A man once told me "You know dying is the most embarrassing thing that can ever happen to you, because someone's got to take care of all your details". It was a strange opening line, but at first glance I could tell he was a strange man. I had just run into someone carrying drinks and caused them to go crashing to the ground and the look of embarrassment on my face was obvious. The man who uttered those words stood before me in a smoke filled room in a warehouse in the bowels of Chelsea.
Maybe the smoke caressing my nostrils helped it sound more profound then it really was, or it could have been the martini staring up at me, but I understood exactly what he was saying. "I imagine you're right. I would just die of embarrassment if I died." I said with one of those ridiculous little girl giggles that women seem to resort to when alcohol and men are involved.
Our words were in an audible wrestling match with the pitter and patter rhythms behind the drone of the tune "Venus in Furs" coming from the three men and one woman commanding the dimly lit stage all clad in leather, ripped shirts and blood shot eyes. He laughed wearily at my attempt at humor and then said, "You remind me of someone I once knew, but not in this lifetime; plus she lived inside of a TV." Unsure of what to make of it I just smiled.
He pointed to a painting on the wall near us and I tried to turn to look without bumping into the swaying crowd, but despite my efforts managed to cause a mini title wave in my martini glass that landed down the front of my dress. He didn't seem to notice. The painting was bold, stunning, familiar and strange at the same time. "Oh, wow, it’s fabulous. Who knew a single banana could make such a bold statement." I yelled over the music lifting my now half empty glass to my lips.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
A Man Once Told Me - Julie Farrar
A man once told me that I had beautiful blue eyes. When that happened I wasn’t a young ingénue (does anybody use that word anymore?) and I wasn’t single. I was married, and harried, and deep into full on “mom mode.” We had never had sex, were not talking about having sex, and in this lifetime would never have sex with each other. There was no advantage on either side from that observation. He simply said it, I laid my money on the counter for my soda, and I sat down to eat my lunch. Yet a moment like that can tilt the world’s axis ever so slightly.
It was a long time before I stood before my bathroom mirror to consider his compliment. I stared, glasses on then glasses off then on again. They weren’t the deep lapis lazuli of Elizabeth Taylor, which I took to be the standard for blueness. I did see, however, a hint of sapphire on a good day when they’re not dulled by the dark circles of sleep deprivation. They could remember how to laugh if they tried hard. A few lines were forming, but not unmanageable. When was the last time that I had looked into my own eyes? The glasses I always wore might have been a shield or wall at some time in the past. I don’t remember. When everyone else was getting contacts I never bothered because (as I told everyone) they seemed so much of a bother. I never saw these eyes as worthy of celebrating. And now contacts seemed pointless since I was at the age that I owned multiple pairs of glasses for seeing at multiple distances.
If someone had said those words to me in the past, they were long gone. But now, with so many years behind me, someone looked and saw something I had missed. So I stood at the mirror and looked until I got comfortable looking into my own eyes. At least once a week I perform this new exercise – I look for the I in the mirror. There’s no telling what else I might see that’s worth a small accolade.
It was a long time before I stood before my bathroom mirror to consider his compliment. I stared, glasses on then glasses off then on again. They weren’t the deep lapis lazuli of Elizabeth Taylor, which I took to be the standard for blueness. I did see, however, a hint of sapphire on a good day when they’re not dulled by the dark circles of sleep deprivation. They could remember how to laugh if they tried hard. A few lines were forming, but not unmanageable. When was the last time that I had looked into my own eyes? The glasses I always wore might have been a shield or wall at some time in the past. I don’t remember. When everyone else was getting contacts I never bothered because (as I told everyone) they seemed so much of a bother. I never saw these eyes as worthy of celebrating. And now contacts seemed pointless since I was at the age that I owned multiple pairs of glasses for seeing at multiple distances.
If someone had said those words to me in the past, they were long gone. But now, with so many years behind me, someone looked and saw something I had missed. So I stood at the mirror and looked until I got comfortable looking into my own eyes. At least once a week I perform this new exercise – I look for the I in the mirror. There’s no telling what else I might see that’s worth a small accolade.
A Man Once Told Me:Flute Lessons - Donna Shomer
If you can’t
play that measure
here, just between
the two of us –
then you can’t play it.
play that measure
here, just between
the two of us –
then you can’t play it.
In Memory Of - John Fetto
Michael Leary drifted in and out of consciousness for seven days, as the doctors, cut, scraped, sewed and hopefully mended his leg. During the day, he saw tubes descending from a blur of whiteness, and felt a whirl of activity---voices, footsteps, hands prodding him, turning him over, like a steer on a spit. At night, freckled lights blinked at him, red, green and amber, on plastic boxes which beeped ominously, like ticking bombs. The intoxicating Ms. Barrows seemed to wander in and out, sometimes alone sometime with others. He once dreamed she introduced him to her tailor, but they wandered off frustrated when he couldn’t explain how he wanted his cuffs hemmed. He could use a good suit, whether he lived or died, and in his delirium he found he lusted for something posh--- wool, slate gray with just a subtle pin strip, double breasted of course because he was rather tall.
He would make a fine corpse in such a suit, he thought. They’d cut his hair and trim his beard, and pin his cheeks so he’d looked like he was enjoying a dirty joke. Barrows would weep. No one else, but wasn’t that enough? And when she published her expose on all the dirty deed committed so enthusiastically by her American government, they’d be a short paragraph at the front of the book, something in feminine stylized type as if written by Barrows delicate hand which said something like, “In memory of Michael J. Leary, photographer and friend…”
It was a nice dream, with a perfect ending, ruined on the eighth day when Leary awoke and saw Barrows standing next to his bedside with someone else, looking cross.
“What’s wrong and who is this?” rasped Leary.
“Bill Taylor, United States Treasury,” said the man and Leary groaned, closing his eyes, wishing them away. When he opened, they still stood there, staring at him, and Barrows pad was poised to write down every word they said.
“Gray pin stripe, double breasted, cuffs that break slightly over the toe,” said Leary and the dull agent of the United States government looked confused, but Barrows got it and smiled. A beautiful smile really, even for an American.
He would make a fine corpse in such a suit, he thought. They’d cut his hair and trim his beard, and pin his cheeks so he’d looked like he was enjoying a dirty joke. Barrows would weep. No one else, but wasn’t that enough? And when she published her expose on all the dirty deed committed so enthusiastically by her American government, they’d be a short paragraph at the front of the book, something in feminine stylized type as if written by Barrows delicate hand which said something like, “In memory of Michael J. Leary, photographer and friend…”
It was a nice dream, with a perfect ending, ruined on the eighth day when Leary awoke and saw Barrows standing next to his bedside with someone else, looking cross.
“What’s wrong and who is this?” rasped Leary.
“Bill Taylor, United States Treasury,” said the man and Leary groaned, closing his eyes, wishing them away. When he opened, they still stood there, staring at him, and Barrows pad was poised to write down every word they said.
“Gray pin stripe, double breasted, cuffs that break slightly over the toe,” said Leary and the dull agent of the United States government looked confused, but Barrows got it and smiled. A beautiful smile really, even for an American.
In Memory Of: Cactus - Chris Callaghan
The huge prickly pear cactus had been growing undisturbed by the steps in the back yard for years. Jim figured twenty years, maybe even thirty. Its big flat paddles reached up ten feet tall and spread out at least that wide at the base.
Jim had always hated it. If he went carelessly down the second tier of steps by its lair it might reach out and spear him with one of its inch long vicious needles. Sometimes he’d swing an arm or hand too close to an emerging new paddle and get a fine coating of tiny spines embedded in his skin. They hurt like hell and were barely visible in the sun, virtually impossible to remove. But within an hour, a maddening itch and dots of blisters in his flesh would show him those he’d missed.
His mother, Velma, had loved that plant. She’d never pruned it, and seemed to glory in its ferocity. She only let him take off a paddle or two when they’d grown out obnoxiously past the hand rail and were therefore more capable of attacking any passing flesh.
Velma was five years dead now, and she’d left the cactus and the house to Jim. Each time he passed the cactus he cursed it, but couldn’t quite bring himself to destroy the thing. Whether it was out of respect for its age or his mother he didn’t know, but the most he could manage was judicious pruning.
At the end of last winter, the prickly pear developed a rash of small white spots which Jim ignored for quite some time. Unhindered, the spots multiplied until they painted both sides of most of the paddles and hung down the bottom edges like long white beards. A leprous cotton candy rot. Jim tried spraying it off with water, but it just grew back. In the spring fruit grew along the tops of the paddles and opened large yellow blooms. But although the bees hovered above the flowers they did not land. Even the bees knew something was drastically wrong.
Jim finally looked up cactus diseases on the internet and found a picture of his with the same sticky white fluff on it, and under the picture was the name for it.
Cochineal insect infestation. The article said that once it was this far along, there were no remedies. The minuscule insects burrowed deep into the flesh of the cactus and laid their eggs, and every patch of white was protective cover for those eggs. He checked six different websites and they all said the same thing. The only solution was drastic surgery. Chop off any parts infected with the white spots and throw them in the trash. Disinfect the knife between cuttings.
The advanced rot gave Jim the justification he wanted to finally get rid of the cactus. He’d started the job at nine am Saturday morning, his biggest knife, barbeque tongs, and a twenty gallon garbage can at the ready. He wore thick leather gloves to protect his hands.
By ten-thirty he’d already stopped twice to pick cactus spines out of his knuckles and realized just how heavy each twelve inch paddle was. He could barely lift the first half-full garbage can to empty it into the dumpster. So he pulled the dolly and another can out from under the porch and only filled the cans a third-full next time. He took periodic breaks to minister to his punctured aching hands and think about how many trips he’d made to the dumpster and how much cactus there still was left to cut.
Right after lunch he grabbed a 2” thick paddle with his tongs and it shot a black needle right into his left cheek like a bullet. Was it only his imagination that the cactus seemed to be fighting its dismemberment?
By four pm his arms were shaking from hefting weighty 3” thick slabs to the trash cans. The tongs had broken in half and he’d dropped the last paddle on his foot. It sent two needles through his boot and the edge left a dusting of spines on his shin. Enough was enough, he didn’t have the strength to hoist the last two can loads into the dumpster. So he washed the goo off his tools, the sweat off his face and neck and quit.
He went into the house, grabbed a cold beer, the tweezers and some salve, and sat back on the porch to observe the gaping hole where the monster had been. It was amazing that all those years of growth could have been decimated in one afternoon, but he was glad it was gone. Then he noticed the clumps of aloe that had been huddling under the giant for so long. They seemed to be stretching up into the gap. He’d almost forgotten they were there. With a slurp of his beer he toasted their health and growth. Wonderful aloe: beneficial, healing, and NO spines!
But after he tended his wounds he thought to toast the vanquished beast. “Here’s to you, you bastard. You fought a good fight, but I won!” Then he went into the house to see what was on TV.
Jim had always hated it. If he went carelessly down the second tier of steps by its lair it might reach out and spear him with one of its inch long vicious needles. Sometimes he’d swing an arm or hand too close to an emerging new paddle and get a fine coating of tiny spines embedded in his skin. They hurt like hell and were barely visible in the sun, virtually impossible to remove. But within an hour, a maddening itch and dots of blisters in his flesh would show him those he’d missed.
His mother, Velma, had loved that plant. She’d never pruned it, and seemed to glory in its ferocity. She only let him take off a paddle or two when they’d grown out obnoxiously past the hand rail and were therefore more capable of attacking any passing flesh.
Velma was five years dead now, and she’d left the cactus and the house to Jim. Each time he passed the cactus he cursed it, but couldn’t quite bring himself to destroy the thing. Whether it was out of respect for its age or his mother he didn’t know, but the most he could manage was judicious pruning.
At the end of last winter, the prickly pear developed a rash of small white spots which Jim ignored for quite some time. Unhindered, the spots multiplied until they painted both sides of most of the paddles and hung down the bottom edges like long white beards. A leprous cotton candy rot. Jim tried spraying it off with water, but it just grew back. In the spring fruit grew along the tops of the paddles and opened large yellow blooms. But although the bees hovered above the flowers they did not land. Even the bees knew something was drastically wrong.
Jim finally looked up cactus diseases on the internet and found a picture of his with the same sticky white fluff on it, and under the picture was the name for it.
Cochineal insect infestation. The article said that once it was this far along, there were no remedies. The minuscule insects burrowed deep into the flesh of the cactus and laid their eggs, and every patch of white was protective cover for those eggs. He checked six different websites and they all said the same thing. The only solution was drastic surgery. Chop off any parts infected with the white spots and throw them in the trash. Disinfect the knife between cuttings.
The advanced rot gave Jim the justification he wanted to finally get rid of the cactus. He’d started the job at nine am Saturday morning, his biggest knife, barbeque tongs, and a twenty gallon garbage can at the ready. He wore thick leather gloves to protect his hands.
By ten-thirty he’d already stopped twice to pick cactus spines out of his knuckles and realized just how heavy each twelve inch paddle was. He could barely lift the first half-full garbage can to empty it into the dumpster. So he pulled the dolly and another can out from under the porch and only filled the cans a third-full next time. He took periodic breaks to minister to his punctured aching hands and think about how many trips he’d made to the dumpster and how much cactus there still was left to cut.
Right after lunch he grabbed a 2” thick paddle with his tongs and it shot a black needle right into his left cheek like a bullet. Was it only his imagination that the cactus seemed to be fighting its dismemberment?
By four pm his arms were shaking from hefting weighty 3” thick slabs to the trash cans. The tongs had broken in half and he’d dropped the last paddle on his foot. It sent two needles through his boot and the edge left a dusting of spines on his shin. Enough was enough, he didn’t have the strength to hoist the last two can loads into the dumpster. So he washed the goo off his tools, the sweat off his face and neck and quit.
He went into the house, grabbed a cold beer, the tweezers and some salve, and sat back on the porch to observe the gaping hole where the monster had been. It was amazing that all those years of growth could have been decimated in one afternoon, but he was glad it was gone. Then he noticed the clumps of aloe that had been huddling under the giant for so long. They seemed to be stretching up into the gap. He’d almost forgotten they were there. With a slurp of his beer he toasted their health and growth. Wonderful aloe: beneficial, healing, and NO spines!
But after he tended his wounds he thought to toast the vanquished beast. “Here’s to you, you bastard. You fought a good fight, but I won!” Then he went into the house to see what was on TV.
In Memory Of - Elizabeth Weld Nolan
It’s all memory. Hardly anything
is the present. How a dusty lane
feels soft to bare feet.
How a grandmother hid us
when we let the cows out.
How a stepfather held us when we cried,
made us laugh and became
our father. How my brother-
in-law died early from asbestos
on his Navy ships. How
we tell ourselves the future
so often it becomes memory,
and we say to each other:
``When he comes, when he comes
home, when he comes home
from Iraq.’’ I want this
to be memory, and not future.
is the present. How a dusty lane
feels soft to bare feet.
How a grandmother hid us
when we let the cows out.
How a stepfather held us when we cried,
made us laugh and became
our father. How my brother-
in-law died early from asbestos
on his Navy ships. How
we tell ourselves the future
so often it becomes memory,
and we say to each other:
``When he comes, when he comes
home, when he comes home
from Iraq.’’ I want this
to be memory, and not future.
What I Dream - Bonnie Smetts
Mrs. Curtain grabbed my arm with her hands like bird claws digging into skin.
“Goodbye, Mrs. Curtain. I’m gonna miss you,” I whisper into her ear. She’s wearing her yellow sweater but I can see she’s as stirred up as she ever can get these days. I have to pull her hands from mine when we’re done hugging. She’s clinging onto my like a dog trying to climb out of a pond.
“Come on, honey. Let’s get in the car.” The nurse from the home, as big as a refrigerator, takes little Mrs. Curtain, now as frail as a ten year old, from me.
“Mr. Curtain, I’m gonna miss you. Thank you for everything, all the time.” I hug him but it’s like hugging a tree, he’s hardly looking at me or anything. “Thank you,” I say to him quietly. He’s not listening, he’s not hearing. I mean I want to thank him for being so nice to me when I was little, and trying so hard to make me a Baptist when there really wasn’t any hope to that. “Thank you.” I hug him a last time.
“OK, then. Ready to go, then,” Sydney says to us, to no one. “Thank you, Rawling.” What else can she say? We know she’s saying goodbye too. We’re all saying goodbye, but nobody’s really saying, goodbye and we’ll never see each other again.
“I’ll keep in touch,” she says, knowing we both know she won’t. I was the one calling when there were the emergencies with the Grands, not her. And then everybody’s packed into the car, Mr. Curtain waves a little wave, and they’re off, down the main street of Nordeen.
And I’m standing in front of the Elmhurst Rehabilitation Home, alone. I never dreamed the Grands would leave like this. I take a step as if I’m walking home, back to my room above the diner, and stop. Mr. Curtain had given me his car. Talking about what I’d never dreamed about, I’d never dreamed I’d have nice big car.
I stand in front of the big, dusty car to get used to the idea it’d be mine. Then I slide on in. Mr. Curtain had left the keys in their right place, he’d left his keychain dangling, a big gold “C” hanging from the end of the keys.
“Goodbye, Mrs. Curtain. I’m gonna miss you,” I whisper into her ear. She’s wearing her yellow sweater but I can see she’s as stirred up as she ever can get these days. I have to pull her hands from mine when we’re done hugging. She’s clinging onto my like a dog trying to climb out of a pond.
“Come on, honey. Let’s get in the car.” The nurse from the home, as big as a refrigerator, takes little Mrs. Curtain, now as frail as a ten year old, from me.
“Mr. Curtain, I’m gonna miss you. Thank you for everything, all the time.” I hug him but it’s like hugging a tree, he’s hardly looking at me or anything. “Thank you,” I say to him quietly. He’s not listening, he’s not hearing. I mean I want to thank him for being so nice to me when I was little, and trying so hard to make me a Baptist when there really wasn’t any hope to that. “Thank you.” I hug him a last time.
“OK, then. Ready to go, then,” Sydney says to us, to no one. “Thank you, Rawling.” What else can she say? We know she’s saying goodbye too. We’re all saying goodbye, but nobody’s really saying, goodbye and we’ll never see each other again.
“I’ll keep in touch,” she says, knowing we both know she won’t. I was the one calling when there were the emergencies with the Grands, not her. And then everybody’s packed into the car, Mr. Curtain waves a little wave, and they’re off, down the main street of Nordeen.
