A sidewalk café in New York City. A waiter walks out of the interior of the café and dusts tables with a bar towel. Harry motions to Claire to sit down. He is carrying a suitcase.
Waiter: "What’ll it be?"
Harry: "Coffee, dark and strong."
Claire: "Mineral water."
Mark arrives. He stands looking around.
Mark: "I’m here. I have it."
Harry: "Sit down."
Mark sits. The waiter brings mineral water and coffee.
Waiter: "What’ll it be?"
Mark: "Milk."
Waiter: "Plain milk?"
Mark: "Plain milk. Large."
Harry: "Will he be on time?"
Mark: "He’ll be here."
Harry: "He’s already late."
A jogger runs by.
Claire: "Who’s that?"
Harry: "Nobody"
Claire: "Anybody at all makes me nervous. I thought you said the street was empty this time of day?"
Harry: "Damn near, Babe, damn near."
Claire: "I’m just nervous. Never been involved with anything like this before."
Harry: "Just relax. We have it under control. I have the money, and Mark has the heat."
Claire: "I’m sorry I went along with this. What do you need me for anyway?"
Harry: "I already told you. You’re the equalizer. He won’t try anything with a dame here."
Mark: "I never carried before. Hey Claire, want to go hunting?"
Claire: "Yeah right."
Harry: "Don’t fuck around, he’ll be here any minute. You just be your own sweet self and smile a lot, you got that?"
Claire: "I got it, I got it."
Mark: "Who is this guy anyway?"
Harry: "He comes highly recommended. I did a couple of deals with his people before and it always worked out. He has connections."
Mark: "What kind of deals?"
Harry: "Small deals, jewelry mostly. Nothing big. But stop worrying. It’s going to be okay. The main thing is we are breaking into the big time, kids. This is reason to be happy, not worried."
Claire: "Happy, yeah."
Mark: "Happy?"
Harry: "Happy, yeah."
Claire: "Give me a break. This is the beginning of the end of us. I just have a bad feeling. We should have stuck to what we know."
Harry: "Look, we are going to be fixed for life after this deal. We’ll be set up."
Mark: "Don’t say "set up." Bad choice of words, man."
Harry: "What is it with you two?"
Claire: "Harry."
Mark: "Yeah, man, really."
Harry: "You guys need to calm down. Can you do that? Please?"
Claire: "I’ll try Harry."
Mark: "I’m cool, man."
Harry: "Okay then. We’re cool."
Waiter brings a tall glass of milk.
"Drink your milk."
Mark: "Yeah."
Claire: Laughing. "Hey you’ve got a milk moustache. You look like a little kid, Marko."
Mark: Wiping his mouth. "Cut it out. Milk’s good for you."
Claire: "I didn’t say it wasn’t. Don’t get sensitive on me."
Harry: "Will you two cut it out please."
Joe enters from stage left and sits down at the table. He is carrying a portfolio.
Joe: "So, Harry."
Harry: "Joe."
Joe: "Do you have it?"
Harry: "We have it."
Joe: "Why are these two here?"
Harry: "They’re my people."
Joe: "Lose them."
Harry: "I want them here."
Joe: "You want to do this business with me, you lose them now. No witnesses. This is confidential."
Harry: "Okay, okay. Guys, please take a walk for a few minutes. I’ll meet you at the car. It’s okay."
Mark: "Are you sure?"
Harry: "I’m sure. It’s okay. You can go."
Claire: "Good luck, Harry."
Harry: "Later, Claire."
Mark: "I don’t know about this Harry."
Harry: "It’s okay Mark. I’ve got this."
Claire: "Okay, Harry. We’re going to go now."
Harry: "Okay."
Mark: "Harry, I don’t know."
Harry: "Go, go."
Mark and Claire leave.
Joe: "So."
Harry: "It’s a lot of money. Is everything in order?"
Joe: "Everything is in order. I just need to go over some paperwork with you."
Harry: "What paperwork? It’s all supposed to be ready to make a simple exchange."
Joe: "Don’t start with me."
Harry: "Me?"
Joe: "You."
Harry: "I don’t like your attitude."
Joe: "Amateurs like you get on my nerves sometimes. Now decide to be serious, or we both go home. But understand, I am not going home empty-handed. I’ve done my part, now you do yours."
Harry: "What’s your problem, man? I’m just saying. I’m ready to make the exchange. But I need to know everything is in order. It’s supposed to be in order."
Joe: "Look, there are some things you don’t understand yet. But you will. First of all, you need to show me the money. Just slide the bag over to me."
Harry: "Wait a minute. Show me the paperwork first."
Joe: "First the money."
Harry: "It’s here. Here it is."
Joe: "Lemme see it."
Harry: pushes suitcase toward Joe.
Joe: Looking inside. "Looks good. Very good. Now then…" Laying papers out on table.
