Saturday, November 28, 2009
Dog - Marigrace Bannon
It’s pretty unpopular to tell the truth sometimes, and the fact is that I don’t like dogs. Well, I don’t hate them; actually I was brought up to fear them. My mother was terrified of dogs, so I don’t think it’s in our DNA, but we definitely all acquired her fear. She claims she was pregnant with one of us and her car broke down by the side of the road and she was walking by herself and a dog was chasing her and ferociously barking. I suspect something happened earlier than that, but I don’t know. Anyway, one time a stray dog appeared at our house, and my father decided that he would teach us not to fear dogs. So the little mutt stayed on our back kitchen porch, and everytime the dog came into the kitchen my mother would stand on the kitchen chair and scream in such a loud shrill, it was almost Hitchcockian. And all 6 girls would get on the kitchen benches and also scream our terrified cries, but we couldn’t compare to my mother’s operatic pitch. And either, my father would be around to remove the dog and place it back on the kitchen porch or I think the little dog would wander out of the kitchen and miss his straying days. I can’t say we ever got over our fear, but I’ve worked hard to be cordial to my friends dogs, but the truth is, I don’t want to pet them and I hate when I enter a room full of people and the dog at the party starts sniffing me. I always want to say, “I’m not the only one here. Can you work the room?”
A Happy Life - John Fetto
Hawley kept walking, not looking back. He could hear Sandman, Willie and Jaybird in the brush behind him, but he didn’t turn around to look. He kept his eyes forward, leading the way, not on the trail where someone might wait to ambush them, higher up the ridge, but not on top, where someone might see them moving, pig trails, maybe a boar, he followed its tracks, carefully shifting his weight from boot to boot, so the sole didn’t slid and start a noisy rockslide. Everything quiet, just the rustle of leaves as his team followed him. The boars tracks were decent, fresh, he hoped to run into it, and if he did, he’d kill it quietly, gut it and feed it to his team. They hadn’t eaten in days, every since the ambush that should have killed them. Hawley had not idea how they got out, and no one had talked about it, not even when they slept. He would stop and sleep when he heard them take up positions, and he’d start up again, when they began to rustle. It was suicide to talk out here with so many murderous north Vietnamese regulars, murderous little skeletons in khaki and pith helmets who would gut you as much as Hawley wanted to gut that boar. He would too, if the boar turned on him. He’d stick him with his knife and even if the boar screamed, it was just a boar, anyone could kill it. The key was that no matter what happened, Hawley couldn’t say anything that sounded human or he’d give their position away. That’s why Willie, Jaybird and Sandman were quiet. They’d sit down and smile at Hawley if he had that Boar roasting on a pit. It would be just like old times, whole lifetimes before the ambush.
Another mile along the ridge, moving so slow, nothing heard him sneak up on it. Least alone the boar, who was digging up roots. Hawley crept up, slowly but damn if the boar didn’t pick up his sent, and then boar was coming to him, top speed. Hawley cracked it on the head, to stun it, then put his foot down on the neck and drove his bayonet into its heart. Barely made a sound. He sat down and opened it up. There wasn’t time to properly field dress it. But it was a lot lighter without its guts. Willie, Jaybird and Sandman didn’t move up to start a fire, though they waited while he slit it open. He knew there wasn’t enough time to field dress it. Still if Willie, Jaybird, and Sandman weren’t saying anything, then it still wasn’t safe to cook. So he tied the legs and feet to two ends of a stick and balanced it on his shoulders, and kept walking to camp.
The way he looked at it the boar deserved to be gutted because it was out there by itself. It didn’t belong to any team, no one depended on it, just out there itself. Killing was just removing another selfish bastard who only thought of himself. And that’s when he decided that he would share the boar with the whole camp, not just Willie, Sandman and Jaybird, not matter how they complained. He’d walk right up and roast it on a spit, and he’d carve the meat off himself, handing out selfish meat to every unselfish soldier who was there for his brother soldier. Everyone but the useless staff officer who sent guys out on missions and didn’t blink if no one came back. Maybe he’d slice off the rear of the hog and give that to him.
He saw the little party they would have so clearly that when he saw the stacked logs and sandbags of the special forces camp, he just announced who he was and what he got, telling him to don’t shoot. Then he just walked in with the boar, and found a fire going at the mess, and just set up the boar and started roasting. People were asking him questions, and he told them, told him where and how far they walked, and if he accomplished his mission.
“Mission was bullshit.”
No one argued with him. They’d all been on bullshit missions and nodded like they knew exactly what he meant. They sat around happily waiting to eat the meat he cooked. An officer wandered in and asked who he was and where he’d been. So he told him what he told the other men. But the officer didn’t seem satisfied. He asked about his buddies, Willie, Jaybird and Sandman, and Hawley told them, they’d be there. Soon. They weren’t far behind. “Better not eat all the meat, they’ll want some.”
The officer gave him some water. When the officer left and the other men became quiet. Someone offered a warm beer which he took, but he kept watching the direction where his friends were coming. They couldn’t be more than a half hour behind. So after an hour of eating and staring, he picked up his rifle and started out to look for them, but one of the biggest soldiers, stood up and told him to stop. When Hawley asked him what happened, the big soldier looked sad and said they’re dead.
“Dead? When? Where?” He wanted to run down the trail. They couldn’t be far. He didn’t believe it. They would have heard something.
The big soldier looked even more sad, and tipped up his helmet. “Three days ago. Laos. The lieutenant confirmed it.”
That made no sense until they explained to Hawley he’d gone nuts.
Another mile along the ridge, moving so slow, nothing heard him sneak up on it. Least alone the boar, who was digging up roots. Hawley crept up, slowly but damn if the boar didn’t pick up his sent, and then boar was coming to him, top speed. Hawley cracked it on the head, to stun it, then put his foot down on the neck and drove his bayonet into its heart. Barely made a sound. He sat down and opened it up. There wasn’t time to properly field dress it. But it was a lot lighter without its guts. Willie, Jaybird and Sandman didn’t move up to start a fire, though they waited while he slit it open. He knew there wasn’t enough time to field dress it. Still if Willie, Jaybird, and Sandman weren’t saying anything, then it still wasn’t safe to cook. So he tied the legs and feet to two ends of a stick and balanced it on his shoulders, and kept walking to camp.
The way he looked at it the boar deserved to be gutted because it was out there by itself. It didn’t belong to any team, no one depended on it, just out there itself. Killing was just removing another selfish bastard who only thought of himself. And that’s when he decided that he would share the boar with the whole camp, not just Willie, Sandman and Jaybird, not matter how they complained. He’d walk right up and roast it on a spit, and he’d carve the meat off himself, handing out selfish meat to every unselfish soldier who was there for his brother soldier. Everyone but the useless staff officer who sent guys out on missions and didn’t blink if no one came back. Maybe he’d slice off the rear of the hog and give that to him.
He saw the little party they would have so clearly that when he saw the stacked logs and sandbags of the special forces camp, he just announced who he was and what he got, telling him to don’t shoot. Then he just walked in with the boar, and found a fire going at the mess, and just set up the boar and started roasting. People were asking him questions, and he told them, told him where and how far they walked, and if he accomplished his mission.
“Mission was bullshit.”
No one argued with him. They’d all been on bullshit missions and nodded like they knew exactly what he meant. They sat around happily waiting to eat the meat he cooked. An officer wandered in and asked who he was and where he’d been. So he told him what he told the other men. But the officer didn’t seem satisfied. He asked about his buddies, Willie, Jaybird and Sandman, and Hawley told them, they’d be there. Soon. They weren’t far behind. “Better not eat all the meat, they’ll want some.”
The officer gave him some water. When the officer left and the other men became quiet. Someone offered a warm beer which he took, but he kept watching the direction where his friends were coming. They couldn’t be more than a half hour behind. So after an hour of eating and staring, he picked up his rifle and started out to look for them, but one of the biggest soldiers, stood up and told him to stop. When Hawley asked him what happened, the big soldier looked sad and said they’re dead.
“Dead? When? Where?” He wanted to run down the trail. They couldn’t be far. He didn’t believe it. They would have heard something.
The big soldier looked even more sad, and tipped up his helmet. “Three days ago. Laos. The lieutenant confirmed it.”
That made no sense until they explained to Hawley he’d gone nuts.
A Happy Life - Elizabeth Weld Nolan
Well, I’m still thinking about what to do with myself, and what exactly we have run to in this little New Mexico town. It kind of makes you think about what you really want, that is, what is a happy life anyway? For my mom, I know she missed living near some land, that’s what she says anyway. She grew up with a great big garden and she loves that kind of stuff. She had a plot in a community garden in Brooklyn but she says it wasn’t the same as stepping out into your own land and working your flowers and crops and stuff right in your back yard. So she’ll like that part of it here. One drawback she forgot to think about is water, because when she was growing up, it was in New England where she had as much water as she needed. Here, in this valley beside the Rio Grande in southern New Mexico, with a mountain range on either side and huge old skies and not much rain, we have to deal with irrigation. And guess who deals with it? That would be me.
``Sherwood, oh Sherwood,’’ she says, ``could you come on over here and let the water out, and could you just use this hoe to move it from row to row? Just make little walls of mud to direct the water.’’
Now how can you resist your mom, pretty cute old mom who doesn’t nag or anything like other folks’ moms? But I sure have one score to settle with her: she named me SHERWOOD. The only way I can get around that is to call myself Woody, and that’s what I do. I don’t even let anyone know what it comes from. And my sibs know they live under threat if they let anyone know the whole story. They won’t, anyway, because they have their own burdens to bear: Luther? Clemantha? Jamie, at least, is kind of civilized.
Now for my dad. What makes for a happy life for him? He’s a doctor, family type, and liked his work in New York, but he was getting tired and worn out. Ths whole thing of needing more docs for the entry-level care, primary care, he says, means there will be more pressure on him and he wasn’t getting paid enough for us all to live in Brooklyn and this offer came to live in a small place where he’ll know everyone and the air is fresh and clean and we can get a big house for us all. And maybe, even some respect. I hear them talking and I know this bothers him. I sure hope he likes this new set-up because we came a long way to make the change.
And how about the kids, that includes me? Why take us away from the boiling excitement of the best city in the world where you can learn and see and drink it all in? The little kids are mostly happy anywhere right now, but what will Luke do here, no rap no street life?
Internet, Mom says, you can find anything, you can send away – Amazon, blogs, we can take trips because we’ll have more money. She’s hot for all that because she’s a librarian and is up on it. But there’s nothing like walking into a museum or going to see the Mets – who can afford the Yankees even if you like ‘em? Those seems like real things to me.
No, says Mom, real things are like horses, Mom says, animals, mountains, dirt, plants, wind - real life that uses all your senses, not just your intellect. We’ll see. I’ll keep notes and let you know in a few months if the Great Robertson Family has discovered the happy life.
``Sherwood, oh Sherwood,’’ she says, ``could you come on over here and let the water out, and could you just use this hoe to move it from row to row? Just make little walls of mud to direct the water.’’
Now how can you resist your mom, pretty cute old mom who doesn’t nag or anything like other folks’ moms? But I sure have one score to settle with her: she named me SHERWOOD. The only way I can get around that is to call myself Woody, and that’s what I do. I don’t even let anyone know what it comes from. And my sibs know they live under threat if they let anyone know the whole story. They won’t, anyway, because they have their own burdens to bear: Luther? Clemantha? Jamie, at least, is kind of civilized.
Now for my dad. What makes for a happy life for him? He’s a doctor, family type, and liked his work in New York, but he was getting tired and worn out. Ths whole thing of needing more docs for the entry-level care, primary care, he says, means there will be more pressure on him and he wasn’t getting paid enough for us all to live in Brooklyn and this offer came to live in a small place where he’ll know everyone and the air is fresh and clean and we can get a big house for us all. And maybe, even some respect. I hear them talking and I know this bothers him. I sure hope he likes this new set-up because we came a long way to make the change.
And how about the kids, that includes me? Why take us away from the boiling excitement of the best city in the world where you can learn and see and drink it all in? The little kids are mostly happy anywhere right now, but what will Luke do here, no rap no street life?
Internet, Mom says, you can find anything, you can send away – Amazon, blogs, we can take trips because we’ll have more money. She’s hot for all that because she’s a librarian and is up on it. But there’s nothing like walking into a museum or going to see the Mets – who can afford the Yankees even if you like ‘em? Those seems like real things to me.
No, says Mom, real things are like horses, Mom says, animals, mountains, dirt, plants, wind - real life that uses all your senses, not just your intellect. We’ll see. I’ll keep notes and let you know in a few months if the Great Robertson Family has discovered the happy life.
What She Ran Away From - Bonnie Smetts
At eight years old you can’t know that your momma’s not your only problem, her and the boyfriends. I’d figured out about staying away from them. I’d figured out that staying outside was better than staying inside. Because I never knew when one of them might take a swing at me or squeeze up next to me, pushing me into the wall.
I’ve taken to staying out, outside until the mosquitoes get too hungry for my arms. And then I go in.
“Rawling, get us some drinks from the frig, won’t you honey.” Momma has a way of saying that to make it seem so polite and nice in front of the new boyfriends. But I know it’s not nice. I know you shouldn’t be asking your kid to get the beer. But I can’t say get your own damn beer. So I get it. Which is why I stay out as much as I can so she can’t ask me to get the beer.
This week the rain’s been pouring down with a racket so loud I can’t hear momma ask for anything. Today it’s rained until past dark.
“Rawling, where are you?” Momma calls me from the living room, she’s been in there, laughing and giggling with some new man. “Rawling.” This time she’s yelling so I know I gotta go.
“Get us something to drink, will you Rawling?” Like I know what to get, but I open the frig and there’s one damn beer. I bring it.
“Why’d you bring just one?” Momma asks. When I tell her that’s all there is, she starts in. “You little brat, you’re doing this to make me get up. Now go get the beer.”
“There isn’t no other beer,” I say. But she grabs my arm when I turn to go. She’s lying on the couch looking as far as gone as she gets but she’s got a strength in her.
“Rawling, you do as I say.” And the boyfriend moves on the couch. “You do what you’re mother asks, get us the beer.” And that’s when I do what I do from time to time. I run outside. I know if I can stay out there long enough, they’re gonna forget, they’re gonna fall asleep, and with the rain, they’re not even coming out after me.
But I got a problem. Where am I gonna go until that happens, until they pass out again and leave me alone. The rain’s worse than the shower. The rain’s worse then a hose. The rain’s the only thing keeping me away from getting hurt inside so I squeeze myself up real close to the house, just enough so the tiny edge that makes the roof, it’s just that tiny bit there, keeps the rain from hitting me. I’m gonna have to stand up for a while tonight. And I hate the dark, in the rain or otherwise. I hate it. The rain covers up the sound of whoever might be sneaking up on me. But the shadows, they’re big, they move, rain or no. And the shadows are what I gotta look at until I can be sure it’s safe to sneak back inside.
I’ve taken to staying out, outside until the mosquitoes get too hungry for my arms. And then I go in.
“Rawling, get us some drinks from the frig, won’t you honey.” Momma has a way of saying that to make it seem so polite and nice in front of the new boyfriends. But I know it’s not nice. I know you shouldn’t be asking your kid to get the beer. But I can’t say get your own damn beer. So I get it. Which is why I stay out as much as I can so she can’t ask me to get the beer.
This week the rain’s been pouring down with a racket so loud I can’t hear momma ask for anything. Today it’s rained until past dark.
“Rawling, where are you?” Momma calls me from the living room, she’s been in there, laughing and giggling with some new man. “Rawling.” This time she’s yelling so I know I gotta go.
“Get us something to drink, will you Rawling?” Like I know what to get, but I open the frig and there’s one damn beer. I bring it.
“Why’d you bring just one?” Momma asks. When I tell her that’s all there is, she starts in. “You little brat, you’re doing this to make me get up. Now go get the beer.”
“There isn’t no other beer,” I say. But she grabs my arm when I turn to go. She’s lying on the couch looking as far as gone as she gets but she’s got a strength in her.
“Rawling, you do as I say.” And the boyfriend moves on the couch. “You do what you’re mother asks, get us the beer.” And that’s when I do what I do from time to time. I run outside. I know if I can stay out there long enough, they’re gonna forget, they’re gonna fall asleep, and with the rain, they’re not even coming out after me.
But I got a problem. Where am I gonna go until that happens, until they pass out again and leave me alone. The rain’s worse than the shower. The rain’s worse then a hose. The rain’s the only thing keeping me away from getting hurt inside so I squeeze myself up real close to the house, just enough so the tiny edge that makes the roof, it’s just that tiny bit there, keeps the rain from hitting me. I’m gonna have to stand up for a while tonight. And I hate the dark, in the rain or otherwise. I hate it. The rain covers up the sound of whoever might be sneaking up on me. But the shadows, they’re big, they move, rain or no. And the shadows are what I gotta look at until I can be sure it’s safe to sneak back inside.
What She Ran Away From - Anne Wright
She used to think of him as a lion, with his great bushy head of blonde hair, and his massive chest, and the large paws that were soft and cushiony when he held her head in them. The friendly lion, who loved to eat barbequed ribs slathered in sauce, ripping the meat from the fragile bones, then licking his fingers with a long pink tongue.
Sometimes he licked her neck with that tongue, and it sent shivers along her body and she would grab him with both legs around his slim hips, and lay him on his back on the floor. Then he would smile at her, and his teeth, almost invisible in their sharp whiteness, would flash and he would play at biting her neck, just enough to tease.
