The East Village had a uniform, and the West Village had a uniform. If you dressed in a crisp white shirt and pressed jeans for an evening at Waverly and Waverly on the west side, listening to the croonings of Jerry Scott at the piano, you’d never venture across town a half mile to The Bar on 2nd avenue, where the pool table gave you splinters and the bartender’s nipple rings glinted in the glow of everyone’s cigarettes. There was no middle ground. Doc Martens on the east, loafers on the west. Buzz cut east, fluff west. Sondheim west, The Clash east.
There were some who were brave enough to cross over. A few stood proud in their pristine Lacostes on the sawdust floors of the tawdry east. One or two wore their thrift-store jackets and ripped jeans and sang along lustily in the tuneful west. “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning!”
I, for one, frequented both sides, often and successfully, I might say. How’d I do it?
I didn’t resort to carrying a bag with a change of clothes. I didn’t grease my blown-out hair on the way east, or shine up my Docs on the way west. No, I had one simple bit of wardrobe. My smile.
I wore my smile like a beacon, like the lady in the harbor (remember her?). Come to me, you tired men, you poor masses of men. Yearn no more. Be free with me.
Was my smile always genuine? Never. It was the drugs, so many drugs. But for those few years I never walked alone. East to west, west to east, sometimes even north (and once across the river), I wore whatever I wanted, however I wanted, and every time I found men eager to bask in my smile.
That was then. Now, worn out, I smile infrequently. Never, actually. People on the street tell me I should smile. My sister asks, remember how your smile was your umbrella? But I prefer the mist now. All those years, east to west and back again I met men who saw my smile and for a moment forgot dress codes, forgot sickness, forgot death. My addiction served them but eventually, like that statue in the harbor, I felt I’d done my duty and it was time to fold my torch. At home I'm comfortable in my slippers, soles smooth as I walk back and forth on my worn carpet.
Beautifully done. Particularly love the Statue of Liberty reference: Come to me, you tired men, you poor masses of men. Yearn no more. Be free with me.
Thanks, Janet. I knew someone who spoke with this oracularity (although I don’t think he ever said this). I used to be on the phone with him scribbling his pronouncements as he said them. Once he asked if I was writing while we were talking and I denied it. I wish I still had those notes!
Wonderful story Kevin ! I loved the uniforms, the moving back and forth, that inauthentic smile, and of course the slippers. So well done. New York lore…
I found the glove at the end of the driveway, near the mailbox. When I told the police, they said they’d come back for it if they needed it, but they never did, so I still have it all these years later. I keep it wrapped in a bag in my closet, just in case.
My sister and I had matching pairs that our mother gave us for Christmas. They were fuzzy wool winter gloves, hers red and mine orange, with tiny white stars knitted into them. That Christmas was the last time I saw my mother, because after that visit, my father said she was too crazy to visit anymore. Delia and I cried and begged him to change his mind, but he said we’d thank him for it later on. Well, I never did, and Delia, who knows.
We wore the gloves every day, because we loved them. Mine were attached to a string that was threaded through the arms of my coat so they wouldn’t get lost, but because Delia was older, hers had no string and she stuffed them in her coat pockets when she went indoors. So it’s funny that she’s the one who lost the glove.
Though I do wonder how it came to be left behind. Did she open the car door and try to jump out before my mother turned onto the road? That would mean she changed her mind at the last minute, and was pulled back into the car. Or did she roll the window down and throw the glove out to let me know she wouldn’t forget me? Most likely, I’ll never know. My father thinks they changed their names and went to another state – I hope someplace where she doesn’t need gloves.
The other thing I wonder, always, is why my mother chose her instead of me.
Cleaning out a closet, I came across a portrait painted by my mother wrapped up in brown paper, which I tore off near a window. Light raked across the canvas, illuminating the bold brushwork and striking palette, bursting into the world from another time. My father in bright yellow shirt stared back at me. It’d been held captive in the back of the closet so long that I didn’t remember wrapping it. No doubt she didn’t want to look at his face again after the end of their tormented twenty-three years together. They’d moved from place to place, always something going wrong. By the time I graduated high school, we’d moved over a dozen times.
In the painting, he looks pensive and handsome in his yellow shirt, the shirt taking up most of the space on the canvas. I was six in 1971, and have no memory of the bright shirt, a costume long discarded, but she captured him so completely. His face looked like he sat in a dark room at night, lit from a low incandescent light to his left, but the bright background seemed to glow behind, with white and pastel pinks and greens, giving the face, painted with murky shades of gray and brown, a feeling of existing in the shadows. The surprise was the shirt, in the loosest brushstrokes of all, bold yellows with touches of greens and marigold orange.
The one thing missing was his ever-present breast pocket over-flowing with fat cigars and pens, the pens sometimes leaking black ink onto the fabric, as if he were playing the part of the disheveled genius, his look when we lived in Hollywood, when he was selling himself as an author, intellectual, talent manager, a well connected, soon-to-be-famous man.
Later, when he bottomed out, unable to pay bills, we moved to a town an hour north, where he began wearing a white cowboy hat, like a good guy from the movies. He began playing up his North Carolina accent–– a down home, trustworthy man of his word, a man who knew the bible “backwards and forwards” as he used to say.
Landlords didn’t have background checks back then, so he kept a roof over our heads until evictions came, then addresses and phone numbers changed. The white hat moved to the next town, where we perched until more trouble came.
Love your comment! My father wrote porn, too and I'd not thought of that before, isn't that hilarious? I realize we can send pictures in that message thingie, so if you like I'll send.
Amazing story - a painting in a closet of your dad painted by your mom. There’s so much there including your description of the painting. All of it, so well done.
I like "the white hat moved to the next town" and your use of the word perched in your last line. Always ready to take off. Your descriptions here are vivid. I can see the shirt and the brushstrokes.
I don’t think he was gay, although he did love Barbra Streisand music and had a white cat he named Camille. He had a pair of lavender bellbottoms with buttons instead of a zipper up the fly, kinda girly. But it was Berkeley in the 60s.
He wasn’t gay. I was pretty sure of that. I’d met him at Princeton University when he was graduating, and I was acting in the Princeton University theater. He was going off to California to do graduate work in French, and I decided to hitch my wagon to his star. We moved in together, I ignored the four-year difference in our ages, the fact that he had a Princeton degree and I hadn’t started college. He gave me precise instructions for eating soup and washing dishes. I nested in and bought a sewing machine.
Relieved from the strictures of clothing that would be acceptable to my mother back in New Jersey, I embraced the Berkeley style. First, I made a leather mini skirt with matching fringed vest. Then I sewed the smallest bikini imaginable, wearing the top with cut off blue jeans to hike up mount Tamalpais. Some Boy Scouts asked if they could take my photo, promising to send it to me. No leader in sight. He would no doubt have hustled them up the mountain. They took the photo, but they never sent it.
I also began to crochet and made myself a full-length yellow dress with large gaps between the stitching. Underneath I wore tan boots and a flesh colored bodysuit, totally tame by the standards of today’s red carpet but daring in its day.
All of this seemed to please Charles. Then he decided to design and sew me an outfit of his own imagining. It was a form fitting jumpsuit with bell bottom legs and bell sleeves made of maroon fabric. He designed the sleeves so that from elbow to wrist, they fanned open, and inside the opening, he sewed a psychedelic striped fabric. He was definitely pleased with his creation. I didn’t realize that I was also his creation.
Love all of the clothing in this one! Wonder whatever became of Charles! I can totally picture the girl in this story wearing these creations, becoming his muse, and at the same time, escaping her own past.