And I’m standing in front of the Elmhurst Rehabilitation Home, alone. I never dreamed the Grands would leave like this. I take a step as if I’m walking home, back to my room above the diner, and stop. Mr. Curtain had given me his car. Talking about what I’d never dreamed about, I’d never dreamed I’d have nice big car.
I stand in front of the big, dusty car to get used to the idea it’d be mine. Then I slide on in. Mr. Curtain had left the keys in their right place, he’d left his keychain dangling, a big gold “C” hanging from the end of the keys.
What I Dream - Melody Cryns
I never thought it would happen to me – and I haven’t been able to get it off my mind since Sunday, right before I went to the concert. When I heard someone playing guitar and singing Beatles songs out by the pool where I live. I’ve been around for 51 years and never once had I experienced this.
I was just taking the dog for a walk, and when I heard the guitar music and the singing, nothing spectacular, yet so beautiful, I had to stop and check it out.
So I peered through the wire gate of the pool and I saw that guy sitting there playing guitar and singing, his guitar chords reverberating through the complex and he looked so young, and that big smile on his face practically dazzled me. He was young, I thought, hearing him sing, and then I yelled, “Know any more Beatles songs?”
He smiled and waved at me and immediately started playing, “Hey Jude” and next thing you know, I was singing along from across the pool, not caring who heard me or who didn’t hear me – and I’m sure too many people must’ve heard us since the pool is kinda in the middle of the apartment complex.
So young, I thought—just as I’d thought so many times when I’d meet a gorgeous younger man who was way out of my league – finding myself wishing I was younger and thinner, and that I was as fit as those people I work out with in the fitness room – me trudging away at my 3.1 mile-per-hour pace on the elliptical machine while burly muscular men grunt and lift weights and spry young women and men literally run on the treadmill machines, going faster and faster.
But I am who I am, that’s all there is to it, and although I’ve lost close to 28 pounds, it’s all I can do to get under 200 pounds, while others fight to lose that last five pounds to 110. But I feel as if I’ve accomplished this huge feat, just to say I’m a size 16 now and that I don’t have to wear Double X shirts anymore.
All those weird thoughts ran through my mind as I peered through the fence at this beautiful man singing and playing guitar, feeling as if he was serenading to me directly, wooing me…when actually he was just sitting there chilling and playin’ guitar on a beautiful sunny spring day. Can’t blame him for that. I wanted to get closer to him, but one part of me was afraid. I felt giddish, like a kid – and when I looked at the guy, I felt as if I could see inside his soul, like he’d opened it up just for me.
Finally, the dog made the decision for me. She became impatient sitting there while I sang, so she managed to squeeze through the fence to the other side into the pool area, and she sat there staring up at me, and all I could do was let go of the leash and walk all the way around to where the gate opened to get the dog. A young guy lying by the pool had grabbed her leash for me so she wouldn’t run off too far – the same guy that clapped for me and the guy when we both sang Hey Jude, hehe!
When I walked into the pool area, the guitar singing man waved and said, “Come over and jam with me!”
So I took a deep breath and walked over there. And I saw that the man I had seen as golden and all shiny actually had more than a few wrinkles and gray hair. I guessed he was Philiphino although I have to admit I’m not good at guessing people’s nationalities.
He smiled that big winning smile and said, “Come here, sit down,” and suddenly began strumming John Lennon’s Imagine. Of course I recognized the song right away and began to softly sing.
“Beautiful!” the man said. Then he held out his hand to me, “I’m Noah, and I’m here visiting my daughter over there!”
He pointed to his daughter, a beautiful young girl whom I’d ironically met the day before when me and the kids barbecued by the pool.
“Cool.” I introduced myself as well and shook his hand, which felt so warm and inviting. It didn’t matter one single bit what he looked like on the outside – all I could see was what was on the inside, a warm, young, kind soul.
And when I said, “You know, I was seven when they arrived, the Beatles, you know…and…”
Noah smiled. “And I was 13!”
Okay, now I knew he could see into my soul. He understood.
I was just taking the dog for a walk, and when I heard the guitar music and the singing, nothing spectacular, yet so beautiful, I had to stop and check it out.
So I peered through the wire gate of the pool and I saw that guy sitting there playing guitar and singing, his guitar chords reverberating through the complex and he looked so young, and that big smile on his face practically dazzled me. He was young, I thought, hearing him sing, and then I yelled, “Know any more Beatles songs?”
He smiled and waved at me and immediately started playing, “Hey Jude” and next thing you know, I was singing along from across the pool, not caring who heard me or who didn’t hear me – and I’m sure too many people must’ve heard us since the pool is kinda in the middle of the apartment complex.
So young, I thought—just as I’d thought so many times when I’d meet a gorgeous younger man who was way out of my league – finding myself wishing I was younger and thinner, and that I was as fit as those people I work out with in the fitness room – me trudging away at my 3.1 mile-per-hour pace on the elliptical machine while burly muscular men grunt and lift weights and spry young women and men literally run on the treadmill machines, going faster and faster.
But I am who I am, that’s all there is to it, and although I’ve lost close to 28 pounds, it’s all I can do to get under 200 pounds, while others fight to lose that last five pounds to 110. But I feel as if I’ve accomplished this huge feat, just to say I’m a size 16 now and that I don’t have to wear Double X shirts anymore.
All those weird thoughts ran through my mind as I peered through the fence at this beautiful man singing and playing guitar, feeling as if he was serenading to me directly, wooing me…when actually he was just sitting there chilling and playin’ guitar on a beautiful sunny spring day. Can’t blame him for that. I wanted to get closer to him, but one part of me was afraid. I felt giddish, like a kid – and when I looked at the guy, I felt as if I could see inside his soul, like he’d opened it up just for me.
Finally, the dog made the decision for me. She became impatient sitting there while I sang, so she managed to squeeze through the fence to the other side into the pool area, and she sat there staring up at me, and all I could do was let go of the leash and walk all the way around to where the gate opened to get the dog. A young guy lying by the pool had grabbed her leash for me so she wouldn’t run off too far – the same guy that clapped for me and the guy when we both sang Hey Jude, hehe!
When I walked into the pool area, the guitar singing man waved and said, “Come over and jam with me!”
So I took a deep breath and walked over there. And I saw that the man I had seen as golden and all shiny actually had more than a few wrinkles and gray hair. I guessed he was Philiphino although I have to admit I’m not good at guessing people’s nationalities.
He smiled that big winning smile and said, “Come here, sit down,” and suddenly began strumming John Lennon’s Imagine. Of course I recognized the song right away and began to softly sing.
“Beautiful!” the man said. Then he held out his hand to me, “I’m Noah, and I’m here visiting my daughter over there!”
He pointed to his daughter, a beautiful young girl whom I’d ironically met the day before when me and the kids barbecued by the pool.
“Cool.” I introduced myself as well and shook his hand, which felt so warm and inviting. It didn’t matter one single bit what he looked like on the outside – all I could see was what was on the inside, a warm, young, kind soul.
And when I said, “You know, I was seven when they arrived, the Beatles, you know…and…”
Noah smiled. “And I was 13!”
Okay, now I knew he could see into my soul. He understood.
With His Pants Down - Randy Wong
“Dexter, what on earth is going on?”
Vern was starting to panic. This all started out as a crazy attempt to extort money from Dexter for recovering his cell phone. When Dexter decided to give up the cell phone without paying Vern the thirty five dollars he wanted, Vern decided that his extortion attempt was a miserable failure, and decided to give the phone back to Dexter. Vern had hoped the picture of the naked butt he found on Dexter’s phone would have made the perfect blackmail setting, but Dexter told him that it was just an illusion created with both hands pressed together. Now, Dexter was pointing a gun at him. This was not the way Vern envisioned his day would go.
Dexter pressed the gun against Vern’s chest. “Listen carefully. I’m not going to hurt you. However, I need you to do something. It might sound weird, but it’s something I am into. Don’t worry. You’ll be fine.”
Vern took a quick look around. They were alone in the alley and out of sight from the main street. Vern was not sure what Dexter wanted, but he knew that it could not be a good thing. He considered trying to escape, but the gun pressed against his chest took away all impulse to do so.
“Um, what do you have in mind?”
Dexter flashed an almost guilty grin. “I have a confession. You know that picture of a naked butt I said was just two hands pressed together?”
Vern groaned quietly. This did not sound good at all. “Uh, yeah. What about it?’
Dexter took out the cell phone and held it in front of Vern. “Well, I lied. That really was a naked butt. Yep. It was a picture of an actual naked butt. I collect them.”
Oh crap, thought Vern. This was not good. “What do you mean “collect?”
“Oh, you know what I mean. Take off your pants.”
Vern groaned again. “Oh no. C’mon man.”
Dexter waved his gun at Vern’s belt. “C’mon. Take them off. Be quick about it. I haven’t got all day.”
Vern stared at the gun for a second, and then decided that he had no choice. I guess this is what I get for trying to rip him off, he said to himself. Better make it quick and don’t think about it. Vern quickly took off his belt and slid down his pants. With a deep breath, he yanked down his boxers.
“Turn around. Face towards the wall.”
Vern did what he was told. He was wondering what horrible thing was going to happen next when he felt a cold hand on his shoulder pushing him several feet to his right.
“You’re in the shadow. Move over to the light. And, take off your shirt. It’s covering up your crack.”
Vern just sighed and pulled off shirt. When Dexter told him to spread his legs and lean against the wall, he was prepared for the worse. Instead, all he heard was the electronic click of a digital camera. He heard several clicks in succession. Finally, Vern couldn’t stand it anymore.
“Look, is there anything else? Are you going to … well, you know … rape me?”
Dexter stopped taking pictures for a second. “Huh? What do you think I am? Some sort of sicko?”
Vern was starting to panic. This all started out as a crazy attempt to extort money from Dexter for recovering his cell phone. When Dexter decided to give up the cell phone without paying Vern the thirty five dollars he wanted, Vern decided that his extortion attempt was a miserable failure, and decided to give the phone back to Dexter. Vern had hoped the picture of the naked butt he found on Dexter’s phone would have made the perfect blackmail setting, but Dexter told him that it was just an illusion created with both hands pressed together. Now, Dexter was pointing a gun at him. This was not the way Vern envisioned his day would go.
Dexter pressed the gun against Vern’s chest. “Listen carefully. I’m not going to hurt you. However, I need you to do something. It might sound weird, but it’s something I am into. Don’t worry. You’ll be fine.”
Vern took a quick look around. They were alone in the alley and out of sight from the main street. Vern was not sure what Dexter wanted, but he knew that it could not be a good thing. He considered trying to escape, but the gun pressed against his chest took away all impulse to do so.
“Um, what do you have in mind?”
Dexter flashed an almost guilty grin. “I have a confession. You know that picture of a naked butt I said was just two hands pressed together?”
Vern groaned quietly. This did not sound good at all. “Uh, yeah. What about it?’
Dexter took out the cell phone and held it in front of Vern. “Well, I lied. That really was a naked butt. Yep. It was a picture of an actual naked butt. I collect them.”
Oh crap, thought Vern. This was not good. “What do you mean “collect?”
“Oh, you know what I mean. Take off your pants.”
Vern groaned again. “Oh no. C’mon man.”
Dexter waved his gun at Vern’s belt. “C’mon. Take them off. Be quick about it. I haven’t got all day.”
Vern stared at the gun for a second, and then decided that he had no choice. I guess this is what I get for trying to rip him off, he said to himself. Better make it quick and don’t think about it. Vern quickly took off his belt and slid down his pants. With a deep breath, he yanked down his boxers.
“Turn around. Face towards the wall.”
Vern did what he was told. He was wondering what horrible thing was going to happen next when he felt a cold hand on his shoulder pushing him several feet to his right.
“You’re in the shadow. Move over to the light. And, take off your shirt. It’s covering up your crack.”
Vern just sighed and pulled off shirt. When Dexter told him to spread his legs and lean against the wall, he was prepared for the worse. Instead, all he heard was the electronic click of a digital camera. He heard several clicks in succession. Finally, Vern couldn’t stand it anymore.
“Look, is there anything else? Are you going to … well, you know … rape me?”
Dexter stopped taking pictures for a second. “Huh? What do you think I am? Some sort of sicko?”
Monday, May 25, 2009
Off Balance - Chris Callaghan
Cerise fell down in the Wal-Mart this morning. She didn’t trip on the spill in aisle four where the yellow collapsible wet floor signs had been set up. Nobody had accosted her, no screaming out of control children had run into her legs. She just fell down.
She’d been near the pharmacy area scanning the shelves for a miracle cure for her dizziness. For a week now she had had that swirly feeling inside her head like she’d been on the big Wheel of Danger ride at the carnival too many times.
As a kid she and her friends would actually pay good money to be herded up the rickety ramp, inserted into those coffin sized slots and stand there gripping the bars in anticipation as the bored Carney guy came around and clipped the safety belt on (which she’d finally realized was patently ridiculous as the thing was at least a foot away from her body).
Thirty years later in Wal-Mart she was getting that same weak-kneed feeling for free. Now she would have paid to have it disappear.
Glad that she’d worn her purple muumuu which puddled gracefully around her butt and old lady chicken legs, she sat on the concrete floor and tried to get her eyes to focus on the band-aids and Bactine in front of her. Her fellow shoppers just walked around her like she was invisible. Weirder things had happened at Wally World than an old brown lady on the floor, she guessed.
Cerise recognized an employee by his distinctive blue cotton shirt and name badge racing past her towards the check out counters. He kept yelling, “Code 24, code24!” which probably meant “shopper down” in Wal-Mart vernacular.
Would they call an ambulance? God, she was so humiliated. If she could just get this dizziness under control and get up she could move over an aisle and act like it was somebody else on the floor before the manager got to her.
A little boy stopped in front of her and stared deep into her eyes. He scrunched up his nose, put his hand on her shoulder and said, “Lady, you all right?”
Cerise shook her head. “Dizzy, can’t get up.” The boy sped off around the corner and for some reason she felt deserted.
The band-aid labels were coming into focus, the dizziness was draining out of her into the floor. If she could grab a hold of the shelving, maybe she could get up.
Suddenly the little boy was back dragging a man by the hand. The man had tattoos all over his arms and looked dangerous. Cerise flinched. But he leaned down and said, “Need a hand?”
“Yes, thank you,” she told him. And he stood behind her, put his arms around her chest and picked her up like a sack of flour. When she was on her feet her head felt clearer.
“Do you want to sit down? There’s a bench over there in the pharmacy.” He said.
“I’m fine now,” she said. “If I can just get to my car, I’ll be okay.” So the scary strong man linked her arm in his and gallantly escorted her out into the parking lot to her old beige Chevy Impala and handed her into it.
Cerise had giggled when they passed the manager heading towards the pharmacy with two paramedics in tow.
She buckled her seat belt, waved to the man to show she was okay and started the car. As she drove out of the parking lot, she vowed to call her doctor as soon as she got home and make an appointment to find out what the dizziness was.
Cerise never wanted to fall down in Wal-Mart again
She’d been near the pharmacy area scanning the shelves for a miracle cure for her dizziness. For a week now she had had that swirly feeling inside her head like she’d been on the big Wheel of Danger ride at the carnival too many times.
As a kid she and her friends would actually pay good money to be herded up the rickety ramp, inserted into those coffin sized slots and stand there gripping the bars in anticipation as the bored Carney guy came around and clipped the safety belt on (which she’d finally realized was patently ridiculous as the thing was at least a foot away from her body).
Thirty years later in Wal-Mart she was getting that same weak-kneed feeling for free. Now she would have paid to have it disappear.
Glad that she’d worn her purple muumuu which puddled gracefully around her butt and old lady chicken legs, she sat on the concrete floor and tried to get her eyes to focus on the band-aids and Bactine in front of her. Her fellow shoppers just walked around her like she was invisible. Weirder things had happened at Wally World than an old brown lady on the floor, she guessed.
Cerise recognized an employee by his distinctive blue cotton shirt and name badge racing past her towards the check out counters. He kept yelling, “Code 24, code24!” which probably meant “shopper down” in Wal-Mart vernacular.
Would they call an ambulance? God, she was so humiliated. If she could just get this dizziness under control and get up she could move over an aisle and act like it was somebody else on the floor before the manager got to her.
A little boy stopped in front of her and stared deep into her eyes. He scrunched up his nose, put his hand on her shoulder and said, “Lady, you all right?”
Cerise shook her head. “Dizzy, can’t get up.” The boy sped off around the corner and for some reason she felt deserted.
The band-aid labels were coming into focus, the dizziness was draining out of her into the floor. If she could grab a hold of the shelving, maybe she could get up.
Suddenly the little boy was back dragging a man by the hand. The man had tattoos all over his arms and looked dangerous. Cerise flinched. But he leaned down and said, “Need a hand?”
“Yes, thank you,” she told him. And he stood behind her, put his arms around her chest and picked her up like a sack of flour. When she was on her feet her head felt clearer.
“Do you want to sit down? There’s a bench over there in the pharmacy.” He said.
“I’m fine now,” she said. “If I can just get to my car, I’ll be okay.” So the scary strong man linked her arm in his and gallantly escorted her out into the parking lot to her old beige Chevy Impala and handed her into it.
Cerise had giggled when they passed the manager heading towards the pharmacy with two paramedics in tow.
She buckled her seat belt, waved to the man to show she was okay and started the car. As she drove out of the parking lot, she vowed to call her doctor as soon as she got home and make an appointment to find out what the dizziness was.
Cerise never wanted to fall down in Wal-Mart again
Vertigo - Elizabeth Weld Nolan
Great heat bears down
on the Sonoran desert. Arizona:
Highway 10 flings itself
over wind-blown waves of sand
and valiant, scrubby weeds. Deep
inside my head, tiny crystals
adhere to the cilia, sucking me
into a vortex, pitching me flat
on the motel floor where I moor
staring where the ceiling meets itself.
Unanchored, dizzy, I slide my hand
along the plastered wall to walk.
Her voice across the continent:
``Mom, you’ve got rocks in your head.
That’s what I tell all my patients.’’
A gentle laugh. ``You’re OK.
It’s common. Do this: Hurl yourself
back-side-face down.
Dislodge them.’’ Morning: I’m better.
The only seat in the car I can bear:
the driver’s. My hat brim deep
down on my face squeezes my view
sideways. The horizon steadies.
Balance began to return with her voice.
