Posted on by Fred

Shoshana Writes

A friend conducted what he called Market Research for me.  He took the time to learn what people liked about my podcast, and he suggested I should emphasize those elements when I promote my show.  He’s probably right.  As it turns out, however, I’m no sort of promoter.  I’m not sure I could sell tickets to The Second Coming of Christ.  It’s just not in me to promote effectively.

He also suggested I would be more successful if I did more interviews, even if they were with people who are not celebrities.  That’s also just not in me.  I recognize, however, that I’m not the only good writer I know.  This week, I’m going to introduce you to my friend, Shoshana Edwards.  I’m not going to interview her because I really don’t do interviews well.  Barbara Walters, may she rest in peace, I’m not.  Interviewing people is an entirely different skill set.  I respect people who do it well.  I’m simply not one of them.

Instead of interviewing Shoshana, I’m going to share her writing with you.  Yes, she gave me permission.  I don’t plagiarize, although I steal quotations ruthlessly.

I’m going to share with you three pieces of her prose and one of her poems.  She has much more than you will hear on this show.  I narrated her book, “Deathly Waters,” which is one of her three novels about Harper’s Landing.  It’s a little hole in the wall town with a supernatural element to it.  I’ll put the Amazon link to her books in the Show Notes.  She also has a Patreon page where she shares some of her best work.  I’ll put a link to that in the Show Notes, too, and I encourage you to join that page to see more of her work.

One of the things Shoshana does several times a week is introduce to a friend of hers.  I’m going to use my favorite of her introductions to introduce you to her:

***

In thinking about who I wanted to recognize today, I came to the realization that ALL of you matter, every single one of you.  You make a difference in my life, every single day.  Whether I call you or you call me; or I read something you wrote. If I see a picture you post, or read of your loss, your pain, your frustration.

You are unique, and yet we are all alike.  What a strange and magical dissonance that is.  You are tall, I am short.  She is large, he is skinny.  They are Black, he is brown.  You run races; I can’t walk.  So different, so unique.  Yet…

We all hurt when something pokes or burns us, or we trip and fall.  We all love for various reasons, and we all feel anger.  Psychologists can list emotions, and each and every one of us can remember, if we are willing, a time when we felt those emotions. Philosophers can speak of great ambitions and impeccable logic, and all of us will understand if the words are carefully chosen and the meaning is presented clearly and simply.

We all get cold, hot, sweaty, sick, aroused, hungry; and we all satisfy those longings and needs in unique and different ways.  Yet we all wear clothing (at least some of the time), sleep, eat, make love (to others or ourselves).

We are stardust.  We are unique.  And we are the commonality that makes up the human race.  And YOU, you are rare and beautiful and wonderful and amazing and gifted and lovely and worthy of everything magical and marvelous that comes your way.  You inspire me.  You make me want to climb up out of my hole of despair, out of my bed of pain, away from the mire of depression, and write to you of stories, of people who have overcome, people who have loved.  Because that is who you are.

Thank you.  My life would be empty and without hope if it were not for YOU.  YOU make me strive to be better.  YOU inspire me.  You are my hope and longing and mentor and audience.  I love you.  All of you.

Who inspires you?  Have you told them today?  Have you introduced them to the world?

***

Next, Shoshana writes of an emotion we have all felt, some of us more frequently than others.  Instead of explaining it, I’ll let her tell you.

***

I want to talk to you about grief.  So many of us are going through losses of various kinds.  Grief isn’t just about losing someone you love.  It is also about losing your physical strength, your livelihood, a cherished friendship, or a beloved pet.  And we (meaning Americans because we seem peculiarly trained for this) are taught to “control” our grief.  Some of us have even been taught to hide it.  And that is literally killing us.

I have buried four children, six grandchildren, three great grandchildren, and two husbands.  I lost my breasts to cancer.  My liver is damaged because of HepC (now cured, thank goodness).  Because of a serious accident in college that broke my back among other things, I now suffer severe and debilitating arthritis.  And I wish I could tell you I handled all this loss with grace.  I didn’t.

