Everyday Harriet the Spy ate a tomato and mayo sandwich for lunch and then cake and milk at 3:45 pm and everything turned out fine, but that kind of behavior in a kid today would land her in the school psychologist’s office before she knew what hit her.
Is that because self-imposed routines may be symptomatic of a disorder that can be treated leading to a better life? Or is it because late-stage capitalism requires square pegs in square holes conforming to the routines set by our oligarch overlords?
This new guy was hired recently. I don’t know how, exactly, he got the job. He’s what I would call a real weirdo. Recognize, of course, that in my book, that’s an extremely high compliment. The square pegs around here would disagree. And I get it. We are the customer service department. It’s generally understood that you can’t be flying your weirdo flag while you’re talking someone out of discontinuing their patronage of our services or, worse yet, calling the Attorney General’s Consumer Protection Unit. The consensus is that weird doesn’t work in this job.
Tuesday, our supervisor asked me what I thought of the new guy. I said that he was a breath of fresh air. He sighed and said, “He doesn’t follow the script.” Then things got bad. He said that I do follow the script and so I was assigned to mentor this guy and, if, after a week of mentoring, he still didn’t follow the script, they’d fire him while he’s still on probation.
Wednesday, I listened while he answered his first call. Instead of following the script, he started talking about the caller’s cat which he could hear mewling in the background. They discussed their cats for a while and then he told her I was listening and asked me about my cat. So, I talked about my cat. The three of us had cat-chat for 20 minutes and the call ended without any discussion about her complaint. Still, she responded to the post-call survey, giving us both 5 stars and declaring that she’d wholeheartedly recommend our services to others.
Things carried on this way through Thursday. We didn’t answer many calls, but we got more than one five-star review.
First thing Friday morning, he was fired and I was reprimanded.
Sigh. Quantity over quality, it seems. This is a really good and tight little story! I'm a charter member of the weird-o club, so I always appreciate reading about my peers.
Oh my goodness I'm sorry to say that I don't have a cat. I had one, the same cat named Patty Cat for 17 years. But I don't have a cat anymore. So sorry.
Love this. Harriet was just eating UK style- tomato mayonnaise great and tea (milk) time cake at 3:45. Who would want to disrupt that tradition? No school would serve THAT anymore.
I speak weirdo as do all my friends. One weirder than the next. Breaths of fresh air for sure. Keeps me breathing.
It was back when we used to sail all over. We'd regularly go to the edge of the known world.
The guys would say, 'Time to turn round, skipper. We don't like the look of what's going on behind that froth and bellow.'
But one time we reached the edge early Sunday morning, the guys rummed from their big night. Rummed and snoring. I was alone on the quarterdeck, apart from Polly, who doubled as cabin person and ship's cat. Polly, although small, could walk on her hind legs and always carried a pistol. I thought Polly was full of shit, but sailing the Seven Seas you meet all sorts, there's got to be give and go.
As light broke Polly realised we were getting closer.
'You're not planning anything rash, are you skipper?'
I noticed eyes showing concern, a paw drawing closer to the piece.
I re-focused to the froth ahead, decided the bellow was less daunting than previously and shouted, 'Full speed ahead.'
At least I did that in my head, I was worried about Polly and the gun. Still, we had reached the point, no turning back.
Truth? It was an anti-climax. After some mist and a bit of chop, the seas calmed and it was easy sailing. Polly had taken a bad turn as the froth hit her and was out cold on the deck.
The rest of the crew began to stir. A few gathered round, heads sore, tongues like alpaca's hats.
'Looks like we gone beyond the edge of the known world, skipper. That's against union rules.'
They laid down their spikes and their compasses. I'd steered the vessel single handed since midnight so that didn't bother me. But when Polly came round, and approached me, pistol drawn I knew the game was up. I wheeled the ship.
As we headed back to the froth, the bellowing became deafening. Perplexed looks troubled the faces of Polly and the rest of the crew.
'No you don't. Turn round. We don't like the look of what's going on behind that froth and bellow.'
'For christsakes. It's the known world. You used to like it there.'
A dozen heads shook before they grappled me to the hold. They set me free when we reached Bali Ha'i. We stayed there, settled to new lives, relished the Happy Talk.
This one is so fun!!! And how easily they forgot the former Known World. So many good lines, too, Terry. Glad to see you here again--when you're not here I miss you (but no pressure!).
"tongues like alpacas' hats"; "against union rules;" "Bali H'ai"--think I must have been on board. At least that's what my brain pathways are telling me at the moment. Very fun!
So was I! "Bali Ha'i" has one of the most beautiful melodies ever written, imo. Might have to think twice about the background these days, but still...
that song you've got to be carefully taught freaked me out. I used to listen to it thinking what the heck are they trying to say. That and poor judd is dead. Id walk around singing Poor Judd is dead he hasnt got a head, over and over. One of my first memories is being at a musical - front row, on my Dads lap with a tenor spitting in my eye
I know all the songs. Was a major R & H fan as a child--and later, through marriage, was actually related to R! Poor Judd is dead, Poor Judd Fry is dead. And You've Got to Be Carefully Taught used to really get to me, too.
omg. you're musical royalty. Yes I knew the soldier in South Pacific who loved the Island girl was a good guy because he didnt care what the racists thought and Chose Love but he was saying bad things and I was pre sarcasm and irony and suppressed anger
Going to have to refresh my memory of those. I hope the tenor had a good voice at least? I remember being at a jazz performance once--upright bass and jazz guitar. I was sitting so close I could feel the bassist's sweat fly off him. It made me pay a lot more attention and put me inside the music.
I dont need to tell another music lover that basssecretions emanate from the Bottom-End.
You were indeed inside the music and must always leave a shoe-clue sticking out, so we can get you back - if things go lugubriouso or mortissimofurioso
when I take my teeth out to brush them sometimes I am so tired I hand them to the caretaker so what should I tell him/her? brush them with the other hand?
will that make me feel any better? will he/she caretaker be more alert?
honestly, i think this is kind of crappy advice :)
if you want a new brain channel I suggest you learn to play chess or learn a
new language and why celebrate a birthday some people don't do that
I used to hate my birthday, I think because on my 8th birthday my mother got me a pack of white cotton underwear while my father got my sister a Paper Smurf for hers. So generally I spend my birthday in isolation reading aloud TS Eliots Four Quartets and contemplating death. This year my friend Nigel insisted I enjoy my birthday. I had two cakes, one of which tasted like sawdust but was accompanied by a group of Egyptians waiters playing gongs and lyres while singing happy birthday, the other of which was a delicious chocolate mousse that appeared in my hotel room in Cairo as a result of a conspiracy between Nigel and our tour guide. I can't figure out whether I liked this version of a birthday better. One things is certain. I missed TS Eliot.
Happy Birthday Mary, I hope you are more like Nigel than me!
I find that contemplation of death is quite comforting. Don't want to rush it of course, but I am completely baffled by these characters who want to upload themselves onto silicon or invent some elixir of life so as to avoid death. They baffle me in other ways too . . . better stop thinking about that . . . remembering the fleeting nature of this existence and not thinking too much about said characters are two of the best things I do with my brain these days.
I am with you Deborah. I think these billionaires are funny the way they try to buy/invent/delude themselves out of the one reality they cannot control.
I've always hated my birthday. Last year, a friend insisted on giving me a party and I almost killed her over it. This year, for the first time EVER, I did exactly what I wanted and it was a seriously great day! So maybe i'm both Nigel and you...? Your birthday sounds amazing--is that for real???
I’ve always wanted to take the road less traveled, but I could never figure out what road that was. I followed a traditional path - white collar career, marriage, children, but what should I have done instead? Hitchhiked around the country following Phish, opened my own business selling handmade soaps, run for office, tried to break into the porn industry, sat under a bodhi tree trying to get enlightened? Those roads may technically be less traveled, but not wildly so - they’ve all been done before.
Since I’ve retired, I’ve taken the same walk around my neighborhood every day. Yesterday as I neared the cul de sac where I turn around, I noticed a freshly cleared path in the woods with a tiny handmade sign posted to a tree reading “The Road Less Traveled.” My heart leaped as I started out on the path. It only went for 100 yards before reaching a dead end, but in that brief walk I did spot a squirrel staggering around and foaming at the mouth. So, I took the road less traveled by and that has made all the difference with regard to spotting a rabid squirrel.