Harry: "I don’t really understand all this."
Joe: "You need to sign here, and here, and here…"
Mark returns with gun drawn.
Mark: "It’s okay Harry. I’m here."
Harry: "Mark!"
Joe: "What’s your problem, buddy?"
Mark: "I’m not gonna just leave you man."
Joe reaches in his pocket. Mark shoots him. Joe falls on top of papers on table.
Harry: "Damn it Mark, you just got blood all over our liquor license."
Scene
Monday, September 29, 2008
Monday, August 18, 2008
Poem: Calling To My Muse
calling to my muse
that nameless stranger
who will not come
hides in the dark
in my empty head
elusive, stubborn, silent
leaves me alone
in this empty cave
inside my head
with nothing between my ears
but the sound of silence
and a bunch of other cliches
just like that one
then all at once she arrives
unbidden as a lark
singing on a fencepost
in the damned sunshine
no less
with a flash of inspiration
she whispers her secret
out of nowhere
the beginning of hope
the dawn of a new day
sun through the blinds
an idea
that nameless stranger
who will not come
hides in the dark
in my empty head
elusive, stubborn, silent
leaves me alone
in this empty cave
inside my head
with nothing between my ears
but the sound of silence
and a bunch of other cliches
just like that one
then all at once she arrives
unbidden as a lark
singing on a fencepost
in the damned sunshine
no less
with a flash of inspiration
she whispers her secret
out of nowhere
the beginning of hope
the dawn of a new day
sun through the blinds
an idea
Script: A Handful Of Receipts
Her: Is that all you’re taking?
Him: Yeah
Her: You can take more than that.
Him: I know.
Her: So why don’t you take all of your stuff? What’s your point?
Him: No point. I have what I need, and that’s all of it.
Her: There’s no way. You’re just being weird. And as usual you won’t say what’s going on with you. No surprise.
Him: Sorry, but there’s nothing going on. I have my stuff.
Her: What about your pictures that are still hanging on the wall?
Him: What about them?
Her: Don’t you want them for your next place?
Him: I’ll come back for them. Okay?
Her: I guess.
Him: Okay then.
Her: You have to go you know?
Him: I know.
Her: It’s not an option.
Him: I know.
Her: You had a choice and you made it.
Him: Yeah, I guess so.
Her: You know so. I told you I couldn’t stay with you if you didn’t want the baby. I told you if I had to do that…I told you I wouldn’t be able to live with you anymore. I told you, damn it.
Him: I know, you told me.
Her: So what? You didn’t believe me?
Him: I thought you’d change your mind.
Her: Oh I see. You didn’t take me seriously.
Him: Yes, I did. I just thought if I got you a new stereo, or maybe if we went on a trip…
Her: Oh that’s great. You thought if you spent money it would change the fact that I had an abortion.
Him: No. It’s not like that. I just thought you would feel differently if time passed and maybe some things happened that made you happy. I just didn’t think you really meant it absolutely.
Her: I meant it absolutely.
Him: I see that.
Her: Do you?
Him: Yeah. Now.
Her: Well you’re late to start believing I mean what I say.
Him: I guess so.
Her: You always pay for everything. You always have. But it’s not enough, you know. It’s not enough. You think a handful of receipts makes you a generous man.
Him: Huh?
Her: That’s what you think. You think you can buy your way out of anything.
Him: Well, I paid for the abortion didn’t I?
Her: Yes, you did, you selfish son of a bitch.
Him: Look, don’t get mad. I just wasn’t ready to be a father yet.
Her: Well sometimes in life you have to just step up to the plate. Things happen. And you had something to do with it, as I recall.
Him: I know.
Her: Oh wait a minute. I get it.
Him: What do you get? What?
Her: You think I’ll get over this and you can come back. That’s why you’re not taking all your stuff.
Him: Well, it’s possible, isn’t it?
Her: No. It is not possible. I can’t believe you.
Him: Look, I just can’t give up on us that easy. I still believe.
Her: I told you, if I had to have an abortion I wouldn’t be able to live with you anymore. What part of that did you not understand?
Him: I don’t understand the finality of it, that’s all. I mean, there could be a right time, another time when a baby would work, but I just…
Her: You just don’t get it. I thought about my options. I thought about having the baby without you. But then I thought about what it was like for me when I was growing up, not being wanted, being a mistake, and my father blaming my being born for all his troubles in life. I thought about that, and I decided not to bring an unwanted baby into this world, no matter how much I wanted it. I decided a baby needs to have two parents that want it. Was that wrong? I think I made a mistake.
Him: I think that was a good decision on your part.