No, I told myself to be strong.  I braved it through.  I cried and still do sometimes, but did it privately. And when tears appeared either in public or with a family member or friend, I apologized and pulled myself together.  The energy I could have spent on healing myself was instead squandered on pretending to be someone I wasn’t.

So now I am falling apart.  And I’m letting myself fall apart.  Because I have to.  I need help in putting myself back together again, in a stronger version of me.  All that grief has been festering, causing anxiety and depression and failure and need and a raft of other things that have kept me from being the best me possible.

So I’m falling apart. It’s rather like taking a lovely, old dress and carefully taking out all the seams.  Then you can look for tears that need repairing, holes that can be patched, and you put the dress back together again.  And it’s lovely and beloved and stronger than before.  That’s what I’m doing.  And you, my dear dear friends, are helping, whether you know it or not.

Thank you for loving me.  Thank you for being there even when it is difficult.  Picking out those old, failing stitches is hard work, and sometimes it seems impossible.  Repairing the holes is tedious, painstaking work, and sometimes you just want to throw the whole damn thing in the basket and forget about it.  You keep me going.  Thank you.  I love you all.

If you are holding in grief, let it out.  Howl at the moon.  Call a friend; Join a support group.  Paint, write, carve — create something from those feelings.  Let them happen.  It’s rather like an emotional abcess, messy as hell to be drained and cleaned, but necessary because the damn things spread.

And just as you have been there for me, I will be there for you.

I love you.

***

Shoshana possesses a skill I lack, and I envy her for it.  She is a poet.  Those who know the least about writing claim poetry is the easiest kind of writing.  6th graders love it because it is short.  Those of us who actually know something about it recognize that real poetry (as opposed to what most 6th graders write, or anything you’re likely to read in a Hallmark card) is the most difficult and demanding writing one can do.  It’s not just that every word matters, it’s that the sound of every word is vital.  You have a very short space to create the most powerful catharsis you can.  T.S. Eliot and Robert Frost can do it.  Emily Dickinson and Elizabeth Barrett Browning can do it.  And Shoshana Edwards can do it, too. 

***

SOMEWHERE

Somewhere a baby is crying its first cry, pulling in its first breath,

Unfamiliar feelings torture its soul, until someone wraps it tight,

Swaddled in blankets, warm; and held next to a beating heart,

A familiar sound and all seems well.

Somewhere a grandmother breathes her last breath,

Eyes fixed upon the man she has loved for countless hours and days and years.

Surrounded by children and grandchildren, hands comforting her

As she breathes goodbye to love and wonder and pain.

Somewhere a couple, joined together in love and trust

Has their first orgasm together, first one, crying out in joy and anguish and pleasure

As the other thrusts again and again, joining in that overwhelming burst

Of organic bliss and pain and taste of heaven.

Somewhere, everywhere

Life begins and ends and ebbs and swells

And all that ever was and ever will be

Is wrapped up in one eternal, glorious gift.

Awake, my people.  Lift your eyes to the heavens.

The sun has risen, the moon is full, the sky lightens, the stars shine bright.

This magic ball on which we walk and crawl and run and love and kill

Demands that we be grateful, else we lose it all.

Somewhere, new life begins.

A new earth is born, even as another dies.

We are not forever; we are only here for a while.

Be still, my children, and hear the pulse of creation.

We are the universe, born in a burst of stars

Whirling out into space, gathering planets as they fly

And when the circling starts, the gyre and gimble controlled,

The seas and land make known their presence.

And out of the sea comes life.

Somewhere.

Everywhere different.

Is there love wherever life begins?

Is this thing called love a human construct

Or an eternal truth found wherever life begins?

What joy that we have minds that ask such questions,

Contemplate such wonder.

