When the Ball Drops

From a distance, there is shouting and horns, tiny explosions, confetti floating down like bleached fireflies. The Christmas decorations are already superfluous.
When the ball drops is the void suddenly filled? Will good friends morph through walls, hugging and toasting each other? Do bad memories erase quickly in a haze of cocktails? Does the shell of isolation finally crack?
We need a different song to replace Old Lang Syne. Perhaps "Maybe" by the Chantels is more appropriate; it offers hope for a different future.
Ryan Seacrest is in mid-sentence when I shut the TV. This night is too, too long. I listen as the horns fade into silence.

Behind Every Man

Behind every man there is a jet stream of gravitas. By virtue of his gender, man possess weight. Women are graceful and compassionate, but the element of gravitas is lacking.
I expend little effort in taking command of a situation. It's how I open a door, enter a room, gauge its contents, carefully place myself into a chair, establishing my dominance, a damn force field of intimidation. When I clear my throat the others lean forward in anticipation.
In FRONT of every man there is challenge, conquest, power, choices that mold entire nations. Behind us is the sweet vapor of remembrance of accomplishments with all that entails--subjugation, bending others to one's will. Mesmerizing those who would impale themselves seeking transmutation of power, our power.
Yes, behind every man lies a parchment containing insights and ideas for the ages, and that sweet aroma of iron-fisted, single minded dominance.
Unless he has had cabbage for dinner, in which case, the aroma is not quite as sweet.

First Night Joe

To generate some cash, I've created First Night Joe, a series of events held at my place on New Year's Eve for those sick of shelling out big bucks charged at various venues, as well as for tea teetotalers. The fee is $10 and it runs from 8PM to 3AM. Certainly if you wish to BYOB that's fine.
The evening will consist of vibrant conversation, light refreshments, music of your choice--I have an eclectic CD collection--some dancing in my limited space and karaoke if you're up to it.
The bulk of the festivities will focus on you watching me perform various activities--mixing salad, writing, painting, reciting my poetry, doing impressions of 1940's character actors, perhaps a soft shoe. I'll also be modeling some wardrobe items I bought at Marshall's during their post Christmas blowout. I have a unique collection of my old sneakers dating back to 1975. I will reveal my mom's broccoli rabe recipe, and show six albums of family photos from when we lived in a tiny apartment in Union City and I had to share a bed with my brother who kept me up half the night.
Of course we'll all watch the ball drop together in between aerobics. I expect my friends to be in top shape. It's the least you could do for me. I'll use the admission money for therapy, as you might expect. Let's welcome in the new year together.

My Blood, My Nerves

They're testing my blood flow, measuring my nerve responses. Shackling me to a table, sticking me with pins, zapping me with electro-shocks, tightening collars around my thighs calves, ankles and big toes. There is no one to hold my hand or calm me. My mouth is dry as I anticipate each shock, each sting, each tightening. Nasal discharge pours into my throat. I can't speak without stuttering or slurring. They stare at screens, chart lines and graphs, do not make eye contact.
The soft music playing on the intercom makes me close my eyes. I try to slow my breathing, inhale deeply and hold it. If I dare twitch when I shouldn't I can only imagine the consequences. I can hear low voices to my left coming from the waiting room. Ominous voices. Perhaps they are discussing what to do with me if my scores fall below a certain point.
Ow. That one hurt, but I dare not verbalize this. I try to small talk them, but my words clothes-line like damp laundry. They are uninterested in my opinions. I am a slab of flesh, pale and vein covered. The whirring of the collars, the bands tightening; my body tenses. Why couldn't they give me a lollipop before the procedures?
I hate my podiatrist.