Warren, like most everybody, always put his carry-on in the bin above the seat, but precisely because everyone did that there was the plaintive call on the loudspeaker requesting that anybody able to check their bag would receive the everlasting gratitude of the flight attendants--however they put it. And despite the fact that he always found space himself, whenever he was in Boarding Group #4, he had anxiety that this would be the one time he would be squeezed out, and he would end up having to check it anyway and feel like he was incurring the ire of everybody, including the flight attendants. And he would seethe during the whole flight at everyone who had mastodon carry-ons when his was right-sized. So, after the second plea over the loudspeaker, he thought, what the hell, why not be the considerate guy, maybe I’ll get a free cocktail for my trouble.
There were three of them in line, and he was second and a woman he found instantly attractive was behind him, but a bit to the side. She was 40ish (age appropriate, check) a dark brunette with striking blue eyes (just like his) and clearly someone who kept herself in shape (ditto, again). And those blue eyes were checking him out just like his were checking her out. He smiled and she smiled back. Then he heard “Next” and had to move up, and then she moved up and then they were boarding – but hélas. she was in Group 2.
They were too far away to speak on the plane, and he was bummed, until he remembered they’d both be at baggage claim. Perfect! As he maneuvered next to her and began chatting, he was praying for their bags to come down slowly, and when they came down last, together, if felt like destiny.
They lived a mile away from each other so shared an Uber. The rest, as they say, is history.
And now, 7 years later, staring at the divorce papers, he wondered if he regretted volunteering to check his bag. They’d had some pretty good years, after all, before her kleptomania and compulsive gambling and anti-vaxx bullshit. He’d tried so hard – God knows he had his flaws-- but marriage was simply not supposed to be about one spouse managing the other. This is knew.
He signed the papers. And never again volunteered to check his bag.
oh, my god, I laughed. Well done! I, too, stress about my bag on a plane. I've actually got a prompt in mind on exactly that topic!!! Thanks for cracking me up this morning.
Love this! Though you do sound just a little intolerant... are kleptomania, compulsive gambling and anti-vaxx bullshit really deal-breakers?? If you really, really love someone, truly, madly, deeply? (jk)
They're dealbreakers when you're trying to describe the breakdown of a marriage and you're nearing the 400-work limit! (I didn't even mention one of the biggest issues. He hates garlic and she love it.)
Someone who hates garlic breath - like me. (And don’t tell me all you have to do is pop a tic-tac. Doesn’t do the trick.) I remember meeting one of the best looking guys I ever met in France, way back when, and he’d had shrimp scampi or something and kissing him was torture. I can never understand who people order something with heavy garlic when they know they’re going out later.
I use teeny-tiny amounts when cooking some dishes, but otherwise can’t bear it. Almost got sat next to a Korean couple who’d clearly eaten some gim-chi before the flight yesterday and then thank GOD they were seatedc far enough away. It’s actually make me mad. But most people don’t think twice about how much garlic they eat.
Haha! I love garlic and I remember when I was much younger going to an important job interview and making sure I ate no garlic for several days before so as not to offend anyone on the interview panel. Turned out the whole interview panel stank of garlic. So I do "get" that if you're not eating it and everyone else is, that's a problem! The odour that bothers me on planes is perfume. So many people wear strong perfume that others like me can't tolerate, sometimes it makes me feel physically ill and you just can't get away from it. I guess the perfume-wearers don't think twice, any more than we garlic-eaters do...
Just go into the bathroom and you'll see your toothbrush, doofus. Or go around with your toothbrush in your jeans back pocket – you are wearing jeans, of course, like any self-respecting old fogey – and when you sit down you'll be reminded by a poke in the butt. Toothbrush – brush teeth.
OK. But I'm not sure I know which hand is the other hand. Left? Right?
Just give it a try. Make your mind a blank and try one hand, then the other. Which one feels like it's the right one?
What if it's the left one?
No, stop. Forget left, right.
But you're saying handedness is hardwired and if I force the passage from one hand to the other my brain will get a jolt something like electroshock therapy and my short-term memory will be reinstated in all its glory and I will feel YOUNG again!
I said nothing of the sort, you say. I simply said brush your teeth with the other hand. Anyway, electroshocks are likely to wipe your memory clean. Don't you know anyone that's happened to?
Oh. Now you're talking about memories I'd rather not remember. Can we talk about something else?
So today I started wrong-hand brushing. Does anyone know how long -- days, weeks, months, years -- you have to keep it up to obtain a noticeable improvement memorywise?
This is a strange tale about people and double crested cormorants, and another example giving lie to American delusions of exceptionalism.
Thousands of cormorants lived happily on East Sand Island near the mouth of the Columbia River. The birds are native to the region, predating people by millions of years. They feed on varieties of small fish, including salmon, a species also coveted by the people, who are known for unusual behaviors around large fish, for example, having their picture taken with dead ones. So some people got upset that the cormorants ate too many small salmon near East Sand Island and decided to drive them away. They shot them using night vision goggles, oiled their eggs, used lasers, and fireworks, bulldozed half the island into the water. Fed up, one day 17,000 birds flew away from the island and relocated eight miles upstream on the Astoria-Megler Bridge.
Twelve years later the birds are still on the bridge in their tens of thousands.They die by the scores hit by cars, their carcasses plastered by tires to the pavement, where they are scraped off with shovels. Their guano corrodes the structure, and the stink, maggots, and nest messes impede bridge work and add maintenance costs of over a million dollars a year. Workers quit because of the conditions. There are fewer fish species in that part of the river, so the birds eat more salmon than they did when they lived on the island. Now the experts are working on a plan to relocate the birds back to East Sand Island. But there are concerns. If they drive the cormorants off the bridge there’s no guarantee they will go back to the island. They might move further upriver, and consume even more salmon than they do now. The real reasons for the decline in salmon populations on the Columbia are historic overfishing, and the many upriver hydro dams, which kill a significant percentage of the fish that pass through. The people have known this for a long time, but preferred to blame the birds for their mistakes.
The juxtaposition of your story and the birthday wish kind of cracked me up! But tell me, is this real? It's a fascinating cautionary tale--and so well told! Maybe I'll just use my regular right hand to brush my teeth...
Well you have to admit that's pretty "exceptional." On Toronto Island, we just use slingshots and bullhorns to keep them away. It's the more "peaceful" Canadian way (right). Does it work though? Probably not. :)
Could be. More likely because they're birds, which a lot of humans--whether in U.S. or Can. or elsewhere--seem to have problems with, just like they do with anything that comes from what they separate and refer to as "nature"--as your very good essay shows, and as I hope I supported with my comment. We humans will either learn our lesson one day, though, or we won't be around to learn anything. Cormorants will be laughing their heads off--and it won't be on the way to the bank.
I got ready for bed, in my usual routine. I disrobed and then washed my face. I looked into the mirror which, I was happy to admit, I could do. There are many who cannot look themselves in the mirror. But that's not me.
None of the bad things I heard about were because of me, thank God. I simply obeyed the expectations of society and took the roads most traveled.
Yes, I was a bit careless at the Yield sign, but it wasn't my fault the other car crashed. I wish I knew how that driver had fared, but I left before the paramedics had gotten there. (I was the one who called them.)
And yes, I admit I volunteered a little too much information at work; but it's not my fault it ran rampant on their intranet and now the provider of a whole family is unemployed. I only mentioned it once; I wasn't the one who spread it all around. That’s not how I am.
And it's true that I should have told her about exposure last weekend. I mean, her body is her responsibility, is it not?
Scruples are like teeth--they will fall out when you don't take care of them. The road most taken is littered with teeth.
I should know, because tonight as I ready myself for bed and look, as I can, myself in the mirror, I floss my one remaining tooth--both sides of it. Then I brush my one remaining tooth. And even though my bite isn't as bad as it used to be, I bark through my one remaining tooth.
Then I smile with my one remaining tooth. And I wonder how long it will last as I lie through my one remaining tooth.
"Scruples are like teeth--they will fall out when you don't take care of them. The road most taken is littered with teeth." What a fabulous line! As is the whole piece. I don't want to meet this one when he's toothless, though.
It’s too much, I used to think. Too much going on. Trees pushing their taps deep into me, roots of bushes snaking through my dirt. Animals digging burrows and giving birth and dying inside them. Birds landing. I never felt them land, but heard them talk about bugs. Bugs. Billions and billions inside and outside and above and deep below. When they weren’t digging tunnels into me to escape the birds they were leaving nests all over the place that trapped other bugs and oh, the death cries of a butterfly trapped in a spider web.
But that’s what a mountain is. At least some hikers said that as they climbed the boulders atop my shoulders. So much life, one said. It must be great to be a mountain and have so much life all over you.
I had to deal with it. What choice did I have? The minute the pristine glacial ice melted away from my sides, birds dropped their shit filled with seeds all over me and things started growing. Trees and bushes and animals and bugs and birds and dying butterflies. Centuries and centuries. Epochs of life.
