Candles

I lit a candle at church for my first crush on Remembrance Day.

Byron played dodge ball better than anyone I knew in the third grade, always the last man standing. Or boy, I suppose. He seemed like a man to me, tall and muscular for a ten-year-old. He’d been kept back a year by his mother, so he was taller and more developed than any of us nine-year olds. Since his last name was White, Byron sat next to me.

The two of us laughed when Mrs. Spence went over the grammar lesson, punching out prepositional phrases, adjectives, and adverbs like they were kittens in a box. I’d make funny noises with my hand under my armpits and he’d laugh. He’d turn up his nose and lower his eyelids to make goofy faces at me and I’d laugh. I liked Byron because he didn’t call me “Pecker” or “Woody” just like all the other kids did. And I liked him because he didn’t pick me last for the kickball team. He didn’t pick me first but he didn’t pick me last.

Half way through the year, Byron had to move and I cried. I cried because my friend was leaving the third grade and moving to East Liberty. Had to go to another school, he told me. After he left I felt very lonely. And the class wasn’t nearly as interesting. The only black boy had left and all that remained were thirty pasty-white boys and girls. Nowhere near as interesting without Byron.

I wonder where Byron is today. The candle still burns.

Out of the box

“All right, family,” I said to the crew sitting around in a tight circle of chairs in my 18th Street flat just north of Castro, “you may begin reading.”

They opened the manuscript and devoured the pages like vultures would feed on a pig carcass on a sun-scorched desert highway, tumbleweeds and all. My mother’s lips turned white when she turned to the second page. My brother scrunched up his forehead until it looked like a cinnamon danish. My sister let out a high-pitched squeak after she skipped ahead to the de-virginization chapter. How’d she know where to find it? Perhaps she’d read my blog, after all. And Dad popped his mouth open and groaned when he fingered his way to the end of the manuscript.

No surprise there. Dad always read the newspaper from the back to the front. I can remember him, sitting on the toilet Saturday mornings, reading the sports section, stinking up the whole house after French toast, bacon, and tomato juice.

And then it began. Mom pointed her index finger at me. “I did not have sex with my husband before marriage!”

“How’d you know about Beth Twiggles?” my brother said. “No one was home, I never told anyone. And those Cheetohs, you’re the one who stole them from my underwear drawer.”

My sister whimpered. “This is really insulting and disgusting. You’ve laid out our lives for the whole world to laugh at. I did not go around the world with Bobby Boulder!”

“Relax, everyone,” Dad finally said. “It ends happily. We all convene at the artist’s Noe Valley apartment and smoke a joint to celebrate the youngest’s smashing exhibition.”

Exhibition, indeed.

An apology

You didn’t know that I thought about you, every time I fried some chicken and served it with steamed peas and white rice. I knew that was your favorite as a little girl, and I remember how your pigtails bounced when you sat at your mama’s table, eager to bit into a drumstick or a thigh.

You didn’t know that when I walked down Main Street and passed Barlow’s Drugs and Restoratives, I felt the urge to cry when I passed the display window. The displays of sleds and snow shovels in winter, sun chairs and umbrellas in the summer melted my heart – because I recalled you jumping up and down in the winter when it would snow, begging to go outside to sled down the hill behind your grandfather’s house. And I recalled the smile a trip to the Savannah beaches brought to your face.

Those long, quiet afternoons when everything was so innocent.

You didn’t know that I stood at the back of the auditorium when you graduated from high school, hidden from view, or that I was there when you became the first woman in your family to graduate from college – and Vanderbilt, no less. I could see the pride in your papa’s face, the face with a profile that Modigliani would’ve killed to sculpt, and those lips, so soft and sensitive to the touch.

It was your mother, deer sweet Verbena, who asked me to leave after she read the letters I wrote to your papa.

I’m sorry, dear sweet child, that I walked out of your life without a word – had no choice, really, but to disappear into the night when your mama found out. But I know you’ve had a happy life. I saw it at your wedding and the birth announcements that followed. Most of all, I’m sorry I never told you how I loved you.

I wish

“Hi, Alex, I’ll take Things That’ll Never Happen for $200,” Aaron said.

The electronic blip revealed the answer, and Alex said, “This never happens when someone says, ‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’”

Aaron beat out his opponents, Herbie Blaunox and Matilda Golddigger, to the button. “What is a telephone call, Alex?”

“Correct! Next selection?”

“Passive-aggressive Dyslexics for $400,” Alex said, smiling. He was on a roll.

Alex recited the clue. “He slept with your best friend without telling you.”

Aaron groaned. “Who is my boyfriend, Alex?”

“It’s as if this game were made for you, Aaron.”

“Let’s move onto to Self-centered Adjectives for $600,” Aaron said.

“A compound adjective that describes a man who sits naked on your sofa after having a bowel movement.”

Aaron felt that queasy breath of air rise in his throat. “What is hyper-gross, Alex?”

“Correct again. Final question. The category is Things You Wish For for $800. And the answer is: What someone wants after his partner gambles away the joint savings on a Tenderloin hustler.”

Herbie Blaunox punched down on his button one-tenth of a second before Sonya did. “What are a fool-proof murder plot and an airtight alibi, Alex?”

“Yes, Herbie!” Alex said. “And you’ve now become our Jeopardy champion! But our Consolation Prize for Second Best goes to Aaron Aardvark!”

Aaron woke up and sat up in bed. .Oliver snored beside him. Why couldn’t he get that deviated septum fixed?

Peace on earth

Aaron finally got a ruling on his petition to attend the Nativity, and before too long his time machine transported him to Bethlehem. He emerged from a cave in the forest, God only knew where, and walked to the nearest town.

“Who goes there,” a black-bearded man in armor asked when Aaron walked by the market. He had a black mole on his left cheek that looked like a spider sac. “Halt and make yourself known.”|“It is I, Aaron Aardvark of California.”

“I’ve never seen hair that color before in my life, nor a face so white. Not even among the most northern of Romans. And your robe wears too closely to your legs.”

“I come in peace and blue jeans, sir. Please forgive my appearance.”

The black-moled guard reached for his saber, but paused. He squinted his eyes, looked at Aaron shivering in his dungarees and flannel shirt. “Where is this tribe of California? Somewhere east of Persia?”

After a fashion, Aaron supposed. “Quite east. I come to witness a very special birth. I seek Joseph and Mary of Galilee whose child brings peace on earth.”

The man grunted. “Never a more pitiful pair of nomads did I see enter the village. Off you go then, in that direction.” He pointed and went back to the market and all those hides and pelts.

Aaron turned down the alleyway the man indicated. Before too long, the small houses of the village came further apart, and then he came upon the stable. A star shone brightly above the structure and light came from within. Aaron entered and just as he turned to witness the Savior’s birth, he saw a three-ringed circus with ponies, acrobats, clowns, and a strong man.

“Damn that time machine,” Aaron thought. “So much for peace on earth. I knew I should’ve downloaded the latest upgrade when my Macbook prompted me.”

Flying: backwards

Once they were all seated, the bony-shouldered guy said, “Oh, dear, I need to get my medications out of my suitcase. Would you mind ...”

And then they all sat down. And so did the Justice Ginsburg woman. So he got up again.

“Of course.” Marshall rolled his eyes and sighed.

And then a bony-shouldered man with thick black-framed glasses and stray black hairs poking out of his shirt tapped him on the shoulder and said, my seat’s on the window, would you mind getting up.

And then Marshall went back to his seat and sat down. So he went back out and asked the flight attendant for a bottle of water to rinse off the soapy hands. Double damn. But when he soaped up his hands and turned on the water, nothing came out. So Marshall got up and went to the back and, after a brief, “Better do this now before we take off” to one of the attendants, dashed into the lavatory.

Damn this being fifty crap. But then Marshall felt his bladder. And now, he could sit down and relax. He was happy to let the woman in – petite enough, she wouldn’t occupy his space during the trip. And then Marshall got up again to let the woman into the row.

“I’m sitting next to you. Pardon me,” said a woman who looked just like Ruth Bader Ginsburg, “would you mind getting up?”

So now, Marshall said, he could sit down and stay seated. And then he got up again and exchanged them for the right glasses. Wrong glasses, these were his driving glasses. And then he opened the case. And then he got up again, reached into the backpack for his reading glasses and pulled out the case and sat down. He forgot his reading glasses. But damn.

And then Marshall finally sat down. He put it into airplane mode and stuffed it into the seat pocket along with the book, puzzles, pen, and notebook. And then Marshall got up to get his cellphone out of the backpack again. But no. It took a while to get settled. Whew.

And then he put his book, puzzles, pen, and notebook in the seat pocket and sat down. He grabbed them and put them in the overhead. He reached into the seat pocket for Delta’s stupid little magazine, the instruction guide, the advertising brochure, and the puke bag. And then he plopped them down on his seat. And then he got up to get his book, crossword puzzles, pen, and notebook from his backpack. Marshall put his luggage up in the overhead and took his seat.

The plan

“Okay, here’s the plan,” Daniel said and sniffed. Daniel was always fighting a cold, must have something to do with Michael, Matthew, and Martin. The three little monsters. Poor Daniel and Bethany, saddled with triplets. And Daniel climbed telephone poles for a living and Bethany was a stay-at-home telemarketer. Life sucked.

“Sure, buddy,” Marshall said. For the first time since they were kids, Marshall wasn’t the only son home before the holidays. “Anything you say.”

“Bethany and I are taking the boys and Dad to the Nutcracker Christmas Eve while you and Mom get situated at home. Then we’ll have an early dinner and go to church at 7:30.”

“I see,” Marshall said and pursed his lips.

“And tomorrow, I’ll be putting up the Christmas lights and some wreathes around the house,” Daniel said.

“Isn’t that usually Dad’s job? I thought you and I would play racketball at the gym,” Marshall said, thinking about the personal trainer with the contoured leg muscles, V-shaped back, and chiseled chin.

“Nah, Dad’s been a little tired these days. I said I’d do it.”

“But he likes all that stuff. I suppose you’re twirling the garlands up the staircase, too?” Marshall said. Daniel always had to be in control.

“We’re not doing any garlands this year. There’s something you should know ...” Daniel said.

“Not doing any garlands? That’s an annual tradition.” Not only was Daniel taking control, he was changing everything.

“Marshall, listen. I have –“

“It’s an annual tradition, we do it every year.”

“Please, Marshall, shut up and listen. Dad has Alzheimer’s. Everything’s changed.”

