“I have to tell you … this isn’t productive. I don’t want to be having a relationship with someone who’s so self-centered and egotistical as you.”
I thought about his focus on his family, his need to talk to that sister of his every fucking day. Egotistical and self-centered? Dare I mention all the plastic surgeries? “Oh, yeah? Well, guess what? You’re the egotistical one, you self-centered … self-centered … blah!”
Why couldn’t I ever think up the right word when I wanted to hurl an insult at him? He deserved the wit of Noel Coward + Preston Sturges + Joe Keenan, all wrapped into one gay effete. Instead he got brain-stuttering me. I suppose he wasn’t any luckier than I was in the relationship department.
“You’re way out of line, buddy. If you don’t start behaving, I’ll go back to my sister’s house.”
“That’d be a pleasure, you dim-wit. Wait a second … wait a second …”
I breathed in my nose and let it out my mouth. The time had come after all these years. It was time. I knew I had to do it now or it might never come out of my mouth. Now, or perhaps I’d never get up the courage.
I looked at him. He looked so cute in his navy blue t-shirt and hairy legs.
“I’m sorry.”
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
To be continued
“And let me tell you about the gaskets in the cellar’s boiler room,” John added. We’d been talking seventy-five minutes about maintenance of the Dayton franchise’s crumbling facility. So far, we’d made no decisions.
I looked at my watch. Mike would be at the gym in fifteen minutes. I’d promised him I’d work out with him today. We’d do chest and shoulders. He’d stand above me in his short shorts and I’d stare at his hairy legs, bulky crotch, sculped torso, and smooth, brown skin. Perhaps he’d notice I didn’t look too bad, either.
Every minute counted. Dan responded to John, Serge added his own remarks, Lucy put in her two cents. Eight people, total, each one letting the other know, “Hey, I’ve got something really smart to add to the discussion about the boiler room and gaskets.” People looked at me, expecting I’d have something to say. I’d stopped listening after John led off with And let me tell you. The meeting was already thirty minutes over schedule.
We broke up … finally … at 6:30, an hour after we were supposed to be finished. John’s last remark, “We’ll continue where we left off tomorrow afternoon at our regular 5:00 meeting.”
I looked at my watch. Mike would be at the gym in fifteen minutes. I’d promised him I’d work out with him today. We’d do chest and shoulders. He’d stand above me in his short shorts and I’d stare at his hairy legs, bulky crotch, sculped torso, and smooth, brown skin. Perhaps he’d notice I didn’t look too bad, either.
Every minute counted. Dan responded to John, Serge added his own remarks, Lucy put in her two cents. Eight people, total, each one letting the other know, “Hey, I’ve got something really smart to add to the discussion about the boiler room and gaskets.” People looked at me, expecting I’d have something to say. I’d stopped listening after John led off with And let me tell you. The meeting was already thirty minutes over schedule.
We broke up … finally … at 6:30, an hour after we were supposed to be finished. John’s last remark, “We’ll continue where we left off tomorrow afternoon at our regular 5:00 meeting.”
Monday, August 29, 2011
The stars
Goodbye, Donald. We'll miss your Margo Channing walk, your Bette Davis eyes, your Marie Dressler pout, your Joan Crawford shoulder pads, your Tallulah Bankhead grizzle of a voice, your Greta Garbo cliches, your Joan Rivers insults, your Elizabeth Taylor foo-foo dog, your Joan Collins revenge plots, your Auntie Mame suede shoes, your Totie Fields stomach, your George W. Bush "you're either with me or you're against me." You've gone to New York City to live your dreams on the Great White Way, promenade down Fifth Avenue, dine with the glitteratzi, and make the most of the martini-sipping, cigarette-holding urbanites who wear black on black. Life didn't have much to offer you in Florida, living in the large in the smallest of places.
I walked by your apartment at 8:00 this morning on my way to work. By instinct I looked in your vestibule. It looked just the same as before you left -- all white except the gray door, a pastel fresco the only hint of color. I wonder who'll occupy your apartment next. What kind of renter will you accept, or if you sell, what kind of buyer? The building wasn't very nice to you over the years, but then again ... you returned the favor in triplicate. You probably never knew how they laughed at you behind your back. I never laughed, however, because you'd given me some hints about your pain. I knew that every insult, every rude gesture, every unacceptable remark was rooted in a pain so deep, no surgeon could ever reach it. That's why I didn't really mind how you talked about me to my partner, to my friends, to people in the building.
Whether you intended it, you caused a lot of headaches in the building over the years, but I have to admit they were interesting headaches. You were infuriating but you kept us energized and engaged. We never had a dull moment on the second floor -- or anywhere else you went. Now that you're gone, it's a lot quieter, a lot more conservative, a lot more Republican. I know now why you had such monochromatic tastes. You didn't need color on your walls or in your clothing. Everything else in your life spanned the color spectrum better than the NBC peacock. Good luck in New York, Donald. We wish you the best.
I walked by your apartment at 8:00 this morning on my way to work. By instinct I looked in your vestibule. It looked just the same as before you left -- all white except the gray door, a pastel fresco the only hint of color. I wonder who'll occupy your apartment next. What kind of renter will you accept, or if you sell, what kind of buyer? The building wasn't very nice to you over the years, but then again ... you returned the favor in triplicate. You probably never knew how they laughed at you behind your back. I never laughed, however, because you'd given me some hints about your pain. I knew that every insult, every rude gesture, every unacceptable remark was rooted in a pain so deep, no surgeon could ever reach it. That's why I didn't really mind how you talked about me to my partner, to my friends, to people in the building.
Whether you intended it, you caused a lot of headaches in the building over the years, but I have to admit they were interesting headaches. You were infuriating but you kept us energized and engaged. We never had a dull moment on the second floor -- or anywhere else you went. Now that you're gone, it's a lot quieter, a lot more conservative, a lot more Republican. I know now why you had such monochromatic tastes. You didn't need color on your walls or in your clothing. Everything else in your life spanned the color spectrum better than the NBC peacock. Good luck in New York, Donald. We wish you the best.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Smartcar and the brick wall
They parked the cramped car at the base of the mountain next to the decaying lavatories. He turned himself into a pretzel and performed contortions to get out of his side of the car. Two minutes later I managed to get my own 6-foot frame out the front door.
“My lower back is killing me, but let’s get going,” he said. I agreed but needed a few minutes to limber up my legs. Mt. Tamalpais – that’s Mt. Tam if you’re local – beckoned and we planned a hike parallel to the waterfall. We’d managed the trek in a narrow window of beautiful weather on a February day. The last five days had been cold and rainy and, we knew, the next five days would be chilly and drizzly. In both cases, that meant indoor activities and even though we had a great sex life, we wanted to do more.
I followed him up the narrow path. We made it through low-hanging trees and wet bushes. Thank goodness I’d put on my hiking boots. He wore his new sneakers, but the muddy ground would saturate them before too long. My hair soon got wet, brushing under the trees and getting dripped on. He picked up speed as the path became narrower and steeper. Finally, it became more of a vertical climb over rocky steps.
At first he hiked ten feet in front of me, then it became twenty feet, then it became fifty – finally, he turned a corner of the path and was out of sight. I huffed and puffed, my heart rate a presto agitato that tried to keep pace. A minute later I turned the corner and saw him, standing above, smiling, calm as a yoga instructor on meditation retreat. When we met he kissed me. I followed him up the hill again.
“My lower back is killing me, but let’s get going,” he said. I agreed but needed a few minutes to limber up my legs. Mt. Tamalpais – that’s Mt. Tam if you’re local – beckoned and we planned a hike parallel to the waterfall. We’d managed the trek in a narrow window of beautiful weather on a February day. The last five days had been cold and rainy and, we knew, the next five days would be chilly and drizzly. In both cases, that meant indoor activities and even though we had a great sex life, we wanted to do more.
I followed him up the narrow path. We made it through low-hanging trees and wet bushes. Thank goodness I’d put on my hiking boots. He wore his new sneakers, but the muddy ground would saturate them before too long. My hair soon got wet, brushing under the trees and getting dripped on. He picked up speed as the path became narrower and steeper. Finally, it became more of a vertical climb over rocky steps.
At first he hiked ten feet in front of me, then it became twenty feet, then it became fifty – finally, he turned a corner of the path and was out of sight. I huffed and puffed, my heart rate a presto agitato that tried to keep pace. A minute later I turned the corner and saw him, standing above, smiling, calm as a yoga instructor on meditation retreat. When we met he kissed me. I followed him up the hill again.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Ah, now I get it
Honey, it’s Saturday afternoon. I’m going to jack off. Would you like to join me?”
Of course I would, silly. You know that, and you know we’ll end up doing a lot more than just jacking off. The only question, who’d be the top and who’d be the bottom? We usually switched. Last weekend I’d had a cold, so we’d abstained now for two weeks. Too long for either of us, even after nearly eight years. I longed for him, his silky chest, his rippling stomach. Amazing for 49 years old, really. Here I was at 48, a beached whale like Al Gore.
We hopped into bed. So nice to have this after so many years. When I turned 40, I ended my previous relationship. We hadn’t had sex in … honestly, I can’t recall how long before we called it quits … but we’d become great friends. That’s all nice, but let’s face it. Life’s too short to be yearning for something every day.