Ugh.
But then I noticed wet around my ankles, where I merged with the valley floor. Steady, permanent wet, didn’t go away in the summer. I thought, how nice. It keeps animals off, it loosens roots, it floods tunnels and burrows. Take that, meerkat.
The fish arrived when the water was up to my waist. They aren’t so bad. Quiet, eating up the rotting trees. I like the feel of water flowing on my sides as they school around, it sort of tickles. And I love the turtles. Peaceful, good outlook on life, modest.
Now all I have is my head above the waterline. Just a few boulders and some bushes and a pine tree corpse on top. A few bugs but no other animals, not even a snake. Thank god. Snakes terrify me.
A kayaker came along. Look at this island, she said. Used to be a mountain. All that life it supported, all those trees, those deer, the raccoons and chipmunks. Destroyed just to build this reservoir. Humans are lousy, she said.
First, chipmunks can rot.
Second, thanks, humans.
You know, being a mountain disguised as an island is fine. I’m still down there, all of me. Someday the ice age will come back and this water will freeze and it will be so peaceful. That’s change I can believe in.
Yes, I'm with Annemarie, this was a great read. The billions upon billions of years this planet has been morphing and changing is impossible to fathom. Better make the most of our nano-time!
Every day, he awakened, stretched and found a place to relieve himself. Then he ambled down the street to an alley, which had a dumpster where he could find something to eat.
But this morning, the opening to the alley was blocked. A barking dog lunged at him, whose owner, absorbed in his phone, tugged the dog back without looking up.
He hurriedly scurried further down the street.
Soon he came to another alley and looked down it. A dumpster there had a tantalizing aroma. As he watched, a man came out of a door and threw a bag into it that smelled even more enticing.
He quickly ran down the alley and jumped in. Yes, yes! as he tore open the bag he discovered discarded bacon, sausage, scrambled eggs, pancakes…a feast!
He’d only had a bite, however, when he heard another door open, so he quickly scrambled out and hid by the metal side.
This time a woman walked to the dumpster and threw in a bag that didn’t have any kind of good smell. But there was something about her…she was talking, to the air as far as he could tell, and her voice was warm, soft, and reminiscent of….what? Despite his better judgement, he craned his head around.
“Okay, then, talk to you later. Bye now.” She looked down and saw him. “Why, hello there, little man. What are you doing here?” Like her voice, her smell seemed faintly familiar to him, too. Nonetheless, he tensed and prepared to run.
“You wait there just a minute,” she said, going back inside the building. And so he did, not because he understood what she said, but in order to make sure she was gone before diving into the dumpster and resuming his feast.
But she quickly came back out, placing an open can of something down close to him and then backing away. “Here. I think this is still good.”
Keeping one eye on her, he moved forward and gave the can a sniff. Delicious! which a bite soon confirmed.
While he ate, she continued to make those soft, kind noises. “Oh, good, you like it. My Lizzie liked it, too, before she…passed away.” There was a pause before she continued. “Lizzie was a nickname, of course, her full name was Elizabeth Bennet. From Pride and Prejudice, you know? By Jane Austen? It’s my absolute favorite book of all time. It’s why I opened up my bookstore – we specialize in romance novels. Lizzie kept all the rats and mice in the alley from nibbling at my stock.”
As he ate, the taste of the food evoked whiffs of almost memories.
Lots of this kind of food.
Soft places to sleep.
Feeling safe.
The woman had slowly been inching nearer to him. He would have to run before she got too close, but he was so hungry, this food was so good…he tried to growl but with his mouth full it came out more as a gurgle.
She was continuing with her soft, warm tones. “Besides, a proper bookshop should have a cat. Would you be interested in the job, sir? You’re so handsome, we could call you Mr. Darcy. Would you like that? My customers are mainly women and they would so spoil you with treats, you might get fat.”
By now she was close enough to reach out and touch him. He tensed -- only a bite or two left, then he’d sprint.
But while was still focused on that last bit of food, her hand reached out and nudged his cheek. He didn’t know why, but he didn’t pull back. Then she stroked his head with her palm. The sensation of that – again, it stirred up long-ago maybe memories, which also seemed tied to this human, or one like her.
Before he quite knew he was doing so, he purred. It had been so long since he’d purred.
And he let the woman pick him up. “All right, Mr. Darcy,” she said. “Let’s show you your new home.”
--"long-ago maybe memories"--never thought I'd have that much in common with a cat, but I can certainly relate to that phrase when I consider the state of some of my own recollections
At the day shelter for homeless men where I volunteer a few weeks a man named Mr. Steele has no fingers on either hand but only shiny pink stumps creased with scars and along his forearms more pink shiny scarred skin and his left arm twists at this wild angle like wrenched and striated driftwood. I have seen him open bottles of water and foil-wrapped packages of chocolate-covered cakes with the palms of his fingerless hands and carry plastic grocery bags with the handle of the bag around his wrist and his palm flipped up like a lever to keep the handle from slipping from his wrist. I realize I am not really responding to the prompt. It's just made me wonder how he might brush his teeth and now I realize that having figured out how to accomplish so much with no fingers on either hand and such a crooked arm he probably has a brain as nimble the fingers he once had on his hands.
I'm positive Mr. Steele has figured out a way to brush his teeth. I had a friend who was born without fingers and she can do anything, including tie shoelaces.
Bill had never gone to an art opening. He suspected Scott hadn’t either, although these days Scott talked as if he were a member in good standing of the art world, having dated a sculptor – sculptress? – for three months now. If Scott was such an expert, would he need Bill to accompany him?
Scott promised free food and drink, though he admitted it would likely be watery white wine and that spreadable orange cheese with pink streaks. Still, it would beat cold pizza at the chess club. Or the god-knew-what congealed in half-empty takeout boxes in their refrigerator.
It was a group show, and Scott’s girlfriend had three pieces in it. She was panicky about the opening and had asked Scott to come for moral support. When they arrived, thirty or so people were milling about the cavernous room; Bill realized most of them must be the artists and their families. One man was stopping in front of each art work to scribble on a small notepad. Bill hoped he was the reporter for the local paper, not the gallery owner.
After congratulating Scott’s girlfriend, Bill began a circuit around the room. He stood with his arms crossed in front of each piece and nodded thoughtfully, as if the art were speaking to him. He wondered how long he should spend doing this before he could mosey over to the wine and cheese table.
Then a painting drew him in. Thick black lines crossed and pulsed on a white background, spiraling from a spot right of center. Stepping backward, he saw dancers with their arms raised; close up, he saw geometric shapes. He sat on a bench to look at it longer. Next to him, a slender young woman smoked disconsolately.
“What do you see?” she asked.
“It’s based on the Fibonacci sequence,” he told her, excited despite himself.
She nodded. “So it’s the math that appeals to you, not the aesthetics.”
“Mathematics *is* beautiful.”
“You’re a mathematician?”
“Doing graduate work in topology. And you?”
“I’m the painter. Jennifer Eccles.”
“You painted *this*?” She nodded again. “That’s – it’s really something, Jennifer.” He cleared his throat, looking around the room for Scott. He felt suddenly awkward, gawky in his ill-fitting clothes, towering, even while seated, over such a slight, poised young woman.
“I was thinking after this show is over, I mean tonight, not the whole show, you know, maybe we could –”
Love arrives in mysterious ways! I loved this: "He stood with his arms crossed in front of each piece and nodded thoughtfully, as if the art were speaking to him." And then--one did!
I woke up with my head on the floor, my body still enjoying the couch. Everything hurt. I stood cautiously, testing my feet. Both held me up. Today was a good day
Nance had loaded the coffee Fandango, bless her, and it was hot and good.
The second cup slapped me across the face. I stood in the shower, letting blood go down the drain - covered myself in soap, inspected whatever stung -hit the antiseptic tap and lasted five seconds, gritting my teeth
I walked past a mirror and stopped
Handsome check. Unshaven check. Old scars - check - fresh cuts and bruises, check. Scary fresh wound on shoulder, check
Godsby, Put me through to the Chief
Bertram Maragold was the oldest serving Chief of Police in one of the smallest towns in the country. We didnt need a Chief but he was a sacred relic and represented something we'd all once stood for, with our Dad's. He no longer got paid, but he kept his office and we ran everything by him.
Chief. Last night I was at the Sex Workers Relaxation lounge-
No. I teach Self Defense. Give back to the Community and Hookers know Everything. You taught me that. Remember Sammi B?