Whirling dervish

Dad didn’t seem all that bad, but Mom had gained a ton of weight. In that red Christmas dress, she looked like a strawberry. One that’d been picked too long ago.

But Dad, he seemed chipper and excited by all the people – the children, Bethany, Daniel, and Marshall. He kept chasing the kids around the house and making silly jokes that had Matthew, Michael, and Martin in stitches.

He’d never done that before. Every time Dad made a joke about the kids looking like bowling pins or Marshall’s ears reminding him of Dumbo, Mom scowled, “Oh, Alan, stop that now!”

“Oh, Strawberry, I’m just kidding. Look kids, Grandma is a big strawberry in that dress!” And off they would go, running around the house.

“If that man gets any worse,” Mom said, “I’m going to jump out of my skin. That man has always been impossible.”

“Millie,” Dad said for the tenth time, “where’s the coffee maker? And the telephone is broken. I can’t dial out.”

“Look, Alan, I’ll make coffee for you. And who are you calling?”

“My mother, of course. It’s Christmas Eve. I always call her.”

Marshall looked over at Daniel, who nodded his head.

Fifteen

“Folks, we’ll be landing in fifteen minutes,” the pilot said over the intercom.

Marshall breathed a little easier. The flight had been smooth for the past half hour since the terrible turbulence had ended. He’d finish up his bowl game and then sit back until the plane landed.

Bowl game, for those who don’t know it, involves anagrams of ten letters. The letters would be re-arranged to form one ten-letter word. But they could also be arranged to form two distinct, unrelated words with exactly the ten letters. Only one remained undone to Marshall, and its letters were AAABCDELNR.

As always, Marshall started with the partition of two words. Easier to divide and conquer, just like a software engineering problem. But he couldn’t think of anything. They hit a little bump. So he put it down and thought about spending the holidays with his parents.

His mother always had so many chores for him to do before Christmas. He usually got home a few days before his brothers stormed the place with the little hellions, all four of them. A little peace and quiet, Marshall enjoyed his time alone with Mother and Dad – cocktail hour by the fireplace, playing a game of scrabble. But this year, his mother would have him baking cookies, wrapping presents for the children, running to the store for candles, setting the dinner table.

“Candle.” Yes, that word works in the anagram. That left the letters AABR. Abra, the young woman in “East of Eden?” No, the game disallowed proper names – but “arab” worked. Candle and arab, perfect. And yes – Marshall saw the ten-letter word right away: candelabra.

Which reminded him, Mother would have him set up the Christmas candelabra yet again. He always hated that chore. So many crystals, and he’d already broken two pieces in years past.

Heavy

Oh, my God, we’re going down! The plane’s going to crash, we’re all going to die. I just know it, today’s the day I’m going to die, what will that look like on my tombstone, born 29 February 1964 died 13 November 2015, yes – Friday the 13th, so unlucky, I was always so unlucky, I’m going to die, I miss my mother.

But the turbulence stopped suddenly and the plane smoothed out its ride, like riding a new interstate in a Mercedes-Benz. Whew. Marshall could feel his heart beging to slow down, his breathing even out. All was calm in the plane again. And curiously, no one had made a noise during that side-to-side, up-and-down turbulence that had lasted for at least two hours – but wait, the flight was only 75 minutes. But it seemed like two hours ...

Marshall looked around him. No one expressed anything other than the ordinary. The heavy lady on the other side of Marshall’s aisle still knitted her sweater. The tattooed guy chewing gum was still watching his Conan DVD. The Asian guy behind them was reading a book – John Grisham, Marshall noticed. Marshall hated John Grisham. Too cheesy anymore.

He settled back into his chair and closed his eyes. His therapist had prodded him to meditate about his mother’s death. He was avoiding it, Marshall knew – but he resolved, yes, he’d think about his mother’s last days and the funeral.

But then the turbulence started up again. Marshall was definitely going to die. This time for sure.

An obstacle

Finally. The plane took off. Marshall clutched the arm rest as the plane lurched upward into the sky. Okay, count to ninety, he said. Eighty-nine, eighty-eight, etc. And when he’d get to zero, Marshall reminded himself, he could breathe more easily. Most plans crash on take-off or landing. And more crash on take-off than landing. So if he made it to zero, it’d be okay. Now wouldn’t it.

Ah-oh, he felt a dip to the left. Nope, just for a second. His palms felt wet against the arm rests. His heart began to race. Woops – another little bump. Oh, and a bigger one, too. Now wait a minute, Marshall, we’re flying through the clouds. It’ll be overy in just a second.

But that’s just it! It will be over in a few seconds. Yes, completely over, just as soon as this airplane that we’re trapped in gives up, gets lazy, and crashes into the ground below. Only thing that’ll be identifiable will be my teeth, Marshall thought. Everything else will be melted to smithereens.

And just what are smithereens, anyway?

Flying

Marshall put his luggage up in the overhead and took his seat. And then he got up to get his book, crossword puzzles, pen, and notebook from his backpack. And then he plopped them down on his seat. He reached into the seat pocket for Delta’s stupid little magazine, the instruction guide, the advertising brochure, and the puke bag. He grabbed them and put them in the overhead. And then he put his book, puzzles, pen, and notebook in the seat pocket and sat down.

Whew. It took a while to get settled. But no. And then Marshall got up to get his cellphone out of the backpack again. He put it into airplane mode and stuffed it into the seat pocket along with the book, puzzles, pen, and notebook. And then Marshall finally sat down.

But damn. He forgot his reading glasses. And then he got up again, reached into the backpack for his reading glasses and pulled out the case and sat down. And then he opened the case. Wrong glasses, these were his driving glasses. And then he got up again and exchanged them for the right glasses. So now, Marshall said, he could sit down and stay seated.

“Pardon me,” said a woman who looked just like Ruth Bader Ginsburg, “would you mind getting up? I’m sitting next to you.”

And then Marshall got up again to let the woman into the row. He was happy to let the woman in – petite enough, she wouldn’t occupy his space during the trip. And now, he could sit down and relax. But then Marshall felt his bladder. Damn this being fifty crap.

So Marshall got up and went to the back and, after a brief, “Better do this now before we take off” to one of the attendants, dashed into the lavatory. But when he soaped up his hands and turned on the water, nothing came out. Double damn. So he went back out and asked the flight attendant for a bottle of water to rinse off the soapy hands. And then Marshall went back to his seat and sat down.

And then a bony-shouldered man with thick black-framed glasses and a stray black hairs poking out of his shirt tapped him on the shoulder and said, my seat’s on the window, would you mind getting up.

Marshall rolled his eyes and sighed. “Of course.”

So he got up again. And so did the Justice Ginsburg woman. And then they all sat down.

Once they were all seated, the bony-shouldered guy said, “Oh, dear, I need to get my medications out of my suitcase. Would you mind ...”

Moving

My chest tightens and my stomach lurches when I see empty cardboard boxes with the three inevitable questions on them: whose box is it, what’s in it, and where does it go? And yet, as much as I hate moving, I’ve done it all too often. There were those three apartments in Philadelphia when I was at Penn for grad school. There were two condos in Center City after school, when I was working in King of Prussia. Then there was the townhouse in New Hope, the rental house in Boca Raton, the ranch in Fort Lauderdale near the beach, and the Four Seasons condo. Now there’s another rental house, this time in Atlanta, and I’m contemplating the next step – buying a condo in Atlanta, but snow-birding it with Florida.

And I still open those boxes and pack things into them. What am I thinking, each time, when I willingly pick up and leave? It means packing all the china (three sets) and glassware (137 pieces), not to mention packing the artwork (45 pieces) and having the piano moved. And packing up all the books (657, half hardback, half paperback), plus videotapes, CDs, DVDs, etc.

And when haven’t even gotten into the kitchen, but you get the general idea. I’ve got lots of shit, can’t really bear the thought of standing up and moving again from point A to point B. Why can’t I just sit still, long enough to get settled and breathe in place for more than just five minutes?

Thanksgiving

“I’ll be upstairs for a few minutes. I’d like to rest,” Jeremy said to the group gathered in the living room. Greg had a fire going, and they – Greg, Janet, and the two kids – were playing Pictionary. Janet had announced that dinner would be in an hour. It would give Jeremy enough time to see what he needed to see.

It was a pretty enough house for Denver, hardwood floors and dark walls which seemed to be all the rage. Jeremy had graduated to the guest room whenever he visited from San Francisco. It used to be that Jeremy slept on the pull-out in the basement, when Greg and Janet were in the larger house and Mother and Dad were always present at holidays, which was loads of fun because he’d been with Mark at the time, and they’d slipped into the hot tub and fooled around. But this house – no hot tub, and certainly no Mark. And no parents.

He walked up the stairs slowly, one step at a time; with his arthritis, it’d be disaster if he fell. But when he got to the top, he didn’t turn into the guest room. He crossed the hall, tip-toed to the office door. He looked down the stairs, no one to see, opened the door, and closed it behind him. He took off his shoes and tip-toed over to the closet. Must be in here, no other place. He’d checked all the other closets.

He fanned the closet doors open, and they creaked, but so loud as to attract interest. Yes, what he wanted was hanging on the rack in front of him.

Jeremy recognized the purple terry-cloth bathrobe with the white lace collar. Oh, he’d seen that so many times on Mother, sitting in that chair in her den, watching Fox News or Jeopardy, yelling at the television at something the Democrats did, calling out Jeopardy questions. “What’s the Louvre Museum, Alex?”

And next to it was the lilac blouse the nurses had put on her that day – when Alex had accompanied her grandmother to Boulder for the funeral. Oddly enough, the blouse she wore to Dad’s funeral was the same one the nurses put on her the day she died herself. Exactly one year, to the day, after Dad died. And it had been Jeremy’s birthday.

He felt the clothing. Same soft feel to it, same texture. No indication that the owner was no longer here – was no longer. Jeremy felt warm and comforted by the clothing, his mother’s blouses, the bathrobes, the slacks. Somehow, he felt as though Mother were there, celebrating Thanksgiving with them all.

Easy

First thought from the writer, this’ll be a fun write. I get to write about someone who’s easy. Or something that was really easy to do. Or taking the easy way out when the going gets tough. Like choosing clichés over well-thought-out pearls of wisdom, including: the going gets tough, pearls of wisdom, taking the easy way out.

