Short-Short Stories

Laundry and Writing

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Have I displaced my enthusiasm for writing? Years ago the written word shared my creative energy with photography, editing, and other arts. When I examine my life today as Socrates suggested, I ask myself, where is your passion? Why have I slowed and set aside the creativity I once valued? My ideas begin generously, then dry as fast as laundry on a hot day.

 Words that once tripped from brain to paper are slow in coming and like a routine have become boring. [Ah, a writing stimulus – a little Viagra, please, for the creative mind.] Sometimes I would ather do laundry than write. A tub of wash has an orderly sequence, and the drying rack shows off my effort. How to compare the reluctance of words to the display of undies – three pieces to a rod, three rods across. Nine clean panties in pastels, plus black and white, all neatly arranged. Words are never so perfectly set the first time or even the third. Socks are matched in pairs with heels facing the same direction for quick retrieval. Laundry requires creativity, at least mine does.

In summer’s heat, the wash dries in no time at all. I gather and fold pieces quickly. Stacked dry garments, a few towels, and a washcloth return to their places refreshed. If only words were orderly and stackable. I place words on lines to dry and criticize them for not being right.  My underware fits every time I step into the leg openings and pull the elastic to my waist. The fabric feels light and airy against my skin. Not so with words – I write sentences that scratch. I cross out words, draw the shiv, so to speak, and kill the idea. Until passion returns, I am best suited at and happy with doing laundry.

 While others write to share their lives, I don’t want to root around in the memory trunk of scoldings, scrapbooks, learning to drive, and losing my virginity. If I could write a mud-slapping comedy about the messy times, that might work. Until I figure out how to roll tears into laughter, let me share a favorite word with you – Tegucigalpa.

Ms. Honda Accord

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Ms. Honda Accord

My ’94 Honda Accord with a 5-speed transmission has a classy, sassy way of sporting her 170,000 miles. She’s twice been repainted and had a few scratches dermabrased – the equivalent of a minor facelift. In 2004, I chose a Porsche dark green to replace the dulled black paint. Another five years under the desert sun, and the girl needed a retouch. Now she’s a Subaru green. In dim light, the car darkens to green-black. In sunlight, the metal shimmers with an under-the-jungle-canopy green. A gorgeous color!

You may think that paying a whopping $25 auto registration fee and being eligible for historic plates in two years, the car would be a clunker. Quite the contrary. The car boasts a chip-free windshield, Hawaiian motif bucket seat covers, tiger print floor mats, tinted windows, and no dings. I ride a low 22 inches above ground without GPS, back-up screen, heated seats, climate data, leather or any of the add-ons installed in newer cars. I have just the basics – a Pioneer AM-FM radio, cassette, and CD player. That’s really all I need for listening to recorded books and NPR. Of course, the car has air conditioning, air bags, and a heater, and strands of dental floss float around.

“I’ve been looking for a ’94 Honda,” the emissions test guy said last year.  “Your car is really nice.”

“It’s nice enough for me to drive.” I appreciated his compliment as I took the paperwork and drove off.

Last month I met up with flattery again. I pulled into Beyond Bread for a loaf. A 20-something guy got out of a shabby 2-door Nissan, which he parked next to Ms. Honda.

“Excuse me, Miss. I saw your car on Campbell and followed you into the parking lot.”

“Really? Why did you do that?”

“I like your car and wonder if you’ve thought of selling it?

“Well, I like my car, too, and it’s the only car I have.” I turned and walked, thinking rye or whole grain. He stayed right with me.

“Would you take my name and phone number in case you change your mind?”

What the heck. I feel for people trying for something better.  “Sure, let’s go in and you write down your name and number.”

While I bought the bread, I did an on-the-spot Barbara Walters interview. Drew told me he’s an automotive student at a school in Phoenix. He has an awesome 18-month-old son and needs a 4-door car for the kiddo, car seat, and all the paraphernalia kids require to get from here to there.  My question about his wife had a pretty sad, but not totally unexpected answer. No wife. Actually, no girl friend either. The young lady did not take to motherhood. She’s out of the picture. Drew’s parents care for the awesome tyke during the week.