No. She works at the bank. Likes to hit me in public. This time she wanted to talk. I told her I was asking Nance to marry me. She seemed calm then got me from behind- kicked me down the stairs, clawed me, gouged me with something
Thanks Lovely. Ha! It's definitely my best idea yet. You'll be there, making a speech
I had to promise best man to Nance's Tism Bro's. They want to be referred to as Equal Best Man all night, stand on either side
Thats what I said, they said we could stand in a square with me facing her and the Pastor could go in the middle. They drew a diagram. The parents said they'd approve if the boys did. Brutal Negotiators. You'll represent my family with a lovely speech
That's a great story. No one could top that. But we cant scare them Chief. Something more like...you always knew I was good and then I was - with an upbeat crime solving story, warm the cockles
Blake's- I booked the whole place, with a string quartet.. I once overheard Nance say A Proposal is a Blueprint for a Marriage. Perfectionists really make your imperfections pop
It's not a shithole it's the opposite of a shithole! And I dont know what I'd do. Go away - come back a better man - ask again
Then I'll stay and become better and you wont like me anymore
Sammi'll calm down. You'd think I'd been a good boyfriend. If she didnt attack me every week she'd never cross my mind. Chief. I stumbled onto bodies - double Homicide at the SWRC. I was bleeding. I said Shut the doors - This is a Crimescene. Then- nothing. I woke up home. Get someone down there?
Hang up then Press 4 - and stay Schtum about Friday, if Nance finds out early she'll remember what I'm like
I bandaged myself up, wondering where Nance was. She loved patching me up and would've taken perverse enjoyment in sewing up the coinpurse on my shoulder
I opened the wardobe and a womans body fell into my arms
Nance walked in
Is she dead?
Not yet- call an ambulance Hon?
Nance called
I didnt want to drop the body on the floor, wasnt putting her on the bed. I held her up, facing her away from Nance.
Sammi had threatened to destroy us both. If I told Nance I'd have to tell her about the Proposal
They're on their way
Nance, this is Sammi, my ex. Last night Sammi was at the Sex Workers Relaxation Lounge. She went a bit crazy when I told her I was gonna ask you to marry me
I turned Sammi round to face Nance. Eyes rolled back - lips turning blue
I swear she didnt like me this much when we were together
Nance gave me a withering look.
I got on one knee, with Sammi B flopped over the other. Would you marry me Nancy Beechworth- Dont answer - I cant let Sammi's saliva near my mouth - she might have my flesh under her nails - Would you breathe Life into this pitiful soul that I have wronged by not Loving?
Nance rolled her eyes, threw off her coat and got to work
There’s only one way to alter one’s brain pathways that I know of. Here’s the beginning of a story about it I wrote a few years ago for an interiority prompt about enthusiasm. Sorry I couldn’t come up with anything new for today. Too much on the brain at the moment. I've been trying to write backwards all day. :)
Renee was a naturally enthusiastic person, especially when she considered all the ways she’d hoodwinked her friend Jeanette over the years. She supposed it really wasn’t fair to take advantage of a friend like that, at least not so often and in so many different guises, but it sure had been fun.
Besides, she reasoned, Jeanette never knew, so where was the harm? It was like her mother always used to say, What you don’t know won’t hurt you.
She did a quick tally of all the instances she could remember: a handful of affairs with Jeanette’s various lovers; some prank death threats and porn invitations over the phone--sometimes combined; a little money extortion from her bank account; some not-so-innocent interference in Jeanette’s relationships with her family members, and later on, her medical professionals. Most recent were all the lies Renee’d been telling Jeanette about her struggles with dementia—she didn’t even have dementia!
She almost burst with excitement when she thought of all she’d gotten away with. But the best was yet to come. In two weeks, Jeanette would be at the Ministry of Death and Eternity Clinic having the contents of her brain uploaded. Unbeknownst to Jeanette, Renee would be there, too. If all went well, she would be stealing those contents. She needed a good brain.
Happy Birthday for yesterday, Mary! I hope it was a lovely day of celebration!
In response to the prompt:
Michelle tended to stay quiet. She lived with a man who spoke over her and for her, and after years of her glittering stories being interrupted and her dissonant opinions being shouted down, she’d mostly given up on the act of expression.
Whenever she saw a person - neighbor or internet stranger - get into a debate, she would watch in a state of suspense, as if in the audience of some high-wire horror film. Every time someone would stumble on a word while presenting a point, she’d think: ‘Well, that will be it! Cue shouts from the other side, because this side’s shown weakness!'
She wasn’t always right about these outcomes, but even a good result made her no less nervous the next time she witnessed something similar.
Then, she met Gary.
His beak had been dented and his wing was trapped under a piece of metal which had fallen from a roof. He’d been flying low to avoid a sudden gale as the same wind was shaking loose the rusting shingles. Michelle came out from shopping - three plastic bags deepened with dinner and making circulatory cuts to her fingers - to see him laying there on the frozen ground behind a fog of shuffling legs.
She lent down and looked into the plaintive eyes of this small, silent creature. She said aloud to him then, “You are safe with me,” and scooped him up inside her jacket, feeling his warmth and his ragged breath against her chest. She didn’t know how she could help him, but some bone-grade feeling, an internal push, told her she could. She knew she could.
“What the hell is that?” Her husband said as she rushed through the door, dropping her keys on the counter. “Not quite the groceries I thought you were going out for! Seriously though, babe, it isn’t a good idea to bring wildlife into the home.”
“I’ve got to help him.”
“Well, look love, I don’t think you can. What do you know about helping birds? Since when did you become a rehabber?”
Michelle stroked the top of the bird’s head, still nestled inside her jacket. She looked then into the eyes of her husband. They were oddly plaintive, too. “I know everything I need to. I must trust myself to know.”
She walked past him and brought Gary into the bathroom, stretching through the silence behind her, to shut the door.
I love bird stories and I love this. Reminds me of a family I lived with in my teens. Birds were always flying into the kitchen window and the mom would revive them with drops of whiskey. She taught me how to do it. Oh the feeling of a bird in the hand!
Everyday Harriet the Spy ate a tomato and mayo sandwich for lunch and then cake and milk at 3:45 pm and everything turned out fine, but that kind of behavior in a kid today would land her in the school psychologist’s office before she knew what hit her.
Is that because self-imposed routines may be symptomatic of a disorder that can be treated leading to a better life? Or is it because late-stage capitalism requires square pegs in square holes conforming to the routines set by our oligarch overlords?
This new guy was hired recently. I don’t know how, exactly, he got the job. He’s what I would call a real weirdo. Recognize, of course, that in my book, that’s an extremely high compliment. The square pegs around here would disagree. And I get it. We are the customer service department. It’s generally understood that you can’t be flying your weirdo flag while you’re talking someone out of discontinuing their patronage of our services or, worse yet, calling the Attorney General’s Consumer Protection Unit. The consensus is that weird doesn’t work in this job.
Tuesday, our supervisor asked me what I thought of the new guy. I said that he was a breath of fresh air. He sighed and said, “He doesn’t follow the script.” Then things got bad. He said that I do follow the script and so I was assigned to mentor this guy and, if, after a week of mentoring, he still didn’t follow the script, they’d fire him while he’s still on probation.
Wednesday, I listened while he answered his first call. Instead of following the script, he started talking about the caller’s cat which he could hear mewling in the background. They discussed their cats for a while and then he told her I was listening and asked me about my cat. So, I talked about my cat. The three of us had cat-chat for 20 minutes and the call ended without any discussion about her complaint. Still, she responded to the post-call survey, giving us both 5 stars and declaring that she’d wholeheartedly recommend our services to others.
Things carried on this way through Thursday. We didn’t answer many calls, but we got more than one five-star review.
First thing Friday morning, he was fired and I was reprimanded.
Monday promises to be a surprise.
Sigh. Quantity over quality, it seems. This is a really good and tight little story! I'm a charter member of the weird-o club, so I always appreciate reading about my peers.
Thanks, Mary.
I love being a weirdo and knowing weirdos. It's the only way to fly.
always fly with your freak flag
Oh my goodness I'm sorry to say that I don't have a cat. I had one, the same cat named Patty Cat for 17 years. But I don't have a cat anymore. So sorry.
I'm sorry you don't have Patty Cat anymore, Ruth.
Love this. Harriet was just eating UK style- tomato mayonnaise great and tea (milk) time cake at 3:45. Who would want to disrupt that tradition? No school would serve THAT anymore.
I speak weirdo as do all my friends. One weirder than the next. Breaths of fresh air for sure. Keeps me breathing.
Happy Monday Deborah!
Thanks!
What an interesting approach to this story. I loved it.
5 stars for some good cat-stories, customer service be damned!
oh, i really love this!!!!!!
Thanks!
It was back when we used to sail all over. We'd regularly go to the edge of the known world.