Her: You don’t understand. Actually doing it, you know, when it came right down to it, and I was standing there in that white robe, waiting in line at the clinic, with those other women, I felt so alone. And I felt my baby inside me, alive, a real person, a person whose life was being ripped away. So I went into the room and they put me up on the table, and they hooked up their machine. And then they all left, and they turned that machine on, and I just wanted to scream and jump down off the table. A part of me was screaming inside, but I laid there and let it happen, and now my baby is gone. And you don’t get it. You don’t get what that cost me, and…
Him: I would have been there with you, really I would have. If you had let me I would have.
Her: And now there’s this empty place inside me where the baby used to be, and it can never be filled. Do you see? It can never be filled again.
Him: But I still love you. I’m still your friend, and I want to help you get through this, if you would just let me. Just give me a chance.
Her: The empty place is too big. There’s nothing you can do to change it.
Him: Nothing? Are you sure there’s really nothing?
Her: There’s been a death. There’s a dead place between us now. It can’t work any more.
Him: Well I said I would leave and I will. But if you change your mind…
Her: Yeah right.
Him: Right. Just call me.
Her: Right.
Him: Yeah
Her: You can take more than that.
Him: I know.
Her: So why don’t you take all of your stuff? What’s your point?
Him: No point. I have what I need, and that’s all of it.
Her: There’s no way. You’re just being weird. And as usual you won’t say what’s going on with you. No surprise.
Him: Sorry, but there’s nothing going on. I have my stuff.
Her: What about your pictures that are still hanging on the wall?
Him: What about them?
Her: Don’t you want them for your next place?
Him: I’ll come back for them. Okay?
Her: I guess.
Him: Okay then.
Her: You have to go you know?
Him: I know.
Her: It’s not an option.
Him: I know.
Her: You had a choice and you made it.
Him: Yeah, I guess so.
Her: You know so. I told you I couldn’t stay with you if you didn’t want the baby. I told you if I had to do that…I told you I wouldn’t be able to live with you anymore. I told you, damn it.
Him: I know, you told me.
Her: So what? You didn’t believe me?
Him: I thought you’d change your mind.
Her: Oh I see. You didn’t take me seriously.
Him: Yes, I did. I just thought if I got you a new stereo, or maybe if we went on a trip…
Her: Oh that’s great. You thought if you spent money it would change the fact that I had an abortion.
Him: No. It’s not like that. I just thought you would feel differently if time passed and maybe some things happened that made you happy. I just didn’t think you really meant it absolutely.
Her: I meant it absolutely.
Him: I see that.
Her: Do you?
Him: Yeah. Now.
Her: Well you’re late to start believing I mean what I say.
Him: I guess so.
Her: You always pay for everything. You always have. But it’s not enough, you know. It’s not enough. You think a handful of receipts makes you a generous man.
Him: Huh?
Her: That’s what you think. You think you can buy your way out of anything.
Him: Well, I paid for the abortion didn’t I?
Her: Yes, you did, you selfish son of a bitch.
Him: Look, don’t get mad. I just wasn’t ready to be a father yet.
Her: Well sometimes in life you have to just step up to the plate. Things happen. And you had something to do with it, as I recall.
Him: I know.
Her: Oh wait a minute. I get it.
Him: What do you get? What?
Her: You think I’ll get over this and you can come back. That’s why you’re not taking all your stuff.
Him: Well, it’s possible, isn’t it?
Her: No. It is not possible. I can’t believe you.
Him: Look, I just can’t give up on us that easy. I still believe.
Her: I told you, if I had to have an abortion I wouldn’t be able to live with you anymore. What part of that did you not understand?
Him: I don’t understand the finality of it, that’s all. I mean, there could be a right time, another time when a baby would work, but I just…
Her: You just don’t get it. I thought about my options. I thought about having the baby without you. But then I thought about what it was like for me when I was growing up, not being wanted, being a mistake, and my father blaming my being born for all his troubles in life. I thought about that, and I decided not to bring an unwanted baby into this world, no matter how much I wanted it. I decided a baby needs to have two parents that want it. Was that wrong? I think I made a mistake.
Him: I think that was a good decision on your part.
Her: You don’t understand. Actually doing it, you know, when it came right down to it, and I was standing there in that white robe, waiting in line at the clinic, with those other women, I felt so alone. And I felt my baby inside me, alive, a real person, a person whose life was being ripped away. So I went into the room and they put me up on the table, and they hooked up their machine. And then they all left, and they turned that machine on, and I just wanted to scream and jump down off the table. A part of me was screaming inside, but I laid there and let it happen, and now my baby is gone. And you don’t get it. You don’t get what that cost me, and…
Him: I would have been there with you, really I would have. If you had let me I would have.
Her: And now there’s this empty place inside me where the baby used to be, and it can never be filled. Do you see? It can never be filled again.
Him: But I still love you. I’m still your friend, and I want to help you get through this, if you would just let me. Just give me a chance.
Her: The empty place is too big. There’s nothing you can do to change it.
Him: Nothing? Are you sure there’s really nothing?