Somewhere…

***

This is Fred’s Front Porch Podcast, where I like to leave you with hope, which, as someone tells me, is the thing with feathers.  This time, I’ll leave you with Joy, by Shoshana Edwards.

***

JOY

He told me to write about joy.  What is joy?  Is it dancing in the wet grass early in the morning, just before the sun comes up?  Is it the first crocus?  The jonquil between the cracks on the sidewalk?  Or perhaps the moon after weeks of clouds and rain and snow.

But those things, joyous as they are, do not reside in the depths of my soul.  They are happy memories to be pulled out on rainy days and displayed for the mind’s entertainment when nothing seems alive outside.  Everything is sleeping, waiting for spring to creep in and tickle them into bloom.

I do not go to my soul.  I let it lie, hidden under mental quilts, protected, and comforted and bundled against discovery.  My soul is a library of memories; stacks to wander when I am brave, confronting the rage leaping out of the journals and diaries and secret puzzle boxes stored away on dusty shelves.

Joy stays outside, leaning against the door jamb, beckoning me away from the dark corridors of pain, urging me back into the sunlight and promise of a better day.  But my venture into the soul repository brings back with it a small piece of bitter sorrow, a remembrance of a childhood party destroyed, an achievement belittled, and friendship that never existed.  And I spend my time tucking it back into a new volume, time when I could be romping with joy in a room full of chocolates and tea and friends.

Does joy allow for tears?  What are tears of joy to me, when tears are the only possible release from memories of a life shackled by mental illness and pain?  What is happiness to a mind rejected because of its monstrous difference from normal?  Where does joy fit in a life full of rejection and doubt and disability?

He told me to write about joy.  I weep for the child who knew no joy, for the mother who lost her children before joy could make them walk and talk and laugh and smile, for the wife who endured humiliation and pain, for the woman who offered friendship and received rejection.

I cannot write of joy.  Except I can when I look at a newborn kitten or a bursting bud filled with rosy promise of scent and color.  I can when the night is clear and the moon seems close enough to touch; when the rain patters on the patio roof outside my window; when the music is so painfully beautiful that you can swim on the rising swell of the violins, slide down the soft English horn descant, and dance to the trumpet staccato.  There is no joy within me, but I find joy outside and invite it into the parlor for tea cakes and conversation.  It leaves, but for those few moments, there is joy.

Order Shoshana’s books here:

https://www.amazon.com/Deathly-Waters-Harpers-Landing-America/dp/1952825202/ref=sr_1_1?crid=ZR7T2P6NG94G&keywords=deathly+waters&qid=1674862811&sprefix=%2Caps%2C114&sr=8-1

Find her on Patreon here:

https://www.patreon.com/ShoshanaEdwards/posts

Posted on by Fred

Two Moments: Clara’s Father

Clara was not quite 5 that day in 1954 while she sat in her bedroom playing with her doll. The sun was shining happily through her windows, and she was singing to herself about a very small spider and a water spout. At first, she was oblivious to the yelling outside. She’d heard it all before. 65 years later, though, she would look back to that day and continue to wonder.

She would remember the feeling of her head snapping up when she heard the car door slam far more loudly than it ever had before. She would never be able to remember the words she heard, but she would be quite certain they were unfit for a 4 year old. She sat there for a full minute, frozen just a little by the unexpected excitement.

Her father had been away in the War for most of her life, and she’d known him a little less than a year, or, just over 20% of the time she had been inhabiting this planet. He yelled often, and often in the middle of the night. Clara’s mother feared him. Clara never did. She didn’t really understand fear. And yet…

The sound of her mother screaming, “No!” frightened her. The sound came from within the house.

His haggard face appeared at the window first. A moment later his hands appeared on the sides of his face, and his large, frightened eyes began to squint. Clara would later believe he wanted to make sure she was there. One hand was empty. In the other was an M1911, or a Colt Government. It caught a spark of sunlight before it, the hands, and the face disappeared.

