HATS ON AND ON AND ON TO INFINITY

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It’s just another ordinary day. I wasn’t expecting anything unusual to happen. My alarm rings at 7:47 am right on the dot. I dangle my legs over the side of the bed and let them hang there for a bit just to get the circulation back.

Cowboy Hats by Paul Br751

I start making the bed, and as I get out of bed, I straighten the sheets and then the Cowboy comforter. I smile, just looking at that bedspread. I can’t believe how lucky I was to find it on eBay. I’ve looked for one for twenty years. I owned one when I was a kid, but my mother gave it away when I was sixteen. She said I was too old for a cowboy bedspread. Can you imagine? Too grown-up for cowboys, ridiculous.

I walk the twenty-seven steps to my bathroom and look at myself in the mirror. I take off my hat and look at the top of my head that clearly has less hair this morning than it did yesterday. I sigh. Oh well, what can you do? I get out my mustache kit. I comb it straight down and then trim each hair one at a time. I comb it seven times I try to be vigilant about the length and the shape.

You just can’t let yourself go to hell, right? I decide tonight I will touch up the gray a little. Not all of it, of course, I like to look my best, but no one’s going to believe that someone that is sixty-seven doesn’t have some gray hair in his stache. I jump into the shower and wash and rinse myself seven times. I put on my clothes and look in the mirror. Not bad, I think.

I pull up my bamboo socks, you wouldn’t believe how comfortable they are, and your feet can breathe. And the Piece De Resistance is my hand-made vintage Lee Miller boots. They cost a pretty penny, but believe me, they were worth it. They are hand-stitched with red hearts and inlaid white patches. I feel like a million bucks.

This makes it even more difficult for me to understand why I can’t find a woman to keep me company in the sunset of my years. After all, I’m not bad-looking, have some money in the bank and own a home with no mortgage. What more could any woman want? Plus, I’m very, very neat, and a dam good cook to boot.

I set the table for two, I live alone, but I’m optimistic. I take two steps to the right and then two steps back. And take my seat, as I eat my bowl of Peanut Butter Captain Crunch. I consider where I might purchase my next hat. My plan is to buy a Brick Cowboy Hat, which is similar to a cattleman cowboy hat but has a squarer crown. I also have to pick up my Gambler Cowboy hat because I left it at the hat shop to be blocked. It‘s a little too big for my head now that I have less hair. So, I’m having it resized.

I wash and rinse the cups and bowls twenty-seven times and put them away. Today is the third day of the week in the third week of the month, so it’s time to go out and buy a new cowboy hat. I decide to shop at my old standby Cowtown Cowboy Outfitters. I received an email informing me that they received some new hats just last week. And luckily, Zane Western Apparel is only about a quarter of a mile from Cowtown. And that is where my Gambler Hat is being blocked. What a great day this is going to be.

As I head towards Cowtown, I decide that while I’m buying my new hat, I’ll peruse the flea market. And then enjoy barbeque ribs for lunch. I realize that I’m humming my favorite tune. “Whoopie Yippie e. Hurrah.”

I see the sign for Cowtown, and my heart starts beating a little faster, “Yippee Ky O Ky Yea.” I yell at the top of my voice.

I disembark from my 1965 Shelby-Made Mustang. I step back three steps and sidestep five and take a long look at my baby. It’s cherry red and pristine. I love it like I loved my mother. It’s 10:45 am. I take a deep breath and stare at the Cowtown Cowboy. It’s one of my favorite icons of all time.

The cowboy had a lariat in his hand, but people kept trying to swing from it. So, they took off the lariat. I decided to peruse the flea market. I enjoy looking through the now worn and somewhat tattered stalls. Why? You ask it’s probably just a bunch of Chinese imports. Nothing is made in America anymore. Because it is part of my tradition, and that is reason enough for me.

I pick up a genuine replica of a Colt 45. I’m not a gun enthusiast, but it’s part of the Cowboy tradition. Still, I put it down and keep walking. And then I see in the distance a woman, a goddess, really. She’s wearing full cowgirl tradition. She has on amazing boots, and tight blue jeans with a red flannel shirt and matching red scarf. And the Piece de ’resistance, a creamy white Stetson hat.

I nonchalantly walk toward the table where she is standing. It’s a table covered in bright neck scarfs. I casually glance at a sky blue one and pick it up and feel the texture and put it in the light to get a better look. She looks over at me and smiles. I look at her, and I notice she has the most astonishing blue eyes. I almost gasp out loud. I smile and say, “that scarf would look great on you. It’s the exact color of your eyes.

She glances at me, and takes off the scarf, and says, “thanks, that’s a good choice.” I want to continue the conversation. But as usual, this is where I usually get tongue-tied. I continue, anyway. “Say, I was just going to get some bar-b-que ribs for lunch, would you be interested in joining me?”

“Lunch, sure, I guess that would be nice. I’m getting a little bit hungry.” We head on over to Dutch Country Barbeque. She stops along the way and looks at tables at the wares. We arrive at the restaurant. A somewhat loud but friendly woman yells out. “Find a seat and sit-down folks. I’ll be right there.”

So, she has a seat, and then I take two steps to the right and two to the left and sit down. She gives me a funny look. I sit down and begin to move the salt and pepper into the right position. And then move the barbeque sauces next to each other. I take out a clean hand wipe and wipe the table down. I get another funny look. I begin to feel that uh-oh feeling. That I get when I notice people think I’m weird. But I don’t know what it is that I’m doing wrong.

“Well, I guess I should introduce myself. My name is Robert Leroy Cassidy. But everyone calls me Butch. May I ask your name?”

“My name is Sue Ellen Bassett. I own a small ranch about twenty miles south of here. I raise and train horses for the Rodeo here. Wait a minute, did you just tell me your name was Butch Cassidy?”

“Well, yes, is that a problem?”

“No, it’s just you know Butch Cassidy was an outlaw. Are you a descendent or something?”

“No, I had my name legally changed to Butch Cassidy when I was thirty. He was kind of a hero to me, growing up.”

“A hero, but was an outlaw?’

“Well, yes, technically, I guess that’s true. He lived by the code of the old west. It was a different time. People lived by different rules. You know live by the gun die by the gun.” I watched her face carefully as I related this information to her.

She starts clearing her throat. It looks like she’s going to make a run for it. “Wait, I know this sounds crazy, but I’m not crazy, I just have a thing for the old west, and the gunslingers back then. That’s all. I’m not an outlaw. I‘m a retired insurance salesman from Texas. By the way, what’s your name?” I see her face relax a little.

“My name is Etta Thompson. Do you come to Cowtown very often?

“Well, about once a month, if I’m picking up a new hat.”

“Oh, that’s interesting. Do you collect hats?”

I smile, I think ok she doesn’t seem to think that’s odd. And so, I continue.” Well, yes, I do. I collect cowboy hats. And other kinds of Western paraphernalia. But my main interest is hats.”

“Well. Everyone has hobbies, and collecting hats seems a harmless enough activity. I enjoy collecting brass bells. I have about five hundred. I had more, but I sold some of them on eBay recently because I was running out of room in my house.”

“Oh, how did you start collecting bells?”

“I go to estate sales because I enjoy looking at older homes. I started to collect bells, so I had a reason to keep going to the sales. Basically, I’m curious about how other people live and the things they accumulate over a lifetime. People are fascinating to me.”

“Well, I can’t say that I’m drawn to that many people, or that I like to talk to most people. There are very few people that I’m attracted to, I mean to feel a connection “ I feel my face getting red, can you imagine still blushing when you’re over sixty years old.

“That’s alright, I know what you mean.”

At that point, the waitress comes over. “So, what can I get you to drink? Do you need the menus, or do you know what you want?”

“Well, I would like a sweet tea and the lunch special barbeque.”

“Me too.”, Butch says and blushes.

After the food arrives, they both dig in and don’t really say anything until they finish eating. Butch feels comfortable with Etta, a rare occurrence. They both sign push their plates away and sigh simultaneously. Then they both chuckle at the same time. “That was good, says Etta.”

“Delicious as usual,” says Butch.

“Well, what are your plans for the rest of the afternoon, Butch?”

“First, I’m going to pick up a hat I’m having blocked, and then I’m going to Zane Apparel and purchase a Gambler Hat that I’ve wanted to buy for a long time.’

“That sounds like fun?”

“Would you like to come along?”

“I would love that, but I’m meeting with some guys about a horse they want me to train. I would love to get together again. In fact, I would like to invite you to come over and see my ranch. I’m really proud of it.”

As Butch starts to rise out of his chair, he lays down a twenty-dollar bill and a tip. And he says I would enjoy that very much. Any day in particular?”

“How about on Sunday afternoon, it’s the only day I don’t have a lot of work to do on the ranch, and the weather is supposed to be spectacular. We could take a ride.”

“Take a ride? I don’t really have a great deal of experience riding, But I would love to give it a try.” Butch is secretly amazed at his own words. Not to mention that he didn’t even do the two-step when he arose from the chair or clean the whole table and stack the dishes. A big smile crosses his face.

“Fantastic. Here are my card and cell number, how about around 12:30 pm. I’m a pretty good cook if I do say so myself. I’ll make something special for us to eat.”

“Wow, I mean great, I look forward to it. I’ve had a great day. I look forward to seeing you on Sunday.”

