Pam and Olga lived down the street growing up. They were twins, joined at the hip. Not literally, fortunately, physically, I mean, but otherwise. Like they wore the same outfits, even after they started making their own clothes, they made the same things. Same haircuts, same freckles. Same same.
And they were pretty, the same pretty. When I went over there to play I got two for one. They shared a room and liked the same music, so when we put on a 45 they sang the song so you couldn’t tell their voices apart. Sitting between them was like stereo. When they smiled it was like stereopticon. When they went down the stairs it was like Eadweard Muybridge.
When Pam and Olga grew up and went away to college, the same college, the same psychology major, of course, my life went monosyllabic, monaural, monocular. I lost it. When I asked a girl on a date and only one showed up I was so disoriented I could hardly speak, and cancelled, saying I was sick.
I realized I wanted to be like Pam and Olga. I understood that when you had a double, you didn’t have to reflect too much. It was all done for you. You weren’t alone. How generous life can be sometimes, say, when you have a double. It was too late for a twin brother, of course, but in recalling the rapture I felt in childhood with the twins I wondered why not carry on.
They were still wearing their matching graduation dresses when I asked them to marry me. Yes, they said, exchanging symmetrical glances with me, smiling bilaterally. All was well.
The wedding is tomorrow. Probably there are some things we haven’t thought about yet. But you know, when you accept life is surreal, you just get on with it.
A throuple! Hope things go better for you all than for Lindy West... But on another note, Tod, I just love your writing. (And even when life isn't surreal, you just get on with it, as well as possible....)
Although your twins are not conjoined, this made me think about Chang and Eng Bunker, conjoined twins who married a pair of sisters in the 1840s and had a lot of children. I think it was more than 20. I hope your protagonist is prepared for the possibilities.
Tod, this is brilliant. That third paragraph description of life without Pam and Olga made me laugh. And the last lines? “Probably there are some things…” Hilarious.
Pamela hand waters her garden, a garden confined to pots on the front stoop of a converted Victorian. Once a grand home in the Western Addition, the house was divided a hundred years ago into eight small apartments. Pamela, now the senior tenant, moved here over four decades ago when she was newly divorced and emotionally at sea.
She started the garden to anchor herself and to have something to love. The landlord disapproved. He disapproved so much that he took away the hose he’d occasionally use to wash down the sidewalk and disabled the faucet, hoping the lack of water would discourage her. It didn’t though. Instead, she rescued a watering can just as she had rescued her original pots from various trash bins and filled it each day in her kitchen sink. It made no difference to her since the water was paid for by the landlord anyway. A few years on, when he realized that the garden improved the building, he bought a new hose and fixed the faucet. When his widow sold the building after he died, the new landlord liked her garden so much that he regularly gave her money for improvements and cut her rent by $100 a month to compensate her for her efforts.
Three years ago, Olga and her mother, Oksana, moved into the apartment below Pamela’s. Refugees from Ukraine, neither spoke English. At first, five-year-old Olga would sit silently on the steps watching Pamela tend the garden and run inside if Pamela did anything to acknowledge her. Slowly, they became friends and gardening partners, learning to speak each other’s language along the way.
Yesterday, an ICE officer came round while Pamela was watering. He asked about “the Ukrainians.” She told him she didn’t know any Ukrainians, and he told her that two live in her building and have fallen out of status and need to turn themselves in for deportation. He told her that if she lied or helped them in any way, she’d be arrested.
This morning, Pamela walked Olga to school. Olga was puzzled but delighted at the new routine. After convincing Olga to introduce her to her teacher, Pamela kept walking. Part dumpster inspection, part aimless wandering, she took the long way home.
You weave in the reality of our times so well in this lovely tale about gardens, friendships, and acceptance. In a short space, you make us care about Pamela and Olga, and the threat looming.
Olga is ornery. If you meet her at work she’ll tell you you’re doing your job wrong. If you meet her walking your dog she’ll tell you it’s ugly, and fat. If you meet her at the market she’ll tell you the bananas in your cart are rotten.
Nothing sticks to Olga. She does a lousy job, she never gets written up; she gets a raise. She hits you with her car, your insurance goes up, not hers. She leaves her yard a wild mess, she gets an award from the humane society for nurturing wildlife. As if we need more raccoons.
Yet Olga is popular. You go to a party, she’s the first on the dance floor. You go to a wedding, she’s sitting next to the bride. You go to a funeral, she throws the first clod of dirt on the coffin.
Once Olga thought I was someone else and told me her secret, about a can she keeps in her kitchen. She takes it out when she’s cooking and sprays it on her frying pan. Nothing sticks! Thinking I am someone else, she goes on to tell me she sprays it on the floor so roaches get stuck and are easy to kill. I’m wearing it now, she says. Don’t I smell great! Life is so much better since I found this can, this Pam, she says. She buys Pam in bulk, she tells me. She gives Pam cans as gifts; what’s my address, she wants to know.
Olga glows. You’ll be so happy, she chortles, with Pam.
But wait, she says. Who are you? You’re not who I thought you were. You don’t deserve Pam. Pam is for winners.
I try to find Pam in the market. The clerk tells me they’re out of stock. Today and the next year, all Pam cans are promised to Olga.
It’s easy to see who Olga likes.They walk around town holding cans of Pam and spritzing each other, like they’re members of the best club. Actually, everyone but me has an Olga–gifted Pam. The rest of us, well, me, I’m glum but I hope someday to travel to a market Olga hasn’t cornered and score my own Pam. Won't that be grand!
***
I swear to Pam that chortle came to me without a prompt. It's that kind of day.
I've got some Pam in my cupboard I'd be happy to gift you! Have not yet sprayed it on myself, though. Those first three paragraphs are sooo true about certain people! I hate those people!
Pam lived across the hall from me for a good year before we got to really know each other. She knocked on my door one desperate Thursday evening to say her father had just had a heart attack and she had to leave immediately for Phoenix. She couldn’t get through to any friends. Could I take care of her dog Olga for three days or so, maybe more? (This seems like quite the huge favor, but I had always been very affectionate with Olga when we met in the hallway.) Olga was a smallish, sweet mutt – a little Jack Russell, a little Bichon Frisé, maybe some Australian cattle dog, which made her just big enough to not be obnoxiously nippy. I told Pam not to worry, I’d be happy to. I’d had to put my 17-year old dog to sleep a few years ago and missed him terribly.
Olga reminded me instantly of the pleasures of having a dog, and also the pain in the ass part of walking her three times a day. I made that interesting by taking along a trash-picker and filling bags with litter. Olga was so patient, and reminded me to be patient too. Let her check her pee-mail. Watch how in the present she is. Remind yourself to do that too, to be where you are and nowhere else.
The best part, of course, was how she lay her head on my leg when I watched TV. And also how excited she was when I came back from even a quick errand. When Pam called three days later and said she really needed to be there longer and offered to have another friend come get her – of course I declined. I was falling in love with Olga.
One day while we were watching TV, she couldn’t manage to stay settled next to me. She kept sniffing my side and licking it. Then she actually barked at me and whimpered. I had just seen a documentary on dogs alerting owners to illness, and there had been some weird discomfort I’d been ignoring.
Long story short, pancreatic cancer is treatable, but you have to catch it super early, and I did. And Pam not only took me to every chemo, but loaned Olga out to comfort me at home. That dog saved my life. And also, Pam and I, well, marriage bells are ringing.
Love this one, Mark. The instincts of the dog, the human slowing down to appreciate the here and now, and I’d forgotten the term “pee-mail.” Nice happily ever after, too.
Pam and Olga were so different. Pam was tall and slim with straw-colored hair. Olga was short and stout with curly black locks through which ran steaks of gray. Pam was quiet and soft spoken but could be firm when she thought it was needed. Olga spoke loudly with a Russian accent in rapid bursts that seemed like they would never end until her monologues petered out with a shrug of her shoulders.
Pam and Olga were deeply committed to their synagogue, Beth Am. They met through the Sisterhood and ended up serving on the Board of Trustees together. Olga was the more religious of the two and served as the Chair of the Ritual Committee. Through the years they became best friends, sharing many of their deepest longings and regrets. Pam had a difficult marriage to an overbearing man who gave little space for Pam’s many talents to shine. Olga’s son was an alcoholic who was always losing one job or another.
Then October 7, 2023 happened. They were both distraught at the murder of Israelis. But as the war in Gaza progressed, they found they had wildly different responses. Pam was devastated by the deaths of so many Palestinian civilians. Olga believed Israel was simply acting as any country would in response to the atrocity perpetrated against it.