Crew

I need a crew. I know this term is associated with hip hop artists, but I feel the concept should be expanded. As a writer I experience isolation. There are points where my mind is Hoda and Kathy Lee, babbling fragments of ideas without structure or logic. On the other end of the spectrum, I will stare at furniture, specifically dust on furniture, waiting for one stinking idea.
If I had a crew around me, interacting, rubbing my shoulders, offering encouragement or just yapping to each other, I'd have constant stimulation, which would lead to ear popping sentences, entire paragraphs, and maybe a short story. I'd probably have to change my wardrobe (early nineties slob), drink more, wear facial jewelry and many rings, but those are minor sacrifices.
If I went out to, say, Walmart, my crew would follow me in, surround me, comment on my purchases like copy paper and fuzzy slippers. Then we'd head to Wendy's, commandeer two tables, talk loudly and forget to throw away our trash. I'm not sure what else crews do. Once this expansion is accepted, other professions could adopt the crew concept. Museum curators, park rangers, short order cooks, pole dancers, computer tech guys, game wardens, the list is endless.
One possible problem is space if my crew wants to actually live with me. I'll do the cot thing for awhile, but not as a steady diet. Bad back. And I don't have enough enough socks to cover their needs.

Garbage

What to do with all this garbage we are generating? Work out a deal with Canada?
Are people bartering their garbage with neighbors? The new coffee machines eliminate coffee grinds. Reusable bags is a step in the right direction. Creating throw rugs out of pet dander is progressive. Universities offering courses in compost heap creation is another way to go.
I have a beat up old recliner. I sit in it and paint. Instead of using turpentine, I've gotten into the nasty habit of wiping my brushes on its sides. The result is a frightening abstract painting on both sides of my recliner. I could pay the super $20 to take it to the dumpster, but I'm embarrassed to let him see it. I actually obtained a perfectly good rocking chair from said dumpster. I wish I could say I have fond memories of that recliner, but all I recall is falling asleep at a bad angle and waking up with a sore neck.
Perhaps my biggest garbage problem is getting rid of all the bad sentences I've written. Suppose a garbage man with an English degree comes across a packet while dumping barrels. Would he become furious and turn me in to the composition authorities? I heard they use truncheons.

2012 Here I Come

I'm turning over a new leaf. New priorities, new approach.
Next year I'm attacking my nose and ear hair with a high powered trimmer. I will have my bathtub re-glazed and my tiles power cleaned, in case I have visitors, which never seems to happen. I will be more positive, more assertive, create distinct boundaries around my space and loudly inform people if they have invaded my territory.If the food is not cooked to my specifications I will send it back with a stern glare.
I will impart little information about myself. Let folks speculate who the real Joe is.My mystique will have length and breath. When I stride into a room there will be dense murmuring.
I will ask for free refills whenever possible. I will see at least one movie with subtitles. I will sue one person. I will learn to ski, play backgammon, to mold clay into something recognizable, to rumba without a partner if necessary, to change my transmission fluid, to stifle coughs in a crowded theater. I will focus on reading people's faces to determine if they are trustworthy enough to enter into my inner circle, and make no mistake, I will have an inner circle. Finally, I will have a lot more fun without resorting to battery operated devices.

Broken Dish

Billy, that was great grandma's dish you just broke. It's been in our family for decades. What were you doing in that cabinet? GG served beef stew in that dish. Our family had no money when we came from the old country. We had beef stew seven days a week. That woman sacrificed day and night.
Her brother Augustus got very ill and there was no money to give him a proper burial. There were rumors, but I prefer to think he was buried somewhere.
GG's recipe was a well guarded secret. When the family finally got jobs and began making some money, they were able to celebrate a normal Thanksgiving with a big turkey. Sadly, right about that time your great Aunt Tracey passed on. There are sick people out there, Billy, monsters who spread their disgusting rumors, just like what happened after Augustus died.
GG was a great woman who did whatever she had to to keep the family intact. Perhaps the stuffing had a unique taste, but that only proves what a terrific cook she was. Now let me see if I can glue this dish back together. And please stop staring at me like that.

