Monday, October 10, 2005
Orange Sodas and Chico Sticks
Lately I have been posting my "Intro To Creative Fiction" homework. I actually sent one of the stories, "Kingdom of Heaven" to a few literary magazines. Who knows ? Can't go fishing without putting your worm out there. As usual, I find myself hoping that someone will like my worm. School has kept me pretty busy lately. I actually polished off two little papers within the last two days. Thank god. They were like thorns in my academic ass. I hate research papers, and being an English major, there is no escaping those fucking things. Looks like I am the only one posting these days. RButler has all but disappeared off the radar, and MNeal has about a thousand blogs of this own to populate. God, is it hot and sticky in my house. D turned off the fucking air conditioning. Ahhhh, it sure is nice to come home to thick as butter jungle funk. I just wish that I had a vinyl couch to lay on, and a rayon shirt to suffocate me. Sweet Jesus, it is like someone put me in one of those bags you buy to roast your turkey. "Fresh hot GS3 right out of the oven...come and get him while he is hot!" "Momma, I want a leg." "Oh honey, you can't eat all that!" To make things worse D left the stereo on some homeboy music, and I am too lazy to turn it off. God damn it, I hate that shit. Ever pull up to the QT for a bucket of Coke and a Whatchamacallit, and are assaulted by a piece of shit car with a 1000 dollar radio ? I am surprised that the sub woofer does not rattle the rust bucket piece of shit apart. I can see it now, a couple of homies coming out of the QT with Orange sodas and Chico Sticks, only to find their 1000 dollar stereo sitting in a pile of rust. The only thing that I wish, is that it would fall apart while they are driving down 85. One of these days, I am just going to get in one of those homie mobiles ( they always leave the key in it ), and drive it to Car Max and sell it. It feels good to let off a little steam, although really, I have it pretty sweet compared to others. Take my brother for instance. He puts up with more shit than a little bit, working for a body shop in Cumming. When he is not busy detailing cars, they give him a razor and make him convert big fat boxes into little thin ones. Oh yeah, they make him clean their fucking shit hole too. He is 38 years old, going on 39 and those fuckers have no respect for a working man. Hell, the world has no respect for a working man. The only thing keeping him going is his side job, coaching football for his son's high school. He lives for three o'clock every day. Until then, it is all work and hiding from it. He is a good father too, and a good man. Much better than I have turned out to be. I am not being down on myself, just honest. Trust me, I know me. Great now I have a headache. Time to 86 that fucking boom boom shit someone calls music.
Friday, September 30, 2005
Coming Home from the Ball Park on a Summer's Evening
Curled up small and tight
A roly-poly in the floorboard of the family car
The transmisson hump makes a dirty hot pillow
Each bump in the road
Bounces your head
Each gear
Grinds in your ear
Lifting
Your face remembers the carpet
With crop circles
And tiny trash
Like ice cream sprinkles
Adults are talking
Blah, blah, blah
And
This and that
And hand me another one of those cold things
McDonald's french fries
Hot
Cold
And in-between
Greasy candles
Dropping salt
Delicious, tiny, happy bites
Will make them last
Forever
Drifing in and out
Of dark
And light
Along the highway home
Safe
And
Invisible
A roly-poly in the floorboard of the family car
The transmisson hump makes a dirty hot pillow
Each bump in the road
Bounces your head
Each gear
Grinds in your ear
Lifting
Your face remembers the carpet
With crop circles
And tiny trash
Like ice cream sprinkles
Adults are talking
Blah, blah, blah
And
This and that
And hand me another one of those cold things
McDonald's french fries
Hot
Cold
And in-between
Greasy candles
Dropping salt
Delicious, tiny, happy bites
Will make them last
Forever
Drifing in and out
Of dark
And light
Along the highway home
Safe
And
Invisible
Monday, September 19, 2005
The Drivers License Shirt
He couldn’t remember why he liked it in the first place, much less why he was in a panic to find it. The shirt was threadbare and speckled with holes of various dimensions but once it glistened like orange and green striped polyester gold. It had originally come into his possession through the fruits of a fit he threw at the Hickory Flat Bargain Store, the summer before his eighth grade year. Anyone witnessing that vocal and tearful event would attest to the fact that his mother had no choice but to buy the shirt and ease his teenage suffering. In 1979, the shirt had clung tight to his skinny torso like a sock on the wall of a dryer. Seventy-five pounds and a quarter of a century later, he had little hope of squeezing back into his old friend without looking ridiculous...but then again, that was the point.
