The River Doesn’t Stop Here Anymore

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I grew up on the outskirts of Bridgeton. It’s located in the Southern part of New Jersey on the Cohansey River. My family lives on a small farm where we grow vegetables and raise chickens. My father ekes out a meager living that he supplements by working in the glass factory in Bridgeton.

However, all my childhood memories begin and end on the muddy banks of the Cohansey River. My best friend Blue and I have fishing rods hidden inside a hollowed-out tree near the river. When the three o’clock bell rings, we rush out the school door. We remove our sneakers, tie the shoelaces together, and sling them over our backs. We set off for the river. It takes us about twenty minutes to get there. In those twenty minutes, we discuss our deepest feelings about baseball, girls, and the world as we know it.

In the summer, we go skinny dipping in the deepest part of the river within the boundaries of Cohansey Park. There is a small zoo populated by a menagerie of animals. The occupants of the zoo include cast-offs of small-time circus, including a lion that seems to be suffering from mange. A quadrant of mischievous chimps whose main occupation is flinging dung at visitors and grinning with all their yellowed teeth.  A pack of wolves rarely shows themselves in the light of day. They come out at night to howl at the unforgiving moon.

Blue and I pretend we’re explorers in the African jungles as we swim au naturale as the king roars on. There are vines that hang from ancient gnarled trees. We climb like monkeys up to the branches that hang over the swirling river. Then we swing back and forth and jump into the river below. The water is really cold, even on the hottest August afternoon—the current moves quickly, especially after a heavy storm. But Blue and I are both strong swimmers.

Summer is a magical period when time seems suspended in a child’s life. I don’t see or feel that there’s an end to it. Blue and I are young and brave and impervious to everything. Our twelfth summer is one that I’ll never forget or regret.

The winter arrives early that year. We receive a snowfall up to our knees before Thanksgiving. Blue and I build a snow fort in the woods beside the river. The zoo animals are all hiding deep in their wooden dens. We decide to take a closer look at the river. I’m the first to put my foot on the icy surface. It’s white and seems hard as a rock. We slide from one side to the other on our booted feet.

One of us gets the idea to climb up our favorite tree and jump down onto the ice. Blue climbs to the top branch, yelling “Geronimo.” at the top of his voice. So loud that it wakes up the King. He lets out a mighty roar. Blue flies out over the frozen river and releases the vine. He hits the ice with both feet on the ground. He smiles from ear to ear. There’s a second roar, and the ice beneath Blue’s feet begins to crack and shatter.

I yell, “Blue, run, get off the ice, and get to the shore.”

Blue’s face registers surprise and then fear. He gets down on his knees and moves forward, but the ice continues to break, and a rapidly expanding hole appears. “Go Blue, go.”

Blue disappears into the murky depths. I see his hands rise up out of the water as he tries to grab onto the edges of the icy hole. He slips down below the surface of the water and is gone.

I climb down that tree faster than I ever have. I get down on the ground grab a branch and slide across the frozen river on my stomach. I reach the hole and look for Blue. I see him below the surface of the ice. There are bubbles of air coming out of his mouth and a silent scream. I stick my arm down into those icy depths. I try to reach him with the branch. He grasps it momentarily, and then I watch in horror as the current pulls him away.

I don’t know what to do. Should I stay to watch him drown or run for help? The ice beneath me begins to crackle and break. I scoot back to the shore and run. I run faster than I have ever run. I see a man standing along the shoreline. I scream at the top of my lungs. “Help, help, my friend is under the ice. I need help.”

“I’m coming, son. Hold on, I’ll get some rope.”

I run back to the shore and move out onto the ice. I can see Blue beneath the ice being pulled farther and farther down the river. I don’t see any more bubbles coming out of his mouth. The tears are freezing on my face. I know that I have lost my best friend.

They didn’t find Blue that day. He’s found three days later at the mouth of the Delaware River. Everyone in Bridgeton attends his funeral. The Tabernacle Baptist Church sings every spiritual they know that day. We form a line a mile long and carry Blue to the Old Broad Street Cemetery. They bury Blue next to his great, great-grandfather. His coffin is covered with white roses. I’ve never seen a face as sad as his mother’s that day, except for the one that stared hallowed-eyed back at me in the mirror.

I’ll never go back to the river again. I lost more than my best friend that day. I lost my innocence, my childhood, and my sense that nothing can touch me or do me harm. It drowned and was dragged down to those murky depths along with Blue.