Oh, he's still around. He lives in California. His name is Chuck, married, two sons. He invited me back to the Princeton theater reunion two years ago and I went. He asked me "do you think we should have gotten married?"
What a journey through creations! And I loved the beginning!! "I don’t think he was gay, although he did love Barbra Streisand music and had a white cat he named Camille"... :)
That jumpsuit could have been on Cher. Great descriptions. Reminds me of the play Stereophonic, about a band making a record, late 60s. As their previous single sold more and more they wore increasingly fabulous period clothes.
"He told me he'd like you to have some of his things. Nice ones, some of them are really nice."
How to get out of this? Didn't I have to show grace, if not gratitude? No, not gratitude. I couldn't afford those suits and that camel-hair coat, but I didn't need them either – I mean, I had no money, but I didn't need charity. Every day I put on jeans and a work shirt or the same jeans and a t-shirt, and that was good enough for me. For the funeral, I'd chickened out and bought new jeans and what the salesman called a sports jacket, that I was pretty sure I would only wear once. So I could say I wouldn't have any use for these duds, these fine fabrics, definitely citywear, what would I do with them on a farm or up a mountain?
I could turn ideas and arguments around in my head, but there were feelings involved. I didn't relish the idea, not at all, of wearing a dead man's clothes, any dead man's clothes. I knew someone who clumped around in his defunct father's best shoes, black, thick as cow hide, stiff as... well, over to you to complete the simile. Because he could get through a year without having to shell out for new shoes. I couldn't have put those shoes on every morning without thinking, my father put his living feet in these shoes and can no longer – where are his feet now? In an urn with a name tag on?
That "he told me" stuck a bit in my gizzard too. The woman who spoke them was a perfectly good person, neither my mother nor my stepmother, just my father's latest and last female companion. She was up against the problem of having to dispose of the dear departed's stuff. Giving things to people close to him would bring far more comfort than handing them over to the Salvation Army. But the "he told me" felt a little like "last wishes" with the weight that carries. She didn't mean it, but I felt it, and no, it wasn't going to work for me.
"He was smaller than me," I said truthfully. "I couldn't get one of those jackets on."
"Well, there are some nice ties."
I picked one, silk, fancy design, too many colours.
I never wore it, but I kept it for years. I didn't share my father's taste in clothes, but I loved him.
So much emotion tucked inside of this one. I've got my dad's glasses, baseball cap, jacket, ashtray, and last pack of cigarettes. What am I gonna do with all it?
You don’t have to do anything with the stuff. Think of your dad when you look at them and let someone else figure it out eventually. I have at least 6 of my dad’s many Bibles. All with his name on the front leaf.
I keep the ashtray and pack of cigarettes on display in my living room. Someone once tried to nick a smoke from the pack and i had to give them a piece of mind. That's history, buddy! That's an L & M!!!!!
No shoes, but I did wear my father's overcoat for several years in college. It was an expensive coat, or I thought it was, herringbone weave, and I had a friend who also wore his dead father's overcoat. I thought we were kind of cool. One winter night off campus I got mugged and stabbed in the back when I was wearing the coat - some members of the gang actually caught me by the long tails of my coat. After that experience, and now with a hole in the back where the knife went through, I gradually stopped wearing it.
i was mugged and stabbed in the back wearing an overcoat too, although it was an overcoat I bought myself. I credit its thickness, along with the suit I had on underneath, in keeping the knife from going too deep.
I like feeling like small traces of the dead are still wandering around among us. I have some of my mother’s things, mainly scarves and jewelry, and I think of her when I wear them. My sister, however, has a closet full of my dad’s shirts. She never wears them but won’t give them up. I wish she wore them - or I would.
When Maeve knelt beside Joe and tilted his head back to start CPR his vomit flew across her thighs all the way to her crotch.
Clear his airway, said Tim.
She braced and put her mouth down on her husband’s while Tim counted out compressions.
Bart backed the couple’s Yukon up close and opened the back. It was dark of course, at 2 AM.
They were on their own at 6500 feet, and no cell service.
I’ll drive, said Bart. You guys keep up the CPR until we can call an ambulance to meet us.
Maeve and Joe hadn’t finished unpacking their car. There was the wangan, camp chairs, an axe. But on three they lifted and heaved Joe through the back door, smacking his head on the door jamb.
I’ll put a bandage on it, said Nell, who knew something about first aid.
Everyone in, said Bart, and without waiting spun gravel accelerating out to the campground loop road. The road down was steep, curvy, and without guard rails. Not so much as a tree to stop freefall into the valley. But there was a moon, and the moonlight lit up the snowfields all around them. Bart barreled downhill coming out of the curves in controlled skids.
We just closed on the house this week, said Maeve. He wanted that house so bad.
As the car warmed up the smell from Maeve’s pants spread and affected them all.
Ah, said Tim. Jesus Bart, slow the fuck down will ya. I might be sick. Maeve . . .
I know, sorry, said Maeve. She undid her buttons, shimmied out of her pants and she threw them out the window. There!
That’s better, said Tim. Bart slowed down some. I’ve got two bars, said Nell.
Who’s on Joe then, said Bart.
Funny thing, how when Maeve’s pants went out the window their focus on Joe wavered.
They started watching the cliffs, and pretty soon clean forgot about Joe, who everyone assumed was dead anyway, though no one mentioned it.
He is looking pretty purple at this point, said Tim.
I guess I could sell the house now, couldn’t I, said Maeve. It’s all mine now. I can go wherever I want.
I feel bad for Joe, but I love how they are watching the cliffs, no one mentions that Joe is probably dead, and "he is looking pretty purple" before Maeve says she could sell the house. This is a great narrative! I can see all these characters!
Well why not I say each morning when I put on my red bra. Who's to know a darm thing unless I tell them and I longed to tell someone. NO! Not Someone but someone who wants to touch my body, all parts of it. Even the missing parts. I wil tell Him that it runs in the female line of the family. By the age of 60, some are missing two boobs and some are missing only one like I am. And I am now 80 years old.
Missing, well not really. I don't think about it being gone and I never long for it. I never told any of my women friends. What's the point? I'm too old for vanity, or to have a replacement as my friend Corey did. It's magical she said, it looiks so real. She and her new boob died in the Time of Covid so what was the point?
I wear my red bra alternating with a black one. A lightly padded 32B, I'm not a large person. And I still long for that special Someone who wants to know what happened.
Linda, as the oldest daughter of three, was the only child who received new clothes. All her out-grown clothing was passed to Ruth, the middle child, who was a bit of a tomboy who wore her clothes hard so that nothing without holes was passed to Janice the youngest child. And Mother not wanting the youngest child to wear ratty clothing often purchased new clothing for Janice who also happened to be on the chubby size and couldn’t fit into the clothing passed to her from the middle child anyways.
Ruth was twelve years old when Mother took her to Heer’s Department Store on the public square of their small town to buy her a new dress for Easter. Her first new dress. Ruth called this her Virgin Dress. Not particularly sure what “virgin” meant she thought of “untouched” so the red dress with white dots on it was untouched as far as Ruth was concerned.
Even after she outgrew it, the virgin dress hung in Ruth’s space in the closet. She never passed it to Janice.Twenty years later as far as Ruth knows the dress still hangs in that closet.
