried to get a hold of me in the early morning hours…I wasn’t there for him as he made the mad dash with his girlfriend Jen holding Floyd-the-dog in the front seat from East San Jose to Adobe Animal Hospital in Los Altos…Jeremy used to work there and he knew that’s where he’d find the best veterinarian in the entire San Francisco Bay Area and only the best for Floyd…
I wasn’t there when Jeremy begged the Vet to save Floyd-the-Dog, please…please save him. Finally, the Vet had looked at Jeremy and simply said, “He just wants to die – it’s his time. There’s nothing more that I can do.”
I wasn’t there when Jeremy and Jen held each other…all I got was the text message at 6:38 a.m.
Early this morning we lost our beautiful, noble friend Floyd-the-Dog who died of natural causes when his heart stopped... My son Jeremy drove him all the way from East San Jose to Adobe Animal Hospital in Los Altos and begged the vet to revive Floyd, whose heart kept stopping...the Vet valiantly attempted, but finally looked at Jeremy and said, "He just wants to die...it's his time to go."
It's been a rough morning for all of us as I've watched my family band together in this great time of sorrow and I am so grateful that I saw Floyd-the-dog just last Saturday when he spent the day at our apartment -- not having any idea it would be the last time...
Life is precious as was our beloved Floyd-the-dog...we will always love him.
Who’d have known that the one night my cell phone was on silent my son Jeremy would attempt to call me at 6:00 am and then again at 6:30 am…if he tried the house phone no one heard it because it’s in the living room…
Who’d have known I’d receive a simple text from Jeremy’s girlfriend Jen that I wouldn’t look at until around 8:00 a.m. this morning? The message at 6:48 a.m. this morning said, “Floyd just passed away.”
Suddenly everything was spinning and I felt my whole world had just crumbled…
“Oh no!” I yelled.
“What?” Megan ran into the kitchen. “We have to go Mom, we’re late…are you okay?”
“Floyd’s gone,” I said simply…
“What?”
We held each other and cried – Floyd-the-dog so noble and beautiful…how could he be gone? And the one night I had my phone on silent Jeremy tried to get a hold of me in the early morning hours…I wasn’t there for him as he made the mad dash with his girlfriend Jen holding Floyd-the-dog in the front seat from East San Jose to Adobe Animal Hospital in Los Altos…Jeremy used to work there and he knew that’s where he’d find the best veterinarian in the entire San Francisco Bay Area and only the best for Floyd…
I wasn’t there when Jeremy begged the Vet to save Floyd-the-Dog, please…please save him. Finally, the Vet had looked at Jeremy and simply said, “He just wants to die – it’s his time. There’s nothing more that I can do.”
I wasn’t there when Jeremy and Jen held each other…all I got was the text message at 6:38 a.m.
Early this morning we lost our beautiful, noble friend Floyd-the-Dog who died of natural causes when his heart stopped... My son Jeremy drove him all the way from East San Jose to Adobe Animal Hospital in Los Altos and begged the vet to revive Floyd, whose heart kept stopping...the Vet valiantly attempted, but finally looked at Jeremy and said, "He just wants to die...it's his time to go."
It's been a rough morning for all of us as I've watched my family band together in this great time of sorrow and I am so grateful that I saw Floyd-the-dog just last Saturday when he spent the day at our apartment -- not having any idea it would be the last time...
Life is precious as was our beloved Floyd-the-dog...we will always love him.
Surprise Invasion - Maria Robinson
Elizabeth and Ben walked carefully, slowly, hand and in hand back to Ben's slate house in Cambridge.
The tastes of the Moroccan meal, cumin and preserved lemons, lingered on their palates.
It had gone past 9 pm and although the time reckoned sleep, their afternoon nap had placed them on languorous Italian or even spirited Spanish time. Filled with the surprise invasion of energy, they ran laughing, like children unleashed in summer, towards Harvard Yard. Dark and dimly lit, tiny patch of green, glorified and iconic turned out to be a fulfilling place for two seasoned adults to make out.
The tastes of the Moroccan meal, cumin and preserved lemons, lingered on their palates.
It had gone past 9 pm and although the time reckoned sleep, their afternoon nap had placed them on languorous Italian or even spirited Spanish time. Filled with the surprise invasion of energy, they ran laughing, like children unleashed in summer, towards Harvard Yard. Dark and dimly lit, tiny patch of green, glorified and iconic turned out to be a fulfilling place for two seasoned adults to make out.
Surprise Invasion - Cindy Rasicot
Chloe awoke stone headed. She took am Ambien at 1:00 a.m., woke at 6 a.m. and was groggy from the medicine. Her depression covered her like a dark cloak. It felt like a surprise invasion, gathering momentum during the night. The nights were always the hardest. The worries and the fears gathered like small tribes of wounded animals, chanting and echoing in the woods of her mind —never allowing rest. She hadn’t always been like this. Last week was the worst, a sudden slide down a slippery precipice. She was scared. It felt like a storm that had overtaken her body and spirit. She had to admit she was powerless in the face of the storm. But she was going to seek help, going to a group that had promised to provide structure and support to combat the dark forces of her nature. She was in a war, a simple war to regain her center, to regain some semblance of positive thinking.
Things were difficult at home and that was part of the huge ground swell sweeping her off her feet. Her son had mononucleosis and her husband was preoccupied with a bad performance review at work. The whole family seemed to be grappling with difficulties, gasping to catch their breath, to combat internal and external invading forces.
Chloe looked outside the window. It was bitter cold outside. It never snowed, but there was a soft cover of white sprinkles that topped the bushes and the ground. A new type of cold surrounded Chloe inside and out. Inside there was a numbness that worried her. She’d always been in touch with her feelings, but not today. They had been planning a trip to Thailand in just two weeks, the Christmas holiday season. Since her son was sick they were going to have to cancel the trip. Everything seemed to turn upside down. There were too many things coming at her. Refund the tickets, help her son with his illness. Chloe’s tank had run dry, her well was depleted. She was going to have to find a way to rally herself, take care of herself. She reminded herself, One step at a time. One step at a time.
Things were difficult at home and that was part of the huge ground swell sweeping her off her feet. Her son had mononucleosis and her husband was preoccupied with a bad performance review at work. The whole family seemed to be grappling with difficulties, gasping to catch their breath, to combat internal and external invading forces.
Chloe looked outside the window. It was bitter cold outside. It never snowed, but there was a soft cover of white sprinkles that topped the bushes and the ground. A new type of cold surrounded Chloe inside and out. Inside there was a numbness that worried her. She’d always been in touch with her feelings, but not today. They had been planning a trip to Thailand in just two weeks, the Christmas holiday season. Since her son was sick they were going to have to cancel the trip. Everything seemed to turn upside down. There were too many things coming at her. Refund the tickets, help her son with his illness. Chloe’s tank had run dry, her well was depleted. She was going to have to find a way to rally herself, take care of herself. She reminded herself, One step at a time. One step at a time.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Say You're One of Them - Marigrace Bannon
Say you’re one of them and your stuff gets published and you finally get an agent and the memoir comes out and it gets reviewed-good reviews, respectable as they say in the business. And you have a book tour, it’s modest and you read some of the funnier pieces in libraries, bookstores and reading groups. You save the tragic pieces for the arm chair readers. And you go to a few cities and lots of small towns in New Jersey since that’s where the book is set. And people from High School show up like you’re something to see. And your 9th grade English teacher is beaming in the front row of Books and Such, and you remember every time she gave a writing assignment, she called you Margaret Mitchell, because you started to run your pencil across the page at a ferocious pace. And for fictional purposes you wish her name was something more exotic than Mrs. Jones, but it isn’t. And you remember that her husband was in Graduate School at Princeton University and you remember her telling you not specifically how much she loved her husband only that she wished she had met him sooner. And in that class, Rob somebody with a British accent, handsome with blue eyes and dark curly hair got up to give his oral book review of Truman Capote’s IN COLD BLOOD and you know you love writing and wonder is it in my blood?
The Art Student's War - Darcy Vebber
In retrospect, he might have been looking for a reason to leave. He hated the Pennsylvania winter, not the cold as much as the days when the sky was dark and close overhead. He felt trapped. The girl he was seeing, Amy, said it was because of his unstable childhood. She said he always felt the need of a way out, a direction to flee. Amy wanted him to go to counseling, which was free at student health but it turned out there was a wait of several weeks. By the time he could get in, the weather would have changed.
Amy painted him a big blue canvas, an homage, she said to O'Keefe's blue sky and clouds, and put it in his room at the foot of his bed. She had never been west of Kansas and Sam had offered to take her with him, when he went back, to show her the real New Mexico sky.
Sam thought of her as sunny, a thin girl with copper red hair, bright like a knife, certain of what she knew and she made his days bearable. Until she started in about his family, about his mother, really. Not content to just listen to his stories she asked questions about his feelings, his intentions, what happened after the story ended. It was clear she thought something was wrong with him. She said he needed to look in to his past, to dig in, to confront it. Unless he could do this, he could never be an artist.
It started happening in his acting classes, too. Balding grad students insisted on dredging up feelings of grief or fear or whatever. Go back to the time you thought your mother left you in a store. Only his mother had left him, over and over again. It wasn't like it was for the others, the ones like Amy who looked back on too much parental control, uncertainty about college, the vague feeling they weren't quite good enough.
He began to see that he was surrounded by people who had never experienced real hurt. They were rich, they had regular parents, people who drank or divorced or whatever but who were ordinary, lived in houses, ate regular meals, lived in the expected way. The press of their cheer and optimism, as much as the lowering sky, fueled his desire to get away. He said he wanted to get back to real life.
By which, Amy said, you mean denial.
It was their last fight. He actually wanted her to come with him still. He thought he could show her something and he liked her quirky view of day to day life. He insisted it would be fun, it would be real. This was what an artist needed.
She considered it, too. If he would wait until break, if he would make a plan. If he would promise to consider coming back to school.
He would not. That was the whole point, the purpose. He wasn't used to breaking up with girls like this, getting angry, feeling the edge of violence. He usually let himself be left, let the girl come to her own conclusions about the future, let her ask questions he couldn't really answer then, after some tears and some heartfelt comforting from him, they left. He prided himself on it. This was different. Amy had her teeth into something and she wouldn't let it go and neither would he. It came to shouting. Listen, just listen and No you listen to me.
He hated it. When she finally fell asleep -- they had been arguing in his room, in the student apartment he shared with three guys he barely knew because he hadn't gotten to know most people -- he went out walking in the cold.