The guys would say, 'Time to turn round, skipper. We don't like the look of what's going on behind that froth and bellow.'
But one time we reached the edge early Sunday morning, the guys rummed from their big night. Rummed and snoring. I was alone on the quarterdeck, apart from Polly, who doubled as cabin person and ship's cat. Polly, although small, could walk on her hind legs and always carried a pistol. I thought Polly was full of shit, but sailing the Seven Seas you meet all sorts, there's got to be give and go.
As light broke Polly realised we were getting closer.
'You're not planning anything rash, are you skipper?'
I noticed eyes showing concern, a paw drawing closer to the piece.
I re-focused to the froth ahead, decided the bellow was less daunting than previously and shouted, 'Full speed ahead.'
At least I did that in my head, I was worried about Polly and the gun. Still, we had reached the point, no turning back.
Truth? It was an anti-climax. After some mist and a bit of chop, the seas calmed and it was easy sailing. Polly had taken a bad turn as the froth hit her and was out cold on the deck.
The rest of the crew began to stir. A few gathered round, heads sore, tongues like alpaca's hats.
'Looks like we gone beyond the edge of the known world, skipper. That's against union rules.'
They laid down their spikes and their compasses. I'd steered the vessel single handed since midnight so that didn't bother me. But when Polly came round, and approached me, pistol drawn I knew the game was up. I wheeled the ship.
As we headed back to the froth, the bellowing became deafening. Perplexed looks troubled the faces of Polly and the rest of the crew.
'No you don't. Turn round. We don't like the look of what's going on behind that froth and bellow.'
'For christsakes. It's the known world. You used to like it there.'
A dozen heads shook before they grappled me to the hold. They set me free when we reached Bali Ha'i. We stayed there, settled to new lives, relished the Happy Talk.
This one is so fun!!! And how easily they forgot the former Known World. So many good lines, too, Terry. Glad to see you here again--when you're not here I miss you (but no pressure!).
Nice to be here, see you next week!
Good!
PS - happy birthday, Mary. I hope you get lots of lovely presents, maybe a set of pétanque boules!
I'm expecting my own set when I come your way! Any day/year/lifetime now! (and I had a great birthday, thank you.)
No one ever likes the look of what's going on behind that froth and bellow. It's nice to have a bit of optimism, the funnier the better. Good job!
Thanks, Karen.
Ahoy! Sorry, I couldn't resist. I enjoyed this.
This is delightful!
Thanks, Deborah.
Wild! Love the concept of sailing beyond the edge of the known world... and not wanting to return ;-)
Thanks, Kathy
So funny! so many great lines. And the lesson "It's the known world. You used to like it there." Eejits.
Thanks, Kevin.
"tongues like alpacas' hats"; "against union rules;" "Bali H'ai"--think I must have been on board. At least that's what my brain pathways are telling me at the moment. Very fun!
Thanks, Annemarie
You're got a fun brain, Terry.
Thanks, Mark
happy talk talk talk talk
So was I! "Bali Ha'i" has one of the most beautiful melodies ever written, imo. Might have to think twice about the background these days, but still...
If you try, you'll find me
Where the sky meets the sea.
"Here am I your special island
Come to me, Come to me."
that song you've got to be carefully taught freaked me out. I used to listen to it thinking what the heck are they trying to say. That and poor judd is dead. Id walk around singing Poor Judd is dead he hasnt got a head, over and over. One of my first memories is being at a musical - front row, on my Dads lap with a tenor spitting in my eye
I know all the songs. Was a major R & H fan as a child--and later, through marriage, was actually related to R! Poor Judd is dead, Poor Judd Fry is dead. And You've Got to Be Carefully Taught used to really get to me, too.
omg. you're musical royalty. Yes I knew the soldier in South Pacific who loved the Island girl was a good guy because he didnt care what the racists thought and Chose Love but he was saying bad things and I was pre sarcasm and irony and suppressed anger
Going to have to refresh my memory of those. I hope the tenor had a good voice at least? I remember being at a jazz performance once--upright bass and jazz guitar. I was sitting so close I could feel the bassist's sweat fly off him. It made me pay a lot more attention and put me inside the music.
wow sensory In -duck-chin. 🦆🤔
I dont need to tell another music lover that basssecretions emanate from the Bottom-End.
You were indeed inside the music and must always leave a shoe-clue sticking out, so we can get you back - if things go lugubriouso or mortissimofurioso
Hahahaha!!
Bali Hai was one of my Dad's favourite songs, it got rinsed in our house. Great song, good n freaky
I just love the chord changes. So atmospheric.
when I take my teeth out to brush them sometimes I am so tired I hand them to the caretaker so what should I tell him/her? brush them with the other hand?
will that make me feel any better? will he/she caretaker be more alert?
honestly, i think this is kind of crappy advice :)
if you want a new brain channel I suggest you learn to play chess or learn a
new language and why celebrate a birthday some people don't do that
and they live just as long as the folks who do
so just have a nice day!
oh this cracked me up.
that is good!
You had me with "take my teeth out to brush them"! So good and so funny. (Or maybe not)
I used to hate my birthday, I think because on my 8th birthday my mother got me a pack of white cotton underwear while my father got my sister a Paper Smurf for hers. So generally I spend my birthday in isolation reading aloud TS Eliots Four Quartets and contemplating death. This year my friend Nigel insisted I enjoy my birthday. I had two cakes, one of which tasted like sawdust but was accompanied by a group of Egyptians waiters playing gongs and lyres while singing happy birthday, the other of which was a delicious chocolate mousse that appeared in my hotel room in Cairo as a result of a conspiracy between Nigel and our tour guide. I can't figure out whether I liked this version of a birthday better. One things is certain. I missed TS Eliot.
Happy Birthday Mary, I hope you are more like Nigel than me!
I find that contemplation of death is quite comforting. Don't want to rush it of course, but I am completely baffled by these characters who want to upload themselves onto silicon or invent some elixir of life so as to avoid death. They baffle me in other ways too . . . better stop thinking about that . . . remembering the fleeting nature of this existence and not thinking too much about said characters are two of the best things I do with my brain these days.
I am with you Deborah. I think these billionaires are funny the way they try to buy/invent/delude themselves out of the one reality they cannot control.
I've always hated my birthday. Last year, a friend insisted on giving me a party and I almost killed her over it. This year, for the first time EVER, I did exactly what I wanted and it was a seriously great day! So maybe i'm both Nigel and you...? Your birthday sounds amazing--is that for real???
Thank goodness Mary! Perhaps we should evolve a little bit. I like the idea of doing exactly what we want.
Chocolate mousse over underwear any day.
It was a really good cake!
This made me laugh out loud- well done.
Happy birthday, Mary!
I’ve always wanted to take the road less traveled, but I could never figure out what road that was. I followed a traditional path - white collar career, marriage, children, but what should I have done instead? Hitchhiked around the country following Phish, opened my own business selling handmade soaps, run for office, tried to break into the porn industry, sat under a bodhi tree trying to get enlightened? Those roads may technically be less traveled, but not wildly so - they’ve all been done before.
Since I’ve retired, I’ve taken the same walk around my neighborhood every day. Yesterday as I neared the cul de sac where I turn around, I noticed a freshly cleared path in the woods with a tiny handmade sign posted to a tree reading “The Road Less Traveled.” My heart leaped as I started out on the path. It only went for 100 yards before reaching a dead end, but in that brief walk I did spot a squirrel staggering around and foaming at the mouth. So, I took the road less traveled by and that has made all the difference with regard to spotting a rabid squirrel.
HAHAHAHHAHAHAHA!!!
Wonderful!
The squirrel must have made the sign!
Bucket list item checked off!
funny!
Warren, like most everybody, always put his carry-on in the bin above the seat, but precisely because everyone did that there was the plaintive call on the loudspeaker requesting that anybody able to check their bag would receive the everlasting gratitude of the flight attendants--however they put it. And despite the fact that he always found space himself, whenever he was in Boarding Group #4, he had anxiety that this would be the one time he would be squeezed out, and he would end up having to check it anyway and feel like he was incurring the ire of everybody, including the flight attendants. And he would seethe during the whole flight at everyone who had mastodon carry-ons when his was right-sized. So, after the second plea over the loudspeaker, he thought, what the hell, why not be the considerate guy, maybe I’ll get a free cocktail for my trouble.
There were three of them in line, and he was second and a woman he found instantly attractive was behind him, but a bit to the side. She was 40ish (age appropriate, check) a dark brunette with striking blue eyes (just like his) and clearly someone who kept herself in shape (ditto, again). And those blue eyes were checking him out just like his were checking her out. He smiled and she smiled back. Then he heard “Next” and had to move up, and then she moved up and then they were boarding – but hélas. she was in Group 2.