I am embarrassed to say I never noticed. It was just what she wore and we never thought about it. Every Christmas, every year, mom wore her green plaid velour robe with red and white candy cane piping. We had a tree, lots of Christmas cookies, presents mounded up like a skyline and one matriarch in a green plaid robe. In every picture for twenty years, furniture changed, the kids grew, waistlines expanded or contracted but the robe was always there just like she was. And I denied it was true until Hayley pointed it out to me. There was mom next to me as I’m sporting a cast from a sixth grade dodgeball mishap - she was in the robe. There she was with my infant niece a decade later, holding that baby’s head in the crook of a worn plaid velour sleeve. Dancing Texas swing in the dining room or cooking in the kitchen, mom did it all and every photo confirmed she did it in a green plaid velour robe with red and white piping.
We were newly engaged, Hayley and I, and headed to my parents for the Christmas holidays. She’d perused the photos of the family before we departed and noticed a common theme - in green plaid velour. I argued that wasn’t true, but her fingers pointed the obvious truth. I realized I couldn’t remember anything mom ever wore except the green plaid velour robe. We’d gone to a football game just last year and I knew she didn’t wear that robe, but damn if I could remember her in anything else.
We arrived late on Christmas Eve to a household of brothers and sisters and their kids. There were mounds of presents and plates of cookies and sleepy kids on laps. In the midst of it all, a woman in a green plaid robe stood up to greet Hayley, who reached out to hug my mom as Hayley said, “I’d recognize you anywhere from your pictures…”
It was 1960 and I was in eighth grade, my first year in a big middle school. School didn’t hold much meaning for me but I do remember listening to songs like Crying - Roy Orbison, Hit the Road Jack - Ray Charles, Travelin’ Man - Ricky Nelson, Chain Gang - Sam Cooke, Dedicated to the One I Love and Will You Love Me Tomorrow - The Shirelles.
The school had rules about how short the girls’ skirts could be and the boys had to keep their shirt tails tucked into their pants. I had a blue denim shirt with long frayed shirt tails. The day I wore it to school I was sent to the principal’s office and they called my mom. To her credit, she didn’t think it was a big deal, but I did begin to learn to disrespect authority.
For Etta, the emotions surrounding a departure do more than stir. They whirl around in a food processor.
Thus, it is that this morning, the day after returning home from settling her youngest in her freshman dorm in a distant city, Etta finds herself in the attic.
She went up with the idea that she’d behave in a rational and productive manner and get rid of some stuff with an eye towards making room for the pile of things her daughter has declared must be saved but no longer belong in the room that Etta hopes to make into her home office/guest room.
But discarding, which is itself a type of departure, is not to be. Etta is sitting below the rafters with three boxes open before her: one containing wedding clothes, one full of baby clothes, and one stuffed with old threadbare sweaters. Etta will sit here most of the morning pulling out pieces of clothing to hold and smell. With each texture and each scent, she will travel to the past, laughing, crying, feeling joy, anger, regret, and gratitude.
By noon, she will be worn out and put everything back where it came from and will begin to wonder as she goes back downstairs if it would be a mistake to have a glass of wine so early in the day.
Ma looked me up and down, 'Maybe a fresh shirt for the dance, the blue one suits you.'
But we both knew, blue or green, I'd be at the back of the queues.
Jimmy Manzanero collected me around seven. Jimmy was a good lookin guy, so good looks and a car. I ended up havin an okay night, a few dances with the shyer girls and regular charges from Jimmy's hip flask, except I had to walk home when Jimmy headed to the reservoir with Cindy Shapiro.
Sunday was a scorcher.
Pa checked the forecast, 'Gonna be this way for three months.'
So it wasn't any kind of fashion statement. Just something to wear in the sun.
Pa laughed when he saw it, 'You tryin to look like Lester Young?'
Jimmy said, 'You look like a dork.'
But it made me feel good from the get-go.
Cindy Shapiro said, 'That's a terrific look. You should get one, Jimmy.'
At the next dance, I wore the hat and was on the floor all night. I was always happy throwin a few shapes, though Jimmy said I moved like a dork. They played a lotta great numbers–Sam, Roy, Aretha.
One of Cindy friend's asked if she could dance with Hal the Hat, Jimmy's sister too. It was like that all night.
Jimmy had bust up with Cindy but he had a Plan B, the Coscarelli sisters–I'd have to ride shotgun. Going up to the reservoir we sang along with the new songs, the sisters pleaded to try on the hat.
After we dropped them off, Jimmy complained, 'Why do you keep actin like a dork?'
That was a great summer–dances, barbeques, parties. I got invited everywhere even when Jimmy didn't get the call, although I'd say we come as a pair.
It was the middle of August, when Cindy called, 'Hi Hal, haven't seen you for a while.'
I made some kinda stupid joke which had her laughin for ages. Then I asked about her folks and her friends and if she'd read the books we'd been set.
'That's why I'm calling. I could do with some help.'
I felt unsure, I suppose I didn't want to tread on Jimmy toes.
'Say, Cindy. Why don't you ask Jimmy. He'd be happy to assist.'
'Jimmy's great but he's not very...
Cindy paused, searched for a word, then said briskly, 'Articulate.'
She'd pick me up: we could head up to the reservoir.
As I was leavin, Ma rushed to the front door, handed me the hat, 'Don't forget this.'
Mary, how spooky! Just yesterday I visited my local pool in Budapest and thought of the black Dolce Gabbana bikini I wore 24 years ago. I thought I'd write a letter to that 25 year old girl. I haven't yet, but here is my rough, first response to your prompt, which I could write so much more on!
p.s. my "uniform" is also jeans and a white top, with... All Stars Converses. And I absolutely adore Lydia Davis (but not as much as I adore you!) :)
The Dolce Gabbana Bikini
It seemed like a luxury you couldn’t afford at the time, even if the black bikini was half price. Dolce & Gabbana were designers of celebrities, and you – well, you were a girl hopelessly in love with your Kiwi Adonis, staying in London on an au-pair visa. Your budget was tight. Except, now you were back in Budapest for the summer, hoping to lure your Kiwi Adonis to join you in your hometown one last time before your move to New York City in September. You had met him only two months earlier and you didn’t quite know where you stood. You called each other “boyfriend” and “girlfriend,” but everything was so fresh, and new. It was the summer of 2001, and you had just lost your virginity to this man you had met at The Royal Court Theatre during Sarah Kent’s suicide play. And once he kissed you, you finally understood what all the fuss was about, this thing called ‘sex’ that had mostly meant something negative, and even disgusting for you; like those sleazy men lusting over you on the street, when you had been barely aware of your changing body. You were twenty-five now, feeling mostly awkward in your perfect body that you didn’t see as perfect. But with him, you could do anything without anything feeling dirty. He knew how to treat you. He knew how to take care of you. And now that he had awakened the desire in your body, all you wanted was to spend the summer with him, in bed, giving and receiving pleasure. You didn’t want to go to New York City anymore, but of course you couldn’t tell him that. You didn’t want to scare him away. Instead, you spent all the money you had on a black bikini and posed awkwardly for your friend with the disposable camera at the pool. You developed the picture the same afternoon and your friend scanned the picture in her office. You e-mailed him the picture with the message, “off to the pool, are you coming?” and you felt no shame. He booked his flight the next day. In the end, you did go to New York. In the end, you did break up. But every time you wear that D&G bikini, you think of him. Sometimes you even toy with the idea of sending him the message “off to the pool, are you coming?” but you never do.
Everyday, year round, unless it snowed, they were there. Waiting for me. Originally blue with yellow accents, now dusky blue gray with holes in a couple of places. Elastic laces meant for easy slip-on, but my feet are not slip-on friendly, so I had long ago cut off the plastic pieces meant to loosen/tighten them. The elastic ends extended from the top eyelets like stringy wings. Sometimes, I would tie them. But not often.
