World Cup Shackles

August 30, 2013

Some of my old Puma soccer teammates want to go to the World Cup next April. I could easily arrange to chaperone a group, to the preferred city of Natal, one of the smallest venues. However, my Brasilian friends are already protesting my participation, disturbed by the defamation of the black people (in Salvador, for example, the overwhelmingly black city, has chosen Ivete Sangalo, a white singer, to perform the national anthem for the inauguration,) destruction of many homes and local businesses, erecting masses of new spaces, injurious to the country, to create a more culturally appealing scheme. In the marketing pieces, large chunks of green space are dubbed-in to amputate the scarred and real impoverished segments of the cities. I am in doubt as to whether I want to contribute to this humiliation. The estimated cost to Brasil, to host these events, amounts to $33 million. Like South Africa and the UK, they will most likely lose their shirt and have years of recovery. Companies like Coca-Cola and McDonalds will represent the food venues in the stadiums, leaving out the local sources, even banning them from up to two kilometers from the stadium walls. Homes, albeit windowless cracker boxes, are being stripped from the areas, displacing so many. New transportation fares caused massive riots in my old home town and across the South American country not long ago. My heart bleeds for my kindred spirits, the grief and loss they are already experiencing. Just under a year prior to the kick-off and I mourn the changes, for Brasil and her people. 

Rest Haven

August 29, 2013

Should have withered away to nothing by now, downsized to size zero or something as chic but, no such luck. Sweating is contagious, I’m afraid, and the worker bees upstairs have caught it from me, or vice versa. They are gulping iced tea from weeping glasses by the hour and I cannot get past the next few steps on my project without stopping to pour another shot, like a German barmaid, sans a handful of coin for a tip. I sit in the blazing heat, glistening, while the ceiling fan mocks my progress, or lack thereof.  I am wearing as little clothing as I can get away with, aside from being arrested for indecent exposure while the two helpers have on jeans, clunky pleather boots, most likely sensible absorbent cotton socks with a few holes, and white undershirts beneath their button-down short sleeves!

The Nursing Home (usually they are named things like Rest Haven or something so far removed from the reality of the joint, it is crazy) is situated on acreage, seems more like a golf course or conference center than a nursing home/rehabilitation/assisted living spot. The halls are soothing and luxurious. I couldn’t even strain to view the residents saturated into their hospital beds, and believe me, I tried, as I sashayed down the corridor. Was in to visit with my new client and her son, discussing the ins and outs of her care, once she arrives home again. We calmly talked about meal options, my hours, swabbing the deck and other rooms in the apartment, the details of the laundry situated in the basement and finding things the senior lady wants to do in her spare time. She is a mere 88 and in a bad way, at the moment. Once she is shipped home, I will pitch in to take care of her. I draw the line at making and serving lime jello, however, so I insisted they put that in the contract.

I look forward to hearing about little Lacey, my good friend (who is now 52) and her shenanigans while staying at my client’s place when she was a child. All of those family memories that get rearranged in the mind, expanding and contracting with time. Something to look forward to. It comes with the aging territory, whether we like it or not. 

Special on Half and Half

August 28, 2013

The clerk at the West Side Grocery store had no clue how much the pint of half and half should be. He asked me if I had bought it before and how much was it the last time. I didn’t have any idea so we made up the price of $1.79 and he counted out the change with a doubtful expression across his heavy, yet obviously youthful face, and doled it out in a clump. We shared a good chuckle and a “Have a great night,” the stranger mathematician and I, as I made my way out the double doors to collect Tyrus. He was tied to the metal pole out front, impatiently waiting for me to return, ignoring the gang of boys smoking and exchanging remarks about this and that. One louder voice comments about the size of the dog, guesses his breed as a tough Pit, another cheerful tone claims Golden, yet another, Yellow Mellow Lab or the brazen and dangerous tone suggests a mixed breed of sorts. Only one man, about a year ago, commented with certainty, that he is a Bull Mastiff. I tell the motley crew that he is a guard dog and leave them hanging.

Two men came to the door with their black tool boxes and extension cords, a drill, Gorilla Glue and various other supplies carted in a plastic Walmart bag, just to piss me off. They came to bang and un-wedge, spray fine dust over the furniture and pets, break a window and depart, with chai tea sloshing around in their bellies. I had to hydrate them or I was afraid they would keel over in the house and be here for days on end. The black moldy spot on the bathroom ceiling is patched over again, not sure how they resolved the mildly functioning stovetop and the shower still runs cold. Claim they will be back tomorrow to finish up.

A few break-in reports are scattered across the neighborhood web page. Someone was hit last night between 10pm and 1:00am, while they were at home, asleep in their beds. The electronics were targeted. Close the windows in the night, the message urged me and my unsuspecting neighbors. Another woman suggested they are moving sooner than later since she discovered the motion-detector lights had been unscrewed from their sockets, most likely in preparation for a hit. It is terrible that people are frightened in their homes. We should feel safe and secure during our REM sleep. I am tired and hope the thieves keep their hands to themselves tonight because I just do not have the patience.

Mail Carrier With a Hernia

August 27, 2013

Jade Alexandra Larson lost her driver’s license amongst a few French fry sleeves and paper sacks from White Castle, tossed serendipitously from a car onto the medium. I am the trash-picker-upper on my nightly walks and happened to spot Jade’s mug staring at me from the prickly grass. The plastic is slightly bent yet not irreparable. Large cash rewards aside, I don’t think twice about plopping it in an envelope to go out in tomorrow’s mail. Miss Larson should have it in her hot little hand in a day.

The streets are quiet, mostly just humming noises coming from house after house, as we climb the sidewalks through the neighborhood, scooping garbage. It is good to be back home. Cat curled up next to me on the loveseat, dog slathered across his bed near the front door, AC blowing warmish air around the room.