It was the way the red splashed the window that she thought, for just the tiniest moment, was pretty. She was deaf for nearly a minute, and then her ears were ringing while she cried into her doll baby. By the time her mother found Clara, the doll was dripping.

***

No ghost was necessary. Her father was more real than any ghost could ever be. When he approached her, smiling, she felt a tinge of joy. When he held up the gun, she closed her eyes, but since her eyes were already closed, it did nothing to obscure the image from her view. The memory was stronger than any darkness could hide. When he put the gun in his mouth, she screamed and woke herself up.

Clara sat alone in her bed, shivering. A memory she could hardly remember had haunted her for 65 years. She longed for an escape that could never come.

She remembered the stories. Foul play was involved. No, that wasn’t true. Mom had found a suicide note in his own handwriting. It discussed the Napalm he had dropped on other human beings. It discussed a deep self loathing. It said the death toll from the Korean War would never be accurately calculated. She wondered if hers would be counted.

Posted on by Fred · 2 Comments

Horace’s Night Out

Setting Up

“You’re going to be fine,” Irma told the clearly horrified Horace when they stepped through the door.

He stood looking around the massive lobby, and Horace immediately got cold inside. The American Dental Association was having some sort of conference here, and they were everywhere. His teeth began to ache.

The lobby was like a cathedral. It had its own marble waterfall that cascaded all but silently to the floor below. A sweeping staircase led down there, but there was no way Horace was going to see beneath the surface. He just knew there were even more people there, and the distance between himself and the music would be greater. The lobby included its own outdoor patio, and the music was audible there. But he could no more smoke there than in the vestry of a church. He would have to go past the Valet Parking into a corner about 50 yards from the door where the Smoker’s Outpost was located, so the healthy people could walk by and stare at the smokers contemptuously.

“I need you to put that over by the water.”

Horace was still reeling in a quiet terror. “What? You mean downstairs?”

“No.” She pointed to a spot halfway across the lobby. “Literally right beyond the water.”

“Oh! Okay.” He took a deep breath and walked in the direction she pointed, carrying some sort of stand for her little mini computer on top of his clipboard. He set them down on the ledge next to a pool of water. He sat down next to them, and told himself he was a roadie, working for Jackson Browne, so it was all right for him to be there. Irma walked past carrying her keyboard. “Okay… not so much of a roadie, I guess,” he whispered, surreptitiously in the noise of the the busy lobby.

A woman of about 40 walked by, speaking perfectly audibly to the man next to her.

“Have you hatched the second season?”

“How can someone speak in typographical errors?”

Irma looked up from the cords she was connecting. “What?”

“The lady that just walked by. I have no idea what she meant, and she was too close for me to misunderstand her.”

“What did she say? Is it important? I mean, you know, I’m kinda busy here.”

“Would you like me to help you set up your stuff?

“Would you like me to hit you?”

“No,” he said thoughtfully. “That wouldn’t be in my best interests, I don’t think.”

“Then let’s assume it’s not a good plan.”

Horace sat and thought for a moment about the woman. They were gone before he had the chance to hear the man’s reply. What could she possibly have meant?

Horace got off the ledge, and found a table as close to Irma as possible. He sat down in a chair that belonged in a wealthy person’s living room, and tried to fade into nothingness.

***

December 27, 1992

A ringing phone was the last thing Horace wanted to hear. Christmas was over. He’d already called Winnie to say happy birthday. This needed to be his time.

The phone rang again. “Goddammit!” He set his little plastic bong down behind his antiquated recliner, pulled the lever to release the foot rest, and got his feet to the carpet. He moved the book from his lap to the floor next to his bong, and sighing, stood up. He walked to the phone on the peeling pine desk. “Hello.”

There was music and laughter coming from the other end of the phone. There was a crowd obscuring the voice trying to communicate with him. Her words were indecipherable.

“What?” He was more irritated now. “Who is this?”

“Horace! I went out.”

“Winnie?”

“Who? Oh, yes, me! Yeah. So, I went out.”