My chicken pen/gardening/walk-over-and-get-the-mail shoes. I could put them on and forget they were on my feet. To the point of ooops–forgot to take them off at the backdoor. Even better–they slipped right on. Like butter. Those shoes. They had their own parking spot, to the side of the two concrete steps leading from the backdoor into the garage.
Until the day they disappeared last month.
I’m a woman of a certain age, and I misplace things. Like shoes. In fact, shoes are among the more elusive items, although my glasses have been found in the refrigerator and my cell phone–well, thank the innovative people at Apple for “find my devices” on my Apple watch. So, yes. I can easily leave shoes on the deck, the front porch, under my desk…so I spent the first 48 hours or so after they vanished looking for them. Everywhere. If I’m honest: I’m still looking for them. Hope springs eternal.
I have weird feet. Steve calls them cavus. High arches, narrow heels, wider toe boxes. Happiest when bare. Not suited to heels (God, the agony!) and requiring a long shoe horn, patience, sweat, and planning in order to wear boots. But I’m part of a family herd who dash outside at the drop of a “Hey–come here and look at this!” in the backyard, or across the street, or around the block–usually requiring–you guessed it: shoes. So, I am the one hopping on one foot at the back of the excited and already looking at whatever it is crowd. Still pulling on a reluctant shoe. Or two.
“My shoes are missing!” I said. And he could hear the accusation in my tone and feel the heat radiating from my eyes.
“Which shoes? When did you have them last?”
Oh, treacherous question dear soulmate who spent one full day cleaning out the garage. Recently. Just before the shoes in question disappeared.
Ha! Caught! I love the "parking spot" for shoes. I have so many old pairs of Vans now--they are parked at each of the three doors to this house. Wow, I guess i've lost my mind.
Well we both have, then. I have my faithful birkies parked at 2 doors, and my “replacement” for the ratty shoes is a pair of plastic birkies—pink slip ons in the garage. Can’t lose them because…pink just stands out. They work. But something is missing…maybe I will give vans a try if they are high arch friendly.
A paw or two, you mean? They're back. Not in the window well, but we think they have burrowed under the floor of the barn. I went out to move the chickens from the orchard to the barn for the night. As I walked toward the barn, a little black and white cutie--I swear the thing was waving to me--appeared right inside the chicken door. So tomorrow, we're off to the local seed and pet store for Coyote Urine. Oh, the things I find myself doing...(and my shoes are still gone).
I remember when he first tried me on, she suggested it.
It was a cold day, at around noon. I'd been on the rack - at the north end of the market, Ted's usual spot - since eight or so, and the air hadn't warmed up at all (not that I mind).
"I'm not sure it's me..." he said.
"Oh come on," she said. "Just try it on."
He did. She whistled, they kissed. Then she bought me for him, with her tip money from the night before.
Sometimes I dream of a bright, cold wedding day, celebrated outdoors, but I doubt I'a be appropriate. That's okay, no one ever wears those things again anyway.
Ties that Bind (inspired by the song “You Were On My Mind").
Elijah found the U Penn sweatshirt again while cleaning out the hall closet. It was shoved in the back of a box marked Random Stuff - Don’t Need. The sweatshirt smelled like dust, damp and old cologne.
It was soft, blue, and fit just right. One sleeve had a tiny burn mark from when Isiah dropped a joint at a long ago party. Elijah remembered laughing so hard that night they had to sit down.
The sweatshirt had a habit of disappearing and then suddenly showing up whenever things got hard.
Elijah first left it behind when Isiah’s mom got sick. Elijah had stayed at Isiah's place for a week, cooking, walking the dog, keeping quiet company. When Elijah left, the sweatshirt stayed.
Isiah wore it often, particularly when he was struggling. Or sad. Or sick. Or when the world got too loud. He never did wash it. He couldn’t say it but it was like keeping a part of Elijah close without having to admit he missed them.
Elijah asked about it once, over text.
“U still got my sweatshirt?”
“Yeah.”
“Weird. Forgot all about it.”
But that wasn’t true. And Isiah knew it.
They hadn’t talked much since. A few check-ins. Birthday texts. Nothing important. Until one night, out of nowhere, Elijah showed up at Isiah’s door holding a bottle of wine and looking beat.
“I don’t know what I’m doing here,” Elijah said. “I just woke up this morning, and you were on my mind.”
Isiah didn’t say anything. Just reached into the hall closet and pulled out the sweatshirt.
Elijah smiled. “You kept it.”
“You left it,” Isiah said.
They stood there for a minute. Neither one saying what they really felt. But both of them remembering the nights they wore that sweatshirt - the fights, the long silences, the way they never quite figured out how to say I need you or I miss you without making it a joke.
Some people stay close because of love. Some because of time or proximity. And some because of the things they went through together, the things they never talk about.
Those things leave marks.
Wounds, maybe. But the kind that hold people together.
My Slippers
The East Village had a uniform, and the West Village had a uniform. If you dressed in a crisp white shirt and pressed jeans for an evening at Waverly and Waverly on the west side, listening to the croonings of Jerry Scott at the piano, you’d never venture across town a half mile to The Bar on 2nd avenue, where the pool table gave you splinters and the bartender’s nipple rings glinted in the glow of everyone’s cigarettes. There was no middle ground. Doc Martens on the east, loafers on the west. Buzz cut east, fluff west. Sondheim west, The Clash east.
There were some who were brave enough to cross over. A few stood proud in their pristine Lacostes on the sawdust floors of the tawdry east. One or two wore their thrift-store jackets and ripped jeans and sang along lustily in the tuneful west. “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning!”
I, for one, frequented both sides, often and successfully, I might say. How’d I do it?
I didn’t resort to carrying a bag with a change of clothes. I didn’t grease my blown-out hair on the way east, or shine up my Docs on the way west. No, I had one simple bit of wardrobe. My smile.
I wore my smile like a beacon, like the lady in the harbor (remember her?). Come to me, you tired men, you poor masses of men. Yearn no more. Be free with me.
Was my smile always genuine? Never. It was the drugs, so many drugs. But for those few years I never walked alone. East to west, west to east, sometimes even north (and once across the river), I wore whatever I wanted, however I wanted, and every time I found men eager to bask in my smile.
That was then. Now, worn out, I smile infrequently. Never, actually. People on the street tell me I should smile. My sister asks, remember how your smile was your umbrella? But I prefer the mist now. All those years, east to west and back again I met men who saw my smile and for a moment forgot dress codes, forgot sickness, forgot death. My addiction served them but eventually, like that statue in the harbor, I felt I’d done my duty and it was time to fold my torch. At home I'm comfortable in my slippers, soles smooth as I walk back and forth on my worn carpet.
Wonderful and amazing how you summed up an entire era of your life this way.
Thanks for the prompt. I started in one direction and it ended in a completely different place. Like a dream this is and isn't me.
Beautifully done. Particularly love the Statue of Liberty reference: Come to me, you tired men, you poor masses of men. Yearn no more. Be free with me.
Thanks, Janet. I knew someone who spoke with this oracularity (although I don’t think he ever said this). I used to be on the phone with him scribbling his pronouncements as he said them. Once he asked if I was writing while we were talking and I denied it. I wish I still had those notes!
Wonderful story Kevin ! I loved the uniforms, the moving back and forth, that inauthentic smile, and of course the slippers. So well done. New York lore…
Thanks, Karen.
Oh, I loved this so much!! What a story rich in details, and history! The glory and pain... Thank you Kevin for taking me on this journey.