They walk side by side out the door. Butch has never felt more alive and has a bounce to his step that he didn’t know existed before. As he is about to say goodbye, Eta leans in and kisses him on the cheek. I’ll see you then Butch; I look forward to it.”

“Me too, Eta. I look forward to it. See you Sunday.”

As he starts walking away, he says, “Hell, maybe I’ll get two new hats.”

___________________________________

I HOPE THIS GOES VIRAL – PLEASE SHARE ON ALL SOCIAL MEDIA- WRITE ON

A JOURNEY OF A THOUSAND MILES BEGINS WITH A SINGLE MISSTEP

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The year I celebrated my twenty-first birthday, I had big plans. No, it’s not what you’re thinking I didn’t go out and get drunk. I didn’t get laid for the first time. I decided that a coming of age journey was in order. No, it wasn’t a remake of Thelma and Louise. Although, considering how it turned out maybe I should have brought Louise with me. Well, I don’t know anybody named Louise, but I do know a Helen, a Joan or Brenda that would have loved to come along.

But you know that’s not my style. I decided that I would go it alone. Why you may ask? Well, because of all the things I feared, and the list is long, getting lost is at the top of the list. And running a close second is public speaking and wearing a bikini at the beach.

The Auto Train by Engin Akyurt-Pixabay

I made a list of all the things that I wanted to do once I was a legal adult. I wanted to get up at dawn every day and see the sunrise. I wanted to dye my hair blond. Embrace each day with renewed energy and a positive vibe, no more negativity. I would learn how to parallel park, learn a new language. I was considering Chinese, it would be more of a challenge. Maybe I could learn to write it as well. I’ve always been good at languages. Remember, how good I was at Pig Latin when I was a kid.

Well, I could go on and on, perhaps I should stop prevaricating and get to the point. I had planned the whole trip. Oh, this was decades before the I Phone and Google Maps. I had purchased maps of the East Coast from New Jersey to Florida. I decided I would take the Auto Train. I would have to drive from South Jersey to Lorton, Virginia. Barring unforeseen circumstances and according to my calculations, it was a two hour and forty-minute drive to drive one hundred- and seventy-five-mile drive from my home in South Jersey to Lorton, Virginia.

And then I would board the train and go from Virginia to Sanford, Florida and then drive to West Palm Beach. It was a twenty-four-hour ride on the train.

And believe it or not, I arrived at Lorton, Virginia auto-train with time to spare. Even I was amazed since I had never taken a longer trip than going to Atlantic City about an hour from my parents’ house without getting lost. And I did not have to make a single U-Turn. I kid you not. Since I arrived early, my car was the first one to be loaded onto the train. Of course, what I failed to consider was that would mean my car would be the last one to get off the train in Sanford, Florida.

I watched as my beloved 1970 Volkswagen Beetle was loaded onto the train. I must admit I was somewhat nervous about it. I loved that car; it was my first car. I had purchased it on my own, with money that I earned while working my first real job. I loved that car so much that every morning I got up an hour early to wash it. It was lemon yellow with automatic stick shift. I loved it like it was my first-born child.

After waiting on a bench in Virginia’s August sizzling heat for well over an hour, I was allowed to board the train. I was drenched in sweat. I had my somewhat damp ticket in hand. The Conductor directed me to the box car. As I got onto the train, I realized that most of the passengers that were boarding were families with multiple children, some still in diapers. This was somewhat concerning since I knew we would be driving for twenty-four hours, which meant that at least eight hours of the drive would be overnight. Overnight with a large population of children under the age of five. I could see that this might cause some sleep problems. It turns out that crying babies would be the least of my problems.

As I boarded, the train trip got off to a rocky start. I tripped going up the steps and fell right into the passenger in head of me. And I might add not very gracefully. I attempted to pull myself up using his leg, mistake number one. Inadvertently, his pants came down around his ankles. And to add insult to injury turns out this guy goes commando.

I was so shocked at the turn of events, I started talking gibberish, or maybe it was pig Latin. It’s kind of a blur now because his reaction was well, a little over the top, in my opinion.

As he yanked up his pants, you know the velvet kind with an elasticized waistband he let loose with a string of expletives that would make Genghis Kahn blush. The last thing he said was, “You better keep clear of me, you stupid bitch. If I see you again, I’m going to toss your fat ass off this train.” Well, I may be a little zaftig, but I’m not fat.

The line of people waiting to board the train behind me was beginning to back up. A couple of young guys grabbed my arms on either side and pulled me up. “Oh, thanks,” I mumbled and prayed I would never seen any of these people again. I had never been so simultaneously embarrassed and terrified at the same time.

I found a ladies room and stepped into a stall. I had myself a mini-breakdown. I may have shed a few tears and I was shaking like a leaf. I took some deep breaths and wiped my tears with toilet paper. When I finished, I walked over to one of the sinks, and I gazed into the mirror. I realized that I had blood dripping down my face. I must have hit my lip or bit it when I fell. I splashed some cold water on my face and dried it off with a paper towel, the cheap kind that is brown and feels like sandpaper.

I decided that things could only get better from here on out since I couldn’t imagine anything worse happening. You see I was already putting the optimistic point of view into play. I started to brush my hair but gave up on it as a lost cause.

I stepped out in the hall and looked for the boxcar that was listed on my ticket. It was a good thing that each car was marked because otherwise, I would have been lost as they all looked exactly the same to me.

I swayed from one end of the train to the other. The movement of the train was somewhat like walking on the deck of a boat in a rough sea. I found the right boxcar and sat down in my assigned seat with a deep sigh.

It turns out the seats were three across. So, it was going to be a tight fit. I shut my eyes and started doing some deep breathing. And I fell fast asleep probably from the shock and stress. I woke up abruptly, I looked around, unsure at first where I was. Something was banging on the back of my seat. I looked to my right there was an elderly man fast asleep on my shoulder, his drool was running down my sweaty arm. And to my left was a nursing mother. Who looked younger than I was. I was not in a good mood, I swore as loud as I could “I don’t know who is kicking my seat, but if you don’t stop, the shit is going to hit the fan.” I had never really cursed before, but I thought this occasion was a good time to start.

Unfortunately, I woke up both the drooling ancient man and the sleeping baby and mother. The baby let out a wail that would have raised Lazarus from the dead for a second time. Little Mama, well let’s just say if looks could kill, I would have been breathing my last breath.

“Hey Girlie, what’s all the racket about? Can’t you tell people are trying to sleep?” What’s all the racket about? Kids nowadays don’t have respect for their elders. I didn’t respond immediately because my attention is drawn to his lower lip, where a long string of drool is suspended. My stomach lurched. “Sorry, I was startled by somebody kicking my seat back. It’s been a long day.”

I decided that this would be a good time to go get something to eat. Hopefully, when I returned, everything would be copesetic again. Or at least everyone would have gone back to sleep. Since I’m working on being positive. I choose to believe this until reality smacks me in the face with the truth.

I meander down through one compartment after another. And then I hear before I see what I think must be the diner compartment. I stick my head in the doorway. And low and behold there looks like there is a party going on. It is loud, way past noisy. There is a yellow haze. It could be cigarette smoke, but most likely pot—smoking with one hand and drinks in the other. And now, we are talking; this is the type of experience I have been looking forward to.

I push my way through the crowd and find a seat at the bar. “Hey bartender, can I get something to eat here. My stomach thinks I cut my own throat?” He takes one look at me and asks for my ID. I take it out of my back pocket and hand it over to him. He is a scary-looking dude; he has a scar running the length of his face from his hairline down. I shutter to think how that happened. There is a tear tattooed underneath his right eye. Half his mustache is missing. I don’t even want to know the significance of that. He looks at me; he looks at the ID. “Ok, close enough, we have hamburgers and French fries, the first beer is on the house.”

“Awesome, well-done, please.”

“Well done, you’ll be lucky if it ain’t still mooing, honey.”

My eye starts twitching a little. I look around the room. My first thought was maybe I’m still sleeping because this looks like a bar scene from Casablanca. Would that make me Ilsa? I look around for my Rick. Unfortunately, I don’t see him, but maybe he is in the men’s room. The only thing missing here is the designer gowns and the tuxedos. I guess this is the poor man’s version.

My hamburger arrives, my mouth is watering; this is the first thing I’ve had to eat all day. It’s not that bad, and the French fries are just the way I like them salty and crisp.

At that moment, I feel someone’s hand grasp my shoulder. I look up, and who do I see, Pants Guy, or should I say no pants guy. I gulp down the last bite of my hamburger whole and almost choke. I grab my free beer and swallow. His grip is getting tighter. He is leering down at me. But not in a good way, if you know what I mean.

My breathing is becoming irregular, in short gasps. I’m hyperventilating. I try to slow my breathing down. And then it comes to me, go completely limp. he is so surprised that he lets go of my shoulder. I drop like a lead balloon, I hit the ground. And before he knows what is happening, I‘m up and running and out the door.

I run through several boxcars. The constant swaying of the boxcars is making me feel nauseous. I hear a voice in the distance, yelling.” You wait until I catch up with you. I’m going to make you regret the day you were born.” And then a roaring sound, I’m not sure if that was him, or my intestines.