It’s nice to sustain the intimacy for this long. It only keeps getting better – with clothes and without.
Of course I would, silly. You know that, and you know we’ll end up doing a lot more than just jacking off. The only question, who’d be the top and who’d be the bottom? We usually switched. Last weekend I’d had a cold, so we’d abstained now for two weeks. Too long for either of us, even after nearly eight years. I longed for him, his silky chest, his rippling stomach. Amazing for 49 years old, really. Here I was at 48, a beached whale like Al Gore.
We hopped into bed. So nice to have this after so many years. When I turned 40, I ended my previous relationship. We hadn’t had sex in … honestly, I can’t recall how long before we called it quits … but we’d become great friends. That’s all nice, but let’s face it. Life’s too short to be yearning for something every day.
It’s nice to sustain the intimacy for this long. It only keeps getting better – with clothes and without.
Friday, August 26, 2011
Relief!
Ella's image swam a hundred feet below me in the icy waters of the golden ravine. The craggy hills smothered me on either side as I watched. Swimming on her back, her gaze made its way from the water’s surface and deep into my soul, jarring a memory of the last time we’d seen each other.
She lay in the metal-framed bed holding my hand and asked me to take care of her children, to love her always, to make amends with her mother. I shivered in the all-white room with its steel-encased windows and looked out onto the silver city. My feet ached from standing for hours in hard shoes on a tile floor and the fluorescent lighting above mocked my weary eyes. I knew the tile and lighting held no special regard for bed-side promises. The tile and the lighting could bring this scene to an end any moment it chose and sweep Ella away from the bed before her she finished asking her promises and I agreed to honor them.
But the room did allow me to make these promises, seeing to it that her children were well cared for, living with their gay uncle in Portland; speaking to her mother in Salem, conveying her regret they hadn’t spoken since ‘35, enduring her bitter tears of recrimination; and loving her. Always loving her.
How best could I love her, I wondered, as I gazed at the image swimming before me, a hundred feet down from the golden gate? A moment later I was free, floating through the air, making my way from the vermilion-clad bridge to the waters beneath, reaching my Ella in a calm void that was all-enveloping, all-enclosing.
She lay in the metal-framed bed holding my hand and asked me to take care of her children, to love her always, to make amends with her mother. I shivered in the all-white room with its steel-encased windows and looked out onto the silver city. My feet ached from standing for hours in hard shoes on a tile floor and the fluorescent lighting above mocked my weary eyes. I knew the tile and lighting held no special regard for bed-side promises. The tile and the lighting could bring this scene to an end any moment it chose and sweep Ella away from the bed before her she finished asking her promises and I agreed to honor them.
But the room did allow me to make these promises, seeing to it that her children were well cared for, living with their gay uncle in Portland; speaking to her mother in Salem, conveying her regret they hadn’t spoken since ‘35, enduring her bitter tears of recrimination; and loving her. Always loving her.
How best could I love her, I wondered, as I gazed at the image swimming before me, a hundred feet down from the golden gate? A moment later I was free, floating through the air, making my way from the vermilion-clad bridge to the waters beneath, reaching my Ella in a calm void that was all-enveloping, all-enclosing.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Minimalistic
I opened the closet door. Magee’s closet couldn’t have been this jam packed. Seven boxes stacked right at the door, I knew we’d packed away two other stacks directly behind them when we rented the apartment. It’d be murder going through those boxes and restocking the kitchen cabinets, the bookcases, the linen closet, the bathroom vanities, our dresser drawers. What could possibly be in these boxes, all twenty or so of them?
I had to think back two years right before I went to San Francisco. Yes, we’d packed the fine china, the silver, the photo albums, my CDs, videotapes, and my piano music. Yes, we’d packed away our tchaschkis, tablecloths, my egg timer, and – what’s this I see? – my rusty martini shaker. Let’s toss that away. That hasn’t crossed my mind once in the past two years.
He had an affair after I went to San Francisco. I found out about it when, just three months ago, we vacationed in the Hamptons and then, six weeks later, he wanted to break up. Six weeks after that, he wanted to get back together and “work through our problems.” With or without him, I’d planned to come home and my things. Now that I’d come back home, I didn’t want any of my things. I wasn’t sure I wanted him back, either. I just wanted it simple.
I had to think back two years right before I went to San Francisco. Yes, we’d packed the fine china, the silver, the photo albums, my CDs, videotapes, and my piano music. Yes, we’d packed away our tchaschkis, tablecloths, my egg timer, and – what’s this I see? – my rusty martini shaker. Let’s toss that away. That hasn’t crossed my mind once in the past two years.
He had an affair after I went to San Francisco. I found out about it when, just three months ago, we vacationed in the Hamptons and then, six weeks later, he wanted to break up. Six weeks after that, he wanted to get back together and “work through our problems.” With or without him, I’d planned to come home and my things. Now that I’d come back home, I didn’t want any of my things. I wasn’t sure I wanted him back, either. I just wanted it simple.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
TIme to let go
I called John two days after Christmas. We spoke just one minute on the phone. “Jim, can I call you back? It’s not a good time right now.” That was the last time we spoke.
New Year’s Eve, I thought about seeing him at the hospital two years earlier. I was on my way to Munich. He was so critical, I cut my travel short two days and came back to see him. But he pulled through and gave us another two years.
January 6, I wanted to call John. I remembered our trip to Milan back in ’94, little more than seven years earlier. We walked the streets with all the Christmas shoppers and enjoyed the bracing weather. We tippy-toed across the roof of the Duomo. I fell in love with him all over again, spending a week with John in Italy.
Another several days passed and I looked at the phone. No, let him call me. Just like the early years after I moved to Philadelphia. We had a spat because he went back to an old boyfriend of his. So I found my own boyfriend and we moved in together. I let go of John until one day we met for lunch, then we became best friends all over again.
John’s birthday was the 20th. One year since W became president and started destroying the world. I called him, no answer. So I called two more times and then tried his mother, no answer. I’ll never forget the first time he told me his birthday – sitting in that Pittsburgh diner when we were in college. When was that? May ’84, I think.
The call came two days later. He’d slipped away that morning. His mother, dear Christine, she called. I thought about the first time I laid eyes on his handsome face and how the overhead light shined on his balding head. Twenty years go quickly.
New Year’s Eve, I thought about seeing him at the hospital two years earlier. I was on my way to Munich. He was so critical, I cut my travel short two days and came back to see him. But he pulled through and gave us another two years.
January 6, I wanted to call John. I remembered our trip to Milan back in ’94, little more than seven years earlier. We walked the streets with all the Christmas shoppers and enjoyed the bracing weather. We tippy-toed across the roof of the Duomo. I fell in love with him all over again, spending a week with John in Italy.
Another several days passed and I looked at the phone. No, let him call me. Just like the early years after I moved to Philadelphia. We had a spat because he went back to an old boyfriend of his. So I found my own boyfriend and we moved in together. I let go of John until one day we met for lunch, then we became best friends all over again.
John’s birthday was the 20th. One year since W became president and started destroying the world. I called him, no answer. So I called two more times and then tried his mother, no answer. I’ll never forget the first time he told me his birthday – sitting in that Pittsburgh diner when we were in college. When was that? May ’84, I think.
The call came two days later. He’d slipped away that morning. His mother, dear Christine, she called. I thought about the first time I laid eyes on his handsome face and how the overhead light shined on his balding head. Twenty years go quickly.
Monday, August 22, 2011
Very popular
Jimmy swiped his mother’s gaudiest ring from her jewelry box. He had to give Jackie a going-steady ring. No one else in the fifth grade had given her a ring and little Jackie with the long blonde hair and the beautiful eyes deserved it. Mom wouldn’t miss this ring, surely. She’d never miss it, he felt certain.
Next morning Jimmy walked into school and went directly over to Jackie’s desk. She sat there with Lisa and Cathy and T.J. and Ricky. “I’ve got something for you Jackie,” he said. Dead silence from the five.
“What would that be, Jimmy Wood?”
I pulled the ring out of my pocket like a rabbit out of a magician’s hat. “Look! For you!”
An audience of five hundred at a Flip Wilson concert couldn’t have laughed as loud as these five did. I turned red and ran away to my desk, put my head down and cried. Two minutes later, Jackie came up to me and smiled.
“That was really nice, Jimmy. Thank you.” She handed the ring back to me.
Next morning Jimmy walked into school and went directly over to Jackie’s desk. She sat there with Lisa and Cathy and T.J. and Ricky. “I’ve got something for you Jackie,” he said. Dead silence from the five.
“What would that be, Jimmy Wood?”
I pulled the ring out of my pocket like a rabbit out of a magician’s hat. “Look! For you!”
An audience of five hundred at a Flip Wilson concert couldn’t have laughed as loud as these five did. I turned red and ran away to my desk, put my head down and cried. Two minutes later, Jackie came up to me and smiled.
“That was really nice, Jimmy. Thank you.” She handed the ring back to me.
Chlorophyll (Photo #5)
Little Boy Jimmy tended the soil in Mom and Dad's front yard. They'd given him the job of preparing the beds surrounding the walkway from the driveway to the front steps. Jimmy evened out the soil and flattened the dirt. He knew he was supposed to call Dad when he'd gotten rid of all the weeds, cleaned out the beds, and evened everything out. Would be really nice, Jimmy thought, to have pachysandra around the walkway in the front yard. Just like the Donovans had, he thought, it made the house look really classy and elegant. A lot better than that untended green ivy that grew up the side of the house. Ugly, ugly stuff.