Her: There’s been a death. There’s a dead place between us now. It can’t work any more.
Him: Well I said I would leave and I will. But if you change your mind…
Her: Yeah right.
Him: Right. Just call me.
Her: Right.
Memoir: Neckties
Neckties
I remember being in the fourth grade at St. Malachy’s Catholic School in Brooklyn. In the 1950’s, the girls and boys all wore neckties. They were part of the school uniform. Mine consisted of a navy blue jumper and a white blouse, a blue bowtie and a little navy cap, with white socks and blue loafers and a navy blue belt. The boys’ neckties were long clip-ons. The girls wore bow ties. Mine was wrinkled and shapeless from lying in a heap on my dresser at night, right along side my beaten-down cap.
We thought we were cool if we broke little rules, and how we wore our uniforms was one way we asserted ourselves. Neckties dangled limply from one side of open collars. Worn-out hats hung from hairpins, stuck as far back on our heads as our hair could provide, so as to be virtually invisible from the front. They hung like little rags among the curls our mothers burned into our hair with "permanents." Every year you got a new uniform, but it was always the same. We took all the liberties we could with our uniforms, but there were other things the nuns really would not allow, about which no liberties could be taken. One of those things was kissing.
Kissing was not allowed. In fact, anything that could be remotely construed as sexual contact was strictly forbidden and fatally sinful. Not that anybody ever told us that. We just knew. At twelve years of age I had never had a date. For one thing, my parents never would have allowed it, and for another it was probably sinful even to think about it. I had never given it a serious thought.
One day Danny Parker asked me to go to a basketball game. A big kid basketball game at the Junior High School. It was a big idea. It was too big a thing to say yes or no, so I just stared at him and we left it at that. I kept it a secret from everyone, even my sister who knew everything there was to know about me.
It was a secret that we were meeting, even after we got to the game. It was something we did surreptitiously, casually, as if we weren’t really doing it. We almost didn’t sit next to each other. We were not overtly having a date. It was something like a date, but it was definitely not a real date. But we did end up sitting next to each other and at some point Danny put his hand over on top of mine and held it. I ignored it, but I didn’t move my hand. Then suddenly he turned around and kissed me on the cheek. Just like that. Smack dab, I could feel my face and neck turn bright red with embarrassment. I know it did because I could fell the heat rise up in my cheeks and my ears burned like they were on fire. I did nothing, just froze in place. I didn’t even acknowledge that it had happened. I didn’t know how I was supposed to act.
The other kids immediately went to teasing us both. "Danny kissed Roseanne, Danny kissed Roseanne" they started to chant in a singsong sort of way. "Danny kissed Roseanne," as if it was big news. The basketball game was still going on in the gym, but all I could think about was how to disappear. I wanted to be innocent again. I got angry and I got up and walked away, stood on the sidelines of the game where nobody else was standing, and pretended not to know any of them. My outside innocence had been taken away. But even worse than all the teasing was what happened the next day at school.
First thing in the morning I was called to the principal’s office. And there in a chair outside her door was Danny, finger slap marks all over his cheeks, red-faced and crying. The principal met me at the door. "Did this boy kiss you?" she asked. I was too scared to lie. Then she took me into her office for a lecture about how boys are, and how girls have to be careful to guard our virtue or those nasty boys will take it from us, and once it’s gone there is no getting it back.
On the principal’s desk was Danny’s necktie. Looking at it, I wondered what it was doing there, and what did it mean to have your necktie taken away? Reflexively, I reached up and fixed mine. Looking at Danny’s necktie laying there in a heap, I started crying.
I got sent back to class, but we didn’t see Danny for hours. When he did show up, he was pale and sorry looking. For the next few weeks he didn’t get recess and he had to stay after school for detention. I never went to another basketball game at the Junior High School, and Danny never spoke to me again. I never knew why.
I remember being in the fourth grade at St. Malachy’s Catholic School in Brooklyn. In the 1950’s, the girls and boys all wore neckties. They were part of the school uniform. Mine consisted of a navy blue jumper and a white blouse, a blue bowtie and a little navy cap, with white socks and blue loafers and a navy blue belt. The boys’ neckties were long clip-ons. The girls wore bow ties. Mine was wrinkled and shapeless from lying in a heap on my dresser at night, right along side my beaten-down cap.
We thought we were cool if we broke little rules, and how we wore our uniforms was one way we asserted ourselves. Neckties dangled limply from one side of open collars. Worn-out hats hung from hairpins, stuck as far back on our heads as our hair could provide, so as to be virtually invisible from the front. They hung like little rags among the curls our mothers burned into our hair with "permanents." Every year you got a new uniform, but it was always the same. We took all the liberties we could with our uniforms, but there were other things the nuns really would not allow, about which no liberties could be taken. One of those things was kissing.