Sweet Tooth

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I didn’t get it from any stranger.  My mother has the same addiction. She joneses for Peppermint Paddies. It started innocently enough. At first, I would nosh on a bag of shredded coconut or a miniature box of raisins on our front steps. You know, the ones I’m talking about, the one with the dark-haired little girl with the bonnet on her head. It wasn’t long before that didn’t do the trick for me. I needed more, better, sweeter.

Finally, the day arrived when my mother decided I was old enough to learn how to cross the street. “Susie, take my hand and watch what I do, and cross the street with me. Don’t let go of my hand.

After we practiced this a few times, she felt I was ready to take my maiden flight alone. “Remember what I said: look both ways, look right, then left, then right again. Then cross the street when you are sure there isn’t any traffic coming in either direction.”

“Ok Mom, I know how to do it, you don’t have to watch me anymore,” I assured her.

Finally, I was free to roam not just my side of the street but everywhere in town. Maple Shade was mine for the taking. My first destination was Shucks. I heard all about it from my older sisters, Eileen, and Betty who worked there on their school lunch breaks.

When all the other students from Our Lady of Perpetual Help Elementary School would go home for lunch, they would head around the corner to work for an hour at Shucks. They made milkshakes, malted milk, and hoagies.

In exchange, they would get a free lunch, anything they chose to eat. They were always talking about it, saying how all the cool kids in town went there after school, eat French fries, and dance to the 45’s on the Jukebox.

Well, I had a nickel that was just burning a hole in my pocket. No sooner had my mother watched me cross the street than I was off and running. I took a shortcut through Mrs. McFarland’s yard. She was out in her yard, as usual, weeding her garden.

“Hello, Susie, how are you doing today? Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

“Oh, hi, Mrs. McFarland, I’m just going around the corner.”

Mrs. McFarland is a nice lady. And sometimes my friend Joan and I sit on her garden swing and play dolls. She would bring out her doll from when she was a little girl to show us. It looked really, really old. It had a face made from china and had real hair.

Other times, she would take me for a walk on her garden path and tell me the names of all her flowers, explaining the special care each flower needed. Her favorite was her tulips, which she explained had come from some far-away place called Holland. She told me how she had to dig them up each summer and replant them the next year. “Bye. Mrs. McFarland, I’ll see you later.” And I was off and running again.

As I rounded the corner to Main Street, I saw my friend Joanie’s father driving down the street and waved at him. He pulled over to the curb and rolled down the window. “Hello, Susie, what are you up to? Does your mother know that you crossed the street?”

“Yes, you know I’m not a little kid anymore!”

“Alright, be careful when you’re crossing on the way back.” I was almost home free. I came up to the door, as two teenagers walked out, I ran in. They laughed and said, “Look out where you’re going kid!”

Candy from the 1950s &n60’s

There it was. I couldn’t believe it, the holy grail of candy counters. I stood before it, transfixed by the amazing assortment of candy. There were red-hot dollars, dots, ribbon candy, licorice, red and black gumdrops, wax lips, and every kind of chocolate candy imaginable. I stood there, with my mouth watering, almost immobilized by the decision that lay ahead of me. A lady came up to the counter,” Hi dear, what can I do for you?”

I said,” Well, I have a nickel, and I want to buy some candy.”

“You do, well you just take your time and decide which ones you want. It’s penny candy, so you can get five pieces of candy for a nickel.”

“I want a licorice whip and a red-hot dollar, bubble gum, dots, and oh yeah, I want wax lips.” She took a small paper bag and put my booty in one at a time.

“Here you go, sweetie. Now, don’t eat it all at once.” And she handed it over to me.

“Thanks,” I said as I was walking towards the door. Two girls walked in, but I was too busy looking in the bag to notice that it was my friends Helen and Teresa from school.

“Hi,” they both said at once to me. I mumbled hello and took off for my house. I couldn’t wait to get my first taste.

After that first bag, I couldn’t stop thinking about getting more, but the problem was I didn’t have any money. Then, I came up with the idea of collecting the coins from the church floor that people dropped during Mass on Sunday.

And so that’s what I do. Every Sunday afternoon after church, I walk up and down between the pews collecting money. I’ve become a regular customer at Shucks’. I wish I could tell you that I feel guilty, but I can’t. Life has never been sweeter!

For Whom The Bell Tolls

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I’m in a deep Temazepam-induced sleep. I have been experiencing a bout of insomnia for the past several months. I hear a relentless ringing in the distance. The sound becomes part of my dream.