I hear music, I follow it. I see an open boxcar. And propel my body through the entrance. It’s another bar or a cabaret. I’m not sure. There is the sweet smell of pot and many voices talking at once. I can’t see clearly because of the smoke. I give a silent prayer of thanks for the smoke. If I can’t see anyone, then neither can the Neanderthal that is chasing me.

Someone grabs my arm and pulls me in. The next thing I know, I’m dancing with a guy with Do Wop hair. You know the greasy hair that swoops on across the forehead and down over one eye. He is wearing tight jeans and a cowboy shirt with fringe. I go with it. Better than doing the Last Tango in Paris with No Pants Guy. He pulls me in tight. I press my face against his chest. I’m thinking, safe at last, and then Do Wop swirls me out expectantly, and I let out a yelp. Then he yanks me not very gently back into his chest. And that, unfortunately, is when my intestines and I say adieu to the very rare hamburger and the warm beer. I projectile vomit across the floor and all over Do Wop.

It turns out Do Wop is a sympathetic vomiter. And it seems as if he has had a great deal to eat prior to coming to this bar. Apparently, he had Mexican food, unfortunately, for me and everyone behind me. And to add insult to injury, this set off a chain reaction of vomiting across the room. The smell alone was overwhelming, and then people started slipping and sliding all over the place. And that’s all she wrote as they say. The party was over.

As I crawl across the slimy and disgusting floor, I see No Pants Guy. I lay flat on the floor and hope for the best. He backs out of the room. No doubt blown back by the sheer stink of it all. I take a deep breath, and then immediately regret it.

As I rise, I consider throwing myself off the train and just hoping for the best. I crawl out into the passageway and look one way and then the other. I don’t see hide nor hair of my nemesis. I slip and slide until I see a lady’s room sign and shove open the door. I look right and left, and it is all clear. I enter somewhat trepidatiously.

As I once again gaze into the mirror, I realize I have reached a new level of looking like shit. A rare accomplishment for the first day of my twenty-first year. I congratulate myself. I turn on the cold water tap and splash lukewarm water onto my face. The water has a weird metallic smell. I wonder, where is this water coming from? The train isn’t connected to water lines. It must be stored in tanks under the train or something. This thought leads to another less savory thought where does all the shit and piss go? Do they flush it out the last boxcar? Do they store it until they arrive at the final destination? It is at this point in my stream of consciousness; I realize that my thoughts have taken a wrong turn somewhere. I cup my hands and throw the water into my mouth and rinse and spit. I‘m convinced I’ll never get the disgusting taste out of my mouth.

I stick my head out of the bathroom door; I think I see a kangaroo. I’m thoroughly exhausted. I believe I must be hallucinating. My mind rejects the vision. So, I continue walking out the door and towards what I believe isn’t real. I shake my head and reach out to touch it. And that’s when I realize that this isn’t a vision but real. The kangaroo pulls back his arm and then strikes me in the chest I stagger backward a couple of feet. I’m momentarily so flabbergasted that I can’t catch my breath.

Imaginary or not, that thing can punch like Mike Tyson. I run in the other direction. Perhaps I inhaled so much pot fumes and that it was indeed imaginary. Or none of this is happening. And I’m fast asleep and dreaming, between drooling old man and nursing mother. I pray for the second option.

I decide that I’m going to head back to my boxcar and squeeze into my seat and not rise again until we reach Sanford, Florida. As I head back toward my destination, I fantasize lying on the beach and catching some rays and drinking a Margarita with a tanned and toned surfer dude. I convince myself that this is still possible. I just have to get back into my assigned seat and keep a low profile until we reach our destination. We will probably reach it in about fourteen hours. Meanwhile, I can catch some Zzzz’s.

I double-time it back to my boxcar. Hopefully, there won’t be any further excitement or altercations. This day seems like the longest day of my life. I arrive at my boxcar and look in, fearing at first that my nemesis will somehow have found out where I was sitting and lie in wait for me. Luckily, this was just paranoia at work. And no one was waiting for me.

I walk down the aisle. I see what appears to be two empty seats where I was sitting earlier. I arrive and look down at the seats, and I see that drooling man is now slumping over into my seat. I fear the worse that he is dead and decomposing. I look at nursing mother is curled around her baby and sound asleep. Thank god for small favors.

I consider trying to clandestinely make a loud noise and wake him up. Nope, that would wake up the mother, and even worse the infant.

And so, I gently shove him over into his own space. I grasp his sleeve and push him ever so gently. It works except he is now slumped over onto the mother. I consider this; it works for me. I plop down quietly and immediately fall into a fretful sleep.

I wake up abruptly to a high-pitched screaming. My eyes pop open, I fear for the worse. Was it the kangaroo or No Pants Dude? Will this nightmare never end?

I look to the sound of the ungodly noise and it is the infant. It has awakened and is now bawling like there is no tomorrow. “Dear god, what is it? Why is it screaming, is it in pain? Please make it stop.”

“Sorry, he is just hungry or needs his diaper changed. I will have to take him to the lady’s room. They have a changing table in there. If you could just get up for a moment, I would appreciate it.”

As she gets up with her infant in tow, the old man slumps further into the other seat. My god, but he is a deep sleeper. I attempt to pull him up. He is like a sack of potatoes. He still doesn’t awaken, great I think. And I close my eyes and am out like a light in short order.

I am awakened by someone tugging at my sleeve. I mutter,” for the love of all that is holy, would you please leave me alone.”

“Sorry, but could you please let me in my seat again. I have to feed my baby, or he will start crying again.”

“Yeah, ok, ok.” When I get up, the old man falls right back into my seat. “What’s wrong with this guy anyway, nothing wakes him up?”

The mother touches the old man’s face and then grabs his wrist and holds it for a minute. “Shit,” she screams, this guy is dead. I was wondering why he slept so long. We will have to call the conductor or somebody in charge.”

She pulls the cord next to her seat. It says emergency only. Well, this certainly qualifies as an emergency to me. There is a loud squealing noise, and then a lurch as the train grinds to an abrupt stop. Everybody wakes up, some start screaming, mostly kids but quite a few burly young men.

By the time the train comes to a complete stop, everyone has calmed down. There is an announcement over the intercom that everyone should remain seated until they are told otherwise. About fifteen minutes pass by, and then two EMTs and a police officer come on board.

When they arrive in the boxcar, I start feeling a little sick to my stomach. I hope I won’t start throwing up again. I look up to see the police officer standing over me. “Alright, ladies, can you describe to me what has occurred here.

Well, I just came back to the boxcar, and I couldn’t sit down because he was slumped over into my seat. When I moved him, he just sort of plopped into his seat. Like a dead weight. “Oh, I’m sorry I didn’t mean to say it that way. It was such a shock. I’ve never seen a dead body before. And to tell you the truth, it has been a tough day for me. Oh, sorry.”

“And you miss?

“Well, I thought he was asleep for most of the trip. He didn’t really say anything to me at all. I was taking care of my baby, and as she said, it has been a really long day.”

“Do you two young ladies know each other? What is your relationship?”

Simultaneously, we both said, “No, I never ever talked to her. I never met her before. I don’t know her.”

The policeman said, “ok, you two will have to make a written statement before we leave. And at some time in the future, you may have to testify.”

I looked over at nursing mother. She looks like she is going to start crying. Which made me start crying. And before you knew it, we were both crying—a perfect end to a perfect day.

After they took the body out, she and I look at each other, and then we hug. I am not much of a hugger, but somehow it did make me feel better after that. “My name is Susan, and you are?”

“Well, this has been some trip and a weird way to meet somebody, my name is Joanne. And this is my baby Gerald. He’s four months old. We are on our way to see his grandparents in West Palm Beach. God, what a day.

After that, we just sat back in our seats and didn’t say another word. I mean, what more can you say after somebody you didn’t know or even talk to dies in the seat next to you. I wonder what kind of lesson I was learning about being an adult from this experience. I still don’t know.

A police woman came in and told the two of us that we were going to have to move to other seats in a different boxcar. While the police look over the scene. I don’t know what they were looking for? Drool maybe? Sorry, I know that’s not funny, but what can I say. I can be a real jerk sometimes.

After I was told where my new seat was, I found my way without any difficulty. Maybe I was developing a sense of direction. Who knows. The new boxcar and seat look exactly the same sans nursing mother, I mean Joanne and her baby and the old man. Oh, there I go being a jerk again.

The next few hours of the trip passed without any further incidence probably because I never moved out of the seat. I just stared out the window as the sky gradually went from inky black to gray. And then I watched as the sun rose and moved higher into the sky. I notice that the trees changed from Maples and Oak to Palm Trees. The sunrise in Florida is so beautiful it takes your breath away. The sun slowly rises and highlights the blues and pinks with gold. I will always remember that more than anything else I experienced on that trip. Because well, it was a new day and a new beginning for me.

When we arrive in Sanford, I start getting nervous about getting off the train. I was so afraid I might run into No Pants guy. I step down out of the train along with a hundred other people. It had only been twenty-four that’s for sure. I sit on a bench in the morning sun, and I think, holy crap it feels like I stepped into an oven. The heat and humidity are unbelievable. You just can’t believe how hot it is in Florida until you experience it. I was going to have to wait a long time for my car because it was the first one that was boarded. I keep on the lookout for No Pants Guy. I thought I was in the clear but all of a sudden, he burst out of the boxcar about thirty feet away . but I feel like a different person.