Kissing was not allowed. In fact, anything that could be remotely construed as sexual contact was strictly forbidden and fatally sinful. Not that anybody ever told us that. We just knew. At twelve years of age I had never had a date. For one thing, my parents never would have allowed it, and for another it was probably sinful even to think about it. I had never given it a serious thought.
One day Danny Parker asked me to go to a basketball game. A big kid basketball game at the Junior High School. It was a big idea. It was too big a thing to say yes or no, so I just stared at him and we left it at that. I kept it a secret from everyone, even my sister who knew everything there was to know about me.
It was a secret that we were meeting, even after we got to the game. It was something we did surreptitiously, casually, as if we weren’t really doing it. We almost didn’t sit next to each other. We were not overtly having a date. It was something like a date, but it was definitely not a real date. But we did end up sitting next to each other and at some point Danny put his hand over on top of mine and held it. I ignored it, but I didn’t move my hand. Then suddenly he turned around and kissed me on the cheek. Just like that. Smack dab, I could feel my face and neck turn bright red with embarrassment. I know it did because I could fell the heat rise up in my cheeks and my ears burned like they were on fire. I did nothing, just froze in place. I didn’t even acknowledge that it had happened. I didn’t know how I was supposed to act.
The other kids immediately went to teasing us both. "Danny kissed Roseanne, Danny kissed Roseanne" they started to chant in a singsong sort of way. "Danny kissed Roseanne," as if it was big news. The basketball game was still going on in the gym, but all I could think about was how to disappear. I wanted to be innocent again. I got angry and I got up and walked away, stood on the sidelines of the game where nobody else was standing, and pretended not to know any of them. My outside innocence had been taken away. But even worse than all the teasing was what happened the next day at school.
First thing in the morning I was called to the principal’s office. And there in a chair outside her door was Danny, finger slap marks all over his cheeks, red-faced and crying. The principal met me at the door. "Did this boy kiss you?" she asked. I was too scared to lie. Then she took me into her office for a lecture about how boys are, and how girls have to be careful to guard our virtue or those nasty boys will take it from us, and once it’s gone there is no getting it back.
On the principal’s desk was Danny’s necktie. Looking at it, I wondered what it was doing there, and what did it mean to have your necktie taken away? Reflexively, I reached up and fixed mine. Looking at Danny’s necktie laying there in a heap, I started crying.
I got sent back to class, but we didn’t see Danny for hours. When he did show up, he was pale and sorry looking. For the next few weeks he didn’t get recess and he had to stay after school for detention. I never went to another basketball game at the Junior High School, and Danny never spoke to me again. I never knew why.
Poem: After The Gleaning
All the empty jars that line
these rough unpainted shelves
were once full.
They made a show:
contentment
in a row of yellow peaches,
applesauce brown as cinnamon stick,
tomato juice bright and plum butter
dark amber of molasses.
Spicy salsa everybody raved about
is all gone.
There was never enough.
Now spiders and dust
weave their pervasive veil
over all these empty jars.
Cellar air is damp
its musty scent clean enough;
but glass rims don’t gleam.
Nothing about them invites
touch.
I remember them full.
I remember gathering fruit,
peach bloom itchy on my skin.
I remember how you always loved
to eat my home-canned fruit;
and the one you wouldn’t let me
pick.
This house has a root cellar.
Heavy wooden door
on a rusty metal ring,
like the loop in an oxen’s nose.
Stone stairs lead down
beneath the porch
below the kitchen;
cellar walls carved from solid stone,
rough and lumpy,
like the inside of a cave.
This house is built on rock.
It is not my house,
but it has a plum tree.
And when the plums ripen
I will pick them.
It’s quiet below ground.
Spiders own this part,
of an old country house
in an old country town,
with windows that stick
and walls that run
at odd angles to eachother:
an easy house to live in.
A piece of broken cardboard box
makes a dry mat on the dirt floor
where,
when all the jars are empty
it’s good to have
a quiet place to sit.
these rough unpainted shelves
were once full.
They made a show:
contentment
in a row of yellow peaches,
applesauce brown as cinnamon stick,
tomato juice bright and plum butter
dark amber of molasses.
Spicy salsa everybody raved about
is all gone.
There was never enough.
Now spiders and dust
weave their pervasive veil
over all these empty jars.
Cellar air is damp
its musty scent clean enough;
but glass rims don’t gleam.
Nothing about them invites
touch.
I remember them full.
I remember gathering fruit,
peach bloom itchy on my skin.
I remember how you always loved
to eat my home-canned fruit;
and the one you wouldn’t let me
pick.
This house has a root cellar.
Heavy wooden door
on a rusty metal ring,
like the loop in an oxen’s nose.
Stone stairs lead down
beneath the porch
below the kitchen;
cellar walls carved from solid stone,
rough and lumpy,
like the inside of a cave.
This house is built on rock.