“Thanks. I’ll keep your name and number.”

I put the paper into my pocket and took the loaf of rye. “If I win the lottery you can have the car. Better yet, I’ll buy you a new one.”

* * *

They’re Back!

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They’re Back!

In October when Tucson is still roasting, the white wing doves leave for Mexico. I celebrate their departure and prediction of cooler weather. I’m delighted to feed and enjoy the desert’s wild birds, the nice birds – cactus wrens, Gila woodpeckers, quail, sparrows, hummingbirds, pyrrhuloxias, finches, and mourning doves. Any bird except the white wing.

When the white wing returns in March, their arrival predicts higher temperatures. The bird is nature’s way of saying cool, quiet mornings and clean walls are over.  The males fornicate often and leave clueless females sitting on lamely constructed twig nests all through the heat of summer.

Why don’t I gather these beasty birds to my heart? Our acacia trees become dove tenaments and coo-coo-coo goes on all day long. Their coo-cooing begins at four in the morning, and I’m a light sleeper. In summer, I vacate the east bedroom and claim a west-facing room away from the trees. Those noisy birds put me out of my bedroom. That’s one.

The white wings perch on walls and fencing. With a flick of the tail, a knuckle-size dropping falls. Those nasty lumps dry cement-hard. I resist wasting water, but after a few months I power wash their droppings just to clean the place. That’s two.

White wings are greedy feeders with long beaks.  They aggressively chase off the small wild birds. That’s three, and that’s enough.

Last summer I called the Audubon office and asked how I could scram these pests from my trees and yard. Ms. Audubon chirped, “The white wings are migratory birds and federally protected. You cannot harm them. It’s against the law.”  Until then I had not considered killing them. Not a bad idea, but where to begin? Didn’t John James himself kill birds for his ornithology paintings? However, I needed to look elsewhere for a peace and quiet solution.

I did the next best thing, off to cyberspace. I bought a roll of one inch reflective Mylar from Peaceful Valley Farm. Birds, please say white wing doves too, do not like shiny, moving surfaces. Last summer Mylar streamers blew in the breeze from my fence rails. I painted pink, green, red, and black evil eyes on super-large foil discs and tied them to the tree branches. Acacias with earrings! The trees looked stylish and a boring landscape became zany.

It’s April and the white wings are back! I have work to do. Tie the Mylar streamers on the fencing and get those silvery evil eyes floating in the breeze.  Bye-bye, birdies!

I’m from Newark

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A man with silvery-white hair wore a black tee shirt with the words South Amboy printed in large orange letters. An embroidered basketball was centered just below the two words. He passed my table carrying a Starbucks beverage container.

“Hey, Jersey guy,” I said.  He came to a quick stop and backed up to where Anita and I sat with our Starbucks beverage containers.

“I’m from Jersey, too,” I continued without a pause. “When I saw South Amboy, I knew. . ”

“Almost every time I wear the shirt, someone stops me. How long you’ve been in Tucson?”

“For me, too long. We came in ’86. How about you?”

“Thirty years. Where you from?”

“I’m from Newark,” I said with a jokey smile.

“Yeah, you and Whitney Houston.”

“Don’t laugh. I was on a plane once and told the woman next to me the same thing. She said, ‘You mean you’re from South Orange or West Orange.’ No, I’m from Newark. Bergen Street School. Arts High. Went to Rutgers.”

“I went to Rutgers in New Brunswick,” he said. “Did you go to New Brunswick?”

“No, I told you. I’m from Newark. I went to school in Newark.”

What don’t people understand about Newark? It was a great city. I loved the place and still do.  My teachers were phenomenal. Plenty of recreation – ice skating in winter. Fishing with my uncle in Weequahic Park during the summer. Double-feature films at the Cameo Theatre on Elizabeth Avenue. A great library and fine arts museum. Saturdays in New York City. Safe streets where kids had fun.

