I was doing what I was supposed to do, at my desk with my head in the the palm of my hand and an elbow at an invisible pivot point on the hard Formica surface. In the other hand, my pencil was moving like a divining rod finding water, as the graphite glided along matching definitions to words that would become part of my weekly English test on Friday.
Miss Brantley‘s stern “Give it up!” startled me, because nobody but my mom had ever put the sneak on me like that.
I gave the white braided cord a quick tug to pop-out the earphone and used the lower part of the cord to fish the green, Emerson, transistor radio from my pocket for surrender and I wondered if I had imagined the teacher stifling a grin but learned I hadn't.
She said I yelped aloud, which I guess I did when Dodger Jim Gilliam blasted a Moe Drabowski pitch (sailed it for a big ride!) over the left field fence for a 2-run homer off of the Cincinnati Redlegs' hurler to help clinch Sandy Koufax’s first win (6-2) of a season that carved 102 Dodger victories onto the 1962 record books
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Monday, February 14, 2011
Valentine's Day Confession
I'd describe myself as pretty good in the kitchen and watched Meryl Streep's portrayal of Julia Child several times in a movie called Julie & Julia because I'll watch anything with Streep.
That movie could aptly and proudly sport a 'chick flick' label and Streep was brilliant.
The embarrassing part is...well, how many straight, non-chef men do you know who can recognize an orange Dutch oven as a French-made "Le Creuset" that retails for about $249.00 USD?
It's Valentine's Day, I need to get ready for work, and I'm sitting here hungry for beef bourguignon prepared in strict adherence to Julia Child's recipe, and baked in a kitchen pot I don't own but suddenly want.
Today, millions will be moved by demonstrative acts of love shown by gifts and chocolates and roses and my mind's on an orange "Flame," 5.5 quart Le Creuset Dutch oven wafting an aroma from beef bourguignon I know Burger King won't be serving tonight.
I hate chick flicks and Valentine's Day.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Afoul and a Vowel of the Law
“You get ONE word wrong on your spelling test, get a ZERO--there‘s no 'Y' at the end of Mississippi, son--and…and what’s with the word “CHEATING! in red ink at the top??”
“Jason with the Coke bottle glasses, well, he sits behind me and whispers, ‘How ya spell Mississippi,‘ so I whisper back, ‘Screw you,‘ and he pokes me in the back and calls me a “dick head” so I turn around and tell him, “LEMME ALONE, FOUR EYES!” and the teacher fails me!"
“For defending yourself and being HONEST!?”
(sigh) “No, Dad, for telling Jason there’s four i’s in Mississippi when I hadda Y at the end and missed it!"
“I’ll call Miss Taylor this minute and get it settled, and I’m proud you DIDN’T cheat or call him a bad word, son!”
“Couldja kinda hold off on that, Dad, cuz I got suspended when MissTaylor heard me mumble, ‘Dumb bull dyke‘...and that’s got a y… doesn’t it, Dad?”
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Shadow of a Valentine
At best, my slice of the current thousand years of past and developing history is miniscule. In my portion of that millennium, there are 38 years I have loved you.
My pledge to "...love you forever...." has been neither chore nor much of an effort.
As with all things good, there is never enough time.
Among the innermost secrets we've held in each others' keeping is that singular reason you needed to leave in order to fulfill the only something I could never give you.
The love for you I had, I still have...and with enough sustenance for this and the next thousand years, despite what it took to heal enough for awakening in each new day only to trudge on without you.
Every Night Crawlers
I’m hunkered down in the corner booth of the all-night coffee shop. Six people could sit here but I need this spot because there’s a plug for my laptop along the window’s bottom moulding strip. Besides, it’s 1:19 in the morning and what party of six - other than the beer-bar bums - is gonna come in as late-night transitions to wee hours.
My spiral notebook’s open to my notes, and I’ve already gotten alot done. Jeez, I must have had a dozen cups of coffee so far because I’ve had to ask Tilly (she’s the waitress for this section most nights) to guard my stuff, twice, so I could head for the hopelessly acrid men’s room where you should not breathe through your nose.
I’ve really been ’cookin’ with gas,’ pounding out my work and felt so good about my progress, that I turned the bill of my baseball cap to the back of my head as a sort of rally cap motivation to keep going and going. Guys my age prolly look stupid with backward caps. At least, I think they do... er... we do. But, hey! I'm on a roll, here!
The strange assortment of too-happy people at the four tables pushed together behind where the counter curves around is probably some AA crowd who arrived after their Alkie meeting or event. I don’t mean that judgementally because who am I to judge. When I was dating Tamara, she used to drag me out with her recovery crowd and all those people drinking coffee and eating sweets, back there, look just like that. I’d eat my Marlboro hat if they were anything else. They seem to be runnin’ Fat Calves’es ass off, too.