It is not my house,
but it has a plum tree.
And when the plums ripen
I will pick them.
It’s quiet below ground.
Spiders own this part,
of an old country house
in an old country town,
with windows that stick
and walls that run
at odd angles to eachother:
an easy house to live in.
A piece of broken cardboard box
makes a dry mat on the dirt floor
where,
when all the jars are empty
it’s good to have
a quiet place to sit.
Memoir: Summertime
Summertime
The barber strop hung from a nail on the kitchen wall, right beside the door. It stood out, black leather on white paint, a reminder of what would happen. It happened whether we were good or not. Sometimes when he missed the mark, and red welts showed, we stayed home on those days.
Afterwards, we were always sent to bed. My mother would come with a sandwich to eat or cookies and milk if it was bedtime. But she never held us while we cried, just said, "Your father loves you." We knew it was a lie.
Your father loves you. It wasn’t what he said. He never wanted us, that our being born robbed him of so much he would’ve had, he could’ve had, he might have been if it just hadn’t been for us.
When he came home from work, we’d hide. And when he left us high and dry, it was no surprise. While our mother cried, we huddled around her, two at her sides, one at her feet. She cried so we cried. I saw it in my mind. It was my first family portrait. And suddenly we were homeless.
My mother packed us into the ’47 Ford and drove us from Brooklyn to her brother’s farm in Athens, Georgia. It was summertime. The streams run warm in Georgia in the summertime.
For the first time in my life, I was free to play. All I ever did in Georgia that summer was play. From sun up to sun down, barefoot, in our underwear, we had the free run of the farm. We slept in tepees. We lived outside, gathered wild eggs for breakfast, rode bareback and swam in the irrigation canals.
Nobody entertained us, but we were entertained. None of the grown ups yelled at us, but we yelled and hollered all the day through. Nobody hit us, that was the main thing, and for the first time in my life, I wasn’t afraid. It was a revelation.
I wanted that summer to go on forever. Time was suspended. There was only the water flowing slowly by in the canal, the snort of a horse, the leaping of children in the yard, the sunshine, the sweat and the easy roll of one day into the next. I’d never had a summer like that before.
But seasons come and go and that summer sure enough ended, as all summers do. One day, my mother got a letter, and then she cried again and then we went home. The barber strop was still there, hanging from a nail on the kitchen wall.
The barber strop hung from a nail on the kitchen wall, right beside the door. It stood out, black leather on white paint, a reminder of what would happen. It happened whether we were good or not. Sometimes when he missed the mark, and red welts showed, we stayed home on those days.
Afterwards, we were always sent to bed. My mother would come with a sandwich to eat or cookies and milk if it was bedtime. But she never held us while we cried, just said, "Your father loves you." We knew it was a lie.
Your father loves you. It wasn’t what he said. He never wanted us, that our being born robbed him of so much he would’ve had, he could’ve had, he might have been if it just hadn’t been for us.
When he came home from work, we’d hide. And when he left us high and dry, it was no surprise. While our mother cried, we huddled around her, two at her sides, one at her feet. She cried so we cried. I saw it in my mind. It was my first family portrait. And suddenly we were homeless.
My mother packed us into the ’47 Ford and drove us from Brooklyn to her brother’s farm in Athens, Georgia. It was summertime. The streams run warm in Georgia in the summertime.
For the first time in my life, I was free to play. All I ever did in Georgia that summer was play. From sun up to sun down, barefoot, in our underwear, we had the free run of the farm. We slept in tepees. We lived outside, gathered wild eggs for breakfast, rode bareback and swam in the irrigation canals.
Nobody entertained us, but we were entertained. None of the grown ups yelled at us, but we yelled and hollered all the day through. Nobody hit us, that was the main thing, and for the first time in my life, I wasn’t afraid. It was a revelation.
I wanted that summer to go on forever. Time was suspended. There was only the water flowing slowly by in the canal, the snort of a horse, the leaping of children in the yard, the sunshine, the sweat and the easy roll of one day into the next. I’d never had a summer like that before.
But seasons come and go and that summer sure enough ended, as all summers do. One day, my mother got a letter, and then she cried again and then we went home. The barber strop was still there, hanging from a nail on the kitchen wall.
Short Story: Independence Day
Independence Day
The crowd was pressed so tightly together that it moved as one living thing. It flowed down Broadway like a swollen river on its way to something big. The whole city was ready for it, and the air seemed to tingle with expectation. It would be the greatest show ever seen and the mass of people moved as one to the docks and piers to get a good view. It was Independence Day and the bicentennial extravaganza had been developing for weeks. The Tall Ships had come from all over the world to be in the grand parade into New York Harbor, up the East River and around Manhattan Island to the Bronx. The city had promised to welcome the parade with the biggest fireworks display ever done.