Earlier today my aged friend and I drove five minutes down the road from his place, to the local health clinic. He immediately forgot why we were there, as the PA’s attendant checked him in. Peppered with questions about his current and past medications, previous visits to the clinic, inquiries regarding his heart condition, and details about the up-and-coming follow-up, left him looking dazed and discernibly confused. The PA turned up the volume and asked my pal another series of questions that made my heart vibrate like a crash of timber next to my head. She seems nice enough, competent, thorough, perky, and concerned yet I can only brood over a system that encourages one doctor (or in this case, a Physician’s Assistant) to support the whole scheme of care. She scrolled through many doctor’s notes and added some of her own before turning us out with sheets in hand. At least we secured an appointment on Thursday to take care of his painful toe issues, at yet another clinic, not nearly as conveniently located.

Arriving back at the ranch, we met the postal worker at the edge of the driveway. He toted a massive stack of mail for my buddy, who cheerfully suggested I assist him with the letter opener. I am astounded by the number of solicitations, from many organizations I have never heard of, to help them build schools, save the whales, puppies, fish, birds, prairie grasses and crystal rock from destruction. He got 2014 calendars, a bracelet, pen, a nickel, three shiny pennies, notepads, stickers, return address labels, measurement conversion charts, all quite necessary in the weeks and months to come. I honestly thought he had stopped the mail for several days, weeks, months but he assures me not. I didn’t want to suggest how many trees were ripped down and shredded to send out the umpteen inquiries for dwindling his precious retirement account.

Spot an eagle

August 26, 2013

When I am 89, I just hope I am able to get to the bathroom on my own, let alone share a fish sandwich and pound of Texas-style steak fries, a tap bear and staccato conversation over a pseudo wood table in a bar in St Francis, MN with a St Paulie Girl (that’s me, by the way.)   

A three foot wingspan glided away from me at the base of the cove this morning. I was ecstatic to find a white tail floating towards the middle of the Rum River and coast to the right so I was able to positively identify the eagle. My new best friend insists he wants to come to the river tomorrow, with the hopes of spotting the big bird of prey. I highly doubt he is capable of maneuvering the sketchy trail since I can barely slither along with my one semi-strong ankle to get to the dingy water. Hate to discourage him yet am not confident I could carry his, I suspect, under 90 pounds up and down the path. By that time, he will have slept and most likely forgotten all about the eagle.

I wander from one room to another, trying not to create too much hot wind around my body for fear it will consider sweating again. Cool washcloths against my forehead, belly and underarms only generate a moments reprieve from the stickiness of the humid air. How is it that we are hotter than the majority of the country. Impossible to imagine the heat index so high at 8:30pm. Need to wedge my head into the freezer for a bit so I can wind down for the day. Night.

Steamed

August 25, 2013

     Preening on a scorcher summer day got the better of me. Turkeys disappear, leaving their iridescent feathers strewn across the prickly acres, between buildings on the land. I collect the best of the bits of wing to divide with Taelor. Yet another grand scheme, to encourage creativity, which may propel her into pursuing an entrepreneurial life. I envision these glorious pieces of fluff, draped from young women’s ears, twirling in the wind of their confidence and success. Two gargantuan fans, multitude of brown and black shades, once useful tail feathers lie beneath the collection of smaller ones, to surprise my daughter with their magnificence and glory. We walk, Ty and I, along the wide paths, grazed to jagged perfection among the twisted trees that clump together that produce a woods. The walkway projects down, sloping to the muddy river where the happy dog can swim after thick branches, and welcome the reprieve from pesky horse flies that land on his nose, biting and sucking blood for sustenance. He is so amiable, he fails to be furious at the gluttonous insects. I crush them in rage at the audacity, though more pests land within seconds. I contemplate nothing as I meander along the trail, glimpsing the flock of big birds, gawking and startled yet unwilling to yield to our passing. We march back to explore another way, gleaning feathers and interesting objects from just beyond my footprint.

     I sink into a dreary day while awaiting sunset when I can drizzle water on the dessert dry plants, talking with them about the undulating thoughts that pan in and out of my brain. The chubby girl with murals of tattoos that crawl out of her sleeve and around the curve of her barely indented back, ambles through my mind. She smiled like a lazy cat, serving us iced lemonade and glass of water in Texas-sized cups, to accompany our pizza at 5:17. Not certain why she chose to show up like she did, amidst the ripening-before-my-very-eyes cherry tomatoes and cheerful flowers but there she was, clear as the bees clustering around the buds. The waitress had commanded attention since my supper companion began to mumble about the pizza taking too long and that we should have gone elsewhere. I wasn’t worried for my own safety; the wiggle around my middle reminds me that I don’t have to eat for another few weeks. She canters away as a grasshopper interrupts my meditation as I follow his course with delight. I revere the insects that used to cling to my legs, in the fields out in back of our house when I was growing up. Difficult to spot one these days.

 

     So hot, I cannot concentrate on anything but the dribble of sweat soaking my shirt. In another day or two it should cool off, just in time for the State Fair to latch the gate for the season. I feel for the performers, dressing in layers to woo the audience and more importantly, the law-abiding judges. My fingers and toes are crossed for my good friends who are competing in several of the horse shows. Good Luck to all of you! I’ll be sitting in the bleachers, munching kettlecorn and cheering you on.

Adopted Dad

August 24, 2013

  “My memory is good but it’s short,” he chortles, trying to make sense of the story he is telling me, of his lengthy 89 year old life, including his handy livelihood, and small family. Gets lost in the middle of a sentence, while every other paragraph is like “Groundhog Day.” I don’t mind, helps me to work on the fabricated details, elaborating on a grander scale, the next time I tell my own sage, and the subsequent time. I suppose it is time for dinner somewhere on the planet, I finished lunch a few yawning hours ago. He orders me to get whatever I want and claims he wants the “bilt.” “Don’tcha know what that is? Then he, obviously pleased with himself, points to the BLT on the menu and laughs aloud. The waitress mimics my puzzlement and smiles at his joke. In her head, she is only thinking of the onslaught, the masses waiting for suppertime to clamber on their kitchen clocks, before heading out the door. She scurries off to the kitchen in haste, tossing wrapped napkins with silverware poking out the ends, san spoons.