“You sound a little drunk.”

“No, I’m not. Not, you know, like really drunk or anything. It’s my birthday!”

The noise behind her was growing louder. A small crowd laughed.

“Cut it out! I’m on the phone…” She lowered her voice to the point it was almost indistinguishable. “… with my boyfriend.”

“You found the only bar in Iowa?”

“No, I’m not in California, Horace. I’m in Iowa. I’m a long way from you.”

“Yes, dear. I know. I went out to visit you last week. Did you forget that already?”

“Stop it!”

“Stop what?”

“No, not you.” The voices of young men overpowered hers, but she kept talking anyway. “I just wanted to call you. I saw this phone booth, and I thought I should call. Aren’t I a good girlfriend?” She was giggling.

“Winnie, please don’t drive home. Okay?”

“Someone here will give me a ride. Thanks for thinking of me.” Hooting and hollering filled the phone line for a moment. And then…

The line went dead.

Horace was not naive. He could feel his blood physically heating up. He went to his 6 disc CD player, pulled the cassette, and emptied it somewhat obsessively. The discs lay neatly piled on top of the entertainment center. He stormed to the CD rack standing on the wall to the right of the TV, and he began searching. He knew that only music could help him right now.

Within less than a minute, he was totally frustrated, and his face was turning red. He knelt to the records neatly organized beneath the entertainment center. He skipped over classical, jazz, and rock. He moved into soundtracks. Max Steiner’s Casablanca was neatly wedged between Caddyshack and Close Encounters. He took it out, stood up, and put it on. His breathing got heavier, and his heart was beating far too rapidly.

As Dooley Wilson began to sing, Horace turned on the little desk light, turned out the overhead, sat back in the recliner, and loaded his bong. He blinked the tears out of his eyes.

***

The First Set

“I left the house tonight,” Horace typed into his Facebook on his phone, “which is something I rarely do, in my slightly overlarge jeans and my freshly washed blue shirt. I had hoped they would act as camouflage. They didn’t. I needed a name tag for that.” As the people continued to flow in and out of the lobby, he began almost to quiver. Fortunately, Irma had begun playing by now, and when he could connect with the music, and the people could be expelled from his mind, it helped calm him.

“So, why am I nervous as hell? There are people here. They are all light years out of my social class. They have vastly more wealth than I have ever had. Many of them are wearing name tags. They are all better dressed than I am. If nothing else, their clothes all fit them properly. One of them, a man 20 years or so my senior, just sat down at my table in the lobby. I may well perish from People.” He hated writing straight to Facebook, but he used it it like a journal. It had become an outlet for his stress. And people seemed to approve. His stress was off the scale.

Horace looked peripherally at the man to his left. He wondered if he ought to ask him to leave the table. There was something in his demeanor, though, that Horace recognized. Horace knew he needed the music. He kept staring at the elevator, as if waiting for someone to appear.

“But… the music is mine. Yes, I’m sharing it with dozens of other people, but mostly it’s mine. Irma is playing a unique version of Elton John’s “Your Song,” and there is something comforting in a new version of an old broken-in shoe. I can breathe.”

If it had been a woman who had sat down, Horace would have felt obliged to leave.

Evidently the man was getting uncomfortable sharing the table with a stranger. He walked through the lobby, out the door, and he turned to his left before he vanished from sight. That was a man who needed a cigarette.

The elevator opened, and the blonde woman who had thought seasons of television shows came from eggs stepped, somewhat clumsily, out of the elevator. She looked around a moment, as though searching for someone, and then all but ran across the lobby to a handsome, well dressed man in an expensive suit. He was waving at her. He reached to hug her, but she stopped him, looking nervously around.

Irma began playing again, and Horace turned to watch her. When he turned back, the couple were gone.

July 10, 1993

“Oh for God’s sake!” yelled Winnie. “Can’t you even do this right?”

“It’s nowhere near as easy as it looks in the movies,” Horace grunted as he tried to balance Winnie in his arms while fighting with key to the hotel room door.