This was not the first time that Paul had lost the shirt. In fact, out of the twenty-six years that it had been in his possession, it had only made a handful of cameo appearances: his first day of high school, his first date, and every Drivers License photo he ever had taken. Originally a stunt to entertain his friends, the tradition of wearing what became known as the “Drivers License Shirt” (or DLS), evolved into something unexpected: a visual record of time flying. Every five years when his license expired, he squeezed back into that glorious rag, combed his hair down straight like Moe Howard and went to stand in line at the DMV.
“Where is that freaking shirt?” he said in the oppressive heat and humidity of the attic. It always turned up in the loneliest places. Once he had found it wedged in a crevice between the arm and seat of his frat boy quality sofa. Potato chip crumbs and ghosts of farts fell out into the air and almost choked him when he dislodged it. Another time, the shirt turned up in a moldy cardboard box full of ancient history. Inside were the odds and ends of his life: an Elvis mirror, a pair of 3D glasses, assorted Christmas and Birthday cards, immaculate unopened bills, and a zoo of unloved stuffed animals. He wished that the shirt had found a less retrospective place to hide.
So far, he had collected four Drivers License photos and kept them pinned in chronological order on a dry and crumbling cork board behind his computer. This year’s photo would be the fifth. With each successive laminated portrait his face widened, his eyes tired, and his smile looked less believable. It was like looking at time lapse photography of a man being poisoned. The consequences of five years revealed in a moment. It would have been depressing if the pictures had not been so god damned funny.
Grumpy and discouraged by his failure to locate the shirt in the attic, Paul gingerly coached his feet down the ladder. Although he knew a steel bar was bolted across the bottom of each rung, he could not help but envision himself painfully splintering through each one and crashing to the floor. He imagined his spirit hovering over his broken body as the medics arrived on the scene. “No more Cheetos for you big boy” one of them would say and then they both would start laughing. Paul’s right leg reached downward and found solid ground. “Looks like I’ll be having at least one more bag, you fuckers” he thought defiantly and let the folded ladder spring back into the ceiling. He paused to scan his brain for memories.
Once again he turned to his bedroom dresser; the contents of every drawer strewn about the room in random hurricane order. “Think” he said and tried to direct more juice to the part of his brain that remembered things. “I came home from the DMV, threw my change in the candy dish, pulled the shirt up over my head and threw it in the…GOD DAMN IT…I am starting to freak out people!” He grabbed one of the tacky brass handles on the front of the dresser and yanked the whole drawer out of its socket. “SHIT!” he screamed slowly as if the word was a mile long…and then there was silence. In one corner of the space previously occupied by the drawer, pressed flat against the back of the dresser, was his holy grail. “Oh, Drivers License shirt, I LOVE YOU!” Paul said mimicking Elmo from Sesame Street and then burst into laughter.
The shirt was in worse condition than he remembered both visually and odiferously. “All the better.” he thought and began inserting himself into the fragile garment with all the care of an archeologist trying to unroll a Dead Sea scroll. “Just one more time, old buddy” Paul thought as he began slipping the neck of the shirt down over his talk show host sized head. The polyester smashed his nose flat and clipped his ears as it stretched across his face. He felt like he was being born. “Almost there…” he said as he applied the final bit of pressure and then “pop”, he was wearing it.
Paul looked at himself in the narrow full length mirror that hung on the back of his bedroom door. The shirt stopped short of his hairy belly and a hole fell fortuitously around his left nipple. A pimple loomed red and ripe on the side of his nose and his off-white teeth smiled as if they were made of ivory. It felt good to be sixteen again.
This was not the first time that Paul had lost the shirt. In fact, out of the twenty-six years that it had been in his possession, it had only made a handful of cameo appearances: his first day of high school, his first date, and every Drivers License photo he ever had taken. Originally a stunt to entertain his friends, the tradition of wearing what became known as the “Drivers License Shirt” (or DLS), evolved into something unexpected: a visual record of time flying. Every five years when his license expired, he squeezed back into that glorious rag, combed his hair down straight like Moe Howard and went to stand in line at the DMV.