She knew he loved her, but she knew he wasn’t the one. She liked the slender black leopard man who lived on the next block. His hair was slick and combed back shiny. He was dangerous in the way he moved, quiet and unassuming, quick and deadly. If the leopard held her head in his paws, she knew his razor claws would leave marks on her cheeks. His yellow eyes lured her into his den and he wrestled her down, and she didn’t move, even to breathe.
She loved them both, lion man and leopard man, so when she ran away, it was from what happened next.
Sometimes he licked her neck with that tongue, and it sent shivers along her body and she would grab him with both legs around his slim hips, and lay him on his back on the floor. Then he would smile at her, and his teeth, almost invisible in their sharp whiteness, would flash and he would play at biting her neck, just enough to tease.
She knew he loved her, but she knew he wasn’t the one. She liked the slender black leopard man who lived on the next block. His hair was slick and combed back shiny. He was dangerous in the way he moved, quiet and unassuming, quick and deadly. If the leopard held her head in his paws, she knew his razor claws would leave marks on her cheeks. His yellow eyes lured her into his den and he wrestled her down, and she didn’t move, even to breathe.
She loved them both, lion man and leopard man, so when she ran away, it was from what happened next.
4 am - Darcy Vebber
Lisa pushed open the auditorium door, the one that lead to the nearly empty parking lot, and waited for the others. What were they doing? Combing hair? Putting tools away? Looking for cell phones, jackets? It was only barely cool out, a slight dampness in the air that would be gone by dawn. Better to go out in t shirts and shorts, to feel the dark coolness. By mid-morning, it would be bright and hot again, what seemed like summer until summer really came. She wanted them to hurry, to get out, to be out. The mercury vapor lights in the parking lot shimmered.
Sam was there first. He slipped a friendly arm around her shoulders. Let’s go! He owned these hours, was used to them, knew where to go.
Bobby looked tired. He came out with a girl from the lighting crew and her boyfriend who did sound. The set designer was staying behind to nap on a couch up in the scene dock. The six of them had stayed to finish the set. Lisa alone had built and pained seven flats. It was prodigious. They were proud.
They strode out into the night, looking for indications of sunrise on the horizon over the football field. Nothing yet. The whole big city around them was hushed. Lisa leaned closer to Sam, for warmth and happiness. Above and beyond them, it was dark, the dark, starry desert sky like a bowl and they were inside it, tired and on their way to breakfast. She inhaled deeply, thinking she could uncoil the smells one from the next – sage from the open land east of the campus, exhaust always, no escaping that, cold water and boy cologne, the hint of it along with sweat. She held it in. At breakfast she would sit next to him and draw hearts on the steamy coffee shop window where he couldn’t see.
Sam was there first. He slipped a friendly arm around her shoulders. Let’s go! He owned these hours, was used to them, knew where to go.
Bobby looked tired. He came out with a girl from the lighting crew and her boyfriend who did sound. The set designer was staying behind to nap on a couch up in the scene dock. The six of them had stayed to finish the set. Lisa alone had built and pained seven flats. It was prodigious. They were proud.
They strode out into the night, looking for indications of sunrise on the horizon over the football field. Nothing yet. The whole big city around them was hushed. Lisa leaned closer to Sam, for warmth and happiness. Above and beyond them, it was dark, the dark, starry desert sky like a bowl and they were inside it, tired and on their way to breakfast. She inhaled deeply, thinking she could uncoil the smells one from the next – sage from the open land east of the campus, exhaust always, no escaping that, cold water and boy cologne, the hint of it along with sweat. She held it in. At breakfast she would sit next to him and draw hearts on the steamy coffee shop window where he couldn’t see.
4 am - Judy Albietz
They were both riding down a long steep escalator with no handrails. He couldn’t see where the escalator ended because it was so dark. Lindsey was in front of him and she was losing her footing and falling downwards. He was running down the steps after her. It was hard to keep his balance. She turned to reach up to him and he tried to grab her hand but it slipped away. He continued to run after her but she kept getting further away from him as she tumbled faster down the steps. He shouted to her. She screamed and disappeared into the darkness as he woke up.
David sat up in bed and tried to shake the dream out of his head. He looked over at the clock by his bed. It was 4 a.m. Looking down at his hands, David remembered the dream and how he failed to save Lindsey. His throat felt raw like he had been shouting out loud. Since David knew it would take a while to get back to sleep he got out of bed. He turned lights on as he walked into the kitchen to stare into the refrigerator. Now he was hungry. He pulled out the milk carton, grabbed cereal, a bowl and spoon and sat down at the kitchen table.
Pushing away the empty bowl, David involuntarily shivered as he recalled his nightmare. He rubbed his face and scratched his thick brown hair as he thought about the obvious source of the dream: seeing Lindsey yesterday after all this time. He had believed he was over her, that he had moved on. Seeing her now made him question that. When they had dated, Lindsey and David had been able to talk to each other about anything. Friends said they had a psychic connection, which neither one of them believed in. But, it was true that they had always understood each other, that is, until the end. Lindsey had been so abrupt in breaking up that he had hardly caught his breath before she was gone.
Now, six years later, Lindsey still could make his pulse beat faster than any other woman in the world. Thinner and more muscular, Lindsey still wore her red curls pulled back into a ponytail. She had some new worry lines on her lightly-tanned and freckled face and her vibrant smile had a new hesitation, like she wasn’t so sure of herself anymore. David had never thought of Lindsey being vulnerable. But he now sensed something was threatening her.
David sat up in bed and tried to shake the dream out of his head. He looked over at the clock by his bed. It was 4 a.m. Looking down at his hands, David remembered the dream and how he failed to save Lindsey. His throat felt raw like he had been shouting out loud. Since David knew it would take a while to get back to sleep he got out of bed. He turned lights on as he walked into the kitchen to stare into the refrigerator. Now he was hungry. He pulled out the milk carton, grabbed cereal, a bowl and spoon and sat down at the kitchen table.
Pushing away the empty bowl, David involuntarily shivered as he recalled his nightmare. He rubbed his face and scratched his thick brown hair as he thought about the obvious source of the dream: seeing Lindsey yesterday after all this time. He had believed he was over her, that he had moved on. Seeing her now made him question that. When they had dated, Lindsey and David had been able to talk to each other about anything. Friends said they had a psychic connection, which neither one of them believed in. But, it was true that they had always understood each other, that is, until the end. Lindsey had been so abrupt in breaking up that he had hardly caught his breath before she was gone.
Now, six years later, Lindsey still could make his pulse beat faster than any other woman in the world. Thinner and more muscular, Lindsey still wore her red curls pulled back into a ponytail. She had some new worry lines on her lightly-tanned and freckled face and her vibrant smile had a new hesitation, like she wasn’t so sure of herself anymore. David had never thought of Lindsey being vulnerable. But he now sensed something was threatening her.
Dog - Kay Doiron
He installed himself under our house three days ago. He was not sure on his feet, a little spastic, wobbly, like he’s not quite sure where his legs end... with the cutest face. Covered in brown and black splotches and smelling like he had slept cuddled up with a dead person he shyly wobbled out from under our house to devour a bowl of chicken, rice and gravy... a coon ass dog.
It was love at first sight for the boys, “ Mom, can we keep him PLEEEEEASE!!!”
I remember being nine and wanting the stray dogs, any dog in my neighborhood. Charlie would wait for me every day at the bus stop and Gypsy would sleep in our flowerbed just outside my bedroom window. I was never allowed to feed them, but they stayed around anyway...until they eventually got picked up by the pound. My husband Charlie, years later, would be somewhat of the same sort, sitting at the street car stop waiting for me with his tongue hanging out and his tail wagging. It was lovable at first. Charlie, the dog, was lovable until the day he was gone.
I remember that ache. I wanted a pet so badly. I sense the same longing in my oldest son. I know I should give it to him. I have no excuse now, we have a house, we have a yard, come on Kaye, you can do this.
The dog fell in love with the boys immediately. They brought him inside the house and Jesus, he smelled. In the bath tub he went. Unbelievably, though I could tell he was scared to death, he sat perfectly still while I lathered him up in Aveda Blue Malva, the water running off him was black with soot and the god awful smell. I got him out, rubbed him down and thought, “ Ok, I can do this.”
He ran down the hall and immediately shit in the hall. FUCK!! “ Put him outside before he pees everywhere!!!!”
He howled under the house all night, the guilt was overwhelming. He must be part beagle to howl like that?
The next day when I got home from work he was gone...thank God. It’s not my fault...I shrugged off my guilt as easily as brushing a butterfly from your shoulder.
There was a note on the door, a delivery?
“ I found your dog. Please call me as soon as possible.”
“ NO”
“ Hello, hi...I’m calling in reference to the dog you found...he’s not mine, he’s just kind of adopted us, anyway... do you want him? Call me back, my number is....”
“ Hi, this is Susan, your neighbor who found the dog....listen, I took him to the pound, I didn’t know what else to do with him, I have four dogs already. If you want him, the number is....his ID number is....they’re going to put him to sleep on the twentieth. I sure hope you’ll go and get him, he’s so cute...”
FUCK.
It was love at first sight for the boys, “ Mom, can we keep him PLEEEEEASE!!!”
I remember being nine and wanting the stray dogs, any dog in my neighborhood. Charlie would wait for me every day at the bus stop and Gypsy would sleep in our flowerbed just outside my bedroom window. I was never allowed to feed them, but they stayed around anyway...until they eventually got picked up by the pound. My husband Charlie, years later, would be somewhat of the same sort, sitting at the street car stop waiting for me with his tongue hanging out and his tail wagging. It was lovable at first. Charlie, the dog, was lovable until the day he was gone.
I remember that ache. I wanted a pet so badly. I sense the same longing in my oldest son. I know I should give it to him. I have no excuse now, we have a house, we have a yard, come on Kaye, you can do this.
The dog fell in love with the boys immediately. They brought him inside the house and Jesus, he smelled. In the bath tub he went. Unbelievably, though I could tell he was scared to death, he sat perfectly still while I lathered him up in Aveda Blue Malva, the water running off him was black with soot and the god awful smell. I got him out, rubbed him down and thought, “ Ok, I can do this.”
He ran down the hall and immediately shit in the hall. FUCK!! “ Put him outside before he pees everywhere!!!!”
He howled under the house all night, the guilt was overwhelming. He must be part beagle to howl like that?
The next day when I got home from work he was gone...thank God. It’s not my fault...I shrugged off my guilt as easily as brushing a butterfly from your shoulder.
There was a note on the door, a delivery?
“ I found your dog. Please call me as soon as possible.”
“ NO”
“ Hello, hi...I’m calling in reference to the dog you found...he’s not mine, he’s just kind of adopted us, anyway... do you want him? Call me back, my number is....”
“ Hi, this is Susan, your neighbor who found the dog....listen, I took him to the pound, I didn’t know what else to do with him, I have four dogs already. If you want him, the number is....his ID number is....they’re going to put him to sleep on the twentieth. I sure hope you’ll go and get him, he’s so cute...”
FUCK.
Dog - Randy Wong
Office Walter O’Malley took a break for a moment to rub his eyes. He was assigned to watch the runaway hot air balloon from the park’s fire watchtower. It was his job to keep track of the balloon as it drifted around during the night. Officer O’Malley was slightly pissed about the situation. He was hoping for something a bit more proactive. Being a father himself, he could not imagine what Eric Dalton was going through as his youngest son was trapped in that balloon.
He had heard that a plan was being formulated to rescue the little boy from the balloon. O’Malley shook his head. Bureaucrats. Nerds. All left brain thinkers. All planners but not men of action. O’Malley was a man of action. He was itching to try something … anything … than just stand around and make light a bird watcher. Didn’t someone on the force hand glide? He could swoop in like a superhero and take control of the balloon. It was probably Stan Jefferson. Stan was the youngest member on the force. Young people were adrenaline junkies. O’Malley was always running into young people who were into hand gliding, sail boarding, and all the other insane things kids these days do for fun. Kids!
O’Malley peered through his binoculars and re-focused them onto the basket. The runaway balloon was slowly drifting around as there was not much wind so early in the morning. The area was quite dark, but they did with a large searchlight mounted on a pickup truck. He tracked the balloon for the next several minutes when a sudden gust of wind caused the basket to sway sharply. O’Malley did his best to stay with the basket, but the sudden harsh movement of the basket was hard to keep in focus. He lowered the binoculars to see if anything was happening to the basket itself when he saw it: the dark shadowy object that suddenly fell from the sky.
O’Malley was frozen for a moment, and then tried desperately to bring the binoculars back to his face to quickly focus on the falling object, but it was dropping too quickly to focus. He put down the binoculars and tracked the falling figure with his bare eyes. He picked it up the general direction before it disappeared in to the distance.
Cursing out loud, he quickly climbed down from the fire watchtower and located Thunder Foot, the bloodhound they used for search and rescue. Securing the leash, O’Malley ran towards the approximate area where the object fell. Thunder Foot was running ahead of him, his feet striking the ground with extremely loud thuds as the heavy dog did its best to sprint ahead of him. As they were running, O’Malley activated his walkie talkie.
“This is O’Malley from Watchtower #2. Something just fell from the balloon.”
A moment of static, and then a reply.
“What do you mean something just fell? Over.”
“It’s too dark to tell, but something definitely just fell from the balloon. I am going over there now to check it out.”
Another moment of static.
“Is it the boy?’
“I don’t know. God, I hope not. I will contact the moment I find out what it is.”
When they got to the area, it only took a moment for O’Malley to see the body lying in front of him. It was about the proper size of a little boy of five years old. A sick feeling started to bubble in his stomach, and Office O’Malley mustered all his self control not to throw up. Suddenly, Thunder Foot snarled and barked. Without any warning, Thunder Foot broke free of O’Malley’s grip and made a beeline straight towards the body. With its huge mouth, Thunder Foot picked up the body with his large teeth and proceeded to shake the body like it was an old rag. It took a moment for O’Malley to overcome his shock. He tried using vocal commands, but the dog would not let go of the nonresponsive body. He finally grabbed the dog with both hands as tight as he could, and used the command to drop the object in its mouth. After Thunder Foot finally dropped the little package, O’Malley chased the dog away. With both hands shaking, he took a deep breath and grabbed the shoulder of the body to turn it over so he could see the face. Instead of the face of Michael Dalton, O’Malley was staring into the face of Curious George, with its big black saucer shaped eyes and ever present smile looking back at him.
O’Malley almost fainted. He took a deep breath and proceeded to contact his commander that it was not the missing little boy, but a stuffed animal.
He had heard that a plan was being formulated to rescue the little boy from the balloon. O’Malley shook his head. Bureaucrats. Nerds. All left brain thinkers. All planners but not men of action. O’Malley was a man of action. He was itching to try something … anything … than just stand around and make light a bird watcher. Didn’t someone on the force hand glide? He could swoop in like a superhero and take control of the balloon. It was probably Stan Jefferson. Stan was the youngest member on the force. Young people were adrenaline junkies. O’Malley was always running into young people who were into hand gliding, sail boarding, and all the other insane things kids these days do for fun. Kids!
O’Malley peered through his binoculars and re-focused them onto the basket. The runaway balloon was slowly drifting around as there was not much wind so early in the morning. The area was quite dark, but they did with a large searchlight mounted on a pickup truck. He tracked the balloon for the next several minutes when a sudden gust of wind caused the basket to sway sharply. O’Malley did his best to stay with the basket, but the sudden harsh movement of the basket was hard to keep in focus. He lowered the binoculars to see if anything was happening to the basket itself when he saw it: the dark shadowy object that suddenly fell from the sky.
O’Malley was frozen for a moment, and then tried desperately to bring the binoculars back to his face to quickly focus on the falling object, but it was dropping too quickly to focus. He put down the binoculars and tracked the falling figure with his bare eyes. He picked it up the general direction before it disappeared in to the distance.
Cursing out loud, he quickly climbed down from the fire watchtower and located Thunder Foot, the bloodhound they used for search and rescue. Securing the leash, O’Malley ran towards the approximate area where the object fell. Thunder Foot was running ahead of him, his feet striking the ground with extremely loud thuds as the heavy dog did its best to sprint ahead of him. As they were running, O’Malley activated his walkie talkie.
“This is O’Malley from Watchtower #2. Something just fell from the balloon.”
A moment of static, and then a reply.
“What do you mean something just fell? Over.”
“It’s too dark to tell, but something definitely just fell from the balloon. I am going over there now to check it out.”
Another moment of static.
“Is it the boy?’
“I don’t know. God, I hope not. I will contact the moment I find out what it is.”
When they got to the area, it only took a moment for O’Malley to see the body lying in front of him. It was about the proper size of a little boy of five years old. A sick feeling started to bubble in his stomach, and Office O’Malley mustered all his self control not to throw up. Suddenly, Thunder Foot snarled and barked. Without any warning, Thunder Foot broke free of O’Malley’s grip and made a beeline straight towards the body. With its huge mouth, Thunder Foot picked up the body with his large teeth and proceeded to shake the body like it was an old rag. It took a moment for O’Malley to overcome his shock. He tried using vocal commands, but the dog would not let go of the nonresponsive body. He finally grabbed the dog with both hands as tight as he could, and used the command to drop the object in its mouth. After Thunder Foot finally dropped the little package, O’Malley chased the dog away. With both hands shaking, he took a deep breath and grabbed the shoulder of the body to turn it over so he could see the face. Instead of the face of Michael Dalton, O’Malley was staring into the face of Curious George, with its big black saucer shaped eyes and ever present smile looking back at him.
