Stolen

 Wrapped in a faded beach towel, I sit by the lake for the last time.  The lengthening shadows of the trees behind me creep beyond the point where shore and small waves meet, spilling onto the surface of the water, and I realize that I've been here, on this patch of grass, for quite some time.  I’m cold, and a shiver presses through my wet hair, all the way down to the tips of my toes.

The thoughts I am lost in take me back to a certain summer, the memories still so vivid in my mind.  Like black silhouettes against white paper.  It was the summer after my second year of college.  The summer  I met him.  Liquid blue eyes and a straw colored crew cut.   Ocean and sand.  I’d singled him out from the group of other swimmers who were gathered at the lake, and shyly I realized that I had been noticed as well.  By late afternoon we  were sharing  ice cream and holding  hands. 

Several nights later, I began to get the phone calls.  A voice over the line, her voice, whispering the warning I would come to know so well.   Stay away from things that don’t belong to you. Followed by a click, and then silence.

I knew her, even though we’d never met.  She was the girl who had been his girl, and had been replaced-and she was devastated.  She’d made plans for the two of them, sketched out a future that she saw as their destiny.  Baked him cookies, and knit him sweaters.  I was nothing but a thief.  All  summer long, she continued to call me.  The same whispering voice, and the same warning.  The same pitiful attempt to stake a claim on a heart that was no longer hers.  I felt sad, more than threatened.

I  stand up and brush off my bare legs, polka dotted with small bits of dried grass that have stuck to my skin.  The surface of the lake has grown dark, and in the fading daylight I see the glint of a silvered trout as it jumps, as though suddenly afraid of the deep, cold depths of its home.  I’m urging myself to leave this place as well.   I’ve done what I came here to do.  Swim one last time in this water.  The same water that was so deeply shadowed the last time he swam in it that it swallowed everything.

And fate decided he would belong to no one.

 

 

La Douleur Exquise (French): The heart-wrenching pain of wanting someone you can’t have.

I wrote this last summer, and decided to repost it for this prompt because it fits so well.  While I’ve taken a few artistic liberties with the facts as they were, this is based on a true story.

When I was a college student, my group of friends included the music majors, and there was among us a very gifted young bass player named Jeff.  At the time I met him, I learned that he’d ended a long time relationship months earlier, and that his former girlfriend would not let him go.  Jeff was frustrated both by her inability to move on-and at the same time, continue to act as though they were still together.  Sadly, the summer after my sophomore year I was stunned to learn that Jeff had drowned in a nearby lake that students often frequent on warm weather days and nights.

I’ve wondered, from time to time, what became of that girl-how she could possibly ever come to terms with the reality of truly never being able to have Jeff.  I ‘m sure she was devastated. 

It’s also sad that I can’t remember her name.

 

Double Trouble

Best Friend. 

I’d never had the privilege of being one, nor the pleasure of having one.

As a child, I was pawned off, and passed along, one family after another, like a dreaded Christmas fruitcake.  Consequently, I made very few friends.  In any case, the position of best friend was always already filled.  Years later, it ceased to matter to me, and I resigned myself socially to existing solely on casual acquaintances. I’d started life as a foundling, so it stood to reason that I should finish as a foundling, of sorts, as well.

Until Matilda.  Fellow aspiring scribbler, and drinker of black coffee. Matilda, in her fashionable hobble skirt, who’d minced her way over to my table and asked to borrow a pencil.  By chance we’d both decided to visit the same café, to work on our novels while sustaining ourselves with cup after cup of a rich Jamaican brew. She saw me, hand poised above a stack of paper, and assumed me to be what I hoped to be seen as.  A writer.  Matilda, with her stunning gray Grecian hair, and an ever so gently lined face that belied her 62 years.  Matilda, who wore the heady Quelques Fleurs and winked at distinguished old men. She was a beacon of light at the end of the tunnel.  The partner in crime I’d been longing for my whole life.

The bell on my Stromberg-Carlson jangles me back to the present moment. That must be Matilda!  I struggle laboriously to my feet as quickly as my ancient skeleton will allow, feeling the familiar pinch of age run through my hip, slowing my steps.   I really ought to get rid of my soft chair and replace it with a hard one. Better for the bones.  But there is no need, though, to hurry to pick up the receiver.  Matilda is patient.  She accepts me in all of my faltering glory, like best friends do. Hello? Matilda!  Fifteen minutes? That’s fine!  I’ll pack some cookies to have with our coffee.

Matilda’s tomato red, 1910 Atlas Model H pulls into view, thirty-two minutes later. I had a bear of a time getting this beast started!  Matilda’s voice is breathy with excitement.  Forgetting the twinge in my hip, I pull my sheared beaver stole closer to my face, and climb into the passenger seat.  In a matter of minutes, when we are nearly at the café, we encounter a swarm of people.  Naturally, our curiosity is piqued, and Matilda articulates what I was just about to ask.  Mind if we take a quick detour and see what all the fuss is about?  We mutually agree that our novels can wait, for we seem to have stumbled upon an émeute. The assembled protesters, mostly female, are in high spirits, charging the atmosphere with an electric energy.  The unease among the males who have dared to venture close enough to observe, is palpable.  Women should not be allowed to behave like this.