The night was clear for once. He saw stars, open sky, all of it going on forever. He could have walked all the way home, he thought, the way people once had walked across the country to settle it. Amy said he was running away but he was certain he was running towards. Real life. L.A. In the morning, he would call Lisa and in a few days, he would be there. He felt the relief, under the weight of his wool coat and sweater, in his shoulders and the muscles along his spine and in his breath. Even in the cold, it came more easily now.
Amy painted him a big blue canvas, an homage, she said to O'Keefe's blue sky and clouds, and put it in his room at the foot of his bed. She had never been west of Kansas and Sam had offered to take her with him, when he went back, to show her the real New Mexico sky.
Sam thought of her as sunny, a thin girl with copper red hair, bright like a knife, certain of what she knew and she made his days bearable. Until she started in about his family, about his mother, really. Not content to just listen to his stories she asked questions about his feelings, his intentions, what happened after the story ended. It was clear she thought something was wrong with him. She said he needed to look in to his past, to dig in, to confront it. Unless he could do this, he could never be an artist.
It started happening in his acting classes, too. Balding grad students insisted on dredging up feelings of grief or fear or whatever. Go back to the time you thought your mother left you in a store. Only his mother had left him, over and over again. It wasn't like it was for the others, the ones like Amy who looked back on too much parental control, uncertainty about college, the vague feeling they weren't quite good enough.
He began to see that he was surrounded by people who had never experienced real hurt. They were rich, they had regular parents, people who drank or divorced or whatever but who were ordinary, lived in houses, ate regular meals, lived in the expected way. The press of their cheer and optimism, as much as the lowering sky, fueled his desire to get away. He said he wanted to get back to real life.
By which, Amy said, you mean denial.
It was their last fight. He actually wanted her to come with him still. He thought he could show her something and he liked her quirky view of day to day life. He insisted it would be fun, it would be real. This was what an artist needed.
She considered it, too. If he would wait until break, if he would make a plan. If he would promise to consider coming back to school.
He would not. That was the whole point, the purpose. He wasn't used to breaking up with girls like this, getting angry, feeling the edge of violence. He usually let himself be left, let the girl come to her own conclusions about the future, let her ask questions he couldn't really answer then, after some tears and some heartfelt comforting from him, they left. He prided himself on it. This was different. Amy had her teeth into something and she wouldn't let it go and neither would he. It came to shouting. Listen, just listen and No you listen to me.
He hated it. When she finally fell asleep -- they had been arguing in his room, in the student apartment he shared with three guys he barely knew because he hadn't gotten to know most people -- he went out walking in the cold.
The night was clear for once. He saw stars, open sky, all of it going on forever. He could have walked all the way home, he thought, the way people once had walked across the country to settle it. Amy said he was running away but he was certain he was running towards. Real life. L.A. In the morning, he would call Lisa and in a few days, he would be there. He felt the relief, under the weight of his wool coat and sweater, in his shoulders and the muscles along his spine and in his breath. Even in the cold, it came more easily now.
The Man in the Wooden Hat - Judy Albietz
He always wore that hat. It hid the fact that he had no soul. He pulled it down to cover his eyes, which were dull and flat. Once they were clear blue with a child’s passion. But now they were extinguished lights, the ashes of that long-ago burning. Always with the hat, he continued to get closer to Lindsey, all the time figuring out how to get into her house. He didn’t want to hurt her. She just needed to get out of the way so he could get his things out of the house. It wouldn’t be long before she found them. He had to get to them first. The blood on the shirt and pants would be brown now, like the leaves now lying dormant on the ground. He almost got into the house after the storm. Damn dog got in his way.
He hadn’t meant to kill the woman in that house last year. He actually had decided to walk away after that night. But then when he touched her, she started that yelling. She had no right. She didn’t understand his need and what happens to it when it is refused. It just turns to plain hate, and it was her fault.
He became a judge to bring justice to the uncivilized world. Every day he saw versions of himself, people with excuses for what they did. He had to control them. He had to keep them locked away. The predators of children were the worst. He knew what made them tick and had to stop them.
He hadn’t meant to kill that child last week. She was so sweet then she turned vicious. He only wanted to hold her. She didn’t know when to stop talking. He would have lost everything he had worked for, all the justice he still planned to dish out from the bench, from the wooden boat he steered with his wooden heart with his wooden hat perched on his head to protect him from the cold and the heat. The only thing he feared was fire which might burn up
He hadn’t meant to kill the woman in that house last year. He actually had decided to walk away after that night. But then when he touched her, she started that yelling. She had no right. She didn’t understand his need and what happens to it when it is refused. It just turns to plain hate, and it was her fault.
He became a judge to bring justice to the uncivilized world. Every day he saw versions of himself, people with excuses for what they did. He had to control them. He had to keep them locked away. The predators of children were the worst. He knew what made them tick and had to stop them.
He hadn’t meant to kill that child last week. She was so sweet then she turned vicious. He only wanted to hold her. She didn’t know when to stop talking. He would have lost everything he had worked for, all the justice he still planned to dish out from the bench, from the wooden boat he steered with his wooden heart with his wooden hat perched on his head to protect him from the cold and the heat. The only thing he feared was fire which might burn up
The Man in the Wooden Hat - John Fetto
The man in the wooden hat sat on the bench by the Marina. He had walked all the way from North Beach, and now he was tired. He wanted to see the sea. He wanted to see the sun glitter off the blue water and watch the white boats circumscribe their arc, like ballerinas across a theatre stage. It reminded him of the home he left sixty years ago, traveling from Italy to land in New York. But this was the Pacific, so far from his native Naples or his first adopted home of New York, it seemed so eternally new, it made him feel old. The water was never crossed by Romans or Venetians. Not even fought over by the British or the French. One Spanish ship entered, followed by one British ship decades later and the harbor was conquered. It was young and easy as a school girl just out of the convent.
He took off the hat, and let the sun warm his bald skull. The hat was made of balsa wood, light and airy, and inscribed with the words the community in which he had made his home had honored him, not for any great feat, but simply by virtue of the stubbornness of his genes. “The Mayor of Columbus Street,” it said, though he was no explorer, nor had he just stepped out of the convent. He put it on. He’d earned it because he was the oldest Italian on the street.
He took off the hat, and let the sun warm his bald skull. The hat was made of balsa wood, light and airy, and inscribed with the words the community in which he had made his home had honored him, not for any great feat, but simply by virtue of the stubbornness of his genes. “The Mayor of Columbus Street,” it said, though he was no explorer, nor had he just stepped out of the convent. He put it on. He’d earned it because he was the oldest Italian on the street.
The Man in the Wooden Hat - Carol Arnold
Johnny decided we should take the train up to Seattle. We had a car, a 1981 Datsun truck, but at near 200,000 miles, it was on its last legs. He said we’d need to dress up for the train trip. He got out his limp old lime green leisure suit and took it to the cleaners to “spruce it up.” He chose the polyester shirt with the biggest flowers, and a pair of pointy boots he’d had for years. He went down to Sammy’s Shear Shop and had his hair cut, kind of a mullet, with a poof on top held in place with some sticky goo. It was all stiff and squared off, like he was wearing a wooden hat
Myself, I didn’t like 70’s clothes much so I wasn’t about to mix and match. I’ve always been independent that way, doing my own thing when it comes to clothes. I did go in style though, in my Granny’s old fox stole, and a scooped neck yellow dress I’d had around a while. Johnny said I looked real sexy and I have to say I was feeling that way too. He was coming around, organ-wise, if you know what I mean. We spent a few pretty wild nights before we left. He could definitely hold his own, just like the old days. Maybe it’s not too late, I was thinking, maybe we’d have that family after all.
All I remember from the trip north was a gradual graying down of the sky. The rivers and creeks got bigger, the lakes wider. After we were out about a day it started to rain and from then on never stopped once. By the time we arrived in Seattle, Johnny’s poof had collapsed. His leisure suit had wilted right along with his hair, and the big blossoms on his shirt looked like they had shriveled up and died. He was sullen and quiet too, as if the droopiness had gone bored right down to his very soul.
I was no sight for sore eyes either. My mink stole resembled a dog bed, and my scooped-neck dress was riding crooked, making one boob look bigger than the other. I wasn’t too worried about it though. I just wanted to get to the house and get on with it. We caught a taxi but Johnny made the driver stop at a Mobile so we could “freshen up.” I straightened out my dress a little and put on my new Fire Down Below lipstick I had saved for the trip, combed my hair and patted a little powder on my nose, which was shiny from the train ride. That’s about all I could do with myself. Johnny spent about ten minutes in the men’s room, but when he came out he looked even worse. The poof was completely flat by now, no matter how much he had tried to push it back into place. The suit was its old limp self.
“Why are you so worried about how you look?” I asked him as we got back in the taxi. Peering at himself in the mirror had evidently cheered him up, his coal eyes shiny with the old fire.
“Why? You know, babe. I’m a man with responsibilities now, gotta look that way.”
I couldn’t quite see what the responsibilities were other than selling the house and taking the money and run.
Myself, I didn’t like 70’s clothes much so I wasn’t about to mix and match. I’ve always been independent that way, doing my own thing when it comes to clothes. I did go in style though, in my Granny’s old fox stole, and a scooped neck yellow dress I’d had around a while. Johnny said I looked real sexy and I have to say I was feeling that way too. He was coming around, organ-wise, if you know what I mean. We spent a few pretty wild nights before we left. He could definitely hold his own, just like the old days. Maybe it’s not too late, I was thinking, maybe we’d have that family after all.
All I remember from the trip north was a gradual graying down of the sky. The rivers and creeks got bigger, the lakes wider. After we were out about a day it started to rain and from then on never stopped once. By the time we arrived in Seattle, Johnny’s poof had collapsed. His leisure suit had wilted right along with his hair, and the big blossoms on his shirt looked like they had shriveled up and died. He was sullen and quiet too, as if the droopiness had gone bored right down to his very soul.
I was no sight for sore eyes either. My mink stole resembled a dog bed, and my scooped-neck dress was riding crooked, making one boob look bigger than the other. I wasn’t too worried about it though. I just wanted to get to the house and get on with it. We caught a taxi but Johnny made the driver stop at a Mobile so we could “freshen up.” I straightened out my dress a little and put on my new Fire Down Below lipstick I had saved for the trip, combed my hair and patted a little powder on my nose, which was shiny from the train ride. That’s about all I could do with myself. Johnny spent about ten minutes in the men’s room, but when he came out he looked even worse. The poof was completely flat by now, no matter how much he had tried to push it back into place. The suit was its old limp self.
“Why are you so worried about how you look?” I asked him as we got back in the taxi. Peering at himself in the mirror had evidently cheered him up, his coal eyes shiny with the old fire.