“Where is that freaking shirt?” he said in the oppressive heat and humidity of the attic. It always turned up in the loneliest places. Once he had found it wedged in a crevice between the arm and seat of his frat boy quality sofa. Potato chip crumbs and ghosts of farts fell out into the air and almost choked him when he dislodged it. Another time, the shirt turned up in a moldy cardboard box full of ancient history. Inside were the odds and ends of his life: an Elvis mirror, a pair of 3D glasses, assorted Christmas and Birthday cards, immaculate unopened bills, and a zoo of unloved stuffed animals. He wished that the shirt had found a less retrospective place to hide.
So far, he had collected four Drivers License photos and kept them pinned in chronological order on a dry and crumbling cork board behind his computer. This year’s photo would be the fifth. With each successive laminated portrait his face widened, his eyes tired, and his smile looked less believable. It was like looking at time lapse photography of a man being poisoned. The consequences of five years revealed in a moment. It would have been depressing if the pictures had not been so god damned funny.
Grumpy and discouraged by his failure to locate the shirt in the attic, Paul gingerly coached his feet down the ladder. Although he knew a steel bar was bolted across the bottom of each rung, he could not help but envision himself painfully splintering through each one and crashing to the floor. He imagined his spirit hovering over his broken body as the medics arrived on the scene. “No more Cheetos for you big boy” one of them would say and then they both would start laughing. Paul’s right leg reached downward and found solid ground. “Looks like I’ll be having at least one more bag, you fuckers” he thought defiantly and let the folded ladder spring back into the ceiling. He paused to scan his brain for memories.
Once again he turned to his bedroom dresser; the contents of every drawer strewn about the room in random hurricane order. “Think” he said and tried to direct more juice to the part of his brain that remembered things. “I came home from the DMV, threw my change in the candy dish, pulled the shirt up over my head and threw it in the…GOD DAMN IT…I am starting to freak out people!” He grabbed one of the tacky brass handles on the front of the dresser and yanked the whole drawer out of its socket. “SHIT!” he screamed slowly as if the word was a mile long…and then there was silence. In one corner of the space previously occupied by the drawer, pressed flat against the back of the dresser, was his holy grail. “Oh, Drivers License shirt, I LOVE YOU!” Paul said mimicking Elmo from Sesame Street and then burst into laughter.
The shirt was in worse condition than he remembered both visually and odiferously. “All the better.” he thought and began inserting himself into the fragile garment with all the care of an archeologist trying to unroll a Dead Sea scroll. “Just one more time, old buddy” Paul thought as he began slipping the neck of the shirt down over his talk show host sized head. The polyester smashed his nose flat and clipped his ears as it stretched across his face. He felt like he was being born. “Almost there…” he said as he applied the final bit of pressure and then “pop”, he was wearing it.
Paul looked at himself in the narrow full length mirror that hung on the back of his bedroom door. The shirt stopped short of his hairy belly and a hole fell fortuitously around his left nipple. A pimple loomed red and ripe on the side of his nose and his off-white teeth smiled as if they were made of ivory. It felt good to be sixteen again.
Thursday, September 08, 2005
Those Lazy, Hazy, Crazy Days of Unemployment
Day Nine of doing nothing. I've fallen into an endless cycle of taking care of kids, playing with Google Earth, and listening to the screaming of a two-year-old who wants her way and is trying to talk above a wife complaining that I left dishes in the sink. Time has begun to lose meaning. The days run together. I've done away with knowing the days of the week in favor of a new method of my own invention. There are now two days of the week. Funday lasts for 6 days, and liquor-store-closed-day lasts for one day. Today is Funday.
Each morning I wake up, crawl downstairs, lay around. I stretch, yawn, and feel too lazy to reach for the remote. I try to get Katelyn to bring it to me, but instead she decides to start pushing buttons. Man, I'm way too tired to do anything about it.
After the first few days my beard had started coming in nicely. By now it's a huge, scraggly mess. My hair sticks up in all sorts of places. The hair brush sits idle. I've realized I can give up most forms of hygiene, including bathing. I was surprised that after a week I still didn't stink. But the other day I showered because I finally started to notice an odor. In an unrelated note my cold finally started clearing up and I can smell again.
My wife is throwing out lots of hints lately, more each day. She asks about all those projects I was going to do, how the job search is coming, etc. She even asked if I was going to write anything while I was off, kind of nudging me along. Dang. That instantly turned it into work, now I don't want to do it anymore.