Wondrous they are, these daughters.
on the Sonoran desert. Arizona:
Highway 10 flings itself
over wind-blown waves of sand
and valiant, scrubby weeds. Deep
inside my head, tiny crystals
adhere to the cilia, sucking me
into a vortex, pitching me flat
on the motel floor where I moor
staring where the ceiling meets itself.
Unanchored, dizzy, I slide my hand
along the plastered wall to walk.
Her voice across the continent:
``Mom, you’ve got rocks in your head.
That’s what I tell all my patients.’’
A gentle laugh. ``You’re OK.
It’s common. Do this: Hurl yourself
back-side-face down.
Dislodge them.’’ Morning: I’m better.
The only seat in the car I can bear:
the driver’s. My hat brim deep
down on my face squeezes my view
sideways. The horizon steadies.
Balance began to return with her voice.
Wondrous they are, these daughters.
Vertigo - Jackie Davis-Martin
“I am vertiginous over you,” he said.
No one had ever put it like that before. Besides, she didn’t believe it. Maybe when they came down from the ride—a Ferris wheel where they were now swinging from the highest point, the carnival splayed beneath them like trinkets scattered among thick confetti—maybe then Hedy would entertain the thought. But now Fergus was pumping his legs to incite the rocking of their carriage, his head tilted to assess her sensation (she was smiling, she found him exciting, she wondered at what price) as the lights around them swirled and dazzled like those tin lollipops you could pull with a string to set them spinning.
On the ground again, Fergus took her hand. “Did you like that?”
They were sixteen, getting to know each other.
That. Hedy didn’t know which part to answer. Fear, height, danger, him equaled no, no, no--“Yes,” she said. He led her to the roller coaster.
“Be sure to tell Miss Marple,” he said. He meant his word. Vertiginous was a vocabulary word that week and Miss Marple wasn’t her name, they just all called her that because she was old and talked with a funny English accent and read Agatha Christie books while they took tests.
At the top of the roller coaster, just before they swooped, Fergus mouthed “Ver-ti-go!” and clutched her arm, both of them reaching. He laughed and patted her bum as she got off the ride, breathless.
Hedy had been to the carnival only with girlfriends before. Actually, she’d arrived this very evening with Sue and Amy M.—they were debating how they’d ride with three since their other buddy, Amy B., was out of town—when Fergus had walked up and asked Hedy to be his date. Just like that! Of course she’d said okay; who wouldn’t? He was smart and smooth and mostly hung out with guys like himself. They’d lean against the back of the school building and half-smile in sexy ways, shifting their weight from hip to hip. Hedy had thought someone like Fergus out of her reach.
“What about this one?” he said, eyeing the Tilt-a-Whirl. The night was dark and balmy, surrounding them with a softness; the cavernous red cars loomed and spun dizzily in front of them, behind the lights, white and dazzling. They crawled into a car with another couple (A couple, Hedy thought: we’re a couple, Fergus and I) who exited immediately from the other side—the girl said she just couldn’t do it.
So, alone, they slid and spun, their necks frozen backward with the force, their hands gripping the circular wheel in front of them in –to Hedy—something close to terror. They stumbled down the wooden walkway to flat ground, laughing with relief. “Now that was vertigo,” Hedy said. Fergus slung his arm around her shoulder, almost like a drunken buddy. She loved it. She didn’t want the night to end. She reached for his hand, which dangled close to her right breast. He pulled her sidewise, close to him, and kissed her hair above her ear. She almost swooned.
“You’re great,” he said. “You’re great at a carnival. Want to try that bullet thing?” He indicated the capsules positioned at the end of great swinging arms, arms that flipped totally upside down. Twin Flip, it was called. They waited, Hedy’s stomach lurching at its sight, Fergus smiling at her the way he’d smiled at others, leading her into their own private space ship thing, launching them together. They flipped and flew to the point where there were no views, only crazed images flashing by. The ride finally halted, they breathed heavily together. “I’m vertiginous over you,” she said, in a gasp, as he helped her unbuckle, pushing the bar away from them.
“What?” he said, catching his breath. “Oh, yeah! Our word. No way to get it wrong, now, is there?” He started down the planks, Hedy right behind.
But she did get it wrong. Not on the test which she aced, as usual, and so did Fergus for that matter. Even anticipating that flying that high with Fergus couldn’t last, even anticipating the answer to the evening,, Hedy got it wrong. She couldn’t get her balance again. Fergus smiled at her at school; he was always polite, but they were back on the ground where she’d have to figure out how to walk normally.
No one had ever put it like that before. Besides, she didn’t believe it. Maybe when they came down from the ride—a Ferris wheel where they were now swinging from the highest point, the carnival splayed beneath them like trinkets scattered among thick confetti—maybe then Hedy would entertain the thought. But now Fergus was pumping his legs to incite the rocking of their carriage, his head tilted to assess her sensation (she was smiling, she found him exciting, she wondered at what price) as the lights around them swirled and dazzled like those tin lollipops you could pull with a string to set them spinning.
On the ground again, Fergus took her hand. “Did you like that?”
They were sixteen, getting to know each other.
That. Hedy didn’t know which part to answer. Fear, height, danger, him equaled no, no, no--“Yes,” she said. He led her to the roller coaster.
“Be sure to tell Miss Marple,” he said. He meant his word. Vertiginous was a vocabulary word that week and Miss Marple wasn’t her name, they just all called her that because she was old and talked with a funny English accent and read Agatha Christie books while they took tests.
At the top of the roller coaster, just before they swooped, Fergus mouthed “Ver-ti-go!” and clutched her arm, both of them reaching. He laughed and patted her bum as she got off the ride, breathless.
Hedy had been to the carnival only with girlfriends before. Actually, she’d arrived this very evening with Sue and Amy M.—they were debating how they’d ride with three since their other buddy, Amy B., was out of town—when Fergus had walked up and asked Hedy to be his date. Just like that! Of course she’d said okay; who wouldn’t? He was smart and smooth and mostly hung out with guys like himself. They’d lean against the back of the school building and half-smile in sexy ways, shifting their weight from hip to hip. Hedy had thought someone like Fergus out of her reach.
“What about this one?” he said, eyeing the Tilt-a-Whirl. The night was dark and balmy, surrounding them with a softness; the cavernous red cars loomed and spun dizzily in front of them, behind the lights, white and dazzling. They crawled into a car with another couple (A couple, Hedy thought: we’re a couple, Fergus and I) who exited immediately from the other side—the girl said she just couldn’t do it.
So, alone, they slid and spun, their necks frozen backward with the force, their hands gripping the circular wheel in front of them in –to Hedy—something close to terror. They stumbled down the wooden walkway to flat ground, laughing with relief. “Now that was vertigo,” Hedy said. Fergus slung his arm around her shoulder, almost like a drunken buddy. She loved it. She didn’t want the night to end. She reached for his hand, which dangled close to her right breast. He pulled her sidewise, close to him, and kissed her hair above her ear. She almost swooned.
“You’re great,” he said. “You’re great at a carnival. Want to try that bullet thing?” He indicated the capsules positioned at the end of great swinging arms, arms that flipped totally upside down. Twin Flip, it was called. They waited, Hedy’s stomach lurching at its sight, Fergus smiling at her the way he’d smiled at others, leading her into their own private space ship thing, launching them together. They flipped and flew to the point where there were no views, only crazed images flashing by. The ride finally halted, they breathed heavily together. “I’m vertiginous over you,” she said, in a gasp, as he helped her unbuckle, pushing the bar away from them.
“What?” he said, catching his breath. “Oh, yeah! Our word. No way to get it wrong, now, is there?” He started down the planks, Hedy right behind.
But she did get it wrong. Not on the test which she aced, as usual, and so did Fergus for that matter. Even anticipating that flying that high with Fergus couldn’t last, even anticipating the answer to the evening,, Hedy got it wrong. She couldn’t get her balance again. Fergus smiled at her at school; he was always polite, but they were back on the ground where she’d have to figure out how to walk normally.
Vertigo - John Fetto
It didn’t make sense. First they told Johanna that Russell was dead, a victim of a brutal murder, his body burned beyond recognition. They even gave her a small box of ash, saying that’s all that was left of him. And now they’re telling her he’s alive, that’s he’s been alive all these months since that terrible day, out playing soldier or something in Central America. All this she could barely move, he was out saving himself, doing what he liked, a thousand miles away. It wasn’t the same person. It couldn’t be the same person, but they just kept repeating that they’d made this mistake, asking her questions about where he might be right now as if she’d know when she didn’t even know he was alive.
“I don’t know,” she told them, but the Customs Agent and the Reporter pressed her to think, remember, some detail that would clue them in what Russell was doing now. She didn’t know, but she should there weathering the storm of their questions, as if she were back at the hospital talking to anxious parent with three babies of ventilators, trying to keep her balance, because that was her job, she was supposed to stay calm, centered, in the middle of someone else’s crisis, but this was happening to her, this was her crisis. Hawley wasn’t dead, but he let her believe he was dead, which means he was gone in a whole different way. He wasn’t with her because he couldn’t, because he was murdered, he wasn’t with her, because he’d rather be somewhere else, someplace away from her. And that realization made the floor tilt and waver, as if a silent earthquake had shook the foundations of her life, and for just a moment she thought she would fall over. So when they stopped their yapping, when they stopped tossing their questions and waited for her answer, all she said was, “I need to sit down.”
“I don’t know,” she told them, but the Customs Agent and the Reporter pressed her to think, remember, some detail that would clue them in what Russell was doing now. She didn’t know, but she should there weathering the storm of their questions, as if she were back at the hospital talking to anxious parent with three babies of ventilators, trying to keep her balance, because that was her job, she was supposed to stay calm, centered, in the middle of someone else’s crisis, but this was happening to her, this was her crisis. Hawley wasn’t dead, but he let her believe he was dead, which means he was gone in a whole different way. He wasn’t with her because he couldn’t, because he was murdered, he wasn’t with her, because he’d rather be somewhere else, someplace away from her. And that realization made the floor tilt and waver, as if a silent earthquake had shook the foundations of her life, and for just a moment she thought she would fall over. So when they stopped their yapping, when they stopped tossing their questions and waited for her answer, all she said was, “I need to sit down.”
Vertigo - Melody
When I was a kid, I’d swing for hours, back and forth, back and forth, at Children’s Playground in Golden Gate Park. I’d swing to the beat of the ever-present bongo and conga drums that forever set the rhythm – drifting over from Hippie Hill which was just past Children’s Playground. I’d swing in rhythm to the drums which never stopped playing. Never once did I feel dizzy.
Then I’d skateboard down the hill that led to Children’s Playground. The paved road there was especially good for skateboarding because it was curvy and not straight like all the streets in San Francisco where I lived were – the avenues were like neat little squares and some streets had hills and some didn’t, but the streets weren’t curvy, they were dependable, and the avenues were organized beginning with Arguello (instead of first avenue) and going all the way up to 48th Avenue and no further because that’s where Ocean Beach is.
Even though the years have gone by and it’s been close to 40 years since I’ve careened down hills on a skateboard and the last time I attempted to swing at a playground, I felt dizzy – that old vertigo thing has set in. Now I can’t even handle a ride that spins in any way. Children’s Playground has been completely dismantled and rebuilt – yet some things still remain the same. The beating of the drums still set the rhythm for that section of Golden Gate Park, and the avenues are still just as dependable as they ever have been – I can count on the streets being there, and I can still drive down the street where I grew up, Second Avenue, between Lincoln Way and Hugo Street right across the street from Golden Gate Park – a patch of meadow that we kids always called the Greens, a meadow with trees to climb surrounded by traffic – are spot of the world to find what every kid loves, surrounded by whizzing cars.
Then I’d skateboard down the hill that led to Children’s Playground. The paved road there was especially good for skateboarding because it was curvy and not straight like all the streets in San Francisco where I lived were – the avenues were like neat little squares and some streets had hills and some didn’t, but the streets weren’t curvy, they were dependable, and the avenues were organized beginning with Arguello (instead of first avenue) and going all the way up to 48th Avenue and no further because that’s where Ocean Beach is.
Even though the years have gone by and it’s been close to 40 years since I’ve careened down hills on a skateboard and the last time I attempted to swing at a playground, I felt dizzy – that old vertigo thing has set in. Now I can’t even handle a ride that spins in any way. Children’s Playground has been completely dismantled and rebuilt – yet some things still remain the same. The beating of the drums still set the rhythm for that section of Golden Gate Park, and the avenues are still just as dependable as they ever have been – I can count on the streets being there, and I can still drive down the street where I grew up, Second Avenue, between Lincoln Way and Hugo Street right across the street from Golden Gate Park – a patch of meadow that we kids always called the Greens, a meadow with trees to climb surrounded by traffic – are spot of the world to find what every kid loves, surrounded by whizzing cars.
You Know We Got Nothing Extra - Camilla Basham
My card box is wet. My cart is minus a wheel. Sometimes it's cool watching the sparks fly when the bare metal hits the pavement, but for the most part, I think I'd rather have that forth wheel. But beggars can't be choosers my Grandma use to say. This morning as I was tending to business on the corner of Divisidero and Haight some asshole stops at a red light and rolls down his window, Instead of giving me something I could use, like a sandwich, cash, or a pack of smokes, the bastard hands me a new piece of cardboard he had ripped off of his new Mac book box and one of those sharpies, you know the kind you tend to pop the lid off of and hold to your nose, desperate to breath in some kind of happiness. As if to say, “Hey dude, I have to see your pathetic face everyday at this fucking traffic light on my way to work, the least you can do is present your case a little more professionally.” Instead of my usual status of "my religion is kindness" scrolled almost invisibly in pencil on an old poster I tore from a store window, making it read, “My religion is kindness, no shirt, no shoes, no service.” I would rather write, “Fucking help me, you asshole, can't you see I am dying here.” Mind you I think my Starbucks cup would get awfully lonely with those words, not that it is overflowing with my current prose.
So why am I telling you all this. Well, this documentary making college kid, Mike, walks up to me this morning while I was procuring the produce bin on the corner of Sansome and Sutter hands me ten bucks and a box of half eaten Chicken Chow Mein in one of those little cardboard boxes with the handle and tells me he'll come back and pay me if I tell him my story, then he hands me a spiral notebook and a pen, the cool kind, not the kind where you have to take the lid off and on, but the kind you click, I love those kind. So here I am. I've got nothing better to do so you can listen or not. It's up to you. I'm use to being ignored.
Just so you know the way my mind works, I look at every inanimate object to decide if it is a) big enough and waterproof enough to live in or b) big enough and porous enough to write on. The take out box was neither, so my next hope was that there was actually food in it, and not some two day old crap that's been rotting in the back of a car when some wise ass thinks, hey, I'll just give it to that bum as they're on their way to get their BMW cleaned. That stuff makes you sick, and taste even worse on the way up.
So this kid Mike says to me, “I need to know how you got here and what you want out of life. Write down some notes whenever you have time.” I almost laughed until I coughed up blood, which these days wouldn't be that hard to do. So while I'm pushing my three wheeled closet containing my most prized possessions, I figured I'd stop now and then and kill the time telling you my story, as long as I make it to Glide in time for dinner. I got there late last night and the women in the hair net told me, "You know we got nothing extra." And let me tell you, those six words kick you the gut worse than any hostile boot.
So why am I telling you all this. Well, this documentary making college kid, Mike, walks up to me this morning while I was procuring the produce bin on the corner of Sansome and Sutter hands me ten bucks and a box of half eaten Chicken Chow Mein in one of those little cardboard boxes with the handle and tells me he'll come back and pay me if I tell him my story, then he hands me a spiral notebook and a pen, the cool kind, not the kind where you have to take the lid off and on, but the kind you click, I love those kind. So here I am. I've got nothing better to do so you can listen or not. It's up to you. I'm use to being ignored.
Just so you know the way my mind works, I look at every inanimate object to decide if it is a) big enough and waterproof enough to live in or b) big enough and porous enough to write on. The take out box was neither, so my next hope was that there was actually food in it, and not some two day old crap that's been rotting in the back of a car when some wise ass thinks, hey, I'll just give it to that bum as they're on their way to get their BMW cleaned. That stuff makes you sick, and taste even worse on the way up.
So this kid Mike says to me, “I need to know how you got here and what you want out of life. Write down some notes whenever you have time.” I almost laughed until I coughed up blood, which these days wouldn't be that hard to do. So while I'm pushing my three wheeled closet containing my most prized possessions, I figured I'd stop now and then and kill the time telling you my story, as long as I make it to Glide in time for dinner. I got there late last night and the women in the hair net told me, "You know we got nothing extra." And let me tell you, those six words kick you the gut worse than any hostile boot.
Show and Tell - Andrew Hamilton
It is really hard to write about home when you do not really have one. Oh sure, I have a house where I grew up. I mean, some strangers live there now as it was sold during my parents’ divorce so it is not necessarily a place that I have the blissful opportunity to return to from time to time and feel complete. Both parents are afflicted with the illness that does not allow them to redecorate, so their current houses look like the one I grew up in even if the packaging is different. Even still, when I visit my parents, it does not feel like home per se.
Of course, the cliché goes that home is where the heart is (irrespective of one’s choice in upholstery). In general, I think that is true, but again, my parents’ houses do not really qualify. It sounds awful to say that because the love is there, just not the feeling of acceptance, support, or authenticity. Take those three things away and what you have is a relationship based on monetary contributions and flying home when bad things happen but not really the symbiotic relationship that provides comfort, sustainment, or even worse, hearty laughter.
When you get older, at some point you start to think of home as “your” house and not where you grew up or even where your parents live. You might fix it up real nice, buy some plants, and maybe even get a dog or some stainless steel appliances. But, we all know that home is not defined by knowing where the remote is and what channels are on the favorites list. It’s comfortable, yes. But hotels can be comfortable.
No, I think home is in the imagination. Sometimes it can sneak up on you and make a visit when you least expect it, like sitting in a coffee shop and having five peaceful, reflective minutes of happiness. It can be walking that dog and seeing how he takes every walk as a completely unique experience, even though you have been that way over a thousand times. It can be waking up next to someone who you have the possibility of loving before all the other complications arise. It can be fleeting, that home in your heart, your mind, your soul. The bricks and mortar might provide convenient trapping for it, but home is not something that is stationary. It seems to roam for me, is elusive. But, I always welcome its visit.