My whole life is a cliché. So let’s get back to that person who’s so bleepin’ easy. I’d like to tell you about him. Okay, so I divulged he’s an easy guy. And if you live in San Francisco, that person would have to be gay, right? Because all of the easy guys in the City on the Hill are gay, right? Well, you’d be half correct. This guy is so easy that he’s saturated the entire market of Market Street, male and female. They even named a gutter after him. He’s so easy that rabbits look on him with jealousy. He’s so easy that New Orleans has sued him for trademark violations. You get the idea, must I wrack my brain trying to conjure up stupid puns so I can think I’m smart?

Let’s face it, I’m not that smart. Yes, I can spell and I can write with correct grammar. And yes, I can even vary my writing to give that informal, cool, kinda-trendy tone that writers like. And I can write a believable sentence that ends in a proposition, because that’s where it’s at.

But writing about someone who’s easy in San Francisco, the easiest easy town in the easy state of California, in the easy U.S. of A.? Hell, it ain’t easy.

In the clouds

I’d quote Greg in this write, but it’s just too nauseating to put that down on paper.

All the religious mumbo-jumbo, reading from that idiot work of fiction, some book they call “The Bible.” It was translated 4,723 times from the original Hebrew and, somewhere along the way, they reversed the text from leftward to rightward. And when they translated the Bible to the real language of God – English, with an American accent somewhere between Cleveland and Detroit, but not too Midwestern because those people are kind of dim in a goody-goody sort of way – they gave us a dose of reality, the hard way.

Alternative reality, the nauseating way. Technicolor-yawn-into-porcelain variety.

So here was Greg, reading something from the Book of John (I guess that’s one of the Gospels, isn’t it) as our mother lay dying in the nursing home. Greg’s always been something of a religious fanatic, ever since he became a Presbyterian after marrying Millicent the Dental Hygienist. Poor Mother, raised a traditional Episcopalian to believe that religion was something you didn’t wear on your sleeve, especially during cocktail hour. Martinis and cheese dip, yes – that good ole’ time religion, no. Here she was, unable to communicate, breathing about three times per minute, and having this hocus-pocus forced on her.

I’d say something to get the idiot to stop this, but I long ago gave up on talking to Greg. You see, Greg doesn’t believe in the resurrection. He knows – and no, I don’t just mean he believes intensely. He really does know. He’s got proof on file that God is a really old white guy with a long gray beard who wears white robes and has a really bright halo around his head. And that his son Jesus got resurrected on the third day after being crucified.

Of course, "proof on file" has as much meaning here as it does for a porn producer and all those "proof on file" ages for actors sporting nothing more than peach fuzz above their upper lip.

My mother just breathed her last, so I’m bringing this one in for a landing so I can go have a good cry. But first, a question. If Jesus saw his shadow when he rolled away the stone and came out of that cave, did spring come early to the Holy Land that year?

Wind

“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”

Sally always cried when Rhett Butler walked out into the fog. Something about his exit just released the floodgates, especially that rainy November evening. It’d been cold in Shadyside since Wednesday, but that was typical for this time of year in Pittsburgh. Sally could hear cars driving by the building on Forbes Avenue. So depressing, not even seven in the evening, and pitch black outside.

Thank goodness for the terrycloth pink robe her mother had gotten for her last birthday. She’d curled up with it and a cup of jasmine tea before slipping the tape into the VCR. She’d resisted all her geek friends cajoling her into getting a DVD player. No, she told them, she was perfectly happy with a VCR.

After all, she’d spent her hard-earned money from the library on all those tapes. Far as she knew, she was the only person in Western Pennsylvania who had every movie that had won the Best Picture Academy Award, up to and including the most recent one. Though she grimaced when she had to buy “Gandhi” to make her set complete. No one would remember that one, not even a year later. That’s what her mother had said, too – no one would remember “Gandhi” any more than anyone would remember that lousy, stinking excuse of a father who walked out all those years ago. Poor Mama, still stuck on Daddy’s deserting them.

“After all, tomorrow is another day.”

Sally always felt a glimmer of hope when Scarlett uttered the last line. There was this tone of hope in the “after all” part of it. Sally had tried to reproduce it when she was reciting movie lines in the shower. But she could never get the same tone of sad hopefulness that Vivien Leigh conjured up. But Sally felt a little lift. Maybe Rhett would come back to Scarlett in the end.

Socks

The time machine kicked up when Aaron turned the nob to 1535. Smoke poured out from the bottom, the machine lurched up, down, left, right, forward, and backward, and Aaron felt vibrations muddle his torso, legs, arms, and scalp. And then he was off in a bright white light. As always, he felt the silent surrender into the black vortex, following the white light.

He felt the usual thud on landing. Dust rose up into his face and he coughed. He immediately felt the cold, damp air – and when the dust settled, he looked around. Clear weather, but cool and damp. Brownish-gray fields everywhere, a forest of trees in the distance, and a castle of brown stone and turrets at the foot of the forest, from which he heard music coming. Atonal, soprano, sounded like lutes. Boring shit, he despised that Medieval music. Give Aaron a Beethoven symphony any day!

Yes, he had made it. He was in the court of King Henry VIII. Or was he?

He stepped out of the time machine and looked down at himself. Not too bad – as usual, the machine had transformed his clothing to the suitable wear of the day. A green and white smock over a kilt of tartan plaid. He was wearing white stockings and black slippers – oh, how he hated the stockings. He felt like a girl!

That reminded Aaron of his last conquest. Jennifer had been riding him like a horse while Eric sat on his face, wearing a pair of socks. Ah, how he loved switch hitting. But enough of fantasy, back to the Tudors –

“Sir, who goes there?”

“It is I, Aaron Aardvark of San Francisco.”

“I know no Aardvarks or Franciscans. Protestant or Catholic?”

“Jewish.”

“Ah, the chosen people. Are you an emissary from Palestine?”

“No,” Aaron said, eyeing the time machine from behind the tree, a hundred feet away. “I’m a bisexual from California.”

“A sorcerer, clearly we must take you to the tower.”

Aaron made a dash for the time machine, but fifteen feet away, he tripped on his slippers and fell into the marsh. The man pinned him to the ground instantly. Shit, Aaron thought – why couldn’t he have been closer to the machine when he needed it?

The pressure

Life had been going to shit ever since Mom died. And it’d been only two months. Why, everything was going against Jeremy since September. He even remembered the moment the phone rang. He’d been having lunch with his damned sister on her damned birthday, and the damned nursing home called his sister’s damned cellphone to tell her our mother had breathed her last. Oh, well, I said – I’m relieved after all these years of suffering, etc. etc. she had gone through so much etc. etc. while underneath I was etc. etc.

And then it started to rain. And it didn’t stop raining for two solid weeks. And during those two weeks, when I walked the dog, he got the floors totally dirty. I mean, I couldn’t keep my beautiful hardwood floors with the expensive oriental rugs clean, now how shitty is that? And when I came back from the funeral where we buried Mom’s ashes next to Dad’s (he died last year – exactly one shitty year to the shitty day before she did) the damned pet-sitter had allowed the damned dog to jump up onto my damned sofa and get it damned dirty. I nearly popped a blood vessel.

But that would’ve gotten me into the same situation that Mom got in. Her blood pressure rose and rose and rose until five years ago she had that cerebral hemorrhage. But the damned doctors at the damned hospital had guilted my father into allowing the damned surgery to proceed that saved Mom’s life – though the damned doctors didn’t tell my father what the damned consequences of the damned surgery would be: total disability for the rest of her life. And hundreds of thousands of damned dollars into the pockets of the medical establishment. All those dollars coming out of my parents’ life savings. You know what I’m implying, don’t you?

We were screwed. And after all these years of suffering, it was over. I’m relieved. Now if only this damned rain would stop and I could get that damned sofa clean.

Paris

Jeremy rolled his eyes at the football players running down the field, carrying the French flag. What fickle hypocrisy! It’d hadn’t been that long ago, not really, since those same pasty-white “you’re either with us or ain’ us” Republicans gave freedom kisses to their girlfriends and at freedom fries at McDonald’s. But the terrorists plant some bombs in the City of Lights, and all of a sudden, France is back to being our greatest ally.

In a perfect world, France would thumb its nose at the United States. But Jeremy knew it wasn’t perfect, that France needed the American muscle (in other words, bombs and money) to fight back.

Jeremy rolled his eyes again, thinking about it that quiet evening, alone in his Shadyside apartment overlooking the Buicks and Fords and Dodges driving down Ellsworth Avenue in the rain. How he wished he were still living in Manhattan rather than in sleepy old Pittsburgh. Sure, he might be safe from the Isis attacks, but New York was worth the risk of twenty Isis attacks. Jeremy sighed and went back to his bowl of jelly beans.

He had a fondness for jelly beans, the little ones, he meant. Oh, what flavors – his favorite were the fruity ones, tangerine, cherry, lemon, lime, red hot cinnamon, peach, white coconut, watermelon, and bubble gum. Jeremy had a technique for eating them. He’d grab a handful, then pick the beans of a single flavor (let’s start with all the cherries) and work his way from darkest color to lightest color. But he always saved the bubble gums for last – his favorite.

And when he got bored with this technique – he called it the round robin – he’d just grab a small handful and put the whole thing in his mouth. The amalgam of all flavors was too scrumptious to resist – until he reached the point of no return.

He’d reached the point of no return on quite a number of occasions, that point when his stomach told him, “you’ve eaten to many of these. Another bean, and I’m just going to toss them all out at you.” He remembered that time, flying home from Kansas City, Kansas, eating a ton of jelly jeans, then having a diarrhea attack when his mother picked him up from the airport, running into an Arby’s and heading straight for the toilet.

As for Paris, he had a fondness for it, too. But nothing like jelly beans.

Tree bark

Albert snatched the rake up from the back yard, laying against a cord of firewood next to the leaf blower. That damned leaf blower, the engine wouldn’t start up even with a hundred cranks. And if it did, it wasn’t strong enough to blow leaves off the grass. Sure, it could get leaves off the driveway, but the grass, totally incapable.

Like that quack dermatologist who didn’t find the misshapen mole in the middle of Albert’s back. But he’d fight it, been fighting it, and knew he’d be fighting it awhile.

He walked up to the front yard. Boy, did it feel good to get outside after all those months cooped up in the house, wearing grooves in the rug from the bed to the bathroom toilet. He could smell the crispy leaves of fall, feel the cool air rush down from the branches onto the grass, hear the rustling of the branches in the fading wind. Ah, fall – how he’d missed it.

Thirteen years since he’d had a real fall. San Francisco didn’t really have a fall, just a dreary winter and a chilly summer. But those cool fall days, walks on city sidewalks hearing the crunching of leaves under penny loafers – those were not for California or Florida. They were for Pennsylvania, Michigan, Minnesota, New Hampshire, and even Georgia – yes, Atlanta had crunchy leaves, too.