Jimmy thought pachysandra was spelled pack-a-Sandra. He hoped so, because his favorite little girl in elementary school was Sandra Del Prado. He'd love to get a pack of her, any time. He thought about Sandra's coffee hair, her brown skin, so different from his own pasty white red-headed freckled spastikness. Sandra liked him, too, but only to play pattycakes. Just like Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd, except without the funny punchline at the end.
Where was Daddy? He'd been done ten, fifteen minutes, so he decided to plant the pachysandra himself. One at a time. He put one in the ground. Then two. Before he knew it, twenty-five. And then a hundred were planted. Barely enough to cover a quarter of the bed he'd created for Mom and Dad. They would need more. They'd bought four hundred and if this is what a hundred of them covered, they'd need at least a thousand. Oh, and his lower back hurt from all the work! But he liked it, Little Boy Jimmy did.
Mom came outside and saw what he'd done. "Why, Jimmy! You started planting the pachysandra?" Her eyes rushed together and her pointy glasses jumped off her face. "But you planted them too close! Right on top of each other! Goodness gracious, we're going to have to dig them all up and started over again! Why can't you do anything right, Jimmy? Go to your room!"
Jimmy thought pachysandra was spelled pack-a-Sandra. He hoped so, because his favorite little girl in elementary school was Sandra Del Prado. He'd love to get a pack of her, any time. He thought about Sandra's coffee hair, her brown skin, so different from his own pasty white red-headed freckled spastikness. Sandra liked him, too, but only to play pattycakes. Just like Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd, except without the funny punchline at the end.
Where was Daddy? He'd been done ten, fifteen minutes, so he decided to plant the pachysandra himself. One at a time. He put one in the ground. Then two. Before he knew it, twenty-five. And then a hundred were planted. Barely enough to cover a quarter of the bed he'd created for Mom and Dad. They would need more. They'd bought four hundred and if this is what a hundred of them covered, they'd need at least a thousand. Oh, and his lower back hurt from all the work! But he liked it, Little Boy Jimmy did.
Mom came outside and saw what he'd done. "Why, Jimmy! You started planting the pachysandra?" Her eyes rushed together and her pointy glasses jumped off her face. "But you planted them too close! Right on top of each other! Goodness gracious, we're going to have to dig them all up and started over again! Why can't you do anything right, Jimmy? Go to your room!"
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Chlorophyll (Photo #5)
Little Boy Jimmy tended the soil in Mom and Dad's front yard. They'd given him the job of preparing the beds surrounding the walkway from the driveway to the front steps. Jimmy evened out the soil and flattened the dirt. He knew he was supposed to call Dad when he'd gotten rid of all the weeds, cleaned out the beds, and evened everything out. Would be really nice, Jimmy thought, to have pachysandra around the walkway in the front yard. Just like the Donovans had, he thought, it made the house look really classy and elegant. A lot better than that untended green ivy that grew up the side of the house. Ugly, ugly stuff.
Jimmy thought pachysandra was spelled pack-a-Sandra. He hoped so, because his favorite little girl in elementary school was Sandra Del Prado. He'd love to get a pack of her, any time. He thought about Sandra's coffee hair, her brown skin, so different from his own pasty white red-headed freckled spastikness. Sandra liked him, too, but only to play pattycakes. Just like Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd, except without the funny punchline at the end.
Where was Daddy? He'd been done ten, fifteen minutes, so he decided to plant the pachysandra himself. One at a time. He put one in the ground. Then two. Before he knew it, twenty-five. And then a hundred were planted. Barely enough to cover a quarter of the bed he'd created for Mom and Dad. They would need more. They'd bought four hundred and if this is what a hundred of them covered, they'd need at least a thousand. Oh, and his lower back hurt from all the work! But he liked it, Little Boy Jimmy did.
Mom came outside and saw what he'd done. "Why, Jimmy! You started planting the pachysandra?" Her eyes rushed together and her pointy glasses jumped off her face. "But you planted them too close! Right on top of each other! Goodness gracious, we're going to have to dig them all up and started over again! Why can't you do anything right, Jimmy? Go to your room!"
Jimmy thought pachysandra was spelled pack-a-Sandra. He hoped so, because his favorite little girl in elementary school was Sandra Del Prado. He'd love to get a pack of her, any time. He thought about Sandra's coffee hair, her brown skin, so different from his own pasty white red-headed freckled spastikness. Sandra liked him, too, but only to play pattycakes. Just like Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd, except without the funny punchline at the end.
Where was Daddy? He'd been done ten, fifteen minutes, so he decided to plant the pachysandra himself. One at a time. He put one in the ground. Then two. Before he knew it, twenty-five. And then a hundred were planted. Barely enough to cover a quarter of the bed he'd created for Mom and Dad. They would need more. They'd bought four hundred and if this is what a hundred of them covered, they'd need at least a thousand. Oh, and his lower back hurt from all the work! But he liked it, Little Boy Jimmy did.
Mom came outside and saw what he'd done. "Why, Jimmy! You started planting the pachysandra?" Her eyes rushed together and her pointy glasses jumped off her face. "But you planted them too close! Right on top of each other! Goodness gracious, we're going to have to dig them all up and started over again! Why can't you do anything right, Jimmy? Go to your room!"
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Surprise, surprise!
It’d gone so well. Jim wondered what went wrong. He’d taken his prototype to Erlangen and they’d all smiled and complimented his demo. Even the thin-lipped pasty-white bureaucrat with the polyester suit had said “well done” that day. Jim had a nasty post-nasal drip from the overseas flight that had worn his throat raw and made talking a chore – all the worse for the biting March winds that swept down the Bavarian plains. Even so, he’d made it all the way through his slides and shown the demo, a 3D animation of a brain scan.
He couldn’t believe his eyes a week after returning to Princeton. Dan sent him a message, saying the polyester tight-lipped manager had contacted him, weren’t happy with the results, and wanted to refocus the project – on color animation, not just black and white. Come to my office right now, Dan said. Must be serious, Jim thought. His boss never used that tone of voice in his e-mails.
Two minutes later Jim walked up to Dan’s office. Why’s Bob sitting in that chair by the door? He peeked in. They were all there, his colleagues in Dan’s group – with a big cake. “Surprise!” Today was April 1st. My birthday had been two days ago.
He couldn’t believe his eyes a week after returning to Princeton. Dan sent him a message, saying the polyester tight-lipped manager had contacted him, weren’t happy with the results, and wanted to refocus the project – on color animation, not just black and white. Come to my office right now, Dan said. Must be serious, Jim thought. His boss never used that tone of voice in his e-mails.
Two minutes later Jim walked up to Dan’s office. Why’s Bob sitting in that chair by the door? He peeked in. They were all there, his colleagues in Dan’s group – with a big cake. “Surprise!” Today was April 1st. My birthday had been two days ago.
Friday, August 19, 2011
I can do it
All the other seventh graders sat on the sidelines relaxing. They’d done it. But Mr. Groh, he wouldn’t let us go to the lockers to shower until I’d done it, too. Even twerpy Tommy Terwilliger had done one of them, but I couldn’t get it up enough to satisfy the coach. What my thirteen-year old libido wouldn’t do to satisfy the coach. He had the moustached look of a squat Mark Spitz and wore the short shorts to prove it. I’ll never forget the day he showed us how to stretch our legs. One leg in front, the other behind, I got a peek at a pink ball and some dark hair. Thirty-four years later I can still feel the excitement.
The boys were getting restless. “Hey Woody,” Nick Castelucci called out, “you can’t get it up! You wimpy little weasel!” Everyone, even twerpy Tommy, laughed. Damn those burn-outs, I thought. I’ll show them. I don’t know how but one day, I’ll show them who’s who.
Mr. Groh blew his whistle at the rowdy boys. One more try. I wanted to think about Beth – or Dana – or any of the other girls I liked. They were so cute and sweet, just like angels I wanted to worship. Beth wore her hair like Mary Tyler Moore did in Season 7. Dan wore her hair like Farrah Fawcett. But that didn’t do it for me, so I thought about Mr. Groh’s crotch. I grabbed the bar with my hands and I pulled up – no, I wasn’t going to make it – yes, I am going to make it – no I’m not going to make it – and then yes, I touched my chin on the bar.
The boys were getting restless. “Hey Woody,” Nick Castelucci called out, “you can’t get it up! You wimpy little weasel!” Everyone, even twerpy Tommy, laughed. Damn those burn-outs, I thought. I’ll show them. I don’t know how but one day, I’ll show them who’s who.
Mr. Groh blew his whistle at the rowdy boys. One more try. I wanted to think about Beth – or Dana – or any of the other girls I liked. They were so cute and sweet, just like angels I wanted to worship. Beth wore her hair like Mary Tyler Moore did in Season 7. Dan wore her hair like Farrah Fawcett. But that didn’t do it for me, so I thought about Mr. Groh’s crotch. I grabbed the bar with my hands and I pulled up – no, I wasn’t going to make it – yes, I am going to make it – no I’m not going to make it – and then yes, I touched my chin on the bar.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
What I can't write about
“Jim, I read your blog the other day. I think you’re making a huge mistake, talking about Mom and Dad. They might get wind of it and that would be really bad. Especially now that Mom is in a nursing home recovering from her stroke and Dad’s got so many issues with his memory. I’d really suggest you remove those posts. In fact, if you feel the need to write about your childhood, I’d encourage you to seek professional counseling with a therapist.”