She let the momentum of the crowd carry her along, feeling oddly alone in the middle of them. Excited voices filled the air with a jumble of words. Connected somehow from one to another, they swam and danced around her. It made a muffling cocoon that closed her inside the isolation she felt. Alone on this night of all nights, in the middle of a gigantic party, Ellie was without Sam for the first time since they had become "Ellie and Sam" some two years before.
As soon as she said his name in her mind, tears welled up in her eyes. Sam, her anchor, her rudder, her lover, her friend. Sam with the blue eyes, the sandy hair, the ready smile. Sam who said he loved her. Sam who should have been here at her side.
The crowd turned a corner and spilled into Battery Park. The sudden loss of that directed energy that had carried her this far, left her disoriented and uncertain which way to go next. She looked around. In the building darkness everyone seemed to be wearing black. Forms moved and shifted, filling in the gaps, taking up their places on park benches, under lampposts, and on blankets in the grass. Everywhere, the crowd settled and grew quiet. Ellie kept moving and found herself at the entrance to the ferry. She thought, "why not?"
The view from the back of the ferry was her favorite way to see the city, her everyday escape from all the noise and commotion, a half-hour vacation that costed twenty-five cents. It was familiar. It was safe. She lined up at the turnstile with a coin in her palm.
In front of Ellie, a couple held hands and whispered, their heads inclined toward each other. Behind her a man in an overcoat scowled at no one and everyone. A young mother with a baby on her hip held her young daughter’s hand. Ellie realized they were part of the usual Staten Island crowd, people who lived on the island and rode this ferry every day. The crowd of sightseers on the docks and in the park were staying in Manhattan for the show. It seemed odd but somehow comforting to have left them behind for a little while.
On board, she stood in her usual spot on the rear deck. From here, she could watch the city expand at first and then recede as the ferry slowly made its way out of dock and across the harbor. The ferry whistle blew and she turned up her collar.
The city began to slip away, and soon she could see the whole of lower Manhattan. The masses of people she knew were crammed into every open space in the street and park disappeared in the dark silhouette of the city, stark and familiar against the purple sunset sky. As if on cue, the lights came on.
The city sparkled and the bridges twinkled like necklaces strung across the neck of water between Brooklyn and Manhattan. As the full span of the Brooklyn Bridge came into view, it was a great gothic castle. It dominated the skyline of the East River. She wondered how many times she had walked across that bridge with Sam. It was something she knew she’d never do without him.
They used to walk the Promenade from their apartment in Carroll Gardens, then cross the bridge to Chinatown or Little Italy for dinner, or down to the Village for a poetry reading, some music or a show. Ellie met Sam at one of those little village coffeehouses. She knew from the minute Sam walked in the door that she was in love with him. It was the first time she’d ever felt that way and the first time she’d ever approached a man and taken the initiative to meet him. Sam was so absorbed with reading his poetry, and surrounded by admirers, she knew if she didn’t do something she wasn’t going to meet him at all. So she’d gotten her nerve up and walked over to his table, interrupted him to introduce herself and asked for his phone number. Sam seemed surprised and not sure what to make of her, and when he gave her his number, she quickly excused herself. It was, she recalled, an awkward moment. But when she called him, he remembered her, "the lady from the reading," and they met for coffee. It had been possibly the most assertive thing Ellie had ever done. How had things gone so terribly wrong, she wondered?
The city receded until it was a postcard on the horizon. Apart from the ferry’s engines and the lapping of waves against its sides, the night was quiet. The Statue of Liberty stood elegantly off to the side, and then a new set of lights burst forth. Ellie knew the parade of Tall Ships had begun. Fireworks began to erupt in the sky as the ships sailed across the harbor and headed east.
Even in July, the breeze off the water carried a chill, and Ellie missed having Sam’s arm around her back to keep her warm against his side. She knew at that moment Sam was back at the apartment, packing up and leaving, just as they’d agreed, while she stayed away to avoid an unpleasant goodbye. They’d said everything already a hundred times over, discussed it from every possible angle, and every time it came out the same.
Sam liked women and women liked Sam. He said he loved women and that he loved Ellie above all others. Sam thought that should be enough. For Ellie, his total failure at monogamy was a deal-breaker. She just couldn’t share him. And there was no longer any way to lie to herself about the number and frequency of the other women in Sam’s life. He was just irresistible and women were just as irresistible to him.
As the ferry chugged its way back to the city, fireworks lit up the sky. The Parade of Tall Ships turned up the East River and the last rays of sunset faded to black. Ellie realized she was crying and looked around self-consciously, but there was no one nearby.
The crowd was pressed so tightly together that it moved as one living thing. It flowed down Broadway like a swollen river on its way to something big. The whole city was ready for it, and the air seemed to tingle with expectation. It would be the greatest show ever seen and the mass of people moved as one to the docks and piers to get a good view. It was Independence Day and the bicentennial extravaganza had been developing for weeks. The Tall Ships had come from all over the world to be in the grand parade into New York Harbor, up the East River and around Manhattan Island to the Bronx. The city had promised to welcome the parade with the biggest fireworks display ever done.