Move along, granny!  A red cheeked constable in blue and brass takes Matilda firmly by the elbow, steering her away from the crowd.  I hear a huff of indignation, and I can hardly believe what Matilda does next.  She plucks the young man’s truncheon from his belt, and roundly swats the top of his helmet!

I am left with little choice.   I am, after all, her best friend.

I take the truncheon away from Matilda.

 

And swat him again.

Safe in the Arms of the Sea

I know the jagged rocks exist, though I no longer have an affinity for danger. These days, I am master of my ship.  I chart my own course.  Keep to the deep water. 

I can see him clearly now-more clearly than the day I met him, and I realize he was akin to a brigantine, recklessly sailed and doomed to flounder.  Raven hair, worn long and wild, and eyes that changed color with the changing tides of his moods.  Sometimes falcon, and sometimes dove. An impossibly irresistible, unholy trinity of leather and rum and tobacco.

My pirate.

Part tempest, and part gentleman, I tried in vain to learn the art of forecasting the weather that swirled around him.  At times he brandished words like a razor sharp cutlass, warning me to keep my distance.  Other times, though, when the winds were fair, he beckoned me closer with roses and his own brand of sugar, the sweetest I’d ever tasted.  He even slid a promise of pearl and silver onto my ring finger, and asked me to wait for him while he was away, prowling the vast ocean in a hunt for other ships to plunder.

He never returned. 

I realize it now.  His misfortune was my salvation.

The rocks are still there-only instead of tormenting me, I find my ears are deaf to their siren song.  And as for the rigging that threatened to ensnare me on that doomed voyage so long ago, like the gossamer strands in a spider’s web.  I see them for what they have become.

Cobwebs.

Just Delia

She wasn’t happy about it.  Not one little bit. She’d yelled at her coat, kicked one of her snow boots. Nevertheless, she’d been elected.  Everyone else claimed to have something more important to do.  And besides.  No one liked making time for Delia.  As Lucy drove the unfamiliar roads to her great aunt’s home, the flakes seemed to be getting bigger, and falling harder. Great.  Just great.  At this rate, I’ll end up getting snowed in.

Lucy was momentarily taken aback when Delia answered the door. Her great aunt looked ancient now, but then it had been years since Lucy last saw her.  Guilt stabbed her over this neglect, but the moral discomfort vanished when she remembered being here in her childhood.  Eat your peas Toots, and when you grow up you’ll have some dangerous curves on you!  Look at all those freckles!  You’ll have lots of boyfriends, mark my words! Between the cheek pinching and the endless servings of vegetables, Lucy detested every visit. As she stepped into the warmth of her great aunt’s home, she became aware of Delia’s hands fumbling to help her out of her sugar dusted coat.  That’s better! I don’t want you to catch a chill! My, but it’s really snowing out there, isn’t it?  Delia was shyly attempting small talk, though Lucy’s dry reply was in thought only.  Cold, uncaring thought.  Well, well, well.  Delia’s sharp today.  What a treat.   Half an hour, and I’m out of here.

My stars!  How could it have happened so long ago?  It seems like only yesterday!  I still clearly remember that blizzard-right before Christmas, back in 1946. Delia was reminiscing, staring out the picture window in her front room. The snow, falling like feathery goose down, seemed to have whited out the passage of time as well as the world outside.  She’d made steaming mugs of hot cocoa. Trying to be a good hostess as well as a doting great aunt.  Lucy held her cup with both hands, secretly trying to glance at her watch.  Stifling a yawn, she hoped Delia’s story wouldn't last too long.

The war was finally over and Jack was home.  I’d been writing  to him for 3 years.  I still have his letters.  Anyway, he asked me to go for a walk in the snow.  We didn't count on being caught in the middle of a major storm.  We took refuge in someone’s barn and ended up being stuck in there for hours.  There wasn’t much to do but talk and…

Delia blushed, yet there was a sauciness in her eyes.

I let him kiss me.  He asked me to marry him.  He said we were going to be together for always.

Lucy snapped out of her indifference.  Her great aunt was not making any sense.  Um,  Aunt Delia… I thought Jack never, you know. Don’ t you remember? Jack didn’t come home.  She was proud of herself for knowing at least some of the family history, but it also made her wonder whether or not her aunt was playing with a full deck.

Delia stared out the window again, but instead of the soft white clumps of snow, she saw parachutes.  White silken clumps.  She thought about Jack and how he must have felt high in the sky where it was peaceful, far above the chaos on the ground.  She often wondered what had gone through his mind as he landed, his parachute covering him like a blanket of snow-and then a shroud.  All in the split second it took fate to play it’s hand.  She hoped he’d felt no pain. 