“ What the hell?” I am so startled that I stand up quickly and was about to start running. But then from the bowels of the boxcar, something jumps out and lands within three feet of No Pants Guy. It’s the kangaroo, unbelievable. I just stand there transfixed.

No Pants Guy takes off like a bat out of hell. And the kangaroo takes a giant leap. Before you could bat an eye he kicks No Pants Guy where the sun don’t shine. And that is all she wrote, my friend. Welcome to Florida.

____________________________________________________________________________________________

REALITY BITES

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My cat is pretty good at playing dumb, but it wasn’t clear that he knew anything. I had left my cat, Sloopy, at home because he hates staying at the vet’s or even at my mother’s house. I really believe he’s more attached to my house than he is to me. In any event, I hired my neighbor to come over twice a day and feed him and give him fresh water. And spent a half-hour every evening watching TV in my living room while Sloopy slept next to him on the couch.

Sloopy-Photograph by Bob Culver

Oh, I almost forgot he had to clean out the litter box every day and brush Sloopy because he is a long-haired cat that gets terrible mats. If he isn’t brushed out regularly, and believe me, that is a real nightmare. He hates being brushed and is prone to biting and nipping at the brusher. I have the scars to prove it.

Anyway, to make a long story even longer, I took a much-anticipated cruise to Alaska. I live in Los Angeles, and so I just hopped on a Princess Cruise ship right there at the port.

Things got off to a rough start, and I should have taken that as a sign. But not being all that superstitious, I thought I was having a string of bad luck, as per usual. Somehow, my reservation got screwed up. And I didn’t get the cabin I paid for. I got one so small that it was difficult closing the cabin door. Once both I and my suitcase were in the room. I ended up keeping my suitcase under the bed. And taking my clean clothes out one at a time and putting my dirty ones in a plastic bag inside the suitcase after I took them off.

One good thing was the food. I never took a cruise before, and I didn’t realize that the ship was just one big, floating restaurant. A floating restaurant with tiny bedrooms attached. I ate so much in the first few days that I could hardly zip any of my pants. It turned out the second half of the cruise. We had some rocky waters due to an unexpected change in the weather.

I felt a bit seasick during that leg of the trip and didn’t eat that much. Since I was alone on the cruise, and almost everyone else came with their mate, I found myself having my meals with an odd assortment of single people ranging in age from forty-something to eighty-something.

I admit I’m over sixty, but I still have plenty of life left in me. I can’t say I was looking for the love of my life. I had already had that, at least for a while, until the unfortunate divorce. I was hoping to meet the love of my life on my vacation. Didn’t happen, not even close. I did meet an interesting woman. She was eighty years old.

I met her the first evening when I went down to have dinner in the dining room called Last Call. She saw me wondering about looking for a place to sit down. I heard a booming voice calling out above the buzzing of all the other voices, “Hey, you, big guy, come here, come sit with us.”

I looked around, trying to figure out who belonged to this foghorn of a voice. Then I saw a very small woman in lime green and shocking pink Mumu waving frantically at me from across the room.

Her name was Hermine, and she was quite a pistol and had me laughing my head off throughout most of the trip. Goes to show you shouldn’t judge a book by its wrinkled old cover.

I walked nonchalantly over there, and she said, “come on, come on, don’t be shy, have a seat. She looks at all the people around the table, all women, by the way.

“Look at what we have here, the only handsome single man on the ship. You remind me of a man I knew back in the late 1960s, got to know him quite well, as matter of fact, intimately, if you know what I mean.” At this point, she gives me a big wink and a salacious grin. This was the moment I knew my luck had taken a turn for the better.

It turns out she had spent most of her life traveling with some kind of carnival. She had a lot of intriguing stories to tell of bearded ladies and a man tattooed who looked like a tiger, including having fangs put on his canine teeth. Not to mention, a set of Siamese twins joined at their backs, who never actually saw each other face to face but hated each other’s guts all the same.

But the strangest one of them all was the three-legged man, who had three functioning legs, except he couldn’t use the third one because it was several inches shorter than the other two. He had special ornate suits made to fit his unique physique. He had made a fortune exhibiting himself. He was from India and retired at thirty, a wealthy man in his home country. Where he is considered a celebrity, he fell in love with the then-shortest woman in the world, who was about thirty-six inches tall. I dare say they must have created quite a stir when they were walking along the streets of Calcutta.

After visiting Anchorage, a place in which I damn near lost my fingers, it was so cold. I also took a lot of digital pictures. I planned on boring my fellow members of my camera club at the next monthly meeting. I have taken over five hundred pictures, and I hope to show them all. They had done the same thing to me many times over the years. Hermine kept me company as we hit a few of the typical tourist spots. The second day, she said, “OK, stretch, this isn’t my first trip around this rodeo. So I’m going to show you some of the, shall we say out of the, way sites, places only the people in the know, know about.”

For the next two days, I met some of the strangest people. I think they were people. And I saw some sights that I would never forget, no matter how hard I try. I’ll mention this one because I keep hoping if I tell enough people about it, I can release it from my memory.

We walked for about a half-hour to an alley that led to yet another alley and then to a back street called, You Ain’t In Kansas Anymore. I’m not shitting you here. I met a guy, well over seven-foot-tall, whose hobby was to “create” fantasy creatures from parts of different animals. One that is forever burned into my memory. It’s preserved under a glass globe and looks like it comes from another planet. It seems part beaver and part antelope, with lots and lots of sharp pointed teeth. I could write a book about the tour that Hermine took me on in those few short days, and maybe I will one day.

Let’s just say for now that it was a very memorable trip, and don’t ever make the mistake of judging a book or an old lady by her wrinkled old cover.

Eight days after I left LA, I arrived home and took a taxi to my apartment. It took about one hour because of the heavy rush hour traffic. I was looking forward to seeing Sloopy. Who heard me coming to the door as I wrestled with the sticky lock on my apartment door. I had bought him a little souvenir doll from Anchorage, and I hoped he would love it as much as I did. It was a stuffed cat wearing a tee shirt with; I survived the Ice Rivers in Alaska emblazoned across it.

I fumbled with the lock for a few minutes. I managed to pull the door open only to be assailed by the most putrefying smell as if something had died and was rotting. I prayed it was not my beloved Sloopy, and thank god it wasn’t.

Unfortunately, it was my neighbor and cat sitter, Mr. Bean. He was laid out on the kitchen floor, with his hand clutching at his chest. Sloopy was sitting near him, but not too near since he has a very sensitive nose.

Mr. Bean was dead, as dead can be. He had a weird expression on his face, unfortunately not a peaceful one. I felt his pulse in his neck and was met by a cold dead stare. Sloopy walked over to me calmly and rubbed against my trembling arm, and let out a loud “Meow.” I washed out his bowl and put some kibble out for him since his food dish was empty. He seemed relieved to see me, as I was him, but not under these distressing circumstances.

I reached over to my phone and dialed 911, and explained the unpleasant circumstances. They arrived shortly and questioned me in detail. The coroner arrived and concluded that Mr. Bean was indeed dead as if I had questioned that fact. He asked if anyone else was witness to his death, and I said, “Yes, of course, Sloopy, but it just doesn’t matter anymore because he is my cat and can’t tell you a thing.

SUSIE-KAREN

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My sister and I were born on May 24^th, 1951. We were the fifth and sixth child born to Marie and Hugh Carberry. My mother didn’t know that she was going to have twins, and so when I was born seven minutes after Karen, I was a surprise. I have always hoped I was a pleasant surprise.

Carberry Home Maple Shade, NJ 1950

We lived in a small stucco house in Maple Shade in what was then considered to be rural New Jersey. My family had moved from Philadelphia, Pa. to NJ. They didn’t own a car at that time and arrived in Maple Shade by taxi.

Mother, Harry, Jeanie, Eileen, Betty,, Karen and Susie 1951

My brother Harry was nineteen years old at the time, my sister Jeanie was fifteen, Eileen was eight, and Betty was seven. This was back in the day when birth control was not all that reliable. My mother gave birth to twin boys a year after Karen and I were born. They did not survive. They were called Stephen and Gerard. My fraternal grandmother Elizabeth Carberry moved with my parents.

One of the unfortunate experiences of being a fraternal twin is that people seem to be unable to remember who is who. When we were young, people often called us Susie/Karen or, more often, Karen/Susie. Whenever anyone saw me, people would ask, “Where is your better half?”

My twin and I couldn’t have been more different in our appearance. She had dark brown curly hair, and I had straight blond hair. She grew faster and looked older than I did. And I well I was quiet and shy and imaginative. She was outgoing. Throughout our childhoods, My sister and I were often compared although Fraternal twins are no more closely related or similar than and other siblings.

It is only recently that I found out just how uncomfortable that Karen had me for a twin as a child. Although of course, there were many indications throughout our childhood and our lives.

I started this blog a year ago and began writing my memoirs, my sister, Karen took exception to my interpretation of my childhood experiences. And she felt the need to explain to my readers her feelings about me. And she posted this comment on my blog. I have to say I was hurt. Although it wasn’t all negative. Here it is:

“This is Susan’s twin sister.
We couldn’t have been more different in our likes and dislikes, and our thought processes Susie was a person that kept almost everything to herself. So, there are many things I never really knew about her until we were older. And she was able to transform herself and to a normal and open person. We really didn’t become friends until we were adults and married. We are close now and have been since we were young adults not that we haven’t had our differences of opinions and outlooks that we came to appreciate and respect one another for our differences and more interesting she is always surprising me with the different pursuits that she continues to develop throughout her life she never sits down she’s always going. It has made her a wonderful person.