After a hard days work of laying on the sofa, it's almost noon and I'm ready for a nap. Wish I had some chicken wings. But just the thought of getting dressed to go to the store is taking way too much energy. I collapse on the bed. Soon it will be late enough to have a rum and coke....I can't wait.
Oh damnit!!! I'm out of rum! Now I HAVE to make myself at least presentable enough to go into the liquor store. They've been looking at me funny lately, one of them offered me a frequent fliers discount! Jokers.
I think my life is becoming a Jimmy Buffett song.
Each morning I wake up, crawl downstairs, lay around. I stretch, yawn, and feel too lazy to reach for the remote. I try to get Katelyn to bring it to me, but instead she decides to start pushing buttons. Man, I'm way too tired to do anything about it.
After the first few days my beard had started coming in nicely. By now it's a huge, scraggly mess. My hair sticks up in all sorts of places. The hair brush sits idle. I've realized I can give up most forms of hygiene, including bathing. I was surprised that after a week I still didn't stink. But the other day I showered because I finally started to notice an odor. In an unrelated note my cold finally started clearing up and I can smell again.
My wife is throwing out lots of hints lately, more each day. She asks about all those projects I was going to do, how the job search is coming, etc. She even asked if I was going to write anything while I was off, kind of nudging me along. Dang. That instantly turned it into work, now I don't want to do it anymore.
After a hard days work of laying on the sofa, it's almost noon and I'm ready for a nap. Wish I had some chicken wings. But just the thought of getting dressed to go to the store is taking way too much energy. I collapse on the bed. Soon it will be late enough to have a rum and coke....I can't wait.
Oh damnit!!! I'm out of rum! Now I HAVE to make myself at least presentable enough to go into the liquor store. They've been looking at me funny lately, one of them offered me a frequent fliers discount! Jokers.
I think my life is becoming a Jimmy Buffett song.
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
A Night at the Ball Park
Buy a three foot long pixie stick. Use your teeth to tear open the plastic straw. Tilt your head back and pour the sugar into a dune on your tongue. Swish the candy around your mouth in a tidal wave. Stick a purple tongue out at your brother. The game is just starting and Mom is encouraging someone to “knock the shit out of it”. Sit with the softball girls on the bench. Get embarrassed when they talk about your long eye lashes. Run away. Step in some chewing gum. Use a mud puddle to wash your feet.
Walk along the park fence and look for honeysuckle. Pull the chord on the flower. Drop its sweet tear in your mouth. Eat an ant, too. Be more careful with the next one. Look up at the scoreboard. Look down at your watch. Eat a hundred more drops. Wish you had a hotdog.
Take a matchbox car out of your pocket. Smell the metal. Spin the wheels with your finger. Drive it along the top railing of the fence. Make it jump the posts. Spot a trail leading through the bushes. Make sure your mother is not looking. Haul ass. Push on a crooked gate. Force the latch. Discover a playground. Ride the horse on the rusty spring even though you are too big. Lie on the cool flat of the round-and-round. Look up at the clouds. Have a daydream about Halloween. Enjoy this lonely weird place. Pull a kudzu vine off a swing set chain. Pick up a box of crushed Lemonheads and throw it in the trash. Sweep some leaves off the slide. Decide to keep this place secret. Stay a while.
Open your eyes wide to let in more light. Rub the chill bumps off your arm. Realize that you have stayed too long. Run back to the ball field. Feel relieved that the game has not ended. Search for your grandmother in the stands. Snuggle with her under a blanket. Eat cold chicken and talk about scary movies. Stand up when the crowd roars. Someone hits a homerun. You are sure it is Geraldine.
Tell Nanny you need to go to pee. Find your brother playing dump truck under the bleachers. Think he is filthy. Know Mom is going to whip his ass. Decide to play dump truck too. Fill a paper cup with dirt. Dump it. Repeat. Stick a long piece of grass in your mouth to look like Huck Finn. Spit it out when it burns you. Stink weed. Be more careful with the next one. Pick up two pennies, a dime and a hair bow and put them in your pocket… kid treasure. Ask your brother for some Redhots. He gives you some Good N' Plentys instead. Yuck…licorice.