Her sigh was barely audible.

I know, Lucy dear, I know.  But  I don’t like to think about what really happened, so I’ve made up my own memories. And besides,  what else have I had all these years  but  memories.  I'm old, and probably not very interesting to any of you.   I realize none of you like to visit me, and I’m sorry about that.  How did you get stuck with me this time?   Are you being punished?  Did you lose the coin toss?   Delia seemed to wilt.

Lucy was stunned.  She hadn’t anticipated this-suddenly finding her heart aching for the old woman-and she wished a silent, desperate wish.  Please, please, please, let it keep snowing!  She knew, in that instant, that she wanted more time with this aunt she’d been aware of her whole life, but didn’t really know. 

Dear precious Delia.

Tell me more about Jack, Auntie. We’ve got all night.  I think I’d better stay over.  It looks like the storm is getting worse. Where do you keep your candles?  Do you have an extra toothbrush?  How did you meet Jack, anyway?

A grateful Oh Lucy, and tears.  An entire lifetime’s worth of tears, saved for this hoped for moment.  Spilling down Delia’s cheeks, as she prepared to answer.

The Gift

 It’s time, she tells herself. Time to give this away to someone else.  Someone who needs to know the power of those six words as much as I did. Clutched tightly in her hand is a penny. Plain and ordinary.  Worn smooth, the date no longer discernable.  Certainly not very valuable.

But worth can be deceiving.

♥♥♥

She was looking down, on that frosty night.   Focused on her coin purse, her fingers trying to find a quarter to put in the black kettle that stood next to one of the many street corner Santas populating the city in December. She was looking down, searching, when the mitten clad hand of a stranger entered her field of vision.  Palm open, and  filled with pennies-enough pennies to just about cover the price of a cup of coffee.  Judging from the ragged appearance of the mitten, and the threadbare hem of the coat sleeve above it, the wearer was down on his luck, and in view of such unfortunate circumstances, both his greeting, and his generosity surprised her.

Merry Christmas! Here, take a penny!

She was feeling down that frosty night, as well.  Unloved, and unappreciated.  Certain that there was not another soul in heaven or on earth who gave her a second thought.  Friendless, and forlorn.  She had stopped to put a quarter in the black kettle because it was less awkward than simply walking past and giving nothing, and when she looked up at him-the expression on her face framed with questions-he whispered six words.

Give what you do not have.

Give what you do not have. Love-when you feel unloved.  Thanks-when no one seems to appreciate what you do.  Praise-when your own accomplishments go unnoticed.  Sympathy-when you are in need of comfort.  Take that which you long for in your own life, and make a gift of it to someone else.

His eyes were shining as he finished his message.  Shining more brightly than the fluorescent light illuminating the queue of poor waiting in line at the soup kitchen across the street.  The line he was about to join.

There are many good people out there-if only you will let them find you.

♥♥♥

She is looking down, focused on her coin purse-her fingers searching for the familiar shape of pennies.  Enough pennies to just about pay for a cup of coffee.  It’s cold outside tonight, and she will need to wear her mittens.

Split Pea Soup

It’s obviously Friday afternoon.  A quick glance into the shopping carts that snake both ahead of her and behind her, like some sort of long grocery train, confirms the fact.  Cartons and six packs of beer, bags of chips, and plastic wrapped packages of hamburger and steak.  She won’t make this mistake again-shopping at the start of the weekend-and for a fleeting moment she is tempted to break from the line, put back the few items in her small basket, and leave.  But she is hungry, she is already homesick, and she still has not finished unpacking-and the comfort and nourishment that a bowl of homemade soup promises is too compelling.  And so she waits.

The train of carts inches forward until she is near enough the check stand to place her humble basket on the conveyor belt, watching it now inch forward, waiting for its turn.  With unpracticed hands, the clerk seizes the basket and begins to remove the soup ingredients one by one.  A small onion, and a few stalks of celery, one pound of bacon, and a package of split peas.  It is the split peas that are to blame. Not quite clearing the edge of the basket, a several inch gash opens up on the side of the package, releasing a torrent of green that cascades onto the conveyor belt and floor.  The clerk gasps, and there is an audible groan from the line of shoppers who are painfully aware that the beer in their carts is getting warmer by the minute.

Clumsily, the clerk is trying to gather the peas and put them back into the wounded package.  Clearly he is wishing  to put this incident behind him and finish up a shift that seems to have no end in sight.  She, all the while, stares open mouthed as the scenario unfolds, unable to say a word.  Until, unbelievably, the clerk places the partially filled bag of sullied split peas into the waiting brown paper sack. 

She finds her voice and stammers-

Wait a minute!

All eyes are on her.  She can feel them.  Angry eyes.  Impatient eyes.  Eyes that like the sight of ice cold beer.  Her face is hot, but she asks anyway.

I don’t want to be a bother, but may I please have a new bag?