           Choke down half of the greasy sandwich and a handful of the mound of tasteless fries, drank my gallon glass of non-sweetened iced tea, while swallowing the galloping words of my companion. He is a sweet, ancient soul, generous, and appears to enjoy my company. A champ, in my book.

We meander across the weary restaurant, as the tables fill. My aged friend and I arrived long before the Happy Hour Specials were announced, scribbled on the rotating board, in fact, for the only crowd who can read the doctor’s letters, the regulars. I understand the need to arrive early, to get the good parking spot out front and not fear the consequences when the BLT is “sold out.” However, this may very well mean another meal has to be eaten before bedtime. I could very well wither away to nothing before breakfast.

Easy to feel young and perky at 53 when I hang out with the elder. I am pop-sitting for an extended weekend in the country. Despite my limp, I canter ahead of him to open the door, and let myself out this morning. I chuckle when he insists it is too far to walk to the mailbox, just down the short drive to the highway. He allows me to take the wheel when we leave the property, which I appreciate, not sure that he is capable of getting the two of us to town without impaling me on a post, situated at the side of the country road. We take a drive daily, whether we need to or not, to the grocery store, post office (no, we have never put outgoing mail in the box for the carrier, have to take it into town) or to look up friends I have in a neighboring community, because I mentioned I know someone who lives there. Like I said, sweet, kind, and a gentleman. I had to insist they are off, riding horses for the weekend, and are not available for a visit. Yes, it is too bad.

 

     The phone rings this afternoon, nearly shatters the windows from the blare of the foghorn, that belches from his phone, reverberating off the sides of the little trailer. He laughs out loud at my alarm, assuring me he has to have it that loud to hear it. We have to listen to the blast until the answering machine picks up, the solicitor hung up immediately. He is satisfied it is not the President.

Something Wrong

This is 3 of 3 short stories in 1800 words or less written in half an hour or less:

August 22, 2013

 

Third short story-no more than 1800 words in 30 minutes or less:

 

There is something wrong in the city somewhere tonight. I cannot put my finger on it. The noises from the street seem completely normal. Figures clump together in the shadows, smoking, laughing and chiding one another, which is not uncommon in this neighborhood. Trash whips in circles along the edge of the rounded curbs, calling out to the passerby’s to throw it “away” elsewhere. Fans whirring in the screen-less windows, fried breaded chicken smells grasp the heavy night air with contempt, dead, dried grasses lie flat in distress. One woman, with a halo of hair, apple-shaped face, glowing cigarette in her mouth, shoots past in haste. She has somewhere important to be, a place where she huddles in his lumpy arms, safe and content in the awareness that tomorrow will prove to be more fruitful than today. At least that is what she tells herself, in his sweaty pit, a lazy smirk tortures his chocolate-colored face as he turns towards her. 

 

The “something wrong” is discernable, unrelenting in my senses. Too distracted by the dog’s breathing, heavy from the slight incline up, to the block where the houses are more kept, flower beds trim and exact, vehicle wheels smartly turned-in to prevent an unwarranted roll down the slope, along the cement, bikes locked and parked out of a thief’s reach on the enclosed porches. A bat swoops in front of my face, instigating a sensation of glee, aware the flying rodents still exist, to capture insects, maintain their place in the world, in the food chain.

 

In the city, somewhere away from the fireflies, surrounded by wide spaces of wind that controls the insufferable heat coming off the buildings, I walk to investigate “something wrong.” A wailing infant, snot streaming from her nose, wanders into the space I occupy on the cracked and gravelly sidewalk. She escapes the stench of illegal parents, crowded and occupied by the sounds of their own voices. A slightly older sister spots the escapade and collides with me, grasping the child by her blue and white striped shirt front. The baby abruptly halts her insulted cry, in the sudden jar of her captivity. They join the bulk of adults standing in the doorway, light shining dully behind their sunken heads, and disappear into the fray.

 

A stop at the library to slide the previewed drama DVDs into the return slot. As they plunk down into the vast metal box, I spin around to glance behind me, well aware of the fact that I am surrounded by darkness, no street lights guide me to the safety of beams from traffic headlamps as they barrel down George Street. “Such a coward,” I reflect. If anyone had been spying on me, following behind me, the dog would certainly have alerted me, if nothing else, to investigate his pockets for a food scrap treat. 

 

Three teens stand on the corner in various stages of undress, smoking a joint and making clicking noises to assure me of their confidence and security, unexposed souls under the street light. One steps aside as I pass with the pup, no words exchange as I slip by. I don’t even consider making eye contact. It isn’t acceptable.

 

Cars zoom in and out of the broken parking lot at the convenience store. A green dumpster hovers at the edge of the glare. A mushy blue sofa keeps the trash container company, its matching chair had been swiped the day before. One by one, the couch cushions will disappear, leaving the shell of a once inviting ensemble to fend for itself. Must have been three men, furniture piled high in the bed of a Ford Pick-up, rusted and tilted off to the side from the weight of the load. They pulled up to the dumpster and swiftly heaved the saggy blue pieces over the tailgate and drove off in a frenzy. The family was given an L-shaped collection that better matched the grouping in their livingroom. They tired of the sick blue corduroy with smelly milk spills and unidentifiable stains that failed to come out with vigorous rubbing, using a somewhat damp cloth. Eager to get the items out of their duplex, they readily accepted Ted’s offer to rid them of their burden, they offered he and his boys a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon, in exchange. It was leftover from the graduation reception at the Hall last weekend. 

 

A pair of undistinguishable dogs barked with fury at us as we pass the closed wood fencing. They sound ferocious and dangerous. My dog seems content to sniff at the gate and enrage the two, causing someone to shout “Shut the fuck up!” from behind the screen door. Leaving in a hurry, not wanting to engage in an altercation with an angry or drunk, deranged, vicious pet owner, I bolt. Some people have no sense of humor.