One day they were having lunch after Shabbat morning services when Pam said, “What Israel is doing is genocide.”
“If Israel wanted to commit genocide they could have done it in a matter of days. They must be the worst perpetrators of genocide in the history of the world,” Olga said.
“How could you turn this into a joke? Have you seen the videos of the destruction?”
“That’s what happens during a war!”
“I never thought you could be so cold to human suffering.”
“You can’t stand up for the Jewish people any more than you can stand up to your bastard husband.”
Pam left with tears in her eyes. They were tears of rage.
After three months of not speaking to Olga, one night Pam is stuck on a loop of videos of Jews being attacked on the streets of New York, London, Antwerp, Sydney. She is outraged. Fucking scum, she says out loud about the attackers. She thinks of Olga and wants to call her, but hesitates. Across town, Olga is watching a video of a Palestinian girl talking about the deaths of her parents and her brother by Israeli air strikes. The girl is beautiful with deep brown eyes that draw Olga in. Olga doesn’t cry easily but she begins to get choked up. She scrolls to Pam’s number in her contact list, her finger hovering over the FaceTime icon.
Well done, Wim. These are difficult times to be a Jew. (When is not a difficult time to be a Jew, though, really?) I've had these same conversations, over and over, with many members of my tribe. It's very painful.
Mavis g. tells Ramona she can write anything. Anything? Ramona asks. Are you sure about that? Maybe I write the end of a story. Just the end of a story, Is that OK to do?
Yes, Mavis g. responds. Every word, in order or not is a story.
OK. Here goes writes Ramona. “After the cow jumped over the moon she laid down in the green grass and died.”
Oh, chortles Mavis. That is charming. What a great story.
Chortles - brill dogs name. they cant really do it but theydo find things amusing. Im trying to get your email, Sea, maybe u cld email it to me? Im trying to have an email conversation.
hows book club? Searchers too heavy? wanna start over with another book?
We were in class, playing the “If you were a …..” game. I let the kids make up the questions, with instructions their answers should be as sexy and raunchy as possible, as per current ministry guidelines.
“If you were a dog, what dog would you be?” That was Preston. Always a bit boring, Preston, but as usual, Brenda saved the day, “A get-on-your-hands-and-knees little biaaaaaatch,” Brenda said, then whimpered and howled like a basset.
The kids loved this. They loved Brenda’s voice, loved the sounds she made when she said certain words, imitated animals.
Leila was next. “If you were a season, what season would you be?”
“Oh, that’s easy.” It was Fairlyn. “If I were a season, I’d be spring. The season of spankings and awakenings.” Everyone whooped, stood up, slapped their own butts.
I had to admit, I was a bit lost with this one at first, but then I remembered Fairlyn’s parents had recently taken her to see the original Wedekind play. I praised her for her cultural knowledge.
“I know! I know!” It was Ewan now. “If you were a set of teeth, whose teeth would you be?”
Ewan stared straight at Henry. The class went silent. Was I going to have to intervene? Poor Henry had very crooked, unattractive, and even some falling out teeth and he was constantly trying to hide them in his shame. Ewan loved to make fun of him, every chance he got.
Thankfully, Miguel stepped in. “If I were a set of teeth, I’d be no teeth at all. All the better to suck you-know-whats.”
The kids went wild at that, all of them gape-opening their mouths and stretching their top and bottom lips to look like they’d had complete extractions, like those old pictures of dentureless grandparents.
It took a while for the class to finally calm down from the teeth thing, but when they did, Brian stood up and walked quietly to the front of the room. In a voice, not his voice, almost a whisper, he asked:
“If you were a dead, what dead would you be?”
I knew Brian came from a country where the language allowed the indefinite article plus “dead” construction, so I wasn’t concerned about his grammar. But I was concerned about the look on his face. He wasn’t the same carefree, full-of-love-and-wonder boy he’d been in the morning. Instead, he was like someone possessed, someone come to give us all a message, from the beyond.
Brian continued.
“I’m serious,” he said. “What dead would you be? Car accident? Murder victim? Plane crash? Suicide? Massive heart attack? Drop off a mountain? Drowned? Broken heart?”
No one moved. The vibe had changed.
“All you guys ever do is sit around making stupid sex jokes. I’m not saying it’s not fun, but you have to remember where you’re doing it, why you’re doing it. We’re in a school. Under a particular administration. Sex jokes, sex, relationships, whatever, may not be as fun or as funny as you're being led to believe. You may be causing more harm and damage to each other and the planet than you imagine. You’re all over 70 now. Better to think about death.”
And with that, Brian went from desk to desk, handing each classmate and me a slip of paper. On each was listed the following information: name; age; date, time, place, and cause and effect of birth; date, time, place, and cause and effect of death.
It was the teeth photo that did it. Also, Brian turns out to be two people, sort of like Pam and Olga, among other things. Plus humidex 40 to 45 all week here. Subconscious is fried. :)
“Is this Olga?” “Yes,” says Olga into the phone. “Who is this?”
‘This is Pam. You may have heard of me?”
“ No.” Olga says “I don’t know anyone named Pam. Why are you calling?”
“Just calling to tell you that I am pregnant with Richard’s child. We’ve been together for over a year and I just learned about you when I told him I thought it was time for us to get married given that we’re having a baby and all he said he couldn’t do that because he was already married to you and he could not leave you in your current state with the cancer and all.
Olga takes a breath. She says, ”well that sounds inventive, but the truth is, I don’t have cancer and I’m sad to tell you, Pam that you are not the first. I thought he was over all that given his advancing dementia.”
“What?” says Pam, “ I haven’t noticed any dementia.”
“Well let me ask you this. Has he told you he has a timeshare in Turks and Caicos? Has he told you he was invited to the Taylor Swift wedding? Or that he’s working for Amazon in the AI department?””
“Wait!” says Pam. “You’re telling me that’s not where he works? “
“I’m telling you that actually he doesn’t work anywhere.”
“Are you also telling me that you refuse to give him a divorce?’
“Oh no,” says Olga, “quite to the contrary. Nine Simone said it better than I can—you can have him. I don’t want him.”
Enjoyed this, Christine. The line that really stood out for me was, "I haven't noticed any dementia." I love how you slipped that in because it's so true how many people don't (or don't want to) notice things like dementia, and lots of other life/death things as well.
The four years between Olga and Pam were a chasm. Olga did everything first. Went to school, learned to read, lost her baby teeth, got her period, had a boyfriend. Pam could only watch on, bursting with admiration and envy.
Olga wasn’t mean to her, in fact she was often nice, but really she wasn’t interested in Pam. Because what was interesting about Pam? Nothing. Olga was the pretty one, the smart one, the one everyone liked best. She even had an exotic Russian name. There was nothing left over for Pam, just a plain name to suit her plainness.
Even their mother openly preferred Olga. She’d ask Pam, why can’t you try to be more like your sister?
But she did try, of course she did!
Their father, who seemed quite fond of both his daughters, died suddenly when Pam was nineteen. After the funeral, Pam didn’t have the stomach to return to college. By the time Olga graduated from medical school, Pam was floundering. She felt life was passing her by.
Then a man she’d fallen in love with took her to live on an ashram in India and study under his guru. There she found her calling.
Twenty years later, by now a highly regarded yoga teacher with her own exotic name, Priya, she yielded to Olga’s exhortations to come home. Their mother was gravely ill.
Priya’s mother had aged almost beyond recognition. The sisters took turns visiting her in hospital and caring for her. Even though Priya’s mother insisted on calling her Pam and made it clear she had a low opinion of yoga and everything it represented, Priya tried her best to be kind with her.
One night, very late, Olga called Priya and asked her to come to the hospital. The end was near.
The sisters sat one on either side of the bed, each holding one of their mother’s hands as she slept. Then their mother opened her eyes. Olga bent down and kissed her on the cheek. Her mother smiled, then she turned to look at Priya and frowned. Priya leaned down to kiss her too, but her mother said sharply, “When are you going to stop all this Priya nonsense?” With that, she died.
Priya looked at her sister, wide-eyed, and then, without meaning to, she burst out laughing and couldn’t stop. She knew it was the shock; still, she couldn’t help it. But then Olga began laughing too, and the two sisters laughed together, helplessly, for a long time.