O’Malley almost fainted. He took a deep breath and proceeded to contact his commander that it was not the missing little boy, but a stuffed animal.
A Light Can Go Out in the Heart - Camilla Basham
A light can go out in the heart
but we still keep stumbling,
bumping into objects once familiar,
and feeling our way, as we wait for illumination.
A dark tunnel, the therapist calls it,
you have to go through it to get to the other end,
but at the other end there lies
happiness, love, and joy.
I warned her I was claustrophobic.
Does it have to be a tunnel, I asked.
Why does change have to be a tunnel?
Why can’t we think of it
as an open plain we run across?
You see, I went to the Exploratorium once,
bought a ticket to the Tactile Dome:
a pitch-black maze, tight and restricting.
You have to feel your way through.
It requires trust in the unknown.
I could never finish it.
I panicked every time.
Children would run past me and do in fearlessly.
While I would cling to the walls.
I would look back
to the old light I had just left.
And on all fours,
I would climb out the way I came in.
You see I can never finish anything.
I never know if change means
not finishing what I started
or if staying where I am means
not finishing change.
So, I cower on all fours
in a tactile dome of my own making, waiting
for someone to shine a light
and tell me,
Go that way.
but we still keep stumbling,
bumping into objects once familiar,
and feeling our way, as we wait for illumination.
A dark tunnel, the therapist calls it,
you have to go through it to get to the other end,
but at the other end there lies
happiness, love, and joy.
I warned her I was claustrophobic.
Does it have to be a tunnel, I asked.
Why does change have to be a tunnel?
Why can’t we think of it
as an open plain we run across?
You see, I went to the Exploratorium once,
bought a ticket to the Tactile Dome:
a pitch-black maze, tight and restricting.
You have to feel your way through.
It requires trust in the unknown.
I could never finish it.
I panicked every time.
Children would run past me and do in fearlessly.
While I would cling to the walls.
I would look back
to the old light I had just left.
And on all fours,
I would climb out the way I came in.
You see I can never finish anything.
I never know if change means
not finishing what I started
or if staying where I am means
not finishing change.
So, I cower on all fours
in a tactile dome of my own making, waiting
for someone to shine a light
and tell me,
Go that way.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
He Was a Veteran of It - Camilla Basham
The
Difference
Between a good writer
And a great one
Is:
The beginner
Will often lay down his pen
Or move from his paper
Then pick up an invisible weapon
On the mind’s table
And helplessly smash the
Words
Whereas the veteran
No longer hurts himself or anyone
And keeps on
Writing
Light.
Between a good writer
And a great one
Is:
The beginner
Will often lay down his pen
Or move from his paper
Then pick up an invisible weapon
On the mind’s table
And helplessly smash the
Words
Whereas the veteran
No longer hurts himself or anyone
And keeps on
Writing
Light.
She Was a Veteran of It - Kaye Doiron
She has not had television since Katrina. It’s funny that she can not remember the year, it may be 2005, she just remembers the event. When she has to calculate how many years it’s been she struggles. It seems in so many ways like yesterday. She has just begun to feel solid on her feet four years later.
It is November, the leaves on the trees in the Atchafalaya basin have all turned colors. She is all moved in to her brand new house, no mold growing up the walls, the plumbing lines are in the ground...there is hot water, the gas actually works because the lines of this house did not sit under water for three months. She has a home. She waited for proof of being loved for so many years, to build a home with her prince together, it never came. She has now proven that she loves herself, a home for her family.
She has spent every moment that she is not working, planting, organizing, tiling...it is a love affair. She tends to the house as she would an aging grand parent, with tenderness and adoration. She has never liked new things. Some cracks in the wall, the warmth of old heart pine, big windows, corners that never quite match up. Katrina almost took that joy from her.
She moved into a cookie cutter cement slab quadruplet of her block in Dallas just after the storm and had almost convinced herself that she liked it there. Big eyes, big teeth, big hair...almost convinced.
The city was hard to stomach just after the storm. It not only felt like she was walking around in someone’s mouth, it smelled like it too. An old alzheimer patient’s mouth whose teeth had been decaying for quite some time. The streets were lined with refrigerators full of maggots, rotting wood, sheetrock squirming with black mold. The beautiful sprawling trees that once lined the grand boulevards, shaved back like a young beautiful boy must look to his mother just coming home from the military, hardened and lifeless. Dead. The city had a dead feeling. So much loss. She could not complain. There was too much loss. Her five year old son was certain all of his friends were dead from watching the news, “ But mom, Jackson does not know how to swim!!”
They had each a pair of shoes, blue jeans and a t-shirt. They spent 26 hours making a three hour trip to get out of the bowl. She left her prince at home to board up the house. Would he die? She hated him, but she did not want him to die, did she? Four days of horror...Geraldo on the news holding dehydrated babies in his arms, Celine Dion singing to the people of New Orleans on the morning show with tears running down her face...let this be my prayer...looting, fires, water, agony, gangs roaming the streets with automatic rifles and axes...THIS IS MY CITY!!!!! A beautiful city drowning.
That’s all behind her now.
She sits in her new kitchen, with it’s new tile on the wall, the coffee is making, the smell is delightful, the kids are stirring. Life is good. She opens up her email, to catch up as she waits for her cup of coffee... Schools are closed. There is a storm in the gulf?? Come on... It’s NOVEMBER. She fights back the panic. She will not let the rug be pulled from under her. The rug got flooded, there is no rug. She is stable on her feet no matter. She is a veteran of Katrina.
It is November, the leaves on the trees in the Atchafalaya basin have all turned colors. She is all moved in to her brand new house, no mold growing up the walls, the plumbing lines are in the ground...there is hot water, the gas actually works because the lines of this house did not sit under water for three months. She has a home. She waited for proof of being loved for so many years, to build a home with her prince together, it never came. She has now proven that she loves herself, a home for her family.
She has spent every moment that she is not working, planting, organizing, tiling...it is a love affair. She tends to the house as she would an aging grand parent, with tenderness and adoration. She has never liked new things. Some cracks in the wall, the warmth of old heart pine, big windows, corners that never quite match up. Katrina almost took that joy from her.
She moved into a cookie cutter cement slab quadruplet of her block in Dallas just after the storm and had almost convinced herself that she liked it there. Big eyes, big teeth, big hair...almost convinced.
The city was hard to stomach just after the storm. It not only felt like she was walking around in someone’s mouth, it smelled like it too. An old alzheimer patient’s mouth whose teeth had been decaying for quite some time. The streets were lined with refrigerators full of maggots, rotting wood, sheetrock squirming with black mold. The beautiful sprawling trees that once lined the grand boulevards, shaved back like a young beautiful boy must look to his mother just coming home from the military, hardened and lifeless. Dead. The city had a dead feeling. So much loss. She could not complain. There was too much loss. Her five year old son was certain all of his friends were dead from watching the news, “ But mom, Jackson does not know how to swim!!”
They had each a pair of shoes, blue jeans and a t-shirt. They spent 26 hours making a three hour trip to get out of the bowl. She left her prince at home to board up the house. Would he die? She hated him, but she did not want him to die, did she? Four days of horror...Geraldo on the news holding dehydrated babies in his arms, Celine Dion singing to the people of New Orleans on the morning show with tears running down her face...let this be my prayer...looting, fires, water, agony, gangs roaming the streets with automatic rifles and axes...THIS IS MY CITY!!!!! A beautiful city drowning.
That’s all behind her now.
She sits in her new kitchen, with it’s new tile on the wall, the coffee is making, the smell is delightful, the kids are stirring. Life is good. She opens up her email, to catch up as she waits for her cup of coffee... Schools are closed. There is a storm in the gulf?? Come on... It’s NOVEMBER. She fights back the panic. She will not let the rug be pulled from under her. The rug got flooded, there is no rug. She is stable on her feet no matter. She is a veteran of Katrina.
War - Anne Wright
He was a veteran and she was his war. It wasn’t always that way, though. It started the week after he returned. He was a goddamn son of a bitch, she said, and she was sorry he didn’t get nailed by that sniper’s bullet, or the punji stakes, or the mine that had blown up his brothers. What could he do but knock her down and kick her?
In the morning, in the bright sun of their tract house in Sacramento, the madness went away and hid somewhere. Joe liked to go to his friend’s house and smoke some dope, talk about the way it was, his version of the way it was, because those black jungle dreams were too real to remember, and it was only the pollony golden buds and the Miller that softened those scenes.
But time would come, Joe knew he had to face Molly before she went completely haywire. So he stopped by the market on his way home for dinner to get her a bunch of flowers. Used to be, she would open the door, dressed in her white silk nightie, red lipstick on and her hair messed up, and she’d put the flowers on the table and lead him to the bedroom and undress him without saying a word.
Now, the summer light was so bright, he couldn’t hardly see into the house when she opened the door. She leaned her face against the doorjamb and he could see that she was crying. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He threw the flowers at her and they fell on the floor, bent and coming apart in a wacky cartoon way, the paper around the stems shrinking back in slow motion, and the drops of water glistening like little jewels on the scratched linoleum floor. She kicked the flowers out onto the front porch, and her leg lifted so high he could see that she didn’t have any panties on under her skirt. He went in and used her, mad about the flowers and her ugly crying face. She was his war.
In the morning, in the bright sun of their tract house in Sacramento, the madness went away and hid somewhere. Joe liked to go to his friend’s house and smoke some dope, talk about the way it was, his version of the way it was, because those black jungle dreams were too real to remember, and it was only the pollony golden buds and the Miller that softened those scenes.
But time would come, Joe knew he had to face Molly before she went completely haywire. So he stopped by the market on his way home for dinner to get her a bunch of flowers. Used to be, she would open the door, dressed in her white silk nightie, red lipstick on and her hair messed up, and she’d put the flowers on the table and lead him to the bedroom and undress him without saying a word.
Now, the summer light was so bright, he couldn’t hardly see into the house when she opened the door. She leaned her face against the doorjamb and he could see that she was crying. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He threw the flowers at her and they fell on the floor, bent and coming apart in a wacky cartoon way, the paper around the stems shrinking back in slow motion, and the drops of water glistening like little jewels on the scratched linoleum floor. She kicked the flowers out onto the front porch, and her leg lifted so high he could see that she didn’t have any panties on under her skirt. He went in and used her, mad about the flowers and her ugly crying face. She was his war.
She Was a Veteran of It - Randy Wong
Joyce Ross checked her hair net one last time to make sure every strand of hair was secured. The last thing to put on was a pair of plastic gloves. Joyce never liked the plastic gloves because it made holding onto the food scooper a lot harder. She much preferred latex gloves, but the school district mandated that plastic gloves were the way to go because they were cheaper and they did the job as far as food safety was concerned.
The ringing lunch bell was Joyce’s cue to remove the aluminum foil that was covering all the hot foods. Joyce has worked on the cafeteria food line for many years. Today was her day to scoop side dishes. Over the years, Joyce enjoyed her job as one of the school lunch ladies. She even came up with a way to have fun with her job. Ever since the district mandated glass partitions between the students and the food servers for hygiene reasons, Joyce began to really sling food at the students’ plates. Joyce was a petite woman, so in order to scoop food onto the plates, she either had to stand on her tiptoes to reach above the glass partition, or stand on a little box, which caused her hips to hurt after a long period.
So, Joyce, with the help of her physics major nephew, came up with a method of slinging food onto the plates. She would first compact the food into the scoop until it became a dense ball of food. She would then deliver the food over the glass partition with an overhand motion much like a tennis serve. In the beginning, the food ball would hit the plat with such force that it would cause the food ball to explode, creating a sloppy, greasy mess on the other side of the glass. It took a little trial and error before the dense ball of food did not explode on contact.
It was Wednesday, which meant that it was mashed potatoes day. Now, mashed potatoes were an interesting food to sling because so much water is used to make it that it was virtually impossible to make a dense ball out of it. Also, because it was so wet, the mashed potatoes would get stuck into the scoop, so trying to compact the food further into a ball only guaranteed that it would not leave the scoop. Joyce considered dipping the scoop into a bath of hot water. This worked out very well, so she became an expert with dipping the scoop into the water, scooping and slinging mashed potatoes, and then returning the scoop back into the water to prepare for the next sling. It was a sight to behold.
Then one day, Terry Stillwell, one of those kids who thought he was smarter than he really was, one of the those students who called the teacher by their first name and asked how their weekend went … in other words, he was a teacher’s pet and a kiss ass. When Terry saw Joyce slinging mashed potatoes, he made a bet that Joyce would not sling a scoop of mashed potatoes and gravy at the same time. He bet Joyce five dollars that she could not sling the potatoes and gravy combo without causing a mess. Joyce asked Terry to lay down the five dollar bill. When Terry did so, she asked to reiterate the conditions of the bet: that in order to win, she had to successfully place a scoop of mashed potatoes and gravy onto his empty plate. And, that she could not cheat by mixing the gravy into the potatoes. They had to be kept separate. When Terry nodded, Joyce quickly went to work.
Joyce dipped her scoop into a bath of hot water as usual. However, instead of going for the gravy in the hot table, she reached down below to the small refrigerator, and pulled out the tub of prepared gravy. At such a cool temperature, the gravy had solidified into a solid chunk of gelatin. She placed a chunk of gravy jelly into her scoop, and the pressed the mashed potatoes on top of it. She smiled at Terry’s surprised expression as she successfully slung and dumped the hot mashed potatoes and cold gravy jelly onto his plate. Terry stared at her for a moment, shook his head, and proceeded to the cashier. Joyce quickly retrieved the five dollar bill and stuffed it into her pants pocket. She nodded to the next student in line as she dipped her food scoop into the water bath.
The ringing lunch bell was Joyce’s cue to remove the aluminum foil that was covering all the hot foods. Joyce has worked on the cafeteria food line for many years. Today was her day to scoop side dishes. Over the years, Joyce enjoyed her job as one of the school lunch ladies. She even came up with a way to have fun with her job. Ever since the district mandated glass partitions between the students and the food servers for hygiene reasons, Joyce began to really sling food at the students’ plates. Joyce was a petite woman, so in order to scoop food onto the plates, she either had to stand on her tiptoes to reach above the glass partition, or stand on a little box, which caused her hips to hurt after a long period.
So, Joyce, with the help of her physics major nephew, came up with a method of slinging food onto the plates. She would first compact the food into the scoop until it became a dense ball of food. She would then deliver the food over the glass partition with an overhand motion much like a tennis serve. In the beginning, the food ball would hit the plat with such force that it would cause the food ball to explode, creating a sloppy, greasy mess on the other side of the glass. It took a little trial and error before the dense ball of food did not explode on contact.
It was Wednesday, which meant that it was mashed potatoes day. Now, mashed potatoes were an interesting food to sling because so much water is used to make it that it was virtually impossible to make a dense ball out of it. Also, because it was so wet, the mashed potatoes would get stuck into the scoop, so trying to compact the food further into a ball only guaranteed that it would not leave the scoop. Joyce considered dipping the scoop into a bath of hot water. This worked out very well, so she became an expert with dipping the scoop into the water, scooping and slinging mashed potatoes, and then returning the scoop back into the water to prepare for the next sling. It was a sight to behold.
Then one day, Terry Stillwell, one of those kids who thought he was smarter than he really was, one of the those students who called the teacher by their first name and asked how their weekend went … in other words, he was a teacher’s pet and a kiss ass. When Terry saw Joyce slinging mashed potatoes, he made a bet that Joyce would not sling a scoop of mashed potatoes and gravy at the same time. He bet Joyce five dollars that she could not sling the potatoes and gravy combo without causing a mess. Joyce asked Terry to lay down the five dollar bill. When Terry did so, she asked to reiterate the conditions of the bet: that in order to win, she had to successfully place a scoop of mashed potatoes and gravy onto his empty plate. And, that she could not cheat by mixing the gravy into the potatoes. They had to be kept separate. When Terry nodded, Joyce quickly went to work.
Joyce dipped her scoop into a bath of hot water as usual. However, instead of going for the gravy in the hot table, she reached down below to the small refrigerator, and pulled out the tub of prepared gravy. At such a cool temperature, the gravy had solidified into a solid chunk of gelatin. She placed a chunk of gravy jelly into her scoop, and the pressed the mashed potatoes on top of it. She smiled at Terry’s surprised expression as she successfully slung and dumped the hot mashed potatoes and cold gravy jelly onto his plate. Terry stared at her for a moment, shook his head, and proceeded to the cashier. Joyce quickly retrieved the five dollar bill and stuffed it into her pants pocket. She nodded to the next student in line as she dipped her food scoop into the water bath.
She Was a Veteran of It - Judy Albietz
Lindsey knew how this was going to turn out but she went out with Daniel anyway. She met him in a bookstore last Saturday afternoon. Daniel was tall, lean and good-looking. They both loved mysteries. He was an architect, designing green buildings. Lindsey immediately knew she would fall for him. They would go out. She would fall in love. He would cheat on her. It was written all over Daniel’s face, but she talked to him anyway. That started a marathon conversation that took them from the books to a bar and then to dinner. He was very cute, very funny and had a lot of good stories. True, he was arrogant. But she really liked him. Too much. At least she hadn’t gone to bed with him—yet.
They were going to a movie tonight. He was picking her up in fifteen minutes. Lindsey loved this feeling. She couldn’t wait and felt breathless—the excitement—a new relationship. Standing in front of the full-length mirror, she had been trying on various outfits for the last hour, growing a pile of clothes on the floor. Lindsey looked at her watch. With five minutes to go, Lindsey decided on the purple tank-top, black leather jacket and denim skirt. Yes, I look good in this. She felt a chill down her spine as she remembered the sensation of his hand on the back of her neck.
