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.