Why thank you, Jeff. What a wonderful brother to think of me in this way! Never mind the fact that Mom has never used a computer and almost certainly never will, considering her current (and almost certainly permanent) disabilities. Never mind the fact that it’s become impossible for Dad to remember the link to any website, let alone a blog that I haven’t even mentioned to him. And never mind the fact that a really, really good writer will write from the heart. Whose advice was it, “write as if when your family reads it, they’ll never speak to you again?”
A generation ago, my parents had three sons – Gary, Jeff, and Jim. In that order or, to be more accurate, in that pecking order. Mom told Dad what to do. Dad told Gary what to do. Gary told Jeff what to do. And they all told Jim what to do. Jim grew up and decided to ignore the whole pecking order. Jim became very happy even when they all said, "That Jim! Such a rebellious one."
Why thank you, Jeff. What a wonderful brother to think of me in this way! Never mind the fact that Mom has never used a computer and almost certainly never will, considering her current (and almost certainly permanent) disabilities. Never mind the fact that it’s become impossible for Dad to remember the link to any website, let alone a blog that I haven’t even mentioned to him. And never mind the fact that a really, really good writer will write from the heart. Whose advice was it, “write as if when your family reads it, they’ll never speak to you again?”
A generation ago, my parents had three sons – Gary, Jeff, and Jim. In that order or, to be more accurate, in that pecking order. Mom told Dad what to do. Dad told Gary what to do. Gary told Jeff what to do. And they all told Jim what to do. Jim grew up and decided to ignore the whole pecking order. Jim became very happy even when they all said, "That Jim! Such a rebellious one."
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Looking up
Jim loved the matted texture of Josh's leg hair. He sat naked on the floor, looking up at Josh standing above him. Fair and red-headed went so well with swarthy Jewish, he marveled, looking up at the naked statue of a human that stood before him – the purplish scrotum, the taupe shaft, the mauve head, silhouetting the brown man’s dark chest, smooth pointed shoulders and Jewfroed head. Hook noses always gorgeified men.
Jim wouldn’t be Josh's age in eleven years. Thirty-three was so old, same age as Jesus when he was crucified, Jim thought during their third round of vanilla sex. Maybe they’d get to the real stuff soon, he hoped. He was getting tired of mutual masturbation and blow jobs. His erection intensified with the thought of going all the way with this hairy Jewish god.
He reached for the shaft and took it in his mouth. Looking up, he remembered Earlwood Road when he’d dropped those books of fairy tales down the stairs. He’d looked up the steps and Mom stood way up the stairs, yelling at him, “Pick up those books! Good Lord, look at the mess you’ve made!”
He continued to suck. But he looked down and his erection had dissipated. Gone, gone, gone, limp as raw sausage at the meat counter. He continued to suck, hoping Josh wouldn’t notice. The real stuff would have to wait.
Jim wouldn’t be Josh's age in eleven years. Thirty-three was so old, same age as Jesus when he was crucified, Jim thought during their third round of vanilla sex. Maybe they’d get to the real stuff soon, he hoped. He was getting tired of mutual masturbation and blow jobs. His erection intensified with the thought of going all the way with this hairy Jewish god.
He reached for the shaft and took it in his mouth. Looking up, he remembered Earlwood Road when he’d dropped those books of fairy tales down the stairs. He’d looked up the steps and Mom stood way up the stairs, yelling at him, “Pick up those books! Good Lord, look at the mess you’ve made!”
He continued to suck. But he looked down and his erection had dissipated. Gone, gone, gone, limp as raw sausage at the meat counter. He continued to suck, hoping Josh wouldn’t notice. The real stuff would have to wait.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Quitting
Wednesday at noon, Mr. Holste conducted the 8th grade band. They performed really well, the eight clarinetists, four flutists, two tromboners, three saxophonists, and that quirky oboista. I had a big crush on her, she was so Diane Chambers. I wanted to sit next to her in band, but today I had to tell Mr. Holste I couldn’t play the bass clarinet. I had to go back to the regular clarinet section with the other eight.
“You’re first chair, Jimmy! You shouldn’t give that up.”
Mom had issued her orders the previous evening. She didn’t want a bass clarinet squawking in the basement every night for 35 minutes. She wanted to hear a pretty clarinet after I finished practicing for my piano lesson. So I had to give up dreams of sitting next to my oboe diva and squawking out some squeaky mistakes in the bass clef and getting her to laugh. She had a pretty laugh.
But Mom had given the decree and I had to walk up to Mr. Holste and tell him I wouldn’t play the bass clarinet. He’d be so mad on me. He was depending on me to round out the musical group and I would be letting him down. I walked back and forth in the auditorium, then out to the lobby, then back in again. Maybe if I waited a while, the problem would go away. But it didn’t. I had to face the music.
“You’re first chair, Jimmy! You shouldn’t give that up.”
Mom had issued her orders the previous evening. She didn’t want a bass clarinet squawking in the basement every night for 35 minutes. She wanted to hear a pretty clarinet after I finished practicing for my piano lesson. So I had to give up dreams of sitting next to my oboe diva and squawking out some squeaky mistakes in the bass clef and getting her to laugh. She had a pretty laugh.
But Mom had given the decree and I had to walk up to Mr. Holste and tell him I wouldn’t play the bass clarinet. He’d be so mad on me. He was depending on me to round out the musical group and I would be letting him down. I walked back and forth in the auditorium, then out to the lobby, then back in again. Maybe if I waited a while, the problem would go away. But it didn’t. I had to face the music.
Comfort food
Grandma Adams pounded the dough for her mincemeat pie. Her 94 year old fingers looked like sausage and she wore surgical stockings under her paisley dress, but who cared that she didn't look like Farrah Fawcett? She made the best mincemeat pie, but her biscuits really knocked everyone's socks off. I stayed with Nanny and Granddad that Christmas week, a surprise gift for Nanny. She always liked one of the grandchildren to visit during the holidays and this year (Jimmy Carter's first year in office) with her own mother there as well and making the same mincemeat pie she'd done for the past seventy Christmases, she had a special treat. She sure did deserve it. Granddad's Alzheimer's was becoming unbearable (he'd started urinating in his pants and couldn't control his farting now) and her rheumatoid arthritis was making it hard for Nanny to get up and down the stairs.
I stayed in the third-floor bedroom with all of Granddad's models. It was fun, looking at those architect's renditions of houses -- especially that one from Chautauqua. Nanny and Granddad never came up those stairs anymore, so they had us grandkids run errands for them up and down the steep steps. They had three twin beds up there -- perfect for their two sets of three grandchildren. Mom and Dad had us three, Uncle Ralph and Aunt Evone had their own three. Didn't all parents have three children back in the '60s?
Nanny put the standing rib roast in the oven. It'd take two hours. Mom and Dad were coming over with Gary and Jeff. The sequoia green Chevy Caprice was expected to pull into the split driveway any moment now. Gosh, how I miss those days and those three, long since dead. Grandma Adams died in '78, Granddad in '82, and then Nanny in '83. I remember the smells of Grandma Adams's pies, Nanny's roasts, the fire in the fireplace. Nanny had put the logs on the fire herself -- arthritic fingers and all. Granddad no longer knew how to do it.
I stayed in the third-floor bedroom with all of Granddad's models. It was fun, looking at those architect's renditions of houses -- especially that one from Chautauqua. Nanny and Granddad never came up those stairs anymore, so they had us grandkids run errands for them up and down the steep steps. They had three twin beds up there -- perfect for their two sets of three grandchildren. Mom and Dad had us three, Uncle Ralph and Aunt Evone had their own three. Didn't all parents have three children back in the '60s?
Nanny put the standing rib roast in the oven. It'd take two hours. Mom and Dad were coming over with Gary and Jeff. The sequoia green Chevy Caprice was expected to pull into the split driveway any moment now. Gosh, how I miss those days and those three, long since dead. Grandma Adams died in '78, Granddad in '82, and then Nanny in '83. I remember the smells of Grandma Adams's pies, Nanny's roasts, the fire in the fireplace. Nanny had put the logs on the fire herself -- arthritic fingers and all. Granddad no longer knew how to do it.
Monday, August 15, 2011
Comfort food
Grandma Adams pounded the dough for her mincemeat pie. Her 94 year old fingers looked like sausage and she wore surgical stockings under her paisley dress, but who cared that she didn't look like Farrah Fawcett? She made the best mincemeat pie, but her biscuits really knocked everyone's socks off. I stayed with Nanny and Granddad that Christmas week, a surprise gift for Nanny. She always liked one of the grandchildren to visit during the holidays and this year (Jimmy Carter's first year in office) with her own mother there as well and making the same mincemeat pie she'd done for the past seventy Christmases, she had a special treat. She sure did deserve it. Granddad's Alzheimer's was becoming unbearable (he'd started urinating in his pants and couldn't control his farting now) and her rheumatoid arthritis was making it hard for Nanny to get up and down the stairs.