At the end of September, She called me. She was angry. My sister let me know in no uncertain terms that she didn’t like the memoirs I have written, and she wasn’t going to read them anymore. She didn’t explain what I had said or why it bothered her so much. Karen also said she wasn’t going to read my fictional stories either. This upset me since I have always supported her in everything she has done. And this was the first time I ever asked her to do anything for me. As a result, she hasn’t spoken to me in five months. Even though one of the final things she said to me was that she had always been able to forgive people quickly, apparently, that ability did not apply to me.

In the last several weeks, I decided to attempt to gain a better understanding of why my sister, as a child, felt having me as a sister and a twin, was a liability. I have reflected on my childhood behaviors. At one point in our late adolescence, she yelled at me, “if I ever run away, it will be because of you.” I recall responding,” Me, what did I do?” I have pondered this question many times of the years, and I believe I have finally come up with the answer. Karen just wanted to be an ordinary girl with an average family. And then there I was big as life, and somehow inadvertently calling attention to myself by being so different. And because I was an unusual child, my differences reflected on her. Because we were in the same family, and in the same classroom for the majority of our school experiences.

These same differences are what have enabled me to become an artist, a writer. These are not character flaws.

I have to admit that many of my closest friends were of the four-legged variety. I befriended every cat and dog in my neighborhood and any ones I met along my path in life. I also had a best friend that lived two doors down from me and neighborhood friends and school friends. Karen and I had some friends in common we just never went to visit them at the same time.

As a child, I was often content spending time by myself and recalled going out and sitting in the backyard and watching the birds flying in the sky. And I have clear memories of being able to imagine myself being a bird and flying across the sky. One-year, when we were probably seven or eight. My sister and I were given chicks for Easter. I named my chick Maverick after a character on a TV show I watched. I used to walk around my neighborhood with Maverick on my head. It never occurred to me that it was unusual or weird. But even if it did, I would have done it anyway.

I recall watching a movie called “The Flower Drum Song” about a beautiful young Japanese woman. I was about eight or nine years old . I became enamored with the music and how beautiful the woman was, and for a few weeks, I pretended to be Japanese. I put my hair in a similar style as she did and walked with the kind of shuffle she had because she was wearing a kimono and wooden shoes. Of course, I wasn’t wearing the shoes or the kimono, but that didn’t stop me. I don’t recall my parents or siblings asking me, “what are you doing” Why are you walking like that?” I would have explained it if they asked, but they never did. I suppose they just thought I was acting weird again.

My sister and I shared eight years in the same classrooms in Catholic Parochial School. She avoided interacting with me. She never acknowledged that I was her sister. It was not uncommon for the other kids, not to know that we were siblings. Many people thought my friend Helen and I were the twins. In high school, My sister and I were in different classes, and I rarely saw her. At home, if we talked to each other at all, it was usually an argument.

It’s unfortunate that Karen didn’t get to know me when we were children. Possibly she would have realized that I was an interesting and intelligent person with a wide variety of interests, including art, sewing, animals, writing stories, and reading on every subject imaginable.

Someday hopefully not too far in the future, she will reevaluate her feelings towards me because the clock keeps ticking and time is slipping away. And none of us know when that time will run out for us. Perhaps she will come to realize that what other people think about our family makes little difference. What is important is what we mean to each other. And our acceptance of who we are with our strengths and weaknesses. I’ll always love my sister. She is in my heart.

As a final note, I would like to add that I have observed that creative people share some common traits. They can have a rapid flow of ideas, sometimes, multiple concepts at one time. Also, they have acute sensory skills, strong intuition, heighten awareness, empathetic, and tuned into other people’s emotions and feelings. I have some of these traits myself. Also, when I attended Temple University at Tyler School of Art in Philadelphia at the age of 36-40, I observed these traits in my fellow students. Being creative can be both a gift and a challenge. You are often seen as too sensitive, too much of a perfectionist. I can not stress how often I have was told I was too sensitive throughout my entire lifetime.

And finally, I would like to say in a world where you can be anything, be kind.

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THE BUS STOP

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The rain is relentless, coming down hard and cold. Kathleen has been waiting for twenty minutes for her bus. She’s chilled to the bone. Her feet are completely soaked. Her hair hangs limply, plastered to her face. Every time a car goes by, everyone at the bus stop moves back a foot or two. And then they move forward again.

Bus Stop by Jpleno

She looks at her fellow travelers. They’re a strange mix. She’s the youngest. There’s an ancient couple standing to the left of her. She imagines that they have been married for fifty years or more. The man is very tall and gaunt with a handlebar mustache. He’s wearing a long raincoat that ends at the top of his goulashes. A steady stream of rainwater is dripping down from the brim of his hat. Kathleen imagines him wearing a top hat.

The frail wife, at least Kathleen believes that she’s his wife, has her arm locked in his bent arm. Perhaps she fears she’ll float away in the storm if she doesn’t hold tightly onto him. She has probably been holding onto him in much the same way since they first became a couple. The woman has a rain hat covering her short curly white hair. It’s one of those old-fashioned ones that fold like an accordion, and you keep it in a little plastic case in your pocket for the next rainy day. Kathleen’s great-grandmother used to sport one of those back in the day.

The old wife is wearing stockings that end above her knees and are held up by some sort of garter. Her black raincoat is tightly belted but keeps flapping open because she is missing the bottom two buttons. She has a strange expression on her face. Her lips pursed, and she looks like she is sucking on a lemon. Perhaps she hates standing in the rain. Kathleen certainly does.

A twenty-something dude is wearing skin-tight jeans and a fitted jacket. His boots look like snakeskin, ankle-high. He has a goatee and hair that is tight on the sides and bleached blond, and stands four inches high on the top. The rain had zero effect on his hair because it had so much product on it. He’s texting on his phone and seems oblivious to the rain and the people around him. Kathleen admires his audacity.

Kathleen takes a deep breath and then looks down the street for the bus. At that moment, she sees someone running at breakneck speed toward the bus stop. Waving their arms frantically and yelling. At first, Kathleen believes that someone with mayhem on their mind must be chasing her. She can’t quite hear what the young woman is shrieking. She’s holding an umbrella aloft, but it has long since turned inside out. She arrives so abruptly at the bus stop that she skids to a halt. “Holy shit, I thought I was going to miss the damn bus again. If I’m late getting to work again, I’m toast.” She says this to no one in particular. However, she has everyone’s attention. Even the guy texting who looks at her momentarily and then looks back down at his cell phone. Kathleen feels a kinship with this woman. Her life is often on the edge of self-destruction.

Kathleen looks at her and says,” You haven’t missed the bus. It’s late. I hope it gets here soon.”

Umbrella girl says, ”Shit, it better get here soon. I can’t be late again this week.” Kathleen nods her head in agreement.

Five minutes go by, and then just as everyone is about to give up waiting for the bus, here it comes up the street and screeches to a stop. They all break out in a spontaneous “Hurray.” And start boarding the bus. There’re a few passengers aboard already. They all glare at the people boarding the bus. Then go back to sitting there quietly or just gazing out the window.

Kathleen looks from the front of the bus to the back. She has a fleeting thought that she’s on the Titanic. Unfortunately, she never had that little voice in her head that said no, don’t get on the bus, don’t go out with another loser. Don’t spend your last two dollars on a lottery ticket. Don’t wear a very low-cut blouse to work. Or if she ever did hear it, she never listened. And then the little voice gave up and stopped warning her of imminent death or dismemberment or looser alert. Kathleen was never one for self-reflection.

As the bus lurches forward on its trip to 55^th and Broadway, Kathleen’s eyes slowly close, and she falls asleep. She never gets enough sleep. She stays up late every night, but she can never recall why, nor has she ever accomplished anything worth losing sleep. Still, she continues depriving herself of rest. In fact, it was not unheard of for Kathleen to fall asleep at her desk while listening to music between being late and her mid-morning and afternoon naps. Kathleen’s job is at risk.

About halfway to her stop, a new passenger enters the bus and sits across from Kathleen. She is unaware, of course, because she has now entered the REM state of sleep and is dreaming. She has a reoccurring dream. She’s alone in a rowboat and is being taken out to sea by the current. The waves are becoming larger and larger, and she’s soaked. She swallows water and can’t breathe, and gasping for air. She yells out, “Help; I’m drowning. I’m drowning.” Just then, she feels someone grab her arm and roughly shake her.

“Hey, wake up. And while you’re at it. Shut the hell up.” It was a new passenger.

Kathleen’s eyes snap open, and she glares at the man. “What the hell, get your hands off me.”

The man has already lost interest in her. He’s staring out the rain-soaked window. He has his earbuds on, and the music is so loud that Kathleen can hear his heavy metal music blaring. It sounds like Paranoid by Ozzy Osbourn. Kathleen detests Heavy Metal. She recognizes it because her older brother was obsessed with it, and his bedroom was right next to her during her entire adolescence. Kathleen heard it until way after she tried to go to sleep for the night. Kathleen glares back at him, and she feels unreasonable disgust and hatred toward him, a total stranger.