Gradually, life changed. One by one families and my friends moved to Kenilworth, Belleville, Livingston, the Oranges, Union, and Hillside. They were the white families. We were a white family, but my father stayed on until my sister finished 8th grade. Chris was one of the last white kids to graduate from Bergen Street School. That June we took the white-flight and moved. If I had a magic wand, I’d fix Newark and the city would be great again.

Haircut – $15

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Haircut $15 — The Aveda Institute’s sign knew how to catch my attention. What could happen at a school that prepares the next generation of stylists? I decided to put my hair on the line for a student’s training. I love a bargain, and if anything went wrong, my hair would continue to grow. In the next cycle of haircut and color, I would be back with Lynn laughing at my impulsive streak, which is definitely blonde.

Time became an issue that Saturday morning. Katie carefully snipped at my hair for an hour and a half. As she sniped a dozen strands between the scissor blades, I feared the worst – a parking ticket. Elizabeth, the teacher-educator, guided the cut with instructions. I learned my hair has sections and cuts have to be made at an angle – back, sides, and crown. Katie had three weeks “on the floor” cutting real hair. She said, “More experienced students cut faster.”  I apologized for adding pressure. She followed her passion and came all the way from Jacksonville to enroll in the Aveda program.

Katie did a great job!  As the minutes clicked by, I worried about that parking ticket. I fed the meter on 2nd Street all my quarters. Every time Katie called her teacher-educator, I cringed. How much closer might the meter reader be to my green Honda?

Here’s the back story: A friend with a good haircut recommended her person. Tina rents a station in a frenetic, purple salon where stylists wear black. Retail in front with necklaces, scarves, bracelets, clothing, hair products, and other impluse items. My Steinmart claustrohobia transferred itself and made breathing difficult – too much merchandise crowded into a small space. The salon area expanded into stations. Excellent!  The downside had the audio up on stories about kids, vacations, and jobs.

Tina’s haircut: $65, plus tip. Sixty-five big green one dollar bills or 65+  flight points on MasterCard for a 45- minute shampoo, cut, and small talk. For short hair that seemed like a lot of money.

“How often should I have my hair cut?”

“Once a month.”

Gulp! That comes to about $800 a year. Add beaucoup bucks for color and highlights.

At the end of the Aveda experience, I did not have a parking ticket. I did have a smart cut. My inner teacher knows Katie will be successful. Someday she will be ranked a senior stylist and get $65 for a haircut but not from me. You go, girl!!

I have an appointment with Lynn on February 3rd. For those in-between cuts, I’ll give an Aveda student time to practice on my hair with pleasure.

Palisades Park

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A little known fact — in 1962 twelve women became engaged on the Ferris wheel in Palisades Park. Lulu Lilac let Chuck Garbinski slip a half-carat diamond on the ring finger of her left hand and became one of the twelve lucky, mostly young, ladies who wore an engagement ring at the end of the ride. How do I know the number of about-to-be-wed? I’m Dante and was the wheel operator and the first person to know. First, of course, after the young lady.  I could tell just by looking at the couple — engagement in the sky and sometimes under the stars. A hundred feet off the ground in a swinging seat, slip on a ring, and a kiss seals the deal.   “You got engaged up there?” I asked pointing my chin skyward as the seat came to its resting place on the concrete pad.

“Yes, we did.”

After running the wheel for fifteen summers, I could tell what went on. “Ya know, not all of them rides was happy ones.”

“How about signing my book?  I keep the names of people who get engaged on the wheel. You’re making history.”

“I was afraid he’d drop the ring. His hands were shaking,” said Lulu. “We were so high up. It was beautiful. All the lights from the rides, and the light of the moon. Look!” Lulu stuck out her hand and a silvery sparkle caught the lights of the wheel.

Twinkle, twinkle. Diamond bright.