“Jesus!” She jumped out of his arms. Her wedding dress snagged on his ring. “Fuck!”

“We’ll get it fixed.”

“Yeah, but on my Wedding Day? Seriously?”

Horace finally turned the key. He opened the door. “All right. Let’s try it again.”

“I think we should go get my Mom to do it.”

“You’re a genuine romantic, aren’t you?”

Winnie rolled her eyes. “Let’s just get it the hell over with.”

Horace lifted her into his arms, carried her across the threshold, and laid her carefully on the bed. “I love you, you know.”

“Just close the door before bugs get in here.”

***

Break

Horace had given up writing on Facebook, and he was scribbling on his clipboard.

“I feel like the other people here are all the same people who strolled passed Joshua Bell playing in the subway without ever noticing. And, as much as I fear them, I pity them even more. What must it be like to be unable to feel music? Dostoevsky said, “Fathers and teachers, I ponder, ‘What is hell? I maintain that it is the suffering of being unable to love.’” I think the inability to feel music must be the Second Level of Hell. I wonder what Dante would think? When you can’t feel music, when you can’t let it grab you and demand your attention, how much less catharsis must you feel than I do? And without catharsis, how can you love?”

He went to the Men’s Room. It was twice the size of his living room. The paper towel dispenser said “Tork.” He thought of The Monkees. He was sad for a moment.

Horace’s heart jumped into his throat when he returned to his table to see four women occupying it. They would have taken it over entirely, but he had his clipboard and pen on it, as well as the soda the bartender has been refilling for him gratis. One of the women, who was distractingly attractive, said, “Sorry,” and lifted her drink.

Horace calmly replied, “No worries.” He considering throwing up.

“I don’t know how I managed to sit down, except that, since my knees wanted to buckle under me, I thought it was probably the least embarrassing move available to me at the moment. I am, without a doubt, the least coordinated person you will ever meet. Falling is exceptionally painful, now that I’m 56, and my body can’t change positions without a significant effort. Either standing or sitting always requires a reasonably unpleasant grunting sound. How I wish the crowd could make a little more noise, or that Irma would return from her break and start playing so I could sit without attracting unwanted attention.”

With a reasonably unpleasant grunting sound, he sat in the beautiful chair. None of the women looked over. His gratitude was without bounds. They were either being polite by ignoring him (which is a feat in, and of, itself), or the universe was giving him a break, and they hadn’t heard him.

He picked up his clipboard. He began to write rapidly, almost as though he could outrun his discomfort by writing intensely. Faith healers say when they fail, it’s because someone didn’t have enough faith. Writing healers will tell you when they fail it’s because they weren’t writing well enough.

He went to refill their sodas for the third time, and the bartender, with whom he had become as friendly as possible for him with a stranger, said, “Why is there lipstick on both straws if one of these is yours?”

“I don’t know. I’ll have to ask Irma if she’s been drinking out of my glass. You’d be surprised how little lipstick I wear.”

She laughed a little too much at that. He wished he could tip her. Poverty, he decided, had distinct disadvantages.

He heard the elevator ding, and he looked toward it. There stood the man who had shared his table. The worried husband didn’t get on. He was waiting for someone to get off.

***

November 27, 1997

Horace paced the hallway, almost frantically, holding the phone receiver in his left hand. How the hell long did she need to stay out with him? She would be stepping out of the elevator any moment, he reassured himself.

“Fifteen hours I drove!” He realized he was yelling into the phone. He brought his voice down to avoid disturbing other guests. “Fifteen fucking hours!”

“Well,” said his mother on the other end of the phone, “at least you didn’t make the trip alone. It was nice of Marc to go with you. I didn’t worry as much.”

“He’s been out with her for four hours now, Ma. Come on!”

“Is getting angry likely to change the situation?” His father’s voice was completely calm.

“It seems unavoidable to me.”