At the bookstore, talking to the bookseller: Lydia Davis, an homage
At the bookstore I am buying two collections of Lydia Davis stories, Can’t and Won’t and Varieties of Disturbance. I read some of each in copies I borrowed from the library a few weeks ago. I decided I needed to have my own copies. Have you ever read Lydia Davis? I ask the bookseller. She is new to the store, a slender young woman with light brown hair parted in the middle and a septum nose piercing. No, she says. Can’t not read her, I say, maddening. She giggles.
I love her, but In all honesty, I grow sad now when I think of her since the tragic deaths of her son and grandchild. If you don't know about this, I'm sorry to have told you.
It was the day the twins were to be "hatched" or whatever terminology subhumans use for the arrival of the divine. Expecting it to be no more than a formality, the goddess arrives by helicopter. The concierge hospital/lab perched in the Canadian Rockies has a helipad of course. Theirs, like other secret, elevated facilities, has parking for up to six helos. The embryo had been maxxed, and this was on top of the maxxing provided by the billionaire human father the goddess was currently toying with, so all expected matters to develop in the divine way: the females would arrive like their mother, twin beauties, fully formed, bathed in perfection, speaking, singing, laughing, and no, it was not too much to hope that both would have a gift for gardening and music. And indeed the first, Pam, tumbles onto the red carpet with a giggle, rises to her full five-feet, ten-inched-hour-glassed glory, spitting image of her mother, cartwheels over to the Steinway, pecks out a Scriabin sonata. But Olga, Olga plops onto the carpet like a five pound raisin with a shock of black hair. Not since Mia Farrow got a look at Rosemary's Baby has a mother been so surprised as the goddess. The doctor explained that life, and love for that matter, can be like that. For those, like the goddess without hormones.
Pam and Olga were twins. They were born on either side of midnight, New Year's Eve of Y2K, 2000. Pam was born at 11:50 PM, December 31, 1999; Olga was born at 12:10 AM, January 1, 2000. Pam was head-first and descended the birth canal easily; her birth was uneventful.
On the other hand, Olga was a breech extraction; hers was a difficult birth with her "after-coming" head getting stuck in her mother's pelvis.
Ultimately, with both babies delivered, Pam was hollering healthily, pink, and sprightly with vim and vigor; but Olga was still, quiet, blue, and lethargic with ennui and inanition. Pam went home from the hospital with her mother; Olga stayed for two weeks until strong enough to nurse adequately.
Pam made all As with little effort for what seemed to come to her naturally; Olga barely passed, made her Rs backwards, and struggled to learn.
Pam loved her twin sister, but Olga was somewhat resentful over the birth order. Not only did this allow Pam to advance to a grade a year higher than her, it also slapped her with the derogatory "little" sister label.
"Had I been the one born first, my head wouldn't have been squeezed so," Olga grumbled to her mother one day.
"Even to this day, Olga,” her mother replied, “you follow your big sister. You should have just kept up with her."
"Maybe she was following me back then. Maybe I was first and she was second. And then maybe she cut in line, do you think?" Olga asked.
"That's how everyone gets ahead in this life, my sweet little Olga. Don't you worry your pretty, little squeezed head about it. You will find that life's unfair and that you win some and you lose some."
Pam died of leukemia at the age of 14. Of course, this had nothing to do with birth order or cutting in line. It was just unfair, and although Olga was sad, at least she knew that it wasn't her fault. You win some and you lose some, she remembered. Her Mom was right.
She’d been smelling Pam for days now, behind the door of the room where Pam had been sequestered. Olga had heard her, too, especially when the Human went in there and Pam mewed excitedly. Olga had also seen the occasional small paw slip out from under the door.
Now the door was open and there Pam was.
Pam had taken a couple of steps towards Olga when the hiss came. Pam promptly sat down, as if surprised, and gave a little hiss of her own. But she appeared not to really know what to do next.
Olga gave a soft growl, not quite sure herself. True, she’d been lonely without her brother Anton. While she rather liked having the Human all to herself, the Human was gone for long periods of time leaving Olga with nothing to do but look out the window, sleep, and wander around rubbing her face on furniture or corners to mark her territory. She could still smell Anton’s scent faintly on the same spots.
No doubt this brat would leave her own mark there. At the thought, Olga hissed and growled again.
She noticed the Human hovering nearby and somehow knew the Human would not take it well if Olga genuinely attacked the intruder.
Pam continued to sit there a bit bewildered. Olga was at least twice Pam’s size and Pam recognized Olga’s smell as well from through the door. She knew this was Olga’s place, that she had to be careful and respectful.
Pam stood up and took a tentative step towards Olga. Olga again hissed and growled and this time she reached out and smacked Pam on the head. Yet her claws had not been out.
The Human moved a step closer. Olga, still in her defensive crouch, scooted back a bit from Pam.
Pam sat back down. Then, generating a wobbly purr, she rolled onto her back, exposing her belly.
Olga regarded her solemnly.
Submission.
Olga suddenly turned and with a few fast flying leaps, settled on top of the tall cabinet. She curled up in a nap, but kept one eye on Pam, who was starting to explore.
Olga hoped the brat at least covered up properly in the litter box.
It's fiction, actually, although based on many, many years of having cats. My current ones are tightly bonded brothers, littermates. Our cat before them, Garden was very social (as Maine Coons often are), loved other cats and would have gladly welcomed a kitten -- like another previous cat Norton who once greeted a new kitten with a big purr that almost screamed "I'm your Uncle Norton and I love you!" (In my experience, male cats tend to be better at this newcomer thing than females who are called "queens" for a reason.) But alas for Garden -- he was FIV+ and so we couldn't risk bringing in another kitten or cat. He had to be content with just his two old humans. Thanks.
Poor Atlas. A friend introduced her female cat to a female kitten, and while they eventually reached a sort of detente, they never really got along. She later adopted two female littermates and they seem to do well together but another woman adopted kitten sisters who seemed bonded and got on for years, then suddenly disliked each other. That's why, when I was looking to adopt after Garden died, I specified either two boys or a boy and a girl. Ended up with the two brothers. They're high-energy chaos, even at 14 months, and "play fight" but only once have I heard a hiss when someone was too rough. Mostly, they're devoted to each other, cuddling together, grooming each other, etc.
My two girls never got along. i adopted them out when I moved in with my partner, who’s allergic to cats. I thought their new home might bring them together, but they never did fit together.
He looked freezing, nose and cheeks pink. Same grey eyes
Hi Feisty Forty you are beautiful outside as well as inside your messages
She smoothed her smooth hair. What is your name Outdoor Liker?
Pam
Like Pamela?
Pam like - Penis and Mind. Pam. Not just a penis more than a mind. He blushed
Lot of information could've guessed
Where are you from Feisty? I hear an accent
Former Republic of Cyisheendrakous
The mythical place?
Not myth. Rebuilt renamed re everything. Me very old. Olga
You look good Olga. Strong
Strong yes. Weak like angry kitten in sex. Never say I love you
Something smells good
Heart soup. Ox. For love. Happy go lucky Ox die old age
Is it Soup time?
You really have job?
One day Olga
You bad man
I am. Bad and inconvenient
I like bad man
I know. I made you something
He holds out a fan with light blue brown and grey combs shaped into blades, held together by a Brass Eagle head
She looks at it witheringly
I made it in prison
She takes it and turns it over
Clean and sharp
When you told me about Buzby I couldn't stop cleaning combs. I had to confiscate a lot anyway. Where is Buz?
I lie. No Buzby. Hate cats
Ok. His eyes shine
You lie. You prison guard. Mr Confiscate
I'm notoriously tardy and a Junior Reverend at the Prison
She makes a clicking annoyed noise. Bounces on her heels.
Religious!
She sees his red rimmed eyes. Pauses.
You old for Junior
Late bloomer. You know that expression?
Not compliment
Not an insult
Sorry for Buzby - you sad
We've only just met and already have things to forgive
You allowed to marry or we commit Sin?
I'm allowed. Sorry. I dont get out much
Where would you go in this place?
He shrugs
She shrugs
They smile
The fire crackles and spits
Olga pulls herself straight as if with a string and checks her hair in mirror
A tall tabby cat nuzzles open the door and wanders in confidently. Her eyes have winged black stripes - her sides are spotted - he kneels but doesnt touch her
What's her name?
You name. She blame me for rain
Lazarus. She's come back from non existence
You bad Namer. She girl. We call her Lazbien
Mmm...Bien for short
What your name Junior Reverend Pam?