The poor novice clerk.  His face assumes an expression of sheer panic, as though he is facing an impending mutiny.

Split peas…anyone know what aisle the split peas are on? 

He addresses everyone, and no one in particular.  She can offer him no assistance, either.  The layout of the store is already a blur.

As though taking part in a frenzied scavenger hunt, a dozen or so pairs of feet abandon their carts and scatter in every direction.

She is suddenly tired, and embarrassed beyond words, but she can’t resist thinking how amusing it would be if only she had the nerve.

Would somebody grab me some cold beer too!

Hay Season

 In this dimly lit room, she can see that very little about the hospital has changed in 15 years.  Sterile white plaster walls.  Brown linoleum floors.  Scents of antiseptic and soap.  The memory she draws upon is from the last time she was here.  A happier occasion.  The birth of her son.  This time, though, she is here to be with him while he dies. The doctor has confirmed her worst fear.  There is nothing more to be done.

This son of hers, Jack, lays motionless on a narrow bed.  In an attempt to make his few remaining hours more comfortable, he has been covered with a blanket, a damp cloth placed on his forehead.  Traces of blood at the corners of his mouth are the only visible sign of the accident, almost letting her believe that her son is not so terribly broken after all.  She remembers the night he was born.  A perfect little boy.  But still, a mixed blessing.  Sons in this family grow up to be farmers, and if there is one certainty in farming, it is that nothing is ever certain.

                                              ***

The boy’s father is not at the hospital, as one would expect.  The cut hay is ready to be baled, and rain is forecasted.  Hanging in the balance is the livelihood that one thousand acres of sweet timothy will provide.  But as he hurries to bale row after row, anguish consumes him.  Farming is a gamble. Rain. Insects. Fire.  Drought.  The risk of serious injury.  Still, he should have realized that his boy was too inexperienced to drive a tractor so close to the irrigation ditch.  So close that a wheel happened to catch the edge of the slope, and the tractor rolled, crushing his son beneath its iron bulk.

                                               ***

Around two a.m. she loses her fight with exhaustion and nods off, but is roused a few hours  later by an insistent Wake up Elsie! She is alert in an instant, heart pounding.  Her eyes, full of questions, seek answers from the owner of the voice.  Her husband.  Tears are streaming down his face.

Henry? 

Her tone is shrill.  His words spill out, cracked with emotion. 

It’s ok , Elsie!  Look!  Jack’s conscious! The doc thinks he’s going to make it!

It takes a moment for her disbelief to turn to relief, and then, utter joy, and she rushes to cradle her son, her boy, her baby, in her arms.

For now, Henry decides, the news about the rain can wait.

On the Subject of Romance

 Her room, second floor, third door on the left, was directly across the corridor from his.  She taught English, and he, Mathematics.

Though introduced by name and subject at the orientation given for new teachers in late August, the pair had yet to engage in actual conversation.  They had not, however, failed to notice each other, and the attraction had been instant.

Throughout each school day, both found any number of reasons to stroll casually past their respective classroom doorways, stealing glances across the corridor, hoping to catch glimpses of the other. 

He chanced, one Tuesday afternoon,  to see her reach up to erase a list of spelling words from the blackboard and in doing so her dress rose an inch or two, revealing a considerable expanse of her well turned ankle.  I say! He thought to himself, swallowing hard. She is certainly one nicely balanced equation!

Likewise, one Friday morning, as he lectured his students eloquently on the finer points of Algebra, she observed him remove, in the heat of his explanation, his jacket, exposing his masculine  shoulders.  Oh my!  She quivered.   He is as nicely put together as a perfectly written term paper!

Their mutual admiration might have remained undeclared for the entire school year, if not for a timely fire drill, carried out on the last Wednesday in September.  As she started to descend the flight of stairs and make her way to the exit on the first floor,  she was knocked off balance by a herd of unruly youth.  Just as she lurched forward, he rushed towards her and caught her in a rough embrace.

With his strong arms about her, and his cheek fitted firmly against hers, there was little doubt, at that moment, as to which subject they both wished to study further.

Chemistry.

Dishes for Two

The first time she saw him, she was doing her dishes. Washing up her plate and glass.  Her knife, fork, and spoon.  Washing away the evidence of a dinner for one.

It was love at first sight, though she could not tell you why. He was simply walking down the sidewalk, one hand in the pocket of his suspendered trousers, the other hand holding a book about four inches from his spectacled face. She was finishing up her silverware, and when she’d looked up for a few seconds to escape the steam from the sink of hot, soapy water, she noticed him out her window.

And here she is again.  In her kitchen, preparing to wash her dishes.  She is waiting, too.  Waiting for a glimpse of a man with a book.  A man she loves but has never met. Feeling as though one more evening of her life is slipping away.  Tears slide down her cheeks, though they could just as well be beads of sweat from the steamy water that is slowly filling the sink.  A squirt of liquid dish soap erupts into an explosion of suds. Sends a cloud of rainbow colored bubbles high into the air.  She reaches for her dirty glass, plunges it into the waiting water, and starts to scrub it clean.