Still looking at herself in the mirror, she thought about what she really saw. Hmmm…how about a veteran of disappointment…an expert in stupidity…wonder where I got such bad judgment about men? Maybe it’s my overabundance of optimism…
She thought to the not-so-distant future when she’ll be telling her friends about Daniel, another gorgeous guy who lied to her or dumped her or cheated on her. The guys who would be reliable and trustworthy just didn’t turn her on. They were boring.
They were going to a movie tonight. He was picking her up in fifteen minutes. Lindsey loved this feeling. She couldn’t wait and felt breathless—the excitement—a new relationship. Standing in front of the full-length mirror, she had been trying on various outfits for the last hour, growing a pile of clothes on the floor. Lindsey looked at her watch. With five minutes to go, Lindsey decided on the purple tank-top, black leather jacket and denim skirt. Yes, I look good in this. She felt a chill down her spine as she remembered the sensation of his hand on the back of her neck.
Still looking at herself in the mirror, she thought about what she really saw. Hmmm…how about a veteran of disappointment…an expert in stupidity…wonder where I got such bad judgment about men? Maybe it’s my overabundance of optimism…
She thought to the not-so-distant future when she’ll be telling her friends about Daniel, another gorgeous guy who lied to her or dumped her or cheated on her. The guys who would be reliable and trustworthy just didn’t turn her on. They were boring.
Someone Was Burning Incense in the Room - Carol Arnold
Johnny always lit a stick of incense to cover the smell of decay when we went over there. The house didn’t just smell like decay, it looked like decay. Sometimes it’s hard to know the difference between a smell and a look, both of them contributing to the overall feel of things. And that was for sure. Things felt like something had spent the last hundred years rotting its guts out right there.
It wasn’t just the furniture, although that was pretty bad, with the ancient overstuffed chairs and day beds and cupboards filled with old clothes. The walls themselves reeked of decay, like the plaster and joints and rafters had been soaked in something so foul even a termite would run away. Old grease dripped from the kitchen ceiling, left there from every meal ever cooked in the house. When we took down the clock off the shit colored wall, we saw the old cuckoo bird had frozen at four o’clock with its beak open outside the little door, its body encased in a coffin of grease. The pink circle that remained behind when the clock was removed looked like a sun riding a cow pie sky.
Johnny hardly knew his great-uncle, Uncle Bunny, they called him, God knows why. He told me the story about how when Uncle Bunny got cancer of the prostate, his sister had to explain to him how the male organ worked. He didn’t have a clue what it was for really. I guess he just peed out of it all those years and forgot about doing anything else with it.
They had all lived together, Uncle Bunny and his sisters, Willa and Kaitlyn, holed up there in the Seattle rain like hermits. They rarely ventured out, although Willa, the one who told Uncle Bunny about his organ, was a bit more social than the others. She at least would go to the doctor, dragging Bunny and Kaitlyn with her when she thought they should go too. That’s how Uncle Bunny found out he had cancer. He’d been complaining he couldn’t pee for months and Willa finally convinced him to go the doctor. He took the news hard, although God knows he didn’t have much to live for. He went back to that house and never came out again until the day they rolled his body out on a stretcher.
We had convinced Willa that she and Kaitlyn would be better off in a board and care. That was hard on them, that move, but it was over with. They were poor as church mice, but the County took good care of them, at least Johnny said so. Myself, I wouldn’t say that, but I couldn’t worry about it too much. It’s not that we were doing that good either. Johnny had been out of a job for eight months and me, well, I had never been too good about working. When we met down at Art’s Bistro so many years ago, both of us drunk and telling stories, we decided we would get married and get rich, in that order. Well, we did the married part, unfortunately, but not the other, which is even more unfortunate.
Johnny talked a good story, like he was a rich man just waiting to happen. Big joke. And that wasn’t his only problem. Johnny must have inherited his great-uncle’s know-how with his organ, like he didn’t have any know-how, if you know what I mean. So we were just squeaking by, from a financial and marital point of view that is, when Uncle Bunny died. Johnny was left the old house, but it was falling apart and the real estate market was just about zero in Seattle. Thank God for food stamps, was all I could say. And a drink or two at night didn’t hurt either.
So there we were going through all the junk in the house. It was good it was me cleaning up the attic that afternoon although I almost went crazy doing it. It was raining and all I could hear was drip, drip, drip on the roof. You couldn’t have dreamed of a better way to drive me crazy than to stick me up in that rotting attic on a rainy afternoon in Seattle. It would make even Jesus commit suicide.
I was going through boxes of stuff from their childhood, toys, clothes, books, shoes, all kinds of things. They kept everything, and I mean everything. There was even a box of old talcum powder their mother must have used on their little bums when they were babies. It still smelled good, kind of like violets. Every so often I’d take a big whiff to cover up the other smells. One of the dolls was porcelain, that old fashioned kind with real hair. One eye was missing, the remaining one so real I got scared sitting there next to it and had to turn it on its stomach.
After I finished going through the toys, I moved the box to the other side of the attic. And that’s when I saw them, the loose floorboards. I thought “just another damn thing to repair” but then something told me to pull them up. They weren’t even nailed down, like someone had just stuck them there and forgot about them. It was so dark I could hardly see what was under them, but I tell you, my stomach did such a big flip it felt like I was an astronaut flying through space. There was something glinting in there and when I reached in my hand I knew it was more than one thing. I pulled it all out and saw it was a pile of jewelry - a gold chain necklace with a diamond and gold filigreed pennant and earrings to match, a couple of rings, one at least a caret diamond surrounded by emeralds, the other a big ruby in a nest of seed diamonds, a gold linked bracelet that weighed more than even my hefty Navajo silver one did, a few other items equally enticing. I ran that gold through my fingers and it didn’t take me long to decide.
But that porcelain doll, she had to have the last word. As I stood up, my foot kicked her and she rolled over. There it was, that eye, accusing me. I couldn’t just leave her there like that, alone under that rainy roof, so I picked her up and stuffed her in my purse with the jewelry. Thank God it was a big purse.
I told Johnny I was going down to the store for a pack of cigarettes, and that’s the last I saw of him. I grabbed a bus for Palm Springs and here I am. No more cow pie walls for me. No more frozen cuckoo clocks. No more burnt incense. No more drip, drip, drip. No more Johnny. Just me and the one-eyed doll, farting through silk, at least until it runs out.
It wasn’t just the furniture, although that was pretty bad, with the ancient overstuffed chairs and day beds and cupboards filled with old clothes. The walls themselves reeked of decay, like the plaster and joints and rafters had been soaked in something so foul even a termite would run away. Old grease dripped from the kitchen ceiling, left there from every meal ever cooked in the house. When we took down the clock off the shit colored wall, we saw the old cuckoo bird had frozen at four o’clock with its beak open outside the little door, its body encased in a coffin of grease. The pink circle that remained behind when the clock was removed looked like a sun riding a cow pie sky.
Johnny hardly knew his great-uncle, Uncle Bunny, they called him, God knows why. He told me the story about how when Uncle Bunny got cancer of the prostate, his sister had to explain to him how the male organ worked. He didn’t have a clue what it was for really. I guess he just peed out of it all those years and forgot about doing anything else with it.
They had all lived together, Uncle Bunny and his sisters, Willa and Kaitlyn, holed up there in the Seattle rain like hermits. They rarely ventured out, although Willa, the one who told Uncle Bunny about his organ, was a bit more social than the others. She at least would go to the doctor, dragging Bunny and Kaitlyn with her when she thought they should go too. That’s how Uncle Bunny found out he had cancer. He’d been complaining he couldn’t pee for months and Willa finally convinced him to go the doctor. He took the news hard, although God knows he didn’t have much to live for. He went back to that house and never came out again until the day they rolled his body out on a stretcher.
We had convinced Willa that she and Kaitlyn would be better off in a board and care. That was hard on them, that move, but it was over with. They were poor as church mice, but the County took good care of them, at least Johnny said so. Myself, I wouldn’t say that, but I couldn’t worry about it too much. It’s not that we were doing that good either. Johnny had been out of a job for eight months and me, well, I had never been too good about working. When we met down at Art’s Bistro so many years ago, both of us drunk and telling stories, we decided we would get married and get rich, in that order. Well, we did the married part, unfortunately, but not the other, which is even more unfortunate.
Johnny talked a good story, like he was a rich man just waiting to happen. Big joke. And that wasn’t his only problem. Johnny must have inherited his great-uncle’s know-how with his organ, like he didn’t have any know-how, if you know what I mean. So we were just squeaking by, from a financial and marital point of view that is, when Uncle Bunny died. Johnny was left the old house, but it was falling apart and the real estate market was just about zero in Seattle. Thank God for food stamps, was all I could say. And a drink or two at night didn’t hurt either.
So there we were going through all the junk in the house. It was good it was me cleaning up the attic that afternoon although I almost went crazy doing it. It was raining and all I could hear was drip, drip, drip on the roof. You couldn’t have dreamed of a better way to drive me crazy than to stick me up in that rotting attic on a rainy afternoon in Seattle. It would make even Jesus commit suicide.
I was going through boxes of stuff from their childhood, toys, clothes, books, shoes, all kinds of things. They kept everything, and I mean everything. There was even a box of old talcum powder their mother must have used on their little bums when they were babies. It still smelled good, kind of like violets. Every so often I’d take a big whiff to cover up the other smells. One of the dolls was porcelain, that old fashioned kind with real hair. One eye was missing, the remaining one so real I got scared sitting there next to it and had to turn it on its stomach.
After I finished going through the toys, I moved the box to the other side of the attic. And that’s when I saw them, the loose floorboards. I thought “just another damn thing to repair” but then something told me to pull them up. They weren’t even nailed down, like someone had just stuck them there and forgot about them. It was so dark I could hardly see what was under them, but I tell you, my stomach did such a big flip it felt like I was an astronaut flying through space. There was something glinting in there and when I reached in my hand I knew it was more than one thing. I pulled it all out and saw it was a pile of jewelry - a gold chain necklace with a diamond and gold filigreed pennant and earrings to match, a couple of rings, one at least a caret diamond surrounded by emeralds, the other a big ruby in a nest of seed diamonds, a gold linked bracelet that weighed more than even my hefty Navajo silver one did, a few other items equally enticing. I ran that gold through my fingers and it didn’t take me long to decide.
But that porcelain doll, she had to have the last word. As I stood up, my foot kicked her and she rolled over. There it was, that eye, accusing me. I couldn’t just leave her there like that, alone under that rainy roof, so I picked her up and stuffed her in my purse with the jewelry. Thank God it was a big purse.
I told Johnny I was going down to the store for a pack of cigarettes, and that’s the last I saw of him. I grabbed a bus for Palm Springs and here I am. No more cow pie walls for me. No more frozen cuckoo clocks. No more burnt incense. No more drip, drip, drip. No more Johnny. Just me and the one-eyed doll, farting through silk, at least until it runs out.
Someone Was Burning Incense in the Room - Darcy Vebber
Lisa swept the floor of the empty bedroom one more time. Without furniture, dust accumulated, particles of the city settling out onto the dark stained hardwood. Or it had been there all along and she hadn't noticed. Certainly there had been balls of dust under the bed and behind the shoes on the floor of the closet that were unseen until she looked. Had Sam minded the mess? He minded the chaos even while he was creating his own but he never seemed to mind dirt.
He had grown up in other people's houses. She'd known that but when they lived together she understood it in a different way. He never owned the space, took no final responsibility for it. Someone else, and in his case someone else's mother or the mother's once a week housekeeper, was responsible, kept things clean. He claimed not to remember the places he had lived with his own mother when he was small.
Lisa asked him when they were in bed, in the dark, still naked, damp, cooling, touching hands or feet or her head on his chest. What was it like?
He had a hundred stories, all of them good, none of them about home. When he was seven, he lived in New Mexico on a commune and his job was to take a small herd of goats up into the foothills just below the snow. He read books he stole from the grown ups while the goats wandered away. When he was four, his mother told fortunes in some kind of carnival and he hid under her table, watching the feet of customers come and go and listening, dreamily to her voice describe futures full of love and good luck.
Everywhere he and his mother lived in those days, she burned incense, sandalwood or pine, sweet but also astringent. When they moved, in or out, apartment, house or tent, she smudged -- sage in a tight green bundle, set alight and waved in all the corners of the place, where ever spirits might hide. He remembered that.
He did it while Lisa was at work. Not the whole apartment but the bedroom, the day he came to take the last of his things. She'd smelled it right away, before she knew what it was or where, and then there was the half burned bundle, in the trash under the kitchen sink which she rescued and put in her desk drawer, for later.
He had grown up in other people's houses. She'd known that but when they lived together she understood it in a different way. He never owned the space, took no final responsibility for it. Someone else, and in his case someone else's mother or the mother's once a week housekeeper, was responsible, kept things clean. He claimed not to remember the places he had lived with his own mother when he was small.
Lisa asked him when they were in bed, in the dark, still naked, damp, cooling, touching hands or feet or her head on his chest. What was it like?
He had a hundred stories, all of them good, none of them about home. When he was seven, he lived in New Mexico on a commune and his job was to take a small herd of goats up into the foothills just below the snow. He read books he stole from the grown ups while the goats wandered away. When he was four, his mother told fortunes in some kind of carnival and he hid under her table, watching the feet of customers come and go and listening, dreamily to her voice describe futures full of love and good luck.
Everywhere he and his mother lived in those days, she burned incense, sandalwood or pine, sweet but also astringent. When they moved, in or out, apartment, house or tent, she smudged -- sage in a tight green bundle, set alight and waved in all the corners of the place, where ever spirits might hide. He remembered that.
He did it while Lisa was at work. Not the whole apartment but the bedroom, the day he came to take the last of his things. She'd smelled it right away, before she knew what it was or where, and then there was the half burned bundle, in the trash under the kitchen sink which she rescued and put in her desk drawer, for later.
Someone Was Burning Incense in the Room - Melody Cryns
I am 10 years old, sitting cross-legged on the shag carpet in the cozy den of the flat I live at in San Francisco. The big-screen black and white TV is on and my brother Michael and sister Jennifer sit on the floor and watch TV. I think Dennis the Menace is on, but I am not sure. I feel safe surrounded by all of the warm things I’m familiar with, the basket chair with the bright-colored pillows, and the rocking chair with the bright green cushions on it. My mother is sitting in the kitchen reading a book – on a yellow plastic kitchen chair at an angle just like it always is. She always sits at that same angle to read a book, always with a tall bottle of Diet Pepsi and tab sitting on the table next to her and an ashtray with cigarette smoke spiraling around my mother’s head. It is almost magical, watching the cigarette smoke swirl around my mother making her look like a spirit. Ricky Solis, one of the six Solis boys who live up the street, is over, and we have a board game stretched out in front of us – I think we are playing Sorry.
Suddenly, we hear the doorbell ring and our dog Nikki starts to bark his high-pitched bark, and I can hear his feet pitter patter down the long hallway of our flat on the hardwood floor. I jump up and dash down the hallway noticing that my mother has looked up from her book of the day. She chews books and spits them out and has them for dinner.
I peek through the curtains and see my mother’s good friend Fred with the long, long hair – in fact Fred is the first person I had ever met when I was just a little girl of six who had long hair like that. A year later, I started to see lots of guys with long hair. He is with his “old lady” as he calls her, Elaine, who is also very nice and their big dog. I cannot remember his name. The dog is golden-colored and large and very nice. I immediately open the door and they say hello. Fred smells like – like, is it incense? I am not sure, but he is very nice and gives me a hug. Fred and all the guys my mother knows with long hair are very nice – they are good to us kids.
The dogs bark at each other now and run up and down the hallway making a lot of noise. My mother emerges from her perch in the kitchen – it’s a miracle! I follow Fred and Elaine down the long-dark hallway into the bright kitchen where they sit at the kitchen table with my mom. Whenever my mom’s friends come over, they almost always sit at the kitchen table. That’s just the way it is. Although sometimes they wander back down the hallway to the living room where the stereo is – the living room is a lot fancier than the rest of the house with a beautiful upright Chickering piano and candelabra. The living room is the only place where there is an actual carpet and mom keeps all the breakable pretty stuff in there.
Fred, Elaine and my mother are now talking and laughing, sitting at the table. I stand next to Fred and he gives me a hug. I miss my Dad who has left and I think Fred knows it. He is very nice. He never tries to take advantage of my youth and I will always feel safe with Fred – my entire life. Later there will be someone I do not feel safe with.
I go back to playing my game with Ricky Solis. After a while Fred, Elaine and my mom wander down the hallway towards the living room and I hear music playing – Mellow Yellow by Donovan, and I hear the words float down the hallway, “They call me mellow yellow, that’s right slick…!”
Suddenly my body just wants to move to the music. I feel I must be there with the music no matter what. I beat Ricky Solis at Sorry and say, “C’mon! Let’s go!” Michael and Jennifer are so engrossed in the television that they don’t even notice as me and Ricky head down the hallway towards the living room.
Someone has burned incense in the room, and it smells so sweet and fresh – mom and Fred and Elaine are laughing, the dogs are running around and no one cares that we’ve walked into the room.
“Play Beatles, Mom – will you?” I ask as if it’s a special treat. I grab the Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Heart’s Club band album – I just love the colorful album cover with all the people on the front – it’s the Beatles’ latest album. My mother smiles and puts the record on to the stereo turntable carefully removing the Donovan record.