The wooden planks of the bleachers bend heavily downward with the weight of the departing crowd. Both teams are on the field shaking hands. Grab your brother and clean up with a garden hose. Take a shortcut to the parking lot. Find your mother. The outer part of her right thigh is skinned up and bloody. She doesn’t yell at you for getting dirty. Geraldine gets in the back between you and your brother. Mom is taking her home tonight. It is dark and the summer air is blowing in warm through the little triangle windows on the car. The music on the radio drifts in and out until it is completely fuzz. Talk to Geraldine about her home run. Tell her that she is going to beat Hank Aaron’s record. Feel full when she laughs. Ask her to sing that Debbie Boone song. Fall asleep on her shoulder.
Walk along the park fence and look for honeysuckle. Pull the chord on the flower. Drop its sweet tear in your mouth. Eat an ant, too. Be more careful with the next one. Look up at the scoreboard. Look down at your watch. Eat a hundred more drops. Wish you had a hotdog.
Take a matchbox car out of your pocket. Smell the metal. Spin the wheels with your finger. Drive it along the top railing of the fence. Make it jump the posts. Spot a trail leading through the bushes. Make sure your mother is not looking. Haul ass. Push on a crooked gate. Force the latch. Discover a playground. Ride the horse on the rusty spring even though you are too big. Lie on the cool flat of the round-and-round. Look up at the clouds. Have a daydream about Halloween. Enjoy this lonely weird place. Pull a kudzu vine off a swing set chain. Pick up a box of crushed Lemonheads and throw it in the trash. Sweep some leaves off the slide. Decide to keep this place secret. Stay a while.
Open your eyes wide to let in more light. Rub the chill bumps off your arm. Realize that you have stayed too long. Run back to the ball field. Feel relieved that the game has not ended. Search for your grandmother in the stands. Snuggle with her under a blanket. Eat cold chicken and talk about scary movies. Stand up when the crowd roars. Someone hits a homerun. You are sure it is Geraldine.
Tell Nanny you need to go to pee. Find your brother playing dump truck under the bleachers. Think he is filthy. Know Mom is going to whip his ass. Decide to play dump truck too. Fill a paper cup with dirt. Dump it. Repeat. Stick a long piece of grass in your mouth to look like Huck Finn. Spit it out when it burns you. Stink weed. Be more careful with the next one. Pick up two pennies, a dime and a hair bow and put them in your pocket… kid treasure. Ask your brother for some Redhots. He gives you some Good N' Plentys instead. Yuck…licorice.
The wooden planks of the bleachers bend heavily downward with the weight of the departing crowd. Both teams are on the field shaking hands. Grab your brother and clean up with a garden hose. Take a shortcut to the parking lot. Find your mother. The outer part of her right thigh is skinned up and bloody. She doesn’t yell at you for getting dirty. Geraldine gets in the back between you and your brother. Mom is taking her home tonight. It is dark and the summer air is blowing in warm through the little triangle windows on the car. The music on the radio drifts in and out until it is completely fuzz. Talk to Geraldine about her home run. Tell her that she is going to beat Hank Aaron’s record. Feel full when she laughs. Ask her to sing that Debbie Boone song. Fall asleep on her shoulder.
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Kingdom of Heaven
I am old. Although, I must admit it was not until recently that I felt age move in and unpack its bags. Celia stays with me all day and I never want for nothing, except for maybe a little fire under her backside. She gets here every morning at six thirty on the dot but ain’t no good for nobody until about eight or nine. I always know when she arrives because of all the racket. Sometimes I think she does it on purpose just to wake me. I am already up of course, so it doesn’t really matter. My bladder has me going up and down like a carousel pony most of the night and that is just fine with me. All of my dreams are bad anyway.
The palsy makes my hand shake and I am always burning my fingers with the tea. I never yell because I don’t want Celia to know I burned myself again but my flooded saucer always gives me away. Most days I sit out in a little sun room with glass doors. There is a small black and white TV that I keep on just to have some noise. I have my chair positioned so I can see anybody that walks by but they cannot see me. Sometimes I sic my little Yorkshire terrier Dooley on the man that cleans my lily pond or the electrician or the painters. Dooley is such a funny little thing; he is about the only thing that makes me laugh these days.