Albert began raking and started to feel the cardio work-out take its effect. But something was different this time. He felt a squeezing whoosh in his esophagus, a grasping tightness in his chest. Albert began to wheeze and then cough. Covering his mouth, he felt something liquid and salty come out with a cough and, looking down, saw the crimson red of his own blood.

Albert sat on the porch steps, put his head down, and cried.

Unmanageable

The 3-year old boy cried by the side of the street. Thirty, forty, perhaps fifty neighbors stood on the grass, watching the tow truck pull the light blue 1964 Bel Air wagon out of the driveway, where it'd crashed into the stone wall. The boy sobbed and moaned. When Daddy pulled him out of the driver's seat, he'd fallen onto the pebbled driveway as the car went by him, careening down the hill. Daddy was painting the garage and when the boy had released the brake, he let out an “Oh, shit!” heard all the way from McCall Road down to Shakespeare Court. The little boy cried because the burns from the pebbles hurt his knees and he was bleeding.

Daddy stood with his head in his hands, complaining about how much it would cost to have the Bel Air towed to the Chevrolet repair shop. Where was Mommy? The boy wanted his mother, but she was doing something with his brothers and sisters. But all the kids and all the adults in the neighborhood stood by, gawking at them. There was Lynn McCarthy with her long red hair, Dusty Anderson with her dark brown ponytails, and even Ernie Whiting had wandered over from Springer Road.

Mrs. O’Malley picked the little boy up. "Come with me, Timmy Lane. I'll wash you up and put a bandage on that knee. Everything's going to be okay –“

“What has that boy done now?” Timmy heard his mother say, her voice a crescendo from one word to the next. “Sally, give me that boy. You’re in big trouble, Timmy. No ice cream for you for six months. Come with me.”

Pure bliss

Dustin checked around the office one last time. Keys, cellphone, laptop, notebook, water bottle, coffee mug, reading glasses, jacket – check, all there. He was always forgetting something and cursing himself somewhere on the way home, usually when stuck in gridlock on the Santa Monica Freeway.

Finally convinced that he had everything, he headed to the kitchen to fill his water bottle for the long drive to Manhattan Beach. As always, he felt the burning sensation when the bottle was half full. Pavlov’s dog, of course. He began stepping in place, trying to stave off the urge. Ah, full! He headed to the rest room and made it ... in the nick of time. A minute later, he’d saddled his backpack onto his back and pushed the down button for the elevator.

The doors opened, he got in – silence, utter silence. Oh, what joy after the long day of ringing phones, questions from junior architects, complaints from the managing partner, and the inevitable prairie dogging, “Hey Dustin, come over here, question for you.” He breathed in the silence, long and slow breaths in through the nose and out through the mouth. It felt good. And his sinuses were clear, too. He could feel his blood pressure dropping, his heart rate slowing. Ah, pure bliss.

The elevator stopped on 11. In came a tall woman with long legs, platinum blonde hair to her waist, a beige, skin-tight dress and matching high heels, fire engine red lipstick, blue eyes with dark, dark eyelashes that gave her a Barbie look. Her neck was bent to the right with a Smartphone stuck between her ear and her shoulder while she rummaged through a Louis Vuitton purse. The elevator doors closed.

“We’re meeting at Johnny’s Café on Sunset. Six o’clock. But first let me tell you about Cameron and Melody. They had a fight last night about the guy with the nose ring at Starbuck’s. Barely talking, so keep them on opposite ends of the table. You never know how long –“

The air suffocated Dustin in the elevator. He could feel his brain pushing against his skull – oh, what a headache – and had a hard time breathing. Only ten floors to go ... he would make it, and then be free ...

“And don’t tell anyone I mentioned this, but she has a yeast infection. Been seeing the doctor since last week about it. And Cameron doesn’t know. I mean, can you imagine? Her own daughter, and she doesn’t –“

Dustin felt his head explode. “Hey, lady,” he said with a flat tone, loud enough to cut through the gossip. Times like this, he sounded like a Republican – a good thing, in the moment.

“You think I enjoy listening to your crap in the elevator? Can the phone, or I will.”

She looked at him with the whites of her eyes for one second. “—and Darla’s going in for collagen injections and a breast lift. Her boyfriend Samuel’s a tit man, so she’s doing it for him of course. And ...”

The droning continued right out the elevator doors. Dustin followed her out to the parking lot. There was one, special item he always kept in his backpack. Calm returned to his head, knowing he’d hurt her.

Annoying

Ever get one of Jane’s prompts that is perfectly suited to the day at hand? I’m spending the weekend with one of the most annoying, persnickety people I’ve ever known. How I got roped into spending a weekend at Asheville, North Carolina with Arnold Schmaetzle, I don’t know.

No, I do know. I invited him. It was one of those moments where I forgot how he complained about the air in the hotel room being too cold (unless it was too warm), the color of the walls being too mauve (just what is mauve, anyway), and the food at the restaurant too stale (except when it was too soggy). And that doesn’t even include comments on my appearance – Walter, what’s with the nose hairs? Walter, what’s the little red spot on your forehead? Walter, you’re not wearing that shirt with those jeans? And Walter, don’t you think you should shower before we go out to eat?

Calgon, take me away. Lying here in the bed, with Arnold beside me, I just wonder how I ever made it through those fifteen years before we split up. When was it – oh, yes, twelve years ago. Hard to imagine, living with Arnold Schmaetzle. At least he didn’t cheat or drink – unlike Marshall, who made a career out of bedding every available man in Atlanta, and guzzling down bottle of vodka after bottle of vodka.

“Walter, where’s the toothpaste? Why’d you get such crappy toothpaste?”

Wet

Jeremy looked down at the toilet after he finished. He really needed to clean it before Robin came to take care of the dog. There were those two nasty little poop specks just on the north side of the drain, after all. Jeremy hiccoughed. The Dubonnet and Gin had taken their effect.

He simply adored the Queen. Jeremy made a special visit to the nursing home on the ninth of September, the day Elizabeth surpassed Victoria’s reign. He knew his mother would be pleased. And why not? They shared a name. Mom had been pleased, so pleased that she expired herself fifteen days later. Yes, Jeremy had cried flowing tears that day, but mixed with a light dose of relief, after so many years of sickness. He treated himself to another Dubonnet and Gin.

Jeremy looked in the mirror. He wished the dermatology medication would wear off. He was getting on, after all, and fifty-two was an overripe age to be single in the gay world. But he certainly couldn’t go out to the bars now, looking like the Joker.

Give it a few weeks, old boy, he told himself – but kicked himself nonetheless. Two weeks after moving back to New York, and this had to happen. He couldn’t even go to the gym, he looked so horrible. What would all the Chelsea Bottoms say?

He flushed the toilet, and the specks disappeared. Robin wouldn’t be grossed out.

A glimpse

Chet and Leslie, together forever. Leslie saw it on their tombstones: Chet Anderson 1978-2049, Leslie Hope 1976-2081, together forever. Hey, let’s be honest, who wouldn’t want to live to be 105? And to be a grieving widow for thirty-two years? Leslie could just imagine all his black widow’s weed outfits. He got a hard-on over it, don’t you know.

He truly loved Chet, the cheat. Hell, he couldn’t keep his pants zipped to save his life. The cheat. Leslie sniggered at the case of gonorrhea back in ’06 that Chet tried to hide from him – please, he knew about it before Chet did. And then came the bad case of anal warts in ’09. Stiff upper lip and all that, Chet sat him own on the den’s settee and told him.

“We’ll start using condoms,” Leslie replied in as even a voice as he could muster.

Seriously, though, Leslie had gotten used to the idea of Chet cheating. That’s why the image of Chet dying earlier and leaving him a young, grieving widow (okay, so he’d be 73, isn’t that young?) had immaculate appeal to him. But immaculate appeal wasn’t exactly like the immaculate conception, was it? No, except they both had a little God in them.

So when he got Chet pulled up by the jeans from the post on Barbary Lane, he laughed to himself. Only 34 more years until he could play the grieving widow.

Dancing on the rooftop

Leslie put on his Facebook t-shirt, his Berkeley sweatshirt, finally his Abercrombie windbreaker. It was July in San Francisco, after all. He needed all the layers he could add to get through the fog, wind, and drizzle. And then he headed over to Chet’s place to hang out for the afternoon. It’d be a nice surprise, and he’d even packed a stash of marijuana in his backpack. Chet was good for a pot pipe.

He trudged his 250 pounds of Golds Gym muscsle up the hill to Barbary Lane and hung a right. The house was totally run down, rotted out cedar siding, faded window panes, peeling paint. But Chet said it suited him just fine, that’s how he liked it. He was faux artistique, Leslie told others about his boyfriend – Chet fancied himself an artist of the world. In reality, Leslie thought he was merely a competent painter, destined to be an elementary school art teacher, but only if elementary schools still taught art.

He opened the door with his key and walked in. No sign of Chet. But Leslie saw his banana-seated bike resting against the wall, so Chet was definitely there. Maybe sleeping in the bedroom – but no one lying on the mattress on the floor, nor was he in the bathroom. Must be up on the balcony. Too cold to be up there, Leslie thought as he double-stepped his way up to the top and opened the door.

“Oh, my God!” Leslie shouted across the deck to the two partly naked bodies connected in the middle, doggy style, up against the raised ledge. He saw Chet’s pimply ass, his jeans down by his ankles. The other guy faced the other direction from Chet. He had a shape reminding Leslie of the grinch who stole Christmas, had a sickle tattoo on his shoulder and thinning hair down to his shoulders.

“Jesus, Leslie, this isn’t what it looks like!” Chet said. “I’m … I’m helping my friend here with his hemorrhoids.”

“Oh, really, Chet? Well, let’s see if I can help.” So he went over to them and tossed both of them off the balcony. The hemorrhoidal friend lay on the ground forty feet below, his head askew from the body. And Chet’s jeans got caught on a second-floor post. He hung upside down by his jeans, screaming for help like a hyena.

Leslie did a little mambo dance. That’ll teach Chet to cheat.

The hills beyond San Francisco

“You need to adjust yourself to the idea,” Mac said. “You have no choice.”

Billy and Mac stood on the rooftop terrace of Sylvester’s house – yes, that Sylvester – with its vista of San Francisco, all the way to the Berkeley hills. The setting western sun reflected tiny star-like specks off hundreds of windows from houses in the hills.