I stayed in the third-floor bedroom with all of Granddad's models. It was fun, looking at those architect's renditions of houses -- especially that one from Chautauqua. Nanny and Granddad never came up those stairs anymore, so they had us grandkids run errands for them up and down the steep steps. They had three twin beds up there -- perfect for their two sets of three grandchildren. Mom and Dad had us three, Uncle Ralph and Aunt Evone had their own three. Didn't all parents have three children back in the '60s?
Nanny put the standing rib roast in the oven. It'd take two hours. Mom and Dad were coming over with Gary and Jeff. The sequoia green Chevy Caprice was expected to pull into the split driveway any moment now. Gosh, how I miss those days and those three, long since dead. Grandma Adams died in '78, Granddad in '82, and then Nanny in '83. I remember the smells of Grandma Adams's pies, Nanny's roasts, the fire in the fireplace. Nanny had put the logs on the fire herself -- arthritic fingers and all. Granddad no longer knew how to do it.
I stayed in the third-floor bedroom with all of Granddad's models. It was fun, looking at those architect's renditions of houses -- especially that one from Chautauqua. Nanny and Granddad never came up those stairs anymore, so they had us grandkids run errands for them up and down the steep steps. They had three twin beds up there -- perfect for their two sets of three grandchildren. Mom and Dad had us three, Uncle Ralph and Aunt Evone had their own three. Didn't all parents have three children back in the '60s?
Nanny put the standing rib roast in the oven. It'd take two hours. Mom and Dad were coming over with Gary and Jeff. The sequoia green Chevy Caprice was expected to pull into the split driveway any moment now. Gosh, how I miss those days and those three, long since dead. Grandma Adams died in '78, Granddad in '82, and then Nanny in '83. I remember the smells of Grandma Adams's pies, Nanny's roasts, the fire in the fireplace. Nanny had put the logs on the fire herself -- arthritic fingers and all. Granddad no longer knew how to do it.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Latina at the bus stop
I tapped a Solitaire game out on my cellphone. I’d gone to the Muni website and checked out the schedule. The 33 wouldn’t come for another 15 minutes, so I had time to play enough games to win at least one of them. A round Latina sat on the stool next to me. She folded her hands on the raggedy purse that lay in her lap like a baby.
I’d had a busy day at Google. Took the 6:45 shuttle, submitted a bunch of changes to my software on the bus, got them done before it pulled into the Mountain View campus. Always nice to start the day off running. I refueled at the microkitchen – mocha café, a Naked blue blaster, and blueberry jogurt. That’s jogurt with a J, by the way. At 8:30 I had a meeting with Marc and then ran away with the day. Look at the daily performance trends. Write a new Python script to collect different stats. Get to that design document. Write an appraisal on the summer intern’s work. At 2:30 the divorce lawyer called. He had the documents ready for me to sign.
I took the shuttle back to San Francisco and went straight to the gym at 9th and Brannan. Lovely work-out, the magic number today was 24. Did 24 minutes on the elliptical, my floor exercises – leg work and abs – each with 24 reps. Then I lifted weights, 24 sets of chest and shoulders. Hit the showers and the steam room. No one really good-looking in there, just a few turkey lurkeys.
I stood at the bus stop playing my Solitaire – seven rounds, still no win. The 33 would come in 3, maybe 4 minutes. Let’s give Solitaire another try, maybe I’ll win before the bus comes. I know I can do it. Looked over at the Latina, sitting there, her hands still folded over her purse, a calm smile on her face. She looked at me.
I’d had a busy day at Google. Took the 6:45 shuttle, submitted a bunch of changes to my software on the bus, got them done before it pulled into the Mountain View campus. Always nice to start the day off running. I refueled at the microkitchen – mocha café, a Naked blue blaster, and blueberry jogurt. That’s jogurt with a J, by the way. At 8:30 I had a meeting with Marc and then ran away with the day. Look at the daily performance trends. Write a new Python script to collect different stats. Get to that design document. Write an appraisal on the summer intern’s work. At 2:30 the divorce lawyer called. He had the documents ready for me to sign.
I took the shuttle back to San Francisco and went straight to the gym at 9th and Brannan. Lovely work-out, the magic number today was 24. Did 24 minutes on the elliptical, my floor exercises – leg work and abs – each with 24 reps. Then I lifted weights, 24 sets of chest and shoulders. Hit the showers and the steam room. No one really good-looking in there, just a few turkey lurkeys.
I stood at the bus stop playing my Solitaire – seven rounds, still no win. The 33 would come in 3, maybe 4 minutes. Let’s give Solitaire another try, maybe I’ll win before the bus comes. I know I can do it. Looked over at the Latina, sitting there, her hands still folded over her purse, a calm smile on her face. She looked at me.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
I am no longer afraid of it
I tossed the sheets and blankets on the floor. We’d gotten a sticky grease on the contour, so I wondered if I needed to wash the mattress pad, too – no, the stains didn’t make their way through. He wouldn’t find out from the mattress pad alone. It took a minute to remove the pillowcases. They liked cocooning the pillows and didn’t want to give, but I won in the end.
I took the dirty sheets down to the laundry room. I stood there for the entire cycle and watched them through the round glass window. Hot water steamed into the machine. Frothy white soap squirted into the water. The white sheets and their milky stains surrendered. Forty minutes later I put them in the dryer.
I’d have to tell him, of course. Upstairs I picked out the new sheets, white with navy blue stripes. When he came home from Florida he’d make a happy remark and then I’d blurt it out like I always did. How could he complain? He hadn’t given himself to me in a year. I had to find it somewhere.
I fitted the contour on the mattress. I made hospital corners with the top sheet, patted the sheets flat down. Not a wrinkle anywhere. Funny how the pillowcases went – the pillows didn’t want to let go of the pillowcases when I tried to remove them, but they sure didn’t cooperate when I tried to stuff them into the new ones. When I lay the pillows on the bed, two for him and two for me, I stepped back and looked at the bed. Our bed was back in order.
I took the dirty sheets down to the laundry room. I stood there for the entire cycle and watched them through the round glass window. Hot water steamed into the machine. Frothy white soap squirted into the water. The white sheets and their milky stains surrendered. Forty minutes later I put them in the dryer.
I’d have to tell him, of course. Upstairs I picked out the new sheets, white with navy blue stripes. When he came home from Florida he’d make a happy remark and then I’d blurt it out like I always did. How could he complain? He hadn’t given himself to me in a year. I had to find it somewhere.
I fitted the contour on the mattress. I made hospital corners with the top sheet, patted the sheets flat down. Not a wrinkle anywhere. Funny how the pillowcases went – the pillows didn’t want to let go of the pillowcases when I tried to remove them, but they sure didn’t cooperate when I tried to stuff them into the new ones. When I lay the pillows on the bed, two for him and two for me, I stepped back and looked at the bed. Our bed was back in order.
Friday, August 12, 2011
On the kitchen counter
"What's that foul smell?" I asked Giles.
"Sounds like the turkey's burnt to a crsip!"
"Oh my God, what have we done?" We both rushed out to the kitchen. Giles slipped on the shiny white tiles of our nouveau kitchen and his 300-pound whale of a body fell flat on its face. I jumped over his pile of blubber and ran to the stove, opened it, grabbed the turkey roaster with my bare hands.
"O O O O U U U U C C C C H H H H !!!!"
I turned around ... jumped back over Giles, struggling to get to his feet ... ran over to the sink, put my burned fingers under cold water.
"Thank the Lord!"
"Serves you right, you cretin!" Giles stood up, glared at me, limped over to the stove, pulled the oven mitts off their hooks, pulled the turkey out of the oven.
"Looks like Wiley Coyote after a bomb's exploded under ‘im."
What were we going to do now? We had the Contessa Louisa de Pretenza in the formal salon, holding court with Letitia Cosgrove, Cornelius Armstrong, Bunny Havers, the Underwoods, the de Gooches, and the Huntingdon-Worthingtons. And here we were -- trying to impress the haut polloi, a burned turkey, my fingers about to blister like crazy, 300-pound Giles limping, smoke billowing out of the stove. What else could go wrong?
The kitchen door swung open. "Giles, Freddie, come right away! Your dog's urinated on Contessa Louisa!"
"Oh, no!"
"Saints preserve us!"
We waddled out to the salon, my hands wrapped in wet rags, Giles limping on an injured foot, found Whizzer baring his teeth at the contessa. Why, oh why, hadn't we put him in the basement for the evening? Oh, the barking -- that's why. He'd have barked his Italian greyhound head off from the basement, ruining our lovely evening with the countess. And there she was -- her Hedda Hopper hat, square on her head, her full-length dress with a yellow Rorschach-blotted stain just below the knees.
Giles grabbed Whizzer and retreated down the hallway to the stairs.
"Dear Contessa, are you wet? Did he raise his leg? I'm soooooooooooooooo sorry ... how can I ever apologize enough, dear Contessa?"
"No problem, this is only the dress I wore to my first social occasion after marrying my dear, departed husband, the Count de Pretenza. No problem whatsoever!"
She raised her eyebrows ,broadcasting her disgust with us ... right over to Letitia Cosgrove. Letitia, that small-minded bigot, wrote the gossip column for the A-listers of Sag Harbor.
We were FINISHED.
"Sounds like the turkey's burnt to a crsip!"