“Why? You know, babe. I’m a man with responsibilities now, gotta look that way.”
I couldn’t quite see what the responsibilities were other than selling the house and taking the money and run.
The Man in the Wooden Hat - Camilla Basham
The revelation of his cheating haunted her. Daydreams of sexual abandon infused her thoughts and the thing was, no on understand whom he really was. She, alone, knew this and had instinctively seized every nook and cranny of his awareness. She had made him laugh and he wanted her, but she was gone.
The plan came to her on the Saturday just as the Cochon de Lait Parade took to the streets, lead by a the Lucky Lumber Company float featuring, among other things, a man in a wooden hat riding a saw horse on wheels.
She had just finished sitting for the Thomason’s tot for twenty bucks and had accosted the mailman to see if there was at least a word from him. There was nothing more than a pamphlet from the Acme Siding Company of America inquiring into her home improvement needs.
At least they cared enough to write.
The plan came to her on the Saturday just as the Cochon de Lait Parade took to the streets, lead by a the Lucky Lumber Company float featuring, among other things, a man in a wooden hat riding a saw horse on wheels.
She had just finished sitting for the Thomason’s tot for twenty bucks and had accosted the mailman to see if there was at least a word from him. There was nothing more than a pamphlet from the Acme Siding Company of America inquiring into her home improvement needs.
At least they cared enough to write.
Too Much Happiness - Maria Robinson
Farid dropped Vera back at the Hotel El Minzah in the old quarters of Tangiers. Free falling into the gray Egyptian sheets, she finally let go and began sobbing in chest-halting spasms. Had it been too much? The chance meeting of Andre at the American Legate reception. The cloudless days wandering from the dark blue medina to the whitewashed villas in the French quarter.
And then leaving Andre just as he had begun calling her the imperial "L'Americane" everywhere they dined. Now clinging to breath in the respirator tent at the French Hospital, life with Andre seemed liked too much happiness. Even though she'd escaped him once landing in Miami with Sean, the cold yet dashing Brit. Partied with the Euro crowd at Art Basel and swam naked at the Albion hotel. But the cinnamon scent of the souk, the towers, the morning prayers broadcast through tin foil lined speakers, and the mint tea had brought her back.
And then leaving Andre just as he had begun calling her the imperial "L'Americane" everywhere they dined. Now clinging to breath in the respirator tent at the French Hospital, life with Andre seemed liked too much happiness. Even though she'd escaped him once landing in Miami with Sean, the cold yet dashing Brit. Partied with the Euro crowd at Art Basel and swam naked at the Albion hotel. But the cinnamon scent of the souk, the towers, the morning prayers broadcast through tin foil lined speakers, and the mint tea had brought her back.
Yours Ever - Melody Cryns
I didn’t write to him for about a month, that guy I met on the BART subway train one night while commuting home to the apartment I lived at in Hayward – for a little while. Looking back I can’t believe I actually lived in Hayward for a while. I had a cute one-bedroom apartment at the very end of a cul-de-sac that actually had its very own backyard – and the rent was cheap back in the ‘70’s. I think it was only $200 a month.
But I mainly moved to Hayward because of the boyfriend I had – the boyfriend whom I was supposed to marry – when I was only 20, he had gotten me an engagement ring as a surprise gift for Christmas – I opened the gift at his parents’ house and everything. All exciting stuff, only things had pretty much fallen apart with the boyfriend by the time I met the guy on the subway train heading for Hayward that one night. I wasn’t even wearing the ring anymore. I remember sitting on a seat facing other people and feeling as if I was on some sort of weird spaceship and not on a subway train – they were still pretty new back then. Sometimes weird things would happen, like the doors would just randomly open and close and stuff like that. It was always delightfully scary to travel through the long tunnel that was actually underneath the San Francisco Bay, the BART train just zipping along. I had a notebook and a pen with me and I was writing in it when I heard someone say, “Hi, what’cha writing?”
I looked up and saw a guy in full green Army uniform sitting directly across from me – with a huge smile on his face – with jet black hair combed back and wire-framed glasses. “Hi, oh nothing much.” I shut my notebook right away, not wanting to talk about the letter I was attempting to write to the soon to be ex-boyfriend or ex-fiance or whatever.
“Looks like you’ve got a lot on your mind,” the guy said sitting across from me, never getting rid of that big smile.
“I guess you can say that.”
And so we began talking – his name was Stephen, with a ph he did not fail to point out to me. “Wow, this subway BART thing is really cool!”
“You’ve never been on it before?” I asked, as if this Stephen guy was from another planet.
“No, I’ve been away – and tomorrow I’m headed for Germany. Just wanted to go see my family tonight in Castro Valley before I go.”
“Wow, Germany!”
“Yeah, I’ve been there before.” It passed the time to talk to this strange guy in full military uniform – got my mind off other things. People milled about but the only one I noticed was Stephen with a ph. He was charming in a weird sort of way, and funny too. He kept cracking jokes and he told me all about Germany. In no time at all it seemed I had a clear picture of what it would be like to walk down a cobblestone road in a small German town. At the time I never in a million years imagined that I would ever go there.
The loudspeaker mechanical lady yelled, “Hayward, next stop Hayward!”
“It’s time for me to get off,” I said. “Nice to meet you Stephen with a ph!”
He laughed. “But hey, can I write to you? A guy overseas can get kinda lonely…and I love writing!”
Wow, for a moment I felt a spark – he loved writing. I clutched my notebook close to me. It might be fun to write to a guy in Germany. But then there was the complication of the soon to be ex and…
“How ‘bout if you give me your address, and I promise I’ll write to you. Here.” I opened up my notebook and handed Stephen the pen.
“Wow,” he said, looking at the notebook paper. “Yellow notebook paper. I’ve never seen this before, so cool!”
As he wrote his address down on the page, I laughed and said, “So I promise the first letter I write you will be on that yellow notebook paper!”
“I hope that’s a promise! Actually, I think I’m getting off at the same stop you are!” He handed the notebook and pen back to me.
It turned out that Stephen would have to take a bus to Castro Valley. One part of me wanted to offer him a ride, but I still didn’t know this guy from Adam – he wasn’t much taller than me, kinda short and his black shoes were so shiny – spit shined he laughed. But he seemed nice.
And a month later, as promised, while sitting on a train with my yellow-papered notebook, I started my first letter to Stephen with a ph – “Dear Stephen, I don’t know if you remember me. I’m that girl from the BART train…”
But I mainly moved to Hayward because of the boyfriend I had – the boyfriend whom I was supposed to marry – when I was only 20, he had gotten me an engagement ring as a surprise gift for Christmas – I opened the gift at his parents’ house and everything. All exciting stuff, only things had pretty much fallen apart with the boyfriend by the time I met the guy on the subway train heading for Hayward that one night. I wasn’t even wearing the ring anymore. I remember sitting on a seat facing other people and feeling as if I was on some sort of weird spaceship and not on a subway train – they were still pretty new back then. Sometimes weird things would happen, like the doors would just randomly open and close and stuff like that. It was always delightfully scary to travel through the long tunnel that was actually underneath the San Francisco Bay, the BART train just zipping along. I had a notebook and a pen with me and I was writing in it when I heard someone say, “Hi, what’cha writing?”
I looked up and saw a guy in full green Army uniform sitting directly across from me – with a huge smile on his face – with jet black hair combed back and wire-framed glasses. “Hi, oh nothing much.” I shut my notebook right away, not wanting to talk about the letter I was attempting to write to the soon to be ex-boyfriend or ex-fiance or whatever.
“Looks like you’ve got a lot on your mind,” the guy said sitting across from me, never getting rid of that big smile.
“I guess you can say that.”
And so we began talking – his name was Stephen, with a ph he did not fail to point out to me. “Wow, this subway BART thing is really cool!”
“You’ve never been on it before?” I asked, as if this Stephen guy was from another planet.
“No, I’ve been away – and tomorrow I’m headed for Germany. Just wanted to go see my family tonight in Castro Valley before I go.”
“Wow, Germany!”
“Yeah, I’ve been there before.” It passed the time to talk to this strange guy in full military uniform – got my mind off other things. People milled about but the only one I noticed was Stephen with a ph. He was charming in a weird sort of way, and funny too. He kept cracking jokes and he told me all about Germany. In no time at all it seemed I had a clear picture of what it would be like to walk down a cobblestone road in a small German town. At the time I never in a million years imagined that I would ever go there.
The loudspeaker mechanical lady yelled, “Hayward, next stop Hayward!”
“It’s time for me to get off,” I said. “Nice to meet you Stephen with a ph!”
He laughed. “But hey, can I write to you? A guy overseas can get kinda lonely…and I love writing!”
Wow, for a moment I felt a spark – he loved writing. I clutched my notebook close to me. It might be fun to write to a guy in Germany. But then there was the complication of the soon to be ex and…
“How ‘bout if you give me your address, and I promise I’ll write to you. Here.” I opened up my notebook and handed Stephen the pen.
“Wow,” he said, looking at the notebook paper. “Yellow notebook paper. I’ve never seen this before, so cool!”
As he wrote his address down on the page, I laughed and said, “So I promise the first letter I write you will be on that yellow notebook paper!”
“I hope that’s a promise! Actually, I think I’m getting off at the same stop you are!” He handed the notebook and pen back to me.
It turned out that Stephen would have to take a bus to Castro Valley. One part of me wanted to offer him a ride, but I still didn’t know this guy from Adam – he wasn’t much taller than me, kinda short and his black shoes were so shiny – spit shined he laughed. But he seemed nice.
And a month later, as promised, while sitting on a train with my yellow-papered notebook, I started my first letter to Stephen with a ph – “Dear Stephen, I don’t know if you remember me. I’m that girl from the BART train…”
Sunday, December 6, 2009
What Isn't Allowed - Kaye Doiron
He is so graceful in his white robe. He seems to float across the floor. He reminds her of a knight, a crusader. His voice is smooth and solid, thick and passionate, but gentle, as if he is singing the ritual to her only. She watches his hands move gracefully as he goes through the same motions, as he raises the challice to his lips. She can imagine those hands on her neck, one on the small of her back, then the other moving around to cup her chin as he raises it to join her lips to his. She can see the outline of his body under his robes. She can imagine the black curls dripping with sweat over her face as he slowly moves his hips in rhythm with hers. She can see the anticipation in his eyes. Would she be his first? His lips could not be more perfect as they say over and over ‘ the body of Christ, the blood of Christ” Her entire body tenses as she watches him touch the forehead and the shoulder of the young girl in front of her, it passes. She slowly approaches. She looks into his eyes. She is shivering with anticipation. Soon his hand will be so close to her lips, his fingers will touch her forehead, she will feel the warmth of his body through her dress as he lays his hand upon her shoulder and gives her his blessing. Oh God how she wants his blessing, his holiness, to fill her, to possess her, to quench and tame the quivering serpent that has awoken inside her belly. Her legs are weak as she turns to walk away and have him leave her gaze. She returns to her pew with the others. She kneels and prays for forgiveness for her unholy thoughts. She bows her head so that he will no longer be in her view. She prays for the spirit of Jesus to wash these thoughts from her, to cleanse her from her impurity, to cure her of her desire, to help her forget how it felt for him to be inside her, to forget how much she wanted to remember it for the rest of her life.