“Of course I have a choice. It’s my apartment. I could ask you to leave.”

“You wouldn’t do that. It’s my place, too. I redecorated it, I picked all the furniture.”

“And just who paid for it?” Billy said. And then he paused, looking across the city toward the golden hills. “This isn’t about the apartment. It’s about going back into the industry. You haven’t done a movie since before we got together.”

“I need to do this. First of all, I need the money. And second, I love the excitement of it.”

“Can’t understand why. It’s not like I haven’t provided for you all these years.”

“That’s it exactly. I need to earn my own money. I can’t live on your charity forever.”

“Charity? Who said it was charity?”

“And that’s the other thing. I’m not a kept woman.”

“Can’t you think of another way to earn money? You’re a smart man, Billy.”

“No, this is what I do. I signed a contract already. We start shooting in a week.”

“Tell me this, I have to know. Are you a top or a bottom in it?”

The sun passed behind some fog, and the golden reflections in the Berkeley hills disappeared.

White

Pittsburgh turned out to be rather a lonely town for Jeremy. He sighed, looking out the window of his Shadyside apartment onto Ellsworth Avenue. Dreary as it always was, this early November day – and would remain so, until sometime in the middle of April. The weather would tease them in early April with a few crisp, cool days where the sun shone on brown-green grass, tempting them with hints of spring. But then it’d cloud over and be dreary until Mother’s Day.

Jeremy hadn’t thought about the pool of available men. When he lived in Manhattan, someone was always available if he woke up one morning, in the mood – morning, afternoon, evening, late at night. You named it, someone would come over and take care of business. But here in Pittsburgh, he actually had to work at it. Men didn’t just come over to play around. They went out for a drink first – not coffee, after all, since Pittsburgh wasn’t Seattle.

Jeremy sighed again. He didn’t feel like going out to Woody’s or Pegasus in the hopes of meeting some steelworker from Ambridge. So he put on his hooded jacket (it was raining, but of course) and headed to Liberty Avenue. And once inside the store, he asked the rail-thin, purple-haired, nose-ringed twinkish attendant where he could find the toys. Right over there, he said, dipping his hips to the right and pursing his lips.

He looked at the various models. Which one would work best for him? When in New York, he usually went after the Italian boys from New Jersey. But there were no New Jersey Italian boys in this store’s collection. There were the Ryan White, Jeff Stryker, Zeb Atlas models – and then Jeremy saw it. Raymond Dragon, his favorite New York escort. Well, he wasn’t really an escort, but hey – he’d been over to Jeremy’s apartment half a dozen times over the years.

So he bought the Raymond Dragon model, took it home, lay down on his bed, put a DVD in the machine, and got his fill of Ray. When he was done, he looked out the window, dreary as ever. And then he got sleepy and ended up dreaming about walking down Fifth Avenue on a cool, crisp, and sunny November day.

Where I live

No question plagued Jeremy more than this one, where do I live? For years, whenever he had to make a choice, he just couldn’t do it. He’d freeze up, make a random choice, regret it, and invariably, he’d change his mind.

These days, with a stiff lower back, a growing paunch in his stomach, and eyes that couldn’t read menus less than two feet away, he was trying to decide – do I move to Pittsburgh to be closer to my family, or do I stay here in New York with my lovely Central Park condo and my friends with benefits?

Jeremy suffered from dry mouth and went to the bathroom all the time. He woke up in the middle of the night, nauseated and his heart racing. He snapped at that pretty Starbucks waitress when she didn’t give him his mocha latte in less than five minutes. And he kept dropping things at home, like the container of dog food that went flying all over the kitchen floor. Chestnut went nuts over all the nuggets.

So Jeremy did what he thought best. He tossed a coin and resolved to make the decision that way. Pittsburgh won. But then he thought, perhaps it should be two out of three. Pittsburgh again. No, three out of five. This time it was New York. Ah, yes – but his family would be so disappointed. Better make it eleven out of twenty-one. Pittsburgh won again.

Okay, enough, Jeremy said aloud – several times. Pittsburgh won the coin toss. His relatives would be relieved, finally Jeremy made a decision and stuck with it. But just as he was packing his books and his condoms, he started to think – do I really want to move?

If this had been the Gore-Bush election of 2000, Jeremy would’ve been Florida.

Cold and hard

Ashley dabbed gel at his blonde hair. That damned cowlick, he thought. Oh, well. He was already 25 minutes late for his date. A date! He thought. Finally, after all these years. He’d finally met the man of his dreams, the perfect partner for all time, and a man whose destiny intersected with his.

A man named Rhett, with jet-black hair, a thin moustache, and sexy loins.

What could be more perfect? Ever since he first encountered Margaret Mitchell’s magnum opus, he’d longed for a boyfriend named Rhett, Brent, Stuart, Will, Alex, or Gerald. But not Pork or Uncle Peter, he was from Clayton County, Georgia after all – though he wouldn’t have minded a Big Sam or two in a pinch. And here he was – not one of the minor characters, but the big enchilada himself. And this one even came from Charleston.

Ashley made it to the Atlanta Starbucks and found Rhett on his cellphone to some girl named Scarlett. No, he was kidding – Ashley had no idea. But Rhett hung up after just a short time and said, “Where are my manners.” What a gentleman, Ashley replied. And they made smalltalk, all the while Ashley stared down his open shirt at the bronzed, hairy chest and up at the sharp, white teeth – sharp yes, but also even and in keeping with the crisp muscles in his jawline. Boy, did Ashley frankly give a damn.

And then the phone rang again. A co-worker from the bank, Rhett said. Ashley nodded and lip-synced, don’t worry – I’ll get a beverage. And then he looked at the counter, long line of gray-clothed millenials staring into their smart phones. Oh, well – Ashley was thirsty.

So after a while he got his ice water (hey, it was free – Ashley had no cash and his mother had cut off his credit cards) and sat back down. Yadda, yadda, yadda – so said Rhett on the phone for about fifteen more minutes – yadda, yadda, yadda. Ashley grew stir-crazy. What was this, he thought, a date or an appointment with the town’s busiest doctor? But ... he kept his cool.

Click. Finally, after fifteen minutes of Ashley’s waiting, looking at the beams in the ceiling, feigning interest in the trendy coffee mugs that Starbucks was pimping out, Rhett said his goodbyes. But no ... more conversation from the other end. Another five minutes passed, and then he hung up the phone.

“Sorry,” Rhett said. “That was kind of rude of me. I hope you didn’t mind.”

Ashley thought about it. He thought about what he was about to say, and wondered how Rhett would react. But he cared less about how this jet-black-haired, thin-moustached Rhett Butler look-alike responded than he did about being honest.

“As a matter of fact,” Ashley said with as calm and friendly a voice as he could muster, “I do mind.”

Rhett’s face froze in place, cold and hard. “I’m not feeling like dinner after all.”

One block away

It was a cold, gusty afternoon of grays and browns that greeted Dorothy Marshall as she stepped down onto the Forbes Avenue sidewalk. Two small steps, but even with her cane and sturdy shoes, Dorothy took steady, slow steps, one foot at a time. At 80 she couldn’t afford to break a hip. Her last visit to Magee Hospital when she’d broken her ankle last year had lasted a week – no picnic indeed, even with all the old doctors and nurses who remembered her from all those years she worked as Head Nurse in the maternity ward.

But she could see life had changed. Nowadays, people had VCRs and Walkmans, devices Dorothy couldn’t imagine learning how to use. She still used the antenna on her black-and-white television to get Channel 2, 4, and 11 so she could pick between Walter Cronkite, Peter Jennings, and John Chancellor.

She walked down the sidewalk on Forbes Avenue. Just ahead a ways was Carnegie Mellon, where Kay’s husband taught architecture, and across the street was the Synogogue, where Ida worshiped. Dorothy wished she still went to church, but she lost all interest after Kay and Ida died.

“’Xcuse me, Ma’am,” a middle-aged woman of olive skin and a smiling mouth full of teeth – how many, Dorothy had no idea – said. “Would you like to sign our petition to save the Soldiers and Sailors Hall from the wrecking ball? My name is Dorothy Marshall Jones –“

Dorothy’s mouth dropped open. “I beg your pardon, what did you say your name was?”

“Dorothy Marshall Jones, and I work for –“

“That’s a coincidence, my name is Dorothy Marshall,” she said and laughed.

“Just like that nurse in the maternity ward,” the younger woman said. “My mama liked her so much, she named me after her. Dorothy Marshall Jones. Well, it was Peabody but I got married and now it’s Jones.”

Dorothy put her head back and laughed, harder than she could ever remember – probably all the way back to seeing “It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World” back in ’63. “You born at Magee Women’s Hospital?”

“That’s the one. Why – you must be that nurse. Tell me what my mama was like …”

“Honey, I delivered five to ten babies every day for forty years. No way can I remember a Mrs. Peabody.”

All around me

I woke up this morning and looked at my nails. They badly needed trimming, but I didn’t feel like doing it. I wanted today to be a relaxing, stress-free day.

The tenant called me just before I was to walk the dog. The air conditioning handler above her Manolo shoe collection burst and water ruined everything.

I woke up ninety minutes earlier with a stuffed-up nose that made me feel like a giraffe had wandered up there overnight.

I went to work and found out our customers had filed twelve defects against the product overnight, nine of them critical, and each customer demanding immediate action.

My landlord wants to raise my rent two hundred fifty dollars per month. Increased property values, you see. My tenant wants me to lower the rent by one hundred fifty per month. Decreased property values, you see.

Half my face is covered in a rash owing to a dermatological treatment for pre-cancer lesions. It’s a one month treatment plan. So far, only eight days have passed.

On the way home from the office, I hit a traffic jam that lasted four miles. And then a Chevy Suburban with a cellphone-talking teenager behind the wheel slammed into my rear bumper. I’d just made the last payment on the car last month.

Today in the mail, I got my annual tax bill from Florida. Taxes rose $1,500 because I lost my homestead exemption.

Just before friends came over for a long-scheduled dinner, my tenant called with bad news that the air handlers had rusted out and would have to be replaced. Dinner went well, but the tenant called me twice again to give me a minute-by-minute account of it all.

My boyfriend’s ex is coming to visit and staying with him in his one-bedroom condo for about a week or so.

Donald Trump is still at the top of the Republican polls, I just read online. And Paul Ryan is issuing ultimatums at President Obama.

And did I mention that I lost my favorite water bottle at work today?