"Oh my God, what have we done?" We both rushed out to the kitchen. Giles slipped on the shiny white tiles of our nouveau kitchen and his 300-pound whale of a body fell flat on its face. I jumped over his pile of blubber and ran to the stove, opened it, grabbed the turkey roaster with my bare hands.
"O O O O U U U U C C C C H H H H !!!!"
I turned around ... jumped back over Giles, struggling to get to his feet ... ran over to the sink, put my burned fingers under cold water.
"Thank the Lord!"
"Serves you right, you cretin!" Giles stood up, glared at me, limped over to the stove, pulled the oven mitts off their hooks, pulled the turkey out of the oven.
"Looks like Wiley Coyote after a bomb's exploded under ‘im."
What were we going to do now? We had the Contessa Louisa de Pretenza in the formal salon, holding court with Letitia Cosgrove, Cornelius Armstrong, Bunny Havers, the Underwoods, the de Gooches, and the Huntingdon-Worthingtons. And here we were -- trying to impress the haut polloi, a burned turkey, my fingers about to blister like crazy, 300-pound Giles limping, smoke billowing out of the stove. What else could go wrong?
The kitchen door swung open. "Giles, Freddie, come right away! Your dog's urinated on Contessa Louisa!"
"Oh, no!"
"Saints preserve us!"
We waddled out to the salon, my hands wrapped in wet rags, Giles limping on an injured foot, found Whizzer baring his teeth at the contessa. Why, oh why, hadn't we put him in the basement for the evening? Oh, the barking -- that's why. He'd have barked his Italian greyhound head off from the basement, ruining our lovely evening with the countess. And there she was -- her Hedda Hopper hat, square on her head, her full-length dress with a yellow Rorschach-blotted stain just below the knees.
Giles grabbed Whizzer and retreated down the hallway to the stairs.
"Dear Contessa, are you wet? Did he raise his leg? I'm soooooooooooooooo sorry ... how can I ever apologize enough, dear Contessa?"
"No problem, this is only the dress I wore to my first social occasion after marrying my dear, departed husband, the Count de Pretenza. No problem whatsoever!"
She raised her eyebrows ,broadcasting her disgust with us ... right over to Letitia Cosgrove. Letitia, that small-minded bigot, wrote the gossip column for the A-listers of Sag Harbor.
We were FINISHED.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
In fashion
The Floridiettas stomped down the garage parkway in their tight white dresses, blue high heels. Their blonde sheens echoed the reflection off the platinum lipstick and the melon breasts. They walked into the Delano to meet Dominick, Esteban, and Carlos.
The Floridiots stood at the bar. Black, black, and more black, they sipped their shiny martinis in the glow of the backlight. Their bronze skin and their Versace belts browned the black ambience – intentional, the Floridiettas knew, so their white and blue would stand out and make their silicone breasts pop out in all their Dr. Zhorvack glory. Everyone … everyone who mattered … had their breasts done by Dr. Zhorvack. If only they could find someone to do their lips right.
A mousy redhead watched the Floridiettas sashay on up to the Floridiots. All six air-kissed one another (that’s 15 pairs of fake kisses, she thought) and each gave the Delano lobby a 5-foot high horizontal scan. Who’s pretty here and when are they going to notice me … each of the six thought, the mousy redhead knew.
She turned her nose back to “Middlemarch.” A hell of a lot more fun reading about the adventures of Dorothea and Will than watching the Floridiots and Floridiettas assert their Floriprimacy here at the Delano. That’s pronounced De-LAN-o, she’d been told. Not DEL-a-no as in the 32nd president of the United States.
Our mousy redhead couldn’t wait to get back to Pittsburgh. Why did Mama always insist she stay at the expensive hotels when she came to visit Granny?
The Floridiots stood at the bar. Black, black, and more black, they sipped their shiny martinis in the glow of the backlight. Their bronze skin and their Versace belts browned the black ambience – intentional, the Floridiettas knew, so their white and blue would stand out and make their silicone breasts pop out in all their Dr. Zhorvack glory. Everyone … everyone who mattered … had their breasts done by Dr. Zhorvack. If only they could find someone to do their lips right.
A mousy redhead watched the Floridiettas sashay on up to the Floridiots. All six air-kissed one another (that’s 15 pairs of fake kisses, she thought) and each gave the Delano lobby a 5-foot high horizontal scan. Who’s pretty here and when are they going to notice me … each of the six thought, the mousy redhead knew.
She turned her nose back to “Middlemarch.” A hell of a lot more fun reading about the adventures of Dorothea and Will than watching the Floridiots and Floridiettas assert their Floriprimacy here at the Delano. That’s pronounced De-LAN-o, she’d been told. Not DEL-a-no as in the 32nd president of the United States.
Our mousy redhead couldn’t wait to get back to Pittsburgh. Why did Mama always insist she stay at the expensive hotels when she came to visit Granny?
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
The obstacle
You asked me this morning why I was so affectionate, not that you were complaining. I lay awake since 4:00, you by my side, trying to answer your question. Is there anything more to my love than sex, you wondered.
My heart melts at the thought of you, but it’s not because you’ve got a shapely foot or luscious curves. It’s because I see your sensitive, vulnerable side, the side that tells me what it was like when your mother forgot to pick you up from school, what you felt like when boys picked on you at school, how your father treated your sister when she started dating. Your sensitive side … it wraps around my heart with a cozy warmth.
It’s because you make me laugh more than anyone else. I burst out laughing when you tell me the Plantation capers of Mike and Mike. I laugh when you spit out that Marie Curreri accent that comes from the sewers of Brooklyn. I laugh when you poke fun at my insecurities, my complete lack of common sense, and my intellectual inconsistencies. Your funny side … it excites me and tickles the ends of my nerves.
Your enthusiasm for travel, for ocean liners, for places yet unseen, for exquisite hotels, for your home and the homes of those you love, your dedication to your family – I treasure your enthusiasm for new experiences, and I love most of all that you want me to share in your pleasure for those things. We’ve been to Spain, Portugal, Germany, Austria, the Czech Republic, and seventeen of the United States together. We’ve renovated our home, though we still have much to do. We’ve been a part of each other’s families for years. Your companionate side … it makes me feel like we’re our own family unit.
There’s our daily routine, our breakfasts. When you go to Whole Foods and get beets, leeks, carrots, cilantro, shrimp, and all the ingredients that go into a fabulous meal that’s healthy, wealthy, and wise, that makes me feel good. When we play cards at night, when we watch old Bette Davis movies, when we debate the merits of Davis v. Hepburn, de Havilland v. Leigh, that makes me feel like, “Hey, I’m really not all that queer at all.” Your domestic side … it makes me feel safe and secure.
I’m a creative writer, I’m a pianist, and I’m a software engineer. I’ve got this insatiable need to express my feelings, my thoughts, and my love. When this need gets suppressed for too long a period of time, the frustration begins to creep into other places. The room grows a little colder.
You’re the center of my life, the one and only person I’ve chosen to love. I have sex with you to express all the different facets of my love for you. Without those other things, we’d have fizzled long ago. We’d have had a six-week affair that we’d have recounted to friends, “Hot guy, pretty good in bed. You should give him a try.” Instead, it’s been eight years.
My heart melts at the thought of you, but it’s not because you’ve got a shapely foot or luscious curves. It’s because I see your sensitive, vulnerable side, the side that tells me what it was like when your mother forgot to pick you up from school, what you felt like when boys picked on you at school, how your father treated your sister when she started dating. Your sensitive side … it wraps around my heart with a cozy warmth.
It’s because you make me laugh more than anyone else. I burst out laughing when you tell me the Plantation capers of Mike and Mike. I laugh when you spit out that Marie Curreri accent that comes from the sewers of Brooklyn. I laugh when you poke fun at my insecurities, my complete lack of common sense, and my intellectual inconsistencies. Your funny side … it excites me and tickles the ends of my nerves.
Your enthusiasm for travel, for ocean liners, for places yet unseen, for exquisite hotels, for your home and the homes of those you love, your dedication to your family – I treasure your enthusiasm for new experiences, and I love most of all that you want me to share in your pleasure for those things. We’ve been to Spain, Portugal, Germany, Austria, the Czech Republic, and seventeen of the United States together. We’ve renovated our home, though we still have much to do. We’ve been a part of each other’s families for years. Your companionate side … it makes me feel like we’re our own family unit.
There’s our daily routine, our breakfasts. When you go to Whole Foods and get beets, leeks, carrots, cilantro, shrimp, and all the ingredients that go into a fabulous meal that’s healthy, wealthy, and wise, that makes me feel good. When we play cards at night, when we watch old Bette Davis movies, when we debate the merits of Davis v. Hepburn, de Havilland v. Leigh, that makes me feel like, “Hey, I’m really not all that queer at all.” Your domestic side … it makes me feel safe and secure.
I’m a creative writer, I’m a pianist, and I’m a software engineer. I’ve got this insatiable need to express my feelings, my thoughts, and my love. When this need gets suppressed for too long a period of time, the frustration begins to creep into other places. The room grows a little colder.
You’re the center of my life, the one and only person I’ve chosen to love. I have sex with you to express all the different facets of my love for you. Without those other things, we’d have fizzled long ago. We’d have had a six-week affair that we’d have recounted to friends, “Hot guy, pretty good in bed. You should give him a try.” Instead, it’s been eight years.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Taco Los ... and a purple door (Photo #3)
“Family, we’re dining out tonight.”