The bus makes several more stops. Four more people step into the bus. And tight pants dude gets off and goes on his way. Kathleen’s ego feels slightly deflated after he walks by her without a second look.

A rough-looking middle-aged man comes aboard. He has his greasy hair pulled back into a low ponytail. He looks like he hasn’t shaved in a week or more. He has a drooping mustache that looks dyed and is growing out to its natural grey. He’s smoking. The bus driver says, ”Sorry buddy, you can’t smoke on a public conveyance. You’ll have to put that out.”

The man tosses his cigarette in the general direction of the bus driver’s feet. The driver gives the man a dirty look and stamps on the cigarette. The man walks down the center aisle and sits behind Kathleen. She thinks, what the frick? This is really turning into a shit day. I can’t wait until it’s over, and I haven’t even gotten to work yet. Well, at least I’m almost at work now. She closes her eyes and tries to block it all from her mind.

Kathleen is awakened once again by one of the new passengers who is sitting behind the bus driver. It appears that he is a regular on the bus. He’s having a loud and animated conversation with him. So much so that all the passengers can hear the conversation. Kathleen scowls at him to no avail since he seems oblivious to everyone’s presence except for his friend, who happens to be the bus driver. He’s rotund to the point of obesity.

In fact, he’s vigorously taking large bites out of a two-foot-long hoagie. While never stopping to chew. But he seems to be swallowing large mouthfuls of the hoagie whole like a shark. Occasionally, bits and pieces spew out of his mouth during his monologue. He looks for all the world like he just stepped out of a Wayback machine from 1965. He has long, unwashed hair in a braid. His face is embellished by a straggly, salt-and-pepper beard. His jeans are decrepit and are tight on his humongous gut. He’s wearing a faded and shredded jeans jacket. He appears to have a massive doobie in his jacket pocket.

Kathleen hears the fat hippie telling the bus driver that his horse came in first and he won $500.00. The bus driver shoots him the high five, and then the hippie finishes off his hoagie. He sits back in his seat and closes his eyes, and falls asleep. His head wobbles from side to side and keeps time to the sway of the bus.

Kathleen thinks dear god, will we never get to my stop? She looks at her cell phone and realizes that there is no way she is going to get to work on time. They are at least ten minutes from where she gets off, and then she still has to walk another five minutes to her building. “Crap, goddammit.”

As Kathleen contemplates what lies she will tell her boss for being late once again, she hears a commotion coming from the back of the bus. She turns and looks behind her. It appears as if the Old Man and Old Wife are having some disagreement. And then she hears someone yelling, “Stop that, get your hands off her now.” Kathleen realizes it is Umbrella Girl. And she’s pummeling the old man with her inside out, soaking, wet umbrella.

Someone screams, “For the love of Pete, call the police.” Then the rough-looking man comes over and physically pulls the old man’s hands off of the old woman’s neck. Who is by now all but unconscious from lack of oxygen. Her head falls to the side, and lays limply on her bony shoulder.

The bus driver pulls abruptly over to the side of the road. He screams,” “Will everyone please calm the hell down?”

He heads to the back of the bus to have a look at whatever happened. Alright, lady, you can stop bashing this guy with your umbrella. “You sit down.” The rough-looking guy takes his hands off the Old Man momentarily, and the Old Man tries to push past him and gets in the aisle to make good his escape. He gets halfway up the bus aisle.

Kathleen sticks her leg out into the aisle, and as the lanky old man tries to escape, he trips and falls flat on his face. His hat rolls a few feet away and then stops leaving a trail of rainwater in its wake. At that moment, the police arrive, and Rotund Hippie gets up and makes his way to the door, and opens it.

“Alright, what the hell is going on in here?” A burly-looking cop says?” The old Hippie says that the old man in the back tries to off his old lady. I think she might be dead. He was choking her. And she ain’t moving anymore. The Old Man on the floor is the guy that killed her.”

The policeman says, “ Ok, everybody, back in your seats.” An officer will be coming onto the bus—the cop calls for backup and an ambulance. The Old man starts to get up and is restrained with handcuffs. “Alright, buddy, looks like you are going for a ride in the back of my police car. Isn’t that a great way to start off the day?”

The Old Man is led off the bus by the second cop and put in the back seat of the car. A second police car has arrived, along with an ambulance. As the paramedics walk past Kathleen, she is swearing aloud. “For the love of all that is holy, what the fuck is happening? Why is this kinda shit always happening to me? Why? Just why today? Crap, crap, crap.”

The paramedic checks out Old Lady. And then they lift her onto the stretcher. And pull the sheet over her face. Kathleen looks at her as she goes by. “Crap, crap, crap.”

“Ok, everyone, we are going to have to get a statement from each one of you and your contact information. You’re all witnesses. You may be called to testify in court at a later date. It’s your duty to do so. Don’t try to leave until we permit you to do so. Sit back and relax; this may take a while.”

Kathleen smacks herself on the forehead. “Well, I’m dead in the water now. That’s for sure. My boss is never going to believe this story. I’m toast. Man, I should have just stayed in bed and called in sick today. “

There is a unified moan that rises from everyone on the bus. Somewhat reminiscent of the hurrah when the late bus arrived. They all sink in their seats simultaneously, almost as if it is choreographed.

Kathleen stares out the window at the dreary gray ski with rivers of rain flowing down the street. “Well, isn’t this just great, yet another day in paradise.”

And The Winner Is

My First Job

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The year is 1969. The most significant year in my life. The year I graduate from high school. This is the twelfth year that I have attended Catholic Schools. In the first eight years, I attended Our Lady of Perpetual Help Grade School, and now I’m graduating from St. Mary of the Angels Academy in Haddonfield, NJ. It’s a private all-girls school.

St. Mary of the Angels Academy Graduation 1969

Graduation photo by Hugh Carberry

St. Mary’s is a college prep high school. I took four years of Math, History, English, Religion, and four years of Latin and French. I have to say the most useful skill I learned in high school was typing and English grammar. I can still read French quite well and Latin, not so much. But I did learn self-discipline. I learn to keep my mouth shut around the nuns.

These are changing times, turbulent times. The world is changing. The United States has become involved in the Viet Nam War. A war that ultimately will take the lives of 54,000 young men of my generation.

But I, for the most part, remain blissfully unaware of what is going on in the world. The only news I hear if I bother to listen at all is the 6 o’clock news with Walter Cronkite. The NJ Bulletin is delivered to our house like clockwork every day. But I only read the comics on Sunday morning. Girls are not subjected to the draft as young men are of my generation are.

In the last half of my senior year Sister Eileen Marie the principal at St. Mary’s called me into her office. A terrifying experience for me. And one I had avoided for four years. “Susan it has come to my attention that you have enough credits to graduate. I have been informed that you won’t be going to college as some of our students are going to do. Therefore, I have arranged for you to be interviewed for a job at a dentist’s office as an assistant. I’ve spoken to your parents about it. And they are agreed that this will be an excellent opportunity for you.”

I find Sister Eileen Marie to be quite intimidating. She is an old school nun in that many of the younger nuns are taking off their veils and shortening their skirts. She never smiles and has a stern and off-putting demeanor. This is all news to me since no one discussed my future with me. Not by my parents and not by any of the other dear sisters.

My main goal in high school is to graduate, I naively haven’t considered for a moment what I would do after I graduate. I stare at Sister Eileen momentarily and then mumble, “Yes, Sister.”

“Miss Carberry, here is the address to the dentist’s office. It’s in Oaklyn. A town not too far from here. You can take the bus from Kings Highway in Haddonfield to Haddon Avenue in Heather Rd. in Oaklyn. If all goes well, you’ll be working there in the afternoons until you graduate and then start working full-time afterward. The dentist’s name is Dr. Wozniak. You will have an interview tomorrow afternoon. Here’s the information you need.”

“Yes, Sister.” As I walk out of the office. I begin to tremble. I can’t fathom what has just happened so unexpectantly to me. I gulp and stuff the paper in my pocket. I try not to think about it for the rest of the day. When I get home that day, I mention what Sister had said to me in her office today. “Mom, Sister Eileen Marie told me I have a job interview tomorrow at a dentist’s office as an assistant.”

“Yes, that’s right, Susie, you’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it. You can take the bus.”

I look at my mother, and I’m shocked. She knew all about it and didn’t tell me.” But Mom, I don’t want to go to work in a dentist’s office. I hate the dentist.”

“Don’t be silly, you’ll be fine. I’ll give you the bus money, and you can come home by bus too.”

“What I have to go by bus by myself?”

“Of course, you’re a big girl now, everything will be fine, you’ll see.”

I stare at my mother. Dumbfounded. I repeat,” Everything will be fine.” I feel a tear run down my cheek. I go to my room, and at dinner time when my mother calls me, I yell,” I’m not hungry.” I didn’t come down for the rest of the evening. I have trouble sleeping that night. In the morning, I get up and put on my navy blue uniform and knee-high navy blue socks and shoes and take the bus to school. I have to take the bus from Main Street in Maple Shade to Federal Street in Camden to Haddon Avenue and Kings Highway and then walk about a quarter of a mile to St. Mary of the Angels Academy.