Sam - your Dad's name. I know you're grieving. I went to say Sam - but Pam came out
Lies come easy to Sam
The cat headbutts him
He strokes her back
Bien like you Sammy. Your cat now. Soup time
She serves steaming soup into big bowls. Unwraps warm bread and tears it
Sam takes her hands accros the table. Thank you Lord for letting us finally meet, thank you for Bien and this wonderful food. Amen
They eat the thick soup hungrily, making equal slurps
With serious eyes - Bien watches pieces of heart and potato leave their spoons
Quick thinker, that PamSam. "Pam like - Penis and Mind" then we find out it just came out and this is what came out. And kitten makes three; a perfect family.
J.D.A. this is so great, so relatable. I can visualize the whole thing and I can hear the voices clearly. Love the mostly comic race to the end and then the shift to the serious last line with its double entendre--it really did tear at my heart. Tres bien!
The news came in an email invite to join in prayers, either in person or in zoom.
The email does not say he has transitioned, we just know. I opt for Zoom and find myself in a room with 2,000, mostly old people, about to make the same journey.
Center screen a ‘Tibetan Monk’ sits, draped in his robes, counting malas while chanting the Heart Sutra in Tibetan, Om gate, gate paragate, parasomgate, bodhisovha,
A crackle pierces the calm, ‘Re you going to say it in English? I can’t understand a word.
Annoyed, Olga, who is monitoring the livestream types, please mute your microphone, and to be polite, adds the praying hand emoji. A sea of swimming hearts bubble up in response.
How many times do i have to tell people. She is trying hard to be a good buddhist but these grey haired dandelions wear her out.
When she expresses this to her lama, he says, you should be grateful, they are teaching you patience.
Patience and Zoom are an oxymoron.
In spite of Olga’s request, we still hear this intruder. A cat squeals! Did she just step on her cat?! Someone cries, “Git that doggone cat outta here.”
Texts fly, MUTE YOUR MIC!
I scroll the gallery looking for the culprit and find ‘PAM!’ Who knows if the name is hers, or the computer’s.
‘Tibetan Monk’, completing the mantra says, Olga, now say it in English. Flushed with pride, she forgets all about restricting permissions.
Her heart glows, “gone, gone beyond, gone altogether beyond, awakening, so be it.” The Dakinis will gather…,
Olga, Dakinis in English?
Sky fairies, or cloud fairies…
Someone from PAM!’s world says, Fairies? Did they say Fairies???
PAM! pops on full screen. We see the remains of a nibbled lunch in the cafeteria of a nursing home.
A woman in a tie-dyed mumu yells across the room, Thought you said it was a funeral. Are they calling him a fairy?
For Christ sake Marge, they’re buddhists! They’re talking about real fairies!
They’re nudists? It’s a nudist funeral with fairies?
No Marge, B buh Buddhists. She has turned to face her friend, her rear end on full display, a tuft of violets cover the screen.
Olga, in a panic, shuts down everything.
The monk sits at the foot of the altar where a picture of the one who has passed is frozen in laughter.
The number of times I've been in a zoom and someone doesn't mute themselves!!! This piece is so funny, and I love that she's told she's learning patience.
Pam and Olga had been BFFs forever. Both were easygoing, Type-Bs. They agreed on everything. Pam was outgoing and friendly. Olga was gentle and affectionate. They would go on long walks and talks. Everyone loved Pam and Olga. That all changed with the arrival of Roger.
Roger was a presence - tall, toned and he knew how to create an impression. He wore expensively tailored suits and rose at dawn for his daily workout. At first Pam and Olga laughed at Roger, calling him coarse and vulgar, interested in only one thing. But Roger was a smooth talker. He brought flowers to Olga, told her she was beautiful. Olga was smitten, nobody had ever spoken to her like this.
Roger could dance - Pam liked to dance and had to admit he was good. When he led her in the tango she could barely contain her love or lust. Soon Roger had Pam and Olga following him everywhere. Pam was jealous of any time Roger spent with Olga. Olga hated seeing Roger and Pam dancing. They both wanted Roger - anywhere, anytime. Pam and Olga stopped talking and walking - cooped-up in their silence. Everyone was talking about the Pam and Olga breakup. Roger loved the attention but was getting bored, looking for new conquests.
Evan Jones was having a rough week and stopped by the Workshop Tavern on his way home from the feed store.
“Didn’t expect to see you in here Evan” said Joe, “You being so busy this time of year.”
“I’m having problems with a two of my hens not laying and pecking at each other. And don’t get me started on the Rooster.”
“That doesn’t sound good, what’ll you do?”
Evan paused, looking at Joe as the idea formed in his head,
“You want to come over for fried chicken at the weekend?”
Pam and Olga lived down the street growing up. They were twins, joined at the hip. Not literally, fortunately, physically, I mean, but otherwise. Like they wore the same outfits, even after they started making their own clothes, they made the same things. Same haircuts, same freckles. Same same.
And they were pretty, the same pretty. When I went over there to play I got two for one. They shared a room and liked the same music, so when we put on a 45 they sang the song so you couldn’t tell their voices apart. Sitting between them was like stereo. When they smiled it was like stereopticon. When they went down the stairs it was like Eadweard Muybridge.
When Pam and Olga grew up and went away to college, the same college, the same psychology major, of course, my life went monosyllabic, monaural, monocular. I lost it. When I asked a girl on a date and only one showed up I was so disoriented I could hardly speak, and cancelled, saying I was sick.
I realized I wanted to be like Pam and Olga. I understood that when you had a double, you didn’t have to reflect too much. It was all done for you. You weren’t alone. How generous life can be sometimes, say, when you have a double. It was too late for a twin brother, of course, but in recalling the rapture I felt in childhood with the twins I wondered why not carry on.
They were still wearing their matching graduation dresses when I asked them to marry me. Yes, they said, exchanging symmetrical glances with me, smiling bilaterally. All was well.
The wedding is tomorrow. Probably there are some things we haven’t thought about yet. But you know, when you accept life is surreal, you just get on with it.
A throuple! Hope things go better for you all than for Lindy West... But on another note, Tod, I just love your writing. (And even when life isn't surreal, you just get on with it, as well as possible....)
First I heard of Lindy West. Looked her up but didn't see what went wrong.
Her new book came out and she got demolished by fans and critics alike over her throuple-ness.
Hmm. I'll have to check that out. People are so conservative.
I don't know, I think in Todland it's completely possible for a twin brother to show up.
Right. Anything's possible in Todland. (So hot in NYC today--thinking of you!)
only getting to 99. two days in a row of missing 100.
ding ding ding! Century achieved!!!!!! We're number one! We're number 1!
I'm so happy for you
'tis a gift to be simple.
I wrote in messages this morning on a sibling thread and it turns up here !!
At this point I'd do my best to prevent that from happening.
He may be among us as we speak…
This was great.
Although your twins are not conjoined, this made me think about Chang and Eng Bunker, conjoined twins who married a pair of sisters in the 1840s and had a lot of children. I think it was more than 20. I hope your protagonist is prepared for the possibilities.
More than I imagined. This is getting good.
Congratulations Tod! I'm sure the three of you will be ridiculously happy together. What could possibly go wrong?
"Probably there are some things we haven’t thought about yet." Wry understatement of the year.
Another great one Tod. It moves fast and I loved the ride.
Wow dude. Oh man. I love what you did with this prompt! So good.
Thanks Sea.
Loved the story- and I loved the musicality of "same"...It began to feel like a lullabye.
Thank you, Lynette.
Tod, this is brilliant. That third paragraph description of life without Pam and Olga made me laugh. And the last lines? “Probably there are some things…” Hilarious.
Thanks, Angela.
“my life went monosylabic” definitely happens, in real life, which can be quite surreal at times! what an original setup
Delicious writing. So fun. I just bask in your imagination.
Thank you CB.
I thoroughly enjoyed this. So many great lines - "sitting between them was like stereo. When they smiled it was like stereopticon."
Pam & Olga, Emily & Caroline
you get what you want!!!!
Goooaaaaallll!! Great writing. Great reading.
Good to see you're in the World Cup spirit. !! I'm hooked . And who'da thunk you'd become a billionaire playing soccer?
It's never too late to try. Remember Canada tomorrow. 🇨🇦
Go Canada! And proof to Cape Verde!
That should have been “props” to Cape Verde.
That was an incredible game!!
Pamela hand waters her garden, a garden confined to pots on the front stoop of a converted Victorian. Once a grand home in the Western Addition, the house was divided a hundred years ago into eight small apartments. Pamela, now the senior tenant, moved here over four decades ago when she was newly divorced and emotionally at sea.