Then we all dance and sing to “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Heart’s Club Band,” even the grown-ups.
Suddenly, we hear the doorbell ring and our dog Nikki starts to bark his high-pitched bark, and I can hear his feet pitter patter down the long hallway of our flat on the hardwood floor. I jump up and dash down the hallway noticing that my mother has looked up from her book of the day. She chews books and spits them out and has them for dinner.
I peek through the curtains and see my mother’s good friend Fred with the long, long hair – in fact Fred is the first person I had ever met when I was just a little girl of six who had long hair like that. A year later, I started to see lots of guys with long hair. He is with his “old lady” as he calls her, Elaine, who is also very nice and their big dog. I cannot remember his name. The dog is golden-colored and large and very nice. I immediately open the door and they say hello. Fred smells like – like, is it incense? I am not sure, but he is very nice and gives me a hug. Fred and all the guys my mother knows with long hair are very nice – they are good to us kids.
The dogs bark at each other now and run up and down the hallway making a lot of noise. My mother emerges from her perch in the kitchen – it’s a miracle! I follow Fred and Elaine down the long-dark hallway into the bright kitchen where they sit at the kitchen table with my mom. Whenever my mom’s friends come over, they almost always sit at the kitchen table. That’s just the way it is. Although sometimes they wander back down the hallway to the living room where the stereo is – the living room is a lot fancier than the rest of the house with a beautiful upright Chickering piano and candelabra. The living room is the only place where there is an actual carpet and mom keeps all the breakable pretty stuff in there.
Fred, Elaine and my mother are now talking and laughing, sitting at the table. I stand next to Fred and he gives me a hug. I miss my Dad who has left and I think Fred knows it. He is very nice. He never tries to take advantage of my youth and I will always feel safe with Fred – my entire life. Later there will be someone I do not feel safe with.
I go back to playing my game with Ricky Solis. After a while Fred, Elaine and my mom wander down the hallway towards the living room and I hear music playing – Mellow Yellow by Donovan, and I hear the words float down the hallway, “They call me mellow yellow, that’s right slick…!”
Suddenly my body just wants to move to the music. I feel I must be there with the music no matter what. I beat Ricky Solis at Sorry and say, “C’mon! Let’s go!” Michael and Jennifer are so engrossed in the television that they don’t even notice as me and Ricky head down the hallway towards the living room.
Someone has burned incense in the room, and it smells so sweet and fresh – mom and Fred and Elaine are laughing, the dogs are running around and no one cares that we’ve walked into the room.
“Play Beatles, Mom – will you?” I ask as if it’s a special treat. I grab the Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Heart’s Club band album – I just love the colorful album cover with all the people on the front – it’s the Beatles’ latest album. My mother smiles and puts the record on to the stereo turntable carefully removing the Donovan record.
Then we all dance and sing to “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Heart’s Club Band,” even the grown-ups.
Someone Was Burning Incense in the Room - Elizabeth Weld Nolan
She knocked on his door again, standing on the step beside the roof. The afternoon sun, strong and hot, hit her back. The stairway to Jude’s second floor room was outside the house, hanging beside the picture window of the living room. When he went up to his room at night, he sometimes hooked an elbow over a step and leaned in front of the window so he looked like a ghost with pale face pressed against the glass. She always laughed and went to knock on the window just where his face was.
Jude had been invisible these past few days. She could never find him to talk to. They usually told each other things they didn’t tell their parents, but she hadn’t had a chance to tell him about Victoria, the colonel’s new horse, and she wasn’t sure she should tell him about Rob.
She opened the door and went in. Jude was fierce about his privacy, so she only entered when he invited her. His room was surprisingly neat. The bed on the floor had a blue spread tucked tight under it and stacks of books lay on their sides around the head of the bed like a small fort, their titles visible. A desk lamp curved toward the pillow. A desk piled with papers, a drawing table, a desk chair and a reading chair. The windows looked across the plain toward Albuquerque and light flooded the room. It had been the studio of the artist who rented the house to them.
On the desk, curls of smoke rose from a small blue pot, and she smelled the sharp, familiar smell of pinyon that usually came out of fireplaces. Someone had been burning incense in the room. She had been looking for Jude all day and he hadn’t been anywhere. So who was just here, burning incense in her brother’s room? She turned and ran down the steps. The door banged.
Jude had been invisible these past few days. She could never find him to talk to. They usually told each other things they didn’t tell their parents, but she hadn’t had a chance to tell him about Victoria, the colonel’s new horse, and she wasn’t sure she should tell him about Rob.
She opened the door and went in. Jude was fierce about his privacy, so she only entered when he invited her. His room was surprisingly neat. The bed on the floor had a blue spread tucked tight under it and stacks of books lay on their sides around the head of the bed like a small fort, their titles visible. A desk lamp curved toward the pillow. A desk piled with papers, a drawing table, a desk chair and a reading chair. The windows looked across the plain toward Albuquerque and light flooded the room. It had been the studio of the artist who rented the house to them.
On the desk, curls of smoke rose from a small blue pot, and she smelled the sharp, familiar smell of pinyon that usually came out of fireplaces. Someone had been burning incense in the room. She had been looking for Jude all day and he hadn’t been anywhere. So who was just here, burning incense in her brother’s room? She turned and ran down the steps. The door banged.
Superstition - John Fetto
It was odd for a soldier, but Hawley was actually superstitious about killing someone. He couldn’t imagine that there wasn’t any retribution for squeezing one off and dropping someone, even if they couldn’t see you, even if they never knew. Wouldn’t they be pissed? If there was something that was left, call it a soul, or spirit, or just fine particles of electricity, wouldn’t they follow you around, buzzing around your ears, asking why the fuck did you do that? It was one thing to fire back when someone was shooting at you, but to drop someone sipping tea at a thousand yards, right after they set down their cup and smiled to the lowly lieutenant sitting next to him, to kill that man who wasn’t fighting at all, wasn’t there something that happened for doing that?
Hawley didn’t see the answer in the beer he was holding. He sipped it and set it down, looking at it as if it were somehow changed. Willie was still talking up the shot to all those who would listen, and Jaybird was just grinning the way Jaybird did, finally punching Hawley’s shoulder and saying, “Broke your cherry today!”
Hawley didn’t see the answer in the beer he was holding. He sipped it and set it down, looking at it as if it were somehow changed. Willie was still talking up the shot to all those who would listen, and Jaybird was just grinning the way Jaybird did, finally punching Hawley’s shoulder and saying, “Broke your cherry today!”
Superstition - Bonnie Smetts
We’re allowed to bring our own pen to the test. We’re allowed to bring two. So I do. I always bring the blue one and the dark, dark green one. The ink has to be blue. And I line up the green one at the top of the desk, in line with the edge, just below the monitor. In line. A line that I can see in the fuzzy part of my eyes. It’s like a friend or something, that green line keeps me from really looking hard at what I’m doing so that I keep doing it. Typing fast, and not thinking. The more I don’t think, the better I hear. And the better I hear, the faster I type. And that one green line keeps me moving along.
I don’t know how I started that. Well I do. The first test of school, somebody gave me an extra pen because I didn’t know we could bring it. The girl in front of me just slid it under my monitor at the last minute before we got the “go.” And the whole time I was dictating, I was looking at it, fuzzy. I couldn’t stop almost looking and I thought it would just drive me crazy, that green line. And when we had to stop, I’d been the fastest at the dictation.
So ever since then, I’ve got my green pen. And I don’t even like green, and I never write with that pen. And I don’t know where I’d get one like it if I had to. Pens are black or blue or red or pink or something like that. Not green. Just my pen. And after I’d done so well with the pen, I asked the girl if I could have it. I offered to buy it. She just laughed and said it was mine. She said she’d given it away to me because she didn’t really like green.
And now I got this little secret. And I’m telling no one because I’m doing so well with my speed. And that girl who gave me the green pen, she’s got hands like feet, she’s barely keeping up with the rest of us. I think she might need to be choosing something else to do for a career since she’s let go of the only secret that might have helped her.
I slip my green pen back in the pocket inside my purse after the test. I don’t touch it or take it out until I need it again. Even if someone came running up to me and saying that they were in an emergency, please, please do I have a pen, I’d have to lie and say no.
I don’t know how I started that. Well I do. The first test of school, somebody gave me an extra pen because I didn’t know we could bring it. The girl in front of me just slid it under my monitor at the last minute before we got the “go.” And the whole time I was dictating, I was looking at it, fuzzy. I couldn’t stop almost looking and I thought it would just drive me crazy, that green line. And when we had to stop, I’d been the fastest at the dictation.
So ever since then, I’ve got my green pen. And I don’t even like green, and I never write with that pen. And I don’t know where I’d get one like it if I had to. Pens are black or blue or red or pink or something like that. Not green. Just my pen. And after I’d done so well with the pen, I asked the girl if I could have it. I offered to buy it. She just laughed and said it was mine. She said she’d given it away to me because she didn’t really like green.
And now I got this little secret. And I’m telling no one because I’m doing so well with my speed. And that girl who gave me the green pen, she’s got hands like feet, she’s barely keeping up with the rest of us. I think she might need to be choosing something else to do for a career since she’s let go of the only secret that might have helped her.
I slip my green pen back in the pocket inside my purse after the test. I don’t touch it or take it out until I need it again. Even if someone came running up to me and saying that they were in an emergency, please, please do I have a pen, I’d have to lie and say no.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Planning It All Out - Camilla Basham
While Will and I walk I start planning it all out in my head. What will I say if dad asks me about the new patient? What if kids at school tease me for having what they call “his kind” in our house? What if I get so nervous with all that attention that I can’t hide it and start fiddling with my pleats and that Molly with her big mouth makes some comment again? Sometimes I feel really feisty, as mom calls it, and afterward I always wonder what it would feel like to have a real confession to tell.
We make our way to the back of the house as the raised voices of my parents disappear in the distance. The increasing silence is like a weight lifting from my shoulders. While that one lifts, his presses against me. He is weak and wobbly. I feel somehow holy in a way I’ve never felt before.
I open the door to our makeshift hospital and take in the smell of cloves, brown Lysol, dirty hair, baby powder and despair.
There are only three people staying with us just now: Mr. Ardoin, who fought in the war only to come home and loose both legs to diabetes; Mrs. Thibodeaux, who thought her stroke was a sun stroke and she could be cured by a healer. She had Mrs. Rae, the sun stroke lady, pray on her only to find out she had in fact had an honest to goodness stroke, now she eats through a straw and curses a lot; and my grandpa, Papoo, who suffers from dementia, insists on calling me Mae, the name of my late grandma, and once ate my math homework because he was hungry. He later claimed the Germans stole it, along with his good teeth.
We make our way to the back of the house as the raised voices of my parents disappear in the distance. The increasing silence is like a weight lifting from my shoulders. While that one lifts, his presses against me. He is weak and wobbly. I feel somehow holy in a way I’ve never felt before.
I open the door to our makeshift hospital and take in the smell of cloves, brown Lysol, dirty hair, baby powder and despair.
There are only three people staying with us just now: Mr. Ardoin, who fought in the war only to come home and loose both legs to diabetes; Mrs. Thibodeaux, who thought her stroke was a sun stroke and she could be cured by a healer. She had Mrs. Rae, the sun stroke lady, pray on her only to find out she had in fact had an honest to goodness stroke, now she eats through a straw and curses a lot; and my grandpa, Papoo, who suffers from dementia, insists on calling me Mae, the name of my late grandma, and once ate my math homework because he was hungry. He later claimed the Germans stole it, along with his good teeth.
Planning It All Out - Kaye Doiron
She has bought into the myth. She believes she has found her prince and he didn’t come riding in on a stallion but that’s okay, a red bike instead. He is lovely. He brings her vitamins even when he is mad. This, she believes is love. She believes, perhaps she can be loved so much that nothing else matters. She buys into the myth some more. She marries even though her stomach tells her not to, she has it all planned out, she sees the kitchen, the kids, the flowers in the garden, the Christmas mornings, all but the white picket fence. The house is decrepit, it is not even theirs. Her Prince calls her spoiled for wanting cabinets in the kitchen. She works so hard. She tries to fix it all, she is scorpionishly determined to make it work or die trying. The children are giant band aids on a bleeding heart and get her through. Her skin crawls when she feels her prince’s touch. She has turned him into a frog perhaps? She stops believing in everyone and everything and the sunlight is slowly all squashed out of her as well as the dreams. She dies trying.
After Katrina there is nothing left to lose, all is lost already. An entire city emptied of song. “You see”, she says to her prince, “the rug can be pulled out from you. “ She is out of control with rage. The red headed beast has possessed every part of her and it is time to move out to move on to move move move as fast as she can. There is no light here, no air to breathe, her heart beats fast with fury. Finally she is free. She is awake. She breathes deeply. She cries herself to sleep over the time lost, the energy lost. Her children are no longer band aids, they are salt.
He is tall, dark and handsome and he makes her feel alive again. He is funny, fun, vivant. The sex is tremendous, who knew? She is trying to resist each and every day the desire to plan it all out....again.
After Katrina there is nothing left to lose, all is lost already. An entire city emptied of song. “You see”, she says to her prince, “the rug can be pulled out from you. “ She is out of control with rage. The red headed beast has possessed every part of her and it is time to move out to move on to move move move as fast as she can. There is no light here, no air to breathe, her heart beats fast with fury. Finally she is free. She is awake. She breathes deeply. She cries herself to sleep over the time lost, the energy lost. Her children are no longer band aids, they are salt.
He is tall, dark and handsome and he makes her feel alive again. He is funny, fun, vivant. The sex is tremendous, who knew? She is trying to resist each and every day the desire to plan it all out....again.
Back to Darkness - Elizabeth Weld Nolan
She leaned on the high window sill with her arms crossed and her chin on them. The sky was still streaked with orange and crimson, the last rays of sun refracting through the dust in the air, she thought. All that beauty from just dust. It was getting dark earlier now, and she was glad. The brilliant high mountain sun made Callie uneasy sometimes, stirred something in her that wanted to roam, wanted, really, to get on a horse and ride up and down the streets of Santa Fe, plod along up a trail to the top of Cerro Gordo, the fat brown hill up the canyon. She wanted to ride south in the fading day toward the rodeo grounds where there was space so she could grab hold of the sturdy mane, kick the bare sides – bareback was freedom – lie low and let the horse lengthen into full gallop, to run and run and run – no worries about gopher holes or rocks or falling off, riding like a burr in the mane.
But. She sighed. She didn’t have a horse. None. Only Rob had one, and he was getting werid, and his uncle, who lived near her and just got a new Arabian. She stood up. She could go back up there, just for a night visit, just to see if that wonderful horse really was living on the next road to hers. She could slip out the patio door, down the hill to the arroyo, up the other side across the road to the fence of the pasture where Victoria now reigned. A queen of horses. She spread her schoolbooks across her bed and turned the lamp on them. Standing at the door in her room that let to the back patio, she turned to look at the scene of homework being done. She came back and put a pencil and pen alongside the books. Then she slipped out into the darkness.
But. She sighed. She didn’t have a horse. None. Only Rob had one, and he was getting werid, and his uncle, who lived near her and just got a new Arabian. She stood up. She could go back up there, just for a night visit, just to see if that wonderful horse really was living on the next road to hers. She could slip out the patio door, down the hill to the arroyo, up the other side across the road to the fence of the pasture where Victoria now reigned. A queen of horses. She spread her schoolbooks across her bed and turned the lamp on them. Standing at the door in her room that let to the back patio, she turned to look at the scene of homework being done. She came back and put a pencil and pen alongside the books. Then she slipped out into the darkness.
Back to Darkness - Jeff Thomas
My grandfather had a set of jokes that he told repeatedly. One of them had the punch line, “many hands make light work.” It strikes me now that there was a racist element to the joke, vaguely Asian. There was something Confucian about the punch line; he may have even used a slight Asian accent. It didn’t strike me as odd at the time, just boring. Anyway, the story goes that a professor is giving a lecture in a crowded auditorium. Suddenly, the lights go out. The professor calms everyone down by saying he has a proven method for fixing the situation. He tells everyone to raise their hands high in the air; everyone obeys. Suddenly the lights come back on. The professor stands at the front of the class with smile on his face. He says to the room, “this proves the old adage, ‘many hands make light work!’” Hee haw, hee haw.
I can’t stand when people repeat jokes. It’s about all I can do not to just get up and leave the room. I don’t get it; do people not reaize they’re repeating useless information, or do they simply not care? Okay, it’s true that I have a boiling, seething lake of anger below my calm, nice, well-bred, Midwestern “surface,” but bullshit like repeating stupid jokes makes life almost unbearable. Plus my grandfather was a liar and I’m absolutely sure I haven’t gotten over that.
I can’t stand when people repeat jokes. It’s about all I can do not to just get up and leave the room. I don’t get it; do people not reaize they’re repeating useless information, or do they simply not care? Okay, it’s true that I have a boiling, seething lake of anger below my calm, nice, well-bred, Midwestern “surface,” but bullshit like repeating stupid jokes makes life almost unbearable. Plus my grandfather was a liar and I’m absolutely sure I haven’t gotten over that.
Shimmering - John Fetto
The asphalt shimmered. Hawley blinked and the solid tar rolled towards him like a Pacific wave. He waited to be pitched off the building and fall three stories to the ground, but he held on to the heavy duffle. He could still fall. He would fall eventually, everyone does, and even though he should have been thinking of what he should do to survive, he kept seeing himself pitching toward the ground, and the awful smack of his head on pavement. He didn’t fear his legs or arms shattering. It was his head smacking against the street below and the sound of it would be terrible. He could hear it, followed by an awful ringing as he bled out. His hand rose to rub his head, to see if it was still attached.