They were too far away to speak on the plane, and he was bummed, until he remembered they’d both be at baggage claim. Perfect! As he maneuvered next to her and began chatting, he was praying for their bags to come down slowly, and when they came down last, together, if felt like destiny.
They lived a mile away from each other so shared an Uber. The rest, as they say, is history.
And now, 7 years later, staring at the divorce papers, he wondered if he regretted volunteering to check his bag. They’d had some pretty good years, after all, before her kleptomania and compulsive gambling and anti-vaxx bullshit. He’d tried so hard – God knows he had his flaws-- but marriage was simply not supposed to be about one spouse managing the other. This is knew.
He signed the papers. And never again volunteered to check his bag.
oh, my god, I laughed. Well done! I, too, stress about my bag on a plane. I've actually got a prompt in mind on exactly that topic!!! Thanks for cracking me up this morning.
Of course I am at the airport at this very second hearing the request to check bags and it is agony for me.
Best of luck!!!! Massive anxiety every time.
Love this! Though you do sound just a little intolerant... are kleptomania, compulsive gambling and anti-vaxx bullshit really deal-breakers?? If you really, really love someone, truly, madly, deeply? (jk)
They're dealbreakers when you're trying to describe the breakdown of a marriage and you're nearing the 400-work limit! (I didn't even mention one of the biggest issues. He hates garlic and she love it.)
Now I'm really on her side! What sort of person hates garlic?
Someone who hates garlic breath - like me. (And don’t tell me all you have to do is pop a tic-tac. Doesn’t do the trick.) I remember meeting one of the best looking guys I ever met in France, way back when, and he’d had shrimp scampi or something and kissing him was torture. I can never understand who people order something with heavy garlic when they know they’re going out later.
I use teeny-tiny amounts when cooking some dishes, but otherwise can’t bear it. Almost got sat next to a Korean couple who’d clearly eaten some gim-chi before the flight yesterday and then thank GOD they were seatedc far enough away. It’s actually make me mad. But most people don’t think twice about how much garlic they eat.
Haha! I love garlic and I remember when I was much younger going to an important job interview and making sure I ate no garlic for several days before so as not to offend anyone on the interview panel. Turned out the whole interview panel stank of garlic. So I do "get" that if you're not eating it and everyone else is, that's a problem! The odour that bothers me on planes is perfume. So many people wear strong perfume that others like me can't tolerate, sometimes it makes me feel physically ill and you just can't get away from it. I guess the perfume-wearers don't think twice, any more than we garlic-eaters do...
Oh yeah, Joyeux Anniversaire, Marie.
Thank you, Mark! I had a major joyeux day!
hahaha. Air travel ain't what it used to be.
Hahaha... Lesson taken!
what the heck!
bad luck. . .
Brush your teeth with the other hand, you say.
But first, how do I remember to brush my teeth?
Just go into the bathroom and you'll see your toothbrush, doofus. Or go around with your toothbrush in your jeans back pocket – you are wearing jeans, of course, like any self-respecting old fogey – and when you sit down you'll be reminded by a poke in the butt. Toothbrush – brush teeth.
OK. But I'm not sure I know which hand is the other hand. Left? Right?
Just give it a try. Make your mind a blank and try one hand, then the other. Which one feels like it's the right one?
What if it's the left one?
No, stop. Forget left, right.
But you're saying handedness is hardwired and if I force the passage from one hand to the other my brain will get a jolt something like electroshock therapy and my short-term memory will be reinstated in all its glory and I will feel YOUNG again!
I said nothing of the sort, you say. I simply said brush your teeth with the other hand. Anyway, electroshocks are likely to wipe your memory clean. Don't you know anyone that's happened to?
Oh. Now you're talking about memories I'd rather not remember. Can we talk about something else?
So today I started wrong-hand brushing. Does anyone know how long -- days, weeks, months, years -- you have to keep it up to obtain a noticeable improvement memorywise?
your teeth might fall out first due to corners not brushed properly because you brushed with the other hand.
So funny. "Which one feels like it's the right one?" Hoo, boy, this sounds like a difficult person to live with....!
This person is just there in an advisory capacity. I'm not proposing to live with them.
put your packet of toothpaste in your jean pocket
and when you sit down you will hear "squish"
and you will remember to go to the toilet
and brush your teeth
Ha ha!
(But does the first necessarily suggest the second?)
correct
in your case
one never predicts
This is a strange tale about people and double crested cormorants, and another example giving lie to American delusions of exceptionalism.
Thousands of cormorants lived happily on East Sand Island near the mouth of the Columbia River. The birds are native to the region, predating people by millions of years. They feed on varieties of small fish, including salmon, a species also coveted by the people, who are known for unusual behaviors around large fish, for example, having their picture taken with dead ones. So some people got upset that the cormorants ate too many small salmon near East Sand Island and decided to drive them away. They shot them using night vision goggles, oiled their eggs, used lasers, and fireworks, bulldozed half the island into the water. Fed up, one day 17,000 birds flew away from the island and relocated eight miles upstream on the Astoria-Megler Bridge.
Twelve years later the birds are still on the bridge in their tens of thousands.They die by the scores hit by cars, their carcasses plastered by tires to the pavement, where they are scraped off with shovels. Their guano corrodes the structure, and the stink, maggots, and nest messes impede bridge work and add maintenance costs of over a million dollars a year. Workers quit because of the conditions. There are fewer fish species in that part of the river, so the birds eat more salmon than they did when they lived on the island. Now the experts are working on a plan to relocate the birds back to East Sand Island. But there are concerns. If they drive the cormorants off the bridge there’s no guarantee they will go back to the island. They might move further upriver, and consume even more salmon than they do now. The real reasons for the decline in salmon populations on the Columbia are historic overfishing, and the many upriver hydro dams, which kill a significant percentage of the fish that pass through. The people have known this for a long time, but preferred to blame the birds for their mistakes.
Happy Birthday Mary.
The juxtaposition of your story and the birthday wish kind of cracked me up! But tell me, is this real? It's a fascinating cautionary tale--and so well told! Maybe I'll just use my regular right hand to brush my teeth...
Yup it's real, the birds and the birthday. I knew they were a bit odd together, but thought you could handle it : )
Just make sure you brush with the right hand, not the wrong one.
I have never known an animal to make a mistake, except the human variety.
Right.
Well you have to admit that's pretty "exceptional." On Toronto Island, we just use slingshots and bullhorns to keep them away. It's the more "peaceful" Canadian way (right). Does it work though? Probably not. :)
They are much maligned and persecuted. Probably 'cause they're black.
Could be. More likely because they're birds, which a lot of humans--whether in U.S. or Can. or elsewhere--seem to have problems with, just like they do with anything that comes from what they separate and refer to as "nature"--as your very good essay shows, and as I hope I supported with my comment. We humans will either learn our lesson one day, though, or we won't be around to learn anything. Cormorants will be laughing their heads off--and it won't be on the way to the bank.
a group of double-crested cormorants is called a gulp. . .
This is tragic. And I suppose one of many tragic strange tales the world over.
Title: Eye-Scruples
I got ready for bed, in my usual routine. I disrobed and then washed my face. I looked into the mirror which, I was happy to admit, I could do. There are many who cannot look themselves in the mirror. But that's not me.
None of the bad things I heard about were because of me, thank God. I simply obeyed the expectations of society and took the roads most traveled.
Yes, I was a bit careless at the Yield sign, but it wasn't my fault the other car crashed. I wish I knew how that driver had fared, but I left before the paramedics had gotten there. (I was the one who called them.)
And yes, I admit I volunteered a little too much information at work; but it's not my fault it ran rampant on their intranet and now the provider of a whole family is unemployed. I only mentioned it once; I wasn't the one who spread it all around. That’s not how I am.
And it's true that I should have told her about exposure last weekend. I mean, her body is her responsibility, is it not?
Scruples are like teeth--they will fall out when you don't take care of them. The road most taken is littered with teeth.
I should know, because tonight as I ready myself for bed and look, as I can, myself in the mirror, I floss my one remaining tooth--both sides of it. Then I brush my one remaining tooth. And even though my bite isn't as bad as it used to be, I bark through my one remaining tooth.
Then I smile with my one remaining tooth. And I wonder how long it will last as I lie through my one remaining tooth.
Wonderful--and that toothy surprise at the end! Hope I never cross paths with this character, something tells me I wouldn't come out of it alive!
Honestly Gerald,
I'm delighted we've never meet. I admit I travel a road without any teeth littering it.
"Scruples are like teeth--they will fall out when you don't take care of them. The road most taken is littered with teeth." What a fabulous line! As is the whole piece. I don't want to meet this one when he's toothless, though.