“I think you can control your feelings a bit better. Explain to me, please, exactly what you and Winnie, and… what’s this guy’s name?”

“Marc. His parents owned the house Winnie and I bought.”

“Marc, then. What are you three doing in Colorado, exactly?”

Horace sighed. Mom knew all this. They talked about it every night. Dad’s discussions were limited to Art and philosophy. Personal lives had little meaning for him. “Okay. Winnie lost her teaching license. There was some test she was supposed to take. She can’t teach out there, anymore, so we decided to move to Colorado. She was tired of California, anyway, and I thought that was fine. She came out here first, with much of our stuff, and she worked out buying a house. The house won’t be ready until next week, so she has this hotel room. I drove straight from Hesperia to bring the rest of our stuff.”

“So, why is this Marc person with you?”

“Hal, I don’t want him driving all that way alone. It could be dangerous!”

“Okay,” said his dad. “So, what’s the problem tonight?”

“I drove fifteen hours straight. I did all the driving. When we got here, I was beyond exhausted. I wanted to sleep. Winnie wanted to go out. I went to bed. She and Marc went out. They’ve been gone 4 hours.”

“Do you have a radio in your room?” Hal wasn’t changing his tone in the slightest.

Horace took a deep breath. “Yeah. I think so.”

“Then this is what you want to do. You go back to your room. You find Colorado Public Radio. They will play music deep enough to pull you in properly. Did you bring any books on the trip?”

“Just the Salinger.”

“Nine Stories?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Then you read The Laughing Man while you’re listening to the radio. Do not read A Perfect Day for Bananafish. Also skip Teddy.”

Horace laughed. “You don’t want me emulating Seymour?”

“What on Earth do you mean?” His mother was confused.

“In A Perfect Day for Bananafish, Seymour shoots himself, Marie.”

“Oh! Right. I remember now.”

“And make sure the swimming pool has water in it before you go diving in.”

Horace laughed a little harder. “Yeah, I will, Dad. That’s not where I am right now.”

“I know. But you can’t change the world; only your corner of it. In your corner you’re going to relax now. You’ll deal with Winnie when she gets back.”

“Yeah. You’re right. Okay.” He took a deep breath. His blood had cooled. His skin was returning, slowly, to its natural color. His heart was slowing down.

The elevator bell chimed. Horace looked over to it. “Gotta go,” and he hung up the phone.

Winnie stepped off the elevator, her makeup smeared, her hair something of a mess, and a look in her eyes that told Horace the entire story. The marriage, Horace knew at once, was over.

***

The Last Set

The crowd had dissipated. The old man had returned to the table that commanded such an excellent view of the elevator. Irma was playing so well that Horace had finally gotten to connect completely with the music. He paid little attention to his companion.

Between songs, Horace glanced over at him. He was texting as passionately as a man in his seventies possibly can. His face was red now, and it was clear he was trying to contain his emotions.

Irma began singing again. “You’re overthinking it; what else is new?” Her voice wasn’t smooth, but it soothed the soul. “These thoughts will be the death of me and you.” She had an edge that gave greater depth to the words. It made the melody less the stuff of pop music, and more in the style of an independent jazz artist. She was forging her own musical path.

The old man looked up and put his phone down. The music had finally broken through his stress. He was beginning to feel it, now, too. In a few minutes, there was a hint of a smile on his face. It had lightened. The redness was all but gone.

Irma finished, made her regular announcement of who she was, and thanked everyone for coming. The old man looked back to his phone.

Horace grabbed Irma’s purse, got up and all but ran to Irma. “So, I hate to ask, but I really have to.”

She unplugged her mic and looked up at him. “Ask what?”

“First, I need to borrow ten bucks. I need to buy that guy a scotch.”

“I know you’re not gay…”

“No. He’s having a hell of a night. His wife is cheating on him.”

She looked over to the old man, staring at his phone. The look on his face told the entire story. “Oh. Yeah. I see that.” She plugged her mic back in. “You have my purse, yet, right?” He held it up. “Go get him his drink. I’ll do one more.”