The ringing in his ears moved outside, a dozen blocks away where a police siren caught it and carried the same tune. Other sirens joined around the city, all closing on where he sat. He looked around the roof and saw the gun, then pulled the duffle towards it. He picked it up, checked the action, and thumbed in five more bullets. Then he opened the duffle and began pulling out the metal, frags on one side, smoke on the other.
The ringing in his ears moved outside, a dozen blocks away where a police siren caught it and carried the same tune. Other sirens joined around the city, all closing on where he sat. He looked around the roof and saw the gun, then pulled the duffle towards it. He picked it up, checked the action, and thumbed in five more bullets. Then he opened the duffle and began pulling out the metal, frags on one side, smoke on the other.
Sons of Bitches, People in Dire Trouble, and People Who Fuck up Completely - Darcy Vebber
Lisa saw the man reach out and touch the girl on the wrist where the satiny burn scar was not quite healed. It was quick, just like something she might have done to Kate in the back seat of the car when they were small and she was always so angry. It was mean, like that.
Mary gasped.
"She's awake now," Ez said. "Open your eyes, Mary. There's no hiding here."
Mary kept her eyes closed but her lip and chin trembled.
Lisa saw another burn scar, healed, in the hollow of the girl's white throat. A small, smooth circle. She looked up and saw Ez on the other side of Mary's bed, looking at her.
His mouth was set, his eyes black. The whole shape of his face seemed changed from the round, not too quick but nice guy face he had presented to her in the parking lot. He was someone else here, someone dangerous. Lisa bowed her head but did not take her hand from the pillow where she rested it after smoothing the girl's dirty hair. The danger was in looking too long, she thought. But she kept watching, through her lashes, through the hair that fell forward.
"We all love you here, Mary Rose," Ez said. "You are beloved, a beloved person." He had hooded his eyes, softened his mouth, changed yet again. He leaned toward the girl and whispered, "I love you." His voice was low and intimate.
Lisa felt her stomach lurch. Everything inside her felt like acid.
Mary opened her eyes.
Mary gasped.
"She's awake now," Ez said. "Open your eyes, Mary. There's no hiding here."
Mary kept her eyes closed but her lip and chin trembled.
Lisa saw another burn scar, healed, in the hollow of the girl's white throat. A small, smooth circle. She looked up and saw Ez on the other side of Mary's bed, looking at her.
His mouth was set, his eyes black. The whole shape of his face seemed changed from the round, not too quick but nice guy face he had presented to her in the parking lot. He was someone else here, someone dangerous. Lisa bowed her head but did not take her hand from the pillow where she rested it after smoothing the girl's dirty hair. The danger was in looking too long, she thought. But she kept watching, through her lashes, through the hair that fell forward.
"We all love you here, Mary Rose," Ez said. "You are beloved, a beloved person." He had hooded his eyes, softened his mouth, changed yet again. He leaned toward the girl and whispered, "I love you." His voice was low and intimate.
Lisa felt her stomach lurch. Everything inside her felt like acid.
Mary opened her eyes.
Sons of Bitches, People in Dire Trouble, and People Who Fuck up Completely - Bonnie Smetts
The guy’s got a bandage down the left side of his face, his hair hangs soft over it. They got his hands cuffed with plastic ties and he’s wearing those jail booties. He aims his eyes right at me, and he smiles. I didn’t mean to be looking that direction, I wasn’t really looking, my eyes weren’t looking at anything.
I’m sure of that. I just look at nothing between recording. There can be a lot of waiting in my day. And I’m not asked to take down, and then the defendant shuffled in, and then he coughed and then his fancy lawyer adjusted his cuff links. So time drifts along, and that’s when my eyes fell on this man.
I grabbed up inside when he’s eyes met mine. I haven’t been thinking about the people I’m been writing about since I started in here Brown County. I’m happy not to know any of them. Even the mother who came in after beating up her kid didn’t to get me, not the way it would have if I were in Nordeen. I don’t know the mother or the kid. I can do my job without wanting to leap up and hit the people doing such wrong.
Now this man, he stops me. He gave my inside a tug. And damn, I’m smart enough to stop it right this minute. So even here, there’s somebody who’s as messed up as Roy. This guy was arrested for beating up somebody for nothing, like Roy. Now his lawyer’s asking that his client be allowed to go to rehab and not to jail. But the judge isn’t so convinced that rehab for what he says is the fourth time is gonna do this man any good.
I keep my eyes down and I feel my fingers pushing down the keys. I know my fingers are freer than they would have been in Nordeen. They slip and slide along and I record every little word like I do, and I don’t look up again after they all stop talking. I let this guy walk away and I know I’m never gonna see him again. Nobody could guess how much I know about this guy, this sort of guy. The particulars may be different, but I can take a guess about the general way he’s been living. I bet there’s a girl somewhere, ruining her life just to be with him. Might be some girl leaving her kid alone in the dark just to be with him.
The day’s still beautiful when I’m done with work. I still got time to walk on my beach before the sun’s gone. I got time to be thankful for all that’s happened to me that’s taught me to never, ever look at that kind of man again.
The air’s soft tonight even with the coolness of winter coming on.
I’m sure of that. I just look at nothing between recording. There can be a lot of waiting in my day. And I’m not asked to take down, and then the defendant shuffled in, and then he coughed and then his fancy lawyer adjusted his cuff links. So time drifts along, and that’s when my eyes fell on this man.
I grabbed up inside when he’s eyes met mine. I haven’t been thinking about the people I’m been writing about since I started in here Brown County. I’m happy not to know any of them. Even the mother who came in after beating up her kid didn’t to get me, not the way it would have if I were in Nordeen. I don’t know the mother or the kid. I can do my job without wanting to leap up and hit the people doing such wrong.
Now this man, he stops me. He gave my inside a tug. And damn, I’m smart enough to stop it right this minute. So even here, there’s somebody who’s as messed up as Roy. This guy was arrested for beating up somebody for nothing, like Roy. Now his lawyer’s asking that his client be allowed to go to rehab and not to jail. But the judge isn’t so convinced that rehab for what he says is the fourth time is gonna do this man any good.
I keep my eyes down and I feel my fingers pushing down the keys. I know my fingers are freer than they would have been in Nordeen. They slip and slide along and I record every little word like I do, and I don’t look up again after they all stop talking. I let this guy walk away and I know I’m never gonna see him again. Nobody could guess how much I know about this guy, this sort of guy. The particulars may be different, but I can take a guess about the general way he’s been living. I bet there’s a girl somewhere, ruining her life just to be with him. Might be some girl leaving her kid alone in the dark just to be with him.
The day’s still beautiful when I’m done with work. I still got time to walk on my beach before the sun’s gone. I got time to be thankful for all that’s happened to me that’s taught me to never, ever look at that kind of man again.
The air’s soft tonight even with the coolness of winter coming on.
Sons of Bitches, People in Dire Trouble, and People Who Fuck up Completely - Randy Wong
I told her to come towards me. She took a quick look at my face, and then she went back to staring at the ground. I took a step towards her, and she quickly took a short step backwards. We’ve played this game before, she and I. It was the same game we’ve played for years. She looks much older now. She looks so much like her mother. Normally, she would hesitate only for a moment before eventually coming to me. For some reason, it was different today. Not that it mattered.
I remember when my step-father and I played the same game. It started when I was really young. At first, I did not understand what was being done and how I was supposed to react. After a while, it no longer mattered why he did what he did. I only knew that I had no choice, and I wanted it to be done and over with as quickly as possible.
One day, when I was fifteen, I finally decided enough was enough. I eventually told someone who then told someone else, and in the end, all the right people who were supposed to know finally did get to know. I don’t remember much what happened afterwards only that it never happened again. Except I’ve never forgotten. How could I?
Some of the people who were supposed to know told me terrible things. They told me that I should have said something at the beginning, and why on earth did I wait so long to tell anyone? But they didn’t understand. They did not understand the fear and the helplessness. What could I have done? And besides, where were they? Couldn’t they tell that something was wrong? None of them suspected? How could they not have suspected anything? They were the guardians and protectors. They were supposed to know.
Today, now I play the same game. They were supposed to help me. They were supposed to know what to do. The powerful people. The smarter people. The ones who could put a stop to this. But they didn’t. They couldn’t. I couldn’t. So, I keep playing.
I remember when my step-father and I played the same game. It started when I was really young. At first, I did not understand what was being done and how I was supposed to react. After a while, it no longer mattered why he did what he did. I only knew that I had no choice, and I wanted it to be done and over with as quickly as possible.
One day, when I was fifteen, I finally decided enough was enough. I eventually told someone who then told someone else, and in the end, all the right people who were supposed to know finally did get to know. I don’t remember much what happened afterwards only that it never happened again. Except I’ve never forgotten. How could I?
Some of the people who were supposed to know told me terrible things. They told me that I should have said something at the beginning, and why on earth did I wait so long to tell anyone? But they didn’t understand. They did not understand the fear and the helplessness. What could I have done? And besides, where were they? Couldn’t they tell that something was wrong? None of them suspected? How could they not have suspected anything? They were the guardians and protectors. They were supposed to know.
Today, now I play the same game. They were supposed to help me. They were supposed to know what to do. The powerful people. The smarter people. The ones who could put a stop to this. But they didn’t. They couldn’t. I couldn’t. So, I keep playing.
A Son of a Bitch - Judy Albietz
Ten months since his wife died, Jason Miller was still living with unpacked boxes in his new apartment in Sacramento. He had moved out of Berkeley. Nobody straight out said they thought he killed his wife. None of his friends called him a “son-of-a-bitch” to his face. They just quietly pulled away. They were mostly her friends, anyway. The day after Deidre’s suicide, one of their friends, Richard, left a voice message “indefinitely” cancelling his standing Wednesday night tennis game with Jason. “Of course we don’t think you had anything to do with her death,” Richard said on the taped message. He didn’t return Jason’s calls.
Jason hated having to start fresh in the real estate market in another town. However, since the real estate business depends a lot on relationships, he knew he had no choice. He hadn’t received even one referral since Deidre died. And with the real estate market in the tank anyway, he might as well go back to the bottom of the totem pole in a new place.
Jason had been working that evening during the time period described by the coroner as “time of death.” The police didn’t even question his story about showing a house to a potential buyer. Jason thought about how true it was their marriage was in trouble. During his interview after Deidre’s body was found, the officer made a joke out of it, “If that’s a motive for murder, then more than half the people I know would be suspects.”
The fighting had increased during the last few months before she took her life. It was always some version of the same script: He said, “I want to make this work.” She said, “I want out.” He said, “You’re not even trying, you’ve become a cold fish.” She said, “You’re a weak, shallow excuse for a man.” He said, “I love you.” She said, “I don’t believe you.”
Jason had no idea when Deidre stole her cousin’s sawed-off shotgun. When had she learned to shoot a gun? Bruce kept it in the garage and Deidre knew where he kept the key. Jason found pieces of his wife’s skull and globs of her brain on the wall of the dining room of their house. He couldn’t stay in the same town with that house with molecules of her blood still embedded in the walls.
Jason hated having to start fresh in the real estate market in another town. However, since the real estate business depends a lot on relationships, he knew he had no choice. He hadn’t received even one referral since Deidre died. And with the real estate market in the tank anyway, he might as well go back to the bottom of the totem pole in a new place.
Jason had been working that evening during the time period described by the coroner as “time of death.” The police didn’t even question his story about showing a house to a potential buyer. Jason thought about how true it was their marriage was in trouble. During his interview after Deidre’s body was found, the officer made a joke out of it, “If that’s a motive for murder, then more than half the people I know would be suspects.”
The fighting had increased during the last few months before she took her life. It was always some version of the same script: He said, “I want to make this work.” She said, “I want out.” He said, “You’re not even trying, you’ve become a cold fish.” She said, “You’re a weak, shallow excuse for a man.” He said, “I love you.” She said, “I don’t believe you.”
Jason had no idea when Deidre stole her cousin’s sawed-off shotgun. When had she learned to shoot a gun? Bruce kept it in the garage and Deidre knew where he kept the key. Jason found pieces of his wife’s skull and globs of her brain on the wall of the dining room of their house. He couldn’t stay in the same town with that house with molecules of her blood still embedded in the walls.
I Would Live That Moment Again - Carol Arnold
“Freeze this moment,” Andy says.
My husband gently pulls me to him as he speaks these words. We are standing in front of our tent on a rise overlooking the valley of the Tarangire River. It is dusk, a slight breeze carrying the scent of acacia and dung across the air, the cooing of the mourning doves winding down, another warm night emerging from the African bush.
“I want to remember this moment forever,” he adds as he wraps his arms around me to watch an event unfold that must have occurred a million times before at this place. A line of elephants is making its way down the valley to the river for an evening drink, about fifty of them, a few babies, some juveniles, mostly adults. Ears flicking, trunks swaying, they plod silently across the horizon, their bodies as deeply gray and wrinkled as ancient mountains. Their massive heads nod slowly up and down, as if answering some important question.
I feel myself falling in love, not just with my husband again, or even the animals, but something deeper. I feel as if this moment is part of my own being, as if my blood might at any moment flow out my body and deep into the bone-filled earth, and instead of dying I will be born.
Andy takes my hand and together we begin swaying back and forth to the rhythm of the animals’ trunks, a slow, steady movement like the ticking of a pendulum on a giant clock. As we rock back and forth it dawns on me that the question the elephants are responding to isn’t really a question at all, but an affirmation. “This is the way it has always been,” they say. “”This is the way it will always be.”
If only they are right.
My husband gently pulls me to him as he speaks these words. We are standing in front of our tent on a rise overlooking the valley of the Tarangire River. It is dusk, a slight breeze carrying the scent of acacia and dung across the air, the cooing of the mourning doves winding down, another warm night emerging from the African bush.
“I want to remember this moment forever,” he adds as he wraps his arms around me to watch an event unfold that must have occurred a million times before at this place. A line of elephants is making its way down the valley to the river for an evening drink, about fifty of them, a few babies, some juveniles, mostly adults. Ears flicking, trunks swaying, they plod silently across the horizon, their bodies as deeply gray and wrinkled as ancient mountains. Their massive heads nod slowly up and down, as if answering some important question.
I feel myself falling in love, not just with my husband again, or even the animals, but something deeper. I feel as if this moment is part of my own being, as if my blood might at any moment flow out my body and deep into the bone-filled earth, and instead of dying I will be born.
Andy takes my hand and together we begin swaying back and forth to the rhythm of the animals’ trunks, a slow, steady movement like the ticking of a pendulum on a giant clock. As we rock back and forth it dawns on me that the question the elephants are responding to isn’t really a question at all, but an affirmation. “This is the way it has always been,” they say. “”This is the way it will always be.”
If only they are right.
I Would Live That Moment Again - Anne Wright
We drove along the beach road in Baja, looking for a place to stop and swim. Our car was one of those old VW beetles, the original kind with uncomfortable seats and the air conditioner knobs that made you think someday some cool air would come out of the vents below your sweaty legs.
When we stopped, we saw a beach with turkey vultures walking around in the sand and I wondered what they were looking for, bodies of dead horses or pigs that may have washed up in the tide, or even bodies of people. But this was our beach and we dragged the basket with chips and Coca cola and rum and towels and suntan lotion down the little cliff.
I was very careful where I stepped. It was the kind of place where anything could happen, and maybe something very gross was under the sand. We laid out our towels at one end of the beach, and the turkey vultures stayed at the other, walking around, sometimes flying off to another beach, looking for who knows what.
I don’t know why I thought I’d like to lie in the sun. It was too hot. We had no umbrella. I wanted to go into the water. It was a little cove and the waves were just too hot and tired to crash on the shore, so they lapped in then languished back out. The water was not what I expected. It was bathtub warm, and I saw lots of seaweed floating, the kind that might hide poisonous jellyfish and stinging small spikey fish and we were out in the middle of nowhere.
The salty sand made my feet itch and I gave up on the idea of swimming out in the deep water so I went back to my towel. Man, it was hot. I had to have shade, so Rollie fixed a little tent for me, draping the towel over the bleached limbs of a shipwrecked tree, and I sat on my coverup and drank a warm rum and coke.
I would live that moment again.
When we stopped, we saw a beach with turkey vultures walking around in the sand and I wondered what they were looking for, bodies of dead horses or pigs that may have washed up in the tide, or even bodies of people. But this was our beach and we dragged the basket with chips and Coca cola and rum and towels and suntan lotion down the little cliff.
I was very careful where I stepped. It was the kind of place where anything could happen, and maybe something very gross was under the sand. We laid out our towels at one end of the beach, and the turkey vultures stayed at the other, walking around, sometimes flying off to another beach, looking for who knows what.
I don’t know why I thought I’d like to lie in the sun. It was too hot. We had no umbrella. I wanted to go into the water. It was a little cove and the waves were just too hot and tired to crash on the shore, so they lapped in then languished back out. The water was not what I expected. It was bathtub warm, and I saw lots of seaweed floating, the kind that might hide poisonous jellyfish and stinging small spikey fish and we were out in the middle of nowhere.
The salty sand made my feet itch and I gave up on the idea of swimming out in the deep water so I went back to my towel. Man, it was hot. I had to have shade, so Rollie fixed a little tent for me, draping the towel over the bleached limbs of a shipwrecked tree, and I sat on my coverup and drank a warm rum and coke.