When we return

Just how fast did she need to zip the suitcase, when it would seem like then continuous hum of a mezzo soprano, she asked herself? It seemed to Georgianna that, no matter how quickly she zipped it, she could hear the discrete ticks of high-pitched sound, perhaps twenty per second, perhaps a hundred. Who knew? But at no time, did the zip take on the note of a smooth, mid-range soprano holding a note for three seconds.

Ah, to hold onto anything for three seconds – or for a lifetime. The last of the suitcases packed, the garment bag already in the car, her toiletries case resting on the back seat of the Hudson, all was ready to go. But try as Georgianna tried, her feet resisted the push toward the staircase, the living room, the front entrance, the doorway, the sidewalk, and the slight hop into the car.

“Mama, Mama,” little Allen said, when she finally made her way to the bottom of the stairs – Allen, so wide-eyed, such a soft, easily damaged, mouth; so tender and kind, not an evil thought in the seven-year-old mind, a blank slate really – his voice bold on the first syllable, trying to convey courage, but falling on the second syllable, surrendering to sad hopelessness. Little Allen held up a wooden carving that Georgianna recognized as a fleur de lys – a tribute to Grandma, who’d worn one on a necklace right up to her dying moment. “For you, I made it ‘specially for you, Mama!”

“Sweetheart, no one but my best baby could do it as nicely. I shall treasure it all the weeks I’m away. Even when I return, I’ll treasure it every day. Just like I treasure you, baby ... you’re Mama’s own sweet angel.”

“Georgianna,” she heard from the front yard. It was Harold. “Sweetheart, we have to be going. Your appointment is at noon and check-in at one. We don’t want to keep the doctor waiting.”

But

I love creative writing, but it involves so much work every day. I like to work every day, or I’d rather read a good book written by a repressed Southern novelist. I love the South, and I’ve been known to tolerate the racial attitudes that lurk beneath every Southerner’s bless your heart and how nice. Common courtesy is so refreshing these days, like a sock between the eyes by a gum-chewing Brad Pitt – James Dean wannabe. Those rebels with a cause arouse me ... as if I ever needed any help. I should tell you that I’m over forty now, as though it really matters to anyone. None of the guys really pay me any attention anymore, although this cellphone junkie with a twitch in his left eye and breath that smells like cucumbers and peanut brittle looks me in the eye way too often. To be honest, he bothers me with all this attention, because I have other things on my mind most of the time. I’m thinking about my next project, when I might sit down and write the great American novel. But I just can’t put any ideas down on paper, in spite of the fact that I love creative writing.

Cocktail hour

After dressing in Lucky Brand jeans and a Tommy Bahama floral print shirt (he put on his grandmother’s diamond engagement ring for effect), Robert laid out the hors d’oeuvres. Green olives, rice crackers, red grapes, a nice gouda, and roasted red pepper hummus. Can’t forget the cocktail linen napkins and the appetizer plates from Pottery Barn, he thought. And the cocktails, he’d stopped at Tower Liquor to pick up the Grey Goose, Tanqueray, Johnny Walker Black Label, and bottles of red and white just to round it out. Of course, he’d gotten the mixers. Now who’d forget the mixers?

He heard the knock on the door just as he finished setting up the hors d’oeuvres. William stood there, just as he’d expected. Inside his head, Robert let out a little gasp. Levis torn at the knees, black boots with thick metal spurs, a tank top that had Pitcher spelled across the nipples, and a silver nose ring. Robert notice matted armpit hair and a flesh-colored mole under it, the kind that looked like a spider sac before all the little babies were born.

“Hey Robert,” Williams said, walking right into the apartment and grabbing him by the crotch. “Nice package, know what we’re doing tonight.”

Robert groaned inside his head. “Why don’t you come in, we’ll have a drink before dinner. I’m preparing red snapper and asparagus.”

William winked, laughed, and looked toward the bedroom door. “I’ve got other ideas in mind. Let’s get comfortable.” And with that, William lifted his arms and took off his shirt.

Woah, Robert said to himself -- but now was the time to kick William out. And yet ...

“Hot chest,” he said. “I guess cocktails can wait.”

Nothing

My first porn magazine. Blueboy, June 1980. A man – all wet in a navy blue bikini, his looks chiseled, lean, and blonde, the hair on his chest slithering down his navel toward his groin, before disappearing into his tiny bathing suit – graced the cover of the magazine. And inside the cover, one gorgeous guy after another, wearing nothing, page after page. My 17-year-old heart raced one beat after the other. But it wasn’t the only part of me pulsing that afternoon in Pittsburgh.

I got it at the university bookstore. It cost twice what it ordinarily would, only since I felt compelled to buy a copy of Playboy. I walked up to the cashier, my Blueboy concealed by the Playboy on top, feigning nonchalance as I raised my eyebrows, looked around as I handed the cashier the magazines. She just punched the numbers into the machine, asked for the sum (no way do I remember that, 35 years later). I paid, got to the car, put the magazines at the bottom of my gym bag, and headed straight home, hoping Mom and Dad wouldn’t find out.

Next twenty-four hours, I set a masturbatory record I have never since equaled: six times in less than twelve hours. And then the phone rang. I heard my mother talking, and it was clear – someone had died. Her Uncle Frank Monahan, a stroke. He was only 73.

I ran upstairs, grabbed the magazines, tore them to shreads, and smuggled them into the garbage. I had killed one of my favorite uncles. I resolved then and there that I would never, ever masturbate again. Or buy a copy of Blueboy.

Worst job I ever had

Hey, I got me some biceps, a narrow waist – and a round bulge in my shorts, if you know what I mean. So I moved myself down to Fort Lauderdale and got me an apartment at 34th and Dixie Highway. Nice pad – even got me a separate bedroom with its own bathroom. View out the bedroom window was onto another apartment, however. The lady there tricked with some redneck from Margate every night, worse is my luck.

But hey, I’m in Lauderdale and because of my biceps, waist, and bulge – got me a job as a personal trainer at this gym on Wilton Drive. Sure, all the guys are gay, right? Well, I’m not, but hell, I don’t mind if they look me up and down while they’re writing me checks for $60 an hour to tell them what they should already know how to do ... which is, like, lift a weight? An idiot’s born every minute.

“Okay, buddy, let’s do 12 benches at 90 pounds,” I say to this sap named Don who comes from Tuscaloosa. I come from Dayton, Ohio – great state, but damned cold come wintertime. So this Tuscaloosa Don lays himself down on the bench press and pumps out his 12 reps. Good job, I say – especially for a train-wreck 60 year old with bigger biceps than me, and a narrower waist. I mean, come on – 60 years old and the body like me? I’m 27. Freak.

“So get this story,” he says to me one day. “I was reaching for a quarter weight, and this black says ‘hey that’s mine,’ and I say, ‘why’s it on the rack then? And the black guy, he says, ‘I want to use it,’ and I say to the black guy, ‘that’s too bad,’ and he says, ‘well, we’ll see about that,’ so I tell the black guy, ‘try making me,’ and he says, ‘that’s stupid,’ and I respond, ‘who you calling stupid,’ and he says, ‘I’m no one to judge,’ and I say, ‘you’re fuckin’ rude,’ so I go to the manager and say, ‘this black guy, he just threatened me over a 25-pound weight, do something or I quit.”

So Tuscaloosa Don, he told me the manager went over to the guy and kicked him out of the gym. And then Tuscaloosa Don got his 25 pounds and did his set.

Me, I just wondered why that guy had to be black in the story. I mean, how did that figure, any more than his eye color?

Hot

“I’d like to have a cup of hot tea,” Prunella said, patting her hair net into place. “Hilda, put your crossword down and tell the waitress what you’d like.”

Hilda took her reading glasses off and let them dangle around her neck on their chain – a memento from their mother, who died in her rocking chair after watching an episode of Ironside. Mama had always had a crush on Raymond Burr.

“I’ll have a small glass of sherry, please, and thank you, my dear.”

“Hilda, you’re drinking? Oh, well ... oh, well, then I’ll have a very modest glass of dry white wine. Miss, what would you recommend?”

The waitress recommended a chablis. Hilda giggled a little, “Oh, let’s live a little on the wild side – I’ll have a glass of wine, too. Make it, make it –“ she glanced over at Prunella and burst out laughing. “Make it a Dubonnet over ice!”

“Oh, sister, listen to this scandalous talk! Oh, let’s make a splash of it then. I’ll have a beer!”

Hilda covered her mouth with her eyes. “Mercy, dear! Oh, waitress, if my sister’s having a beer, what would go well with it?”

The waitress said a sidecar would suit her just fine.

“Oh, nonsense ... let’s have something with a little kick.” Hilda rolled her eyes back and opened her mouth wide, wide open. “Let’s make the Dubonnet over ... over gin!”

Prunella gasped, but then she pursed her lips, look to the left and then looked to the right. Finally she whispered. “I’ll have an Absolut vodka martini. Very dry, very chilled, with two olives. And don’t be stingy, baby.”

I object!

"I'm going to open doors for you," little Joey heard on the movie screen, "doors you never even dreamed existed!"

It was the weekly showing of Rosalind Russell's 1958 "Auntie Mame." The madcap aunt in the black negligee, red robe, cigarette holder, and martini enchanted little Joey -- just like she enchanted her 9-year old nephew Patrick. Joey and Mikey came every Saturday afternoon (showing until May, theater management told the boys) to see if, somehow, they could transport themselves from their ordinary, suburban life just outside Indianapolis, Indiana. Joey and Mikey lived across the street from each other, typical 1970s nuclear family. Joey and MIkey, youngest in their families, each had 1.35 siblings -- both families, pretty typical.

Joey and MIkey fought over which family was the Flintstones and which family was the Rubbles. Joey's dad might not work in a gravel quarry or drive a car with his feet, but he did yell out "Bertha!" every time he came home, expected dinner on the table in less than five minutes. Okay, so Mikey's dad fixed people's plumbing for a living (hardly Barney Rubble-like) but his mom did giggle in a silly way like Betty Rubble. And she had black hair she wore in a bun. The kids liked to find movies and television in their lives, but gosh, they had a hard time of it. There was nothing Auntie Mame about their Indianapolis lives.