Of course, the cliché goes that home is where the heart is (irrespective of one’s choice in upholstery). In general, I think that is true, but again, my parents’ houses do not really qualify. It sounds awful to say that because the love is there, just not the feeling of acceptance, support, or authenticity. Take those three things away and what you have is a relationship based on monetary contributions and flying home when bad things happen but not really the symbiotic relationship that provides comfort, sustainment, or even worse, hearty laughter.
When you get older, at some point you start to think of home as “your” house and not where you grew up or even where your parents live. You might fix it up real nice, buy some plants, and maybe even get a dog or some stainless steel appliances. But, we all know that home is not defined by knowing where the remote is and what channels are on the favorites list. It’s comfortable, yes. But hotels can be comfortable.
No, I think home is in the imagination. Sometimes it can sneak up on you and make a visit when you least expect it, like sitting in a coffee shop and having five peaceful, reflective minutes of happiness. It can be walking that dog and seeing how he takes every walk as a completely unique experience, even though you have been that way over a thousand times. It can be waking up next to someone who you have the possibility of loving before all the other complications arise. It can be fleeting, that home in your heart, your mind, your soul. The bricks and mortar might provide convenient trapping for it, but home is not something that is stationary. It seems to roam for me, is elusive. But, I always welcome its visit.
Show and Tell - Donna Shomer
California Missions
Remember the California Mission assignment?
Fourth grade?
Parents in the parking lot
with their cardboard model
of the Santa Clarita Mission
that they didn’t make
entirely without help
from the child –
looking for endorsement –
comparing their hours
of sacrifice and cut fingers,
the expense of the board,
the strength of the glue.
Remember the California Mission assignment?
Fourth grade?
Parents in the parking lot
with their cardboard model
of the Santa Clarita Mission
that they didn’t make
entirely without help
from the child –
looking for endorsement –
comparing their hours
of sacrifice and cut fingers,
the expense of the board,
the strength of the glue.
Home - Donna Shomer
If I could
reach back
to that attic –
If I could do it again –
I would take
more time.
I wouldn’t
be afraid.
I would savor
the ripping sound
of the tape
opening every box.
reach back
to that attic –
If I could do it again –
I would take
more time.
I wouldn’t
be afraid.
I would savor
the ripping sound
of the tape
opening every box.
Home - Bonnie Smetts
“Rawling, honey, I don’t know why you’re hanging on to making this grandma your own. Just let it go,” Randy says to me. We’re just lying around her nice living room, she’d been shopping again, now that her nice-man-of-a-husband has gotten a new job. I’d been over all afternoon and she’d done up my nails and my hair like she likes to do, pretending she’s got her own salon, Randy’s Rainbow. Now we’re sitting sipping sodas in the living room.
“Rand, honey, look around you,” I say to her. I’m pointing at all the nice things, seeing it must be a nice place to live, something she could think of if she’s ever scared, or running out of feeling at all comfortable in the middle of the day.
“What, you think a house is like a grandma?” she asks me.
“I think they are something like the same,” I say.
And I think they are. And then something crazy comes into my head. “Let’s drive by my grandma’s house, please.” I say please because I know she’s not gonna want to be driving by somebody’s house after dark and starring in their windows.
“Rawling, no. We’re not going to go snooping past that lady’s house. You’re out of your mind these days. I think you’re drinking too much coffee or something at the diner.”
“Come on, just a little drive-by, please?” I’m thinking what harm could it be, just taking another look. “Just drive by one time, OK?”
“Rawling, I’m not going to do it. You get this idea out of your head or you’re going to get some trouble started.” She’s being firmer than I thought she’d could be.
“Come on, you want some cake? Made it today, not from a box.”
“No, I’m gonna walk on home.” I tell her. I want to get out of her house and away from her, even though I love her, my best friend in the world. “You’re right, Rand. I’m just a tiny bit crazy about this. Guess I’m just tired.”
We give each other the hug I’ve come used to accepting from her.
“Tomorrow, I’ll drop by the diner tomorrow, OK?” And then I’m gone, walking the sidewalk past all the houses, one after another with the warm lights and I can see somebody’s having dinner, and some kid’s crying. A fellow’s watching TV and talking to somebody I can’t see. I’m kind of relieved when I turn to the street and see the diner. I don’t want to be watching anybody else right now.
“Rand, honey, look around you,” I say to her. I’m pointing at all the nice things, seeing it must be a nice place to live, something she could think of if she’s ever scared, or running out of feeling at all comfortable in the middle of the day.
“What, you think a house is like a grandma?” she asks me.
“I think they are something like the same,” I say.
And I think they are. And then something crazy comes into my head. “Let’s drive by my grandma’s house, please.” I say please because I know she’s not gonna want to be driving by somebody’s house after dark and starring in their windows.
“Rawling, no. We’re not going to go snooping past that lady’s house. You’re out of your mind these days. I think you’re drinking too much coffee or something at the diner.”
“Come on, just a little drive-by, please?” I’m thinking what harm could it be, just taking another look. “Just drive by one time, OK?”
“Rawling, I’m not going to do it. You get this idea out of your head or you’re going to get some trouble started.” She’s being firmer than I thought she’d could be.
“Come on, you want some cake? Made it today, not from a box.”
“No, I’m gonna walk on home.” I tell her. I want to get out of her house and away from her, even though I love her, my best friend in the world. “You’re right, Rand. I’m just a tiny bit crazy about this. Guess I’m just tired.”
We give each other the hug I’ve come used to accepting from her.
“Tomorrow, I’ll drop by the diner tomorrow, OK?” And then I’m gone, walking the sidewalk past all the houses, one after another with the warm lights and I can see somebody’s having dinner, and some kid’s crying. A fellow’s watching TV and talking to somebody I can’t see. I’m kind of relieved when I turn to the street and see the diner. I don’t want to be watching anybody else right now.
Home - Carol Arnold
Sometimes when I think of home I make up a picture in my mind. I don’t have Delores anymore, but a real mother who wears an apron with flour all over it. She bakes chocolate chip cookies every day, or maybe peanut butter. She greets me and Kiki at the door when we come home and says “Oh my girls are home. How happy I am.” She gives each of us a big fat kiss on the warm spots on our heads, the spot where the sun hits. On Sundays, we lie on the lawn together and braid each other’s hair. We play Hearts and she let’s us win. She says “Oh, my girls are so smart I just don’t know what to do with them.” She makes matching dresses for us, three of them, lemon drop color, seer-sucker with white rick-rack. We go to the grocery store together. We hold hands, and all the ladies smile. The grocery man gives us tootsie pops. He says, “you girls sure take after your Mother, prettiest lady I ever seen.”
I cry sometimes thinking about home, the way I want it to be. I cry under my sheets with the lights out. One night Alma came to bed and said, “Spidee, are you crying?” I said, no. She said “yes you are, I heard you, what you crying about.” I said “nothing, there’s nothing in the world to cry about.” She said “Well, let’s say a prayer anyway,” and I had to get outta bed and kneel and say Our Father with her. It was okay, but I know no God is coming down to give me a mother like I want. No God can do that.
Closest I have to home now is Horace. After he saw me that day, standing in the sinner line getting his beans, he tries to get real friendly. He says, “Yeah, you’re Spider, that girl I gave the ride home to.” I say, “you might think I am but I’m not, I’m a different Spider.” He says, “there’s not more than one Spider in the world and she’s you. Yeah, we had a good old time that night, didn’t we.”
I didn’t say anything cause I know he’s right about that. I did have a good old time that night, but now that I’m a lot older, and have my period and all, I know I should have never taken my clothes off with him, that I was “a stupid kid,” like Delores used to say when I spilled catsup on my blouse or something. So I just pretend it never happened.
He comes back a few days later and hangs around. I’m sweeping up the front steps of the church and there he is. He’s not driving the T-Bird anymore, he’s walking. I say, “where’s that old T-Bird?” and he says “Police took it.” I don’t want to know any more so don’t ask him.
He starts hanging around when Preacher Omar is there, talking to him. I hear them one morning when I’m up on the roof by the cross and flame. The sound just drifts up and I can hear everything they say.
“Yes, Preacher, I have a lot of experience with kids, used to be a teacher, first grade.”
“What happened?” Preacher Omar says. “How come you not teaching anymore?”
“School closed down. Hard times. I’m trying to get back on my feet, had a few set backs.” As if Preacher Omar didn’t know this. All the sinners that come around have a few set backs.
“Yeah, I was thinking, Preacher, maybe you need a little help with the Sunday school now and then. I’m good with Bible stories. Love ‘em myself.”
“Well, we are a little short handed right now. Alma and Spidee have their hands full with the lunches and hymns. Just got Miss Ogle volunteering for me with the Sunday school, and she’s pretty old. Can’t always keep up with those kids.”
“Why don’t I come around this Sunday and help out Mrs. Ogle. I’ll do whatever needs doing. Just let me know, I’ll do it.”
I squint my eyes when I hear all this and look up at that flame goin through the cross. Sometimes that flame looks like its stabbing that cross, like it’s just piercing that old cross’ heart. Sometimes I feel like I’m that too, like my heart is piercing into two pieces and I don’t know what to do with either one.
I cry sometimes thinking about home, the way I want it to be. I cry under my sheets with the lights out. One night Alma came to bed and said, “Spidee, are you crying?” I said, no. She said “yes you are, I heard you, what you crying about.” I said “nothing, there’s nothing in the world to cry about.” She said “Well, let’s say a prayer anyway,” and I had to get outta bed and kneel and say Our Father with her. It was okay, but I know no God is coming down to give me a mother like I want. No God can do that.
Closest I have to home now is Horace. After he saw me that day, standing in the sinner line getting his beans, he tries to get real friendly. He says, “Yeah, you’re Spider, that girl I gave the ride home to.” I say, “you might think I am but I’m not, I’m a different Spider.” He says, “there’s not more than one Spider in the world and she’s you. Yeah, we had a good old time that night, didn’t we.”
I didn’t say anything cause I know he’s right about that. I did have a good old time that night, but now that I’m a lot older, and have my period and all, I know I should have never taken my clothes off with him, that I was “a stupid kid,” like Delores used to say when I spilled catsup on my blouse or something. So I just pretend it never happened.
He comes back a few days later and hangs around. I’m sweeping up the front steps of the church and there he is. He’s not driving the T-Bird anymore, he’s walking. I say, “where’s that old T-Bird?” and he says “Police took it.” I don’t want to know any more so don’t ask him.
He starts hanging around when Preacher Omar is there, talking to him. I hear them one morning when I’m up on the roof by the cross and flame. The sound just drifts up and I can hear everything they say.
“Yes, Preacher, I have a lot of experience with kids, used to be a teacher, first grade.”
“What happened?” Preacher Omar says. “How come you not teaching anymore?”
“School closed down. Hard times. I’m trying to get back on my feet, had a few set backs.” As if Preacher Omar didn’t know this. All the sinners that come around have a few set backs.
“Yeah, I was thinking, Preacher, maybe you need a little help with the Sunday school now and then. I’m good with Bible stories. Love ‘em myself.”
“Well, we are a little short handed right now. Alma and Spidee have their hands full with the lunches and hymns. Just got Miss Ogle volunteering for me with the Sunday school, and she’s pretty old. Can’t always keep up with those kids.”
“Why don’t I come around this Sunday and help out Mrs. Ogle. I’ll do whatever needs doing. Just let me know, I’ll do it.”
I squint my eyes when I hear all this and look up at that flame goin through the cross. Sometimes that flame looks like its stabbing that cross, like it’s just piercing that old cross’ heart. Sometimes I feel like I’m that too, like my heart is piercing into two pieces and I don’t know what to do with either one.
Home - Julie Farrar
Later this year I’ll start renovations on my home that will probably end up costing me the price of a newer and larger house in the suburban sprawl twenty miles farther down the highway. This money I’ll be spending won’t buy me a great room with a wet bar or a kitchen with a sub-zero and Wolf 6-burner professional range. I won’t have a master bath Jacuzzi with a dozen jets or a walk-in closet. A few years after we moved in a knock on the door introduced us to the couple that had raised kids in this home two owners and a generation ago. They had bought the house for $68,000. We had spent almost ten times that for the same property, now just a decade and a bit shy of a century, and I’m hoping that we can keep the plumbing overhaul under that $68,000.
This house won’t have the bells and whistles that drive so much residential development. What it will have, however, is the deep porcelain sink like the one where I stood on a stool with an apron tied up under my arms while I helped Grandma wash dishes. This kitchen will have the walk-in pantry with open shelving that proved such an enticing hide-and-seek spot for her grandchildren and storage for her bakeware. If I’m lucky, I’ll locate a table with a graniteware top and retractable leaves, which always maintained a cool temperature for rolling out pie dough. Instead of wall cabinets, I’ll ring the room with shelving to display the cookie jars, vases, mixing bowls, and kitchen tools from all the women who cooked in our family. The foundation of the upstairs screened-in porch will be rebuilt so the space can be reclaimed and furnished with the wooden chaise lounge from my Granny’s sunroom in her apartment that was just several blocks from where I am now. Her telephone table will probably sit next to it. The fireplace surround and mantle will be replaced to better show off the red Weller cachepot and the blue dogwood twig vase that decorated my mother’s house, as well as the botanical lithograph that had previously hung in my in-laws front entry. Because no modern purchase can match the artistry of its delicate curves, I’ll repair the shade on the matte bronze Arts and Crafts lamp with the tulip-leaf base that came from the estate of my husband’s dear aunt. It will sit in the living room filled with chairs from living rooms of family we loved. Bookshelves will be refashioned with glass doors to protect the ancient publications bearing the fading hand-lettered “Property of . . .” completed with names from our family history. The walls will be painted to highlight the art we had grown up seeing every Sunday at family dinner, and our table will sit on the same rug that had cushioned my husband’s family table.
When I’m finished, it won’t be just my home. It will include all the homes we loved.
This house won’t have the bells and whistles that drive so much residential development. What it will have, however, is the deep porcelain sink like the one where I stood on a stool with an apron tied up under my arms while I helped Grandma wash dishes. This kitchen will have the walk-in pantry with open shelving that proved such an enticing hide-and-seek spot for her grandchildren and storage for her bakeware. If I’m lucky, I’ll locate a table with a graniteware top and retractable leaves, which always maintained a cool temperature for rolling out pie dough. Instead of wall cabinets, I’ll ring the room with shelving to display the cookie jars, vases, mixing bowls, and kitchen tools from all the women who cooked in our family. The foundation of the upstairs screened-in porch will be rebuilt so the space can be reclaimed and furnished with the wooden chaise lounge from my Granny’s sunroom in her apartment that was just several blocks from where I am now. Her telephone table will probably sit next to it. The fireplace surround and mantle will be replaced to better show off the red Weller cachepot and the blue dogwood twig vase that decorated my mother’s house, as well as the botanical lithograph that had previously hung in my in-laws front entry. Because no modern purchase can match the artistry of its delicate curves, I’ll repair the shade on the matte bronze Arts and Crafts lamp with the tulip-leaf base that came from the estate of my husband’s dear aunt. It will sit in the living room filled with chairs from living rooms of family we loved. Bookshelves will be refashioned with glass doors to protect the ancient publications bearing the fading hand-lettered “Property of . . .” completed with names from our family history. The walls will be painted to highlight the art we had grown up seeing every Sunday at family dinner, and our table will sit on the same rug that had cushioned my husband’s family table.
When I’m finished, it won’t be just my home. It will include all the homes we loved.
Home - Randy Wong
Adam and Tracy Wilkinson took a moment to stare at the feast laid out before them. All their culinary favorites were present. Adam was a meat and potatoes kind of guy; so naturally, there were lots of meat and potatoes. He especially loved roast pork. And creamy mashed potatoes – the perfect side dish. He also loved pop and fresh biscuits. Who knew something soft, tasty and luxurious could come from a pressurized can of pre-made dough? For Tracy, she loved rotisserie chicken, green beans, and baked yams. She also was a potatoes kind of gal. In her case, she loved baked potatoes drenched in melted butter and covered in chives. She also loved her salads. When they got married, Tracy made a tremendous effort to get Adam to eat a salad before dinner. Adam felt raw vegetables got in the way of comfort food, but he finally relented as long as he still got to eat his creamy mashed potatoes during the main course.
It had been a rough week for them. On Monday, Adam was told that his network administrator job was being eliminated. After almost fifteen years in the information technology industry, he was suddenly without a job. Two days later, Tracy lost her administration job with the city. This was a blow to both of them as they were considering starting a family. Now that they were both out of work, they needed to get their finances in order. They spent two days working out a tighter budget and made a list of things they could do without. They calculated that they could hold out for about several months between the two severance packages the two received before they needed to dip into their savings. The economic outlook was very poor, but the young couple remained optimistic.
They were sitting at opposite ends of their small dinner table. Adam reached both hands across the table to hold Tracy’s hands. He stared at her for a moment with a serious look that Tracy hadn’t seen before.
“Tracy, I need to say this. The economy is in the shitter, and we both recently lost our jobs. Now, I know we were talking about starting a family, and these recent events have a put a stop to those plans. But, I promise you … everything will turn out fine. As long was we have each other, we’ll be fine.”
He squeezed Tracy’s hand. She smiled, leaned over the table, and kissed him. Adam took Tracy’s right hand and put it against his cheek.
Tracy caressed Adam’s cheek with the back of her hand. “I’m not worried babe. Besides, it’s just money,” she said in a mocking tone. “I mean, money doesn’t buy you happiness. It does buy you stuff that makes you smile, though.”
Adam laughed heartedly. Her sense of humor and sarcasm was one of her most endearing qualities.
“Trace, ‘home’ isn’t about the stuff we own or the money we make. Home is wherever and whenever we’re together. I love you, babe.”
They kissed one more time, and then sat down to have their meal. Tomorrow, the intense work of job hunting and interview preparation would begin. For tonight, they feasted like royalty.
It had been a rough week for them. On Monday, Adam was told that his network administrator job was being eliminated. After almost fifteen years in the information technology industry, he was suddenly without a job. Two days later, Tracy lost her administration job with the city. This was a blow to both of them as they were considering starting a family. Now that they were both out of work, they needed to get their finances in order. They spent two days working out a tighter budget and made a list of things they could do without. They calculated that they could hold out for about several months between the two severance packages the two received before they needed to dip into their savings. The economic outlook was very poor, but the young couple remained optimistic.