 

The “something wrong” rushed into my head as though struck by an oncoming pizza delivery Pinto. The absence of energy, emerged with mine, a friendship, kinship, companion of any kind is sorely missing. I head home to my laptop, to write a story, to explain, the “something wrong” is alright.   v

August 22, 2013

 

Third short story-no more than 1800 words in 30 minutes or less:

 

There is something wrong in the city somewhere tonight. I cannot put my finger on it. The noises from the street seem completely normal. Figures clump together in the shadows, smoking, laughing and chiding one another, which is not uncommon in this neighborhood. Trash whips in circles along the edge of the rounded curbs, calling out to the passerby’s to throw it “away” elsewhere. Fans whirring in the screen-less windows, fried breaded chicken smells grasp the heavy night air with contempt, dead, dried grasses lie flat in distress. One woman, with a halo of hair, apple-shaped face, glowing cigarette in her mouth, shoots past in haste. She has somewhere important to be, a place where she huddles in his lumpy arms, safe and content in the awareness that tomorrow will prove to be more fruitful than today. At least that is what she tells herself, in his sweaty pit, a lazy smirk tortures his chocolate-colored face as he turns towards her. 

The “something wrong” is discernable, unrelenting in my senses. Too distracted by the dog’s breathing, heavy from the slight incline up, to the block where the houses are more kept, flower beds trim and exact, vehicle wheels smartly turned-in to prevent an unwarranted roll down the slope, along the cement, bikes locked and parked out of a thief’s reach on the enclosed porches. A bat swoops in front of my face, instigating a sensation of glee, aware the flying rodents still exist, to capture insects, maintain their place in the world, in the food chain.

In the city, somewhere away from the fireflies, surrounded by wide spaces of wind that controls the insufferable heat coming off the buildings, I walk to investigate “something wrong.” A wailing infant, snot streaming from her nose, wanders into the space I occupy on the cracked and gravelly sidewalk. She escapes the stench of illegal parents, crowded and occupied by the sounds of their own voices. A slightly older sister spots the escapade and collides with me, grasping the child by her blue and white striped shirt front. The baby abruptly halts her insulted cry, in the sudden jar of her captivity. They join the bulk of adults standing in the doorway, light shining dully behind their sunken heads, and disappear into the fray.

A stop at the library to slide the previewed drama DVDs into the return slot. As they plunk down into the vast metal box, I spin around to glance behind me, well aware of the fact that I am surrounded by darkness, no street lights guide me to the safety of beams from traffic headlamps as they barrel down George Street. “Such a coward,” I reflect. If anyone had been spying on me, following behind me, the dog would certainly have alerted me, if nothing else, to investigate his pockets for a food scrap treat. 

Three teens stand on the corner in various stages of undress, smoking a joint and making clicking noises to assure me of their confidence and security, unexposed souls under the street light. One steps aside as I pass with the pup, no words exchange as I slip by. I don’t even consider making eye contact. It isn’t acceptable.

 
Cars zoom in and out of the broken parking lot at the convenience store. A green dumpster hovers at the edge of the glare. A mushy blue sofa keeps the trash container company, its matching chair had been swiped the day before. One by one, the couch cushions will disappear, leaving the shell of a once inviting ensemble to fend for itself. Must have been three men, furniture piled high in the bed of a Ford Pick-up, rusted and tilted off to the side from the weight of the load. They pulled up to the dumpster and swiftly heaved the saggy blue pieces over the tailgate and drove off in a frenzy. The family was given an L-shaped collection that better matched the grouping in their livingroom. They tired of the sick blue corduroy with smelly milk spills and unidentifiable stains that failed to come out with vigorous rubbing, using a somewhat damp cloth. Eager to get the items out of their duplex, they readily accepted Ted’s offer to rid them of their burden, they offered he and his boys a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon, in exchange. It was leftover from the graduation reception at the Hall last weekend.

 

A pair of undistinguishable dogs barked with fury at us as we pass the closed wood fencing. They sound ferocious and dangerous. My dog seems content to sniff at the gate and enrage the two, causing someone to shout “Shut the fuck up!” from behind the screen door. Leaving in a hurry, not wanting to engage in an altercation with an angry or drunk, deranged, vicious pet owner, I bolt. Some people have no sense of humor.

The “something wrong” rushed into my head as though struck by an oncoming pizza delivery Pinto. The absence of energy, emerged with mine, a friendship, kinship, companion of any kind is sorely missing. I head home to my laptop, to write a story, to explain, the “something wrong” is alright.    

Bat Basics

This is the second story of three from my writers challenge: 1800 words or less in 30 minutes or less-enjoy!

The room smelled like Goodwill, stuffy and stale, like mildewed articles of clothing, long forgotten in the basement, stored away for decades in a sealed box, mashed down by elementary English books and a sickly pink painted clown. Pearl grimaced in sorry recognition. The Temp-to-Perm Employment Agency ill-named Command Center, paralleled her past insufferable experiences, with idealist job placement representatives and a lame reception. One young man scribbled furiously at the sole oblong, marred table, tossed in the lobby without much thought to professional decor. A Social Security Card and current driver’s license were draped alongside the application. The nose earring may have been an unwelcomed addition to his wrinkled grey t-shirt and once black jeans, dripped with dried olive green paint. He never glanced-up from the ten page document. The intent was to get a low paying, labor-intensive job, requiring him to show up at 5:30a.m., for roll call. “Desperate people do desperate things,” thought Pearl, “and I am certainly in that category if I stay here.” She approached the counter projecting greater glee than she felt in her weepy, despondent heart.

Pearl was much more of a creature of habit than she cared to admit. She didn’t like having to get up earlier than usual, shower, wash and put up her long hair, don professional attire, and head out of the house to hunt for a job. She has been told women in their 50;s are un-hirable. Fantastic. Her tendency to cop a righteous attitude when reminded of that, usually got the best of her.