That afternoon after lunch, I walk up to the bus stop on Haddon Avenue and Kings Highway and catch the bus to Kings Highway and then walk from the White Horse Pike to Heather Rd. It turns out to be a fairly long walk. I was a little sweaty by the time I arrive. I walk up to the door that says Dr. Wozniak DDS and knocks. The office is attached to their house where I presume they live.

My mouth is dry as sandpaper. I’m terrified. I’m not sure what I think is going to happen, but I feel unprepared. I’ve only been to the dentist myself for emergencies. I don’t know anything about working there. The only job I’ve ever done is babysitting my nieces and nephews since I was about eleven or twelve.

A young woman with short, blond hair answers the door. I look at her and I don’t know what to say. She says to me, “Susan?”

“Yes, I’m Susan Carberry, is Dr. Wozniak here, I have an appointment for a job interview as a dental assistant.”

“Yes, I know I’m Dr. Wozniak’s wife, Connie. I’m going to interviewing you. Come in.”

She opens the door wide to a small room with chairs and a coffee table. And at the end of the room is a window with doors on it. She looks at me and says, “Come into the office. We’ll talk in there.”

l glance at her. I don’t know where it is. But there’s only one door in the room beside the outside door. So I walk up to and pull open the door to another small room with a desk, chair, and a filing cabinet. There are two doors in this room and an open doorway on the right.

“You can sit down at the desk, here is an application for you to fill out. There’s a pen there in that cup. I’ll come back in a few minutes and check on you and show you around.”

“Alright.” I sit down and look at the job application. I never filled one out before. I don’t have any experience. There isn’t much information for me to fill in. I write down my name and address and our phone number. I write in I attend St. Mary of the Angels Academy in Haddonfield. And I write in my graduation date. And the times I will be able to work here if they hire me until my graduation. I write down my parent’s names as people to contact in case of an emergency. I’m briefly concerned about what type of emergency might happen to me in a dentist’s office. I wonder, will someone bite me? And then I let out a chuckle. The next thing I hear is, “Are you finished, Susan?”

“Yes, I think so.”

She smiles at me and picks up my application, and reads it over in about a minute or two. She asks me, “So, why do you want to work here, Susan?”

I look at her somewhat panicked, I don’t really know how to answer. “Well, I’m graduating in June. And I’m not going to be going to college because my father says that women don’t need to go to college. Because they’re just going to get married and have children. So, it’s just a waste of money. As far as he’s concerned. And then Sister Eileen Marie the principal at St. Mary of the Angels Academy, called me into the office and told me this is what I’m going to do, and, so did my parents. So, here I am.”

Mrs. Wozniak smiles at me. Well, Susan, I think you will do just fine here. You probably don’t know this, but I went to St. Mary of the Angels Academy too. I remember Sister Eileen Marie very well. She made quite an impression on me. I was terrified of her when I was going to school there. But as I grew up, I realized she was trying to help me. And she had faith that I was going to do well in life. And she must feel the same about you because you were the first person she thought of for this job.

“Really?”

“Yes, really. When can you start?”

“When do you want me to start?”

“How about this Monday, you will have to buy a couple of white uniforms and white shoes and wear stockings. Dr. Wozniak will be training you. Let me show you the other rooms and explain some of the things you will be doing.”

“Alright, thanks.”

“So, the room straight ahead of you is the darkroom. It’s small but there is room for everything you need to do in there. You will assist Dr. Wozniak in taking the x-rays. And then you will come into the darkroom and develop them. Mrs. Wozniak shows me a room and turns a small light on in there. There is a double sink in there and a faucet. And above the sinks is a wire with dental x-rays hanging from it. “This is where you will be developing and drying x-rays. Don’t worry it’s easy. Doctor will teach you.

In the next room is small. There are dentures on the counters. I recognize them because both of my parents wear dentures. ”This is where Dr. Wozniak adjusts dentures or repairs them. They are made in a dental lab and then sent here. Dr. Wozniak makes molds of patients’ mouths and then sends the molds to the lab to create the dentures. Sometimes the dentures don’t fit the patients’ mouths perfectly, and he has to alter them slightly.”

The next two rooms are where the doctor does the dental work fillings and extractions and takes the X-rays. You will be assisting him. He will teach you all about the dental tools and which ones to put out for each procedure. And that machine over there is an autoclave you will put the instruments in there to sterilize them.’

“You will be standing in the operating rooms with him and assist him by handing him the appropriate dental tools. And then cleaning the room after each patient and setting new tools out for the next patient. And bringing them into the room when it is there appointment time.”

I stare at her with my mouth open. I feel overwhelmed by everything she told me.

“Don’t worry; you’ll learn everything a little at a time. Dr. will teach you. He knows you don’t have any experience. But I have no doubt that you will do just fine.”

“You do. I hope so. It sounds like a lot to learn.”

“It seems like that at first, but in a couple of weeks, you will be an old hand in it. And if you have any problems, you can talk to me or the Doctor and we’ll help you.”

“So, does that mean I have the job?’

“But, of course it does. Susan. I know you will do a great job. So, I expect I’ll see you next Monday at one ‘clock wearing uniform and white shoes and stockings. Here is my phone number if you have any questions.”

She starts walking me towards the door. I open the door, and she says,” Susan, it was a pleasure to meet you. See you next Monday. I step out the door, and she closes it behind me. I stand outside the door momentarily. I realize that I have taken the first step in what will be the rest of my life. I smile and start walking down the street to the bus stop.

She Was Laid To Rest

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Celtic Moon by Robert P. Culver

I received the call very late at night, long after I went to bed. Long after, I finally fell asleep. I heard the phone ringing. But my mind refused to acknowledge it. We all know that good news never arrives after midnight. And this call was no exception to that maxim.

In the morning, after my first cup of coffee, I notice the message light on my phone is blinking. I look at the caller ID. It’s my Great Aunt Maeve’s number. I can’t remember the last time I heard from her. The fact is, I thought she died decades ago. I haven’t kept in touch with that side of the family. Too Catholic, you know. Too old school. Too judgmental.

My life choices would not bear scrutiny. Not that I’m a serial killer or anything that drastic. Just that, well, let’s say I believe the ten commandments have some flexibility in them, some leeway, if you know what I mean. For instance, it’s not that bad to lie as long as you aren’t hurting anyone with that lie. It’s not that bad if you steal, as long as it isn’t hurting anyone personally. And if the money isn’t missed by anyone, then what’s the harm?

Besides, the church doesn’t believe in drinking or playing the horses or gambling at all, for that matter, unless it’s Bingo. But really, how is that any of their business anyway? What’s the problem with the occasional pint, or ten pints for that matter? Isn’t hurting anyone else, is it? No, of course, it isn’t. Get over yourself. Mind your own business. That’s what I say. Mind your own damn business.

I push the message button. It isn’t my Great Aunt Maeve. It’s her granddaughter Katie. I always had kind of a crush on her. She was a real Irish beauty back in the day. Hair down to her waist, as dark as coal and so thick your fingers would get lost in it. Her eyes, well, they were that shade of blue that looks like blue ice. Light blue, deep as the ocean. You could drown in those eyes. Her body was a young man’s dream. Sometimes I couldn’t get to sleep at all at night just from thinking about her.

“What’s that, you say? Isn’t she’s your cousin?” Yeah, sure, she’s my cousin. But not my first cousin. What’s the harm, I say? We were young, and it was all very innocent — just a kiss or two, nothing more. Oh, get over yourself.

Anyway, Katie is letting me know that Aunt Maeve has passed over to the great beyond. She tells me the funeral is in three days. And, of course, after the funeral will be the traditional Irish Wake. Well, ordinarily, I avoid funerals like the plague. But an Irish Wake well that I wouldn’t miss even if it were going to be my own goddamn wake. Especially then, I guess. She tells me that the funeral is at 10:30 on Friday morning at Holy Mackerel Church. OK, so that’s not the real name.

It’s really called St. Patrick’s. It’s in Gloucester City, NJ. Don’t let anyone ever tell you the Irish have any creativity. Every other church and child’s name is Patrick. Even after the church admitted, there never was a real St. Patrick. They just continued naming every child and church after him. The Irish lot is about as stubborn as they get; don’t let anyone tell you any differently.

Well, no doubt about it, I was going to have to fortify myself in the next couple of days with some good booze and beer. If I am going to survive a week with my family. I’ll have to be good and drunk and stay that way if my psyche will survive the inquisition that every cousin, aunt, or uncle is going to put me through. But, not to worry, I’ve had years of practice — years of training. I’m up to the challenge. Ready or not, here I come.

So here I’m on my way to the funeral. I have Radar Love cracked up as high as possible. I get off the freeway to buy a six-pack of Old Milwaukee. Yeah, I know not a beer of choice unless you like the taste of armpit, but it brings you right down to earth. And that’s what you need when you are going to spend more than a week with the dearly departed and your loved ones.

As I pull off Route 130 onto Market Street in Gloucester, NJ, I have an uncomfortable feeling in my stomach. It could be nausea, could be I drank too much. But I doubt that since I have a pretty high tolerance for alcohol in any form. As I see the house at the end of the street, I realize I feel like that kid I was long ago that left home at twenty. Angry, resentful, lonely.

Indeed, I didn’t come back as a war hero or successful businessman. But hell, I’m a tin knocker. When I work, I make pretty decent money. When I don’t, I live on unemployment until the Union calls me back. That’s life if you work in construction.