“Where, Mom? Big Boy? Eat ‘n’ Park? Steak Town?”
“We should try something different. There’s a new restaurant in Plum Borough called Taco Los Mexicanos.”
“What kind of food is that, Mom?”
“It’s Mexican.”
“Eeeewwww! What kind of food do they eat? Little hamburgers with sombreros?”
“Don’t be silly, Jimmy. I heard about it from Mrs. Schramm. It’s all the rage these days, going to ethnic restaurants. There’s a new Chinese restaurant called the Plastic Pagoda opening on Rodi Road. And a Japanese restaurant with real-life warriors brandishing swords while they cook your steak and shrimp in front of you, it’s opening up on Beulah Road. This one’s at 735 Verona Road. You can have tacos and Mexican jumping beans and guacamole?”
“What’s Gwackermoldy?”
“It’s guacamole and it’s a delicious green sauce made out of avocados. Yummy!”
“Eeeewwww! I want to go to Eat ‘n’ Park.”
Pittsburgh days.
“Where, Mom? Big Boy? Eat ‘n’ Park? Steak Town?”
“We should try something different. There’s a new restaurant in Plum Borough called Taco Los Mexicanos.”
“What kind of food is that, Mom?”
“It’s Mexican.”
“Eeeewwww! What kind of food do they eat? Little hamburgers with sombreros?”
“Don’t be silly, Jimmy. I heard about it from Mrs. Schramm. It’s all the rage these days, going to ethnic restaurants. There’s a new Chinese restaurant called the Plastic Pagoda opening on Rodi Road. And a Japanese restaurant with real-life warriors brandishing swords while they cook your steak and shrimp in front of you, it’s opening up on Beulah Road. This one’s at 735 Verona Road. You can have tacos and Mexican jumping beans and guacamole?”
“What’s Gwackermoldy?”
“It’s guacamole and it’s a delicious green sauce made out of avocados. Yummy!”
“Eeeewwww! I want to go to Eat ‘n’ Park.”
Pittsburgh days.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
A baby
Betty and Allen brought Baby Jimmy home from the hospital on the first Friday in April. Nanny greeted them at the front door with a smile on her face and a martini in her hand. “Welcome home, Son Number Three!”
“Mother, would you like to hold Jimmy? He’s slobbered on my dress and I’d like to clean it up.”
“Oh, I think you can persuade a happy grandmother to hold her fourth grandson! And in just a few months I’ll have a fifth grandchild!”
Not really, Betty thought – their real grandmother is dead. Jeff came running downstairs. “Nanny, Nanny, would you read to me?”
“Jeff, I’m holding your baby brother. Come take a look at Jimmy!”
“Oh, he’s all right. But would you read to me?”
A few hours later Gary came home from the first grade. “Mommy, where’s the baby? Where’s Jimmy?”
“Upstairs in his crib, Gary. Now you be gentle. He’s sleeping.”
Two minutes later, Gary came down the stairs. He moped about the living room. “Mommy, he’s so small and so wrinkled. I wanted to take him outside and play basketball with him.”
“Mother, would you like to hold Jimmy? He’s slobbered on my dress and I’d like to clean it up.”
“Oh, I think you can persuade a happy grandmother to hold her fourth grandson! And in just a few months I’ll have a fifth grandchild!”
Not really, Betty thought – their real grandmother is dead. Jeff came running downstairs. “Nanny, Nanny, would you read to me?”
“Jeff, I’m holding your baby brother. Come take a look at Jimmy!”
“Oh, he’s all right. But would you read to me?”
A few hours later Gary came home from the first grade. “Mommy, where’s the baby? Where’s Jimmy?”
“Upstairs in his crib, Gary. Now you be gentle. He’s sleeping.”
Two minutes later, Gary came down the stairs. He moped about the living room. “Mommy, he’s so small and so wrinkled. I wanted to take him outside and play basketball with him.”
Friday, August 5, 2011
Obama
Your politician doesn’t get elected, just wait four years, eight if you’re unlucky. Thanksgiving 2004 I’d already had a martini at some nameless suburban chain restaurant with my parents and my brother’s family. Everyone laughed, everyone told funny stories, everyone resurrected happy memories of good times through the years. After I started my second martini, Mom did it.
“Jim,” she asked, “what did you think about the election?”
She broke the rule. I took a sip of my martini.
“Mother,” I reprimanded with the nicest voice I could muster, “you know the rule. We don’t talk politics with each other. No exceptions.”
She persisted, no – she insisted. She loved my sense of history, she said, she wanted to know what I think. That didn’t work, so she used a different argument. I felt her needles prick my skin, I felt her Jungle Red-painted fingernails stabbing me in the back. And I felt her wagging her index finger in disapproval, echoing the refrain from my childhood, “You’re a bad boy, Jimmy Wood.”
All right, I thought, my anger spilling over into my drink, she can have the truth. So I gave it to her. I told her Bush was a killer, an idiot, and a liar. I told her the election was a travesty and like 2000, Bush had stolen the election from a good man – a really good man, this time. I told him he’d sullied the reputation of a military hero who’d had the courage to go to Vietnam when he acted the coward. And I told her that Bush was on his way to becoming the worst president ever.
“I can’t believe this,” she answered. “None of my sons has ever spoken to me in this manner.”
“Jim,” she asked, “what did you think about the election?”
She broke the rule. I took a sip of my martini.
“Mother,” I reprimanded with the nicest voice I could muster, “you know the rule. We don’t talk politics with each other. No exceptions.”
She persisted, no – she insisted. She loved my sense of history, she said, she wanted to know what I think. That didn’t work, so she used a different argument. I felt her needles prick my skin, I felt her Jungle Red-painted fingernails stabbing me in the back. And I felt her wagging her index finger in disapproval, echoing the refrain from my childhood, “You’re a bad boy, Jimmy Wood.”
All right, I thought, my anger spilling over into my drink, she can have the truth. So I gave it to her. I told her Bush was a killer, an idiot, and a liar. I told her the election was a travesty and like 2000, Bush had stolen the election from a good man – a really good man, this time. I told him he’d sullied the reputation of a military hero who’d had the courage to go to Vietnam when he acted the coward. And I told her that Bush was on his way to becoming the worst president ever.
“I can’t believe this,” she answered. “None of my sons has ever spoken to me in this manner.”
Thursday, August 4, 2011
It makes me mad
We tread water in the deep end of the pool. Six of us were getting our lifeguard certifications that summer. We were at the age when you just couldn’t wait to get your pubic hairs. Well, one of the six had gotten his pubic hairs. He’d grown taller and had curvy biceps, a tight stomach, big chest with quarter-sized nipples and a bubble butt I really liked. Norman said hello to me before that day’s session in the locker room. He was changing out of a jock strap and into his Speedo when I noticed the wet hair on his legs.
For the endurance part of our certification we all had to tread water for ten minutes. After five minutes someone came up behind me and dunked me down into the water. Down I went but right back up I came. Then I got dunked a second time. Down I went but right back up I came. Everyone laugh. Even Jan laughed and I’d thought she was my friend. Then I turned around and Norman treaded water right behind me.
“Wasn’t me, little Jimmy Wood.”
Norman made out with his girlfriend on the sidewalk I had to walk by for my mother to pick me up. Norman lived in the nicest neighborhood of Penn Hills. Norman’s father always held the gun at swim meets and said on your mark, get set, bang. Norman did lots of bad things to me that summer, and lots of other summers.
It made me mad so I put a curse on him. His father got arrested and went to jail on embezzlement charges. His mother got a divorce and they sold their ritzy house. Norman became the school’s biggest drug dealer and got into a lot of trouble. I’m not mad anymore.
For the endurance part of our certification we all had to tread water for ten minutes. After five minutes someone came up behind me and dunked me down into the water. Down I went but right back up I came. Then I got dunked a second time. Down I went but right back up I came. Everyone laugh. Even Jan laughed and I’d thought she was my friend. Then I turned around and Norman treaded water right behind me.
“Wasn’t me, little Jimmy Wood.”
Norman made out with his girlfriend on the sidewalk I had to walk by for my mother to pick me up. Norman lived in the nicest neighborhood of Penn Hills. Norman’s father always held the gun at swim meets and said on your mark, get set, bang. Norman did lots of bad things to me that summer, and lots of other summers.
It made me mad so I put a curse on him. His father got arrested and went to jail on embezzlement charges. His mother got a divorce and they sold their ritzy house. Norman became the school’s biggest drug dealer and got into a lot of trouble. I’m not mad anymore.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Walk through the door
Our family scattered around the house after church on Sunday morning. No one really had anything to do. Mom and Gary were watching TV. Dad was upstairs at his desk. Jeff and I were in the kitchen when he rifled through Mom’s wallet and grabbed four quarters. He stacked them on the edge of his elbow.
“Jeff, you’re not allowed to play quarters!”
“Yes, I am!”
“No, you’re not. Mom outlawed the game. I’m going to tell her.”
“Oh, yeah? How are you going to prove it?”