With a sudden surge of courage, she shakes the water from her hands, grabs the book she’d previously set out on her gray Formica counter, and sets in motion the plan she has been rehearsing for weeks.  She is tired of waiting for her destiny to come to her.  Today she is meeting it head on.  Walking in his direction while pretending to be engrossed in her own novel-and bracing herself for the carefully orchestrated collision that will change the course of her life.  Books will fly. Glasses will be knocked askew.  And a heart will be won.

The last rainbow colored orb of soap breaks, and she wonders how long she has been staring at her motionless hands, still immersed in the soapy water, clutching the glass.

Tomorrow, she reassures herself.  There will be more dirty dishes tomorrow.

Scout’s Honor

Early on, it was apparent that she was a child who needed to be governed by a set of strictly enforced rules.  Without them, her exasperated parents had little hope of saving her from herself, and at the same time, saving themselves.  When either her mother or father began to waver over the severe boundaries imposed on their daughter, simply recalling the incident of the living room cookout sufficed to serve as a stern reminder that they were not being unreasonable.  She was eleven at the time, and left home alone because it was felt she was old enough to be trusted.  But for a hungry preteen girl with a keen imagination, hot dogs and a book of matches had proved to be too tempting. After that, the Girl Scout Handbook had been taken away.

There were other, earlier misadventures as well, and when recounted beginning to end, played much like a Laurel and Hardy film.  A game of barber shop involving the dog (the sedative prescribed by the vet had helped tremendously.) Pretending that the bath tub was a shark infested pool (the living room ceiling was not a total loss.)  By the time her high school years were completed, and she had been pulled over for driving with her feet, her parents were worn out.

**********

A handful of years later, she was home for a visit. It was early in the evening and she was alone, her mother and father attending an engagement they could not get out of. She smiled again at the lively conversation that had taken place at dinner-reminiscing about what a handful she had been. As her parents prepared to leave, her father had teased her, “Now honey, please stay out of trouble while we are gone!”

For the first half hour she was good. She flipped though a magazine and made herself a cup of cocoa. But then she wandered up to her old room and started to peruse the volumes on her little oak book shelf.

And, she found it.

Her forgotten Girl Scout Handbook…

                                                    

Where the Heart Belongs

Water water everywhere, and not a drop to drink.

Tipping her head back, she drained the last bit of  Coca-Cola from the slim green bottle she held in her right hand.  She could picture her mother’s face, grimacing at the sight.  It wasn’t lady like, her mother would chastise her.  That’s what the straw is for, Nora!  But the paper always stuck to her lip.  Wiggling  her toes deeper  into the sand, she took pleasure in the cooler grains buried a few inches beneath the hotter, top layer.  This is the life, she mused.  Stretched out  in the sun on a comfortable barkcloth clad chaise lounge, and dressed daringly in her new strapless orange one piece, she’d spent the last two hours mostly dozing and dreaming, while palm trees and blue waves swayed and danced behind her closed eyes.

Her heart sank.  A breeze was picking up, though trying to be playful.  Kissing her cheeks, and lifting her bangs impishly off of her forehead. Shuffling the pages of the book she’d only half heartedly been reading.   And the sun, as though suddenly gripped by a fit of regret over its own daring attire, was covering itself up with clouds.  She shivered and reached for her polka dotted beach towel, draping its warmth around her shoulders as the first drop of rain splashed off the end of her nose.

Reluctantly vacating the soft cushions of her chair, she stood and gathered her book and empty bottle, and slipped into her sandals.  Facing reality from the roof of her apartment building, she was reminded once again that palm trees and blue waves were a long, long ways away.

Water water everywhere, and not a drop to drink.

Just not here.

She pushed the dishpan, full of sand, under the chaise lounge.

Naughty Gertrude

When Gertrude purchased the grass skirt and coconut shell top in the tiny tourist shop on Waikiki, she imagined herself swaying gracefully like the dancers she had watched at the Moana Hotel’s complimentary luau and hula show. What Gertrude did not count on was trying so hard to master the technique that she would throw her back out. 

Later, after she had returned home to Hackensack, she immensely enjoyed the shocked expressions on the faces of her friends when she saucily answered their queries as to whether she’d had a good time in Hawaii.

I spent almost the entire week in bed!

With a wink, no less.

Let them think what they want, she mused.  It might be thrilling, for once, to have a reputation.

Blue Sky and Asphalt

I don’t know who came up with the idea first, Dutch Decker or me, but it was only a matter of time before the corridors of our dormitory were buzzing with two words. Road Trip.

An afternoon as fine as this was not to be wasted on as trivial a pursuit as studying.  Blue sky and asphalt.  They were calling.

We knew of only one kid who had a car.  Bud Franklin.  And we were in luck.  We located him, lounging in his room, unable to decide how to spend the remainder of the day.  So we decided for him.