They were sitting at opposite ends of their small dinner table. Adam reached both hands across the table to hold Tracy’s hands. He stared at her for a moment with a serious look that Tracy hadn’t seen before.
“Tracy, I need to say this. The economy is in the shitter, and we both recently lost our jobs. Now, I know we were talking about starting a family, and these recent events have a put a stop to those plans. But, I promise you … everything will turn out fine. As long was we have each other, we’ll be fine.”
He squeezed Tracy’s hand. She smiled, leaned over the table, and kissed him. Adam took Tracy’s right hand and put it against his cheek.
Tracy caressed Adam’s cheek with the back of her hand. “I’m not worried babe. Besides, it’s just money,” she said in a mocking tone. “I mean, money doesn’t buy you happiness. It does buy you stuff that makes you smile, though.”
Adam laughed heartedly. Her sense of humor and sarcasm was one of her most endearing qualities.
“Trace, ‘home’ isn’t about the stuff we own or the money we make. Home is wherever and whenever we’re together. I love you, babe.”
They kissed one more time, and then sat down to have their meal. Tomorrow, the intense work of job hunting and interview preparation would begin. For tonight, they feasted like royalty.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Dangerously - Julie Farrar
They stepped on the hotel elevator in the lobby. Both about fifteen years younger than I was, one was tall with dark hair, the other much shorter with streaks of blond in his close-cropped brown hair. I had just ridden the elevator first up to the rooftop bar, then to floor 9, now down to the lobby again where I heard the body-thumping loud music that filled all the public spaces this Friday night at the über trendy Atlanta lodgings my husband had booked. Wait until he arrived tomorrow and got a load of this place. For the moment, though, I seemed incapable of getting this darn box to stop on my floor. It was late and I was tired.
“What floor do you want?” I asked helpfully.
“Four, please,” they answered in even more über trendy East London accents. I guess that accent explained the tailored, open-collared shirt with red and baby blue and black stripes that Mr. Short One wore, three buttons undone.
I punched first floor 4, then 3 but nothing happened after that. Mr. Tall pointed out that I needed to put my room key in the slot to get to the room floors. Only the rooftop bar and lobby were accessible without the key. “Last time I was in it I didn’t use the key and it stopped on my floor.” The two accents insisted this was what worked, so I dropped my key in the slot and pressed 4 then 3 again. Nothing.
“No, no,” Mr. Tall corrected me. “You have to remove it to make it work.”
“Yes,” his striped friend agreed. “You put it in and remove it, then press.”
“Oh,” I responded. “Earlier I put it in and left it there while I pushed. That seemed to work, too.”
“No,” they both insisted. “It only works if you put it in and take it out quickly before you push. You don’t want to leave it in too long. In, then out, then push.”
In an instant we all realized where the conversation was going. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Mr. Short looking down at his pointy-toed shoes, trying not to smile too big or laugh. And me, I was dangerously close to being a woman, not an exhausted wife, mother, dutiful daughter-in-law here to celebrate my mother-in-law’s 80th birthday. I had a spot of strawberry rhubarb pie on my white tank top and my back pain was returning after a day of driving for this trip from St. Louis to Atlanta. However, I was so tempted to add one more line to this dialogue to take it all the way.
Before I could say a thing, though, Mr. Tall said, “Here, let me do it,” as he reached around me and expertly put it in and took it out quickly then pushed all the right buttons so that in no time at all I got off on my floor, refreshed from this anonymous elevator encounter, with a “thank you” and “goodnight.”
“What floor do you want?” I asked helpfully.
“Four, please,” they answered in even more über trendy East London accents. I guess that accent explained the tailored, open-collared shirt with red and baby blue and black stripes that Mr. Short One wore, three buttons undone.
I punched first floor 4, then 3 but nothing happened after that. Mr. Tall pointed out that I needed to put my room key in the slot to get to the room floors. Only the rooftop bar and lobby were accessible without the key. “Last time I was in it I didn’t use the key and it stopped on my floor.” The two accents insisted this was what worked, so I dropped my key in the slot and pressed 4 then 3 again. Nothing.
“No, no,” Mr. Tall corrected me. “You have to remove it to make it work.”
“Yes,” his striped friend agreed. “You put it in and remove it, then press.”
“Oh,” I responded. “Earlier I put it in and left it there while I pushed. That seemed to work, too.”
“No,” they both insisted. “It only works if you put it in and take it out quickly before you push. You don’t want to leave it in too long. In, then out, then push.”
In an instant we all realized where the conversation was going. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Mr. Short looking down at his pointy-toed shoes, trying not to smile too big or laugh. And me, I was dangerously close to being a woman, not an exhausted wife, mother, dutiful daughter-in-law here to celebrate my mother-in-law’s 80th birthday. I had a spot of strawberry rhubarb pie on my white tank top and my back pain was returning after a day of driving for this trip from St. Louis to Atlanta. However, I was so tempted to add one more line to this dialogue to take it all the way.
Before I could say a thing, though, Mr. Tall said, “Here, let me do it,” as he reached around me and expertly put it in and took it out quickly then pushed all the right buttons so that in no time at all I got off on my floor, refreshed from this anonymous elevator encounter, with a “thank you” and “goodnight.”
Dangerously - Camilla Basham
If she had birthed a brood of adverbs
Dangerously would be her favorite child:
the first to suckle;
to have his head pressed to her chest;
to be rocked to sleep at night.
She would nurture him and scold him,
only when his antics caused her grief.
His siblings, Securely, Cautiously and Carefully,
would shutter in disbelief.
But she was different from other moms
and loved her black sheep best.
For although she was a mom,
she was dangerously a woman when put to the test.
Dangerously would be her favorite child:
the first to suckle;
to have his head pressed to her chest;
to be rocked to sleep at night.
She would nurture him and scold him,
only when his antics caused her grief.
His siblings, Securely, Cautiously and Carefully,
would shutter in disbelief.
But she was different from other moms
and loved her black sheep best.
For although she was a mom,
she was dangerously a woman when put to the test.
Dangerously - Randy Wong
Irving Ross had been waiting in front of his home for about fifteen minutes. He checked his watch for the fifth time. His potential buy was late. He was about to give up and go back into the house when a large white van pulled up to the curb. Irving nodded to the driver and walked up to the car.
“Hey there! You’re a little late! I’d almost given up on you!”
When the driver of the van stepped out onto the street, Irving did a double take. The driver was a tall, muscular Latino man with very long stringy hair and a handlebar mustache. He wore a black cotton t-shirt with short sleeves that exposed the numerous tattoos that covered his arms. The driver stared at Irving for a moment. When he finally smiled, Irving noticed the gold and black mixed with white in his mouth.
“Um, hi. Are you Manny? I’m Irving.” he stammered.
“Hey,” Manny nodded back. “Nice neighborhood.”
Irving started to get a strange vibe from the man. He stared at the van suspiciously.
“Yeah. Say, that’s an awful big van for just an album collection.”
Manny said nothing for a moment as he looked down both ends of the street with interest.
“I have to take the kids to soccer after school today. You know how that is, right?”
“Yeah … sure.” Irving became acutely aware of the width of Manny’s shoulders.
Manny continued to look up and down the street as if he were looking for something.
“Quiet neighborhood. I guess everybody’s away.”
Irving nodded. “Yeah, all the families are the same, you know? Adults are working. Kids are at school. Heck, I’m the only one here because of you.”
Manny stared down at his feet for a moment and then stared at Irving’s house. “Really? Is that a fact?”
Irving now wished he were anywhere else. “Yes. Though I guess it wasn’t really important for me to tell you that right now. So, shall we get this deal done? The jazz albums are in the garage.”
Manny walked up and put his very large hand onto Irving’s smaller shoulder. “Sounds like a plan, but I would like to see the rest of the house.”
“Wait. What? But … but the albums are in the garage. They’re all boxed up ready to go. No need to see the rest of house.”
Manny smiled his black and gold smile. “I would like to see the rest of the house. I’m interested in the layout. You know, as a potential buyer.”
Irving was slowly being driven down by the sheer weight of Manny’s right arm. “Oh. I see. Thinking of moving?”
“Yeah. Just thinking about it, you know? How much do you weigh?”
“What?” Irving asked after a pause.
“How much do you weigh?”
“Um, about one thirty or so. Why?”
Manny gently pushed Irving thru the front door. “Man, my baby sister weighs more than that.”
“Hey there! You’re a little late! I’d almost given up on you!”
When the driver of the van stepped out onto the street, Irving did a double take. The driver was a tall, muscular Latino man with very long stringy hair and a handlebar mustache. He wore a black cotton t-shirt with short sleeves that exposed the numerous tattoos that covered his arms. The driver stared at Irving for a moment. When he finally smiled, Irving noticed the gold and black mixed with white in his mouth.
“Um, hi. Are you Manny? I’m Irving.” he stammered.
“Hey,” Manny nodded back. “Nice neighborhood.”
Irving started to get a strange vibe from the man. He stared at the van suspiciously.
“Yeah. Say, that’s an awful big van for just an album collection.”
Manny said nothing for a moment as he looked down both ends of the street with interest.
“I have to take the kids to soccer after school today. You know how that is, right?”
“Yeah … sure.” Irving became acutely aware of the width of Manny’s shoulders.
Manny continued to look up and down the street as if he were looking for something.
“Quiet neighborhood. I guess everybody’s away.”
Irving nodded. “Yeah, all the families are the same, you know? Adults are working. Kids are at school. Heck, I’m the only one here because of you.”
Manny stared down at his feet for a moment and then stared at Irving’s house. “Really? Is that a fact?”
Irving now wished he were anywhere else. “Yes. Though I guess it wasn’t really important for me to tell you that right now. So, shall we get this deal done? The jazz albums are in the garage.”
Manny walked up and put his very large hand onto Irving’s smaller shoulder. “Sounds like a plan, but I would like to see the rest of the house.”
“Wait. What? But … but the albums are in the garage. They’re all boxed up ready to go. No need to see the rest of house.”
Manny smiled his black and gold smile. “I would like to see the rest of the house. I’m interested in the layout. You know, as a potential buyer.”
Irving was slowly being driven down by the sheer weight of Manny’s right arm. “Oh. I see. Thinking of moving?”
“Yeah. Just thinking about it, you know? How much do you weigh?”
“What?” Irving asked after a pause.
“How much do you weigh?”
“Um, about one thirty or so. Why?”
Manny gently pushed Irving thru the front door. “Man, my baby sister weighs more than that.”
Dangerously - Katie Burke
He was tall, lanky, with sandy blond, longish-short hair, and big blue eyes that didn’t look innocent. He was the only big-blue-eyed person I knew whose eyes didn’t look angelic; set in his face, they just looked troubled. He was 18. I was 14 and so taken with his beauty and his wounds, I lived to untrouble his eyes.
He lived dangerously. When we met at the park, his dad was walking him to a behavior management class, to make sure he actually went in, like parents do with their preschool-aged children. Liz and I were perched on the grass, waiting for my older cousin Amy, who was visiting Phoenix from upstate New York, to pick us up.
“Karl!” Liz said. He looked at her with recognition, at me with the desire of an 18-year-old boy who spots a blonde he hasn’t yet met, and backwards at his dad, who looked at him like he’d be a dead man if he didn’t keep his head down and continue walking. He shrugged and looked away as they walked toward the park’s administrative buildings, which it had never occurred to Liz and me to check out, while we’d been cruising the grounds for cute guys.
“That’s my neighbor, Karl,” Liz explained, once Karl and his dad were out of earshot. “His family is weird. I think his dad hits him, and I don’t think his mom does anything about it. He ran away once, in the middle of the night. He came to my house and asked to spend the night. My parents weren’t even awake. He stayed in our living room, and he was gone in the morning, and we’ve never mentioned it again.”
With those words, I fell in love. Always looking for a soul to save in the name of love, I had found my first. Karl and I spent years talking on the phone for hours at a time. Sometimes months would go by and I wouldn’t hear from him, even though I called. My heart broke all the time for two years, until I turned 16 and fell in love with Jeremy, another tortured soul, who lived within driving distance of my school and returned my calls. And then there was Austin, the love of my 17th year, who was my pal but who did not love me back … which, in those days and the many that have since followed, was a sure way to win my heart.
But I never forgot my first so-called-love. I stayed in one-way touch with Karl, who managed to call me back when I reached college years. Still living with his parents, and with no college aspirations of his own, he was still my wounded bird to save. And by that time, he had abandoned his pride borne of shame, and he gratefully took on the role. I still loved him after all those four high school years, and he finally believed it.
We finally kissed, when I was 20 and he was still living with his parents and smoking pot all the time at 24. I sat in the park with him one night, while he smoked his pot and I felt protective, never losing sight of Liz’ story about the middle-of-the-night living room sleepover. In my naïve, sheltered mind, it had all led to this – smoking pot at 24, with no future in mind, sitting with a cute blonde stacked with ambition and a heart full of fool’s love.
I drove us from the park to his parents’ house. He had me turn off the headlights of my tan Toyota Forerunner once we were two houses away. He went inside first, opening his bedroom window, which faced the street, and pulling me inside as I approached, tiptoeing, as if I did bad things like this.
He went to boob town, and that was his final destination, since I was Catholic then and had parents who cared where I was. I slinked out of Karl’s window, wearing his black sweater with a logo that only skateboarders wore, feeling happy to have a piece of his clothing to remember him by, since he lived a half-hour away from my parents’ house, and I only saw my parents twice per year, being in college out of state.
He bugged me for weeks to return his sweater that summer, while I was still in town, so I made what was, in my mind then, a long drive to his parents’ house. His dad answered the door, and I harbored hateful thoughts for what he’d done to his son all those years, what he was probably still doing … not that Karl would ever tell me about it, and not that he wouldn’t fight back at his age.
“This belongs to Karl. I just wanted to give it back to him,” said I, the mystery woman whom his father didn’t recognize from the park, where I’d last seen him, six years before.
Karl called me later that night, drunk. “You are a fucking fool.” I did not appreciate those words, but I did like the ones that followed. “You wouldn’t come back here and bring me my sweatshirt, and then you brought it when I wasn’t home.”
“I didn’t know you wouldn’t be home.” I really didn’t, but nor did I try to time it so he would be. I didn’t want to prolong our “rescuer/wounded one” dynamic. I would graduate college in two years and be on my way to graduate school for Counseling, a field that would help me reach people like Karl, without falling hopelessly in love with them and having a drunken sweatshirt conversation. And he would still live with his parents, smoking pot all the time, if our six-year history was any prediction.
“You fucking fool. I love you.” I’d waited six years to hear it, and in my fantasies, it wasn’t preceded by two declarations of, “You fucking fool.” But there it was, just the same, and I couldn’t wait until the next morning, when I could tell Liz. But for that night, I would listen to three hours of Karl’s ranting declaration of love, combined with pleading that I return to his parents’ house that night. “I don’t care about the sweatshirt. I kept asking you for it because I wanted to see you again.”
The next summer, I stopped by his parents’ house to find out about him. His mom answered the door. I’d never seen her before. She was the second person I’d seen in the world who had his big, blue, non-innocent eyes. She looked at me with hope: I was young, full of energy, and inquiring about her son. She looked beaten, and I guessed that she probably was.
“Karl’s in prison.” Her news knocked the wind out of me, but it wasn’t a surprise. “He’d love to hear from you.” Boundaries be gone, I gave her my phone number and the address to my college beach house in Connecticut, before I could think the better of it. Two weeks later, I was back at the beach, when my housemate Mia yelled, “Katie! The phone’s for you,” and then covered the receiver and whispered, “It’s someone from prison.”
Mortified, I didn’t take the call. Karl had infiltrated my normal world, no longer leaving our strange connection restricted to his bedroom in his parents’ house. Calling me from the slammer was unacceptable. Not that he would understand. Not that this wasn’t normal behavior in his world.
I did return his letter though, the one where he wrote that he’d gotten in a car accident while driving drunk and had been arrested for aggravated assault, as if I didn’t know any lawyers and couldn’t find out that aggravated assault charges require an actual … assault. He’d done more than he would tell me, and while that had always been true, I knew now was the time when our paths were too divergent to meet again. As if they’d ever been otherwise.
He lived dangerously. I’d give anything to have that black sweater now.
He lived dangerously. When we met at the park, his dad was walking him to a behavior management class, to make sure he actually went in, like parents do with their preschool-aged children. Liz and I were perched on the grass, waiting for my older cousin Amy, who was visiting Phoenix from upstate New York, to pick us up.
“Karl!” Liz said. He looked at her with recognition, at me with the desire of an 18-year-old boy who spots a blonde he hasn’t yet met, and backwards at his dad, who looked at him like he’d be a dead man if he didn’t keep his head down and continue walking. He shrugged and looked away as they walked toward the park’s administrative buildings, which it had never occurred to Liz and me to check out, while we’d been cruising the grounds for cute guys.
“That’s my neighbor, Karl,” Liz explained, once Karl and his dad were out of earshot. “His family is weird. I think his dad hits him, and I don’t think his mom does anything about it. He ran away once, in the middle of the night. He came to my house and asked to spend the night. My parents weren’t even awake. He stayed in our living room, and he was gone in the morning, and we’ve never mentioned it again.”
With those words, I fell in love. Always looking for a soul to save in the name of love, I had found my first. Karl and I spent years talking on the phone for hours at a time. Sometimes months would go by and I wouldn’t hear from him, even though I called. My heart broke all the time for two years, until I turned 16 and fell in love with Jeremy, another tortured soul, who lived within driving distance of my school and returned my calls. And then there was Austin, the love of my 17th year, who was my pal but who did not love me back … which, in those days and the many that have since followed, was a sure way to win my heart.
But I never forgot my first so-called-love. I stayed in one-way touch with Karl, who managed to call me back when I reached college years. Still living with his parents, and with no college aspirations of his own, he was still my wounded bird to save. And by that time, he had abandoned his pride borne of shame, and he gratefully took on the role. I still loved him after all those four high school years, and he finally believed it.
We finally kissed, when I was 20 and he was still living with his parents and smoking pot all the time at 24. I sat in the park with him one night, while he smoked his pot and I felt protective, never losing sight of Liz’ story about the middle-of-the-night living room sleepover. In my naïve, sheltered mind, it had all led to this – smoking pot at 24, with no future in mind, sitting with a cute blonde stacked with ambition and a heart full of fool’s love.