Eggnog

As a diabetic, I'm not supposed to have eggnog. Too much sugar. But how do you make it through the holidays without at least one glass? The problem is stopping at one. I know they've come up with eggnog ice cream and probably eggnog coffee. I'm hoping for eggnog toothpaste, gravy, soup, stuffing, stew, deodorant, moisturizer, body lotion, pizza topping, tile spray, whipped cream--you get the idea.
Another item probably not good for you that you can't stop eating is Wasabi almonds. I'm not sure if Wasabi is a country or something researchers created. They're hot and salty and cause great thirst, but once you've had them you never go back to smoked almonds.
Unsalted saltines are light as marshmallows, easily devoured by the dozen. It feels like you're crunching air, unlike peanut butter crackers, which are never actually digested. They just set up a table and play cards in your small intestine for years.
There are certain people on TV like Chelsea Handler you know you shouldn't be watching because they supply no intellectual nutrition, but you're too weak to stop. The hope is someday she'll snap and flash the audience. I just pray I'm not sipping eggnog when it happens. Spillage of that elixir would be a tragedy.

My Lesson

I've given up trying to read women. I will never grasp their subtext. Even the intellectuals give you little hint of what's really going on with them. But the quiet ones who refuse to volunteer anything, who just sit there staring at nothing, are impossible to analyze.
Sometimes you're foolish enough to believe you have a bead on their mood or attitude. Then you send a perfectly benign email (I don't text) and wait for a response that will never come. Then you backtrack and go over every word you said in every conversation dating back three years wondering what f aux pas you've committed. Women who laugh easily and make you think they are comfortable in your presence, then snub you out of the blue are creatures put here by a sadistic deity. At least if there was an argument, a reason for their behavior can be established.
Maybe these women suffer from a low level form of autism that hasn't been named yet. Or lack Vitamin D. Detached, indifferent, aloof, whatever the label, after awhile you wonder if it's worth it. Maybe sticking with older, gregarious types who never shut up is the way to go. No mystery there. But a continuing effort to understand and accommodate these ladies is taking too much time away from my stomach crunches. I've learned my lesson. This time I mean it.

Ellen

Why don't I like Ellen anymore? I used to, really. I got sucked into the energy, especially at the opening with all those women screaming. Her monologues were so so, but then she did her little shimmy dance up the aisle and her movements rippled through the audience, lending it a revivalist atmosphere.
I liked her haircut and toothy smile, her look of barely concealed bafflement when her guests said something strange. Always Ellen would bail them out with a one-liner. Yes, there were stupid contests, some involving celebrities making fools of themselves. And those phone calls to strangers were edgy in their unpredictability.
I suppose my attitude began to change when I sensed the screaming was out of control. I mean, after awhile those women would become apoplectic if Ellen coughed. It was like they were in on the joke and I wasn't. At some point enthusiasm becomes mindless and repetitive.
What really drove me away, however, was the plethora of gifts given to those in the studio. Every single show these mostly white, well off ladies were given something. It could be anything from a DVD to a gift card to Saks. On the surface, this is unbridled generosity. Underneath, is a tsunami of consumerism and materialism at a time when millions are starving, homeless, out of work. Christmas season was the worst display of sheer greed. The decibels increase as gift after gift is bestowed upon the anointed kneeling before their Goddess. A complete turnoff and that wouldn't change if it were men receiving this largess.
Harmless, you say. Stop being anal, you say. Well, all I know is at 4pm I am no longer in front of the TV. Instead, I'm sticking March of Dimes icons on my holiday cards. Or at least I plan to if I can just get the damn neighbors to cease caroling in front of my door. Screeching maniacs.