I would live that moment again.
I Would Live That Moment Over Again - Melody Cryns
I don’t know how it happened. I mean, nothing was going on in my life when it came to guys and relationships – nada, nothing. And it was best that way because I’ve got a lot going on with the job, the master’s program, and my high-maintenance daughter. Of course I love music so much – I could easily be a music whore following great bands around and hanging out with them and dancing to the music until my knees and hips hurt too much to dance anymore. That’s what brought me to Woodham’s Lounge in Santa Clara and that’s how I’ve gotten to know all these wonderful musicians. It’s like they’re all my friends and I love that.
So then this guy named Harold sashays into my life swinging me around the dance floor, whispering complements into my ear that I hadn’t heard in years…opening something up from the deep recesses of my mind and heart that have been closed and protected for a long, long time.
But Harold’s breath was laced with whiskey when he whispered into my ear and after a while the stories that I loved to hear did not always ring true. He definitely had the gift of gab. So why am I sweating it or worried about the fact that Harold has stopped calling me – ever since I confronted him last Friday night at the Mike Osborn Show he was working at. I had been invited to a private party where my favorite classic rock band, high-edge rock, Full Throttle played and had danced and jumped up and down with men dressed as women, a dude dressed like a Viking, another dressed like Elvis and one who had painted his face like one of the dudes from Kiss. It was a whirlwind night where I literally dashed from one place to the next because I’d promised Mike Osborn I’d take photos of him wearing his Scottish kilt while playing bad ass guitar.
I knew Harold would be there because he was doing the sound for Mike Osborn that night and he did tell me that his friend Shari was visiting from Michigan, that she also had friends and family to visit and that he’d be driving her around places and he hoped that didn’t bother me. I said it didn’t – at first.
So I danced and got to act a little crazy at the private party and finally I had to jet on out giving the peace sign to all the guys in the band who are dear to my heart now ‘cause I’m one of their regular fans and drove to Los Gatos Lodge where Mike Osborn was ripping it on guitar wearing his Scottish kilt, a wig and even blue and white face makeup. The dance floor was filled with people and I didn’t see Harold at first. Then I noticed him dancing with this chick, yeah, his friend from Michigan. When he saw me, he ran over and hugged me and said, “Finally, you made it!”
I had arrived for the last hour. In spite of all of the red flags about Harold, seeing him made my heart flutter. I couldn’t help it. Then my friend Vikki ran over and hugged me. I was totally dressed like a hippie with tie-dye and beads and the whole bit – and bell bottoms that were way too big for me held up with a belt. Harold wore his martial arts outfit and his friend Shari wore another one of Harold’s outfits.
So we all had a good time dancing to Mike Osborn and his band’s music, and afterwards when Harold went outside to smoke a cigarette, that lady Shari from Michigan started talking to me. I asked if she was having a good time in California and she said she had traveled all the way out to California just to be with and hang out with Harold.
What? Harold told me differently. I started to put two and two together. Harold had not been completely honest with me about this woman, but then again, I never knew when Harold was completely honest. I did confront him when I caught him alone for a few and he denied knowing the friend had arrived just to see him. How could he not know, c’mon? then he tried to justify it by saying, “Oh I’m in the music world and this happens…”
Well, that was just the last straw, worse than whether he really had two black belts in martial arts, and whether he had a Ph.D. and a law degree…I looked at him and somehow couldn’t picture him spending years pouring over books…then again, that might have been another life.
I knew at that moment that Harold and I would never be anything more than friends.
But I will never forget that moment when we first kissed in the parking lot outside my work building at 11:00 pm at night and how it felt, the electricity between us, and then one of the security people shined lights on us as if we were naughty teenagers, but after she saw me and recognized me as someone who worked in the building, she said, “Go for it! You only live once.”
That was a special night…and even though Harold is out there with another woman from Michigan, telling her the same stories, even though it’s over with him, I will not take back that moment – no matter who I end up with.
So then this guy named Harold sashays into my life swinging me around the dance floor, whispering complements into my ear that I hadn’t heard in years…opening something up from the deep recesses of my mind and heart that have been closed and protected for a long, long time.
But Harold’s breath was laced with whiskey when he whispered into my ear and after a while the stories that I loved to hear did not always ring true. He definitely had the gift of gab. So why am I sweating it or worried about the fact that Harold has stopped calling me – ever since I confronted him last Friday night at the Mike Osborn Show he was working at. I had been invited to a private party where my favorite classic rock band, high-edge rock, Full Throttle played and had danced and jumped up and down with men dressed as women, a dude dressed like a Viking, another dressed like Elvis and one who had painted his face like one of the dudes from Kiss. It was a whirlwind night where I literally dashed from one place to the next because I’d promised Mike Osborn I’d take photos of him wearing his Scottish kilt while playing bad ass guitar.
I knew Harold would be there because he was doing the sound for Mike Osborn that night and he did tell me that his friend Shari was visiting from Michigan, that she also had friends and family to visit and that he’d be driving her around places and he hoped that didn’t bother me. I said it didn’t – at first.
So I danced and got to act a little crazy at the private party and finally I had to jet on out giving the peace sign to all the guys in the band who are dear to my heart now ‘cause I’m one of their regular fans and drove to Los Gatos Lodge where Mike Osborn was ripping it on guitar wearing his Scottish kilt, a wig and even blue and white face makeup. The dance floor was filled with people and I didn’t see Harold at first. Then I noticed him dancing with this chick, yeah, his friend from Michigan. When he saw me, he ran over and hugged me and said, “Finally, you made it!”
I had arrived for the last hour. In spite of all of the red flags about Harold, seeing him made my heart flutter. I couldn’t help it. Then my friend Vikki ran over and hugged me. I was totally dressed like a hippie with tie-dye and beads and the whole bit – and bell bottoms that were way too big for me held up with a belt. Harold wore his martial arts outfit and his friend Shari wore another one of Harold’s outfits.
So we all had a good time dancing to Mike Osborn and his band’s music, and afterwards when Harold went outside to smoke a cigarette, that lady Shari from Michigan started talking to me. I asked if she was having a good time in California and she said she had traveled all the way out to California just to be with and hang out with Harold.
What? Harold told me differently. I started to put two and two together. Harold had not been completely honest with me about this woman, but then again, I never knew when Harold was completely honest. I did confront him when I caught him alone for a few and he denied knowing the friend had arrived just to see him. How could he not know, c’mon? then he tried to justify it by saying, “Oh I’m in the music world and this happens…”
Well, that was just the last straw, worse than whether he really had two black belts in martial arts, and whether he had a Ph.D. and a law degree…I looked at him and somehow couldn’t picture him spending years pouring over books…then again, that might have been another life.
I knew at that moment that Harold and I would never be anything more than friends.
But I will never forget that moment when we first kissed in the parking lot outside my work building at 11:00 pm at night and how it felt, the electricity between us, and then one of the security people shined lights on us as if we were naughty teenagers, but after she saw me and recognized me as someone who worked in the building, she said, “Go for it! You only live once.”
That was a special night…and even though Harold is out there with another woman from Michigan, telling her the same stories, even though it’s over with him, I will not take back that moment – no matter who I end up with.
Friday, November 6, 2009
It Was Her Obsession - Darcy Vebber
A Moleskine, the small black classic one, eventually took the place of the bigger, spiral bound sketch book Lisa carried everywhere with her in high school. The sketch books, really there was a series of sketchbooks, were green or brown, with sailing ships printed on the cover. She covered each heavy, rough textured page with drawings and quotes and collaged scraps of paper. When she came to the end, she started another right away. They were lined up on a shelf in the bedroom she shared with her sister Katy, each thick, important bundle of paper dated. Whenever she had nothing else to do, she took them down to examine.
The rule was that each page had to be covered. She kept a tin box of markers and colored pencils in her bag, too. At rehearsals, when she was waiting backstage for a light cue or to change the set, she would color, furiously, with the side of one of the pencils, shading light to dark or making circles like boulders piled one on top of the other. Around and under and between the colors and the glued in souvenirs, she wrote down the things people around her said. People liked to look through them to see themselves quoted, their bits of dialog captured.
Senior year, a girl who was going out with Sam, a girl who was in fact older than Lisa but not as much older as she acted, told her the notebooks were a way of hiding from the world. The girl wore red lipstick and had wide brown eyes ringed in black.
"This is art," Lisa insisted. She knew the girl was uneasy about Lisa and Sam, about their friendship. The books were full of him, sketches, quotes, song lyrics that he loved. In an early one, there was even the wrapper of a candy bar he had thrown away but no one knew that. It just looked like something she admired, the letters or the picture of chocolate melting into a pool. She wanted the pages to be art, to be animated and beautiful. She wanted the notebooks to be admired by strangers.
The girl stood with her hands on her hips, looking down on Lisa who was sitting in a folding chair with one of the notebooks open in her lap. "It's like you're taking notes on life," the girl said. "It's not the same as being alive."
The rule was that each page had to be covered. She kept a tin box of markers and colored pencils in her bag, too. At rehearsals, when she was waiting backstage for a light cue or to change the set, she would color, furiously, with the side of one of the pencils, shading light to dark or making circles like boulders piled one on top of the other. Around and under and between the colors and the glued in souvenirs, she wrote down the things people around her said. People liked to look through them to see themselves quoted, their bits of dialog captured.
Senior year, a girl who was going out with Sam, a girl who was in fact older than Lisa but not as much older as she acted, told her the notebooks were a way of hiding from the world. The girl wore red lipstick and had wide brown eyes ringed in black.
"This is art," Lisa insisted. She knew the girl was uneasy about Lisa and Sam, about their friendship. The books were full of him, sketches, quotes, song lyrics that he loved. In an early one, there was even the wrapper of a candy bar he had thrown away but no one knew that. It just looked like something she admired, the letters or the picture of chocolate melting into a pool. She wanted the pages to be art, to be animated and beautiful. She wanted the notebooks to be admired by strangers.
The girl stood with her hands on her hips, looking down on Lisa who was sitting in a folding chair with one of the notebooks open in her lap. "It's like you're taking notes on life," the girl said. "It's not the same as being alive."
I Couldn't Take My Eyes Off It - Kiran Giand
She sat down at a table at the other end of the restaurant. Normally I wouldn’t have noticed her. The large sapphire droplets around her neck caught light and seared back at me in the most intense shade of blue I’d seen since snorkeling off Bocas del Toro.
Throughout our working lunch, I kept glancing at her neck. She probably thought I was hitting on her. The truth is, I’d never seen a piece of jewelry that so totally captivated me.
As she removed our menus, the waitress mentioned the woman was an heiress of the Brown family fortune.
“Who are you talking about?”
“The woman you’ve been staring at since you arrived.”
“Oh, did you see her necklace?”
“Rumor has it that was a gift from the Prince of Monaco.”
I raised my left eyebrow as if this meant something to me, though in reality, I didn’t even know who either of them were.
As she was leaving, I lifted my wine glass in her direction, like I was one of the many fans following her every move while she was in San Francisco. The gesture was simply applauding her taste in jewelry.
Throughout our working lunch, I kept glancing at her neck. She probably thought I was hitting on her. The truth is, I’d never seen a piece of jewelry that so totally captivated me.
As she removed our menus, the waitress mentioned the woman was an heiress of the Brown family fortune.
“Who are you talking about?”
“The woman you’ve been staring at since you arrived.”
“Oh, did you see her necklace?”
“Rumor has it that was a gift from the Prince of Monaco.”
I raised my left eyebrow as if this meant something to me, though in reality, I didn’t even know who either of them were.
As she was leaving, I lifted my wine glass in her direction, like I was one of the many fans following her every move while she was in San Francisco. The gesture was simply applauding her taste in jewelry.
I Couldn't Take My Eyes Off It - Bonnie Smetts
I can’t take my eyes off the gun. I see guns every single day except Saturday and Sunday. But those are tucked into the holsters of the deputies, the bailiffs, people who wear pressed uniforms and hopefully I can trust. I don’t trust Roy, not any more.
“Roy, what the hell are you doing with a gun?” I’m nervous.
“You never know, I never know now,” he says.
“Roy, I don’t think they’d be too happy to know you got a gun on your table, with you already being accused of killing a dog.” I’m saying the obvious, but doing that is like talking to Roy with the sound off.
“Since when do you know so much? This court recording business has gone to your head,” he says. Sometimes I hate this man. Sometimes I can’t imagine that ever felt anything for him.
“Have it your way, Roy, but you’re just playing with fire. The gun, the trouble you’re in now.” Again, I’m saying the obvious. “I’m gonna go. I got stuff to do today.”
“Baby, don’t go,” he says. Calling me baby is worse than using handcuffs.
“That’s not gonna work today, Roy. I got stuff to do. I told Randy I’d help her set up her shop. Her husband’s finished building with the second room,” I say.
“And Randy’s more important than me?” Hostage.
“Roy, I said I’d come visit. I’m here, we visited. And now I gotta go. OK?” I’m not really asking if it’s OK. But Roy’s got a way of looking so sad, so pitiful when he wants to. I can’t look.
“See you next week,” not really thinking about whether that’s true or not. It just leaves him with a bit of hope so he lets me go.
I don’t look back, I just let the door close as softly as I can. I can’t look at that face, pleading me to stay. Only because he wants someone warm sitting next to him. I feel sick all the way back to town.
“Roy, what the hell are you doing with a gun?” I’m nervous.
“You never know, I never know now,” he says.
“Roy, I don’t think they’d be too happy to know you got a gun on your table, with you already being accused of killing a dog.” I’m saying the obvious, but doing that is like talking to Roy with the sound off.
“Since when do you know so much? This court recording business has gone to your head,” he says. Sometimes I hate this man. Sometimes I can’t imagine that ever felt anything for him.
“Have it your way, Roy, but you’re just playing with fire. The gun, the trouble you’re in now.” Again, I’m saying the obvious. “I’m gonna go. I got stuff to do today.”
“Baby, don’t go,” he says. Calling me baby is worse than using handcuffs.
“That’s not gonna work today, Roy. I got stuff to do. I told Randy I’d help her set up her shop. Her husband’s finished building with the second room,” I say.
“And Randy’s more important than me?” Hostage.
“Roy, I said I’d come visit. I’m here, we visited. And now I gotta go. OK?” I’m not really asking if it’s OK. But Roy’s got a way of looking so sad, so pitiful when he wants to. I can’t look.
“See you next week,” not really thinking about whether that’s true or not. It just leaves him with a bit of hope so he lets me go.
I don’t look back, I just let the door close as softly as I can. I can’t look at that face, pleading me to stay. Only because he wants someone warm sitting next to him. I feel sick all the way back to town.
He Couldn't Take His Eyes Off It - John Fetto
He couldn’t take his eyes off the train rolling towards him. It swung out from behind the wire gates, orange nose straightening towards where he sat cross legged on the tracks. He watched, waiting for the conductor to see him, waiting for the brakes to squeal, the engine slowing to a stop, feet, perhaps inches from him, but stop it must because he wasn’t going to move. He had told them so before he sat on the tracks and a crowd had gathered out at the naval weapons station, waving signs. Even they thought the train would stop. Everyone did, until it rose up and loomed over him like a falling wall.
A Good Man - Jeff Thomas
As the train pulled out of the station, the rhythmic tempo of clicking wheels on tracks steadily increased. In one of the passenger cars, Frank Morgan sat comfortably in his seat, staring out of the window at the houses passing by. The train was still going slowly enough that he was allowed time to ponder briefly each house and its imaginary inhabitants, chiefly wondering how in god’s name they’d found themselves living so close to the railroad tracks. The thought depressed him immensely. He turned from the window to the book on his lap. He hadn’t felt like reading, but now he needed a distraction. He looked about at the passengers surrounding him; the car was almost full, but nearly silent. No one held his attention. When finally he was about to pick up the book, a woman, struggling, opened the door to the car. A clatterous whoosh filled the compartment but slowly faded when she released the door. She walked briskly down the aisle, carrying a small overnight bag in her hand. When she inevitably sat down next to him, he smiled and nodded. Frank was a reflexively polite man. He even theatrically adjusted his body to give the impression that he was making room for her. What a good guy he was to give up space, however imaginary, to a stranger to allow her to feel more comfortable. He felt elated by behaving with the utmost thoughtfulness in the situation. In fact he felt so proud of himself that he could hardly stand it. The woman didn’t appear to notice. He took a longer, sidelong glance to see if she appreciated his efforts. It was clear she did not. Frank fumed. Of all the nerve! And so, in a series of loud movements he quickly expanded himself to take as much room as possible. He opened his legs to a wide stance, broadened his shoulders, pulled down the armrest between them and took up the whole thing with his left arm. We’ll see how she likes that, he thought. He looked over. She didn’t seem to notice.
A Good Man - Melody Cryns
People knew who he was when he walked into the bar or club. Everyone would shout, “Hey Harold!” and shake his hand as he walked by. One guy would run up to him and shake his hand, another patted him on the back.
Harold was in seventh heaven when he walked into the bar or club. He was ready to roll, or as he said, ready to do business. He was a good old boy and he swept people off their feet, or so he thought.
Harold was an older guy, balding a little, but with a sort of charisma that made people stop and talk to him and even listen. He’d wing girls around the dance floor and make them smile and squeal and the husbands never got jealous when Harold would come by and swing their wives around because, as he said, it was good promotion for the band he was promoting.
Harold apparently promoted many bands. According to Harold, it wasn’t how well the band members played, but the mixture of sound, and of course he was responsible for making the sound so stellar.