What Isn't Allowed - Bonnie Smetts
We know what isn’t allowed. No running around the pool, no swimming after lunch, no playing in the field before sweeping the porch. But they don’t know what we do when we’re out of sight. They can’t know because they’re too old to know. They don’t see it.
They can’t look under the porch and see our fort. Our secret meeting place. Our clubhouse. We’ve gotten most of a book written under there. With pictures. And it’s part of the instructions to them when they realize we’re gone. Run away somewhere. We still need to figure that out. Betsy thinks we need suitcases. I think we need a plan about where we’re going before we need suitcases. But she’s not listening and she’s gone off to find the suitcases and wait until dark to bring them down under the porch.
“But we have to decide,” I say to her. “Where?”
“Disneyland,” she says. I know she doesn’t really want to go to Disneyland. We’re too old for that and besides that’s too…normal.
“Constantinople,” I say. I’ve been reading about far away places and that one sounds the best. I like the name. I see spires and domes, golden domes, I think.
“We can’t go that far, stupid.” Betsy thinks she knows so much. “You need a lot of money, and besides, they’re going to ask for our passports.”
And that’s how we started making passports. I stole my aunt’s from her desk. For some reason she showed it to me one day. And I saw her slip it back into the third drawer down on the right. And so I snuck in there and pulled it out of that drawer.
But I had to slip it under her messy pile of books for awhile because she came in and I was almost caught. “Auntie, I need a pen, a red pen. You know they’re asking us to write stories now.” I told a good lie. And so she dug up a pen from the pile on her desk.
She gave me a blue one and a black one, too. And we’re using those to make our passports. Right now we’re stealing pictures from the photo albums for our pictures. The next thing I need is a blade, a sharp blade so that I can cut our pictures into nice squares just like this picture of Auntie that must have been taken five hundred years ago. I like how she wrote her name.
“Look, we have to write like this,” I say to Betsy. This time she takes a look and doesn’t say that she knows more about this anybody on the earth. OK. That’s what she said. We’ve been practicing making our names like Auntie’s. But I don’t think we can.
And that’s when I decide to ask Auntie how she writes so nicely. And I think that was when she looked at me and said, “Louise, what are you up to this time?”
They can’t look under the porch and see our fort. Our secret meeting place. Our clubhouse. We’ve gotten most of a book written under there. With pictures. And it’s part of the instructions to them when they realize we’re gone. Run away somewhere. We still need to figure that out. Betsy thinks we need suitcases. I think we need a plan about where we’re going before we need suitcases. But she’s not listening and she’s gone off to find the suitcases and wait until dark to bring them down under the porch.
“But we have to decide,” I say to her. “Where?”
“Disneyland,” she says. I know she doesn’t really want to go to Disneyland. We’re too old for that and besides that’s too…normal.
“Constantinople,” I say. I’ve been reading about far away places and that one sounds the best. I like the name. I see spires and domes, golden domes, I think.
“We can’t go that far, stupid.” Betsy thinks she knows so much. “You need a lot of money, and besides, they’re going to ask for our passports.”
And that’s how we started making passports. I stole my aunt’s from her desk. For some reason she showed it to me one day. And I saw her slip it back into the third drawer down on the right. And so I snuck in there and pulled it out of that drawer.
But I had to slip it under her messy pile of books for awhile because she came in and I was almost caught. “Auntie, I need a pen, a red pen. You know they’re asking us to write stories now.” I told a good lie. And so she dug up a pen from the pile on her desk.
She gave me a blue one and a black one, too. And we’re using those to make our passports. Right now we’re stealing pictures from the photo albums for our pictures. The next thing I need is a blade, a sharp blade so that I can cut our pictures into nice squares just like this picture of Auntie that must have been taken five hundred years ago. I like how she wrote her name.
“Look, we have to write like this,” I say to Betsy. This time she takes a look and doesn’t say that she knows more about this anybody on the earth. OK. That’s what she said. We’ve been practicing making our names like Auntie’s. But I don’t think we can.
And that’s when I decide to ask Auntie how she writes so nicely. And I think that was when she looked at me and said, “Louise, what are you up to this time?”
Nuts - Camilla Basham
I was young, kneeling atop ground that drank a slow faucet leak; the hem of my white linen dress soaking up the mud; my throat sore, no longer any sound, just vibration and rawness, when Henry's warm blood splattered my face, like an unexpected bitch slap, as the axe came down on his neck.
Henry's headless body jerked and ran in circles, a geyser of blood shooting out with each remaining pulse left in his flailing body. I wanted to grab him, I wanted to heat up my glue gun, the one I would use to reattach my doll's head when my brother would decapitate it, I wanted to try and put Henry back together again, but just as I entertained the idea that it might be possible, he fell at my knees with one last twitch in a pool of blood that the ground and my hem begin to suck up like a sponge.
My grandfather dropped his axe, murmured something in French and grabbed Henry by his legs, dragging him away, leaving a trail of blood soaked feathers. Henry's head stayed behind staring at me in disbelief. It's safe to say that by the look in his eyes, he was more shocked by the chain of events than I.
"Well, at least things couldn't get any worse for you poor Henry, at least it's over," I sobbed to his little head. But. just then I felt the ground vibrate under my knees, a slow rhythm pummeling the mud, picking up speed somewhere behind me, heavy breathing, a certain pungent but familiar odor. And it suddenly dawned on me that things were about to get worse. "NO." I yelled almost in slow motion as my hands pounded the blood soaked ground,but Charlie ran past me, a blur of black fur and huge paws. He locked Henry's head in his teeth in one slobbery show of triumph, shook it violently and ran off to either eat it or bury it in some secret spot in the garden. "I will never let you lick my face again, do you hear me?" I pounded the mud. He took no notice.
I figured that continuing to kneel motionless would only leave me open to more of life's horrors, Sunday mass was proof of this. So, I stood and made my way through the back door, feeling the mud squish between my bare toes along the way. I opened the screen door and stepped into the kitchen.
"Ruthie, my God, you're a mess: your dress, look at you. For crying out loud, get that off and throw it in the wash before it stains for good and go put on another dress. And wash your face and hands, it looks like you've been in a fight. "
I stood with my hands on my hips, trembling, staring at her. This woman who orders loved ones to be murdered just to dress her Thanksgiving dinner table. My face covered with mud and blood except for the clear path the tears have formed down my cheeks.
I stood my ground, " If you think for one minute that I will sit at a table with murderers, and eat my best friend, you're nuts." My voice quivered with frightful conviction.
"And I can't believe that you've shoved an onion up his butt." I say pointing at his carcass on the stove, "What kind of person are you?", I asked her expecting an answer. Wanting her to look at my blood soaked dress, the tears on my face and really understand what I was asking her.
WIth clenched fists, locked jaw. and a knot if my stomach, I waited for a reply from this woman who called her self my mother.
She took a moment , stood back from the oven, readjusted her canvass apron, held her spatula up to shoulder height like some magic wand and said, "So, just tell me, Ruthie, will you want mashed potatoes or rice with dinner?"
Henry's headless body jerked and ran in circles, a geyser of blood shooting out with each remaining pulse left in his flailing body. I wanted to grab him, I wanted to heat up my glue gun, the one I would use to reattach my doll's head when my brother would decapitate it, I wanted to try and put Henry back together again, but just as I entertained the idea that it might be possible, he fell at my knees with one last twitch in a pool of blood that the ground and my hem begin to suck up like a sponge.
My grandfather dropped his axe, murmured something in French and grabbed Henry by his legs, dragging him away, leaving a trail of blood soaked feathers. Henry's head stayed behind staring at me in disbelief. It's safe to say that by the look in his eyes, he was more shocked by the chain of events than I.
"Well, at least things couldn't get any worse for you poor Henry, at least it's over," I sobbed to his little head. But. just then I felt the ground vibrate under my knees, a slow rhythm pummeling the mud, picking up speed somewhere behind me, heavy breathing, a certain pungent but familiar odor. And it suddenly dawned on me that things were about to get worse. "NO." I yelled almost in slow motion as my hands pounded the blood soaked ground,but Charlie ran past me, a blur of black fur and huge paws. He locked Henry's head in his teeth in one slobbery show of triumph, shook it violently and ran off to either eat it or bury it in some secret spot in the garden. "I will never let you lick my face again, do you hear me?" I pounded the mud. He took no notice.
I figured that continuing to kneel motionless would only leave me open to more of life's horrors, Sunday mass was proof of this. So, I stood and made my way through the back door, feeling the mud squish between my bare toes along the way. I opened the screen door and stepped into the kitchen.
"Ruthie, my God, you're a mess: your dress, look at you. For crying out loud, get that off and throw it in the wash before it stains for good and go put on another dress. And wash your face and hands, it looks like you've been in a fight. "
I stood with my hands on my hips, trembling, staring at her. This woman who orders loved ones to be murdered just to dress her Thanksgiving dinner table. My face covered with mud and blood except for the clear path the tears have formed down my cheeks.
I stood my ground, " If you think for one minute that I will sit at a table with murderers, and eat my best friend, you're nuts." My voice quivered with frightful conviction.
"And I can't believe that you've shoved an onion up his butt." I say pointing at his carcass on the stove, "What kind of person are you?", I asked her expecting an answer. Wanting her to look at my blood soaked dress, the tears on my face and really understand what I was asking her.
WIth clenched fists, locked jaw. and a knot if my stomach, I waited for a reply from this woman who called her self my mother.
She took a moment , stood back from the oven, readjusted her canvass apron, held her spatula up to shoulder height like some magic wand and said, "So, just tell me, Ruthie, will you want mashed potatoes or rice with dinner?"
Nuts - Anne Wright
The three of them sat on the floor of the deserted house, watching the rain shimmering on the big window glass as light from a passing car beamed by, the only vehicle they had seen in days. Paulie and Sue had laid claim to this room first, laying out their sleeping bags next to the wall. Then Samson had appeared.