She started the garden to anchor herself and to have something to love. The landlord disapproved. He disapproved so much that he took away the hose he’d occasionally use to wash down the sidewalk and disabled the faucet, hoping the lack of water would discourage her. It didn’t though. Instead, she rescued a watering can just as she had rescued her original pots from various trash bins and filled it each day in her kitchen sink. It made no difference to her since the water was paid for by the landlord anyway. A few years on, when he realized that the garden improved the building, he bought a new hose and fixed the faucet. When his widow sold the building after he died, the new landlord liked her garden so much that he regularly gave her money for improvements and cut her rent by $100 a month to compensate her for her efforts.
Three years ago, Olga and her mother, Oksana, moved into the apartment below Pamela’s. Refugees from Ukraine, neither spoke English. At first, five-year-old Olga would sit silently on the steps watching Pamela tend the garden and run inside if Pamela did anything to acknowledge her. Slowly, they became friends and gardening partners, learning to speak each other’s language along the way.
Yesterday, an ICE officer came round while Pamela was watering. He asked about “the Ukrainians.” She told him she didn’t know any Ukrainians, and he told her that two live in her building and have fallen out of status and need to turn themselves in for deportation. He told her that if she lied or helped them in any way, she’d be arrested.
This morning, Pamela walked Olga to school. Olga was puzzled but delighted at the new routine. After convincing Olga to introduce her to her teacher, Pamela kept walking. Part dumpster inspection, part aimless wandering, she took the long way home.
Such a lovely start and then so devastating. Fingers crossed for Olga and Oksana in our current culture of awfulness.
If only the ICE people would finally come around, like the landlord.
You weave in the reality of our times so well in this lovely tale about gardens, friendships, and acceptance. In a short space, you make us care about Pamela and Olga, and the threat looming.
Thank you.
Olga is ornery. If you meet her at work she’ll tell you you’re doing your job wrong. If you meet her walking your dog she’ll tell you it’s ugly, and fat. If you meet her at the market she’ll tell you the bananas in your cart are rotten.
Nothing sticks to Olga. She does a lousy job, she never gets written up; she gets a raise. She hits you with her car, your insurance goes up, not hers. She leaves her yard a wild mess, she gets an award from the humane society for nurturing wildlife. As if we need more raccoons.
Yet Olga is popular. You go to a party, she’s the first on the dance floor. You go to a wedding, she’s sitting next to the bride. You go to a funeral, she throws the first clod of dirt on the coffin.
Once Olga thought I was someone else and told me her secret, about a can she keeps in her kitchen. She takes it out when she’s cooking and sprays it on her frying pan. Nothing sticks! Thinking I am someone else, she goes on to tell me she sprays it on the floor so roaches get stuck and are easy to kill. I’m wearing it now, she says. Don’t I smell great! Life is so much better since I found this can, this Pam, she says. She buys Pam in bulk, she tells me. She gives Pam cans as gifts; what’s my address, she wants to know.
Olga glows. You’ll be so happy, she chortles, with Pam.
But wait, she says. Who are you? You’re not who I thought you were. You don’t deserve Pam. Pam is for winners.
I try to find Pam in the market. The clerk tells me they’re out of stock. Today and the next year, all Pam cans are promised to Olga.
It’s easy to see who Olga likes.They walk around town holding cans of Pam and spritzing each other, like they’re members of the best club. Actually, everyone but me has an Olga–gifted Pam. The rest of us, well, me, I’m glum but I hope someday to travel to a market Olga hasn’t cornered and score my own Pam. Won't that be grand!
***
I swear to Pam that chortle came to me without a prompt. It's that kind of day.
I've got some Pam in my cupboard I'd be happy to gift you! Have not yet sprayed it on myself, though. Those first three paragraphs are sooo true about certain people! I hate those people!
This is so good- laugh out loud funny. “As if we need more raccoons.” Well done.
I loved that line, too
thanks, Wim!
A two-chortle day, and it's not even 11:00 yet! Life is good.
Wish I'd known that Pam trick when I had roaches in student res. Didn't have Pam then, only Spam.
entice with Spam entrap with Pam
More words to live by!
"You go to a funeral, she throws the first clod of dirt on the coffin." I loved this witty piece, but particularly that line.
Thanks, Mark. I enjoyed learning that bit about Olga.
That’s the one that stopped me.
This a great one! Wonderfully twisted.
Thanks, Kurt. Olga appreciates it.
“She throws the first clod of dirt”—that characterization is priceless. Stopped me and I had to go back and re-read it. Love the offbeat take of this!
Thanks, Angela. That came to me in a dream of some kind.
Loved "she throws the first clod of dirt on the coffin." I felt like I knew her!
Love the transition: “the rest of us, well, me, I’m glum….” The commas are just right, as is the word glum, my word of the day!
Brilliant!
Hilarious!
This is wonderful. So wild.
Pam lived across the hall from me for a good year before we got to really know each other. She knocked on my door one desperate Thursday evening to say her father had just had a heart attack and she had to leave immediately for Phoenix. She couldn’t get through to any friends. Could I take care of her dog Olga for three days or so, maybe more? (This seems like quite the huge favor, but I had always been very affectionate with Olga when we met in the hallway.) Olga was a smallish, sweet mutt – a little Jack Russell, a little Bichon Frisé, maybe some Australian cattle dog, which made her just big enough to not be obnoxiously nippy. I told Pam not to worry, I’d be happy to. I’d had to put my 17-year old dog to sleep a few years ago and missed him terribly.
Olga reminded me instantly of the pleasures of having a dog, and also the pain in the ass part of walking her three times a day. I made that interesting by taking along a trash-picker and filling bags with litter. Olga was so patient, and reminded me to be patient too. Let her check her pee-mail. Watch how in the present she is. Remind yourself to do that too, to be where you are and nowhere else.
The best part, of course, was how she lay her head on my leg when I watched TV. And also how excited she was when I came back from even a quick errand. When Pam called three days later and said she really needed to be there longer and offered to have another friend come get her – of course I declined. I was falling in love with Olga.
One day while we were watching TV, she couldn’t manage to stay settled next to me. She kept sniffing my side and licking it. Then she actually barked at me and whimpered. I had just seen a documentary on dogs alerting owners to illness, and there had been some weird discomfort I’d been ignoring.
Long story short, pancreatic cancer is treatable, but you have to catch it super early, and I did. And Pam not only took me to every chemo, but loaned Olga out to comfort me at home. That dog saved my life. And also, Pam and I, well, marriage bells are ringing.
!!!!! I love this little story! The ending was such a surprise. A very fun read. Sweet little Olga to the rescue.
It suddenly occurred to me that my protagonist could be heterosexual. I think I must be willing to “go there” more often.
Yes, that was definitely part of the surprise!
dipping a toe is fun!
This one goes WIDE.
Great story, unexpected ending. Pancreatic cancer is a real killer, mostly because it sneaks up on people. I didn't know dogs could sniff it out.
I may have taken a liberty there, but that some dogs sniff out some cancers and other diseases is definitely true.
Cancer sniffing dogs for hire. Could be a lucrative sideline for Olga.
Very sweet!
Love this one, Mark. The instincts of the dog, the human slowing down to appreciate the here and now, and I’d forgotten the term “pee-mail.” Nice happily ever after, too.
Pam and Olga were so different. Pam was tall and slim with straw-colored hair. Olga was short and stout with curly black locks through which ran steaks of gray. Pam was quiet and soft spoken but could be firm when she thought it was needed. Olga spoke loudly with a Russian accent in rapid bursts that seemed like they would never end until her monologues petered out with a shrug of her shoulders.
Pam and Olga were deeply committed to their synagogue, Beth Am. They met through the Sisterhood and ended up serving on the Board of Trustees together. Olga was the more religious of the two and served as the Chair of the Ritual Committee. Through the years they became best friends, sharing many of their deepest longings and regrets. Pam had a difficult marriage to an overbearing man who gave little space for Pam’s many talents to shine. Olga’s son was an alcoholic who was always losing one job or another.
Then October 7, 2023 happened. They were both distraught at the murder of Israelis. But as the war in Gaza progressed, they found they had wildly different responses. Pam was devastated by the deaths of so many Palestinian civilians. Olga believed Israel was simply acting as any country would in response to the atrocity perpetrated against it.