My son Harlan stops by on Tuesday after the weekly board meeting to check on me and distract Celia. He runs my husbands company now and thinks he is a big shot. Every Easter he has his secretary send me some white lilies and little marshmallow chickens. Once I fumbled and dumped the whole box of chickens on the linoleum and Dooley ate six of them before you could say Jack Robinson. It upset Dooley’s stomach something awful. I told Celia that it was not Dooley’s fault, that he had a sweet tooth and not to be mean to him. Can you believe that Celia had the nerve to suggest that we rub his face in the mess? Like I could ever do something like that to such a sweet boy. I don’t even think that I could do it to Harlan.
There are always a lot of people coming and going at my house. My daughter Lula lives next door and likes to throw tea parties for her book club ladies in my parlor. Catering trucks full of petite fours and divinity back up to my front door every third Thursday of the month. Once Lula threw a cocktail party that I was not invited to and some lady with the last name of Pettigrew vomited in my geraniums. I never could get anything to grow in that container again except wild onions and chewing gum.
Audrey use to stop by and see me but she is in a home now and can’t get out of bed. Harlan once took me there to visit her but I got halfway down the hall and turned back. My son got irritated with me and told me to be strong. I told him to shut his god damn mouth and go get the car. What in the world would he know about being strong? That was my best friend in that horrible place. Since then, I have tried to call her but the nurse always picks up the line and tells me that Audrey is asleep. God knows what kind of dreams that she must be having in that place.
As long as I have Celia I guess that I will be alright. She knows how to fix good pimento cheese sandwiches and sometimes picks up a chili dog for me at the Varsity. Celia has been with me for forty-two years and her husband Tyrell has been with me for forty-five. Tyrell keeps my boxwoods in check and makes sure there is not a blown out light bulb in the house. He is getting to old to do much of anything anymore, so I just let him boss around whoever might be working at the house that day. Once he backed Harlan’s Cadillac into a lawn care van and swore up and down it was the other way around. The whole incident was actually video taped by our security system but I acted like I believed him anyway and now we have another lawn service.
Today I am waiting on the UPS man. I haven’t decided if I am going to sic Dooley on him or not. Dooley hopes that I do. I can hear Celia running the vacuum upstairs even though we just had the carpets cleaned. I almost tell her to turn off that noisy monster and split a hamburger with me but of course I stop short of it. Forty-two years and Celia and I still play the parts that God assigned us. It is hard to be sad about something that has always been the same way.
Usually Dooley has himself a barking fit whenever the door bell rings but today he does not stir from whatever dogs dream. I holler up to Celia to answer the door but the vacuum drowns me out like the big delivery trucks running up and down Peachtree Street. It was the UPS man. Harlan ordered me some antique glassware all the way from Edinburgh and now it was here. I grabbed my walker and depressed the accelerator. The doorbell rang again. “Ok, I am coming. Hold your horses.” By the time I get to the door, my arms are shaky and I barely have enough strength to open it.
“Hello ma’am and good day to you. We are with the Buckhead chapter of the Kingdom of Heaven and would like to speak with you for a moment about the nearing rapture and how Jesus Christ can guarantee you a spot in heaven.” I feel certain that my mind has gone round the bend. It is a hundred degrees outside and a small group of uncomfortably dressed men and women have chosen today to worry about my soul. I turn my head towards the direction of the sun room and yell “Dooley! There are some people at the front door to see you.”
The palsy makes my hand shake and I am always burning my fingers with the tea. I never yell because I don’t want Celia to know I burned myself again but my flooded saucer always gives me away. Most days I sit out in a little sun room with glass doors. There is a small black and white TV that I keep on just to have some noise. I have my chair positioned so I can see anybody that walks by but they cannot see me. Sometimes I sic my little Yorkshire terrier Dooley on the man that cleans my lily pond or the electrician or the painters. Dooley is such a funny little thing; he is about the only thing that makes me laugh these days.
My son Harlan stops by on Tuesday after the weekly board meeting to check on me and distract Celia. He runs my husbands company now and thinks he is a big shot. Every Easter he has his secretary send me some white lilies and little marshmallow chickens. Once I fumbled and dumped the whole box of chickens on the linoleum and Dooley ate six of them before you could say Jack Robinson. It upset Dooley’s stomach something awful. I told Celia that it was not Dooley’s fault, that he had a sweet tooth and not to be mean to him. Can you believe that Celia had the nerve to suggest that we rub his face in the mess? Like I could ever do something like that to such a sweet boy. I don’t even think that I could do it to Harlan.