In my dream, I’m forced to return to work at Dr. Wozniak’s office, answering phone calls. I worked there while I was in high school and until I was twenty-one. For some unknown reason, forty years later, I’m still dreaming about working there. I have had countless jobs since that first job, but the dream continues.

Finally, I emerge from the foggy depths of my dreamland and realize that the ringing is coming from my phone, not from deep within my subconscious. I stagger somewhat haphazardly over to the phone. I trip over my slippers and stub my toe.

“Hello, hello, do you know what time it is? Who is this? What do you want?”

“You don’t know me, but I know you. I know where you live. I know that you drive an old white Subaru Wagon. I know you drove through the light at the intersection at William Dalton Boulevard last Tuesday, the fifteenth of October. I saw what you had in the back of your wagon. Unless you meet with me and give me $10,000 dollars, I’m going to tell the police all about it. I have pictures of your car and your tags.”

“What in the world are you talking about? You must be some nut. Do not call me again. I’ll call the police and tell them that you’re trying to extort money from me.” I hang up the phone and bang it in the cradle about ten times for good measure.

I stumble back to bed, managing to stub my big toe once again. I curse up a storm. SOB I moan, as I rub my poor beleaguered toe. I throw myself back into bed and pull the covers over my head. I tightly close my eyes and try to will myself back to sleep. Nothing. Sleep does not visit me. I’m reluctant to take another sleeping pill.

I‘ll be a mess tomorrow if I do. I have a busy day tomorrow, including an appointment with the accountant, which I have been dreading. I know that when he goes over my accounts, I’m going to owe a pretty chunk of change to Old Uncle Sam’s coffers.

The phone conversation keeps running through my mind as if it is on a memory loop. I’m the first person to acknowledge that I have obsessive-compulsive thoughts. Thoughts I have difficulty controlling.

What in the world was this guy talking about? What does he think he saw in my car? He had described my car, but I’m sure plenty of old Subaru Wagons are still on the roads. I try to recall the fifteenth of October. I just can’t. I‘ll have to check my calendar tomorrow. I would do it right now if my brain weren’t in a complete fog. I flip on the lamp and write a note on the pad. I keep it there to record my random thoughts and insights in the wee hours. Unfortunately, my handwriting, under the best circumstances, looks like a chicken scratch.

After tossing and turning for three hours. I admit to myself I won’t go back to sleep this night. I dangle my legs over the side of the bed and push my feet into my bedraggled slippers. They are on the wrong feet. I leave them that way.

I make my way downstairs, almost tripping over my cat, Hilda.  Sometimes, I think she might have a homicidal side to her personality. She has repeatedly caused or nearly caused me to fall down the steps.

I turn on the lights as I pass through the living room, the dining room, and finally into my office. I sit down at my desk, turn on my computer, and look at my calendar. On the fifteenth of October, I taught a class on haircutting at the main J.C. Penny’s hair salon. Huh? What in the world does he think he saw? What did I have in the back of the car?”

I think about it for about two minutes. It comes to me. I had the mannequin heads piled up in my back seat. My students had practiced a haircut and blowout on them. I took them home in my car so I could return them to the main office the next day. I sit there for a moment and start laughing out loud. What did this guy think I was some kind of serial killer? Did he think that I kept heads as souvenirs?

The phone rings again. It is now almost four o’clock in the morning.

“Hello.”

“Alright, lady, now you have had time to consider the situation you are in. When do I get my money? If you don’t give it to me tomorrow, I will start adding interest to it.”

“Well, buddy, I’ll tell you where you can go. I didn’t do anything wrong. So, feel free to report it to the police along with the pictures. Then you can go straight to hell.”

I slam down the phone. I start laughing again, a real belly laugh. I get up, turn out the lights, walk back up to my bedroom, and fall asleep. I haven’t had any trouble sleeping since then. I sleep like a newborn baby. No more Temazepam for me.

What If?

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What if?

For anyone who is reading this, you’re so welcome. Today I’ll be writing about creativity. For me it is the driving force in my life. And it always has been as far back as I can remember. I was a shy child, quiet and introspective. But I had a vivid and active imagination.

I have a fraternal twin, she was outgoing. Most people would question why are these two so different? They are the same ages, exposed to the same environment and family. Both spent twelve years incarcerated in the Catholic School. We had to wear uniforms including the same shoes. All methods to make students conform, act the same, lose all personality and originality. Methods to control children’s behaviors.