Thanks, Imola.
So good, Kevin! And the emotion in those words "time to fold my torch"!
Thanks. I wondered about folding a torch, but it sounds right.
I like the way it ended with you in your slippers.
Me too!
Kevin, this is stellar! I love the quick change artist known mostly for dressing in a smile. Well done!
Thanks so much.
Great stuff, love the descriptions of the "costumes" and the scene, the music, the shoes.
Thanks. Details make the man (or so the magazine thought) and the story. Nice to see how much will fit in 400 words.
Glove
I found the glove at the end of the driveway, near the mailbox. When I told the police, they said they’d come back for it if they needed it, but they never did, so I still have it all these years later. I keep it wrapped in a bag in my closet, just in case.
My sister and I had matching pairs that our mother gave us for Christmas. They were fuzzy wool winter gloves, hers red and mine orange, with tiny white stars knitted into them. That Christmas was the last time I saw my mother, because after that visit, my father said she was too crazy to visit anymore. Delia and I cried and begged him to change his mind, but he said we’d thank him for it later on. Well, I never did, and Delia, who knows.
We wore the gloves every day, because we loved them. Mine were attached to a string that was threaded through the arms of my coat so they wouldn’t get lost, but because Delia was older, hers had no string and she stuffed them in her coat pockets when she went indoors. So it’s funny that she’s the one who lost the glove.
Though I do wonder how it came to be left behind. Did she open the car door and try to jump out before my mother turned onto the road? That would mean she changed her mind at the last minute, and was pulled back into the car. Or did she roll the window down and throw the glove out to let me know she wouldn’t forget me? Most likely, I’ll never know. My father thinks they changed their names and went to another state – I hope someplace where she doesn’t need gloves.
The other thing I wonder, always, is why my mother chose her instead of me.
So, so well done! I love all of the meanings that could come from that one glove. The mystery of it all, still on a shelf in the closet.
Intrigue, drama, relationships, fallout - you packed a lot in to those 300 words. Great story.
This is so powerful. The glove does so much here.
What a heartbreak... And all through a glove! The last line gutted me.
So well done! I love the mystery--a whole book here in 400 words.
What a story! So sad.
Nice one, Masha.
Oh my! So good.
Cleaning out a closet, I came across a portrait painted by my mother wrapped up in brown paper, which I tore off near a window. Light raked across the canvas, illuminating the bold brushwork and striking palette, bursting into the world from another time. My father in bright yellow shirt stared back at me. It’d been held captive in the back of the closet so long that I didn’t remember wrapping it. No doubt she didn’t want to look at his face again after the end of their tormented twenty-three years together. They’d moved from place to place, always something going wrong. By the time I graduated high school, we’d moved over a dozen times.
In the painting, he looks pensive and handsome in his yellow shirt, the shirt taking up most of the space on the canvas. I was six in 1971, and have no memory of the bright shirt, a costume long discarded, but she captured him so completely. His face looked like he sat in a dark room at night, lit from a low incandescent light to his left, but the bright background seemed to glow behind, with white and pastel pinks and greens, giving the face, painted with murky shades of gray and brown, a feeling of existing in the shadows. The surprise was the shirt, in the loosest brushstrokes of all, bold yellows with touches of greens and marigold orange.
The one thing missing was his ever-present breast pocket over-flowing with fat cigars and pens, the pens sometimes leaking black ink onto the fabric, as if he were playing the part of the disheveled genius, his look when we lived in Hollywood, when he was selling himself as an author, intellectual, talent manager, a well connected, soon-to-be-famous man.
Later, when he bottomed out, unable to pay bills, we moved to a town an hour north, where he began wearing a white cowboy hat, like a good guy from the movies. He began playing up his North Carolina accent–– a down home, trustworthy man of his word, a man who knew the bible “backwards and forwards” as he used to say.
Landlords didn’t have background checks back then, so he kept a roof over our heads until evictions came, then addresses and phone numbers changed. The white hat moved to the next town, where we perched until more trouble came.
So much here! White cowboy hat and yellow shirt--you've got fodder for days! "where we perched until more trouble came."
Great prompt! Just what I needed.
Sea, this is truly "see-worthy! That white hat says so much. And the fact that he's wrapped in plain brown paper like a dirty book.
Love your comment! My father wrote porn, too and I'd not thought of that before, isn't that hilarious? I realize we can send pictures in that message thingie, so if you like I'll send.
Amazing story - a painting in a closet of your dad painted by your mom. There’s so much there including your description of the painting. All of it, so well done.
Oh thank you!
Please do! Notes, right?
Let me try it now. I'm such a tech goober.
Incredible... So much pain and story told here through the choice of clothes (personas).
thanks, Imola!
I like "the white hat moved to the next town" and your use of the word perched in your last line. Always ready to take off. Your descriptions here are vivid. I can see the shirt and the brushstrokes.
thank you!
Would love to see the painting.
If you message me your email, I'll send a photograph of it to you.
I don’t think he was gay, although he did love Barbra Streisand music and had a white cat he named Camille. He had a pair of lavender bellbottoms with buttons instead of a zipper up the fly, kinda girly. But it was Berkeley in the 60s.
He wasn’t gay. I was pretty sure of that. I’d met him at Princeton University when he was graduating, and I was acting in the Princeton University theater. He was going off to California to do graduate work in French, and I decided to hitch my wagon to his star. We moved in together, I ignored the four-year difference in our ages, the fact that he had a Princeton degree and I hadn’t started college. He gave me precise instructions for eating soup and washing dishes. I nested in and bought a sewing machine.
Relieved from the strictures of clothing that would be acceptable to my mother back in New Jersey, I embraced the Berkeley style. First, I made a leather mini skirt with matching fringed vest. Then I sewed the smallest bikini imaginable, wearing the top with cut off blue jeans to hike up mount Tamalpais. Some Boy Scouts asked if they could take my photo, promising to send it to me. No leader in sight. He would no doubt have hustled them up the mountain. They took the photo, but they never sent it.
I also began to crochet and made myself a full-length yellow dress with large gaps between the stitching. Underneath I wore tan boots and a flesh colored bodysuit, totally tame by the standards of today’s red carpet but daring in its day.
All of this seemed to please Charles. Then he decided to design and sew me an outfit of his own imagining. It was a form fitting jumpsuit with bell bottom legs and bell sleeves made of maroon fabric. He designed the sleeves so that from elbow to wrist, they fanned open, and inside the opening, he sewed a psychedelic striped fabric. He was definitely pleased with his creation. I didn’t realize that I was also his creation.
Love all of the clothing in this one! Wonder whatever became of Charles! I can totally picture the girl in this story wearing these creations, becoming his muse, and at the same time, escaping her own past.
Oh, he's still around. He lives in California. His name is Chuck, married, two sons. He invited me back to the Princeton theater reunion two years ago and I went. He asked me "do you think we should have gotten married?"
and your answer was.....
lol. We agreed to discuss later. Later never came.
That's a pretty nice complement right there, Christine.
What a journey through creations! And I loved the beginning!! "I don’t think he was gay, although he did love Barbra Streisand music and had a white cat he named Camille"... :)
Such a fun take on relationships neatly hidden in a nostalgic tale about fashion. Love it.
Christine, the last line of this is a stunner! Love this.
Love it when people just go for it in relationships.
precise instructions for eating soup? Run away fast.
Yes - I think no follow up on the should we have married question was the right choice.
You know, that line really snagged my eye as well.
That jumpsuit could have been on Cher. Great descriptions. Reminds me of the play Stereophonic, about a band making a record, late 60s. As their previous single sold more and more they wore increasingly fabulous period clothes.