One day they were having lunch after Shabbat morning services when Pam said, “What Israel is doing is genocide.”
“If Israel wanted to commit genocide they could have done it in a matter of days. They must be the worst perpetrators of genocide in the history of the world,” Olga said.
“How could you turn this into a joke? Have you seen the videos of the destruction?”
“That’s what happens during a war!”
“I never thought you could be so cold to human suffering.”
“You can’t stand up for the Jewish people any more than you can stand up to your bastard husband.”
Pam left with tears in her eyes. They were tears of rage.
After three months of not speaking to Olga, one night Pam is stuck on a loop of videos of Jews being attacked on the streets of New York, London, Antwerp, Sydney. She is outraged. Fucking scum, she says out loud about the attackers. She thinks of Olga and wants to call her, but hesitates. Across town, Olga is watching a video of a Palestinian girl talking about the deaths of her parents and her brother by Israeli air strikes. The girl is beautiful with deep brown eyes that draw Olga in. Olga doesn’t cry easily but she begins to get choked up. She scrolls to Pam’s number in her contact list, her finger hovering over the FaceTime icon.
Well done, Wim. These are difficult times to be a Jew. (When is not a difficult time to be a Jew, though, really?) I've had these same conversations, over and over, with many members of my tribe. It's very painful.
same
Yep - I have, too.
Oy.
I love the poignancy of the possibilities you leave us with. First steps in how to make the world a better place in one short story. Well done.
I love that in the first graf Olga’s monologues peter out with shrug of her shoulders, vivid
Me too
Mavis g. tells Ramona she can write anything. Anything? Ramona asks. Are you sure about that? Maybe I write the end of a story. Just the end of a story, Is that OK to do?
Yes, Mavis g. responds. Every word, in order or not is a story.
OK. Here goes writes Ramona. “After the cow jumped over the moon she laid down in the green grass and died.”
Oh, chortles Mavis. That is charming. What a great story.
Mavis! No chortling! Nice writing, Ramona!
Oops. An unexpected chortle just came out of me.
I love the word chortles. What if you named your dog Chortles. Or you cat or kid.
Coined in 1871 by Lewis Carroll, from chuckle and snort, according to AI Overview. It's a bit awkward, how you pronounce it. Chore til, core til .
Like chuckle with a chort up front.
I love finding out how these words got here!
Chortles - brill dogs name. they cant really do it but theydo find things amusing. Im trying to get your email, Sea, maybe u cld email it to me? Im trying to have an email conversation.
hows book club? Searchers too heavy? wanna start over with another book?
Searchers …. Let’s decide. http://Www.stacyasilveman.com contact me there!
Love "Every word, in order or not is a story."
not it is
is not it
is it not
It's snot
the best ever!
haha
Haha!
Off-prompt. Out of my mind. It's the heat.
We were in class, playing the “If you were a …..” game. I let the kids make up the questions, with instructions their answers should be as sexy and raunchy as possible, as per current ministry guidelines.
“If you were a dog, what dog would you be?” That was Preston. Always a bit boring, Preston, but as usual, Brenda saved the day, “A get-on-your-hands-and-knees little biaaaaaatch,” Brenda said, then whimpered and howled like a basset.
The kids loved this. They loved Brenda’s voice, loved the sounds she made when she said certain words, imitated animals.
Leila was next. “If you were a season, what season would you be?”
“Oh, that’s easy.” It was Fairlyn. “If I were a season, I’d be spring. The season of spankings and awakenings.” Everyone whooped, stood up, slapped their own butts.
I had to admit, I was a bit lost with this one at first, but then I remembered Fairlyn’s parents had recently taken her to see the original Wedekind play. I praised her for her cultural knowledge.
“I know! I know!” It was Ewan now. “If you were a set of teeth, whose teeth would you be?”
Ewan stared straight at Henry. The class went silent. Was I going to have to intervene? Poor Henry had very crooked, unattractive, and even some falling out teeth and he was constantly trying to hide them in his shame. Ewan loved to make fun of him, every chance he got.
Thankfully, Miguel stepped in. “If I were a set of teeth, I’d be no teeth at all. All the better to suck you-know-whats.”
The kids went wild at that, all of them gape-opening their mouths and stretching their top and bottom lips to look like they’d had complete extractions, like those old pictures of dentureless grandparents.
It took a while for the class to finally calm down from the teeth thing, but when they did, Brian stood up and walked quietly to the front of the room. In a voice, not his voice, almost a whisper, he asked:
“If you were a dead, what dead would you be?”
I knew Brian came from a country where the language allowed the indefinite article plus “dead” construction, so I wasn’t concerned about his grammar. But I was concerned about the look on his face. He wasn’t the same carefree, full-of-love-and-wonder boy he’d been in the morning. Instead, he was like someone possessed, someone come to give us all a message, from the beyond.
Brian continued.
“I’m serious,” he said. “What dead would you be? Car accident? Murder victim? Plane crash? Suicide? Massive heart attack? Drop off a mountain? Drowned? Broken heart?”
No one moved. The vibe had changed.
“All you guys ever do is sit around making stupid sex jokes. I’m not saying it’s not fun, but you have to remember where you’re doing it, why you’re doing it. We’re in a school. Under a particular administration. Sex jokes, sex, relationships, whatever, may not be as fun or as funny as you're being led to believe. You may be causing more harm and damage to each other and the planet than you imagine. You’re all over 70 now. Better to think about death.”
And with that, Brian went from desk to desk, handing each classmate and me a slip of paper. On each was listed the following information: name; age; date, time, place, and cause and effect of birth; date, time, place, and cause and effect of death.
yes, where did this come from?? No matter, I'm glad you wrote and posted it. Loved this thought: “If you were a dead, what dead would you be?”
It was the teeth photo that did it. Also, Brian turns out to be two people, sort of like Pam and Olga, among other things. Plus humidex 40 to 45 all week here. Subconscious is fried. :)
I thought I knew where this was going until the teeth, that was a shocker
That ending!
Yikes! That took a sharp turn.
effect of death is particularly evocative.
Thanks Kevin. Another Saunders lesson, among other things.
“Is this Olga?” “Yes,” says Olga into the phone. “Who is this?”
‘This is Pam. You may have heard of me?”
“ No.” Olga says “I don’t know anyone named Pam. Why are you calling?”
“Just calling to tell you that I am pregnant with Richard’s child. We’ve been together for over a year and I just learned about you when I told him I thought it was time for us to get married given that we’re having a baby and all he said he couldn’t do that because he was already married to you and he could not leave you in your current state with the cancer and all.
Olga takes a breath. She says, ”well that sounds inventive, but the truth is, I don’t have cancer and I’m sad to tell you, Pam that you are not the first. I thought he was over all that given his advancing dementia.”
“What?” says Pam, “ I haven’t noticed any dementia.”
“Well let me ask you this. Has he told you he has a timeshare in Turks and Caicos? Has he told you he was invited to the Taylor Swift wedding? Or that he’s working for Amazon in the AI department?””
“Wait!” says Pam. “You’re telling me that’s not where he works? “
“I’m telling you that actually he doesn’t work anywhere.”
“Are you also telling me that you refuse to give him a divorce?’
“Oh no,” says Olga, “quite to the contrary. Nine Simone said it better than I can—you can have him. I don’t want him.”
I don't whether to laugh or cry! (Laughing won out. Too funny.)
This prompt created so many terrific responses. Good one, Mary. BTW, I've had the same experience with dental hygienists! lol
And I was thinking no one would like this prompt... almost deleted it! Glad I didn't.
Quite a catch, that Richard.
Christine, this is brilliant. Love, love, love this turning of the tables.
Revenge is sweet! This is so beautifully executed.
Thanks Kathy. I loved working both Nina Simone and Taylor Swift into this piece.
Excellent work!
Enjoyed this, Christine. The line that really stood out for me was, "I haven't noticed any dementia." I love how you slipped that in because it's so true how many people don't (or don't want to) notice things like dementia, and lots of other life/death things as well.
Good point! This one was fun to write. Poor clueless Pam
Maybe not clueless, maybe just pretending? :)
The four years between Olga and Pam were a chasm. Olga did everything first. Went to school, learned to read, lost her baby teeth, got her period, had a boyfriend. Pam could only watch on, bursting with admiration and envy.
Olga wasn’t mean to her, in fact she was often nice, but really she wasn’t interested in Pam. Because what was interesting about Pam? Nothing. Olga was the pretty one, the smart one, the one everyone liked best. She even had an exotic Russian name. There was nothing left over for Pam, just a plain name to suit her plainness.