Samson was tall and very tan, burned by the sun and sandblasted by the wind. He wore his grey hair in a twisted, ropy crown of dreadlocks and looked to Paulie like someone from long ago. When Paulie first saw him, he flashed on an image of Samson walking through a barren canyon carrying a basket of crows on his back. That was the way Paulie was, though, burned out from the peyote and vodka, nuts enough to believe that the image meant something. Really big. Enormous. Earthshaking.
Samson had asked if he could stay a few days. He was on his way to Mexico. Paulie looked at Sue and tried to smile. His lips quivered. He wanted Samson to stay but first he needed to get Sue’s approval.
He took Sue aside and told her of his vision. “There is something about him. I feel his power and it is good, and has to be channeled,” he said.
“I don’t have a problem with his staying, but he’s gotta do something for us, pay us. We own this place now.”
That was Sue, Paulie thought. Always wanting from people. Like the universe owed her.
They talked with Samson and agreed to allow him to stay the night; they cared about people, Paulie said, and they wouldn’t want to send him back into the rain. Paulie looked at Samson’s boots and saw the sole of one was held together with duct tape and all. He decided right then that the silver tape was a sign. A sign of something good, but Paulie didn’t know what it was, yet.
How they happened to be in the desert still amazed Paulie. It was the thing he talked about the most. They loved the space and the open sky and the dryness, and when the rain came they loved that more. But it was old truck who took them where it wanted, it was like that. Truck was what got them everywhere and they gave it rein. When truck needed gas, they stopped for a while. When truck decided to take a break and blow a tire, they’d stop again for a while. It was here in the desert on a lonely road near the old shack of a farmhouse that truck wanted to stop, and Paulie and Sue knew it was another sign. Like when Samson appeared.
Samson was tall and very tan, burned by the sun and sandblasted by the wind. He wore his grey hair in a twisted, ropy crown of dreadlocks and looked to Paulie like someone from long ago. When Paulie first saw him, he flashed on an image of Samson walking through a barren canyon carrying a basket of crows on his back. That was the way Paulie was, though, burned out from the peyote and vodka, nuts enough to believe that the image meant something. Really big. Enormous. Earthshaking.
Samson had asked if he could stay a few days. He was on his way to Mexico. Paulie looked at Sue and tried to smile. His lips quivered. He wanted Samson to stay but first he needed to get Sue’s approval.
He took Sue aside and told her of his vision. “There is something about him. I feel his power and it is good, and has to be channeled,” he said.
“I don’t have a problem with his staying, but he’s gotta do something for us, pay us. We own this place now.”
That was Sue, Paulie thought. Always wanting from people. Like the universe owed her.
They talked with Samson and agreed to allow him to stay the night; they cared about people, Paulie said, and they wouldn’t want to send him back into the rain. Paulie looked at Samson’s boots and saw the sole of one was held together with duct tape and all. He decided right then that the silver tape was a sign. A sign of something good, but Paulie didn’t know what it was, yet.
How they happened to be in the desert still amazed Paulie. It was the thing he talked about the most. They loved the space and the open sky and the dryness, and when the rain came they loved that more. But it was old truck who took them where it wanted, it was like that. Truck was what got them everywhere and they gave it rein. When truck needed gas, they stopped for a while. When truck decided to take a break and blow a tire, they’d stop again for a while. It was here in the desert on a lonely road near the old shack of a farmhouse that truck wanted to stop, and Paulie and Sue knew it was another sign. Like when Samson appeared.
Nuts - John Fetto
When Hawley got out the psych unit in 75, it seemed that everyone knew he had been nuts. If he saw two people talking on a street corner, waiting for a trolley, they were talking about how nuts he was. If he saw an old woman avert her eyes in a laundromat, she was looking away because he was nuts. If the saleslady stared too long after handing him change for a pack of cigarettes, it was because he was nuts. Even cats scurried away because they could tell, dogs barked especially sensing that precarious balance of his brain, teetering on the edge. All he could do was keep his head down, and keep working. He hauled trash, he dug ditches, he worked where he could, saved money, and bought his truck.
It was an old Chevy pick up. 1968, the truck he admired brand new when he was drafted. Now eight years old, a lot of rattles, loose muffle, leaking oil, terrible shape, like Hawley. He replaced the engine gasket, all the houses, new sparkles and tightened the muffle with a new bracket, and tightened it down. It ran like new once you got all the parts fixed, but Hawley didn’t stop there. He put a cb, and short band radio on top of it, with small spike antennas on the roof, and one large flexible antenna tied to the back of the cabin, so he could swing it low over the bed, and up, when he drove up above the knoll of the marina, and from there he could relay all around the world. He learned to talk to people that way at a distance. And up there he got the plan about the boat. He saw them in the marina below. Why pay all this rent to a landlady who goes through his stuff whenever he went out the door. Hawley was sure she did, looking for drugs, weapons, something to throw him out. So one day he went down the marina and offered himself for work.
An old guy hired him to do some carpentry in a cabin, and then work on the hull after it got lifted out in dry dock. He worked cheap, practically for nothing, just to learn. He liked old wooden boats, not the fiberglass ones, though he could work on both. No matter how beat up the old ones were, you could sand them down and find a clean surface that was clean and fresh. It wasn’t like you just patched over something broken, you cut out the rot, finding the freshness underneath. The wood appreciated the work as if they sighed to have the old rot removed and said, thank you, yes that’s me fresh and beautiful underneath. He sanded off years, and the old boats were light and limber, better than new.
A year and a half after that, Hawley was working and living on his own boat, with no land lady around to wonder what he was hiding and talk about how nuts he was.
It was an old Chevy pick up. 1968, the truck he admired brand new when he was drafted. Now eight years old, a lot of rattles, loose muffle, leaking oil, terrible shape, like Hawley. He replaced the engine gasket, all the houses, new sparkles and tightened the muffle with a new bracket, and tightened it down. It ran like new once you got all the parts fixed, but Hawley didn’t stop there. He put a cb, and short band radio on top of it, with small spike antennas on the roof, and one large flexible antenna tied to the back of the cabin, so he could swing it low over the bed, and up, when he drove up above the knoll of the marina, and from there he could relay all around the world. He learned to talk to people that way at a distance. And up there he got the plan about the boat. He saw them in the marina below. Why pay all this rent to a landlady who goes through his stuff whenever he went out the door. Hawley was sure she did, looking for drugs, weapons, something to throw him out. So one day he went down the marina and offered himself for work.
An old guy hired him to do some carpentry in a cabin, and then work on the hull after it got lifted out in dry dock. He worked cheap, practically for nothing, just to learn. He liked old wooden boats, not the fiberglass ones, though he could work on both. No matter how beat up the old ones were, you could sand them down and find a clean surface that was clean and fresh. It wasn’t like you just patched over something broken, you cut out the rot, finding the freshness underneath. The wood appreciated the work as if they sighed to have the old rot removed and said, thank you, yes that’s me fresh and beautiful underneath. He sanded off years, and the old boats were light and limber, better than new.
A year and a half after that, Hawley was working and living on his own boat, with no land lady around to wonder what he was hiding and talk about how nuts he was.
Nuts - Marigrace Bannon
There’s no shortage of nuts in my family, from either side, although, truth be told my mother’s family has more than my fathers. Aunt Lizzie was a schizophrenic, in and out of mental hospital’s some public some private from her 20’s until she died of lung cancer in her 60’s. Pall Malls. My Uncle Jimmie was a Chiropodist, something just below the heel of a Podiatrist and I don’t think the profession is recognized anymore. Well he’d come down from Hoboken w/ my grandmother, Aunt Lizzie and my Uncle Billy and he was a fix it guy so my mother would have him fix our bikes, which he would take apart, chains, tires, steering wheels and lay the parts on our gravel driveway until he figured out the mechanical problem. We’d run over to fetch our fixed bike and then he’d kick us in the pants really hard and laugh a disturbing, sardonic laugh, and the kick really hurt a 7 or 8 or even an 11 year old butt and we didn’t know what to do, but put our bony butt on the seat of our bike and ride down the driveway. It was hard to tell if we were grateful or not. And then there’s my mother, the oldest of her 9 siblings and histrionic doesn’t come close in a description of her antics and erratic behavior. After my sister Elizabeth was born the 7th of the 8th of us, my mother came home from the hospital with a wild and blank stare, which turned out to be post partum depression and that gave way to electric shock therapy. I was 9 and the oldest so I had duties to attend to.
Nuts - Melody Cryns
What’s nuts is to be massively late for work, knowing that I must be there promptly at 9am to work on two huge projects that are sitting at my desk right now – short week this week due to Thanksgiving, so everything must get done. I had promised Floyd and Claire I would have some semblance of an outline done tonight, but is it done? No, of course not. That’s because I had to finish reading The Kite Runner, a wonderful book I’d read a couple of years ago, for the class I’m a TA in. I mean, I can’t walk into this class not having read what the rest of the class has read and then some. It was actually a pleasure to go back to reading that book because I was reminded of how much I liked the book. Next week I’m supposed to talk about the book, and I’m still trying to figure out what. There’s a lot to say, that’s for sure…but oh I don’t know. I digress. So I go to start writing creative caffeine, only the sun is shining so brightly through the window that I can’t even see the screen, so I’ve gotta unplug the computer and come out here to the living room to sit down with the laptop on my lap. What prompt could there be for today? Oh it says, “Nuts!” ha! That’s a great one! I think sometimes that I’m nuts! I’m always running here and there, and well…you know what I mean.
But I remember a time when I certifiably thought I was going nuts – like when all four of my kids were young and there were times I really felt as if I was losing it. I’d get this feeling of dread, or I’d open the yellow pages of the phone book to those ‘crisis center pages” and stare at them for a long time. I’d ignore bills that weren’t supposed to be ignored and sometimes I wouldn’t even face what I needed to face having to do with a whole gang of teenagers crammed into a bedroom. It’s so hard to explain…I would grab little Megan and take off for the coffee shop to “escape” from the teenagers. Was I losing my mind? Where had things gone wrong? Why couldn’t we be like a “normal” family? Sometimes I felt as if me and the kids were like a group of people attempting to survive in a stormy, menacing world – in which the sun poured through sometimes, but when it rained, it rained hard and long and the mud was very slippery and we had to be careful not to fall down. Or I pictured us all on a boat at sea, me and the kids, with my mother holding up the rear of the boat. We’d sail around, sometimes into very rough waters and sometimes more calm waters…but my mother slipped and fell off the boat. I tried to throw a lifesaver out to save her and reel her in…cancer riddled her body and she succumbed, my mother, leaving no one to pull up the rear, just me and the kids slipping and hanging on for dear life…so I took the boat with all of us down here to California, back to San Francisco where all of my childhood memories reside…and I can grab them, hold on to them and make them mine.