If not his creature. True, four years is a lot at those ages.
The silk tie
"He told me he'd like you to have some of his things. Nice ones, some of them are really nice."
How to get out of this? Didn't I have to show grace, if not gratitude? No, not gratitude. I couldn't afford those suits and that camel-hair coat, but I didn't need them either – I mean, I had no money, but I didn't need charity. Every day I put on jeans and a work shirt or the same jeans and a t-shirt, and that was good enough for me. For the funeral, I'd chickened out and bought new jeans and what the salesman called a sports jacket, that I was pretty sure I would only wear once. So I could say I wouldn't have any use for these duds, these fine fabrics, definitely citywear, what would I do with them on a farm or up a mountain?
I could turn ideas and arguments around in my head, but there were feelings involved. I didn't relish the idea, not at all, of wearing a dead man's clothes, any dead man's clothes. I knew someone who clumped around in his defunct father's best shoes, black, thick as cow hide, stiff as... well, over to you to complete the simile. Because he could get through a year without having to shell out for new shoes. I couldn't have put those shoes on every morning without thinking, my father put his living feet in these shoes and can no longer – where are his feet now? In an urn with a name tag on?
That "he told me" stuck a bit in my gizzard too. The woman who spoke them was a perfectly good person, neither my mother nor my stepmother, just my father's latest and last female companion. She was up against the problem of having to dispose of the dear departed's stuff. Giving things to people close to him would bring far more comfort than handing them over to the Salvation Army. But the "he told me" felt a little like "last wishes" with the weight that carries. She didn't mean it, but I felt it, and no, it wasn't going to work for me.
"He was smaller than me," I said truthfully. "I couldn't get one of those jackets on."
"Well, there are some nice ties."
I picked one, silk, fancy design, too many colours.
I never wore it, but I kept it for years. I didn't share my father's taste in clothes, but I loved him.
So much emotion tucked inside of this one. I've got my dad's glasses, baseball cap, jacket, ashtray, and last pack of cigarettes. What am I gonna do with all it?
You don’t have to do anything with the stuff. Think of your dad when you look at them and let someone else figure it out eventually. I have at least 6 of my dad’s many Bibles. All with his name on the front leaf.
I keep the ashtray and pack of cigarettes on display in my living room. Someone once tried to nick a smoke from the pack and i had to give them a piece of mind. That's history, buddy! That's an L & M!!!!!
No shoes, but I did wear my father's overcoat for several years in college. It was an expensive coat, or I thought it was, herringbone weave, and I had a friend who also wore his dead father's overcoat. I thought we were kind of cool. One winter night off campus I got mugged and stabbed in the back when I was wearing the coat - some members of the gang actually caught me by the long tails of my coat. After that experience, and now with a hole in the back where the knife went through, I gradually stopped wearing it.
Tod! What a story! Sheesh!
Summary of Tod and Kevin's comments: overcoats are dangerous.
I ended up with my ex-wife's fathers overcoat. It was a really nice one, but it had such bad karma
Right, from this sample of two we can deduce overcoats invite muggers. And didn't we read about an overcoat stolen a while back.
We did. And by a mugger with a big mustache.
i was mugged and stabbed in the back wearing an overcoat too, although it was an overcoat I bought myself. I credit its thickness, along with the suit I had on underneath, in keeping the knife from going too deep.
Wha?? Jeepers, you and Tod are lucky to be alive!
Yup, but we're all lucky to be alive. : )
Wow. Love this attitude. And yes we are.
Overcoats and knives are apparently a sinister combination.
Well, must be where cloak and dagger come from.
Aren't the cloak and dagger supposed to belong to the same person?
Ha ha. Good point. I guess after the dagger got used that would be the case. In some cases.
great piece. Love "stuck a bit in my gizzard." Yup.
Thanks, Christine.
Finishing on a high note.
I like feeling like small traces of the dead are still wandering around among us. I have some of my mother’s things, mainly scarves and jewelry, and I think of her when I wear them. My sister, however, has a closet full of my dad’s shirts. She never wears them but won’t give them up. I wish she wore them - or I would.
So many good lines: the feelings involved, the deadman's clothes. Loved the bit that invites the reader to complete the simile.
The Vomit Pants
When Maeve knelt beside Joe and tilted his head back to start CPR his vomit flew across her thighs all the way to her crotch.
Clear his airway, said Tim.
She braced and put her mouth down on her husband’s while Tim counted out compressions.
Bart backed the couple’s Yukon up close and opened the back. It was dark of course, at 2 AM.
They were on their own at 6500 feet, and no cell service.
I’ll drive, said Bart. You guys keep up the CPR until we can call an ambulance to meet us.
Maeve and Joe hadn’t finished unpacking their car. There was the wangan, camp chairs, an axe. But on three they lifted and heaved Joe through the back door, smacking his head on the door jamb.
I’ll put a bandage on it, said Nell, who knew something about first aid.
Everyone in, said Bart, and without waiting spun gravel accelerating out to the campground loop road. The road down was steep, curvy, and without guard rails. Not so much as a tree to stop freefall into the valley. But there was a moon, and the moonlight lit up the snowfields all around them. Bart barreled downhill coming out of the curves in controlled skids.
We just closed on the house this week, said Maeve. He wanted that house so bad.
As the car warmed up the smell from Maeve’s pants spread and affected them all.
Ah, said Tim. Jesus Bart, slow the fuck down will ya. I might be sick. Maeve . . .
I know, sorry, said Maeve. She undid her buttons, shimmied out of her pants and she threw them out the window. There!
That’s better, said Tim. Bart slowed down some. I’ve got two bars, said Nell.
Who’s on Joe then, said Bart.
Funny thing, how when Maeve’s pants went out the window their focus on Joe wavered.
They started watching the cliffs, and pretty soon clean forgot about Joe, who everyone assumed was dead anyway, though no one mentioned it.
He is looking pretty purple at this point, said Tim.
I guess I could sell the house now, couldn’t I, said Maeve. It’s all mine now. I can go wherever I want.
Oh, man. Poor Joe. I'm gonna give Maeve the benefit of the doubt and believe that Joe died before she took off those smelly pants.....
Tod, I learn so much from reading your work!
Thanks Christine. That's so nice of you to say . !
I feel bad for Joe, but I love how they are watching the cliffs, no one mentions that Joe is probably dead, and "he is looking pretty purple" before Maeve says she could sell the house. This is a great narrative! I can see all these characters!
Yikes.
A hard luck story if there ever was one. Banged his head on the door jam did they.
Their focus on Joe wavered. Loveit!
Dark! Joe needed new friends...
Such a subtle way to show us the depth (or shallowness) of each of these characters. Nice work!
The Red Bra
Well why not I say each morning when I put on my red bra. Who's to know a darm thing unless I tell them and I longed to tell someone. NO! Not Someone but someone who wants to touch my body, all parts of it. Even the missing parts. I wil tell Him that it runs in the female line of the family. By the age of 60, some are missing two boobs and some are missing only one like I am. And I am now 80 years old.
Missing, well not really. I don't think about it being gone and I never long for it. I never told any of my women friends. What's the point? I'm too old for vanity, or to have a replacement as my friend Corey did. It's magical she said, it looiks so real. She and her new boob died in the Time of Covid so what was the point?
I wear my red bra alternating with a black one. A lightly padded 32B, I'm not a large person. And I still long for that special Someone who wants to know what happened.
Love the attitude in this piece. And the reveal of the longing in the end.