That goth freak and his pierced, pin cusion of a skanky girlfriend are three booths over, as usual, probably discussing the powers of crystal jewelry or bands whose names sound like diseases or crimes.
The counter creatures just getting around to reading (now-) yesterday’s newspaper are sucking coffee and sopping egg yolk with corners of cold toast.
The ’It’s Arizona and I think I wanna be a cowboy’ guy in his giddy-up get-up is sittin’ with his like-attired shit-kicker pal, probably bemoaning the fact their attempts to corral a drunken cow-chick failed at the boot-scootin’ dance bar a couple blocks South of here.
Chinese chickie is over there, again, with an impossibly high stack of folders and some sort of textbook open in front of her. I swear she’s never looked up, like… really, never. Pre-med? CPA? Is that racist? I don't think so. I do think it's generalizing and nearly racist to say "Oh, they're all smart," when as I can plainly see this girl's focus could almost burn holes in her materials like a magnifying glass over an ant hill on a sunny day.
The cowpokes prolly arrived in some hunk-o-grunt, bashed-up Kia or Hyundai. Either that, or they have one of those mini-pickups with yee-haw stickers all over the back slider windows.
I know I should tip Tilly more than I do because of the time I’m here, but don’t you think it’s weird to tip more than the amount of my check? After all, it’s only coffee. And I only order the side of rye toast to beef-up the tip I do end-up giving her. Who the fuck eats orange marmalade, anyway? Or buys mixed fruit jelly. I mean, have you ever seen a jar of mixed fruit jelly in any store?
Oh, now, there’s a sight! The host has just seated three doper dudes next to the two gay guys who seem to come here after work as waiters somewhere because what other men would wear matching Hawaiian-print shirts and black slacks and be seen in public, even at this time of day.
Let’s see what a bad case of munchies will cause to be delivered to their table by that waitress with fat, tatooed calves. I mean, how can she hustle food for a living and have fat lower legs? Her caboose sure ain’t that big. Damn, that woman needs to see a dentist. She could have been good looking, once. If I win the lottery, I'm giving her a complete makeover, dentist included. There's potential there, I'm tellin' ya.
Looking around, I wonder what these people do for a living. In a perfecter world, you’d think they’d all have night jobs or at least work second shift.
“More coffee, Ray?,” Tilly asks, tilting the pot hovered over my cup.
“I should git, Tilly.”
“Okay, hon. I’ll get your check on my next run.”
“Thanks,” I answer, and begin to gather-up my papers and spiral notebook and folder like sweeping a deck of playing cards into a centralized pile.
I unplug the PC and slip it into its bag, stuff-in my notebook and papers, and make mental notes for my morning ’To Do’ list.
Fat Calves drops a chocolate sundae, order of fries and side of bleu cheese dressing, an iced tea, a small teapot, one coffee, and slice of banana cream pie to the dopers’ table, which makes me chuckle for no known reason.
Tilly drops my check and knows I’ll leave both total and tip here on the table. I rise and give Tilly a wave.
“See ya tomorrow, Ray,” she says with blanked expression born of fatigue and familiarity.
Moving toward the register, I’ve already gotten a cigarette in one hand and my Bic poised to flick once outside.
As I’m walking out with my bag dangling from my shoulder, I take one more glance around the restaurant. I hear sound coming from my mouth and realize I’m muttering “Jesus, these people should really get a life,” as the heel of my hand hits the door and I disappear into the night.
My spiral notebook’s open to my notes, and I’ve already gotten alot done. Jeez, I must have had a dozen cups of coffee so far because I’ve had to ask Tilly (she’s the waitress for this section most nights) to guard my stuff, twice, so I could head for the hopelessly acrid men’s room where you should not breathe through your nose.
I’ve really been ’cookin’ with gas,’ pounding out my work and felt so good about my progress, that I turned the bill of my baseball cap to the back of my head as a sort of rally cap motivation to keep going and going. Guys my age prolly look stupid with backward caps. At least, I think they do... er... we do. But, hey! I'm on a roll, here!
The strange assortment of too-happy people at the four tables pushed together behind where the counter curves around is probably some AA crowd who arrived after their Alkie meeting or event. I don’t mean that judgementally because who am I to judge. When I was dating Tamara, she used to drag me out with her recovery crowd and all those people drinking coffee and eating sweets, back there, look just like that. I’d eat my Marlboro hat if they were anything else. They seem to be runnin’ Fat Calves’es ass off, too.