From the outside it looked like I was conforming, fitting, but I wasn’t. My imagination knew no bounds. I made up stories and tell them to anyone who will listen. I would draw pictures of animals and insects, and flowers who could talk. I was a daydreamer. I made things out of odds and ends that I found in my house and out in the yard. I would run in the house and say, “Mom, Dad look what I made.”

The question I asked myself as a child was “What if…” What if the sky wasn’t blue and white? What if I could fly like a bird? What if I could talk to animals and we could understand what they were saying and thinking?

But the real question is why aren’t all people more creative? Why isn’t creativity supported? Why is creativity inhibited in children? People who think outside the box are the people that become scientist, engineers, artist, writers, innovators, musicians, poets.

By putting two dissimilar things together, two unrelated things you can come up with new ideas, new inventions. Think about it. Think about how different your life would be if you let your imagination go and not stifle it. Open yourself up to a new way of thinking and being in the world. What if birds decided to float down to the earth instead of flying,

UMBRELLA BIRDS by Susan A. Culver

 

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Good morning Write On followers, thanks so much to those who read my new blog story, MILLIES’S BENCH. If  you haven’t read it yet, please do. And if you missed any of my past stories. I would love if you read some of those. Please leave a comment and share on Social Media. Thanks so much, Susan.

Anyone who knows me even for a short time realizes that I’m an animal lover through and through. I have never met any kind of animal that I didn’t come to love with all my heart. From lizards, I had one whose name was Lenard, after Lenard Skynard. Oh, don’t let me get started with cats, a life time love affair. I have two at present. Sloopy a Scottish Fold, and Eve, a tuxedo cat. Sloopy just celebrated his 25th birthday, And Eve is nineteen.

I thought today I might share some pictures of the over thirty birds I take care of as a volunteer at ANIMAL EDVENTURE in Coats, NC. It is an animal sanctuary. If you live in the area you are more than welcome to come visit the more than 200 animals that live there.   The beautiful Cockatoo below is Montana. It took almost a year for Montana to “like” me. But, now we are friends. This beautiful parrot is Bodie, he is a Macaw. He lives with another parrot  called Moses. They have a love, hate relationship.

Over time, I would love to share more of my animal friends at ANIMAL EDVENTURE. This includes on of my best buddies Monroe a Brown Lemur,  and Leona another Lemur who is blind. A real sweetheart.

 

 

 

 

 

Millie’s Bench

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Millie anxiously pushes her cart toward the park. The gates will be opening in a few minutes. She’s always afraid that someone will claim her bench before she gets there.  No one ever has. She’s been coming to Fairmount Park for many years. She thinks of it as her home.

Well, if the truth be told, she doesn’t have a home anymore. She has been homeless since she lost her mother, her job, and her childhood home. She did live in her car for over a year until it stopped working. Millie parked it on the street, and after a month, it was towed away. It’s hard to believe, but that was over thirty years ago.

But Millie survives. It’s difficult not to sleep in the same place for more than a couple of days. She knows her way around the city. She knows every nook and cranny. She knows where it’s safe and where the police will leave you alone as long as you don’t cause any trouble, as long as you don’t act too crazy or smell too bad.

It’s impossible to stay clean when you live on the street. Few places have open bathrooms during the day. She would go in when it wasn’t too busy. And clean her face and all the places people can see and some of the ones they can’t. But would start smelling after a while.

Several times a year, she would go to one of the shelters for a couple of days just so she could take a shower, wash her hair and sleep in a clean bed. The shelters aren’t safe. People will steal the fillings out of your teeth if you aren’t careful. You can’t trust anyone, especially the ones who act like they’re your friends.

She tries not to call attention to herself in any way. She tries her best to be invisible. Millie gets a small check from the government. It’s delivered to a postal box. There’s a guy she knows who will cash the checks for a small fee. She’s cautious with her money and never wastes anything.

She knows where to get free food when she runs out of food stamps. Sometimes it’s a soup kitchen. Millie knows when the restaurants put leftovers in the dumpsters. It’s a crime how much food is wasted.

She keeps all her worldly belongings in her cart. She never goes anywhere without it. She brings the memories of her past with her wherever she goes. In that cart are the remnants of the life and person she used to be before she became invisible.

Oh, the gates are opening. Millie nods her head at the guard and heads toward her bench. Good, no one is there. Millie spends her day here, from first thing in the morning until they lock the gates at night.

This is her life now. She imagines nothing, nothing beyond sitting on this bench every day for the rest of her life. One day someone will find her still body. But Millie’s soul will have finally soared away, or perhaps just slipped away into oblivion. Who knows, Millie doesn’t.