Some great lines here: “she and her new boob”—love the longing in this of an older woman—so often forgotten in our world.
Such longing, hidden behind the tough facade. Oh my!
The Virgin Dress
Linda, as the oldest daughter of three, was the only child who received new clothes. All her out-grown clothing was passed to Ruth, the middle child, who was a bit of a tomboy who wore her clothes hard so that nothing without holes was passed to Janice the youngest child. And Mother not wanting the youngest child to wear ratty clothing often purchased new clothing for Janice who also happened to be on the chubby size and couldn’t fit into the clothing passed to her from the middle child anyways.
Ruth was twelve years old when Mother took her to Heer’s Department Store on the public square of their small town to buy her a new dress for Easter. Her first new dress. Ruth called this her Virgin Dress. Not particularly sure what “virgin” meant she thought of “untouched” so the red dress with white dots on it was untouched as far as Ruth was concerned.
Even after she outgrew it, the virgin dress hung in Ruth’s space in the closet. She never passed it to Janice.Twenty years later as far as Ruth knows the dress still hangs in that closet.
love that the virgin dress is red.
I know. What a great choice!
Very cool
That dress has had a long life.
I am embarrassed to say I never noticed. It was just what she wore and we never thought about it. Every Christmas, every year, mom wore her green plaid velour robe with red and white candy cane piping. We had a tree, lots of Christmas cookies, presents mounded up like a skyline and one matriarch in a green plaid robe. In every picture for twenty years, furniture changed, the kids grew, waistlines expanded or contracted but the robe was always there just like she was. And I denied it was true until Hayley pointed it out to me. There was mom next to me as I’m sporting a cast from a sixth grade dodgeball mishap - she was in the robe. There she was with my infant niece a decade later, holding that baby’s head in the crook of a worn plaid velour sleeve. Dancing Texas swing in the dining room or cooking in the kitchen, mom did it all and every photo confirmed she did it in a green plaid velour robe with red and white piping.
We were newly engaged, Hayley and I, and headed to my parents for the Christmas holidays. She’d perused the photos of the family before we departed and noticed a common theme - in green plaid velour. I argued that wasn’t true, but her fingers pointed the obvious truth. I realized I couldn’t remember anything mom ever wore except the green plaid velour robe. We’d gone to a football game just last year and I knew she didn’t wear that robe, but damn if I could remember her in anything else.
We arrived late on Christmas Eve to a household of brothers and sisters and their kids. There were mounds of presents and plates of cookies and sleepy kids on laps. In the midst of it all, a woman in a green plaid robe stood up to greet Hayley, who reached out to hug my mom as Hayley said, “I’d recognize you anywhere from your pictures…”
Great last line! Now that's a woman who likes to be comfortable!
I love that last line. Hayley's a keeper.
Blue Denim Shirt
It was 1960 and I was in eighth grade, my first year in a big middle school. School didn’t hold much meaning for me but I do remember listening to songs like Crying - Roy Orbison, Hit the Road Jack - Ray Charles, Travelin’ Man - Ricky Nelson, Chain Gang - Sam Cooke, Dedicated to the One I Love and Will You Love Me Tomorrow - The Shirelles.
The school had rules about how short the girls’ skirts could be and the boys had to keep their shirt tails tucked into their pants. I had a blue denim shirt with long frayed shirt tails. The day I wore it to school I was sent to the principal’s office and they called my mom. To her credit, she didn’t think it was a big deal, but I did begin to learn to disrespect authority.
Perfect ending!
So good. That shirt is probably back in style now! Love this one, Charlie.
Funny how those things work. I know what you mean.
Departures stir emotions.
For Etta, the emotions surrounding a departure do more than stir. They whirl around in a food processor.
Thus, it is that this morning, the day after returning home from settling her youngest in her freshman dorm in a distant city, Etta finds herself in the attic.
She went up with the idea that she’d behave in a rational and productive manner and get rid of some stuff with an eye towards making room for the pile of things her daughter has declared must be saved but no longer belong in the room that Etta hopes to make into her home office/guest room.
But discarding, which is itself a type of departure, is not to be. Etta is sitting below the rafters with three boxes open before her: one containing wedding clothes, one full of baby clothes, and one stuffed with old threadbare sweaters. Etta will sit here most of the morning pulling out pieces of clothing to hold and smell. With each texture and each scent, she will travel to the past, laughing, crying, feeling joy, anger, regret, and gratitude.
By noon, she will be worn out and put everything back where it came from and will begin to wonder as she goes back downstairs if it would be a mistake to have a glass of wine so early in the day.
Can so much relate to spending a day this way.
Hold and smell: texture and scent, great sensory dimension!
We experience so many emotions from the scents of things. Nicely done.
Ooh. That final paragraph—so much in emotion in those two sentences!
The Pork Pie Hat
Ma looked me up and down, 'Maybe a fresh shirt for the dance, the blue one suits you.'
But we both knew, blue or green, I'd be at the back of the queues.
Jimmy Manzanero collected me around seven. Jimmy was a good lookin guy, so good looks and a car. I ended up havin an okay night, a few dances with the shyer girls and regular charges from Jimmy's hip flask, except I had to walk home when Jimmy headed to the reservoir with Cindy Shapiro.
Sunday was a scorcher.
Pa checked the forecast, 'Gonna be this way for three months.'
So it wasn't any kind of fashion statement. Just something to wear in the sun.
Pa laughed when he saw it, 'You tryin to look like Lester Young?'
Jimmy said, 'You look like a dork.'
But it made me feel good from the get-go.
Cindy Shapiro said, 'That's a terrific look. You should get one, Jimmy.'
At the next dance, I wore the hat and was on the floor all night. I was always happy throwin a few shapes, though Jimmy said I moved like a dork. They played a lotta great numbers–Sam, Roy, Aretha.
One of Cindy friend's asked if she could dance with Hal the Hat, Jimmy's sister too. It was like that all night.
Jimmy had bust up with Cindy but he had a Plan B, the Coscarelli sisters–I'd have to ride shotgun. Going up to the reservoir we sang along with the new songs, the sisters pleaded to try on the hat.
After we dropped them off, Jimmy complained, 'Why do you keep actin like a dork?'
That was a great summer–dances, barbeques, parties. I got invited everywhere even when Jimmy didn't get the call, although I'd say we come as a pair.
It was the middle of August, when Cindy called, 'Hi Hal, haven't seen you for a while.'
I made some kinda stupid joke which had her laughin for ages. Then I asked about her folks and her friends and if she'd read the books we'd been set.
'That's why I'm calling. I could do with some help.'
I felt unsure, I suppose I didn't want to tread on Jimmy toes.
'Say, Cindy. Why don't you ask Jimmy. He'd be happy to assist.'
'Jimmy's great but he's not very...
Cindy paused, searched for a word, then said briskly, 'Articulate.'
She'd pick me up: we could head up to the reservoir.
As I was leavin, Ma rushed to the front door, handed me the hat, 'Don't forget this.'
The accessory that opens... let's say doors.
That's one smart mama!
Love that Ma is the helpful fashion advisor at beginning and end.
Thanks, Janet
Oh hats. Hats that make you feel good. Love this, Terry.
Thanks, Angela. If you want to get ahead get a hat!