While Bud went to fetch his  ‘47  Plymouth, the rest of us ran around like mad, assembling any and all manner of provisions we thought we might need to pack along.  Several  plaid wool blankets, a dozen or so bottles of Coca Cola , Dutch’s portable record player and a stack of 45’s,  two footballs, and plenty of food.  At some point, someone remembered to invite the girls.

Piling into the car, jackets and  cares left  behind, we were off-our destination  still unknown.  That we had taken to the open road, bound for anywhere, was enough.  Then, about a half a mile out of town, Bud tried unsuccessfully to drive over a rather large rock that lay directly in his path.

And that was the end of our road trip.

*********************

This little story from my fiction archives was inspired by a spur of the moment road trip back in my college days that a friend and I decided to embark on.  I can still see the rock in the road, and my friend’s split second decision to drive over it-instead of around it-and the resulting consequence.   Alas, it was the end of our road trip too.

Nemesis

This had been the easy part, he realized, taking his receipt.  The finding, the coveting, and the acquiring.

The next part would be the challenge.  Perhaps even a bit of a battle.

Fitting the object of his desire, a vintage 1932 Philco console radio, into the passenger side of his tiny light blue Nash-Healey convertible wasn’t too bad.  He’d had help.  And besides, it scarcely weighed much more than say, a Saint Bernard.

But when he pulled up outside his apartment building, the situation became distinctly less rosy.  Standing beside his car, he stared at the metaphorical Saint Bernard  hoping to look perplexed, and thereby enlist someone to aid in the next leg of the Philco’s  journey.  No such luck.

With a series of grunts and groans, all the while using his body as a sort of  pry bar, he managed to roll the Philco out of the Nash-Healey and onto the sidewalk.  He’d ice his smashed fingers later, he thought wryly, when he was relaxing in front of the beast with a good stiff drink, listening to music.

In a series of push and pull dance steps, he arrived at the bottom of the stairs that led up two flights to his front door.  Formidable stairs,  he thought to himself, and so blasted many of them.  One at a time though.  The old “where there’s a will there’s a way” philosophy.

Lifting, tipping, straining, one vertical increment at a time, it seemed to take hours just to reach the second floor landing.

He paused.  Where was everyone?  Surely some benevolent soul should have come along by now to offer assistance.

And come to think of it, where was the Philco going to go once it was in his apartment?  He was beginning to question the wisdom of stopping by that estate sale,  just to  “have a look.”

About halfway up the second flight, when he thought his back would surely break in two, disaster almost struck.  In his exhausted and overexerted state, the toe of his brown wingtip caught on the edge of a step.  He teetered wildly for a second before grasping the handrail, and preventing his would be assailant from knocking him back down the stairs and landing on top of him.  Heart racing, he blistered the air with a few choice words.

At last, he stood on his welcome mat, and leaning on the Philco for support, he felt a mixture of pride and relief that he was within a Jack and Ginger’s  reach of having his new possession installed in his home. 

Hey buddy!  A boisterous voice registering, close by.  You gettin’ rid of that thing?  My wife’s been after me for months to get her one.  Would you take twenty-five bucks for it?  And while your at it, would you give me a hand gettin’  it down the stairs to my place?

Wincing from the pain, but having no regret for his impulsive, yet well placed right jab, he was actually amused.  Well I was  going to have to ice my fingers anyway…

In the Rough

Whatever had possessed her?

She pushed aside the plaid cotton curtain that concealed the empty space underneath her kitchen sink.  The light was dim, and the space offered little more than elbow room in which to work. She’d expected that.  But it was filthy too. Since moving in, she had yet to sweep here. Still, judging from the thick layer of powdery dirt, years, possibly decades had passed since the old linoleum had felt the touch of a broom.

She took a careful breath, sized up her task, and picked up her new pipe wrench.  It felt heavy and awkward in her hand.  Balancing a small black flashlight atop a box of saltine crackers, she hunched over to make her five foot nine inch frame as compact as possible, and guided by the narrow beam of light, leaned forward to fit the loosened  jaw of the wrench around the pipe, and gave a tug.

Crumbling, more than yielding, the pipe fell to pieces, disgorging  a  mix of water and sludge down her arm.  And once again, second thoughts made her second guess the wisdom of her decision-taking on this fixer upper of an ancient, ungracefully aging house.

Yes, whatever had possessed her?

She straightened her back, smoothed a stray wisp of hair with her clean hand, and  looked again at the wreckage of pipe and water, dust and sludge.

And then she saw the diamond ring.

Rosie

Never again, she told herself, as she wheeled her bicycle away from the rack where she had parked it for the day and started to pedal for home. She had no business being here. Factories like this, she now saw clearly, were the domain of men, not women.  She’d made the decision to get this  job because she wanted to do her bit for the war effort.  Commendable, but foolish.