Joey wanted to design movie sets when he grew up. He loved to rearrange the furniture in his room and pestered his parents enough, they painted his bedroom a different color every year. One Saturday afternoon last summer, he'd moved himself into his brother Jeffy's room and moved Jeffy into his own. No one discovered it until Jeffy started screaming right before dinner. They made him move everything back. Why couldn't they understand? He wanted to try something new, not the old, boring stuff! Oh, well, at least he had Mikey -- who wanted to become an Academy-award winning actress when he grew up. Mikey could picture himself:

"Thank you, Warren. And the nominees for best actress are Miss Bette Davis for I Object!,' Miss Katharine Hepburn for 'The Goddess of Park Avenue,' Miss Vanessa Redgrave for 'A Leftist in Liverpool,' Miss Maggie Smith for 'Droll Baby,' and Mikey Winters for 'Queen for a Day.'" Applause, applause while Paul Newman opened the envelope: "and the winner is Mikey Winters!"

Joey and Mikey planned to run away from home, go to Hollywood. Just as soon as they saved up $75.00 from their allowances.

Readily available

Martha screamed at George. "What do you mean, she's pregnant?"

"Yeah, Jessica's pregnant! Three months gone and she's going to keep it. I can't get her to change her mind."

Martha huffed and puffed. Well, he'd have to try. This was way too much of a burden on their marriage. As if they hadn't had enough to deal with: his alcoholism, her hysterectomy, his prostate cancer, her repeated yeast infections, his erectile dysfunction, her hairy upper lip, his infidelities with Swedish yoga instructors -- all those things, enough to derail their 28-year marriage. But this? Jessica being pregnant? How could he let something like this happen?

"Well, it's not exactly my fault, Martha. I'm trying to get her to have an abortion, or at least give it up for adoption, but she's insisting. She wants to keep it and raise it as a single mother." "A single mother! How ridiculous. She can barely do her laundry, make her bed, and empty her wastebaskets. Managing a baby, how's she ever going to do that? I suppose she thinks we’ll be readily available" Martha was sure that, when all was said and done, she and George -- at their age, getting close to 60 -- would have to care for this baby. And all because George was going through his mid-life crisis. Good God, she thought, this child would graduate from college when they were close to 80.

If George was going to have a mid-life crisis, why didn't he just buy a 1966 Corvette Stingray like Bob Smith did not long after he started combing all his hair over one side to cover his bald spot? No, he had to do this! And now Jessica was pregnant and they were in a fix. George had to go out and buy a twin-engine speed boat and hire the captain who got their 19-year old daughter pregnant.

"Oh, shit, George! It's bad enough that we're going to be grandparents, but to have to raise the damned kid, too!"

Sculpting hands

“Hey Judy, get me a beer,” Ron said. He yelled at the kitchen door, knowing full well that his lazy no-good-do-for-nothing wife was in there. Probably watching her fingernails grow or thinking about the next dye job she’d get at the beauty parlor. Don’t she know who the captain of the ship around here is? Hell, he’s the man of the house and he brings home the moulah that pays for the freakin’ joint.

Judy heard Ron’s bellowing from the living room. Let him yell, for all she cared, she thought at the kitchen table, finishing up her crossword. What, he didn’t think she knew about the twins across the street? And what about the Bellows maid, who got pregnant and ran off to Colombia? Did he think she was stupid? That no-good-do-for-nothing man that saddled her with two wide-eyed girls as sweet and gentle as she was – well, as she once was, before she met that cheat of a man.

“Ah, get it yourself, I’m busy,” Judy said. She could yell at the kitchen door, too. She had more important things to do. She was heading down to the basement to sculpt a fruit bowl. A gift for Ron’s mother, of course. Ron didn’t even appreciate what she was doing, ever since his father died, looking after Mama Dorothy. Judy couldn’t understand why Dorothy mourned that awful man – whose girlfriends at the lounge and drunken Friday night binges made Ron look like a saint.

She got up from the kitchen table and was about to open the basement door when Ron barged into the kitchen.

“And where’s my dinner? Should be on the table now. Ma would have it ready, so why in the hell can’t you?”

Connected

“Now if you’re going to write a thank you note,” Matilda said to Celia, who stared at her with wide eyes and an open mouth, “you need to start with a proper salutation. ‘My dear Mr. Woodsworth,’ is appropriate, child. Capitalize the M but not the D.”

Students were less and less bright these days, Matilda sighed. Back when she’d started teaching for the Open University, they’d been so eager to write. She’d loved those students. But the dim, incurious, and uninspired nincompoops they sent to her these days bored her. Matilda felt no connection to these children, and Celia Johnson was the worst in the pumpkin patch.

She sat there, pen in the right hand, seeming to wait for even more instruction. How clear did Matilda have to make it? She sighed again. Matilda would much rather be at home with a gin and Dubonnet and her crossword puzzle. But no, she had to pay rent to Old Mrs. Stickney, so she had to tutor these pupils at the Open University.

“I don’t see why we need to write these notes anyway. No one does this anymore. My mother just rings up her host after being invited for dinner. Can I go to the bathroom, Miss Dumont?”

“’May’ you go to the bathroom, child, and no. We write thank you notes because it is the correct thing to do, my dear. Whenever someone does you a courtesy such as inviting you into their home or giving a gift, it’s only common courtesy to thank them in written form.”

“That’s such an old, dried up custom,” Celia said. She put her pen on the desk with a bang. “And I have to go to the bathroom. I can’t wait.”

Celia stood and left the room without waiting for Matilda’s leave. Children these days, they had no respect for their elders.

Dead

The two of them walked out of the doctor’s office, their feet leaden and their pace slow. Neither said a word as they got into Harold’s old Ford. The ancient jalopy sputtered to a halting start.

Georgianna looked out the window as they drove up Main Street. There was Busby’s Grocers, where she’d gone so many times. And the Andover Barber Shop, where Harold got his hair cut every other Saturday afternoon at 4:00. And Main Street Cinema. She and Harold had seen “Gone With the Wind,” and she’d taken the boys to see “Fantasia.” And, at the top of Main Street, there was Chestnut and Oak – Chestnut to the left, Oak to the right.

Their own white clapboard house was on Chestnut Street. Harold really did need to clean the leaves off the roof. He hadn’t yet done it this fall. They’d been there for how long now, thirteen years? Yes, the fall of 1936, just after Allen’s fourth birthday. They’d moved over from the little house they’d rented from Aunt Dodo in Lawrence. She remembered the boys chasing each other around the house in those early years, and the cat. Tippy had hidden in the dining closet for several days after they moved in. Poor Tippy, now gone to kitty heaven.

“Harold,” Georgianna said, her mid-alto voice cracking after so long a silence, “we’re not to tell the boys. Not yet, at least.”

Her husband didn’t answer, but that was his way. He fixed his gaze straight at the road ahead, but after he turned onto Chestnut, he pulled the car to the side of the road and stopped. Harold gazed over at Georgianna. His eyes narrowed and he pressed his lips together into a single flat line. “Okay,” he said, and started up again.

It's not working

“This is, like, totally not working for me,” Josh said into the telephone. He’d called from his rented room in the Hollywood Hills. “I want to break up.”

Andrew nearly swerved the Audi into the I-280 guard rail. He steadied the car just before the turn-off to the 101 Freeway. “Oh, my God! You’re really serious.”

“I know that when I had the affair with Kent that I was unhappy with what I was doing with my life. And I’ve been unhappy with our relationship and I’ve been trying to make it work and I have to trust my instincts because I know that my instincts have always been correct in the past. I have to take care of myself and I know this is the right thing for me. I –“ Josh stopped, his voice cracking.

Andrew just noticed his mouth had gone dry, his hands were shaking, and he felt the inner pit of his stomach. But he felt an inner calm descend on him. Ever since Andrew inadvertently read the e-mail from Kent, it’d been a rollercoaster with Josh. Finally, a decision. He’d reached the exit into San Francisco and pulled over into a parking space.

Had he actually found a parking space on the street in San Francisco?

“Look, Josh,” Andrew said, putting the car into park. “Why don’t you sleep on this? This seems pretty half-baked, Josh. Just yesterday you were talking about coming out to visit next week. Let’s talk about it then.”

“—I’m, I’m not coming out next week. I’ve already discussed this with my therapist and I’ve decided I’m not going to see you. Good-bye, Andrew.”

“But Josh –“ and the phone went click.

Andrew stared at the ’78 Oldsmobile Cutlass in front of him. That’s what he loved about San Francisco. Smart people, even gifted people, didn’t care much about appearances. It was all about what was inside the head. Not like Josh. Josh didn’t give a damn about what was inside his head, only his buff physique and blonde highlights.

He started up the car and drove the eight blocks to his Noe Valley house. There was a comedy club he wanted to make this evening.

The crime

Freeman took on the job like any other routine burglary. Small ranch. Perfect setup. Owner at work all day, neighbors too, house set back a hundred feet from the street, small windows, easy rear access. Already checked, no security system. Stupid yuppies, as if that six-by-six ADT sign out front would fool an old pro like Freeman Rivers.

Being Houston, this idiot – and his neighbors – wouldn’t be home from work for hours. Even if they left now, there’d be traffic on the roads. You could always count on a Houston traffic jam to keep someone away from discovering a hit job in progress.

That morning Freeman got to the back by a neighbor’s house. No cars in the driveway, good – but the owner had a dog barking at the back door. Damn. Freeman got a look at the thing. Little red and white number. Well, he’d let it outside and go inside himself.

Jimmying the door open was a piece of cake, even with the double lock. That only meant instead of fifteen seconds, it was thirty-five to get inside. He opened the door. Dog was all over him in a second, barking and nipping. But when Freeman opened the door wide, he didn’t go outside – two cats, those Siamese kind – they ran outside.

Well, hell with them. So Freeman went in the house and left the door wide open. When the dog went out, he’d close it and get to work.

Dog began to growl when Freeman went right for the living room. Good – flat-screen TV, DVD player. All the best stuff. There was that Wedgewood on the piano. Rich guy. Had a grand piano, too. And crystal in the china cabinet – old money, looked like. Probably has jewelry. These Midtown queers, you know – yep, he saw the soft porn magnets on the fridge. Gotta get to business.

Went right for the bedroom. Jewelry box right out there on the dresser, a gold ring right on top. He grabbed the whole thing, stuffed it into his satchel. Dog was still on him, barking and growling. Freeman kicked the dog, but wasn’t prepared when the mutt sank his fangs into Freeman’s ankle.

Freeman felt a white, hot pain dart up his leg and into his knee. “Fuck!” he said, and kicked the dog in the head. Dog bit him again, this time deeper. Freeman kicked even harder. Dog kept barking and nipping at his heels.