I pull my 1971 El Camino next to the curb and stare over at the house. It looks the same. It’s a two-story stucco with faded shutters and a red front door with black hinges. My Uncle Hugh just loved to paint everything black and red. He was quite the character. Heavyset with those light blue eyes. And could be mean as a snake if you got on his wrong side. He was the one that caught Katie and me kissing on the couch in the basement.

The lilac bush was overgrown, and the grass hadn’t been cut in a long time.

But still, it’s the house where I spent most of his youth. My Aunt Maeve took care of me every summer. She fed me Lebanon bologna and cheese. Or sometimes fried bologna sandwiches with chicken noodle soup. Every Sunday, she made a different kind of cake for dessert. My favorite was chocolate cake with vanilla icing sprinkled with shredded coconuts. It was the only day they ate roast beef and noodles. I can almost smell it while I stand here on the porch.

I have my hand poised, ready to knock, but at the last moment, I grasp the doorknob and turn it. The door opens, and I hear a chorus of voices all talking at the same time. Aunt Aileen yells out,” it’s our Danny standing at the door like a stranger. ”Come in, come in and give us a kiss for the love of god. Has the cat got your tongue?”

“Hello, Aunt Aileen. It’s been a long time. You look great.”

“Oh, get on with you. You must have kissed the blarney stone. Say hello to your Uncle Pat.”

“Hello, Uncle Pat.” He’s sitting on an ancient upholstered rocking chair. There’s duct tape holding it together. He’s even fatter than I remember. He’s wearing a red and white striped shirt with a pocket. In the pocket are his Pall Mall cigarettes. He lost all of his hair, which was thinning even back when I was a kid. I can smell the nicotine on him from two feet away. The lampshade on the coffee table next to him is stained yellow from years of exposure to Uncle Pat’s smoking unfiltered Pall Malls.

“Well, I may have put on a pound or two. You’re a grown man Danny, but I would have recognized you anywhere. So, what have you been up to? What kind of work are you doing these days?”

“I’m a tin knocker, Uncle Pat, just like my dad. I’m sorry I didn’t come back for his funeral. I didn’t hear about it until long after. I was in the middle of moving at the time. And staying with a friend. I should have kept in touch.”

“Well, you’re here now. That’s all that matters. Sit down, take a load off. Your Aunt Aileen will get you something to eat. There’s enough to feed an army, as usual. I hope you brought your appetite with you. You’re a bit on the scrawny side, if you don’t mind me saying. But your Aunt Aileen will fill you out, don’t you worry. She’ll be right back with a plate.”

Danny plops down on the couch. He could swear it was the same couch he remembered from his childhood. They must have finally taken the plastic cover off. He looks around the room, and there’re some familiar faces. Older than he remembered, but still, he would know them anywhere. Danny doesn’t see Katie anywhere. Maybe she’s in the kitchen. It’s loud in here. Irish music is playing in the background. He thinks it’s the Clancy Brothers. When he was a teenager, he couldn’t stand hearing all the Irish tunes.

At that moment, he hears his Aunt Liz calling out, “Danny, Danny, my boy, where is he? Oh, there you are. Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes. Come here, give us a hug.”

Danny stands up and walks over to her and is crushed in her bosomy embrace. When he catches his breath, he looks up at her. Her face bears the weight of the years and all the pain she has to carry.” “Hello, Aunt Liz, it’s good to see you. It’s been a long time. You look good. Is Katie here? I haven’t seen her?”

“Oh, sure, she’ll be here in a shake of a lamb’s tail. Oh, I’ve forgotten how you two used to be as thick as thieves when you were kids. I’m so happy you came. I wish you had come back before Maeve left us. She talked about you all the time, and you were the light of her life. Why don’t you come into the kitchen with me and you can fix a plate? You look half-starved, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

Danny follows his Aunt Liz into the kitchen. It looks as if time has stood still in this kitchen. It’s still painted a cream-colored stained with years of nicotine. The linoleum floor remained in the orange and brown checkered board pattern. Tracks are worn into the tile surface from forty years of foot traffic.

Danny walks over to the narrow cabinet next to the refrigerator and opens it. The ironing board is still neatly hidden within its depths. The General Electric refrigerator had been replaced by a more recent and larger one. And the chandelier which once graced the ceiling is now a fluorescent light fixture. Danny’s Uncle Hugh had an artistic streak and often replaced everyday household items with his creations.

Take a load off Danny. Danny pulls out the chair and sits down. His Aunt puts a plate down in front of him. Danny looks down, and his plate is so full there isn’t an inch of space that isn’t covered with food. He picks up his fork and starts shoveling it in. He hadn’t eaten a home-cooked meal in years. Mostly his diet consisted of fast food and bologna and cheese sandwiches, followed by a six-pack of Michelob.

When he looks up again, everyone is staring at him because his plate is entirely empty. And they all start laughing. Danny is embarrassed at first, but then he too joins in the laughter. He didn’t realize how hungry he had been.

“Well, you poor thing, are you still hungry? Do you want some dessert? We have some homemade chocolate cake with vanilla icing with coconut on top. What do you say?”

“I’m pretty full, but yeah, I would love a piece of homemade cake.”

His Aunt Liz hands him a huge piece of cake, and a cup of coffee, so strong Danny tastes the caffeine before he swallows any. After he finishes, he rubs his stomach and exhales. “ God, that was the best meal I’ve had in years. Probably since the last time I ate since the last time I was here. Thanks so much.”

As Danny looked around at all the faces at the table, he noticed there were tears on his Aunt’s and Uncle’s cheeks. At the same time, he realizes there are tears running down his own cheeks.

His Aunt Liz comes over and hugs him. “Oh, Danny, we have all missed you so much. It’s sad that losing Maeve’s passing is what it took for us to get you back. But I know that she would be thrilled to see you sitting back at her table.”

Danny looked up at her. ”Aunt Liz, I didn’t realize how much I missed all of you. Aunt Maeve was the closest thing I had to a mother. I guess I couldn’t get over all the anger I had when I left. I just wanted to block out all the angry words between my dad and me. And then he died, and I felt so guilty. That I hadn’t come back and made it right, I couldn’t face the funeral. I’m glad I come back now. It’s hard to be in the world without anyone caring what happens to you.”

“Oh, Danny, we did care. We all love you. We never stopped. OK, no more tears today. Let’s try to remember the good times we all had with Maeve.”

The next morning Danny comes downstairs from his old bedroom dressed for the funeral and feels a sudden emptiness. On some level, he was expecting his Aunt Maeve to be sitting at the table drinking her tea and reading the paper. He did hear his Uncles and Aunts talking quietly together. He couldn’t quite make out what they were saying.

“Good morning Danny, how did you sleep? I guess your childhood bed was a bit uncomfortable for you.”

“I slept fine. I fell right to sleep and slept through the night. What time will we be leaving for the funeral?”

“In an hour. Danny, we would like it if you were one of the pallbearers, and I would like you to get up and say a few words about Maeve. You were such a big part of her life. She would have liked that. What do you have to say?”

“Well, I’m not much on public speaking, but yeah, I’d like to say a few words. After we eat, I’ll go upstairs and write down some of my memories of Aunt Maeve. I hope I don’t mess it up.”

“Danny, just speak from your heart. You never had any faith in yourself. But we do. We always did.”

“OK, I will do my best, Uncle Hugh.”

After breakfast, Danny went upstairs and started thinking about his Aunt Maeve and how much she meant to him. And how much she had loved him and accepted him just the way he was. If it hadn’t been for her, Danny would have left long before he got out of high school. His father was a falling-down drunk and used him as a punching bag. His mother had left when he was about three or four. He had very few memories of her at all.

Without his Aunt Maeve, he wouldn’t have survived his childhood. As he thought about that, he realized how much he missed by not keeping in touch with her for the past ten years. He can’t do anything about the past. But he can do something about the here and now. He starts writing.

It’s time for Danny to step up to the pulpit. He clears his throat and looks up and out at all the people who came to acknowledge his Aunt Maeve’s passing but also celebrate her life. He sees his cousin Katie in the first row. She nods at him and lifts her chin up. It’s a signal they used to use to give each other support. When they were young and, things got tough. He lifted his chin to her.

“Good morning, everyone. We are all gathered here to mourn the loss of someone dear to us, someone we will all miss. She will leave an empty space in our lives that she used to fill. But I hope we can fill that space with all the loving memories we have of Aunt Maeve.

For me, she was that safe place I could go when I felt all alone and unloved. She would cook a hot meal. She always gave me a warm and loving hug and a kiss on my cheek. She assured me that I was a person of value. And that I was someone that she loved and would always love, no matter what. She accepted me for who I was and never told me I wasn’t good enough, not smart enough, or not good-looking enough. She held my hand and warmed my heart.

My life was richer for having known her. When I talked to her, she listened. She heard and cared. She was never too busy. She was always there for me. I can see by the way you are nodding your heads that she did the same thing for each of you. We were blessed by having to know her. She was both strong and soft at the same time. I can only hope that someday I can inspire someone else the way she inspired me always to work hard and do my best. So, as we go forward in our lives, let us keep her in our hearts and minds. I know she will be traveling with me throughout my journey through life. I will always feel her by my side, and I will never be alone again.

Childhood Isn’t Always What It Is Cracked Up To Be

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