Okay, call me nuts – but as yet another Thanksigivng approaches and my kids are texting me with remarks such as, “Make sure you get a GIANT turkey Mom!” from Stevie and, “See you soon Mom, Luv you, Jerm xoxoxoxo” and “I’d love to come over for Thanksgiving but I may need a ride back to San Francisco later” from Melissa, and Megan takes out the turkey – this time we are determined to remember to allow the turkey thaw for the right amount of time – that’s when I realize that I wouldn’t have my life any other way. On Thursday, all of my kids and the girlfriends will arrive, and Jerm’s two dogs and a couple of my friends that I’ve invited – and it’ll be fun and crazy and loud…
But I remember a time when I certifiably thought I was going nuts – like when all four of my kids were young and there were times I really felt as if I was losing it. I’d get this feeling of dread, or I’d open the yellow pages of the phone book to those ‘crisis center pages” and stare at them for a long time. I’d ignore bills that weren’t supposed to be ignored and sometimes I wouldn’t even face what I needed to face having to do with a whole gang of teenagers crammed into a bedroom. It’s so hard to explain…I would grab little Megan and take off for the coffee shop to “escape” from the teenagers. Was I losing my mind? Where had things gone wrong? Why couldn’t we be like a “normal” family? Sometimes I felt as if me and the kids were like a group of people attempting to survive in a stormy, menacing world – in which the sun poured through sometimes, but when it rained, it rained hard and long and the mud was very slippery and we had to be careful not to fall down. Or I pictured us all on a boat at sea, me and the kids, with my mother holding up the rear of the boat. We’d sail around, sometimes into very rough waters and sometimes more calm waters…but my mother slipped and fell off the boat. I tried to throw a lifesaver out to save her and reel her in…cancer riddled her body and she succumbed, my mother, leaving no one to pull up the rear, just me and the kids slipping and hanging on for dear life…so I took the boat with all of us down here to California, back to San Francisco where all of my childhood memories reside…and I can grab them, hold on to them and make them mine.
Okay, call me nuts – but as yet another Thanksigivng approaches and my kids are texting me with remarks such as, “Make sure you get a GIANT turkey Mom!” from Stevie and, “See you soon Mom, Luv you, Jerm xoxoxoxo” and “I’d love to come over for Thanksgiving but I may need a ride back to San Francisco later” from Melissa, and Megan takes out the turkey – this time we are determined to remember to allow the turkey thaw for the right amount of time – that’s when I realize that I wouldn’t have my life any other way. On Thursday, all of my kids and the girlfriends will arrive, and Jerm’s two dogs and a couple of my friends that I’ve invited – and it’ll be fun and crazy and loud…
He Would Have Done It Differently - Randy Wong
Clara Gordon thought she had seen it all. Working airport security at LAX, she had seen her share of weirdness. Indeed, when it comes to creative methods of smuggling illegal goods, people will go to extreme lengths to get what they want. People have tried hiding fruit in their socks, drugs in their shoes, and smaller objects that can fit … well, that can fit in one or two small places on the body.
Clara watched the next person in line for the security check with a heightened awareness. After doing this job for many years, she developed a sixth sense about certain people. The young man approaching the check point triggered something. His face appeared relaxed but his eyes were darting back and forth every so often. He also couldn’t look Clara in the eye – his eyes were locked onto a spot on the floor in front of him.
She looked over to the soldiers on duty. They would arrive the second she raised the alarm. Her assistants were going through the man’s luggage. Clara saw the man’s body suddenly convulse, and he let out a muffled grunt. It seemed to her that he was doing his best not to yell, but it was also obvious that he was in some sort of pain based on the wide eyed expression on his face.
“May I see your identification, sir?”
The young man seemed startled that Clara was addressing him directly. He motionless for a moment then proceeded to retrieve his ID from his wallet. The identification belonged to a Mr. Ken Ibsen of Los Angeles, California. No prior record and no red flags. Clara re-read the fact sheet and while she did not doubt the information she was reading, there was something about Mr. Ibsen that rubbed her the wrong way. Just as she finishing that last thought, Mr. Ibsen convulsed again, but this time he could not muffle his yelp.
“Oh!”
Clara had enough of this. “Security!”
Several soldiers ran to her station and took positions around Ibsen. If Ibsen looked pained and scared before, he looked at least ten times terrified right now.
Captain Norris ordered Ibsen to put his hands behind his head. Still scared out of his wits, Norris had to order him again before he complied. When he raised his arms, Clara noticed something odd about his shirt. The cotton tee had suddenly developed a wet spot near the area of the chest. It was crimson. It only took a moment for Clara to realize that it was blood.
“Sir? Are you all right? Are you hurt?”
Ibsen took a moment to gather his wits. He shook his head.
Clara pointed a finger at the blood stain spreading on his chest. “Sir, you appear to be bleeding.”
Ibsen glanced down with a shocked look on his face. “No. It’s from earlier. I cut myself shaving.”
Clara shook her head. “Sir, it appears that you are bleeding profusely from your chest.”
Ibsen raised his eye brows. “I was shaving my chest. I’m quite hairy,” he stammered.
It was Clara’s turn to raise her eyebrows. “What? That’s ridiculous.”
Ibsen decided to run with it. “No. No, really. Um, I’m worse than Robin Williams.”
Clara was about to ask Captain Norris to escort Mr. Ibsen into the secured area when she noticed something else about his shirt. Either Mr. Ibsen was hyperventilating, or the cotton tee-shirt had a life of its own. She could have sworn it actually moved. In fact, it appeared to Clara the shirt was rising and falling at different rates at different areas of the shirt.
“Mr. Ibsen, please remove your shirt.”
The blood spot on Ibsen’s shirt was now soaking through to his skin. What surprised Clara the most was that the wet spot had taken on a strange shape as though the shirt was now clinging to something. It looked like a head of some animal! Clara was even more surprised when the head moved.
“Oh my god!” she exclaimed.
Captain Norris took a step forward. “Remove your shirt right now!”
Ibsen hesitated but stared at the numerous weapons pointing at him. With a sigh, he removed his cotton tee-shirt, slowly and carefully pulling it over his head.
Everyone with a view gasped at what they were now looking at: several lizards attached to some type of harness. From what Clara was able to tell, there were several species of lizards attached to Ibsen’s body. Unfortunately, the harness was made of a thin and sheer material to better stay hidden underneath his shirt, and the lizards had started to claw through the harness and cut into his skin.
Exposed and caught, Ibsen’s mood changed. He visibly straightened, and he smiled a crooked smile. “Well, I guess you caught me.”
Clara noticed Ibsen’s change of attitude, and that angered her. Who the hell does he think he is, she wondered.
“Sir, do you have a permit to bring these lizards into the US?”
Ibsen laughed. “A permit? You mean that silly piece of paper that allows me to rescue these rare beautiful creatures from that awful sanctuary in Australia? Yes, I have a permit. I’m just carrying them on my body so I won’t get charged for extra carry on.”
Clara tried to stare him down. Instead, Ibsen became more defiant. “Apparently, they allow cows into this country just fine.”
That last comment did it. Clara snapped. She stepped forward and stared at the lizard that was digging into Ibsen’s chest. With a quick but powerful move, he grabbed the lizard with both hands and pulled it off Ibsen’s body. Ibsen screamed and fell to the floor in anguish. A couple of soldiers knelt down to come to his aid. A large chunk of Ibsen’s flesh was exposed on his chest where the lizard had been attached. Clara threw the lizard back at him.
“Oops. You dropped one.”
Clara watched the next person in line for the security check with a heightened awareness. After doing this job for many years, she developed a sixth sense about certain people. The young man approaching the check point triggered something. His face appeared relaxed but his eyes were darting back and forth every so often. He also couldn’t look Clara in the eye – his eyes were locked onto a spot on the floor in front of him.
She looked over to the soldiers on duty. They would arrive the second she raised the alarm. Her assistants were going through the man’s luggage. Clara saw the man’s body suddenly convulse, and he let out a muffled grunt. It seemed to her that he was doing his best not to yell, but it was also obvious that he was in some sort of pain based on the wide eyed expression on his face.
“May I see your identification, sir?”
The young man seemed startled that Clara was addressing him directly. He motionless for a moment then proceeded to retrieve his ID from his wallet. The identification belonged to a Mr. Ken Ibsen of Los Angeles, California. No prior record and no red flags. Clara re-read the fact sheet and while she did not doubt the information she was reading, there was something about Mr. Ibsen that rubbed her the wrong way. Just as she finishing that last thought, Mr. Ibsen convulsed again, but this time he could not muffle his yelp.
“Oh!”
Clara had enough of this. “Security!”
Several soldiers ran to her station and took positions around Ibsen. If Ibsen looked pained and scared before, he looked at least ten times terrified right now.
Captain Norris ordered Ibsen to put his hands behind his head. Still scared out of his wits, Norris had to order him again before he complied. When he raised his arms, Clara noticed something odd about his shirt. The cotton tee had suddenly developed a wet spot near the area of the chest. It was crimson. It only took a moment for Clara to realize that it was blood.
“Sir? Are you all right? Are you hurt?”
Ibsen took a moment to gather his wits. He shook his head.
Clara pointed a finger at the blood stain spreading on his chest. “Sir, you appear to be bleeding.”
Ibsen glanced down with a shocked look on his face. “No. It’s from earlier. I cut myself shaving.”
Clara shook her head. “Sir, it appears that you are bleeding profusely from your chest.”
Ibsen raised his eye brows. “I was shaving my chest. I’m quite hairy,” he stammered.
It was Clara’s turn to raise her eyebrows. “What? That’s ridiculous.”
Ibsen decided to run with it. “No. No, really. Um, I’m worse than Robin Williams.”
Clara was about to ask Captain Norris to escort Mr. Ibsen into the secured area when she noticed something else about his shirt. Either Mr. Ibsen was hyperventilating, or the cotton tee-shirt had a life of its own. She could have sworn it actually moved. In fact, it appeared to Clara the shirt was rising and falling at different rates at different areas of the shirt.
“Mr. Ibsen, please remove your shirt.”
The blood spot on Ibsen’s shirt was now soaking through to his skin. What surprised Clara the most was that the wet spot had taken on a strange shape as though the shirt was now clinging to something. It looked like a head of some animal! Clara was even more surprised when the head moved.
“Oh my god!” she exclaimed.
Captain Norris took a step forward. “Remove your shirt right now!”
Ibsen hesitated but stared at the numerous weapons pointing at him. With a sigh, he removed his cotton tee-shirt, slowly and carefully pulling it over his head.