I looked at Jeff on one side of the kitchen. I saw Mom’s opened purse on the desk. It was closer to the door than Jeff was. No need to plan it ... I darted for the purse like Wile Coyote for an anvil. I ran out of the kitchen into the dining room – almost went right through the basement door, Jeff in hot pursuit six feet behind me – passed the dining room table, went around the stereophonic system, then into the living room right past the stone fireplace. Then I felt a tug on the back of my shirt. Jeff caught up with me and then it all went fuzzy.
I woke up crying in the bathroom, saw blood everywhere on my hands, on my face, and I had a terrible headache. I was sitting on the toilet and everyone stood around me, looking at my head.
Mom held a white – no, a red – towel on my head. “Looks like a deep cut in the head. He’ll have to get stitches. Jeff, how’d this happen?”
“Well, Jimmy was running around the house. He shouldn’t have been!”
“Allen, let’s get Jimmy to Columbia Hospital. This needs to be stitched up right away or he’ll bleed to death. I’ll get to the bottom of this when we get home.”
Mom got to the bottom of it, all right. She always got to the bottom of everything. Hercule Poirot, Miss Marple, Columbo, Jack Friday – they had nothing on Mom. For his punishment, Jeff had to play a game of “Landslide” with me after we got home from the hospital.
“Jeff, you’re not allowed to play quarters!”
“Yes, I am!”
“No, you’re not. Mom outlawed the game. I’m going to tell her.”
“Oh, yeah? How are you going to prove it?”
I looked at Jeff on one side of the kitchen. I saw Mom’s opened purse on the desk. It was closer to the door than Jeff was. No need to plan it ... I darted for the purse like Wile Coyote for an anvil. I ran out of the kitchen into the dining room – almost went right through the basement door, Jeff in hot pursuit six feet behind me – passed the dining room table, went around the stereophonic system, then into the living room right past the stone fireplace. Then I felt a tug on the back of my shirt. Jeff caught up with me and then it all went fuzzy.
I woke up crying in the bathroom, saw blood everywhere on my hands, on my face, and I had a terrible headache. I was sitting on the toilet and everyone stood around me, looking at my head.
Mom held a white – no, a red – towel on my head. “Looks like a deep cut in the head. He’ll have to get stitches. Jeff, how’d this happen?”
“Well, Jimmy was running around the house. He shouldn’t have been!”
“Allen, let’s get Jimmy to Columbia Hospital. This needs to be stitched up right away or he’ll bleed to death. I’ll get to the bottom of this when we get home.”
Mom got to the bottom of it, all right. She always got to the bottom of everything. Hercule Poirot, Miss Marple, Columbo, Jack Friday – they had nothing on Mom. For his punishment, Jeff had to play a game of “Landslide” with me after we got home from the hospital.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
I am determined
Six-month old Jimmy rattled the rails of his crib. He wanted out! He wanted out! He used his upper arms to pull on the rails but he wasn’t strong enough, not yet at least. His mommy towered over him with her polyester summer bathrobe and her pointy silver glasses. She scared Jimmy, she was so tall and he was so little. He wished his mommy was more his size.
Then a really, really long month passed that took forever. Jimmy was now seven months old and he could crawl around on the floor and in his crib. Jimmy didn’t take naps so he spent a lot of time crawling around the perimeter of his crib, but of course Jimmy didn’t know what a perimeter was. Jimmy didn’t even speak sentences yet, just cooing and cawing like most seven-month old babies did. He smiled a lot, even if he spent afternoons awake crawling around in his crib.
Then an even longer month passed and Jimmy was now eight months old. Jimmy could practically stand and his arms were getting stronger. He could lift himself up with his arms on the rails of his crib and he could almost – almost, but not quite – almost climb up the rails. He wanted out!
Every day Jimmy practiced and practiced lifting himself up and out. Mommy watched TV in the afternoons. She ran around the house all morning doing Gosh darn only knows what and then she settled down in the afternoon for something on TV about the sands of time and a funny looking blue hourglass. Jimmy kept practicing because he wanted out.
They had Christmas and they had New Year’s and it was now January 1964. Jimmy got stronger with all the attention from his grandparents during the holidays and Jimmy knew, it wouldn’t be long before he climbed out of the crib. So one day, when Mommy was watching her soap operas about the sands of time and the funny blue hourglass, Jimmy climbed and climbed and huffed and puffed and pulled and pushed and reached the top. But then he fell back and cried and Mommy came over and picked him up and put him back. He started over, climbed and climbed, huffed and puffed, pulled and pushed. This time when he reached the top over he went!
And he was free, but then he didn’t know what to do on the other side except cry for his mommy.
Then a really, really long month passed that took forever. Jimmy was now seven months old and he could crawl around on the floor and in his crib. Jimmy didn’t take naps so he spent a lot of time crawling around the perimeter of his crib, but of course Jimmy didn’t know what a perimeter was. Jimmy didn’t even speak sentences yet, just cooing and cawing like most seven-month old babies did. He smiled a lot, even if he spent afternoons awake crawling around in his crib.
Then an even longer month passed and Jimmy was now eight months old. Jimmy could practically stand and his arms were getting stronger. He could lift himself up with his arms on the rails of his crib and he could almost – almost, but not quite – almost climb up the rails. He wanted out!
Every day Jimmy practiced and practiced lifting himself up and out. Mommy watched TV in the afternoons. She ran around the house all morning doing Gosh darn only knows what and then she settled down in the afternoon for something on TV about the sands of time and a funny looking blue hourglass. Jimmy kept practicing because he wanted out.
They had Christmas and they had New Year’s and it was now January 1964. Jimmy got stronger with all the attention from his grandparents during the holidays and Jimmy knew, it wouldn’t be long before he climbed out of the crib. So one day, when Mommy was watching her soap operas about the sands of time and the funny blue hourglass, Jimmy climbed and climbed and huffed and puffed and pulled and pushed and reached the top. But then he fell back and cried and Mommy came over and picked him up and put him back. He started over, climbed and climbed, huffed and puffed, pulled and pushed. This time when he reached the top over he went!
And he was free, but then he didn’t know what to do on the other side except cry for his mommy.
Monday, August 1, 2011
If only
Little Boy Jimmy made a costume play about a woman who grew up to be a very nice little old lady. Her name was Mary and she lived in Pittsburgh. She played the piano really well and taught both her children how to play, but only her daughter stayed with it. Her son learned how to play the violin with his father.
Mary had sharp opinions that made people mad and she often got herself caught between her husband and her family. By the time her older daughter was seven, she thought about leaving. But she stayed because she loved her husband and she loved her children. Then her son got sick with the same rheumatic fever she’d had as a child and her daughter got sick with scarlet fever. This all happened when war came and they had to ration. Her husband almost went to war, but he didn’t because he was too old. Then peace came and they moved into a nice house in a nice neighborhood with a nice school district.
Then her daughter went to college and her son went to college and her husband got promotion after promotion at work and they started to buy things. Mary saw the wrinkles edging around her forty-ish eyes but she didn’t mind. Mary’s family moved away to Washington and to Baltimore, so with her children out of the house, it was just the two of them. She was happy.
Then her daughter got married to a really nice man with good manners and started having sons and moved to California but moved back to Pittsburgh. And her son got married but he moved to Rhode Island. She got to see her grandchildren lots and lots and her favorite was her daughter’s youngest, Little Boy Jimmy. They grew up and started to go to college and she attended all their graduations.
And then her husband developed Alzheimer’s and after ten years she buried him, wept at the graveside where she’d eventually be buried. But she soldiered on, arthritis in her joints never stopping her from playing the piano and playing with her dogs. Ten years later Mary died in her sleep. She’d been planning a train ride to Philadelphia the next morning to visit Little Boy Jimmy who grew up and moved away, too.
If only life had happened this way for Mary, but when her daughter was seven, she had no say in the matter about leaving her husband and children. She died of heart failure three months before her thirtieth birthday.
Mary had sharp opinions that made people mad and she often got herself caught between her husband and her family. By the time her older daughter was seven, she thought about leaving. But she stayed because she loved her husband and she loved her children. Then her son got sick with the same rheumatic fever she’d had as a child and her daughter got sick with scarlet fever. This all happened when war came and they had to ration. Her husband almost went to war, but he didn’t because he was too old. Then peace came and they moved into a nice house in a nice neighborhood with a nice school district.
Then her daughter went to college and her son went to college and her husband got promotion after promotion at work and they started to buy things. Mary saw the wrinkles edging around her forty-ish eyes but she didn’t mind. Mary’s family moved away to Washington and to Baltimore, so with her children out of the house, it was just the two of them. She was happy.
Then her daughter got married to a really nice man with good manners and started having sons and moved to California but moved back to Pittsburgh. And her son got married but he moved to Rhode Island. She got to see her grandchildren lots and lots and her favorite was her daughter’s youngest, Little Boy Jimmy. They grew up and started to go to college and she attended all their graduations.
And then her husband developed Alzheimer’s and after ten years she buried him, wept at the graveside where she’d eventually be buried. But she soldiered on, arthritis in her joints never stopping her from playing the piano and playing with her dogs. Ten years later Mary died in her sleep. She’d been planning a train ride to Philadelphia the next morning to visit Little Boy Jimmy who grew up and moved away, too.
If only life had happened this way for Mary, but when her daughter was seven, she had no say in the matter about leaving her husband and children. She died of heart failure three months before her thirtieth birthday.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)