There are always a lot of people coming and going at my house. My daughter Lula lives next door and likes to throw tea parties for her book club ladies in my parlor. Catering trucks full of petite fours and divinity back up to my front door every third Thursday of the month. Once Lula threw a cocktail party that I was not invited to and some lady with the last name of Pettigrew vomited in my geraniums. I never could get anything to grow in that container again except wild onions and chewing gum.
Audrey use to stop by and see me but she is in a home now and can’t get out of bed. Harlan once took me there to visit her but I got halfway down the hall and turned back. My son got irritated with me and told me to be strong. I told him to shut his god damn mouth and go get the car. What in the world would he know about being strong? That was my best friend in that horrible place. Since then, I have tried to call her but the nurse always picks up the line and tells me that Audrey is asleep. God knows what kind of dreams that she must be having in that place.
As long as I have Celia I guess that I will be alright. She knows how to fix good pimento cheese sandwiches and sometimes picks up a chili dog for me at the Varsity. Celia has been with me for forty-two years and her husband Tyrell has been with me for forty-five. Tyrell keeps my boxwoods in check and makes sure there is not a blown out light bulb in the house. He is getting to old to do much of anything anymore, so I just let him boss around whoever might be working at the house that day. Once he backed Harlan’s Cadillac into a lawn care van and swore up and down it was the other way around. The whole incident was actually video taped by our security system but I acted like I believed him anyway and now we have another lawn service.
Today I am waiting on the UPS man. I haven’t decided if I am going to sic Dooley on him or not. Dooley hopes that I do. I can hear Celia running the vacuum upstairs even though we just had the carpets cleaned. I almost tell her to turn off that noisy monster and split a hamburger with me but of course I stop short of it. Forty-two years and Celia and I still play the parts that God assigned us. It is hard to be sad about something that has always been the same way.
Usually Dooley has himself a barking fit whenever the door bell rings but today he does not stir from whatever dogs dream. I holler up to Celia to answer the door but the vacuum drowns me out like the big delivery trucks running up and down Peachtree Street. It was the UPS man. Harlan ordered me some antique glassware all the way from Edinburgh and now it was here. I grabbed my walker and depressed the accelerator. The doorbell rang again. “Ok, I am coming. Hold your horses.” By the time I get to the door, my arms are shaky and I barely have enough strength to open it.
“Hello ma’am and good day to you. We are with the Buckhead chapter of the Kingdom of Heaven and would like to speak with you for a moment about the nearing rapture and how Jesus Christ can guarantee you a spot in heaven.” I feel certain that my mind has gone round the bend. It is a hundred degrees outside and a small group of uncomfortably dressed men and women have chosen today to worry about my soul. I turn my head towards the direction of the sun room and yell “Dooley! There are some people at the front door to see you.”
Beginnings
Day One:
I played with my daughter, she built a fort and my job was to peek in a surprise her.
I slept.
I surfed the web.
I had a beer or two.
Being unemployed was something for bums, vagrants, not for me. After fifteen years at the same company, it feels weird.
I was going nowhere, the company is dying, in fact I don't even need or want to think about it. What I think about is....I'm free. I can do things. Anything.
Today I walked into the garage and thought "I need to clean this place up." And I can. I have time. I came across a couple of unfinished projects. Unfinished...not for long.
Before I started this career, I was always thin. I put on weight my first hour on the job and struggled with it for fifteen years. Who knows....now I feel thinner, stronger. And after turning forty just five days ago....younger.
Beginnings? No doubt.
I played with my daughter, she built a fort and my job was to peek in a surprise her.
I slept.
I surfed the web.
I had a beer or two.
Being unemployed was something for bums, vagrants, not for me. After fifteen years at the same company, it feels weird.
I was going nowhere, the company is dying, in fact I don't even need or want to think about it. What I think about is....I'm free. I can do things. Anything.
Today I walked into the garage and thought "I need to clean this place up." And I can. I have time. I came across a couple of unfinished projects. Unfinished...not for long.
Before I started this career, I was always thin. I put on weight my first hour on the job and struggled with it for fifteen years. Who knows....now I feel thinner, stronger. And after turning forty just five days ago....younger.
Beginnings? No doubt.
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