Everyone with a view gasped at what they were now looking at: several lizards attached to some type of harness. From what Clara was able to tell, there were several species of lizards attached to Ibsen’s body. Unfortunately, the harness was made of a thin and sheer material to better stay hidden underneath his shirt, and the lizards had started to claw through the harness and cut into his skin.
Exposed and caught, Ibsen’s mood changed. He visibly straightened, and he smiled a crooked smile. “Well, I guess you caught me.”
Clara noticed Ibsen’s change of attitude, and that angered her. Who the hell does he think he is, she wondered.
“Sir, do you have a permit to bring these lizards into the US?”
Ibsen laughed. “A permit? You mean that silly piece of paper that allows me to rescue these rare beautiful creatures from that awful sanctuary in Australia? Yes, I have a permit. I’m just carrying them on my body so I won’t get charged for extra carry on.”
Clara tried to stare him down. Instead, Ibsen became more defiant. “Apparently, they allow cows into this country just fine.”
That last comment did it. Clara snapped. She stepped forward and stared at the lizard that was digging into Ibsen’s chest. With a quick but powerful move, he grabbed the lizard with both hands and pulled it off Ibsen’s body. Ibsen screamed and fell to the floor in anguish. A couple of soldiers knelt down to come to his aid. A large chunk of Ibsen’s flesh was exposed on his chest where the lizard had been attached. Clara threw the lizard back at him.
“Oops. You dropped one.”
Last Night I Dreamed - Carol Arnold
Last night I dreamed that Horace was flying around outside my bedroom window. He had no head, but I knew it was him by his overalls being covered with cow shit. I screamed at him, something like, “You’re an ugly dog turd and the whole world hates your guts,” but the one thing I couldn’t say was, “Leave me alone.” I don’t know why I couldn’t say that.
This time last year was when Horace and me arrived on Mr. A’s ranch. People were probably saying we were friends, but we weren’t really. It’s just that he was the only thing left from home, other than Kiki’s ring, and he still is.
After that day with Horace though, everything changed. Secretly, I collected pieces of hair from Horace’s beard. I’d sneak into his room in the barn and pick them up off his pillow. I don’t really know if they were from his beard or head really, but they were his hair, that was for sure. They had that greasy look. It almost made me throw up to touch them.
I put the hairs in a little cloth sack I made special for that. Bernice taught me about that, that if you save something from somebody’s body you can put it in a little cloth sack and stick pins in it like you’re killing it.
Everything I’ve been through, Pop driving the Ford into the river, Kiki never coming back from summer camp, Delores lying on the couch all day, me taking the bus to Bakersfield, all of it was hard, I’ll tell you that, but this Thing that Happened with Horace, was like I died. Before that, at least I had Bernice, Sally, the blue birds. Now I had nothing.
Now, I don’t even care that Bernice is giving me the evil eye. I know it’s probably because I called her Aunt Jimima. Before, I would have said I was sorry. I would have said I was just a mean old thing and she should pay me no mind. But I don’t say that. I don’t say anything.
Sally, she won’t even look at me when I come in the barn. I don’t look at her either. She saw everything, me lying there in the hay half naked with cow shit all over my blouse, Horace standing over me like he’d just won a thousand dollars. What do I care? She’s just a has-been race horse.
The blue birds took off yesterday. Those baby birds just flew away. The Mom and Pap hung around in the tree for a while, then they flew away too. I thought I’d be sad, but I wasn’t. I just said “Goodbye, stupid old birds.”
Yesterday, Bernice said something crazy. She said, “You aren’t the same girl, Spidee. A light can go out in the heart, and I’m afraid that’s happened to you.” Who cares about some dumb old light? She’s just talking her Aunt Jimima talk. What does it matter to me?
This time last year was when Horace and me arrived on Mr. A’s ranch. People were probably saying we were friends, but we weren’t really. It’s just that he was the only thing left from home, other than Kiki’s ring, and he still is.
After that day with Horace though, everything changed. Secretly, I collected pieces of hair from Horace’s beard. I’d sneak into his room in the barn and pick them up off his pillow. I don’t really know if they were from his beard or head really, but they were his hair, that was for sure. They had that greasy look. It almost made me throw up to touch them.
I put the hairs in a little cloth sack I made special for that. Bernice taught me about that, that if you save something from somebody’s body you can put it in a little cloth sack and stick pins in it like you’re killing it.
Everything I’ve been through, Pop driving the Ford into the river, Kiki never coming back from summer camp, Delores lying on the couch all day, me taking the bus to Bakersfield, all of it was hard, I’ll tell you that, but this Thing that Happened with Horace, was like I died. Before that, at least I had Bernice, Sally, the blue birds. Now I had nothing.
Now, I don’t even care that Bernice is giving me the evil eye. I know it’s probably because I called her Aunt Jimima. Before, I would have said I was sorry. I would have said I was just a mean old thing and she should pay me no mind. But I don’t say that. I don’t say anything.
Sally, she won’t even look at me when I come in the barn. I don’t look at her either. She saw everything, me lying there in the hay half naked with cow shit all over my blouse, Horace standing over me like he’d just won a thousand dollars. What do I care? She’s just a has-been race horse.
The blue birds took off yesterday. Those baby birds just flew away. The Mom and Pap hung around in the tree for a while, then they flew away too. I thought I’d be sad, but I wasn’t. I just said “Goodbye, stupid old birds.”
Yesterday, Bernice said something crazy. She said, “You aren’t the same girl, Spidee. A light can go out in the heart, and I’m afraid that’s happened to you.” Who cares about some dumb old light? She’s just talking her Aunt Jimima talk. What does it matter to me?
Grateful - Judy Albietz
I learned about evil when I was 6 weeks old. My sister Sheba and I were sold to the terrible man with the hat. We were some sort of gift for his girlfriend. Some gift. He beat us with anything he could get his hands on in the apartment. Neither of them ever smiled and there was no light in their eyes. They never slept and they were so thin you could see their bones sticking out. Always with that brown hat, the man smelled of smoke and the woman smelled of fear.
When they walked into a room, I saw the shadow, that horrible old spirit which came with them. Sheba was too scared to look at it. I had to explain to her that it was a spirit which fed on cold revenge and blind hatred. It had awakened after being dormant for thousands of years and found a home with the man and woman who had welcomed it into their lives.
I knew we would die soon since they usually forgot to feed us. One day they left and didn’t come back. After the third day without food or water, Sheba and I curled up together in the corner of the filthy kitchen to die. The next thing we knew the landlord was giving us food and water and then some men carried us out to live in a cage at the SPCA. After a few weeks, we were moved from the cage with the sharp medicine smells to another cage. Sheba was taken away a day later. I haven’t seen her since.
You can't even believe how grateful I was when Lindsey showed up on what I heard was my last day. I knew what that meant. When Lindsey smiled at me I must have wagged my entire body so hard I lifted off the ground. I was delirious when I saw Lindsey felt the same way. I’m also grateful in a strange way for my bad experience because it taught me how to recognize a good thing. I hope my sister was able to find her Lindsey. I dream about her with a family of teenagers who take her out to a field to fetch her tennis balls. I see her with a big dog who loves her to pieces. She never quite gets over the bad man with the hat. I know she and her family will have a hard time with that. The big dog helps to keep her calm. I know we will be together again someday.
When they walked into a room, I saw the shadow, that horrible old spirit which came with them. Sheba was too scared to look at it. I had to explain to her that it was a spirit which fed on cold revenge and blind hatred. It had awakened after being dormant for thousands of years and found a home with the man and woman who had welcomed it into their lives.
I knew we would die soon since they usually forgot to feed us. One day they left and didn’t come back. After the third day without food or water, Sheba and I curled up together in the corner of the filthy kitchen to die. The next thing we knew the landlord was giving us food and water and then some men carried us out to live in a cage at the SPCA. After a few weeks, we were moved from the cage with the sharp medicine smells to another cage. Sheba was taken away a day later. I haven’t seen her since.
You can't even believe how grateful I was when Lindsey showed up on what I heard was my last day. I knew what that meant. When Lindsey smiled at me I must have wagged my entire body so hard I lifted off the ground. I was delirious when I saw Lindsey felt the same way. I’m also grateful in a strange way for my bad experience because it taught me how to recognize a good thing. I hope my sister was able to find her Lindsey. I dream about her with a family of teenagers who take her out to a field to fetch her tennis balls. I see her with a big dog who loves her to pieces. She never quite gets over the bad man with the hat. I know she and her family will have a hard time with that. The big dog helps to keep her calm. I know we will be together again someday.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Dog - Marigrace Bannon
It’s pretty unpopular to tell the truth sometimes, and the fact is that I don’t like dogs. Well, I don’t hate them; actually I was brought up to fear them. My mother was terrified of dogs, so I don’t think it’s in our DNA, but we definitely all acquired her fear. She claims she was pregnant with one of us and her car broke down by the side of the road and she was walking by herself and a dog was chasing her and ferociously barking. I suspect something happened earlier than that, but I don’t know. Anyway, one time a stray dog appeared at our house, and my father decided that he would teach us not to fear dogs. So the little mutt stayed on our back kitchen porch, and everytime the dog came into the kitchen my mother would stand on the kitchen chair and scream in such a loud shrill, it was almost Hitchcockian. And all 6 girls would get on the kitchen benches and also scream our terrified cries, but we couldn’t compare to my mother’s operatic pitch. And either, my father would be around to remove the dog and place it back on the kitchen porch or I think the little dog would wander out of the kitchen and miss his straying days. I can’t say we ever got over our fear, but I’ve worked hard to be cordial to my friends dogs, but the truth is, I don’t want to pet them and I hate when I enter a room full of people and the dog at the party starts sniffing me. I always want to say, “I’m not the only one here. Can you work the room?”
A Happy Life - John Fetto
Hawley kept walking, not looking back. He could hear Sandman, Willie and Jaybird in the brush behind him, but he didn’t turn around to look. He kept his eyes forward, leading the way, not on the trail where someone might wait to ambush them, higher up the ridge, but not on top, where someone might see them moving, pig trails, maybe a boar, he followed its tracks, carefully shifting his weight from boot to boot, so the sole didn’t slid and start a noisy rockslide. Everything quiet, just the rustle of leaves as his team followed him. The boars tracks were decent, fresh, he hoped to run into it, and if he did, he’d kill it quietly, gut it and feed it to his team. They hadn’t eaten in days, every since the ambush that should have killed them. Hawley had not idea how they got out, and no one had talked about it, not even when they slept. He would stop and sleep when he heard them take up positions, and he’d start up again, when they began to rustle. It was suicide to talk out here with so many murderous north Vietnamese regulars, murderous little skeletons in khaki and pith helmets who would gut you as much as Hawley wanted to gut that boar. He would too, if the boar turned on him. He’d stick him with his knife and even if the boar screamed, it was just a boar, anyone could kill it. The key was that no matter what happened, Hawley couldn’t say anything that sounded human or he’d give their position away. That’s why Willie, Jaybird and Sandman were quiet. They’d sit down and smile at Hawley if he had that Boar roasting on a pit. It would be just like old times, whole lifetimes before the ambush.