She moves her cart next to the bench and looks at her belongings, and sighs. But then she sits down, takes a deep breath, and looks all around. She feels blessed, that’s right blessed, lucky to spend all her waking hours here in this beautiful and serene place.

Spring is her favorite time in the park, breathing in the fragrance of the flowering trees, the Lilac bushes. The perfume wafts through the air, surrounding her, lifting her spirit with it.

She watches young mothers with their babies and the toddlers running around the fountain. She watches the children grow up and become adults bringing their babies to the park. It’s in this way she still feels connected to the life that goes on around her. Although she doesn’t participate in the pageantry of life, she observes it and remembers it.

She feels as if she plays the most essential part of all. She is the witness to everything beautiful and everything that isn’t. She’s a historian that stands outside and looks in on everything that goes on and makes a note of it.

Where would the world be without the keepers of the history of the world? Why it would be forgotten, unnoticed. It gives her life meaning and purpose, and value. Yes, she is invisible to those around her, but she is essential, just as the air is invisible, but nothing would survive without it.

The Stoop

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“Jilly go outside and play. Stop moping around the house.”

Jilly flops down on the top step of the porch and looks up and down the street. There isn’t anyone in sight.

The boarded windows of the house across the street are tagged with graffiti. Broken bottles, beer cans, and trash are strewn across the overgrown, dead lawn in the front yard. The steps are covered with yellowed newspapers in various stages of decay. Unopened mail tumbles out of the rusty mailbox. The sad truth is it isn’t the only house on the block that looks abandoned. This neighborhood is the poster child for urban blight.

Jilly isn’t shocked or disturbed by the condition of the neighborhood. She has grown up in similar neighborhoods, some worse than this one. This is her third foster placement in the last year. She had to be moved here because her last foster mother overdosed and was taken away in an ambulance.

Victorian home

Sadly, this isn’t the first experience that Jilly had with junky foster parents. It was just the latest edition to a long line of looser adults that promised redemption but delivered empty promises.

Jilly’s glad that she had finished the second grade before being moved to this new place. Unfortunately, now she doesn’t know any of the kids in this neighborhood because she didn’t attend school here. It was a Catch-22 situation.

Something is tickling her foot. She looks down to discover a black ant marching across her feet and into a crack between the bricks on the steps. The ant is soon followed by several more of his six-legged comrades.

She watches the ants as they hurry along the step and over to a discarded crust of bread. Each one of the ants picks up an immense portion of the crust and carries it just as quickly back to the crack in the step and down into their tunnel.

Jilly is so entranced by the activity of ants she doesn’t notice a cat that struts on the sidewalk in front of the house and down the street. Until he lets out a loud yowl as he passes the rusted gate.

She looks up and sees him. He’s staring right at her as he yowls again. It almost seems as if he’s calling out to her. She reluctantly leaves the ants to go and meet the cat.

She wrenches open the rusty gate and steps onto the sidewalk. Jilly leans down and scratches his head. She notices that the cat has scars and is missing patches of fur from his face and all the way down to his long-broken tail.

“Hi, kitty, what’s your name? My name is Jilly. I just moved here yesterday. Where do you live?”

The cat swishes his tail back and forth and continues his walk down the street. He looks back at Jilly one last time as he moves forward. Jilly calls out, “wait, wait for me.”

The cat walks past two houses and then stops in front of a big old house that has a wide wrap-around porch in front. It’s the only house on the block that looks as if someone cares about it.

The grass is cut and there isn’t any trash in the yard. There are flowers growing all along the white picket fence that surrounds the front yard. There’s an arbor that’s covered in climbing red roses. It smells like heaven.

Jilly is startled when the cat meows again loudly. A very old woman comes to the door. She’s wearing a long-flowered dress and has white hair pulled tightly back in a bun.

“Good morning Frank. I’ll be right out. Sorry I overslept this morning.”

Jilly looks around the yard she can’t believe how beautiful it is. How different from all the other houses and yards on the street. She looks over at the cat and he’s rolling on the grass. Then he starts grooming himself. He licks his paws and then washes his face and whiskers.

Jilly laughs at him. “So, your name is Frank.” Jilly walks over to Frank. And he allows her to stroke his head and scratch behind his ears.

The old woman makes her way carefully down the porch steps holding onto the railing with one hand with a dish in the other. “Well, who might you be? I see you’ve made friends with Frank. He’s a wonderful friend to have. He and I have known each other for many years.”