I drove us from the park to his parents’ house. He had me turn off the headlights of my tan Toyota Forerunner once we were two houses away. He went inside first, opening his bedroom window, which faced the street, and pulling me inside as I approached, tiptoeing, as if I did bad things like this.
He went to boob town, and that was his final destination, since I was Catholic then and had parents who cared where I was. I slinked out of Karl’s window, wearing his black sweater with a logo that only skateboarders wore, feeling happy to have a piece of his clothing to remember him by, since he lived a half-hour away from my parents’ house, and I only saw my parents twice per year, being in college out of state.
He bugged me for weeks to return his sweater that summer, while I was still in town, so I made what was, in my mind then, a long drive to his parents’ house. His dad answered the door, and I harbored hateful thoughts for what he’d done to his son all those years, what he was probably still doing … not that Karl would ever tell me about it, and not that he wouldn’t fight back at his age.
“This belongs to Karl. I just wanted to give it back to him,” said I, the mystery woman whom his father didn’t recognize from the park, where I’d last seen him, six years before.
Karl called me later that night, drunk. “You are a fucking fool.” I did not appreciate those words, but I did like the ones that followed. “You wouldn’t come back here and bring me my sweatshirt, and then you brought it when I wasn’t home.”
“I didn’t know you wouldn’t be home.” I really didn’t, but nor did I try to time it so he would be. I didn’t want to prolong our “rescuer/wounded one” dynamic. I would graduate college in two years and be on my way to graduate school for Counseling, a field that would help me reach people like Karl, without falling hopelessly in love with them and having a drunken sweatshirt conversation. And he would still live with his parents, smoking pot all the time, if our six-year history was any prediction.
“You fucking fool. I love you.” I’d waited six years to hear it, and in my fantasies, it wasn’t preceded by two declarations of, “You fucking fool.” But there it was, just the same, and I couldn’t wait until the next morning, when I could tell Liz. But for that night, I would listen to three hours of Karl’s ranting declaration of love, combined with pleading that I return to his parents’ house that night. “I don’t care about the sweatshirt. I kept asking you for it because I wanted to see you again.”
The next summer, I stopped by his parents’ house to find out about him. His mom answered the door. I’d never seen her before. She was the second person I’d seen in the world who had his big, blue, non-innocent eyes. She looked at me with hope: I was young, full of energy, and inquiring about her son. She looked beaten, and I guessed that she probably was.
“Karl’s in prison.” Her news knocked the wind out of me, but it wasn’t a surprise. “He’d love to hear from you.” Boundaries be gone, I gave her my phone number and the address to my college beach house in Connecticut, before I could think the better of it. Two weeks later, I was back at the beach, when my housemate Mia yelled, “Katie! The phone’s for you,” and then covered the receiver and whispered, “It’s someone from prison.”
Mortified, I didn’t take the call. Karl had infiltrated my normal world, no longer leaving our strange connection restricted to his bedroom in his parents’ house. Calling me from the slammer was unacceptable. Not that he would understand. Not that this wasn’t normal behavior in his world.
I did return his letter though, the one where he wrote that he’d gotten in a car accident while driving drunk and had been arrested for aggravated assault, as if I didn’t know any lawyers and couldn’t find out that aggravated assault charges require an actual … assault. He’d done more than he would tell me, and while that had always been true, I knew now was the time when our paths were too divergent to meet again. As if they’d ever been otherwise.
He lived dangerously. I’d give anything to have that black sweater now.
You Can't Do It The Same Way Twice - Andrew Hamilton
I come here every day. Sometimes with a book bag. Sometimes with just my laptop, casually grasped in one hand as if I was Brett Favre eluding the rush. One day I will pay for that just as he often did. Each time, I order the same thing and slide down the counter to wait for the barista, a young thing of twenty if not eighteen, to do her magic.
As she froths the foam, she looks up at me without moving her head. A coy smile crawls across her lips. The swishing of the steam is like a drum roll egging the magician to perform. One day it was a heart. Another day it was a star. One afternoon, inexplicably, it was the state of Florida.
“That’s where my gramma lives,” she informed me when she saw my quizzical look.
It has become one of the little things that I look forward to each day. I put it up there with hearing my baby wake up, a text from my wife telling me that she is going to lunch and that she loves me, and a glass of Rioja to end the day. I feel a little guilty that this other woman has worked her way into my psyche, although my wife seems to find more amusement than envy.
She slides the cup over the counter and I gaze down to see the outline of a tulip etched into the foamy milk. “It’s never the same thing, is it?” I ask.
“Now what would be the fun in that?”
As she froths the foam, she looks up at me without moving her head. A coy smile crawls across her lips. The swishing of the steam is like a drum roll egging the magician to perform. One day it was a heart. Another day it was a star. One afternoon, inexplicably, it was the state of Florida.
“That’s where my gramma lives,” she informed me when she saw my quizzical look.
It has become one of the little things that I look forward to each day. I put it up there with hearing my baby wake up, a text from my wife telling me that she is going to lunch and that she loves me, and a glass of Rioja to end the day. I feel a little guilty that this other woman has worked her way into my psyche, although my wife seems to find more amusement than envy.
She slides the cup over the counter and I gaze down to see the outline of a tulip etched into the foamy milk. “It’s never the same thing, is it?” I ask.
“Now what would be the fun in that?”
You Can't Do It The Same Way Twice - Bonnie Smetts
And that’s how it happened with Roy. I’d taken to meeting him at the river on Sundays before he’d have to go off to work. Seems he never noticed my being younger than him, seems that he didn’t mind how much I didn’t know.
And the first time we did it, he’d been so gentle with me. He’d taken my arms like we were about to dance. And then he laid me down gently in the grass, he’d come with a blanket that time. And so in the heat of that summer, in the sweet green of the grass, we did it. Him untying the strings of my top and letting it drop so he could see me. That’s what he said. “I want to see you. Don’t move, I just want to look,” he’d said. And then he pulled my jeans down bit by bitty bit until my stomach lay flat and shiny in the sun. The sun came through his hair and his eyelashes, like they were filled with light from inside. The kisses came, wet and as soft as anything I’d ever felt in all my life. Down my nose and around my neck.
And that’s when I pulled him to me, skinny me pulling this great big man. And we rolled back and forth and then I was ripping and pulling wanting to get his jeans off too. I don’t know where it all came from that first time, like we’d never had to figure it out, even though it was my first time. We rolled and rocked and I lost any sense of the river or the grass or the blanket. Just Roy and me. Roy and Roy and Roy. And then I came like some kind of crashing, but crashing in the good way, like a wave, and I’d never felt something so sweet and big and crazy and I didn’t care that we were screaming out and rolling around out in the woods.
And that time we lay there until the sun went down. Until we had to pull the blanket up over us, it was turning cool and the mosquitoes had time to come out. We never did it quite that way again. But we did it, and I couldn’t think of anything else and I didn’t want to think of anything else until it was time to meet up with Roy again. That was all that filled up my days, thinking of Roy, and his bed, and we did try once more at the river.
“It’s never as good as the first time,” Roy said a few months in. I wanted to cry, I didn’t want to believe that I’d already had the very best and now it’d be over, never better than what we already had. But looking back, telling you my story, you know Roy was right. And I had to look straight at that. We’d had it as good as it was ever gonna get.
And the first time we did it, he’d been so gentle with me. He’d taken my arms like we were about to dance. And then he laid me down gently in the grass, he’d come with a blanket that time. And so in the heat of that summer, in the sweet green of the grass, we did it. Him untying the strings of my top and letting it drop so he could see me. That’s what he said. “I want to see you. Don’t move, I just want to look,” he’d said. And then he pulled my jeans down bit by bitty bit until my stomach lay flat and shiny in the sun. The sun came through his hair and his eyelashes, like they were filled with light from inside. The kisses came, wet and as soft as anything I’d ever felt in all my life. Down my nose and around my neck.
And that’s when I pulled him to me, skinny me pulling this great big man. And we rolled back and forth and then I was ripping and pulling wanting to get his jeans off too. I don’t know where it all came from that first time, like we’d never had to figure it out, even though it was my first time. We rolled and rocked and I lost any sense of the river or the grass or the blanket. Just Roy and me. Roy and Roy and Roy. And then I came like some kind of crashing, but crashing in the good way, like a wave, and I’d never felt something so sweet and big and crazy and I didn’t care that we were screaming out and rolling around out in the woods.
And that time we lay there until the sun went down. Until we had to pull the blanket up over us, it was turning cool and the mosquitoes had time to come out. We never did it quite that way again. But we did it, and I couldn’t think of anything else and I didn’t want to think of anything else until it was time to meet up with Roy again. That was all that filled up my days, thinking of Roy, and his bed, and we did try once more at the river.
“It’s never as good as the first time,” Roy said a few months in. I wanted to cry, I didn’t want to believe that I’d already had the very best and now it’d be over, never better than what we already had. But looking back, telling you my story, you know Roy was right. And I had to look straight at that. We’d had it as good as it was ever gonna get.
You Can't Do It The Same Way Twice - Chris Callaghan
John’s killed her a thousand times. The first time he shot her the caliber of the gun was so big the bullet chewed through her chest like a panzer tank. Blood and guts splashed all over the walls and floor, even the ceiling got decorated with intestines. Far too messy.
The second time, he stabbed her – got as close as he could with an insincere bid at lust and brought the knife up from behind his hip. He held the grip in his right hand, the blade facing up and drove it in between her third and fourth ribs with the force of that oil gusher in “Giant.” Instant grat, death wise. But he lost his footing and fell on top of her. He couldn’t get him self out of the room quickly enough from that awkward position.
The third time, strangulation. Ah, but then he had to watch her body twitch and jerk and hear her muffled gargles. Yuck.
Poison was good, silent with a bonus graceful collapse, even time for a poignant farewell. But trite, so very trite.
On the sixty-third try, he just burned the whole damn house down. But then he was depressed for weeks because he’d forgotten that the cocker spaniel and the mynah bird were still in there.
He’d written twenty-two crime novels in the last twelve years and he was running out of methods to kill off his victim. Maybe he should make a master list of what he’d used so far. Whoever had said that genre readers were dense didn’t get the critical emails from his readers that John did. He knew that if he ever used the same gimmick twice they’d crucify him.
The second time, he stabbed her – got as close as he could with an insincere bid at lust and brought the knife up from behind his hip. He held the grip in his right hand, the blade facing up and drove it in between her third and fourth ribs with the force of that oil gusher in “Giant.” Instant grat, death wise. But he lost his footing and fell on top of her. He couldn’t get him self out of the room quickly enough from that awkward position.
The third time, strangulation. Ah, but then he had to watch her body twitch and jerk and hear her muffled gargles. Yuck.
Poison was good, silent with a bonus graceful collapse, even time for a poignant farewell. But trite, so very trite.
On the sixty-third try, he just burned the whole damn house down. But then he was depressed for weeks because he’d forgotten that the cocker spaniel and the mynah bird were still in there.
He’d written twenty-two crime novels in the last twelve years and he was running out of methods to kill off his victim. Maybe he should make a master list of what he’d used so far. Whoever had said that genre readers were dense didn’t get the critical emails from his readers that John did. He knew that if he ever used the same gimmick twice they’d crucify him.
Driving Alone - Elizabeth Weld Nolan
I like my elbow out the window, catching
air and sun the way my mother drove,
radio singing at my right knee,
foot steady on the accelerator,
cool as a cloud, eyes roving
in a safety circle, behind, to the side,
around, to the front, queen of all I pass:
mountains and light or
ocean and light, on the way
to something good, something sad.
What’s ahead pulls with pleasure
or joy, or tinges the landscape
with melancholy, or pure grief.
It’s being on the way that I love, in between
where I came from and where I’m going,
time to settle my mind. I love curving the car
in an arc smooth as syrup from lane to lane,
arm sunburning on the door,
a thousand miles to go.
air and sun the way my mother drove,
radio singing at my right knee,
foot steady on the accelerator,
cool as a cloud, eyes roving
in a safety circle, behind, to the side,
around, to the front, queen of all I pass:
mountains and light or
ocean and light, on the way
to something good, something sad.
What’s ahead pulls with pleasure
or joy, or tinges the landscape
with melancholy, or pure grief.
It’s being on the way that I love, in between
where I came from and where I’m going,
time to settle my mind. I love curving the car
in an arc smooth as syrup from lane to lane,
arm sunburning on the door,
a thousand miles to go.
Driving Alone - Carol Arnold
“From now on, you’re driving alone! Just take your fat ass outta here. I don’t want to see your face again!”
She’s standing on the asphalt next to the driver’s door of a maroon 18-wheeler, one of about twenty long haul trucks stretched out in the parking lot like a herd of lonesome beasts. I’m sitting in a booth near the window of the Junction 80 and 57 Far West Diner about ready to savor my first fork full of my favorite trucker’s special breakfast when I hear the commotion outside.
“I’ve had it with you, Jeb,” she screams. She looks about 5’ 2”, a little bit of a thing with a big voice. “You think I like sittin’ there listening to you croak out those Johnny Cash songs over and over like you’re at the Grand Old Opry or something? You don’t smell so good either, might want to stop and pick up a bar of soap now and then instead of driving all night popping those Bennies like there’s no tomorrow. I didn’t marry you to sit in a goddamn truck while you tweak your way from New York to California. Why don’t you just get a bumper sticker sayin’ ‘Benny is my Co-Pilot’ cause I’m not anymore! I quit.”
She slams the door in the poor guy’s face and tromps into the diner. I’m sopping up some cream gravy with my biscuit when she plunks down across from me. Now, I chose a booth to myself because I like it that way. Trucking is a hard business and I find that if I don’t keep to myself, thing’s get messy. I stay away from the hookers at the truck stops knowing they’ll only bring a mess of trouble. Now I apparently got some guys wife sitting across from me and she’s a mess of trouble all by herself.
“What can I do for you, darling?” I say, wiping the sausage grease off my mouth. She’s pushing 50 for sure, long stringy hair, skinny like she’s been tweaking herself. But her teeth don’t look so bad, so maybe she’s just naturally skinny.
“You truckers are all alike,” she said. “Can’t do a goddamn thing for me.” She’s talking to me like I’m the guy in the 18 wheeler. Hell, I don’t even own an 18 wheeler. Just got that little old tractor trailer rig sitting out there is all, been moving people for 18 years from one end of the country to the other in that thing and never had an incident.
“Well, darling,” I say, “I guess that about says it all, doesn’t it. You can’t trust me, and I don’t think I can trust you. So why don’t you take your pretty little butt off of that seat and go sit on another one down the way.”
“See! See what I mean?” She breaks down and starts to sob. The other truckers are starting to look this way, the waitress too. I don’t need this kind of trouble so I reach over and take her hand.
“Don’t worry, honey, I won’t do anything to hurt you. Why don’t you just order a plate of sausage, biscuits, eggs and grits like I just did. Nothing like the trucker’s special to calm you down. Go ahead, my treat.”
She blows her nose as I call the waitress over. “Little lady wants the trucker’s special. Over easy, plenty of gravy for the biscuits.”
We’re waiting for her special to arrive when I look outside the window and see the 18 wheeler pulling into the parking lot. The guys driving like he’s Sterling Moss or something. Before I can even get myself out of that booth, he jumps out of the cab and stomps into the diner and over to our table. He hauls off and let’s me have it on the nose. I grab my napkin to wipe the blood off my face when he let’s me have it again, this time on the chin.
“Hey, man,” I’m yelling. “What you think you’re doing. I didn’t ask her to sit down here.”
“Come on, Florence, get in the truck. We gotta go.”
“If you promise me no more tweaking, Pete. No more Johnny Cash either. Just you and me and the moonlight, OK?”
“Sure, darling, sure.”
They walk out and get in the truck. I sop up the last of my gravy with my third biscuit. It’s cold.
She’s standing on the asphalt next to the driver’s door of a maroon 18-wheeler, one of about twenty long haul trucks stretched out in the parking lot like a herd of lonesome beasts. I’m sitting in a booth near the window of the Junction 80 and 57 Far West Diner about ready to savor my first fork full of my favorite trucker’s special breakfast when I hear the commotion outside.
“I’ve had it with you, Jeb,” she screams. She looks about 5’ 2”, a little bit of a thing with a big voice. “You think I like sittin’ there listening to you croak out those Johnny Cash songs over and over like you’re at the Grand Old Opry or something? You don’t smell so good either, might want to stop and pick up a bar of soap now and then instead of driving all night popping those Bennies like there’s no tomorrow. I didn’t marry you to sit in a goddamn truck while you tweak your way from New York to California. Why don’t you just get a bumper sticker sayin’ ‘Benny is my Co-Pilot’ cause I’m not anymore! I quit.”
She slams the door in the poor guy’s face and tromps into the diner. I’m sopping up some cream gravy with my biscuit when she plunks down across from me. Now, I chose a booth to myself because I like it that way. Trucking is a hard business and I find that if I don’t keep to myself, thing’s get messy. I stay away from the hookers at the truck stops knowing they’ll only bring a mess of trouble. Now I apparently got some guys wife sitting across from me and she’s a mess of trouble all by herself.
“What can I do for you, darling?” I say, wiping the sausage grease off my mouth. She’s pushing 50 for sure, long stringy hair, skinny like she’s been tweaking herself. But her teeth don’t look so bad, so maybe she’s just naturally skinny.
“You truckers are all alike,” she said. “Can’t do a goddamn thing for me.” She’s talking to me like I’m the guy in the 18 wheeler. Hell, I don’t even own an 18 wheeler. Just got that little old tractor trailer rig sitting out there is all, been moving people for 18 years from one end of the country to the other in that thing and never had an incident.
“Well, darling,” I say, “I guess that about says it all, doesn’t it. You can’t trust me, and I don’t think I can trust you. So why don’t you take your pretty little butt off of that seat and go sit on another one down the way.”
“See! See what I mean?” She breaks down and starts to sob. The other truckers are starting to look this way, the waitress too. I don’t need this kind of trouble so I reach over and take her hand.
“Don’t worry, honey, I won’t do anything to hurt you. Why don’t you just order a plate of sausage, biscuits, eggs and grits like I just did. Nothing like the trucker’s special to calm you down. Go ahead, my treat.”
She blows her nose as I call the waitress over. “Little lady wants the trucker’s special. Over easy, plenty of gravy for the biscuits.”