Even after her orientation this morning, and several hours on the job, she still could not remember the difference between a crescent wrench and a spanner, and she doubted she would ever learn.  And even if she could, her arms were much too small and weak to possibly perform tasks like holding a rivet gun for any length of time, or hoisting a several hundred pound airplane engine into place.  At the end of her first day, suffering smashed fingers, muscles worked beyond their capacity, and a few demeaning pats on the bottom, she wanted nothing more to do with any of it.  What she did want was to be home, where she belonged.  Where she understood who she was.

And just who was she? 

Possibly a wife or a mother, a daughter or a sister.  With the majority of men gone from the workplace by the summer of 1942, over six million women took up the slack filling factory and farm jobs.  Actual experience, women were told, was not necessary.  If you can run an electric mixer, you can learn to operate a drill press!  Additionally, more than three million women volunteered with the Red Cross and more than 200,000 served in the military.

She did, despite her initial misgivings , return to the factory the next day.  (It was surprising what a hot bath and a good night’s sleep could do to improve a girl’s disposition.)  She still held fast to the belief that it was her patriotic duty to work, but also, for the first time in her life, she was actually earning money for her work.  And that was no small thing.  In fact, it was motivation enough to overcome any hardships she faced during the course of her working day.  By war’s end, she not only learned to do her job, but she learned to do it well, and she was proud to have something to show for it.

When the war was over, willingly or not, she would leave her job and return to the life she had led before the war. Her wartime service would become just another chapter in her life.  It never entered her mind that anyone in future years would admire her, be inspired by her or even remember what she  had done.

She was wrong.

After Hours

Two men appeared out of nowhere, a few yards apart in the narrow, moonlit lane.  Stiffly nodded acknowledgements were traded, and the yards between them became feet and then inches.  Soon, side by side, the pair, in matching stilted side to side strides, were headed towards Main Street, and the collection of shops and restaurants.

The first of the duet, Roger-a ginger headed youthful fellow with a badly scarred face  (he was terribly self conscious, though the ladies did not seem to mind one bit) and hand on hip-spoke first.

Well look at you!  That is rather a natty sporting jacket, and most appropriate for tonight!  I’m afraid I look rather dull in these work coveralls…though they are new and clean at least.  You are meeting Dolores, I assume?

I am.  At the Coffee Cup cafe.  Say, could you come around to my other side?  I seem to be having a hard time turning my head.

And indeed, Morris-a raven haired specimen with  fine facial topography-seemed to be permanently gazing off to the left, even though his companion strode to his right.  In a laborious pas de deux, the two traded places.

How about you?  Are you meeting Dot?

No.  She wasn’t up to going out-said she didn’t have a thing to wear.

Too bad.  You can join us, if you like…

An invitation.  But not really.

Thanks all the same.  But I think I’ll just walk.  Maybe next time?

The companions arrived at the Coffee Cup, and prepared to part ways.

Well, here’s my stop.  I think I see Dolores-looks like she’s met up with a friend.  Are you sure you won’t join us?

No.  I need the walk.  You have a nice time, you hear?  And I’ll see you back at the salt mines tomorrow.  Say hello to Dolores for me.

I will.  So long.

The door of the cafe, propped open to allow the cool evening air to refresh the diners, seemed to swallow Morris as he entered.  His gaze remained to the left, as if he was more intent on watching his friend depart, instead of searching for his date inside.

Somewhere, a clock chimed the hour of seven o’clock. Such a pleasant night for a walk, mused Roger.   The breeze was light, and the half moon that hung in the sky illuminated the sidewalk just enough.  After about an hour or so, and the final turn on his round trip route, Roger stopped, hand still on his hip, as Pinnacle came into view.  The Pinnacle mannequin factory and showroom.

And he was back. Where he belonged.

A Difference of Opinion

His crossed arms answered her question before he spoke.  Already she knew that whatever his verdict, once rendered, it would be as inflexible as hardened cement.

She’d posed the question to him a whole five minutes earlier.  It had to be asked.  The wedding was less than a month away.

Shall we call the whole thing off?

He frowned.  Deep creases formed above his brow, and when he answered her, his demeanor suggested a teacher on the brink of patience exhausted, trying to educate a less than capable student.

Unless you are willing to see the light and come around to my way of thinking,  I do not foresee any other course to take.

It was clear to her that he would not compromise.  She appraised his appearance.  The crisp crease in his wool gabardine trousers that lined up perfectly with the chalk stripes of the fabric.  The precisely folded square of silk in his breast pocket.  His flawlessly shined shoes.  A stark contrast to her own wrinkled rayon frock, and haphazardly upswept hair that threatened to escape from its pins.

His arms were still crossed.  A barricade to any future they might have shared.  She noted his cuff links, barely peeking out from the edge of his jacket sleeve.  Not the simple monogrammed brass cuff links she had given to him, but fine gold and mother of pearl.  Ones he’d purchased for himself. 

There was nothing sentimental about cement.

She stamped her foot.  A single stray brown sugar strand came loose from the nest atop her head, and it was as though her entire being became unpinned.