When the fat twenty-something woman printed off a substantial application for her to fill-in, and only then inquired as to whether Pearl had brought two forms of ID with her, Pearl scowled in frustration. “No, it would have been nice if you had mentioned that ten minutes ago, when I called to ask about your application process.” The incompetent employee just shrugged and said “As if,” without as much as a sincere apology. Pearl flounced out the door with the Application for Employment Form and suggested she would be back the following day. Pearl screeched out of the parking space (they didn’t even have the decency to own a parking lot, she had to risk stopping on the busy street) and vowed she would never return, knowing if she could not be the Manager and whip that office into shape, she would begrudge working for them. Why would she be content with that sort of a firm, representing her talents and skills?

Home felt like a cage then, inept and soft, walls soaked with shattered expectations. There was so much to do here, put a bed together, which takes two able bodies, vacuum the car, sweep and mop the scuffed hardwood floors, brush the pets that leak hair at every move, prepare a presentation, gobble cookie after coffee-soaked cookie to take away the harbored resentments, building up like soldiers at dawn. At least vacuuming felt productive so she commenced to pull the machine out from her closet, already sweating in anticipation. The pet fluff represented all of the loose strings floating around in the world, discouraging Pearl from moving forward with joy.

As she opened the closet door, her breath came in starts and stops, a bat flew out from the far recesses of the rafters. She shouted in fright, causing the dog to race to Pearl’s side, not immediately aware of the cause of danger, but reacting to her owner’s angst. Pearl was shaking with shock and unable to comprehend what was happening. She could not even think clearly enough to search the house for the Yellow Pages but rushed out the front door, with Sammy in tow, to knock frantically on the neighbor’s door. She asked Susan, a retired school teacher, who was always home, gardening in the back forty or watching reality tv shows with her grossly overweight tuxedo black cat, Prince Charming. Susan was calm and matter-of-fact. She immediately searched for exterminators on her seemingly too-small-to-be-effective laptop and found several in the immediate area. One service told non-excitable Susan that they could be out in twenty minutes. The representative suggested they remain out of the invaded house until the exterminator arrived. Susan offered Pearl a cup of iced tea with lemon and Sammy a cat treat, which he gobbled without tasting. The drool that emitted from his mouth saturated the kitchen throw rug but Susan didn’t seem to mind or perhaps wasn’t able to actually see the long muzzle- to-floor string of goo. Pearl was far too distracted by the events to apologize.

He introduced himself as Pat. A tall, slender, crisp and efficient, red and white uniform bearing man, jetted around the house with his cage and bag of secret bat-trapping tools. Pat had a hint of grey at the temples and a wide, calming smile that instantly set Pearl at ease. Pearl asked if he could trap and not kill the bat. She just wanted it out of the house, for good. “Well,” he drawled, “if you really want it gone for good, we will have to destroy it. The bat will keep coming back to root in the closet unless you find the entry holes and plug them up.” Pearl began to regret the rabid panic. Taking the time to mull things over was not an option. She followed Pat around the house, searching together for the miniscule black bat. Thirty minutes and $98.85 later, the search was called-off. Pat told Pearl that she may research other options for finding the bat, but he had other service calls to make. He gave her a business card with his personal cell phone number on the back, scratched into the paper with flourish. He was perceptibly cheered by the fact that Pearl lived alone and noted no signs of a man around the premises. Pat is a man of details and scoured the house top to bottom, apparently looking for the bat but keeping his eyes open for bad news. One toothbrush sat in the bathroom cup, single serving coffee maker, one placemat at the eat-in table, no extra pair of large shoes in the closets, no men’s clothing nor manly tools in the shed. He was satisfied she is single and surely available. 

Pearl thought nothing of Pat’s excessive attention. She was now worried about the bat and its inevitable return. How will she sleep tonight, thinking about it biting her neck and flitting about the house? She pasted the business card, back side out, on the refrigerator for future reference, not realizing her error.

Susan stood in the entryway next door, chuckling to herself and the impressive scene she had witnessed from afar. “Poor Pearl is just so out of touch,” she speculated, “she isn’t aware of Pat and his apparent interest. I hope that bat comes back and scares the crap out of her so she has to call Pat personally!”

The bat, hidden under the bookshelf in a small hole, did in fact reappear. Pearl had been awake far into the night, ignorant of the invading presence in her house.  She slept on the couch, television blaring, dog bed at her feet and Sammy pacing around the premises, reacting to Pearl’s anxiety. Sammy never saw nor smelled the bat. It appeared, then disappeared, after feasting on the insects, trapped by the screen, attracted to the colors of the blaring appliance.

Pearl noticed what appeared to be little dark brown grains of rice around the edges of the bookshelf in the spare bedroom. A terrific odor was wafting up from the area so she located her cell phone, attached to the charger in the kitchen, and proceeded to call the exterminator service. Since Pat’s number was easier to access, she dialed without taking the card down from the magnet. Pat had saved Pearl’s number, stolen from the receipt, and was delighted to hear the enhanced ring tone he set up for her specifically. Pat answers coolly and as though he does not have a clue who is calling him. He is smiling as though delirious from too many pharmaceuticals, and in need of intervention. Pearl can only discern the cheerful tone and feels better already. She explains the peculiar odor and grains of rice on the floor and Pat assures her it is in fact a sign that the bat has revisited. He would be glad to come over, as soon as he finishes up with his jobs and suspects it will be around dinnertime. Pat is clearly aware that he has the afternoon off, and will need that time to prepare his strategy for winning Pearl over tonight. He has had far too many unsuccessful relationships in his coffer to know it takes more than a good plan to woo an exceptional woman. Pearl seems sturdy, appears reasonably stable, emits fiscal security, is definitively physically attractive, apparently single and available. He wants her, needs her, aims to get her.