A bit careless at the yield sign, great example of how drivers (myself included) justify their moves
It's Beyond My Control
It’s too much, I used to think. Too much going on. Trees pushing their taps deep into me, roots of bushes snaking through my dirt. Animals digging burrows and giving birth and dying inside them. Birds landing. I never felt them land, but heard them talk about bugs. Bugs. Billions and billions inside and outside and above and deep below. When they weren’t digging tunnels into me to escape the birds they were leaving nests all over the place that trapped other bugs and oh, the death cries of a butterfly trapped in a spider web.
But that’s what a mountain is. At least some hikers said that as they climbed the boulders atop my shoulders. So much life, one said. It must be great to be a mountain and have so much life all over you.
I had to deal with it. What choice did I have? The minute the pristine glacial ice melted away from my sides, birds dropped their shit filled with seeds all over me and things started growing. Trees and bushes and animals and bugs and birds and dying butterflies. Centuries and centuries. Epochs of life.
Ugh.
But then I noticed wet around my ankles, where I merged with the valley floor. Steady, permanent wet, didn’t go away in the summer. I thought, how nice. It keeps animals off, it loosens roots, it floods tunnels and burrows. Take that, meerkat.
The fish arrived when the water was up to my waist. They aren’t so bad. Quiet, eating up the rotting trees. I like the feel of water flowing on my sides as they school around, it sort of tickles. And I love the turtles. Peaceful, good outlook on life, modest.
Now all I have is my head above the waterline. Just a few boulders and some bushes and a pine tree corpse on top. A few bugs but no other animals, not even a snake. Thank god. Snakes terrify me.
A kayaker came along. Look at this island, she said. Used to be a mountain. All that life it supported, all those trees, those deer, the raccoons and chipmunks. Destroyed just to build this reservoir. Humans are lousy, she said.
First, chipmunks can rot.
Second, thanks, humans.
You know, being a mountain disguised as an island is fine. I’m still down there, all of me. Someday the ice age will come back and this water will freeze and it will be so peaceful. That’s change I can believe in.
Yes, I'm with Annemarie, this was a great read. The billions upon billions of years this planet has been morphing and changing is impossible to fathom. Better make the most of our nano-time!
Kevin, I think this is absolutely stunning! Your "me" became my "me" and I was totally entranced.
Thanks, Annemarie.
“The present is the key to the past and the past informs the present”
A Different Dumpster
Life on the streets was hard, but he did OK.
Every day, he awakened, stretched and found a place to relieve himself. Then he ambled down the street to an alley, which had a dumpster where he could find something to eat.
But this morning, the opening to the alley was blocked. A barking dog lunged at him, whose owner, absorbed in his phone, tugged the dog back without looking up.
He hurriedly scurried further down the street.
Soon he came to another alley and looked down it. A dumpster there had a tantalizing aroma. As he watched, a man came out of a door and threw a bag into it that smelled even more enticing.
He quickly ran down the alley and jumped in. Yes, yes! as he tore open the bag he discovered discarded bacon, sausage, scrambled eggs, pancakes…a feast!
He’d only had a bite, however, when he heard another door open, so he quickly scrambled out and hid by the metal side.
This time a woman walked to the dumpster and threw in a bag that didn’t have any kind of good smell. But there was something about her…she was talking, to the air as far as he could tell, and her voice was warm, soft, and reminiscent of….what? Despite his better judgement, he craned his head around.
“Okay, then, talk to you later. Bye now.” She looked down and saw him. “Why, hello there, little man. What are you doing here?” Like her voice, her smell seemed faintly familiar to him, too. Nonetheless, he tensed and prepared to run.
“You wait there just a minute,” she said, going back inside the building. And so he did, not because he understood what she said, but in order to make sure she was gone before diving into the dumpster and resuming his feast.
But she quickly came back out, placing an open can of something down close to him and then backing away. “Here. I think this is still good.”
Keeping one eye on her, he moved forward and gave the can a sniff. Delicious! which a bite soon confirmed.
While he ate, she continued to make those soft, kind noises. “Oh, good, you like it. My Lizzie liked it, too, before she…passed away.” There was a pause before she continued. “Lizzie was a nickname, of course, her full name was Elizabeth Bennet. From Pride and Prejudice, you know? By Jane Austen? It’s my absolute favorite book of all time. It’s why I opened up my bookstore – we specialize in romance novels. Lizzie kept all the rats and mice in the alley from nibbling at my stock.”
As he ate, the taste of the food evoked whiffs of almost memories.
Lots of this kind of food.
Soft places to sleep.
Feeling safe.
The woman had slowly been inching nearer to him. He would have to run before she got too close, but he was so hungry, this food was so good…he tried to growl but with his mouth full it came out more as a gurgle.
She was continuing with her soft, warm tones. “Besides, a proper bookshop should have a cat. Would you be interested in the job, sir? You’re so handsome, we could call you Mr. Darcy. Would you like that? My customers are mainly women and they would so spoil you with treats, you might get fat.”
By now she was close enough to reach out and touch him. He tensed -- only a bite or two left, then he’d sprint.
But while was still focused on that last bit of food, her hand reached out and nudged his cheek. He didn’t know why, but he didn’t pull back. Then she stroked his head with her palm. The sensation of that – again, it stirred up long-ago maybe memories, which also seemed tied to this human, or one like her.
Before he quite knew he was doing so, he purred. It had been so long since he’d purred.
And he let the woman pick him up. “All right, Mr. Darcy,” she said. “Let’s show you your new home.”
Home.
--"long-ago maybe memories"--never thought I'd have that much in common with a cat, but I can certainly relate to that phrase when I consider the state of some of my own recollections
Thanks, Annemarie. Same with me, forgotten much of what I've forgotten
So sweet! And I love how it takes a while to find out who the little man is.
Thanks!
At the day shelter for homeless men where I volunteer a few weeks a man named Mr. Steele has no fingers on either hand but only shiny pink stumps creased with scars and along his forearms more pink shiny scarred skin and his left arm twists at this wild angle like wrenched and striated driftwood. I have seen him open bottles of water and foil-wrapped packages of chocolate-covered cakes with the palms of his fingerless hands and carry plastic grocery bags with the handle of the bag around his wrist and his palm flipped up like a lever to keep the handle from slipping from his wrist. I realize I am not really responding to the prompt. It's just made me wonder how he might brush his teeth and now I realize that having figured out how to accomplish so much with no fingers on either hand and such a crooked arm he probably has a brain as nimble the fingers he once had on his hands.
I'm positive Mr. Steele has figured out a way to brush his teeth. I had a friend who was born without fingers and she can do anything, including tie shoelaces.
Yes, seems lke Mr.Steele's brain is coming up with lots of great solutions. And you found the link with the tooth brushing.
Bill had never gone to an art opening. He suspected Scott hadn’t either, although these days Scott talked as if he were a member in good standing of the art world, having dated a sculptor – sculptress? – for three months now. If Scott was such an expert, would he need Bill to accompany him?
Scott promised free food and drink, though he admitted it would likely be watery white wine and that spreadable orange cheese with pink streaks. Still, it would beat cold pizza at the chess club. Or the god-knew-what congealed in half-empty takeout boxes in their refrigerator.
It was a group show, and Scott’s girlfriend had three pieces in it. She was panicky about the opening and had asked Scott to come for moral support. When they arrived, thirty or so people were milling about the cavernous room; Bill realized most of them must be the artists and their families. One man was stopping in front of each art work to scribble on a small notepad. Bill hoped he was the reporter for the local paper, not the gallery owner.
After congratulating Scott’s girlfriend, Bill began a circuit around the room. He stood with his arms crossed in front of each piece and nodded thoughtfully, as if the art were speaking to him. He wondered how long he should spend doing this before he could mosey over to the wine and cheese table.
Then a painting drew him in. Thick black lines crossed and pulsed on a white background, spiraling from a spot right of center. Stepping backward, he saw dancers with their arms raised; close up, he saw geometric shapes. He sat on a bench to look at it longer. Next to him, a slender young woman smoked disconsolately.
“What do you see?” she asked.
“It’s based on the Fibonacci sequence,” he told her, excited despite himself.
She nodded. “So it’s the math that appeals to you, not the aesthetics.”
“Mathematics *is* beautiful.”
“You’re a mathematician?”
“Doing graduate work in topology. And you?”
“I’m the painter. Jennifer Eccles.”
“You painted *this*?” She nodded again. “That’s – it’s really something, Jennifer.” He cleared his throat, looking around the room for Scott. He felt suddenly awkward, gawky in his ill-fitting clothes, towering, even while seated, over such a slight, poised young woman.