We’re waiting for her special to arrive when I look outside the window and see the 18 wheeler pulling into the parking lot. The guys driving like he’s Sterling Moss or something. Before I can even get myself out of that booth, he jumps out of the cab and stomps into the diner and over to our table. He hauls off and let’s me have it on the nose. I grab my napkin to wipe the blood off my face when he let’s me have it again, this time on the chin.
“Hey, man,” I’m yelling. “What you think you’re doing. I didn’t ask her to sit down here.”
“Come on, Florence, get in the truck. We gotta go.”
“If you promise me no more tweaking, Pete. No more Johnny Cash either. Just you and me and the moonlight, OK?”
“Sure, darling, sure.”
They walk out and get in the truck. I sop up the last of my gravy with my third biscuit. It’s cold.
Champagne Glasses...Or, Beer Goggles - Donna Shomer
I’m 14 with jet lag.
the apartment is in Putney.
the dinner will include lobster.
the guests
will have titles.
there will be 4 glasses
right to left:
white, red, water
the champagne glass placed
behind the wine glasses
pick it up like this.
the lobster fork will be
to the right of the dinner knife.
Watch the woman on your left,
I am told.
follow her lead.
the apartment is in Putney.
the dinner will include lobster.
the guests
will have titles.
there will be 4 glasses
right to left:
white, red, water
the champagne glass placed
behind the wine glasses
pick it up like this.
the lobster fork will be
to the right of the dinner knife.
Watch the woman on your left,
I am told.
follow her lead.
Champagne Glasses...Or, Beer Goggles - Michael Lisboa
I had these miillieniim champage glasses. They’ve been lost in one of my several moves since the YEAR 2000. Remember tthe YEAR 2000? Better yet, do you remember being young and looking forward to it?
The year 2000 was going to be the year of the flying car, the cure for cancer, the death of racism, gourmet cod liver oil and hypoallergenic ragweed. The power of those three zeros was going to transform our belligerent nations into peace-loving communal farms. We were going to be the Jetsons, finally.
Instead, we got internet porn, the Bush administration, genocide in Africa, and environmental meltdown. What is it exactly about round numbers that made us think we’d suddenly sprout daisies from our armpits?
Despite all that, there are a few miracles to be grateful for. I think this is the best time in history to be alive. I can put a letter in a box outside an office park and magically it will appear in a person’s hands several thousand miles away in less than 24 hours. I can video chat with my nieces half a continent away and if I get the urge, step on a plane and see them a couple of hours later.
Sure, we may not have created the perfect planet yet. But who cares as long as I can forget about it once in a while with a game of Peggle on my iPhone?
The year 2000 was going to be the year of the flying car, the cure for cancer, the death of racism, gourmet cod liver oil and hypoallergenic ragweed. The power of those three zeros was going to transform our belligerent nations into peace-loving communal farms. We were going to be the Jetsons, finally.
Instead, we got internet porn, the Bush administration, genocide in Africa, and environmental meltdown. What is it exactly about round numbers that made us think we’d suddenly sprout daisies from our armpits?
Despite all that, there are a few miracles to be grateful for. I think this is the best time in history to be alive. I can put a letter in a box outside an office park and magically it will appear in a person’s hands several thousand miles away in less than 24 hours. I can video chat with my nieces half a continent away and if I get the urge, step on a plane and see them a couple of hours later.
Sure, we may not have created the perfect planet yet. But who cares as long as I can forget about it once in a while with a game of Peggle on my iPhone?
Champagne Glasses...Or, Beer Goggles - Melody Cryns
We had glasses – beautiful champagne glasses from the crystal factory in Germany and beer steins – bright, colorful, ceramic beer steins with all different designs on them, all proudly displayed in our German shrunk – that’s what the Germans called a cabinet – our “shrunk” held all of our kitchen items and I dragged that around with me for years, never expecting to see it again when I left Germany with three kids, $200 and seven suitcases. We also had shot glasses that my then husband collected – shot glasses with names of every town or city we visited in Germany or Austria, or Holland – representing where we’d been.
I used to think that the beer steins and the shot glasses and the crystal would stay in our family for generations to come, perhaps passed down to our kids, and then they would pass them down to their kids – family heirlooms.
I’d admire the beer steins, even hold them sometimes. I didn’t even drink beer, yet they were so beautiful. And the crystal glasses and shot glasses were as well.
Who’d have thought that five years later I’d stand at the City Dump outside Newport, Oregon where my mom’s friend had driven me because he had a pickup truck. Finally, after waiting several months, the 5,000 pounds of household goods I thought I’d never see, arrived – I had to wait until I could get a place large enough to accommodate all the stuff because no way would it fit in the tiny one-bedroom apartment I shared with my kids, and I never expected to see any of it anyway when I left Germany – my ex had proclaimed that I’d never see any of it again.
So there I stood at the City Dump with all this stuff, my exhusband’s military stuff that he didn’t need anymore, his uniforms – because he was discharged from the military under “other than honorable terms” and thrown into the brig for bigamy and larceny. Somehow it gave me a feeling of exhilaration to throw his stuff off the cliff, to watch his uniforms soar through the air and then float down. Then there was the garbage bag filled with the letters we had written each other – the history of how we met and corresponded for over a year before seeing each other, of letters, and cards – and memories.
I could barely lift the bag and had to drag it on the ground, but somehow I managed to thrust it over the cliff. A year or two later, I’d regret that, wishing I’d kept all those words that ended up at the bottom of the City Dump, but at the time I no longer wanted them. My kids might have wanted them, I thought…but now they were gone. All that was left were a few memories, most of them not great, but the kids…
I stopped short at the beer steins and crystal glasses, picking up a glass wrapped in newspaper and opening it up, the sunlight hitting the glass just right.
“Hey, do you want these?” I asked Bill Chrysler, my mom’s long-time friend. “You can have these glasses!”
“What?” Bill looked puzzled and he scratched his beard.
“You can have these or I’m throwing them off the cliff!”
“Okay, no – don’t do that. What a waste. I’ll take ‘em!”
I ended up giving away every single crystal glass and every single beer stein and even the set of shot glasses – my neighbor was so thrilled! Then I sold my exhusband’s stereo for like $50, the stereo with the huge Panasonic CS-722 speakers that he coveted so much – gone.
Was it insanity? Perhaps. Over the years, I’d find that it was dangerous for me to throw anything off the cliff at the City Dump, especially my mother’s heirloom Christmas decorations – that I’d regret for the rest of my life, but it was only an accident.
I used to think that the beer steins and the shot glasses and the crystal would stay in our family for generations to come, perhaps passed down to our kids, and then they would pass them down to their kids – family heirlooms.
I’d admire the beer steins, even hold them sometimes. I didn’t even drink beer, yet they were so beautiful. And the crystal glasses and shot glasses were as well.
Who’d have thought that five years later I’d stand at the City Dump outside Newport, Oregon where my mom’s friend had driven me because he had a pickup truck. Finally, after waiting several months, the 5,000 pounds of household goods I thought I’d never see, arrived – I had to wait until I could get a place large enough to accommodate all the stuff because no way would it fit in the tiny one-bedroom apartment I shared with my kids, and I never expected to see any of it anyway when I left Germany – my ex had proclaimed that I’d never see any of it again.
So there I stood at the City Dump with all this stuff, my exhusband’s military stuff that he didn’t need anymore, his uniforms – because he was discharged from the military under “other than honorable terms” and thrown into the brig for bigamy and larceny. Somehow it gave me a feeling of exhilaration to throw his stuff off the cliff, to watch his uniforms soar through the air and then float down. Then there was the garbage bag filled with the letters we had written each other – the history of how we met and corresponded for over a year before seeing each other, of letters, and cards – and memories.
I could barely lift the bag and had to drag it on the ground, but somehow I managed to thrust it over the cliff. A year or two later, I’d regret that, wishing I’d kept all those words that ended up at the bottom of the City Dump, but at the time I no longer wanted them. My kids might have wanted them, I thought…but now they were gone. All that was left were a few memories, most of them not great, but the kids…
I stopped short at the beer steins and crystal glasses, picking up a glass wrapped in newspaper and opening it up, the sunlight hitting the glass just right.
“Hey, do you want these?” I asked Bill Chrysler, my mom’s long-time friend. “You can have these glasses!”
“What?” Bill looked puzzled and he scratched his beard.
“You can have these or I’m throwing them off the cliff!”
“Okay, no – don’t do that. What a waste. I’ll take ‘em!”
I ended up giving away every single crystal glass and every single beer stein and even the set of shot glasses – my neighbor was so thrilled! Then I sold my exhusband’s stereo for like $50, the stereo with the huge Panasonic CS-722 speakers that he coveted so much – gone.
Was it insanity? Perhaps. Over the years, I’d find that it was dangerous for me to throw anything off the cliff at the City Dump, especially my mother’s heirloom Christmas decorations – that I’d regret for the rest of my life, but it was only an accident.
What You Don't Know - John Fetto
They’ve dropped you behind in Indian Country, a hundred clicks from anything that might be called a safe zone, and you’re on your belly, lying very still, pondering the same question, with every inch forward. It’s a simple question, a question you could answer if someone could step beside you with a ruler, and note the height of your body as you pull yourself forward. The question is how small can you make yourself when you crawl? If you push down hard enough, can you melt into earth, after dying of course, but before, making yourself so little no one standing behind the sandbags would consider killing you. You listen and don’t hear a bullet spinning by you, so you must have succeeded so far. But still you just imagine it, imagining someone with a pith helmet seeing you through ancient Asian eyes squinting through the sights of one of those ugly rifles, seeing the ruffle in the grass, then squeezing the trigger that will empty a clip in your back, head, legs, supersonic metal fingers ripping your flesh. You think about it, and your arms won’t move, your legs are attached to the ground, face eating, dirt. You think all that, but man ahead moves, but you stay listening, all the time listening, voices? Human or birds, or the wind rustling the tress? Crackle and pop, twigs breaking? Weapons chambering, or just the landscape shifting, growing, transformed by time as it has a zillion years before men came and played their impossible games. You listen but what do you hear? Enemy soldiers? Or you own fears magnified a thousand fold, pulling your muscles so taut that each inch, each arm lifted and pushed forward, moves as if against a great weight, the weight of smiling death. Will you make it? I don’t know. No one does. Least of all any sane God.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
I Prayed For It - Bonnie Smetts
Sometimes my life just leaves me in a heap at the bottom of some invisible stairs. That’s where I’m at right now. I feel like I can’t move, like somebody’d poured maple syrup over me and my life. But I’m Rawling Summer and there’s no getting around that which means I gotta climb those stairs.
I’m feeling like when I got hit in the head when Randy’s brother accidentally threw me against the wall of the shed when he was trying to save me from what Pauley was doing to me. My head hurt for a long time after that, like I was carrying around a glass of water on my head and I couldn’t bend over, least I spill it. The pain made me sick if I bent over. But nobody’s hit me in the head. It’s just this:
Roy’d come around and tried to get me to bed again. That wasn’t the hit part, it’s seeing him becoming what he’s becoming, crazy in the head with something going on. And then going out to momma’s trailer one last time and finding it all ripped up, some crazy person looking for something, the Sheriff said. Something, like my momma or one of her boyfriends was up to no good right to the last day of her life.
So I’m at the end of all of this, these people. And like I’d prayed for it since I’d met the Baptists and they’d taken me in, almost like one of their own. I prayed that jesus would wash away all that had come before. Unfortunately that hadn’t worked out exactly as I’d though it might. But I’d prayed for something sweet and nice, and now that I’ve found that I got a grandma who’s sweet and nice, I’m gonna figure out a way to let me know that it’s me, her granddaughter Rawling.
After seeing her expression when I showed up, seeing that she’d been keeping a secret for most of her life, I didn’t want to upset her. But now, she’s the stairs I’m gonna climb. Don’t know how to do that and I certainly got no one to ask. Randy’s losing her head, carrying on with that man even when she promised me she’d never, ever see him again. And, as I’ve already said, Roy’s lost to some evil inside. Momma’s gone to rest in some tiny bit of peace, I can only hope.
So it’s just me, here at the bottom of the tallest building in the world. That’s what I got here in front of me and here I go, somehow.
I’m feeling like when I got hit in the head when Randy’s brother accidentally threw me against the wall of the shed when he was trying to save me from what Pauley was doing to me. My head hurt for a long time after that, like I was carrying around a glass of water on my head and I couldn’t bend over, least I spill it. The pain made me sick if I bent over. But nobody’s hit me in the head. It’s just this:
Roy’d come around and tried to get me to bed again. That wasn’t the hit part, it’s seeing him becoming what he’s becoming, crazy in the head with something going on. And then going out to momma’s trailer one last time and finding it all ripped up, some crazy person looking for something, the Sheriff said. Something, like my momma or one of her boyfriends was up to no good right to the last day of her life.
So I’m at the end of all of this, these people. And like I’d prayed for it since I’d met the Baptists and they’d taken me in, almost like one of their own. I prayed that jesus would wash away all that had come before. Unfortunately that hadn’t worked out exactly as I’d though it might. But I’d prayed for something sweet and nice, and now that I’ve found that I got a grandma who’s sweet and nice, I’m gonna figure out a way to let me know that it’s me, her granddaughter Rawling.
After seeing her expression when I showed up, seeing that she’d been keeping a secret for most of her life, I didn’t want to upset her. But now, she’s the stairs I’m gonna climb. Don’t know how to do that and I certainly got no one to ask. Randy’s losing her head, carrying on with that man even when she promised me she’d never, ever see him again. And, as I’ve already said, Roy’s lost to some evil inside. Momma’s gone to rest in some tiny bit of peace, I can only hope.
So it’s just me, here at the bottom of the tallest building in the world. That’s what I got here in front of me and here I go, somehow.
Eggs - Carol Arnold
So, I leave this place. It’s my 13th birthday and I leave my mother Delores on her couch, my sister Kiki’s little empty bed, my friend Horace in the clinker, school, the five and dime job, the whole fat mess. The bus to Bakersfield takes four hours, the guy tells me. Four hours. What will I do all that time?
Well, turns out I have a lot to do. I’m sitting there on that bus seat, a Mexican guy sitting next to me snoring with his head falling over, kind of like Delores does, I’m watching all the cows go by, the trees, the barns, and some kind of metal thing that goes up and down and looks like a huge dinosaur poking at the ground, and what happens? I get my period. For the first time, on my 13th birthday, it decides to start up. Now Kiki had told me all about periods. The curse Delores calls it, but Kiki was more modern. She said it’s nothing to be ashamed of.
I didn’t know it was my period for sure, but I guessed it was. And I guessed right. I could feel something funny happening down there, so when we stopped at the next bus station I excused myself to that snoring Mexican guy and went to the bathroom. Sure enough, there it was, a little red spot. I didn’t have any of the things Kiki told me to have, Kotex and belts and stuff, so I just wadded up a bunch of toilet paper and stuffed it down there. Kiki said the reason we have periods is so the eggs can get out when they aren’t having babies. Something like that anyway.
I sit there on that bus and think a lot about having a period. What it means and all, that I’m now a real woman. Kiki would be proud of me. More than anything that’s what I always wanted. For Kiki to be proud of me. Going to Bakersfield like this, going out in the world on my own, I might be able to make a name for myself so she’ll be proud of me up there in heaven. She’ll brag to the other angels. She’ll say “My sister Spidee is out there in the world making a name for herself.” That makes me feel good when I think that. It doesn’t bother me so much that I have a wad of toilet paper in my pants and that metal dinosaurs are going by out the window. Kiki’s here with me, we’re in this together.
Well, turns out I have a lot to do. I’m sitting there on that bus seat, a Mexican guy sitting next to me snoring with his head falling over, kind of like Delores does, I’m watching all the cows go by, the trees, the barns, and some kind of metal thing that goes up and down and looks like a huge dinosaur poking at the ground, and what happens? I get my period. For the first time, on my 13th birthday, it decides to start up. Now Kiki had told me all about periods. The curse Delores calls it, but Kiki was more modern. She said it’s nothing to be ashamed of.
I didn’t know it was my period for sure, but I guessed it was. And I guessed right. I could feel something funny happening down there, so when we stopped at the next bus station I excused myself to that snoring Mexican guy and went to the bathroom. Sure enough, there it was, a little red spot. I didn’t have any of the things Kiki told me to have, Kotex and belts and stuff, so I just wadded up a bunch of toilet paper and stuffed it down there. Kiki said the reason we have periods is so the eggs can get out when they aren’t having babies. Something like that anyway.
I sit there on that bus and think a lot about having a period. What it means and all, that I’m now a real woman. Kiki would be proud of me. More than anything that’s what I always wanted. For Kiki to be proud of me. Going to Bakersfield like this, going out in the world on my own, I might be able to make a name for myself so she’ll be proud of me up there in heaven. She’ll brag to the other angels. She’ll say “My sister Spidee is out there in the world making a name for herself.” That makes me feel good when I think that. It doesn’t bother me so much that I have a wad of toilet paper in my pants and that metal dinosaurs are going by out the window. Kiki’s here with me, we’re in this together.
Eggs - Chris Callaghan
Juggling, Troy’s father had told him, was really just a trick of the mind. You had to convince yourself that you could throw two or five or eight things up in the air and they would stay there long enough for you to move your hands around so fast the audience would be convinced that you were actually juggling.
“Start with simple things,” Big Ed had said. “Fruit is good, oranges or bananas maybe. Best to stay away from things with sharp edges until you get the hang of it.”
So Troy had started with bananas. But juggling is hungry work and by noon he’d eaten one and a half of them. He found that it’s really no use trying to juggle half a banana, so he ate it and moved onto two oranges.
Unfortunately one was a little riper than the other and all he got for his efforts was a large orange stain down the front of his shirt. Every so often Big Ed would wander by and nod approvingly at him. “Good job son, keep practicing,” he’d say.
Now all Troy’s mother’s crockery was in pieces littering the yard and he still hadn’t gotten the gist of juggling. There were knives aplenty in the kitchen drawers, but Troy looked at the bits of pottery and then at his fingers and knew he was no where near to the point of trying with them. He was wracking his brain for something less dangerous to practice with; whatever he picked had to have some weight to it too. He knew for a fact that feathers or blades of grass or the like wouldn’t do.
Just then he heard a squawk and a fluttering of wings from the henhouse at the edge of the yard. “Ah!” he said. “Brilliant!”
He pushed himself up off the overturned bucket he’d sat on to eat the last orange, picked it up and crossed the yard.