Even their mother openly preferred Olga. She’d ask Pam, why can’t you try to be more like your sister?
But she did try, of course she did!
Their father, who seemed quite fond of both his daughters, died suddenly when Pam was nineteen. After the funeral, Pam didn’t have the stomach to return to college. By the time Olga graduated from medical school, Pam was floundering. She felt life was passing her by.
Then a man she’d fallen in love with took her to live on an ashram in India and study under his guru. There she found her calling.
Twenty years later, by now a highly regarded yoga teacher with her own exotic name, Priya, she yielded to Olga’s exhortations to come home. Their mother was gravely ill.
Priya’s mother had aged almost beyond recognition. The sisters took turns visiting her in hospital and caring for her. Even though Priya’s mother insisted on calling her Pam and made it clear she had a low opinion of yoga and everything it represented, Priya tried her best to be kind with her.
One night, very late, Olga called Priya and asked her to come to the hospital. The end was near.
The sisters sat one on either side of the bed, each holding one of their mother’s hands as she slept. Then their mother opened her eyes. Olga bent down and kissed her on the cheek. Her mother smiled, then she turned to look at Priya and frowned. Priya leaned down to kiss her too, but her mother said sharply, “When are you going to stop all this Priya nonsense?” With that, she died.
Priya looked at her sister, wide-eyed, and then, without meaning to, she burst out laughing and couldn’t stop. She knew it was the shock; still, she couldn’t help it. But then Olga began laughing too, and the two sisters laughed together, helplessly, for a long time.
Love the ending to this story.
Good for Priya! She seems to have slipped out from under the weight of Pam (and parental preference).
At the bookstore, talking to the bookseller: Lydia Davis, an homage
At the bookstore I am buying two collections of Lydia Davis stories, Can’t and Won’t and Varieties of Disturbance. I read some of each in copies I borrowed from the library a few weeks ago. I decided I needed to have my own copies. Have you ever read Lydia Davis? I ask the bookseller. She is new to the store, a slender young woman with light brown hair parted in the middle and a septum nose piercing. No, she says. Can’t not read her, I say, maddening. She giggles.
a bookseller who has not read Lydia Davis should, perhaps, look for another job.... Or at the very least, get reading!
Well, she is young, and there is so much to read.
True that! But I can't and won't not comment anyway.... :)
Lydia Davis, she is, always, so much fun, right? (I could probably do this all day.... )
I love her, but In all honesty, I grow sad now when I think of her since the tragic deaths of her son and grandchild. If you don't know about this, I'm sorry to have told you.
Very sad, yes.
Ah, I did not know that. I know little of her personal life. Unfathomable losses, those.
Pam and Olga
It was the day the twins were to be "hatched" or whatever terminology subhumans use for the arrival of the divine. Expecting it to be no more than a formality, the goddess arrives by helicopter. The concierge hospital/lab perched in the Canadian Rockies has a helipad of course. Theirs, like other secret, elevated facilities, has parking for up to six helos. The embryo had been maxxed, and this was on top of the maxxing provided by the billionaire human father the goddess was currently toying with, so all expected matters to develop in the divine way: the females would arrive like their mother, twin beauties, fully formed, bathed in perfection, speaking, singing, laughing, and no, it was not too much to hope that both would have a gift for gardening and music. And indeed the first, Pam, tumbles onto the red carpet with a giggle, rises to her full five-feet, ten-inched-hour-glassed glory, spitting image of her mother, cartwheels over to the Steinway, pecks out a Scriabin sonata. But Olga, Olga plops onto the carpet like a five pound raisin with a shock of black hair. Not since Mia Farrow got a look at Rosemary's Baby has a mother been so surprised as the goddess. The doctor explained that life, and love for that matter, can be like that. For those, like the goddess without hormones.
Oh, god, great story!
"five pound raisin with a shock of black hair" is sticking around, unfortunately. : )
Maybe the goddess could learn to love Olga? Or maybe she will be her father’s favorite…
Can't wait to hear about the sibling rivalry in this setup!
Fun! But maybe it wasn't the hormone issue, maybe it was the wrong Scriabin sonata? :)
Haha yes, wrong sonata
TITLE
Pam and Olga: the Vertex and the Footling Breech
Pam and Olga were twins. They were born on either side of midnight, New Year's Eve of Y2K, 2000. Pam was born at 11:50 PM, December 31, 1999; Olga was born at 12:10 AM, January 1, 2000. Pam was head-first and descended the birth canal easily; her birth was uneventful.
On the other hand, Olga was a breech extraction; hers was a difficult birth with her "after-coming" head getting stuck in her mother's pelvis.
Ultimately, with both babies delivered, Pam was hollering healthily, pink, and sprightly with vim and vigor; but Olga was still, quiet, blue, and lethargic with ennui and inanition. Pam went home from the hospital with her mother; Olga stayed for two weeks until strong enough to nurse adequately.
Pam made all As with little effort for what seemed to come to her naturally; Olga barely passed, made her Rs backwards, and struggled to learn.
Pam loved her twin sister, but Olga was somewhat resentful over the birth order. Not only did this allow Pam to advance to a grade a year higher than her, it also slapped her with the derogatory "little" sister label.
"Had I been the one born first, my head wouldn't have been squeezed so," Olga grumbled to her mother one day.
"Even to this day, Olga,” her mother replied, “you follow your big sister. You should have just kept up with her."
"Maybe she was following me back then. Maybe I was first and she was second. And then maybe she cut in line, do you think?" Olga asked.
"That's how everyone gets ahead in this life, my sweet little Olga. Don't you worry your pretty, little squeezed head about it. You will find that life's unfair and that you win some and you lose some."
Pam died of leukemia at the age of 14. Of course, this had nothing to do with birth order or cutting in line. It was just unfair, and although Olga was sad, at least she knew that it wasn't her fault. You win some and you lose some, she remembered. Her Mom was right.
Poor Pam! Life really can be so unfair. I hope Olga grew up, moved away, and never had to listen to her mother talk of her little squeezed head again.
Yes. That line really stuck out! Team Olga here.
Olga and Pam
When Olga met Pam, she hissed at her.
She’d been smelling Pam for days now, behind the door of the room where Pam had been sequestered. Olga had heard her, too, especially when the Human went in there and Pam mewed excitedly. Olga had also seen the occasional small paw slip out from under the door.
Now the door was open and there Pam was.
Pam had taken a couple of steps towards Olga when the hiss came. Pam promptly sat down, as if surprised, and gave a little hiss of her own. But she appeared not to really know what to do next.
Olga gave a soft growl, not quite sure herself. True, she’d been lonely without her brother Anton. While she rather liked having the Human all to herself, the Human was gone for long periods of time leaving Olga with nothing to do but look out the window, sleep, and wander around rubbing her face on furniture or corners to mark her territory. She could still smell Anton’s scent faintly on the same spots.
No doubt this brat would leave her own mark there. At the thought, Olga hissed and growled again.
She noticed the Human hovering nearby and somehow knew the Human would not take it well if Olga genuinely attacked the intruder.
Pam continued to sit there a bit bewildered. Olga was at least twice Pam’s size and Pam recognized Olga’s smell as well from through the door. She knew this was Olga’s place, that she had to be careful and respectful.
Pam stood up and took a tentative step towards Olga. Olga again hissed and growled and this time she reached out and smacked Pam on the head. Yet her claws had not been out.
The Human moved a step closer. Olga, still in her defensive crouch, scooted back a bit from Pam.
Pam sat back down. Then, generating a wobbly purr, she rolled onto her back, exposing her belly.
Olga regarded her solemnly.
Submission.
Olga suddenly turned and with a few fast flying leaps, settled on top of the tall cabinet. She curled up in a nap, but kept one eye on Pam, who was starting to explore.
Olga hoped the brat at least covered up properly in the litter box.
I could see this whole scene unfold. I hope by now they are best buddies.
It's fiction, actually, although based on many, many years of having cats. My current ones are tightly bonded brothers, littermates. Our cat before them, Garden was very social (as Maine Coons often are), loved other cats and would have gladly welcomed a kitten -- like another previous cat Norton who once greeted a new kitten with a big purr that almost screamed "I'm your Uncle Norton and I love you!" (In my experience, male cats tend to be better at this newcomer thing than females who are called "queens" for a reason.) But alas for Garden -- he was FIV+ and so we couldn't risk bringing in another kitten or cat. He had to be content with just his two old humans. Thanks.