* * *

Lulu met Chuck three years before their engagement. She worked at Sears, Roebuck on Elizabeth Avenue and walked home after work, even in the rain. She passed the A&P and the J&G Auto Parts store. Chuck was a driver for the parts place and began to notice Lulu long before she noticed him. On no particular Wednesday afternoon when Chuck stopped her to say something like “hello,” Lulu did not know she would become part of Palisades Park history. She also did not anticipate that when the engagement was broken, a clerk from Abelson’s would call to say the ring had a balance due and, therefore, must be paid for or returned.

Since she didn’t make history with a first novel at age sixteen, the wheel was good enough for now. How do I know? She drove up to the park last Saturday and said that the engagement went bust. The romance was over. He told her had been married and divorced. He also told her he was married twice and divorced twice.  “Show me your divorce certificate!” That what I said to him. “Prove it!   “You know what that jerk did? He had a printer friend make a certificate. It had the gold seal of New Jersey glued in the left-hand corner. Looked official enough to me.

“Dante, I wouldn’t be telling you the story, except my name in is your log-book. We did not have a marriage. He left me a letter and concert tickets he bought for my birthday. Fr. John called from St. Michael’s and said I needed to get down to the church immediately. Chuck went to the priest and spilled the story of his not yet being divorced and how awful he felt. So, Ferris wheel operator, not every engagement made under the stars sparkles on the ground.”

 * * *

Fast Ferry – Proviencetown to Boston (9/27/11)

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The 90-minute fast ferry will take longer this afternoon. One of the engines has lost power. Still, even if we dock late, I will have time to catch Jet Blue’s red-eye to Phoenix. Besides, I have a plan for the ride from Provincetown. I’ll continue reading Ann Morrow Lindbergh’s Gift from the Sea. Admirable intentions, but the passengers are a definite distraction.

My eyes and ears settle on a man and a woman sitting shoulder to shoulder in the first row of the cabin. They stare at a small screen television set into the wall. They watch Wolfe Blitzer giving a CNN news report. I watch them, the man and the woman watching the TV in silence. How can they sit with perfect posture like two mannequins. I silently yell to them, turn off the television!

A woman appears and stops. Leaning over the couple she begins her own news report. She once lived in California; she majored in psychology. She stayed with friends who have a house in Provincetown. Blitzer’s report on the Michael Jackson autopsy has no audience among the three. Forward in the bow seats, a girl child babbles loudly to her mother and father. She lets out random, piercing screams followed by silence. Four rows ahead a Japanese man holds a cell phone to his left ear. His eyes are closed as he listens to something.

On the starboard side, a yellow Lab is stretched in the down-stay position.  Its owner hovers over a laptop keyboard and screen. The dog watched enviously as the man paused to eat from a Styrofoam container. Good dog. He never moved.

The engine noise, constant and loud, adds to the distractions. Gray water and gray sky barge by the cabin windows. A man on the bow has a wide lens attached to his camera. The wind rips and billows his nylon jacket. He is ready to shoot those first harbor sightings – oil storage tanks, bridges, and old custom houses along the wharfs. Did he photograph the cruise ship Celebrity as it passed? Happy people going to the Bahamas.

Sitting still has chilled my bones. I pull my already buttoned jacket on over my head. I cannot read or concentrate. I go to the snack bar for a cup of hot water. Back at my seat I bob a green tea bag up and down and inhale the musty aroma. No point in forcing the quiet of Lindbergh’s book into my brain. Maybe on the flight to Phoenix I’ll get back to grace and solitude.

At Long Wharf we disembark and head toward Boston’s downtown streets. I look for a “T” – a transit station to take me to the airport.  The weekend in Provincetown with its casual, party-place attitude ends at MacMillan Pier. A red-haired man rushes to a friend walking ahead. A quick few words are exchanged. His knees fold into a jump, and he plants a full-mouth kiss on the lips of his tall friend.

“See you on Friday,” he says with a laugh and a smile. Off he goes rushing to another destination.