She let the momentum of the crowd carry her along, feeling oddly alone in the middle of them. Excited voices filled the air with a jumble of words. Connected somehow from one to another, they swam and danced around her. It made a muffling cocoon that closed her inside the isolation she felt. Alone on this night of all nights, in the middle of a gigantic party, Ellie was without Sam for the first time since they had become "Ellie and Sam" some two years before.
As soon as she said his name in her mind, tears welled up in her eyes. Sam, her anchor, her rudder, her lover, her friend. Sam with the blue eyes, the sandy hair, the ready smile. Sam who said he loved her. Sam who should have been here at her side.
The crowd turned a corner and spilled into Battery Park. The sudden loss of that directed energy that had carried her this far, left her disoriented and uncertain which way to go next. She looked around. In the building darkness everyone seemed to be wearing black. Forms moved and shifted, filling in the gaps, taking up their places on park benches, under lampposts, and on blankets in the grass. Everywhere, the crowd settled and grew quiet. Ellie kept moving and found herself at the entrance to the ferry. She thought, "why not?"
The view from the back of the ferry was her favorite way to see the city, her everyday escape from all the noise and commotion, a half-hour vacation that costed twenty-five cents. It was familiar. It was safe. She lined up at the turnstile with a coin in her palm.
In front of Ellie, a couple held hands and whispered, their heads inclined toward each other. Behind her a man in an overcoat scowled at no one and everyone. A young mother with a baby on her hip held her young daughter’s hand. Ellie realized they were part of the usual Staten Island crowd, people who lived on the island and rode this ferry every day. The crowd of sightseers on the docks and in the park were staying in Manhattan for the show. It seemed odd but somehow comforting to have left them behind for a little while.
On board, she stood in her usual spot on the rear deck. From here, she could watch the city expand at first and then recede as the ferry slowly made its way out of dock and across the harbor. The ferry whistle blew and she turned up her collar.
The city began to slip away, and soon she could see the whole of lower Manhattan. The masses of people she knew were crammed into every open space in the street and park disappeared in the dark silhouette of the city, stark and familiar against the purple sunset sky. As if on cue, the lights came on.
The city sparkled and the bridges twinkled like necklaces strung across the neck of water between Brooklyn and Manhattan. As the full span of the Brooklyn Bridge came into view, it was a great gothic castle. It dominated the skyline of the East River. She wondered how many times she had walked across that bridge with Sam. It was something she knew she’d never do without him.
They used to walk the Promenade from their apartment in Carroll Gardens, then cross the bridge to Chinatown or Little Italy for dinner, or down to the Village for a poetry reading, some music or a show. Ellie met Sam at one of those little village coffeehouses. She knew from the minute Sam walked in the door that she was in love with him. It was the first time she’d ever felt that way and the first time she’d ever approached a man and taken the initiative to meet him. Sam was so absorbed with reading his poetry, and surrounded by admirers, she knew if she didn’t do something she wasn’t going to meet him at all. So she’d gotten her nerve up and walked over to his table, interrupted him to introduce herself and asked for his phone number. Sam seemed surprised and not sure what to make of her, and when he gave her his number, she quickly excused herself. It was, she recalled, an awkward moment. But when she called him, he remembered her, "the lady from the reading," and they met for coffee. It had been possibly the most assertive thing Ellie had ever done. How had things gone so terribly wrong, she wondered?
The city receded until it was a postcard on the horizon. Apart from the ferry’s engines and the lapping of waves against its sides, the night was quiet. The Statue of Liberty stood elegantly off to the side, and then a new set of lights burst forth. Ellie knew the parade of Tall Ships had begun. Fireworks began to erupt in the sky as the ships sailed across the harbor and headed east.
Even in July, the breeze off the water carried a chill, and Ellie missed having Sam’s arm around her back to keep her warm against his side. She knew at that moment Sam was back at the apartment, packing up and leaving, just as they’d agreed, while she stayed away to avoid an unpleasant goodbye. They’d said everything already a hundred times over, discussed it from every possible angle, and every time it came out the same.
Sam liked women and women liked Sam. He said he loved women and that he loved Ellie above all others. Sam thought that should be enough. For Ellie, his total failure at monogamy was a deal-breaker. She just couldn’t share him. And there was no longer any way to lie to herself about the number and frequency of the other women in Sam’s life. He was just irresistible and women were just as irresistible to him.
As the ferry chugged its way back to the city, fireworks lit up the sky. The Parade of Tall Ships turned up the East River and the last rays of sunset faded to black. Ellie realized she was crying and looked around self-consciously, but there was no one nearby.
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