“Cool. That was going to be my second request.”

Horace scampered across the lobby to the bar.

“So,” asked the bartender, “was Irma drinking out of your glass?”

“She denies it vehemently. It was probably Rhiannon.”

“Who?”

“Never mind. Could I get a scotch please?”

“Sure. On the rocks?”

“That guy’s wife is cheating on him,” he said nodding toward his table. The man stood up slowly.

“Right. Neat.”

“I think that would be appropriate.”

The piano began, and Horace looked over and saw the old man stop, turn to Irma, and then sit down at the table again.

“You must remember this,” came Irma’s voice floating confidently across the bar. As Horace returned to the table he saw the man’s eyes begin to water.

“We’ve decided your name is Rick,” said Horace sitting down at the table, putting the drink in front of the old man. “Sam played it for him. Irma can play it for you.”

The old man smiled lightly. “That’s mighty kind, son.”

“The fundamental things apply, as time goes by…”

The old man brightened nostalgically. In a moment, his eyes flickered shut, and he knew a quiet bliss.

The blonde woman opened the outer door and drifted quickly across the lobby. Her hair was a mess. Her makeup was smeared. Horace looked at the old man, his eyes still closed. He thought, for a moment, he wouldn’t see her.

But, as though he had felt some sort of electrical shock, his eyes flew open and he spotted her heading toward the elevator. He stood up, and he shouted across the lobby. “LISA!”

The woman froze in her tracks. She turned slowly.

The man glared furiously, then said, “Here’s lookin’ at you, kid,” lifted his drink, and downed it. He set it on the table and walked out calmly.

“It’s still the same old story, the fight for love and glory, a case of do or die…”

The woman paled, watched the man leave, and then went to the elevator. She stepped inside and disappeared.

Posted on by Fred

The Love and Loss of a Dog

Mom, Melanie, and Me

There is no love quite like the love you can get from your dog. She will come running up to you and cover you with kisses when you get home from work. She’ll make you feel loved and special, as though you are the greatest and most important being who ever existed in the universe. I have two ex wives. Neither of them ever came close to my dog, Melanie, for making me feel loved. On the other hand, neither of them ever pooped on my floor, either, so perhaps it evens out.

Your dog will lie with her head in your lap or on your chest. She will be by your side through the worst times. She can provide protection. But, more than any of this, she simply works her way into your heart in ways no human can. She’ll never lie to you. She’ll never tell the secrets you share with her. Melanie doesn’t mind in the least that I am old, broken, and not particularly attractive. She loves Me, not my body. I’ve never known a woman about whom I could honestly say that. She makes me smile, and laugh, and sing. (I sing to Melanie for Breakfast and at Bedtime. Fortunately, she can’t tell that I suck.) A dog will show you Joy you never knew was possible. And, finally, she will break your heart.

Melanie is a part of my routine. The day will come, I know, when I don’t get to sing The Breakfast Song to her anymore. Her head won’t be on my lap when I’m sad. I won’t see her tail wagging joyously simply because she sees me. And my world will be just a little emptier.

There are those who will tell you, “It’s only a dog; get over it.” These people are to be ignored. They don’t understand the depths of your feelings. She was there all the time. She relied on you for her survival, and you relied on her for the only feeling of being Completely Loved that you will ever really have. It doesn’t need to be rational. Love rarely is.

What do you have left? You have your memories of the good times you had. You can recall her highs, her lows, her joys, her woes, and the moments you shared with her. You have the look in her eyes that told you how she was feeling. You have, still, and always, the love she gave to you without expecting anything in return. You have a Badge of Honor because you can say, “I have been loved by a dog.”

And when your dog is gone, those who love you will help you through the loss. I probably don’t know you, but if you have lost your dog, you are worthy of love. I hope these words might have helped to fill in just a little part of the massive hole your dog’s departure has left in your heart.