If he scattered all his mother’s pots and pans around him while he practiced, he thought, he might be able to make a decent omelet out of the eggs he dropped. Big Ed would be so proud of him, multitasking so to speak. And, that would take care of dinner.
“Start with simple things,” Big Ed had said. “Fruit is good, oranges or bananas maybe. Best to stay away from things with sharp edges until you get the hang of it.”
So Troy had started with bananas. But juggling is hungry work and by noon he’d eaten one and a half of them. He found that it’s really no use trying to juggle half a banana, so he ate it and moved onto two oranges.
Unfortunately one was a little riper than the other and all he got for his efforts was a large orange stain down the front of his shirt. Every so often Big Ed would wander by and nod approvingly at him. “Good job son, keep practicing,” he’d say.
Now all Troy’s mother’s crockery was in pieces littering the yard and he still hadn’t gotten the gist of juggling. There were knives aplenty in the kitchen drawers, but Troy looked at the bits of pottery and then at his fingers and knew he was no where near to the point of trying with them. He was wracking his brain for something less dangerous to practice with; whatever he picked had to have some weight to it too. He knew for a fact that feathers or blades of grass or the like wouldn’t do.
Just then he heard a squawk and a fluttering of wings from the henhouse at the edge of the yard. “Ah!” he said. “Brilliant!”
He pushed himself up off the overturned bucket he’d sat on to eat the last orange, picked it up and crossed the yard.
If he scattered all his mother’s pots and pans around him while he practiced, he thought, he might be able to make a decent omelet out of the eggs he dropped. Big Ed would be so proud of him, multitasking so to speak. And, that would take care of dinner.
Eggs - Katie Burke
We sat down to our eggs, toast, and coffee. I loved our ritual, and I felt grateful to Jan that we’d kept it going for so long.
Lots of people say, “We should get together sometime!” But then they don’t follow up. I know; I always follow up. In Jan, I found the unlikely, perfect partner for once-monthly Saturday chats. The bookkeeper at the last firm where I’d worked before launching my practice, Jan and I had first indulged in our exciting talks on alternate Fridays, when she’d come in to the bookkeeping.
She was a grandmother, with a solid, longstanding bookkeeping business, and a wife with a beautiful San Francisco home. I was a 30-year-old single woman, with stories of men that caused her to nod, laugh, and sometimes, warn me away from someone. I had a fledgling legal practice, a cheap, homey San Francisco one-bedroom apartment rental, and a life of who-knew-what ahead of me.
We both loved books. Jan and I could talk endlessly about books. She found my synopses of the ones I’d read fascinating, and she’d usually tell me she’d just picked up the one I’d told her about the last time we’d seen each other. My to-read list grew wings with each talk Jan and I had; I sat rapt as she described her favorites, and I knew I’d read them all one day, when I had more time. As it was, I was slowly working through my to-read list from before Jan and I met.
When I left the firm, we said it: “We should get together sometime!” The magical part is that we did. We got together. One Saturday, we ordered eggs, toast, and coffee at Savor in Noe Valley, and then we walked up and down 24th Street to window shop and keep the conversation going.
Our first stop: Phoenix Books and Records, where I bought a hard cover, spiral bound, lime green, journal with wide-ruled pages. I would look five years old carrying it, except that its exquisite texture suggested it was for serious diarists. I loved it, and I had fun pulling titles off shelves, finding Jan, and saying, “Have you read this one?” She did the same, and my to-read list grew some more.
Next stop: Richard Donnelly Chocolates, for some Belgian pieces to eat as we sit in the Starbuck’s windowsill up the street with our lattes. Five hours of talk hadn’t been enough, we decided after coffee and chocolate. There was a knitting store further up the street, and Jan was a hard-core knitter on a hunt for some baby blue yarn. There were baby blankets to be made. I admired and touched several of the store’s soft yarns and fabrics, listening as Jan explained how it all worked, both of us knowing I’d never take up knitting myself, but that I loved to learn about anything, especially when Jan talked about it with such passion.
We continued like that, one Saturday per month, always meeting in a cute breakfast place on one of San Francisco’s most beloved neighborhoods: Fillmore Street, Hayes Valley, Fisherman’s Wharf, Cole Valley, West Portal – all starting with breakfast, then wandering over to a bookstore, then off to find chocolate, which we’d always eat in a coffee shop. The days were long and, at once, too short.
She was the greatest, and she still is, even though she moved a year ago to Bellingham, Washington, where I can’t meet her for food, books, chocolate, coffee, and great conversation. Since then, my San Francisco Saturdays haven’t been the same.
Lots of people say, “We should get together sometime!” But then they don’t follow up. I know; I always follow up. In Jan, I found the unlikely, perfect partner for once-monthly Saturday chats. The bookkeeper at the last firm where I’d worked before launching my practice, Jan and I had first indulged in our exciting talks on alternate Fridays, when she’d come in to the bookkeeping.
She was a grandmother, with a solid, longstanding bookkeeping business, and a wife with a beautiful San Francisco home. I was a 30-year-old single woman, with stories of men that caused her to nod, laugh, and sometimes, warn me away from someone. I had a fledgling legal practice, a cheap, homey San Francisco one-bedroom apartment rental, and a life of who-knew-what ahead of me.
We both loved books. Jan and I could talk endlessly about books. She found my synopses of the ones I’d read fascinating, and she’d usually tell me she’d just picked up the one I’d told her about the last time we’d seen each other. My to-read list grew wings with each talk Jan and I had; I sat rapt as she described her favorites, and I knew I’d read them all one day, when I had more time. As it was, I was slowly working through my to-read list from before Jan and I met.
When I left the firm, we said it: “We should get together sometime!” The magical part is that we did. We got together. One Saturday, we ordered eggs, toast, and coffee at Savor in Noe Valley, and then we walked up and down 24th Street to window shop and keep the conversation going.
Our first stop: Phoenix Books and Records, where I bought a hard cover, spiral bound, lime green, journal with wide-ruled pages. I would look five years old carrying it, except that its exquisite texture suggested it was for serious diarists. I loved it, and I had fun pulling titles off shelves, finding Jan, and saying, “Have you read this one?” She did the same, and my to-read list grew some more.
Next stop: Richard Donnelly Chocolates, for some Belgian pieces to eat as we sit in the Starbuck’s windowsill up the street with our lattes. Five hours of talk hadn’t been enough, we decided after coffee and chocolate. There was a knitting store further up the street, and Jan was a hard-core knitter on a hunt for some baby blue yarn. There were baby blankets to be made. I admired and touched several of the store’s soft yarns and fabrics, listening as Jan explained how it all worked, both of us knowing I’d never take up knitting myself, but that I loved to learn about anything, especially when Jan talked about it with such passion.
We continued like that, one Saturday per month, always meeting in a cute breakfast place on one of San Francisco’s most beloved neighborhoods: Fillmore Street, Hayes Valley, Fisherman’s Wharf, Cole Valley, West Portal – all starting with breakfast, then wandering over to a bookstore, then off to find chocolate, which we’d always eat in a coffee shop. The days were long and, at once, too short.
She was the greatest, and she still is, even though she moved a year ago to Bellingham, Washington, where I can’t meet her for food, books, chocolate, coffee, and great conversation. Since then, my San Francisco Saturdays haven’t been the same.
Write Using the Word 'Coffee' 'Hallowed' 'Anticipation' - Camilla Bashom
As I skipped the cobblestone streets under the lamplight
in anticipation of our first secret encounter,
I summoned the butterflies to settle down;
my thoughts to stop straying.
“Let’s rendezvous at this little coffee shop on the corner of Elm and 2nd.”
he suggested the day before,
adjusting his tie
as he took the documents from my hand.
“You know the one, Hallowed Ground. It’s nice and quiet there.”
I did indeed know the one.
It’s where all the ad men met up with the secretaries.
It was notorious and no doubt mentioned in many divorce papers.
So, there I was standing in front of it;
my hand on the door handle.
About to open up a world of trouble.
in anticipation of our first secret encounter,
I summoned the butterflies to settle down;
my thoughts to stop straying.
“Let’s rendezvous at this little coffee shop on the corner of Elm and 2nd.”
he suggested the day before,
adjusting his tie
as he took the documents from my hand.
“You know the one, Hallowed Ground. It’s nice and quiet there.”
I did indeed know the one.
It’s where all the ad men met up with the secretaries.
It was notorious and no doubt mentioned in many divorce papers.
So, there I was standing in front of it;
my hand on the door handle.
About to open up a world of trouble.
Write Using the Word 'Coffee' 'Hallowed' 'Anticipation' - Michael Lisboa
“...the pump or my mouth?” she asked.
“Your mouth, please.”
How did she get here? He couldn’t get the question out of his mind. What twisted path brings a woman like her to a place like this? It just didn’t computer. When he’d read about it on the internet, he thought it must be an urban legend. But then a friend, a real-honest-to-God-I-know-him-in-real-life-not-my-buddy’s-cousin friend had told him about it and he had to see from himself. So he blew off his usual after-dinner coffee with his roommate to make the trip to Jumbo’s Clown Room.
Jumbo’s is a Los Angeles institution. At some point it may have been a legitimate strip club where women undressed to rap music under purple lights. Those days had long since past it. Now the girls had to pay for their own songs from dinged up, but admittedly eclectic, jukebox adjacent to the bar. It took its name from the collection of clown dolls gathered unobtrusively along the top of the bottle shelf behind the bar. It was dimly lit by rope lights that perhaps at one time were lovingly tucked behind rails and under ledges, but had since started to droop and hang like long-in-the-tooth dancers. But the red vinyl booths had stood the test of time. The dancers were usually friendly. Drinks were cheap. Jumbo’s was not without its charms, and Tom was here in anticipation of a charm that no other “gentleman’s club” he was aware of offered. Rumor had it that during the day, she plied her trade with children, too. Those lucky, lucky children.
“Your mouth, please,” he replied. Tom had been intimate with dancers before. At least as intimate as one could be with a paid employee and no touching allowed. But he couldn’t believe what happened next. She placed it – this is actually happening, he thought – to her lips and began to blow. It was long and someone without her gifts might have struggled with it, but she was pro and it inflated and came to life in her capable mouth.
“Wait!” Tom struggled to get the word out.
“What is it?” She seemed surprised that he would interrupt.
Tom felt embarrassed and adolescent. He wasn’t used to making requests like this.
“I never told you what I wanted.” He was nervous. Was he even allowed to make requests?
“Oh, right! I’m sorry! Usually, the guys are more interested in what I’m going to do onstage than at the tables. They seem to take that for granted. Did you want something special? I can do just about anything.” She seemed genuinely excited by the challenge.
Tom thought. He knew that anyone could do a dog. He’d seen someone do an orca at Sea World. What’s something weird and linear and alive?
“I’ve got it... how about a camel?” He’d always been obsessed with the looks of camels with their fatty, watery humps, arching necks and bulbous phallic noses. They were, in his mind, bizarre marvels of evolution.
Her eyes lit up. “I’ve never done a camel before! It might take me an extra song... if you want two humps that is.”
He smiled, “If you can do two humps, it’ll be worth an extra song.”
Without another word, she straddled him and went to work. She tied off the first balloon and went to work on a second. And then a third. She had magnificent lungs. She inflated the tools of her trade with all the effort a normal person expended exhaling. Once she had 6 balloons inflated (they hung from her g-string where a normal dancer might have damp wrinkled dollar bills), she went to work with her hands. They were tiny and gifted. They wove and bended the squeaky rubber of the balloons in the same manner that Tom must have imagined God himself (herself, maybe, after witnessing the craftsmanship before him) wove together his veins and arteries in the beautiful line sculpture that was the human circulatory system. Macy Gray’s “Oblivion” rang in his ears. It was childish and exhilirating to watch her work. He was 8 again. He was 38 with a stripper in his lap. And she was making freaking balloon animals. It was real and it was a joy to watch the artist work.
He realized he wouldn’t be paying for a second song out of obligation. She had been challenged and like anyone who took pride in their work, she was going to be damned if she didn’t get a two-humped camel completed in the three and a half minutes afforded by the propulsive beats of Gray’s paean to loneliness (or was it aloneness?). She struggled for a moment. The humps and legs were done, but she needed a neck. Time was running short. Expertly, she pinched of the tangled mass where the neck balloon needed to go in her right hand and drew another balloon, a gold one, from her g-string. It was full of hot stripper air the second it met her lips. The song was ending. She had 3, maybe 5 seconds. She worked feverishly, her hands a blur. And where once there had been a mess of rubber architecture and loose ends, there was now a fully formed and unmistakable camel as the final beat kicked out of the speakers.
Tom exhaled and laughed. How long was he holding his breath?
“There,” she said defiantly. “A two-humped camel.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I hope you won’t take it as an insult to your craft if I go ahead and pay for the second song anyway,” he added sheepishly. He didn’t know if he was being magnanimous or a douche.
“Insult, shminsult. I ain’t doin’ this for charity,” she replied.
And with that Tom was back in reality. He was a 38 year-old man accountant in a strip club on a Tuesday night with a balloon animal in one hand and two twenties in the other.
She excused herself and moved on to the next customer, her balloons dangling from her hips like a ridiculous rubber rainbow skirt. Tom downed the last of his whisky and Coke and got up to go home. But it occurred to him, as he stepped out into the cool night air and noise of traffic on Hollywood Boulevard, that somewhere in the hallowed halls of Barnum and Bailey’s College, if someone knew the trade she was plying here at Jumbo’s, they were either blushing or beaming with pride through their clown paint.
“Your mouth, please.”
How did she get here? He couldn’t get the question out of his mind. What twisted path brings a woman like her to a place like this? It just didn’t computer. When he’d read about it on the internet, he thought it must be an urban legend. But then a friend, a real-honest-to-God-I-know-him-in-real-life-not-my-buddy’s-cousin friend had told him about it and he had to see from himself. So he blew off his usual after-dinner coffee with his roommate to make the trip to Jumbo’s Clown Room.
Jumbo’s is a Los Angeles institution. At some point it may have been a legitimate strip club where women undressed to rap music under purple lights. Those days had long since past it. Now the girls had to pay for their own songs from dinged up, but admittedly eclectic, jukebox adjacent to the bar. It took its name from the collection of clown dolls gathered unobtrusively along the top of the bottle shelf behind the bar. It was dimly lit by rope lights that perhaps at one time were lovingly tucked behind rails and under ledges, but had since started to droop and hang like long-in-the-tooth dancers. But the red vinyl booths had stood the test of time. The dancers were usually friendly. Drinks were cheap. Jumbo’s was not without its charms, and Tom was here in anticipation of a charm that no other “gentleman’s club” he was aware of offered. Rumor had it that during the day, she plied her trade with children, too. Those lucky, lucky children.
“Your mouth, please,” he replied. Tom had been intimate with dancers before. At least as intimate as one could be with a paid employee and no touching allowed. But he couldn’t believe what happened next. She placed it – this is actually happening, he thought – to her lips and began to blow. It was long and someone without her gifts might have struggled with it, but she was pro and it inflated and came to life in her capable mouth.
“Wait!” Tom struggled to get the word out.
“What is it?” She seemed surprised that he would interrupt.
Tom felt embarrassed and adolescent. He wasn’t used to making requests like this.
“I never told you what I wanted.” He was nervous. Was he even allowed to make requests?
“Oh, right! I’m sorry! Usually, the guys are more interested in what I’m going to do onstage than at the tables. They seem to take that for granted. Did you want something special? I can do just about anything.” She seemed genuinely excited by the challenge.
Tom thought. He knew that anyone could do a dog. He’d seen someone do an orca at Sea World. What’s something weird and linear and alive?
“I’ve got it... how about a camel?” He’d always been obsessed with the looks of camels with their fatty, watery humps, arching necks and bulbous phallic noses. They were, in his mind, bizarre marvels of evolution.
Her eyes lit up. “I’ve never done a camel before! It might take me an extra song... if you want two humps that is.”
He smiled, “If you can do two humps, it’ll be worth an extra song.”
Without another word, she straddled him and went to work. She tied off the first balloon and went to work on a second. And then a third. She had magnificent lungs. She inflated the tools of her trade with all the effort a normal person expended exhaling. Once she had 6 balloons inflated (they hung from her g-string where a normal dancer might have damp wrinkled dollar bills), she went to work with her hands. They were tiny and gifted. They wove and bended the squeaky rubber of the balloons in the same manner that Tom must have imagined God himself (herself, maybe, after witnessing the craftsmanship before him) wove together his veins and arteries in the beautiful line sculpture that was the human circulatory system. Macy Gray’s “Oblivion” rang in his ears. It was childish and exhilirating to watch her work. He was 8 again. He was 38 with a stripper in his lap. And she was making freaking balloon animals. It was real and it was a joy to watch the artist work.
He realized he wouldn’t be paying for a second song out of obligation. She had been challenged and like anyone who took pride in their work, she was going to be damned if she didn’t get a two-humped camel completed in the three and a half minutes afforded by the propulsive beats of Gray’s paean to loneliness (or was it aloneness?). She struggled for a moment. The humps and legs were done, but she needed a neck. Time was running short. Expertly, she pinched of the tangled mass where the neck balloon needed to go in her right hand and drew another balloon, a gold one, from her g-string. It was full of hot stripper air the second it met her lips. The song was ending. She had 3, maybe 5 seconds. She worked feverishly, her hands a blur. And where once there had been a mess of rubber architecture and loose ends, there was now a fully formed and unmistakable camel as the final beat kicked out of the speakers.
Tom exhaled and laughed. How long was he holding his breath?
“There,” she said defiantly. “A two-humped camel.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I hope you won’t take it as an insult to your craft if I go ahead and pay for the second song anyway,” he added sheepishly. He didn’t know if he was being magnanimous or a douche.
“Insult, shminsult. I ain’t doin’ this for charity,” she replied.
And with that Tom was back in reality. He was a 38 year-old man accountant in a strip club on a Tuesday night with a balloon animal in one hand and two twenties in the other.
She excused herself and moved on to the next customer, her balloons dangling from her hips like a ridiculous rubber rainbow skirt. Tom downed the last of his whisky and Coke and got up to go home. But it occurred to him, as he stepped out into the cool night air and noise of traffic on Hollywood Boulevard, that somewhere in the hallowed halls of Barnum and Bailey’s College, if someone knew the trade she was plying here at Jumbo’s, they were either blushing or beaming with pride through their clown paint.
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