Now Gloria. Don’t get excited.

Tomato! 

There was conviction in her voice.

She turned to leave the room-to leave him.

 TOE-MAY-TOE!

It’s A Brand New (Hair) Day!

 All she’d wanted to do was cover up a few gray hairs.  “Brazen Brunette” was her choice-she liked the color and she loved the name.  “Change your hair and change your life!” was the promise on the box.  

Did she  have any idea of what was in store for her after the final rinsing- and those few silver strands were magically gone?  Evidently not.  Feeling strangely empowered the next day as she went to work, she told herself she should have colored her hair months ago.

Granted, she knew her job at the A to Z  Alphabet Soup Company  was only temporary, but still,  there was no reason to have to put up with her boss-slapping her hard on the back every time he told one of his humorless jokes-all the while laughing himself silly.  Had it been a day like any other, she would have kept quiet.  It was not a day like any other though-today she was a “ Brazen Brunette!”  Just a simple “Stop hitting me!”  should have gotten her message across, but instead she slugged him hard enough to send him to the floor.  Keeping her job hadn’t been an option after that.  Luckily, she had a small amount saved for a rainy day. 

Maybe it was the shock of what had just happened that made her do it, or perhaps it was this new sense of boldness she felt- she waltzed right into Nordstrom's.  Never in her life had she spent more than 50 bucks on a dress- and now she found herself standing at the cash register with a gown that set her back two thousand dollars.

On her way home, she chided herself about her extravagance, but she was pleased too-it WAS a really great dress.  Paying off her credit card would happen some day, and she simply wasn’t going to worry about it right now.  Quite by accident, as she was letting herself off the financial hook she was on, she noticed a fancy new restaurant that had recently opened.  Reservations not required.  So it was settled.  Tonight she was going to celebrate the end of her dreadful job and awful boss, and the start of the new life that was waiting for her!

Unusually giddy, she made another daring decision.  Venturing into her hopelessly cluttered closet- armed with nothing but optimism- she found them, and put them on  for the first time in years…

Wearing her long lost  5” stiletto heels, bought for a Halloween  party she’d gone to once, and her new $2000  dress,  she was  full of self adoration that evening-and  failed to notice a flight of stairs just off to her right.  X-rays, taken an hour later in the emergency room, showed that no bones were broken.

Yes, she reflected, as she eased her bruised body into bed that night,  her first  day as a “ Brazen Brunette”  had pretty much been a bust.

                                      ************************

Zig zagging down the beauty aisle of the local drug store the next morning in search of a solution, she had to smile at the irony of  it all  ( how she wished she could slap someone hard on the back right at this moment while she shrieked with laughter) – being a “Brazen Brunette”- for just one day- had given her more gray hairs than she’d started with.

True Confessions, True Love

I’m glad my secret is out.

I can’t begin to tell you how long I lived in my self imposed prison.  Why I dreaded going to social engagements of any kind.   Wedding receptions.  Graduation celebrations.  Birthday bashes. Any occasion where  small talk  could possibly turn to  food.  Because I was terrified the subject would come up-and  people might find out the truth about me.

I succumb once again to the object of my  desire.  I hold the rectangular blue can in my hands for a moment or two, before peeling back the top. Yet  I’ve never dared to read what is written below the word ‘ingredients.”   I guess I'm no better than any one else who jokes about this mystery meat.  Or perhaps I just don’t care.  All I know is that I like it.  A lot.

Then came that party-the one that changed my life.   “What’s your favorite dish?”  queried our hostess.   Responses flew around the room-“Steak!”  “ Lobster!” “ Spaghetti with meatballs!”  And then some wise guy just had to say it.   “How about SPAM?”  There was no missing the smirk on his face.

It takes a bit of doing to free the block of meat from the confines of its can -but then good things are worth the effort.  I slice the SPAM thinly this morning-and fry it up with some  eggs.  Bliss.

The laughter that erupted in the room was so predictable.  “What is SPAM?” someone snickered.  “Does anyone really know?”  What does S-P-A-M stand for anyway?  And then the million dollar question.   Does anyone even like SPAM?

I  look at the can again while the SPAM is cooking, and I think to myself- “Go on… read the ingredients. ”   My eyes scan the list…chopped pork shoulder and ham, salt, water, modified potato starch, sodium nitrate.    I might not know what each ingredient is exactly-but at least they are all familiar to me.  So there.  None of the rumors I’ve heard about what goes into SPAM are true.

“I like SPAM,”  someone bravely states, but it isn’t me who has spoken the words.    I locate the man behind the voice and my heart skips a beat.   “Where have you been all my life?” I whisper to myself.

Yes, thin  slices this morning-it makes a can of SPAM go further –more than enough for two. Paul Anka comes on the radio, and as I  get ready  to tell my new husband that breakfast is ready, I find myself singing along…

“Put your head on my pork shoulder.  Hold me in your arms, baby…”