“Hi, my name is Jilly. I just moved into the house down the street. The one on the corner with the old fence around it.”

“Did you, and how do you like living there?”

“Like living there? Well, I don’t know. I just moved here a couple of days ago. I guess it’s all right. I have my own bed this time. And Mrs. P that’s the foster mom hasn’t yelled at me or hit me so far. And she cooks things besides macaroni and cheese out of the box. So that’s better than the last place I lived in. And I don’t think she’s a doper. So that’s good too I guess.”

“Oh, I see, well it’s nice to meet you, Jilly. And how did you meet my friend Frank here?”

“Well I was just sitting on the step watching the ants and he came walking by. He called out to me to follow him. And here I am.”

“Well Jilly, I’m so happy Frank brought you over for a visit. I’m very pleased to meet you. My name is Mrs. McFarland. Would you like to come to sit up on the porch and have some lemonade and cookies? I just made them and was about to have my afternoon snack?”

“Cookies, yes I would love some.”

“Well, Jilly has a seat. Let me give Frank his lunch and then I’ll go get our snack. You can sit right there at the rattan table and chairs. I’ll be right back.”

Jilly watches as Mrs. McFarland puts Frank’s dish on the sidewalk and whispers something in his ear. Then she stands upright and walks back to the steps and into the house. As she opens the screen door she looks over at Jilly and gives her a warm smile. “I’ll be right back Jilly.”

Jilly watches the door afraid that Mrs. McFarland won’t come back out again but then she hears her say, “Jilly dear could you open the door for me?”

Jilly jumps up so quickly she almost topples the rattan chair. She pulls open the screen door and holds it back. She peeks into the house and sees a beautiful old piano and overstuffed chairs and a red velvet couch. There’s a wonderful glass lamp next to it that has pansies painted on the lampshade. Jilly has never seen such a place in her life.

“Well, here we go Jilly. Have a seat, I hope you like these cookies. They’re chocolate chip with coconut.  And here my dear is the fresh lemonade, enjoy.”

Jilly looks down at the cookies and the frosted lemonade glass. She feels like she’s died and gone to heaven. She doesn’t ever remember having homemade cookies before. She takes one bite. It’s so delicious she can’t help but eat the whole cookie.

“Jilly dear, slow down. We have all the time in the world. Why don’t you tell me about yourself? I would love to know all about you.”

“You would?” Jilly can hardly believe her ears. No one has ever asked her anything about herself or listened when she tried to tell them anything. As Jilly starts telling Mrs. McFarland about the second grade Frank comes up on the porch and lies down next to Jilly’s feet.

Jilly leans down and pats his head as if she has been doing it all her life. She can hear Frank purring softly. She looks over at Mrs. McFarland and she has a sweet smile on her face. Jilly is finally here, she has found her home.

“Oh, these cookies are the best I’ve ever had. Can I have more lemonade?”

“Of course, you can.” Mrs. McFarland sits back in her chair and says softly,” continue on with what you were saying, Jilly.”

It’ Monday Night So We must Be Having Meatloaf

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My father sits on his faded orange rocking chair in the living room. He is watching the news on our new black and white TV. Walter Cronkite is saying, “And that’s the way it is.”

As he gently pets our dog Andy he absentmindedly stops. And Andy pushes his wet nose up into my father’s palm until he starts stroking his head again.

My father shouts, “Marie could you get me a cup of coffee.”

Marie is my mother’s name but my dad usually calls her Mom. My father is the king of this castle.

I’m sitting at the kitchen table staring at my spelling words. I’m supposed to be memorizing them for a test tomorrow. But instead I’m kicking my sister Karen’s leg and she’s pinching my arm under the table.

My Mother is busily wiping the kitchen counter unaware of the silent battle Karen and I wage just five feet from where she stands. We know better then to make any noise because my father doesn’t put up with any boloney while Walter is discussing the world news.

The problem is Karen is left-handed and I’m right handed. We’re both stubborn and refuse to change seats, so every time we try to write or turn a page, we bump arms. The battle would be on. My mother calls out in her sweet voice, “Be right there Harry.”

She fills his cup and adds three teaspoons of sugar and brings it into the living room wrapped in a dishcloth. My father has diabetes but he doesn’t let that affect what he eats, or drank. He adjusts his insulin shots depending on his blood sugar level.

His drink of choice is watered-down ketchup. My Mom places the cup on the table next to my father and warns him, “Be careful Harry, it’s hot.” Looking down at Andy, she says, “That animal has the life of Riley.”