At first, Harold dazzled everyone, but little did he know that after a while, some of his stories did not ring true – did he really have two black belts in martial arts, a J.D. in law, a Ph.D. in Physics, plus he wrote over 3,000 songs and published them, not to mention his stint with the government doing undercover work overseas and his engineering work. Had he really run a dog training business and trained Oprah’s dog and how can one forget that he was a bodyguard for people like Steve Miller and even George Harrison back in the day? When did he have time to be a bodyguard when he was going to school as a perpetual student for most of his life?
After a while, one has to wonder if he can really save failing businesses and get them back on their feet, and did he really once have a lot of money and was able to invest into all these businesses, and they now all owe him thousands of dollars?
Most people don’t care if it’s true or not at the bars – they probably don’t think it’s true. But the stories are so entertaining and Harold tells them in a very alluring deep voice…oh yeah, he also was a DJ for a radio station for many years as well.
So who is this guy who’s been everywhere and done everything? He’s sharp enough… Ken, who owns Woodham’s, even said that he thought Harold must have a lot of money, but that perhaps he’s just eccentric.
Sometimes the whiskey talks for Harold – and the more whiskey he drinks out of the bottle, the better his stories are and the more he’s done. He doesn’t have the money to buy shots at the bar, so he orders a coke and looks like he’s not even drinking. The bottle of whiskey resides in the trunk of his car and he sashays outside to take swigs frequently throughout the night, not to mention of course light up a cigarette every time he goes outside.
“But if he a good man? Be honest with me!” I shouted to Ken, who owns Woodham’s. He had just listened to Harold’s spiel about how he is going to do everything in his power to save Woodham’s, a place that’s struggling right now – where amazing live music happens.
“Well, he wants to do good things,” Ken shouted back. “It’s like that book, The Secret – you just keep talking about it and maybe then it will all just really happen!”
“Yeah,” I said. “But…”
I sigh, sitting at the bar at Woodham’s listening to live music…a guy is singing a Jimi Hendrix song and playing his heart out…
I see Harold sashay into the bar. A couple of guys yell, “Hey Harold!” and Harold smiles and walks up and shakes their hands. Then he grabs a girl and swings her around the dance floor for a moment and the husband or boyfriend just smiles – it’s just old Harold.
Our eyes meet and I can see that there’s true feeling in them underneath the rest of it…
I know that Harold is on social security disability and lives in a tiny apartment above a coffee shop in Willow Glen with a roommate who really once was a CPA Accountant, but hit his head and was in a coma for months and admits he’s been a full-blown alcoholic for 40 years. I know that part of it is real because I’ve visited the place, I’ve been there.
And I realize as he walks up to me and gives me a special hug and looks into my eyes and then slurs into my ear, “I set up a corporation while talking to those guys outside! We’re going to save all the businesses that are going down!” His breath smells strongly of whiskey and cigarettes.
And I realize that he’s a good man, and he really wants to save the world. But we can never be anything more than friends.
Harold was in seventh heaven when he walked into the bar or club. He was ready to roll, or as he said, ready to do business. He was a good old boy and he swept people off their feet, or so he thought.
Harold was an older guy, balding a little, but with a sort of charisma that made people stop and talk to him and even listen. He’d wing girls around the dance floor and make them smile and squeal and the husbands never got jealous when Harold would come by and swing their wives around because, as he said, it was good promotion for the band he was promoting.
Harold apparently promoted many bands. According to Harold, it wasn’t how well the band members played, but the mixture of sound, and of course he was responsible for making the sound so stellar.
At first, Harold dazzled everyone, but little did he know that after a while, some of his stories did not ring true – did he really have two black belts in martial arts, a J.D. in law, a Ph.D. in Physics, plus he wrote over 3,000 songs and published them, not to mention his stint with the government doing undercover work overseas and his engineering work. Had he really run a dog training business and trained Oprah’s dog and how can one forget that he was a bodyguard for people like Steve Miller and even George Harrison back in the day? When did he have time to be a bodyguard when he was going to school as a perpetual student for most of his life?
After a while, one has to wonder if he can really save failing businesses and get them back on their feet, and did he really once have a lot of money and was able to invest into all these businesses, and they now all owe him thousands of dollars?
Most people don’t care if it’s true or not at the bars – they probably don’t think it’s true. But the stories are so entertaining and Harold tells them in a very alluring deep voice…oh yeah, he also was a DJ for a radio station for many years as well.
So who is this guy who’s been everywhere and done everything? He’s sharp enough… Ken, who owns Woodham’s, even said that he thought Harold must have a lot of money, but that perhaps he’s just eccentric.
Sometimes the whiskey talks for Harold – and the more whiskey he drinks out of the bottle, the better his stories are and the more he’s done. He doesn’t have the money to buy shots at the bar, so he orders a coke and looks like he’s not even drinking. The bottle of whiskey resides in the trunk of his car and he sashays outside to take swigs frequently throughout the night, not to mention of course light up a cigarette every time he goes outside.
“But if he a good man? Be honest with me!” I shouted to Ken, who owns Woodham’s. He had just listened to Harold’s spiel about how he is going to do everything in his power to save Woodham’s, a place that’s struggling right now – where amazing live music happens.
“Well, he wants to do good things,” Ken shouted back. “It’s like that book, The Secret – you just keep talking about it and maybe then it will all just really happen!”
“Yeah,” I said. “But…”
I sigh, sitting at the bar at Woodham’s listening to live music…a guy is singing a Jimi Hendrix song and playing his heart out…
I see Harold sashay into the bar. A couple of guys yell, “Hey Harold!” and Harold smiles and walks up and shakes their hands. Then he grabs a girl and swings her around the dance floor for a moment and the husband or boyfriend just smiles – it’s just old Harold.
Our eyes meet and I can see that there’s true feeling in them underneath the rest of it…
I know that Harold is on social security disability and lives in a tiny apartment above a coffee shop in Willow Glen with a roommate who really once was a CPA Accountant, but hit his head and was in a coma for months and admits he’s been a full-blown alcoholic for 40 years. I know that part of it is real because I’ve visited the place, I’ve been there.
And I realize as he walks up to me and gives me a special hug and looks into my eyes and then slurs into my ear, “I set up a corporation while talking to those guys outside! We’re going to save all the businesses that are going down!” His breath smells strongly of whiskey and cigarettes.
And I realize that he’s a good man, and he really wants to save the world. But we can never be anything more than friends.
Rain - Camilla Basham
After ten or so miles down the gravel road we arrive. It's raining as always, heat and rain, heat and rain. It never stops. The house is wooden, built years ago, raised on cinder blocks about four feet from the ground. It's good because it keeps the water out of the house during heavy rains or if the levy ever breaks. It also gives my dad crawl space to bang the pipes around with his wrench when the toilet or sink backs up. My brother says it gives him shelter from the rain and a place to pass out when he comes home drunk. It is stained, worn, reeking of neglect. Sometimes I feel like that house, but then I think, Ruthie, you're being selfish. Your mom is doing God's work.
As our old Chevy truck pulls into the lawn “Sea of Love” comes streaming through the radio. The corner of her lips curl.
“You love that song, don’t you?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“I sure do, Sha. I like to see a local do well. He’s from Lake Charles you know?” I do know. She tells me every time the song comes on the radio.
As I take off my shoes and roll up my pants to walk through the muddy front yard and hopefully squish my toes in a few crayfish holes along the way, I notice the town school bus parked in the alley. It's odd to ever have anyone come to our house for social reasons. It's usually only people who are looking for a little piece of salvation through mom. Who else would want to visit a house furnished with handrails, ramps, special toilets, sit down showers, beaten up hospital beds and wheelchairs.
There is no life in the house, just a stream of the dying making their way through. A sort of purgatory for grandparents, distant cousins, the local mail carrier's dying mother, the neighbor's aunt, you name it. I always sit next to them reading my homework out loud at night because mom says that hearing is the last thing to go and it's nice for them to hear the voice of a child if they still can. They are probably sick of sixth grade history by now, but no one ever complains.
When people ask my mom why she spends all of her time in hospitals and caring for the sick at our house she just says with conviction, "There, but for the grace of God, go I."
I want to say "Huh?" but I'm afraid of another hand in my face.
"Why is the school bus parked at our house?" I ask. We jump from the truck and slosh through the mud towards the front porch. Mom is silent and looking fearful. She has a death grip on my arm. I forget about the crayfish holes.
We stop at the top of the porch. Out of the darkness and raindrops the size of buckshot I see Mr. Pete, the school bus driver. I'm not allowed to ride the bus because mom says Mr. Pete is nice but you can't be too careful, him being a Negro and all. I know him from tales I've heard from other kids, the way you hear of tales about people who live over the tracks. I can never understand why a Negro on the radio makes her smile but one in real life makes her shiver. After all, she claims they’re all alike.
To the left of Mr. Pete is a boy about my age, but smaller, frail. Mr. Pete holds an umbrella over his bare scalp. The boy shivers and stares at the ground. He is so black that he almost disappears in the darkness. Mom and I are dry under the porch. Mr. Pete and the boy stand a few feet below us in the rain. He doesn't look as scary as all those stories make him out to be and no one ever said he has a son.
As our old Chevy truck pulls into the lawn “Sea of Love” comes streaming through the radio. The corner of her lips curl.
“You love that song, don’t you?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“I sure do, Sha. I like to see a local do well. He’s from Lake Charles you know?” I do know. She tells me every time the song comes on the radio.
As I take off my shoes and roll up my pants to walk through the muddy front yard and hopefully squish my toes in a few crayfish holes along the way, I notice the town school bus parked in the alley. It's odd to ever have anyone come to our house for social reasons. It's usually only people who are looking for a little piece of salvation through mom. Who else would want to visit a house furnished with handrails, ramps, special toilets, sit down showers, beaten up hospital beds and wheelchairs.
There is no life in the house, just a stream of the dying making their way through. A sort of purgatory for grandparents, distant cousins, the local mail carrier's dying mother, the neighbor's aunt, you name it. I always sit next to them reading my homework out loud at night because mom says that hearing is the last thing to go and it's nice for them to hear the voice of a child if they still can. They are probably sick of sixth grade history by now, but no one ever complains.
When people ask my mom why she spends all of her time in hospitals and caring for the sick at our house she just says with conviction, "There, but for the grace of God, go I."
I want to say "Huh?" but I'm afraid of another hand in my face.
"Why is the school bus parked at our house?" I ask. We jump from the truck and slosh through the mud towards the front porch. Mom is silent and looking fearful. She has a death grip on my arm. I forget about the crayfish holes.
We stop at the top of the porch. Out of the darkness and raindrops the size of buckshot I see Mr. Pete, the school bus driver. I'm not allowed to ride the bus because mom says Mr. Pete is nice but you can't be too careful, him being a Negro and all. I know him from tales I've heard from other kids, the way you hear of tales about people who live over the tracks. I can never understand why a Negro on the radio makes her smile but one in real life makes her shiver. After all, she claims they’re all alike.
To the left of Mr. Pete is a boy about my age, but smaller, frail. Mr. Pete holds an umbrella over his bare scalp. The boy shivers and stares at the ground. He is so black that he almost disappears in the darkness. Mom and I are dry under the porch. Mr. Pete and the boy stand a few feet below us in the rain. He doesn't look as scary as all those stories make him out to be and no one ever said he has a son.
Rain - Judy Albietz
Late in the evening the storm really hit. Bonnie was glad to be in her warm bed in the cozy top floor bedroom. She and Dexter were curled up with the book she was finishing. She now wondered why she loved to read about murder and why she had picked “The Shining”… sure it was a great story … but tonight she would be happy to be done with it. Two more chapters to go. She thought how this was the scariest book she had ever read. Then she thought about the burglar alarm system she had finally signed up for. Hmmm…too bad I dawdled around with the contract…it could have been installed last week.
As she read on, the downpour outside ramped up a notch. Rain pounding on the roof usually was soothing. Tonight it sounded like the rain was trying to find a way into her house. Ten more pages to go.
Looking up from the book, Bonnie saw through her lone bedroom window that the wind was driving the rain horizontally. Good not to be out in this weather. Dexter, unfazed as usual, started to snore next to her. Of course he would jump right up if he was needed for protection. Last page… okay, finally finished. What a weird book! She looked at her alarm clock, which read five minutes past midnight.
Bonnie knew what she had to do so she could get to sleep. She climbed out of bed, careful not to disturb Dexter’s dream. On tiptoes to avoid the cold floor, she carried the book over to her desk, slamming it down. Then she grabbed some heavy legal treatises from her book shelf and piled them on top of the book—a habit she had invented as a child when she read scary stories and wanted to make sure that the book wouldn’t come alive. Now relieved, Bonnie hopped back in bed, turned off the lamp, and tucked herself in. The darkness amplified the sounds outside. Branches of a tree next to her house beat with the wind and rain against the top of the window. Sleep? Who am I kidding?
Pulling the covers back, Bonnie sat up, turned the light back on and searched for a pair of shoes. She went over to the desk, moved the heavy books away and then grabbed The Shining. She held it away from her body as she felt her way down the dark staircase to the shadowy kitchen. She didn’t want to turn on any lights. She knew where the waste can was. With one hand she lifted the lid and dropped the book in with the other. Turning to the sink, she washed her hands and then hurriedly returned to bed.
Fifteen minutes later, Bonnie was laying wide awake. She had to take one more step. She again put on her shoes and this time grabbed her trench coat as she re-traced her steps down to the kitchen. This time she threw the waste can lid on the floor and pulled up the sides of the plastic bag liner. After she tied up the plastic cords, she yanked the garbage bag out of the can and hauled it to the back door. She flung open the door which slammed behind her as she ran as fast as she could down the dark driveway to the garbage can, where she dumped the tied-up garbage bag. Now, that does it!
Turning back, Bonnie couldn’t even see the outline of her house through the driving rain. Then she remembered that the back door automatically locks shut.
As she read on, the downpour outside ramped up a notch. Rain pounding on the roof usually was soothing. Tonight it sounded like the rain was trying to find a way into her house. Ten more pages to go.
Looking up from the book, Bonnie saw through her lone bedroom window that the wind was driving the rain horizontally. Good not to be out in this weather. Dexter, unfazed as usual, started to snore next to her. Of course he would jump right up if he was needed for protection. Last page… okay, finally finished. What a weird book! She looked at her alarm clock, which read five minutes past midnight.
Bonnie knew what she had to do so she could get to sleep. She climbed out of bed, careful not to disturb Dexter’s dream. On tiptoes to avoid the cold floor, she carried the book over to her desk, slamming it down. Then she grabbed some heavy legal treatises from her book shelf and piled them on top of the book—a habit she had invented as a child when she read scary stories and wanted to make sure that the book wouldn’t come alive. Now relieved, Bonnie hopped back in bed, turned off the lamp, and tucked herself in. The darkness amplified the sounds outside. Branches of a tree next to her house beat with the wind and rain against the top of the window. Sleep? Who am I kidding?
Pulling the covers back, Bonnie sat up, turned the light back on and searched for a pair of shoes. She went over to the desk, moved the heavy books away and then grabbed The Shining. She held it away from her body as she felt her way down the dark staircase to the shadowy kitchen. She didn’t want to turn on any lights. She knew where the waste can was. With one hand she lifted the lid and dropped the book in with the other. Turning to the sink, she washed her hands and then hurriedly returned to bed.
Fifteen minutes later, Bonnie was laying wide awake. She had to take one more step. She again put on her shoes and this time grabbed her trench coat as she re-traced her steps down to the kitchen. This time she threw the waste can lid on the floor and pulled up the sides of the plastic bag liner. After she tied up the plastic cords, she yanked the garbage bag out of the can and hauled it to the back door. She flung open the door which slammed behind her as she ran as fast as she could down the dark driveway to the garbage can, where she dumped the tied-up garbage bag. Now, that does it!
Turning back, Bonnie couldn’t even see the outline of her house through the driving rain. Then she remembered that the back door automatically locks shut.
Rain - Elizabeth Weld Nolan
Callie realized she was still holding on to the fence and let go. Her hands ached. She realized too that the sky had changed while she was gripping so hard. The great, white cumulus clouds of a New Mexico afternoon had given way to dark, dense clouds sweeping across the mountains, and now some lightning shot through them. Thunder followed, and the hill she was clilmbing that had looked so high and brown shrank and looked dim and small in the gray light.
The horse stood trembling trembled at the thunder, and Rob went to it, talking softly. He reached a hand to the horse’s neck, patted it and reached slowly to take the halter. He looked down at Callie triumphantly.
``Come on, Cal, come and meet Victoria. She’s my uncle’s new horse. And don’t think you can ride this one. No one will let us kids get on her, ever.’’ Another crack of thunder came and the horse pulled out of Rob’s hands and disappeared behind the hill of the pasture. Rain came shooting down, hard and all at once, like a mountain summer rain exceopt it was spring, and Callie was suddenly, and completely, wet.
The horse stood trembling trembled at the thunder, and Rob went to it, talking softly. He reached a hand to the horse’s neck, patted it and reached slowly to take the halter. He looked down at Callie triumphantly.
``Come on, Cal, come and meet Victoria. She’s my uncle’s new horse. And don’t think you can ride this one. No one will let us kids get on her, ever.’’ Another crack of thunder came and the horse pulled out of Rob’s hands and disappeared behind the hill of the pasture. Rain came shooting down, hard and all at once, like a mountain summer rain exceopt it was spring, and Callie was suddenly, and completely, wet.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