Another mile along the ridge, moving so slow, nothing heard him sneak up on it. Least alone the boar, who was digging up roots. Hawley crept up, slowly but damn if the boar didn’t pick up his sent, and then boar was coming to him, top speed. Hawley cracked it on the head, to stun it, then put his foot down on the neck and drove his bayonet into its heart. Barely made a sound. He sat down and opened it up. There wasn’t time to properly field dress it. But it was a lot lighter without its guts. Willie, Jaybird and Sandman didn’t move up to start a fire, though they waited while he slit it open. He knew there wasn’t enough time to field dress it. Still if Willie, Jaybird, and Sandman weren’t saying anything, then it still wasn’t safe to cook. So he tied the legs and feet to two ends of a stick and balanced it on his shoulders, and kept walking to camp.
The way he looked at it the boar deserved to be gutted because it was out there by itself. It didn’t belong to any team, no one depended on it, just out there itself. Killing was just removing another selfish bastard who only thought of himself. And that’s when he decided that he would share the boar with the whole camp, not just Willie, Sandman and Jaybird, not matter how they complained. He’d walk right up and roast it on a spit, and he’d carve the meat off himself, handing out selfish meat to every unselfish soldier who was there for his brother soldier. Everyone but the useless staff officer who sent guys out on missions and didn’t blink if no one came back. Maybe he’d slice off the rear of the hog and give that to him.
He saw the little party they would have so clearly that when he saw the stacked logs and sandbags of the special forces camp, he just announced who he was and what he got, telling him to don’t shoot. Then he just walked in with the boar, and found a fire going at the mess, and just set up the boar and started roasting. People were asking him questions, and he told them, told him where and how far they walked, and if he accomplished his mission.
“Mission was bullshit.”
No one argued with him. They’d all been on bullshit missions and nodded like they knew exactly what he meant. They sat around happily waiting to eat the meat he cooked. An officer wandered in and asked who he was and where he’d been. So he told him what he told the other men. But the officer didn’t seem satisfied. He asked about his buddies, Willie, Jaybird and Sandman, and Hawley told them, they’d be there. Soon. They weren’t far behind. “Better not eat all the meat, they’ll want some.”
The officer gave him some water. When the officer left and the other men became quiet. Someone offered a warm beer which he took, but he kept watching the direction where his friends were coming. They couldn’t be more than a half hour behind. So after an hour of eating and staring, he picked up his rifle and started out to look for them, but one of the biggest soldiers, stood up and told him to stop. When Hawley asked him what happened, the big soldier looked sad and said they’re dead.
“Dead? When? Where?” He wanted to run down the trail. They couldn’t be far. He didn’t believe it. They would have heard something.
The big soldier looked even more sad, and tipped up his helmet. “Three days ago. Laos. The lieutenant confirmed it.”
That made no sense until they explained to Hawley he’d gone nuts.
Another mile along the ridge, moving so slow, nothing heard him sneak up on it. Least alone the boar, who was digging up roots. Hawley crept up, slowly but damn if the boar didn’t pick up his sent, and then boar was coming to him, top speed. Hawley cracked it on the head, to stun it, then put his foot down on the neck and drove his bayonet into its heart. Barely made a sound. He sat down and opened it up. There wasn’t time to properly field dress it. But it was a lot lighter without its guts. Willie, Jaybird and Sandman didn’t move up to start a fire, though they waited while he slit it open. He knew there wasn’t enough time to field dress it. Still if Willie, Jaybird, and Sandman weren’t saying anything, then it still wasn’t safe to cook. So he tied the legs and feet to two ends of a stick and balanced it on his shoulders, and kept walking to camp.
The way he looked at it the boar deserved to be gutted because it was out there by itself. It didn’t belong to any team, no one depended on it, just out there itself. Killing was just removing another selfish bastard who only thought of himself. And that’s when he decided that he would share the boar with the whole camp, not just Willie, Sandman and Jaybird, not matter how they complained. He’d walk right up and roast it on a spit, and he’d carve the meat off himself, handing out selfish meat to every unselfish soldier who was there for his brother soldier. Everyone but the useless staff officer who sent guys out on missions and didn’t blink if no one came back. Maybe he’d slice off the rear of the hog and give that to him.
He saw the little party they would have so clearly that when he saw the stacked logs and sandbags of the special forces camp, he just announced who he was and what he got, telling him to don’t shoot. Then he just walked in with the boar, and found a fire going at the mess, and just set up the boar and started roasting. People were asking him questions, and he told them, told him where and how far they walked, and if he accomplished his mission.
“Mission was bullshit.”
No one argued with him. They’d all been on bullshit missions and nodded like they knew exactly what he meant. They sat around happily waiting to eat the meat he cooked. An officer wandered in and asked who he was and where he’d been. So he told him what he told the other men. But the officer didn’t seem satisfied. He asked about his buddies, Willie, Jaybird and Sandman, and Hawley told them, they’d be there. Soon. They weren’t far behind. “Better not eat all the meat, they’ll want some.”
The officer gave him some water. When the officer left and the other men became quiet. Someone offered a warm beer which he took, but he kept watching the direction where his friends were coming. They couldn’t be more than a half hour behind. So after an hour of eating and staring, he picked up his rifle and started out to look for them, but one of the biggest soldiers, stood up and told him to stop. When Hawley asked him what happened, the big soldier looked sad and said they’re dead.
“Dead? When? Where?” He wanted to run down the trail. They couldn’t be far. He didn’t believe it. They would have heard something.
The big soldier looked even more sad, and tipped up his helmet. “Three days ago. Laos. The lieutenant confirmed it.”
That made no sense until they explained to Hawley he’d gone nuts.
A Happy Life - Elizabeth Weld Nolan
Well, I’m still thinking about what to do with myself, and what exactly we have run to in this little New Mexico town. It kind of makes you think about what you really want, that is, what is a happy life anyway? For my mom, I know she missed living near some land, that’s what she says anyway. She grew up with a great big garden and she loves that kind of stuff. She had a plot in a community garden in Brooklyn but she says it wasn’t the same as stepping out into your own land and working your flowers and crops and stuff right in your back yard. So she’ll like that part of it here. One drawback she forgot to think about is water, because when she was growing up, it was in New England where she had as much water as she needed. Here, in this valley beside the Rio Grande in southern New Mexico, with a mountain range on either side and huge old skies and not much rain, we have to deal with irrigation. And guess who deals with it? That would be me.
``Sherwood, oh Sherwood,’’ she says, ``could you come on over here and let the water out, and could you just use this hoe to move it from row to row? Just make little walls of mud to direct the water.’’
Now how can you resist your mom, pretty cute old mom who doesn’t nag or anything like other folks’ moms? But I sure have one score to settle with her: she named me SHERWOOD. The only way I can get around that is to call myself Woody, and that’s what I do. I don’t even let anyone know what it comes from. And my sibs know they live under threat if they let anyone know the whole story. They won’t, anyway, because they have their own burdens to bear: Luther? Clemantha? Jamie, at least, is kind of civilized.
Now for my dad. What makes for a happy life for him? He’s a doctor, family type, and liked his work in New York, but he was getting tired and worn out. Ths whole thing of needing more docs for the entry-level care, primary care, he says, means there will be more pressure on him and he wasn’t getting paid enough for us all to live in Brooklyn and this offer came to live in a small place where he’ll know everyone and the air is fresh and clean and we can get a big house for us all. And maybe, even some respect. I hear them talking and I know this bothers him. I sure hope he likes this new set-up because we came a long way to make the change.
And how about the kids, that includes me? Why take us away from the boiling excitement of the best city in the world where you can learn and see and drink it all in? The little kids are mostly happy anywhere right now, but what will Luke do here, no rap no street life?
Internet, Mom says, you can find anything, you can send away – Amazon, blogs, we can take trips because we’ll have more money. She’s hot for all that because she’s a librarian and is up on it. But there’s nothing like walking into a museum or going to see the Mets – who can afford the Yankees even if you like ‘em? Those seems like real things to me.
No, says Mom, real things are like horses, Mom says, animals, mountains, dirt, plants, wind - real life that uses all your senses, not just your intellect. We’ll see. I’ll keep notes and let you know in a few months if the Great Robertson Family has discovered the happy life.
``Sherwood, oh Sherwood,’’ she says, ``could you come on over here and let the water out, and could you just use this hoe to move it from row to row? Just make little walls of mud to direct the water.’’
Now how can you resist your mom, pretty cute old mom who doesn’t nag or anything like other folks’ moms? But I sure have one score to settle with her: she named me SHERWOOD. The only way I can get around that is to call myself Woody, and that’s what I do. I don’t even let anyone know what it comes from. And my sibs know they live under threat if they let anyone know the whole story. They won’t, anyway, because they have their own burdens to bear: Luther? Clemantha? Jamie, at least, is kind of civilized.
Now for my dad. What makes for a happy life for him? He’s a doctor, family type, and liked his work in New York, but he was getting tired and worn out. Ths whole thing of needing more docs for the entry-level care, primary care, he says, means there will be more pressure on him and he wasn’t getting paid enough for us all to live in Brooklyn and this offer came to live in a small place where he’ll know everyone and the air is fresh and clean and we can get a big house for us all. And maybe, even some respect. I hear them talking and I know this bothers him. I sure hope he likes this new set-up because we came a long way to make the change.
And how about the kids, that includes me? Why take us away from the boiling excitement of the best city in the world where you can learn and see and drink it all in? The little kids are mostly happy anywhere right now, but what will Luke do here, no rap no street life?
Internet, Mom says, you can find anything, you can send away – Amazon, blogs, we can take trips because we’ll have more money. She’s hot for all that because she’s a librarian and is up on it. But there’s nothing like walking into a museum or going to see the Mets – who can afford the Yankees even if you like ‘em? Those seems like real things to me.
No, says Mom, real things are like horses, Mom says, animals, mountains, dirt, plants, wind - real life that uses all your senses, not just your intellect. We’ll see. I’ll keep notes and let you know in a few months if the Great Robertson Family has discovered the happy life.
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