My father loves Andy and lavishes all his attention and affection on him. Once a week he walks down to the corner store and buys him an ice cream cone. Karen and I sit there with our tongues hanging out wishing we could get a lick in, as he holds it to Andy’s mouth.

My mother would offer the same reframe, “Oh Harry you’re spoiling that dog.” Then she glances over at the two of us with a look that says, there’s not much I can do about it.

After we finish our written homework, my mother quizzes us on the spelling words. If we aren’t sure of the spelling, she’ll give us a little hint by saying the first two or three letters.

That night I have math homework. I hate math, hate it even more because my father tutors me when I have trouble. This is a daily occurrence. He’s very good at math. My father is the Head Bus Dispatcher at PTC. which stands for the Pennsylvania Transportation Company. He’s been working there forever. He created the procedure of scheduling the buses and trollies that’s still in use today.

After I complete my math homework my father says, “Give it to me. Let me have a look at it.” I lived in terror of this moment every day. My father expects nothing less than excellence and perfection. I feel I’m far from excellent. He would go over each problem, while I sat on my hands because they’re sweating. Praying that they’re correct.

He makes me so nervous I can hardly think straight when he asks a question. He looks over at me and says, “How did you get these answers? Show me the work, do this problem.”

I stare at it for a moment, my mind is a complete blank.  I ‘m afraid that I will disappoint him again. He says, “What are you waiting for? Get to it!” I finish the problem.

“Let me show you how you are supposed to do it.”

He shows me how to do it his way. I look up at him, afraid to speak.

“Well?”

“Dad, we use the new math, we don’t use your old math.”

“Old math, what are you talking about, old math?”

“But Dad, that’s the way Sister Joseph Catherine told us we have to do it.”

My father’s is a very bright man. “Alright Susabelle, use the new math at school. But when you need to do math in your life later on, you’ll see that my way works better.”

“Daddy, When Sister Joseph Catherine calls on me, she says, Hey you, and not my name.

“Well Susabelle, just tell her that Hugh is your father’s name not yours.”

My father doesn’t make jokes very often but when he does it would behoove you to laugh along with him, even if it’s at your own expense. After our homework is finished, we all go and sit in the living room to watch TV. I hear, “This is Walter Cronkite and good night.”

My mom sits down probably for the first time all day. She has a cup of coffee, and we watch Matt Dillon on Gunsmoke. My dad’s favorite show. Andy lays asleep next to my father’s chair, snoring quietly.

THE BLUE SCREEN OF DEATH

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I was recruited in my senior year of College at Georgia Tech. My plan was to ultimately get a Masters Degree in Science and Technology. I’m smart; not genius smart but my IQ is somewhere up there in that stratosphere. I’m not bragging, just stating the facts, the facts and nothing but the facts.

But to achieve my goal, I needed money. My family was tapped out. A recruiter contacted me on campus and asked if I wanted to earn some real cash, working at the nearby Apple Store. Would I, of course I would. Any techie’s wet dream. Surrounded by the best of the best, creatives, mathematicians, hardware and software gurus. That’s the definition of who I am. I have been using a Macintoggle computer since I was five years old.

So, hell yeah, I took that job and swallowed the whole party line hook, line and sinker. On the final day of training I was unbelievably buzzed. I couldn’t wait to get on showroom floor and tell, nay educate customers about the latest Mac products including the Mac Super Pro with retinal display.

Just as my team was about to be released to start our new career, we were told on the downlow that there was a programming bug that had just been discovered recently. However, they were still going to launch the Mac Super Pro because so much time and money had been invested its production and promotion.

It was like being hit by a cold dead mackerel in the face. Selling substandard products. I just couldn’t believe it. In addition, if we failed to push Mac Super Pro, we were pretty much dead in the water.

I stumbled and mumbled my way out onto the floor. I felt dazed and bewildered. I needed the money. There was no if, and or buts. I had to do it. Sell product, after all I was just a guppy in a sea of bigger fish, sharks even.

I walked out there with my shoulders back and stomach in, like any good soldier going to fight the good fight. And then I saw her, walking into the store a tall blond athletic looking. Her face could launch a thousand ships. Maybe she wasn’t Helen of Troy, but a second runner up. Her pony tailed hair swung this way and that as she walked straight toward me. She wore a pair of black glasses that kept slipping down her nose. She kept pushing them back up with the heel of her hand. I was in love.

“Good morning, my name is James, how may I help you?”

“James is it? James Bond?”