That goth freak and his pierced, pin cusion of a skanky girlfriend are three booths over, as usual, probably discussing the powers of crystal jewelry or bands whose names sound like diseases or crimes.
The counter creatures just getting around to reading (now-) yesterday’s newspaper are sucking coffee and sopping egg yolk with corners of cold toast.
The ’It’s Arizona and I think I wanna be a cowboy’ guy in his giddy-up get-up is sittin’ with his like-attired shit-kicker pal, probably bemoaning the fact their attempts to corral a drunken cow-chick failed at the boot-scootin’ dance bar a couple blocks South of here.
Chinese chickie is over there, again, with an impossibly high stack of folders and some sort of textbook open in front of her. I swear she’s never looked up, like… really, never. Pre-med? CPA? Is that racist? I don't think so. I do think it's generalizing and nearly racist to say "Oh, they're all smart," when as I can plainly see this girl's focus could almost burn holes in her materials like a magnifying glass over an ant hill on a sunny day.
The cowpokes prolly arrived in some hunk-o-grunt, bashed-up Kia or Hyundai. Either that, or they have one of those mini-pickups with yee-haw stickers all over the back slider windows.
I know I should tip Tilly more than I do because of the time I’m here, but don’t you think it’s weird to tip more than the amount of my check? After all, it’s only coffee. And I only order the side of rye toast to beef-up the tip I do end-up giving her. Who the fuck eats orange marmalade, anyway? Or buys mixed fruit jelly. I mean, have you ever seen a jar of mixed fruit jelly in any store?
Oh, now, there’s a sight! The host has just seated three doper dudes next to the two gay guys who seem to come here after work as waiters somewhere because what other men would wear matching Hawaiian-print shirts and black slacks and be seen in public, even at this time of day.
Let’s see what a bad case of munchies will cause to be delivered to their table by that waitress with fat, tatooed calves. I mean, how can she hustle food for a living and have fat lower legs? Her caboose sure ain’t that big. Damn, that woman needs to see a dentist. She could have been good looking, once. If I win the lottery, I'm giving her a complete makeover, dentist included. There's potential there, I'm tellin' ya.
Looking around, I wonder what these people do for a living. In a perfecter world, you’d think they’d all have night jobs or at least work second shift.
“More coffee, Ray?,” Tilly asks, tilting the pot hovered over my cup.
“I should git, Tilly.”
“Okay, hon. I’ll get your check on my next run.”
“Thanks,” I answer, and begin to gather-up my papers and spiral notebook and folder like sweeping a deck of playing cards into a centralized pile.
I unplug the PC and slip it into its bag, stuff-in my notebook and papers, and make mental notes for my morning ’To Do’ list.
Fat Calves drops a chocolate sundae, order of fries and side of bleu cheese dressing, an iced tea, a small teapot, one coffee, and slice of banana cream pie to the dopers’ table, which makes me chuckle for no known reason.
Tilly drops my check and knows I’ll leave both total and tip here on the table. I rise and give Tilly a wave.
“See ya tomorrow, Ray,” she says with blanked expression born of fatigue and familiarity.
Moving toward the register, I’ve already gotten a cigarette in one hand and my Bic poised to flick once outside.
As I’m walking out with my bag dangling from my shoulder, I take one more glance around the restaurant. I hear sound coming from my mouth and realize I’m muttering “Jesus, these people should really get a life,” as the heel of my hand hits the door and I disappear into the night.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Phoenician Wings
That one in five homes was in foreclosure was no solace to Jess when he lost his job and they were forced to move in with Jamie's parents.
Senior engineers survived prior downturns and Jamie understood the lightning strike to his pride and ego, eliciting Jess' reaction of a daily ritual of his isolation behind the study's closed door, sending resumes and tearing ends from envelopes delivering what felt like rejection cloaked in mail-borne sucker punches.
Not ten minutes after handing him Monday's mail, an expresso and English muffin, Jamie heard Jess emerge and his footfalls approach the kitchen and Jamie wondered aloud to her mom, "Did I forget the jam?"
Jess leaned over and gingerly kissed the back of her neck as his hand came around to the front of her chest, the other hand extending 4"-tall origami Phoenix.
Her eyes misted as she noticed a tiny red heart and her initials on one wing as if painstakingly tattooed there, and heard him whisper, "Open your Valentine, baby?"
Careful not to rip the delicate sculpture, it only took a glance before she pirouetted from the chair and leapt into his arms, smearing sloppy, lipsticked kisses across three days' stubble, the job offer letter clenched in one fist at his back in a white-knuckled hug.
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