Crush

I guess you reach a point where you don't get crushes anymore. Maybe it's aging or too much information about a person. Having a crush is synonymous with youth. I had a crush on my high school English teacher, an Audrey Hepburn type, very sophisticated. She married before I graduated, but then got divorced. In my dreams I thought I had a shot as a college student. I imagined waltzing in off the street wearing my Rutgers sweatshirt, escorting her out for coffee right after her last class. I remember she asked for a word to fit a definition she gave and for some reason I piped up with 'subservient'. She was stunned. After that I think she viewed me as being secretly much smarter than I had shown before.
I continued to have crushes on women I barely knew from afar. Celebrities? Barbara Hershey, Tuesday Weld, Sue Lyon, Michelle Phillips, Valerie Bertinelli, Ingrid Bergman, who was middle aged, but she was still Ingrid. Grace Kelly was too intimidating. The young Sally Field with that pert little nose. Others, many others.
Of course, one can't speak of these things with friends. Private crushes are so fragile.
These days I'm embarrassed to admit I sort of have a crush on Lauren Graham.Maybe I just loved her character in Gilmore Girls. I haven't been watching her new show Parenthood, so I guess I'm shallow. I wish there were someone living around me that I see frequently, like in the laundry room, who I might develop a crush on. But would I pursue it? Maybe the aroma of fabric softener would stimulate my sensuality and propel me forward. Or maybe not.
.

Tapped

Do you know how many times my car has been tapped by people getting into or out of a parking space? How about dozens. How many times have I confronted them? Zero. If there is no damage why start something that can escalate into a mess?
The other day I was backing up to pull out of a space when I tapped the car behind me. The driver had just gotten out and was standing next to it waiting to cross. I was waiting to pull out. He did not immediately rush over and say anything. About 40 seconds passed and just as I was about to leave, he walks over and says you know you tapped my car. It was his verb and it was accurate. Then he said that's a $150000 machine and I knew right then what I was dealing with. He was poorly shaven, holding half a cigarette, wearing a fatigue shirt. This was not a hedge fund manager. I shrugged and said sorry.
Then the Tom Berringer wannabe launched into a 30 second verbal assault, using longshoreman's language, half turning, gesturing. I let him wind down and watched the jerk cross the street, seething. Him, not me. There was a good chance if I had gotten out of the car there would have been escalation, maybe punches thrown. My lawyer ordered me to walk away from confrontations. With my luck, the crossing guard would have backed him and I'd have been charged with assault. No, that crap doesn't bother me anymore.
I expect little from people and am seldom disappointed. The guy probably had a miserable job, a rotten social life, a history of losses in every arena. He was just itching to spread his foul stench of misery and I would have none of it. I feel nothing for people like that. Let the humanists embrace compassion. I hit the gas and got out of there. I never did check what model car he drove. I'm guessing 150 thou was a bit of an exaggeration.

Closing

It's happening and I hate it. Another B&N closing. It is painful watching a book store close in segments. First they drop prices and plaster the windows with ugly signs. Then, one by one, sections are roped off. Books are consolidated. Empty spaces invade once happily stuffed shelves. Employees skulk around trying to force a smile.
The area in the front lobby, which contained two tables holding last chance books, is now empty. Sloppiness abounds. No one can gather up the energy to replace books left open or magazines scattered around tables.
The floor hasn't been swept. Imagine the bathrooms.
Suddenly whole battalions of customers appear to ravage bargains. Where were these people when the store's future was in the balance?
To be fair, I was part of the problem. I grabbed a book or periodical, headed to the cafe, ordered my drink and maybe a cookie, then spent two hours of free reading without purchasing the material. I hang my head in shame. I did get a Nook, which mitigates part of my guilt, but not enough. I am going to miss this place, as well as the record store next to it, also closing. What good is being retired if you can't go and hang out someplace?
The Starbucks nearby is okay in a pinch, but there are too many old guys sitting outside in warm weather speaking in some Eastern European language I can't understand. I just hope the empty space isn't filled by another Bed, Bath & Beyond. Yeah, beyond boring.