Mary, how spooky! Just yesterday I visited my local pool in Budapest and thought of the black Dolce Gabbana bikini I wore 24 years ago. I thought I'd write a letter to that 25 year old girl. I haven't yet, but here is my rough, first response to your prompt, which I could write so much more on!
p.s. my "uniform" is also jeans and a white top, with... All Stars Converses. And I absolutely adore Lydia Davis (but not as much as I adore you!) :)
The Dolce Gabbana Bikini
It seemed like a luxury you couldn’t afford at the time, even if the black bikini was half price. Dolce & Gabbana were designers of celebrities, and you – well, you were a girl hopelessly in love with your Kiwi Adonis, staying in London on an au-pair visa. Your budget was tight. Except, now you were back in Budapest for the summer, hoping to lure your Kiwi Adonis to join you in your hometown one last time before your move to New York City in September. You had met him only two months earlier and you didn’t quite know where you stood. You called each other “boyfriend” and “girlfriend,” but everything was so fresh, and new. It was the summer of 2001, and you had just lost your virginity to this man you had met at The Royal Court Theatre during Sarah Kent’s suicide play. And once he kissed you, you finally understood what all the fuss was about, this thing called ‘sex’ that had mostly meant something negative, and even disgusting for you; like those sleazy men lusting over you on the street, when you had been barely aware of your changing body. You were twenty-five now, feeling mostly awkward in your perfect body that you didn’t see as perfect. But with him, you could do anything without anything feeling dirty. He knew how to treat you. He knew how to take care of you. And now that he had awakened the desire in your body, all you wanted was to spend the summer with him, in bed, giving and receiving pleasure. You didn’t want to go to New York City anymore, but of course you couldn’t tell him that. You didn’t want to scare him away. Instead, you spent all the money you had on a black bikini and posed awkwardly for your friend with the disposable camera at the pool. You developed the picture the same afternoon and your friend scanned the picture in her office. You e-mailed him the picture with the message, “off to the pool, are you coming?” and you felt no shame. He booked his flight the next day. In the end, you did go to New York. In the end, you did break up. But every time you wear that D&G bikini, you think of him. Sometimes you even toy with the idea of sending him the message “off to the pool, are you coming?” but you never do.
love that ending, which is true for so many of us--that nostalgic yearning that gives both pleasure and pain. I'm guessing you rock that bikini!
Haha. Funny you should say that Mary. Those were my 16 year old’s exact words when she saw me in that bikini :))
Missing: Ratty old shoes. Well-loved.
Everyday, year round, unless it snowed, they were there. Waiting for me. Originally blue with yellow accents, now dusky blue gray with holes in a couple of places. Elastic laces meant for easy slip-on, but my feet are not slip-on friendly, so I had long ago cut off the plastic pieces meant to loosen/tighten them. The elastic ends extended from the top eyelets like stringy wings. Sometimes, I would tie them. But not often.
My chicken pen/gardening/walk-over-and-get-the-mail shoes. I could put them on and forget they were on my feet. To the point of ooops–forgot to take them off at the backdoor. Even better–they slipped right on. Like butter. Those shoes. They had their own parking spot, to the side of the two concrete steps leading from the backdoor into the garage.
Until the day they disappeared last month.
I’m a woman of a certain age, and I misplace things. Like shoes. In fact, shoes are among the more elusive items, although my glasses have been found in the refrigerator and my cell phone–well, thank the innovative people at Apple for “find my devices” on my Apple watch. So, yes. I can easily leave shoes on the deck, the front porch, under my desk…so I spent the first 48 hours or so after they vanished looking for them. Everywhere. If I’m honest: I’m still looking for them. Hope springs eternal.
I have weird feet. Steve calls them cavus. High arches, narrow heels, wider toe boxes. Happiest when bare. Not suited to heels (God, the agony!) and requiring a long shoe horn, patience, sweat, and planning in order to wear boots. But I’m part of a family herd who dash outside at the drop of a “Hey–come here and look at this!” in the backyard, or across the street, or around the block–usually requiring–you guessed it: shoes. So, I am the one hopping on one foot at the back of the excited and already looking at whatever it is crowd. Still pulling on a reluctant shoe. Or two.
“My shoes are missing!” I said. And he could hear the accusation in my tone and feel the heat radiating from my eyes.
“Which shoes? When did you have them last?”
Oh, treacherous question dear soulmate who spent one full day cleaning out the garage. Recently. Just before the shoes in question disappeared.
“Why would I throw them out?” He asked.
Indeed.
Ha! Caught! I love the "parking spot" for shoes. I have so many old pairs of Vans now--they are parked at each of the three doors to this house. Wow, I guess i've lost my mind.
Well we both have, then. I have my faithful birkies parked at 2 doors, and my “replacement” for the ratty shoes is a pair of plastic birkies—pink slip ons in the garage. Can’t lose them because…pink just stands out. They work. But something is missing…maybe I will give vans a try if they are high arch friendly.
maybe the skunks had a hand in the disappearance.
A paw or two, you mean? They're back. Not in the window well, but we think they have burrowed under the floor of the barn. I went out to move the chickens from the orchard to the barn for the night. As I walked toward the barn, a little black and white cutie--I swear the thing was waving to me--appeared right inside the chicken door. So tomorrow, we're off to the local seed and pet store for Coyote Urine. Oh, the things I find myself doing...(and my shoes are still gone).
WINTER COAT
I remember when he first tried me on, she suggested it.
It was a cold day, at around noon. I'd been on the rack - at the north end of the market, Ted's usual spot - since eight or so, and the air hadn't warmed up at all (not that I mind).
"I'm not sure it's me..." he said.
"Oh come on," she said. "Just try it on."
He did. She whistled, they kissed. Then she bought me for him, with her tip money from the night before.
Sometimes I dream of a bright, cold wedding day, celebrated outdoors, but I doubt I'a be appropriate. That's okay, no one ever wears those things again anyway.
Right! But a warm coat is forever.
So fun to use the coat as a character.
Ties that Bind (inspired by the song “You Were On My Mind").
Elijah found the U Penn sweatshirt again while cleaning out the hall closet. It was shoved in the back of a box marked Random Stuff - Don’t Need. The sweatshirt smelled like dust, damp and old cologne.
It was soft, blue, and fit just right. One sleeve had a tiny burn mark from when Isiah dropped a joint at a long ago party. Elijah remembered laughing so hard that night they had to sit down.
The sweatshirt had a habit of disappearing and then suddenly showing up whenever things got hard.
Elijah first left it behind when Isiah’s mom got sick. Elijah had stayed at Isiah's place for a week, cooking, walking the dog, keeping quiet company. When Elijah left, the sweatshirt stayed.
Isiah wore it often, particularly when he was struggling. Or sad. Or sick. Or when the world got too loud. He never did wash it. He couldn’t say it but it was like keeping a part of Elijah close without having to admit he missed them.
Elijah asked about it once, over text.
“U still got my sweatshirt?”
“Yeah.”
“Weird. Forgot all about it.”
But that wasn’t true. And Isiah knew it.
They hadn’t talked much since. A few check-ins. Birthday texts. Nothing important. Until one night, out of nowhere, Elijah showed up at Isiah’s door holding a bottle of wine and looking beat.
“I don’t know what I’m doing here,” Elijah said. “I just woke up this morning, and you were on my mind.”
Isiah didn’t say anything. Just reached into the hall closet and pulled out the sweatshirt.
Elijah smiled. “You kept it.”
“You left it,” Isiah said.
They stood there for a minute. Neither one saying what they really felt. But both of them remembering the nights they wore that sweatshirt - the fights, the long silences, the way they never quite figured out how to say I need you or I miss you without making it a joke.
Some people stay close because of love. Some because of time or proximity. And some because of the things they went through together, the things they never talk about.
Those things leave marks.
Wounds, maybe. But the kind that hold people together.
Touching and real.