My older cat used the new kitten as a hockey puck. It was sad. Little Atlas sat there just as you described, befuddled and bewildered.
Oh, dear. I hope that situation didn't last long. Poor little Atlas.
Atlas took to climbing into my hiking boots to hide, until she got too big. She remained cowed by Molly.
Poor Atlas. A friend introduced her female cat to a female kitten, and while they eventually reached a sort of detente, they never really got along. She later adopted two female littermates and they seem to do well together but another woman adopted kitten sisters who seemed bonded and got on for years, then suddenly disliked each other. That's why, when I was looking to adopt after Garden died, I specified either two boys or a boy and a girl. Ended up with the two brothers. They're high-energy chaos, even at 14 months, and "play fight" but only once have I heard a hiss when someone was too rough. Mostly, they're devoted to each other, cuddling together, grooming each other, etc.
My two girls never got along. i adopted them out when I moved in with my partner, who’s allergic to cats. I thought their new home might bring them together, but they never did fit together.
sounds like me and my ex....
OLGA and PAM
The knock was too loud
She took one last look and let him in
He looked freezing, nose and cheeks pink. Same grey eyes
Hi Feisty Forty you are beautiful outside as well as inside your messages
She smoothed her smooth hair. What is your name Outdoor Liker?
Pam
Like Pamela?
Pam like - Penis and Mind. Pam. Not just a penis more than a mind. He blushed
Lot of information could've guessed
Where are you from Feisty? I hear an accent
Former Republic of Cyisheendrakous
The mythical place?
Not myth. Rebuilt renamed re everything. Me very old. Olga
You look good Olga. Strong
Strong yes. Weak like angry kitten in sex. Never say I love you
Something smells good
Heart soup. Ox. For love. Happy go lucky Ox die old age
Is it Soup time?
You really have job?
One day Olga
You bad man
I am. Bad and inconvenient
I like bad man
I know. I made you something
He holds out a fan with light blue brown and grey combs shaped into blades, held together by a Brass Eagle head
She looks at it witheringly
I made it in prison
She takes it and turns it over
Clean and sharp
When you told me about Buzby I couldn't stop cleaning combs. I had to confiscate a lot anyway. Where is Buz?
I lie. No Buzby. Hate cats
Ok. His eyes shine
You lie. You prison guard. Mr Confiscate
I'm notoriously tardy and a Junior Reverend at the Prison
She makes a clicking annoyed noise. Bounces on her heels.
Religious!
She sees his red rimmed eyes. Pauses.
You old for Junior
Late bloomer. You know that expression?
Not compliment
Not an insult
Sorry for Buzby - you sad
We've only just met and already have things to forgive
You allowed to marry or we commit Sin?
I'm allowed. Sorry. I dont get out much
Where would you go in this place?
He shrugs
She shrugs
They smile
The fire crackles and spits
Olga pulls herself straight as if with a string and checks her hair in mirror
A tall tabby cat nuzzles open the door and wanders in confidently. Her eyes have winged black stripes - her sides are spotted - he kneels but doesnt touch her
What's her name?
You name. She blame me for rain
Lazarus. She's come back from non existence
You bad Namer. She girl. We call her Lazbien
Mmm...Bien for short
What your name Junior Reverend Pam?
Sam - your Dad's name. I know you're grieving. I went to say Sam - but Pam came out
Lies come easy to Sam
The cat headbutts him
He strokes her back
Bien like you Sammy. Your cat now. Soup time
She serves steaming soup into big bowls. Unwraps warm bread and tears it
Sam takes her hands accros the table. Thank you Lord for letting us finally meet, thank you for Bien and this wonderful food. Amen
They eat the thick soup hungrily, making equal slurps
With serious eyes - Bien watches pieces of heart and potato leave their spoons
"We call her Lazbien." Oh, my god. A fan made of old combs. CONFISCATED. A love story for the ages!
Quick thinker, that PamSam. "Pam like - Penis and Mind" then we find out it just came out and this is what came out. And kitten makes three; a perfect family.
cant stop the Love. It can sprout in Unlikely Places
J.D.A. this is so great, so relatable. I can visualize the whole thing and I can hear the voices clearly. Love the mostly comic race to the end and then the shift to the serious last line with its double entendre--it really did tear at my heart. Tres bien!
thanks Annemarie
The news came in an email invite to join in prayers, either in person or in zoom.
The email does not say he has transitioned, we just know. I opt for Zoom and find myself in a room with 2,000, mostly old people, about to make the same journey.
Center screen a ‘Tibetan Monk’ sits, draped in his robes, counting malas while chanting the Heart Sutra in Tibetan, Om gate, gate paragate, parasomgate, bodhisovha,
A crackle pierces the calm, ‘Re you going to say it in English? I can’t understand a word.
Annoyed, Olga, who is monitoring the livestream types, please mute your microphone, and to be polite, adds the praying hand emoji. A sea of swimming hearts bubble up in response.
How many times do i have to tell people. She is trying hard to be a good buddhist but these grey haired dandelions wear her out.
When she expresses this to her lama, he says, you should be grateful, they are teaching you patience.
Patience and Zoom are an oxymoron.
In spite of Olga’s request, we still hear this intruder. A cat squeals! Did she just step on her cat?! Someone cries, “Git that doggone cat outta here.”
Texts fly, MUTE YOUR MIC!
I scroll the gallery looking for the culprit and find ‘PAM!’ Who knows if the name is hers, or the computer’s.
‘Tibetan Monk’, completing the mantra says, Olga, now say it in English. Flushed with pride, she forgets all about restricting permissions.
Her heart glows, “gone, gone beyond, gone altogether beyond, awakening, so be it.” The Dakinis will gather…,
Olga, Dakinis in English?
Sky fairies, or cloud fairies…
Someone from PAM!’s world says, Fairies? Did they say Fairies???
PAM! pops on full screen. We see the remains of a nibbled lunch in the cafeteria of a nursing home.
A woman in a tie-dyed mumu yells across the room, Thought you said it was a funeral. Are they calling him a fairy?
For Christ sake Marge, they’re buddhists! They’re talking about real fairies!
They’re nudists? It’s a nudist funeral with fairies?
No Marge, B buh Buddhists. She has turned to face her friend, her rear end on full display, a tuft of violets cover the screen.
Olga, in a panic, shuts down everything.
The monk sits at the foot of the altar where a picture of the one who has passed is frozen in laughter.
The number of times I've been in a zoom and someone doesn't mute themselves!!! This piece is so funny, and I love that she's told she's learning patience.
So many great lines here: “Grey-haired dandelions”, “They’re nudists? It’s a nudist funeral with fairies?”
“Patience and Zoom are an oxymoron” —perfect assessment of the Zoom experience in this piece. Nicely done.
Enjoyed this very much!
Pam and Olga had been BFFs forever. Both were easygoing, Type-Bs. They agreed on everything. Pam was outgoing and friendly. Olga was gentle and affectionate. They would go on long walks and talks. Everyone loved Pam and Olga. That all changed with the arrival of Roger.
Roger was a presence - tall, toned and he knew how to create an impression. He wore expensively tailored suits and rose at dawn for his daily workout. At first Pam and Olga laughed at Roger, calling him coarse and vulgar, interested in only one thing. But Roger was a smooth talker. He brought flowers to Olga, told her she was beautiful. Olga was smitten, nobody had ever spoken to her like this.
Roger could dance - Pam liked to dance and had to admit he was good. When he led her in the tango she could barely contain her love or lust. Soon Roger had Pam and Olga following him everywhere. Pam was jealous of any time Roger spent with Olga. Olga hated seeing Roger and Pam dancing. They both wanted Roger - anywhere, anytime. Pam and Olga stopped talking and walking - cooped-up in their silence. Everyone was talking about the Pam and Olga breakup. Roger loved the attention but was getting bored, looking for new conquests.
Evan Jones was having a rough week and stopped by the Workshop Tavern on his way home from the feed store.
“Didn’t expect to see you in here Evan” said Joe, “You being so busy this time of year.”
“I’m having problems with a two of my hens not laying and pecking at each other. And don’t get me started on the Rooster.”
“That doesn’t sound good, what’ll you do?”
Evan paused, looking at Joe as the idea formed in his head,
“You want to come over for fried chicken at the weekend?”
“Love to” said Joe.
OH!!! You and Angela this week--got me! Very fun read and i thank you for the laugh.
Your dental hygienists were an inspiration!