“I was thinking after this show is over, I mean tonight, not the whole show, you know, maybe we could –”
“Yes,” she said.
Love arrives in mysterious ways! I loved this: "He stood with his arms crossed in front of each piece and nodded thoughtfully, as if the art were speaking to him." And then--one did!
Mathematics is beautiful, best pick-up line I’ve heard lately!
Not that I hear many, or any these days, but it’s nice to imagine!
They *get* each other! Yay!
PRESS 4
I woke up with my head on the floor, my body still enjoying the couch. Everything hurt. I stood cautiously, testing my feet. Both held me up. Today was a good day
Nance had loaded the coffee Fandango, bless her, and it was hot and good.
The second cup slapped me across the face. I stood in the shower, letting blood go down the drain - covered myself in soap, inspected whatever stung -hit the antiseptic tap and lasted five seconds, gritting my teeth
I walked past a mirror and stopped
Handsome check. Unshaven check. Old scars - check - fresh cuts and bruises, check. Scary fresh wound on shoulder, check
Godsby, Put me through to the Chief
Bertram Maragold was the oldest serving Chief of Police in one of the smallest towns in the country. We didnt need a Chief but he was a sacred relic and represented something we'd all once stood for, with our Dad's. He no longer got paid, but he kept his office and we ran everything by him.
Chief. Last night I was at the Sex Workers Relaxation lounge-
No. I teach Self Defense. Give back to the Community and Hookers know Everything. You taught me that. Remember Sammi B?
No. She works at the bank. Likes to hit me in public. This time she wanted to talk. I told her I was asking Nance to marry me. She seemed calm then got me from behind- kicked me down the stairs, clawed me, gouged me with something
Thanks Lovely. Ha! It's definitely my best idea yet. You'll be there, making a speech
I had to promise best man to Nance's Tism Bro's. They want to be referred to as Equal Best Man all night, stand on either side
Thats what I said, they said we could stand in a square with me facing her and the Pastor could go in the middle. They drew a diagram. The parents said they'd approve if the boys did. Brutal Negotiators. You'll represent my family with a lovely speech
That's a great story. No one could top that. But we cant scare them Chief. Something more like...you always knew I was good and then I was - with an upbeat crime solving story, warm the cockles
Blake's- I booked the whole place, with a string quartet.. I once overheard Nance say A Proposal is a Blueprint for a Marriage. Perfectionists really make your imperfections pop
It's not a shithole it's the opposite of a shithole! And I dont know what I'd do. Go away - come back a better man - ask again
Then I'll stay and become better and you wont like me anymore
Sammi'll calm down. You'd think I'd been a good boyfriend. If she didnt attack me every week she'd never cross my mind. Chief. I stumbled onto bodies - double Homicide at the SWRC. I was bleeding. I said Shut the doors - This is a Crimescene. Then- nothing. I woke up home. Get someone down there?
Hang up then Press 4 - and stay Schtum about Friday, if Nance finds out early she'll remember what I'm like
I bandaged myself up, wondering where Nance was. She loved patching me up and would've taken perverse enjoyment in sewing up the coinpurse on my shoulder
I opened the wardobe and a womans body fell into my arms
Nance walked in
Is she dead?
Not yet- call an ambulance Hon?
Nance called
I didnt want to drop the body on the floor, wasnt putting her on the bed. I held her up, facing her away from Nance.
Sammi had threatened to destroy us both. If I told Nance I'd have to tell her about the Proposal
They're on their way
Nance, this is Sammi, my ex. Last night Sammi was at the Sex Workers Relaxation Lounge. She went a bit crazy when I told her I was gonna ask you to marry me
I turned Sammi round to face Nance. Eyes rolled back - lips turning blue
I swear she didnt like me this much when we were together
Nance gave me a withering look.
I got on one knee, with Sammi B flopped over the other. Would you marry me Nancy Beechworth- Dont answer - I cant let Sammi's saliva near my mouth - she might have my flesh under her nails - Would you breathe Life into this pitiful soul that I have wronged by not Loving?
Nance rolled her eyes, threw off her coat and got to work
That's my girlfriend
oh, wow. Love this! So otherworldly but also true. Also, i loved the re-appearance of shtum!
There’s only one way to alter one’s brain pathways that I know of. Here’s the beginning of a story about it I wrote a few years ago for an interiority prompt about enthusiasm. Sorry I couldn’t come up with anything new for today. Too much on the brain at the moment. I've been trying to write backwards all day. :)
Renee was a naturally enthusiastic person, especially when she considered all the ways she’d hoodwinked her friend Jeanette over the years. She supposed it really wasn’t fair to take advantage of a friend like that, at least not so often and in so many different guises, but it sure had been fun.
Besides, she reasoned, Jeanette never knew, so where was the harm? It was like her mother always used to say, What you don’t know won’t hurt you.
She did a quick tally of all the instances she could remember: a handful of affairs with Jeanette’s various lovers; some prank death threats and porn invitations over the phone--sometimes combined; a little money extortion from her bank account; some not-so-innocent interference in Jeanette’s relationships with her family members, and later on, her medical professionals. Most recent were all the lies Renee’d been telling Jeanette about her struggles with dementia—she didn’t even have dementia!
She almost burst with excitement when she thought of all she’d gotten away with. But the best was yet to come. In two weeks, Jeanette would be at the Ministry of Death and Eternity Clinic having the contents of her brain uploaded. Unbeknownst to Jeanette, Renee would be there, too. If all went well, she would be stealing those contents. She needed a good brain.
Jeepers!!!! (Also: psychedelics will alter a brain's pathways!)
Thanks, mary g. Do you have some you could send? :)
Of course, poor old Jeanette's brain is filled with trauma after all those dirty tricks. Enjoy it, Renee!
But Jeanette never knew...at least, that's what Renee kept telling herself. :)
you know how a dog knows when something's off? I think Jeanette knew something. Renee suffers from hubris, I think.
You could be right. I guess we'll see when the story continues. Secretly, though, I think Jeanette and Renee might be the same person. :)
That’s an interesting twist!
Happy Birthday for yesterday, Mary! I hope it was a lovely day of celebration!
In response to the prompt:
Michelle tended to stay quiet. She lived with a man who spoke over her and for her, and after years of her glittering stories being interrupted and her dissonant opinions being shouted down, she’d mostly given up on the act of expression.
Whenever she saw a person - neighbor or internet stranger - get into a debate, she would watch in a state of suspense, as if in the audience of some high-wire horror film. Every time someone would stumble on a word while presenting a point, she’d think: ‘Well, that will be it! Cue shouts from the other side, because this side’s shown weakness!'
She wasn’t always right about these outcomes, but even a good result made her no less nervous the next time she witnessed something similar.
Then, she met Gary.
His beak had been dented and his wing was trapped under a piece of metal which had fallen from a roof. He’d been flying low to avoid a sudden gale as the same wind was shaking loose the rusting shingles. Michelle came out from shopping - three plastic bags deepened with dinner and making circulatory cuts to her fingers - to see him laying there on the frozen ground behind a fog of shuffling legs.
She lent down and looked into the plaintive eyes of this small, silent creature. She said aloud to him then, “You are safe with me,” and scooped him up inside her jacket, feeling his warmth and his ragged breath against her chest. She didn’t know how she could help him, but some bone-grade feeling, an internal push, told her she could. She knew she could.
“What the hell is that?” Her husband said as she rushed through the door, dropping her keys on the counter. “Not quite the groceries I thought you were going out for! Seriously though, babe, it isn’t a good idea to bring wildlife into the home.”
“I’ve got to help him.”
“Well, look love, I don’t think you can. What do you know about helping birds? Since when did you become a rehabber?”
Michelle stroked the top of the bird’s head, still nestled inside her jacket. She looked then into the eyes of her husband. They were oddly plaintive, too. “I know everything I need to. I must trust myself to know.”
She walked past him and brought Gary into the bathroom, stretching through the silence behind her, to shut the door.
What a wild story! I want to know what will happen next!
Thank you Mary!! Hahah yes, I’m wondering myself!
Me too…
I love bird stories and I love this. Reminds me of a family I lived with in my teens. Birds were always flying into the kitchen window and the mom would revive them with drops of whiskey. She taught me how to do it. Oh the feeling of a bird in the hand!
a drunken bird in the hand beats a sober one in the bush?
Not quite. The whiskey was just in wee drops off the end of a spoon. For the bird, that is. Different story for the mom and me. :)
Thank you Annemarie! Wow, I’ve never before heard of birds being revived with whiskey! The image of this is charming - minus their initial knockout!
Marvelous creatures- so many out and about at the moment in my neck of the woods! :)