Freeman limped, holding the jewelry box, into the living room. Got to get out of here before the dog got him even wors. He was dripping blood on the floor. DNA evidence. Shit. Damned dog. He walked by the piano, saw a black box. Just enough room in his satchel for it. Dropped it right in. Looked in the living room, DVD player, TV – can it, he’d get thousands for the jewelry.

He got out of the house, left the door open. Dog followed him outside, he was dripping blood onto the pavement. Shit, fuck, damn. DNA evidence. What the hell, got to get out. He saw the cats over at the edge of the yard, perched on a fence. The hell with them. Owner deserved to lose his pets, too. Fuck the dog owner.

Two hours later, Freeman was inside his apartment and had bandaged the two bites. Not too deep, good. And he got six gold rings and a diamond ring. Diamond ring had the initials C. M. D. on the inside. Perfect, he’d get at least a thousand for this shit at the pawn shop. And then he opened the black box. Sure it’d be more jewelry. But no. There was a plastic bag in there with ashes, and a piece of paper. Catherine Dryer, born May 9, 1930, died October 18, 2015. Shit. He got the sucker’s dead mother.

He took the bag outside and dumped the ashes in the garbage. Fuck the bitch’s son and his damned dog.

A special offer

Last month I got a special offer from Amazon. Buy the entire DVD collection of the ‘80s classic, “Cheers.” And now I’m up to Season 4, you know, the one where Diane and Sam go for Round 2 of their immortal love match, to see which one will score the knock-out punch. Poor Sam and Diane, they never got it right.

There’s something about that show. Maybe because it premiered when the country was still recovering from the ‘70s. Looking at the theme, you still see those ’75 Ford Mavericks and ’78 Granadas driving down Beacon Street.

The Maverick is this almond green and the Granada is this rust brown. Super ugly by any standard. Hell, those cars are super ugly no matter which color's splashed on them. Who thought up those duds, the bastard child of Edsel Ford? Had to be someone. Even Mercury had its own versions – the Comet (twin of Maverick) and Monarch (twin of Granada) – and Lincoln had its Versailles, which was nothing more than a Granada in a tuxedo. And a cheap, powder-blue, wide-lapeled, polyester tuxedo at that.

But (quoting Sophia Petrillo) I digress. “Cheers” was a great show. It was one of my all-time favorites, right up there with “The Mary Tyler Moore Show,” “Frasier” (note to self: order this DVD collection for Christmas), “The Golden Girls,” and “The Patty Duke Show.” What, you ask – “The Patty Duke Show?” I wanted to make sure you were reading. I might’ve liked Patty Duke’s show when I was six, but I grew out of toddler-hood not long after that. No, for me fifth place would be tied between “Maude” and “Bewitched.” That’s right. I like women with power. Eat your heart out, Archie Bunker.

And does anyone still drive a Maverick? Last mention of a Maverick was in the ’08 campaign when John McCain was doing his maverick stuff and Sarah Palin was coo-cooing it. How quickly we forget. Someone sent me a picture of that almond green car with the caption, “Now THIS is a real maverick.” Like, whatever.

So I was talking to a colleague at work the other day, a 22-year-old super-smart over-achiever named Heather. I said she reminded me of Mary Tyler Moore from the show. And you know what, she asked me, “Who’s Mary Tyler Moore?” I looked in the mirror. Am I really that old, or is she just stupid?

Ted Danson is 68 this year. Shelley Long is 66.

I am ready

Geraldine taped up the last box and listened to final screech-screech of the tape across the top of the box. So satisfying to leave this sanitized house in Westwood with its crown moldings, great room, center island kitchen, and master bedroom fireplace. So satisfying to have the last box packed – this one, a box of spatulas and bag clippers.

How on earth had they ever collected so many? They really only needed one spatula and perhaps a handful of bag clippers. I mean … a bag of potato chips, pretzels, and tortilla chips. Three maximum. But there were at least fifteen spatulas and thirty bag clippers. Why on earth had they ever gotten all these?

But of course, they’d never worried about money. Perhaps Richard still didn’t. Geraldine grunted out a snicker. Tiffany would want Botox injections and a Mercedes convertible by the time she turned thirty. And there’d be weekly spa treatments and massages, shopping sprees on Rodeo Drive (did anyone know that Greta Garbo had owned that street), not to mention all the expensive gifts for her cheerleader friends.

“Mama, the men with the truck are here.”

That was Jennifer. Geraldine wondered how her baby was taking it all. She seemed okay, really had just shrugged her shoulders when Geraldine had told her they were moving to a townhouse in Pasadenal. But Geraldine would’ve thought a nine-year-old girl who liked reading Louisa May Alcott would be more attached to her neighborhood.

Not to mention her father. That lousy, stinking, cheating son-of-a-bitch man who’d ruined their lives.

Geraldine would show him. Who cared if he had all that money and fast cars and a tight and taut bimbette at his beck and call? Justice would be served. One way or the other.

She thought about the spatulas and the bag clippers. Geraldine could think of a few things she could do with those extra utensils. She laughed a short snicker again.

For example

He was such pond scum. For example, the last time I saw him, he’d taken my mother’s favorite picture of my Irish grandmother who came to America in at Atlantic gale while pregnant with my Uncle Daniel.

He was such a cheat. For example, while I was pregnant with our third boy, he had an affair with twins across the street. One of them got pregnant, fled the country, and the poor girl and her baby are living somewhere in Brazil.

He was such a liar. For example, he told me he needed money to pay for a new furnace and then took it to buy a purple dune buggy.

He was so devious. For example, he broke my mother’s fine china one night in a drunken rage and then fabricated a whole burglary, police report and all.

He was so indecisive. For example, he left me and then told me he wanted me back, only to leave me again when I agreed to return.

He was so childish. For example, when he had a simple cold, he stayed home from work for a week and ran me ragged with requests for meals in bed, snacks on the fly, and water refills every thirty minutes.

He could be so charming. For example, he complimented me on my dresses, my make-up, the color of my eyes, the waviness in my hair, the curve in my hips – and usually when I felt down about myself.

He was really good looking. For example, he had that dimple in his square-jawed chin, that smooth, alabaster skin framed by jet-black hair, those broad shoulders and narrow hips – and a killer smile that melted me in place.

He was so kind. For example, when my mother died, he held me in his arms while I cried and held my hand all throughout the funeral.

He was the love of my life. For example, no one seized my imagination as much as he did, from the moment I laid eyes on him, and I could never get him out of my mind. But since the divorce, I haven’t spoken with him once. And I like that.

Here's the problem

Matilda drew the bath water that Saturday evening after dinner. She’d made herself two chicken thighs, white rice, and green peas. It had been quite tasty, really, and she’d enjoyed eating the meal while watching the news on the BBC. There’d been a fight in Belfast and a riot in Dublin, but it was quiet here in Manchester, and the Queen was in Scotland. In America, Senator Kennedy had been shot, and that was only two months after Martin Luther King. But there was little to worry about in England, so Matilda ate her meal in peace.

After starting the bath water and setting the temperature hot, hot, hot – she treated herself to a really hot bath on Saturday evenings after the news, her one regular indulgence every week. It had been that way for nearly twenty years since Susan had died. After her bath, she’d get the photo album out and look at all the memories she and Susan had – day trips to Wales, weekends in Cornwall, their momentous trip to Paris in those years before the war. Matilda could remember walking with Susan in the Loeuvre, spending a whole day there taking in every painting, every sculpture.

She took off her robe and, somehow by instinct, looked out the bathroom door. As if anyone were there to look – or had been there, these twenty years. Matilda laughed at her own modesty. She edged herself carefully into the tub, closed her eyes as she descended into the water, and purred. There was no better way to spend a Saturday evening than taking a long, hot bath with her memories of Susan.

I don't trust ...

This was the last time I’d trust the Safeway deli. I knew that roast beef was bad, second it went in my mouth. But no, I have to mind-fuck myself into thinking, just bad taste buds, buddy, there’s nothing wrong with it, go ahead and eat it. Well, so I did, and I hear I am now.

You know what it feels like when the back of your throat feels like sandpaper with rough air running over it, when you can’t stand having even a light sheet on top of your tummy, when you’re afraid to move because then, just then the volcano will erupt – and when it does, every time afterward gets easier and easier until the fourth time, you get this tension in the back of your throat, and say ho hum, another trip to the toilet, no big deal, just get it out of me.

And then there’s the thought that, finally, you’d lose that extra five pounds you’ve been trying to get rid of since Molly’s wedding in May. And then the afterthought, oh, and this time I really will lose the pounds and not gain them back at Thanksgiving. So maybe there is an upside to the convulsive ride my stomach’s taken me on today.

My family thinks it’s just nerves, you know, just a reaction after the funeral. Yeah, I told them, there were those two hours of nausea the night before Mom’s services. And yeah, I hadn’t been sleeping well in the two weeks since she died. Okay, you got me there. But I didn’t react this way last year when Dad died, did I? I was perfectly fine. Okay, guys, sure I was my mother’s baby. But she was 83 and had been bed-bound for five years. And so what if she was the only person I ever really trusted. What’s that got to do with it?

Dry

“Look, life sucks and then you die,” Josh said at the kitchen table. He twisted the cap off the bottle of pinot noir.

“What good pinot doesn’t have a cork?” Andrew asked. “That’s just cheesy, having a screw top with a pinot.”

“You’re avoiding the topic. Look, your mother died three weeks ago. It’s okay to be depressed. It’s not like it’s stopping you from going to work, or going to the gym. Didn’t you hook up with that muscle top on the same afternoon you picked up her ashes?”

“Watch it, Josh. This is my mother we’re talking about. And it wasn’t the same afternoon. It was the next day. But I have to admit, it gave me a dry feeling in the back of my throat, having sex with my mother sitting on top of the mantle. That and the kitty cat sitting on top of the box.”

“Why should it bother you? It’s not as if you didn’t fuck around under her roof plenty while she was alive. If memory serves, we screwed any number of times while she was having cocktails with your father, watching Fox News and yelling at the Democrats between Scrabble turns.”

“Sometimes I wish you weren’t my lover back then. You gotta bring up the past?”

Josh sniffed out a laugh. “Someone’s got to keep you honest, darling. Who knows you better than I do?”

Andrew neighed like a horse. “I do myself.”

“Poppycock. Who is it who never predicts how long it’s going to take to get ready for the evening? By the time you turn 40, Andrew, you should know whether it’s 15 minutes or 90.”

“That’s it, I’m hanging up.”

“What’re you talking about? We’re not on the phone, Andrew. You’re sitting in front of me. You can’t hang up.”