Pearl had gone to work-out, showered, and was home in time to throw together a spinach and mushroom salad, whip up a vinaigrette dressing, and sit down to her favorite Johnny Cash Pandora station before Pat ceremoniously rang the bell. He had on a pale blue button-down with a tight pair of black jeans, lizard and leather cowboy boots and a grin wide enough to count his back molars. The fact that he was there on an extermination call  nearly escaped him, but fortunately Pat kept his tool kit and supplies in the back cab so he raced back for them before Pearl got to the door. Gullible Pearl unbolted the safety latch, after peering thru the peephole, and swung the door open without hesitation. She commented on his lack of uniform, after regurgitating the suspicious rice pile story. Pat chuckled and admitted he had finished his shift sooner than expected, decided not to disturb her and arrive early. He asked if she detected the bat in the bathroom, while she was showering, since the steam sometimes attracts the creatures. She told him she had been to the gym, not wanting to spend an inordinate amount of time at home with the varmint. Pearl admitted being concerned about Sammy but not enough to remain at home with him. They continued to chat about their day while making their way to the stinky bedroom. Pat opened the closet door with caution and was struck in the middle of the forehead by the bat, in a rush to get out, and away from the noise. Pat fell and struck his head, hard, on the edge of the bed frame and slumped in a heap at Pearl’s feet. By the size of the dent in his head, it was obvious Pat was not revivable.

Dara's Definitive Day

I was given an assignment-three short stories (under 1800 words) in three days, following is the first:

Dara stood at the smeared window with one of the squalling babies in her arms. The tike who is colicky, oozes instability from her skin, mouth, hair and eyes, swirls it around the room, and into the spongy souls of those around her. Tamitha, who repels the caregivers like the Devil’s child, is inconsolable this morning, and only adds to Dara’s dark depression. The sitter stands with her ward at the front glass, sending out distress signals to her mates, dreaming of 4:00 when she can flee the spitting, vile infant’s breath. It is only Wednesday and she can hardly imagine the torture of another three days in the work week. Unfortunately, it is time to move in with grandpa and grandma. Though she assured The Gramps it will be for two weeks, tops, she is certain it will drag on for millions of years, tearing away at her confident flesh, until the searing looks from the elders melts her into the weedy back yard. She smokes the same brand as grandpa, lucky for her, not so much for him. He claims he will stop smoking this weekend since cigarettes have gone up to a shocking $8 a pack. “Too rich for my blood,” he insists.

Difficult to discern, what she sees with her own two heavily made-up eyes, hears from her friends (since not much sinks-in when someone older than 20 speaks,) reads in the scut mags her peeps pass along, watches half-heartedly on tv, what is actually real life, and what is truly fiction. It pains her to consider the new skinny jeans she buys, substantial amounts of black eye liner, and other necessities that prevent her from paying her portion of the minimal rent, let alone cough-up for the ready-to-eat meals from the super huge slob of a corner grocer, whom inevitably hits on her as she reviews the mac and cheese section in the din.

Wally has not been much help these days. He lies on the couch, since losing his stocking job at Walmart, and dropped out of Voc Tec College, which was a joke because he never went to class. His parents insisted he attend school or would have to move out of the house. Sandra, Wally’s mom came home from work early one day to find him saturated into the floral sofa, sucking down her diet Pepsi and eating cheese puffs out of the crinkled bag. He had mentioned a full day of exams at the breakfast table, over a mound of blueberry waffles and dripping Wisconsin maple syrup. Boyfriends are not supposed to screw up, they are there to help out a girlfriend in need yet, more often than not, Wally has his saucer-hand out for her hard-earned bills whenever they hang out. Dara is getting sick of his complaining, whining about not having any cash and his mom being on his back all the time. Bob, Wally’s step dad, is idyllic, ignorant and a waste of space. Sandra and Bob met when Wally was five. He was the pool guy, with killer abs and a dreamy smile that landed him in Sandra’s bed by the third cleaning. He never left. Bob never seems to miss the wads of coin Wally pulls from his wallet, keeps reprimands to himself, and is a fan of Sci Fi films, like his step son.

The neighbors are going out of town this afternoon and phoned to let Sandra know, so she can keep a look out. There have been a number of break-ins, kids who scour the terrain for electronics and small items that they can bail out of the back of a car easily. The Neighborhood Watch Program had helped people feel comfortable but the recent robberies have put folks more on edge. Wally overheard his mother mentioning the vacation dates to her friend, Denise yesterday. Now he is making Dara crazy, calling her every ten minutes to talk about how to sneak into the house next door, and check out the goods. Dara has to duck into the hallway or go out to the overcrowded sun porch to talk privately on her cell phone at work. She is fully aware of the five other helpers with their gynormous ears, constantly looking for a way to scorch her self-confidence. Penny, who is married with three kids, from elementary to middle school, chained to a deadbeat truck driver husband, can’t keep her thoughts to herself. She has Goody Two Shoes Turrets and a mouth as big as the Grand Canyon. Penny makes damned sure everyone knows who needs attention, could mean everything from a colonoscopy to a bikini wax. Dara avoids Penny, especially when she is on the phone. Penny is like a Sharp Shinned Hawk that spins her head so fast, it appears to turn a 360 degree radius. 

Wally mentions he will break the window well glass and slip into the next door neighbor’s house tonight. He is certainly thin enough to slide in but wants Dara to come over at 9:00 to be the look-out. She is terrified. This isn’t the first time Dara has been talked into an illegal activity and they never end well. The last time, she contracted an ulcer from the anxiety, blurted out the indiscretion to the mail carrier, who promptly contacted the Sheriff’s office. Stan was subsequently caught with the goods in his trunk. Since Stan had been bragging about his escapade, all over town, he had no clue it was Dara who turned him in. That summer, she tore nearly all of the hair out of the left side of her scalp. It has grown-in alarmingly thin. God knows how this incident will manifest.e is thin enoughtHe If she doesn’t go through with it, however, Wally will have no one. She cannot abandon him, he has no job and no future.

Dara complains to Wally, on the tenth call, that she has to move her meager things out of the apartment and into The Gramps’ pad tonight. She can’t possibly help Wally with the break-in. He moans at her stupidity and assures her she can move another day. He can help this weekend, using Bob’s van. Maybe Bob will even help lift the bigger pieces. A despairing sigh escapes her crooked thickly glossed lips. She doesn’t dare roll her eyes since Penny must be watching from her perch somewhere. Dara quickly agrees and hangs up.