I stared at her. Her eyes were indigo blue like the sea. I fell right into those eyes, and never wanted to leave. “What? Oh no, James, James Brown at your service.”

“Well, James, James Brown. I’m interested in the Mac Super Pro.”

I gulped, almost felt like I swallowed my tongue. I had to retrieve it before I could speak again. “Of course, it’s right over here. There isn’t anything else on the market that has the speed, versatility, and memory that the Mac has available.  It’s easy to use, really is intuitive. People friendly. Let me give you a demonstration.

She asked me questions that only another techie would know to ask. She wasn’t a techie virgin. I gulped again. I regurgitated everything that I had been instructed to tell a potential customer. I watched her face. She was impressed. I thought I was at the point where I could close the deal.

At that moment she said, “Oh one more thing, I have been hearing rumors on the forums that there is a possible programming problem with the Mac Super Pro, do you know anything about that?”

I looked her straight in those indigo eyes, and I said,” problems, none. This baby has been tested, checked, and rechecked. MacIntoggle has had it beta tested for six months before it was released. You have my word on it.”

“Alright then, let’s bag up this baby, and I’ll take it home right now.”

She walked out the door with her ponytail swinging left to right. I said to myself, job well done. I’m on my way making my mark in the world. I look to the door and in walked number two.

 

 

 

 

VICTOR

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It’s the fourth Friday of the month, and Victor sits at his usual table at Mickey D’s. His father is late as usual, or he isn’t going to show up at all. It happens sometimes. Victor’s father is unpredictable and unreliable.

Victor’s mother dropped him off a half-hour early. Because this was the only night she had to herself, she was anxious to be on her way. She calls it her girl’s night out. But Victor knows what it’s was all about. Because every fourth Saturday of the month, Victor wakes up to a different “daddy.”

His parents have been separated for eight months, and recently their divorce was finalized. Of course, there were years and years of fighting and anger and name-calling. That went on long into the night before the separation. So, it came as no surprise when his father packed up all his belongings one hot and humid night last summer—after one particularly spectacular knockdown screaming fight between his parents, Tammy and Jack.

That’s how Victor thinks of them as Tammy and Jack. He long ago stopped thinking of them as his parents. It wasn’t that he suffers under some adolescent fantasy that they aren’t his parents. And that one day, his real parents will come to claim him. It’s just so apparent that Tammy and Jack have no business being his parent or anyone else’s.

Victor is staring over at the French Fry Man. That’s how he thinks of him, The French Fry Man, not that it was his real name. The French Fry Man has some kind of problem and yells out weird barking sounds or sometimes curse words for no apparent reason. He also loses control of his arms and legs and the muscles in his face. And they tighten up and flay out without any warning.

The restaurant manager comes over and softly tells the French Fry Man that he must stop making noises. The French Fry Man would promise to try. But it’s obvious he can’t stop himself. His odd noises and yelling irritate fellow customers. And kids used to make fun of him all the time. So, Victor is reasonably confident that if he were able to stop himself, he would have done it by now.

Victor feels sorry for him. He often thought of him at odd times. At the same time, Victor is on the bus on the way to school. When he’s at home by himself, he considers how terrible it must be to be unable to control the noises and words that come unwillingly from his mouth. Victor observes him and can almost predict when it’s about to happen. He can see him tighten up his muscles, trying to prevent the spasm. But he isn’t able to control it.

Victor feels a connection to the French Fry Man. He feels the same loss of control about his life and where it’s taking him. As Victor sits there and watches the French Fry Man, his arm shoots out and knocks his French Fries off the table and all over the floor. This was the only thing that French Fry Man ever eats. Perhaps it’s the only thing he can afford to buy. The only luxury he allows himself. As the French fries fly off the table and are sent on their uncontrolled trajectory into Mickey D’s space, a whooping sound comes out of his mouth.

Victor sits momentarily and stares and listens as the inevitable laughter begins. A tear escapes from one eye and then the other. Victor wipes them quickly away and walks up to the counter and orders two large French Fries with extra ketchup.

Victor walks over to the French Fry Man’s table and stands next to it. He is momentarily tongue-tied. Then he says, “Hi, my name is Victor. My father was supposed to meet me here tonight. It looks as if he isn’t going to show up. I have this extra French Fry, and I’m wondering if I can share them with you? I hate eating alone.

At first, the man stares at him as if he is some kind of apparition, and then a smile spreads across his face. “Please sit. I would like that.”

This is how Victor makes his first real friend who always does as he promises and how Victor meets his “real” father.