At 8:30, after sweating, packing and nibbling on stale Ritz crackers and slightly moldy tasting cheese, Dara heads over to Wally’s place. She is a nervous cat, dressed in a black tank top and black stretch pants that meld into her pointed hips. The ponytail holder is roosted and far too taut for comfort yet she in unaware that the pinching pain is coming from her head.

Wally meets her at the back of the alley, in the nook between the crooked white fence and chain link that borders the houses. He is wide-eyed and excited, chattering like a cat that needs to go outdoors to hunt. His long sleeves and long pants will prevent scratches from the window sill. He has a garden glove on one hand to break the glass without harm. They move quickly to the back of the targeted home. Before Dara knows it, the glass shatters and Wally is partially inside the window. He gets frantic when confronted by a series of spider webs that hug and adhere at his eyes, making him surge backwards. A cigarette is all Dara can think about. Imagines herself sucking, as the red tip sings relief. She fingers the lighter in her pocket and counts the minutes. Wally’s legs disappear in one fell swoop. She bolts to the back of Wally’s house to light up. They didn’t talk about how long she needed to stay parked next to the window. That would be too much of a giveaway anyhow. She can see the back of the house clearly from her spot. Lights go on in the basement, much to Dara’s consternation. He is sure to be caught and they will both go to jail. She isn’t sure Stan is released by now, and her mind wanders to that confrontation.

Wally appears at her side with an armload of equipment. He races to Bob’s van, parked in the closed garage, and swings open the side door to discharge everything onto the long back seat. The jumble of black wires and boxes appall Dara. She starts as Wally turns to go, obviously intending to rescue more items from the neighbors’. “I have to leave now,” she states, rather weakly. Wally, in a rewarding daze, brushes her off. “I got it,” he declares, charging off to gather more inmate evidence.

The next afternoon, the doorbell rings at Dottie’s Day Care. A pair of police officers stand at the ready, badges secured with a clip, smiles pasted-on to reassure the door attendant. Dara is in the bathroom, changing a smelly diaper and did not hear the commotion. She comes out, lifting and turning the child as she adjusted him on her hip. A fellow caregiver pinched the baby as Dara’s wrists were turned behind her back in a handcuff. Her purse is in the co-hart’s hand and the jacket she had forgotten last week, over his arm. No questions, no remarks, no hums of comfort, just quick, jerky movements towards and out the door. The offender swung Dara in the back of the squad and driver began his practiced speech. They were on their way to the local jail, offenses: Breaking and Entering, possession of stolen goods and theft. Dara has seen enough cop shows in her life to know she has to keep her mouth shut. She knows any sideways explanation would cost her in the long run.

The Gramps will be pleased she won't be taking up their spare room, gradually turned into an office, that was never used for anything resembling a business. She molds her buttocks into the seat, assuming everyone she knew is watching her on the joy ride. Dara vaguely thinks about Wally, the obvious Suspect, and his sorry rationalization that leads to her arrest.

……

The sun is high in the sky as Dara peeks out into the lobby. Her plastic bag, lacking air, pinched her thin fingers. She considers the green Volvo wagon that pulls up to the curb. Lifts the back hatch to place her belongings on top of the clothes pile, noting they are wrinkled, soiled, and mostly men’s casual wear. The front passenger door is pushed open, a reedy hand, fingernails gnawed to the quick, reaches out to touch her as she sits. Grandpa hands over his Camel straights box with a black lighter. No words pass between them, the four months yawning behind.

Earth Overshoot Day

August 20, 2013

"In less than nine months, we have now used more natural resources than what it takes the planet 12 months to produce. For the remainder of 2013, we will be living on resources borrowed from future generations.

This year Earth Overshoot Day—the approximate date human resource demands exceed nature’s budget—fell on August 20. Two days earlier than last year. In fact, since 2001, Overshoot Day has moved ahead by an average of 3 days per year."

We have a choice, each and every day, in what we purchase, what we eat, do, how we behave and what we are willing to talk about and the action we take.

Happy Birthday, Angelina!

August 19, 2013

From a young age, I have had a talent for making a scene. Thankfully I am not one to suck down a twelve pack or overindulge in drugs, or anything that would make the ruckus even more memorable for the audience.     

Immune to surprise of the goings-on upstairs, I spot the landlord and his hired Hispanic hand, drilling out the lock from the big red door on the front porch. Evidently the extended village has been moved-out, their meager belongings rest, abandoned in the dank, wet impossible-to-pry-open-and-closed-double-door-with-ease, garage. Evicted, forgiven but not forgotten, six eventual adults-to-be and two kids, one infant and promises made in the dark, that do not pretend to hold true. The anger and disturbing sleep activities that once caused me much distress, have seeped out of me, in a slow trickle, until gone without a discernable trace. I once felt obligation to the human ruins and now they are distant memories. What happened to them could have happened to anyone, even me. The air is expectant, the hope of good people arriving anytime now, with matching furniture, a sensible sound system, intact vehicles and a functioning, preferably electric lawn mower.

The cat appears miraculously cured with endless brushing, of what few teeth he has left in his little head, rigorous gum scrubbing and gentle wiping of his eyes, with drippings from Hydrogen Peroxide-laden gauze pads. His right weepy eye is cleared-up and he spends a lot of time now, wandering the new adobe, nails clicking on the hard wood floors, searching for something to bide his time. Grill nibbles hard on my fingers, as if he is a feature in Ripley’s Believe It Or Not, and yet I do not have the heart to force him to try and conquer dry kibble. So, life is good, great, in fact, and that is that, for today.

Poo Dooty

August 18, 2013

There is little dignity in walking the dog ‘round the transitioning neighborhood. Invariably, as the innocent home owner opens the door to the front or back of the house, the dog takes a huge dump and I have to scoop it up, scraping down to dirt, taking a big divet of grass, as though we are visiting a golf course and the offending party (me) has to replace the turf. The cruelty continues since I threw on a pair of black socks to wear with my tennis shoes, like a ninety year old lady, who doesn’t give a damn what the neighbors think. I give a damn, though, and keep glancing up and down the lane, to make sure no hot guy is coming my way. I’m pretty sure there is a chance that I would be spotted by him, looking like a total dweeb. I should resort to preparing a bag with all essential items, like an overdue pregnant woman, who organizes for the race to the hospital for a delivery. I have to go, and make a check-list.

Bella's Big Adventure

August 17, 2013

Bella snuck through the hole in the fence and disappeared in the blink of an eye. She seemed so well responsive when I suggested that, if she ate all of her food, after swallowing the meds I shoved down her throat, the three of us could head out for a stroll around the neighborhood. I let the dogs out in the back, turned around to get the leash off the hook, and she was gone. I raced back into the house, to bolt out the front door, glanced to the left and right, down the street, across the boulevard, discouraged since there was no sign of a white rear end and tail. No jingle of a collar and tags. Nothing. I grabbed my cell phone, shouting at Tyrus to go find Bella, while frantically dialing my friend’s cell phone. Left a garbled message about a dog gone missing, requested a call back to tell me where Bella tends to run off to, please give me a clue as to what to do. I scooted around the block, peering down alleys and between houses, begging pedestrians for information about a little white dog run amok. The owner phoned back within the quarter hour, to tell me Bella would return to the house, in time. I should try hollering her name as loudly as I can, with accompanied clapping. It took less than five minutes, and she came through the yard, tongue hanging out of her mouth, unmoved by my obvious distress at her AWOL adventure. I could hardly scold her. Clipped on the leash and meandered down the street on our waylaid walk.

Re-tired

August 16, 2013

What is an appropriate gift for a retirement celebration? Wine, flowers, golf shoes, gardening knee pads, sweat pants with an elastic waistband, trilogy in a nice wooden box, shot glasses to accompany and a bottle of tequila. Hard to say.

Years ago, my daughter asked what grandpa does all day, since he no longer has to go into the office. He actually learned how to turn out a wooden bowl, cane the diningroom chairs, plant and fuss in the yard, volunteers with the Democrats in his county, goes to work-out at the gym daily, or rides his bike down the long country roads, fishes occasionally, or takes the canoe out for a spin.

There are plenty of couples having a meal together, or reading the paper over a cup of coffee at Dunn Brothers, scavenging at garage sales, augmenting heart-rates on morning walks, selecting pastries at ShopKo and taking long drives in their Toyota Prius.

A selected few of my friends are what we used to consider retirement age-65ish and still employed. They plan on being “at it” until at least 70. If the world were perfect, the retirement age would be decreasing, as to enjoy our golden years, sans a paycheck, less taxes, and soon enough, health insurance deductibles. Good thing we can depend upon Social Security in our old age. 

Wicked Wellstone

August 16, 2013

Crowds of ecstatic children surround me in the lobby of the Wellstone building in my neighborhood. I approach the Volunteer Coordinator to offer to facilitate a support group for young women, to create a sub-culture of self-aware individuals, who may have a greater chance at overcoming life’s greatest challenges. People need others to confide in, communicate complicated problems, solve threatening issues, trust, count-on, push and prod, as well as create a new and self-educated environment at home and work. Though the Wellstone representative disagrees with me, I refuse to give up this chance of being a part of the agency and supporting women to fulfill their dreams, goals and feel less at-risk in their sanded-down lives. If changing a system were easy, everyone would be doing it.

The cat, whose gums are slightly less red than yesterday, is stretched-out in my lap, warming me to the boiling point. Ty is lying on the hardwood floor next to the couch, waiting for the moment I make noise to get up, and head off to my bed. It has been a tiring day of little accomplishment, save a shared dinner, and walk with a friend who is kind enough to listen to my blather-on about a frustrating time in my existence. I am grateful for the large ears and wide shoulders surrounding me these days.

Big Buster

August 13, 2013

The board, Big Buster, is taller than I am, three quarters as wide and one half inch thick. Difficult to slide across the wood floor without a scratch, even tougher to get the heavy up over the back end of the car, and finagle it to the top of the rack. I pause more than a number of times, to gaze longingly at the front doors, sweeping up and down the block, with the hopes that someone would gallantly appear to help. Eventually, I manage to lift the bottom of the ungainly piece of wood up onto my sensitive toes, resting it on deck shoes, now camel with smudges across the top. Wincing with agony, I heave the scrap, gradually catching the edge of the car top carrier and sliding it, inch upon inch, up and over the midsection of the vehicle. Winch the mattress-firming ply down, tying unsailorlike knots in a jumble of rope. Ropes that crisscross every which way is more than a bit embarrassing, but more practical than having the board careen into the vehicle following behind, inevitably impaling the driver.

Taking back roads to Taelor’s new four-plex makes for a less strenuous ride, yet tedious with a loaded car, nonetheless. Fondly considering the Clampetts, I am grateful for not having to wrestle a slew of items on top of the car. An untidy heap of metal clanks around in the back, frame wrestled from its male/female grasp, lugged through the bedroom, dining room, living room, into the sun porch and plunked in the car through the gaping hatch.  

Setting up the bed in a space just twice the size of the mattress is a puzzling endeavor. Moving furniture around to accommodate turning the frame creates far more manpower. Moose, the cat, is in the middle, supervising and meowing her discomfort. The dresser is too large to fit in with the bed and desk so, out it goes. Student housing situations never change much, mishmash of furnishings from each individual’s “real” house crowd the narrow space. A never ending list of items still needed to make this environment a home is plastered to the refrigerator. I personally, keep a notebook in my purse (now that I realize posting it on my iphone is a mistake) for things I do not want to forget to track down at yard sales, Value Village, thrift stores, friend’s giveaway boxes or strewn along the side of the road. It may be road kill to some, treasures to others.