Moves Like Orson

I've always imagined moving like the old Orson Welles. The massive, ponderous, mastodon Welles, pacing himself, filling space with his dignified girth.
I would love to pause over a chair, trying to discern whether it was strong enough to hold me. The man exuded gravitas. Walking across a room, his significance forces itself upon you. I can hear deep grunts and heavy breathing with each step. When someone that size sighs it is as if the weight of the world is on his shoulders. There is certainly solidity there, but little grace.
Now Jackie Gleason was a graceful man. He could execute a polished soft shoe, arms extended, wrists bent, eyelids cooley drooping, brows arched, moving like a slab of butter across a pond. Oh no, Jackie never grunted.
I often wonder what would happen if either man got a wedgie. Would EMS people have the tools to pry apart their cheeks? Would taxpayers have to foot the bill? Would folks in the immediate area have to be evacuated? I'm going to practice moving more deliberately and deepening my grunts. I'll do anything for respect.

That Damn Tree

I went to Rockefeller Center to see the skaters, not that damn tree. I have nothing against big decorated trees. It's the people coming from miles away that drive me nuts, families with tiny cameras pointed straight up as they lean back wearing a beautific smile like this is about as good as it gets.
Charlize Theron is as good as it gets. This is madness. I couldn't get anywhere near the viewing section to see the skaters. I was crushed against Kansas and North Dakota and South Carolina and foreigners from land locked countries. Many lugged Volvo sized shopping bags, pushed streamlined strollers, swung elbows, dipped shoulders and bulled ahead. Someday a Rockette will be crushed in the maelstrom and we as a society will have to answer for it.
Know this--that tree is never is big as it seems on TV, unless Justin Beiber is standing next to it. In fact, that rink is quite small compared to Wollman or even Bryant Park, which has better music and a calliope. Since it's free, one will see more of a variety of native New Yorkers, actual people of color. You won't see some little girl from a rich family getting a lesson in the center of the rink like at Rockefeller, doing awkward spins in her $300 skating dress.
I shouldn't be bitter. This is the holiday season and even though I can't skate I can work out on the elliptical without losing my balance. That's something to hang my hat on. Where the hell did I put my hat?

Paragraph Strike

I just got word there is a paragraph strike. Their union rep released a vague statement mentioning unhappiness about working conditions. This is all I need. A couple of years ago there was a wildcat comma strike and I was frantic. Commas are the underpinnings of my writing. I depend on them for pace and clarity. I floundered for weeks until it was settled. I agreed to use only ten commas per three hundred words so they could have more personal time. I can't imagine what commas do with their personal time, but I suppose they could say the same about me. Normally this is where I'd take a paragraph break, but right now that is not possible because of the circumstances described above. Frankly, I don't feel guilty about this state of affairs. I've never been one to abuse paragraph choices. All of us are familiar with those writers who throw together a couple of sentences, abandon that thought and start a new paragraph. This is slight of hand intellectualism, a sad attempt to convince the reader they have more ideas and insights than you do. God, I want to create a new graph right here so bad. But I don't cross picket lines, except that one time when asterisks went out. I think asterisks are ridiculous and superfluous, especially when you can use a star symbol. I just hope when this mess is settled I still remember how to indent.

My little Dramas

I don't like the way you're looking at me. Did you just say something? Leave my name out of it. I know what I heard and I heard my name mentioned.
Don't squeeze me, alright, I need my space. You know I have boundaries. I sense you're trespassing. Why did you grab for that apple, that particular apple? I told you I clearly had my eye on that piece of fruit. It's called imposing your will on me.
You had all those empty seats. Why did you plant yourself right next to me? Are you bringing that stuff up again? That is old news. I see judgment in your expression. Don't tell me I didn't come to a complete stop. Who's driving here? I know exactly where the place is. And this time I do the ordering. You usurp my independence and take control, knowing I hate lentil soup.
You said it was your idea. I was the one who thought of it and I trusted you. You sucked up all the adoration from our group while I was looked upon as the slacker.
I gave you three choices where to put your tongue. Do not push for four. Shut the damn light. Because it's on your side of the bed. Dear.

Murmuring

I find myself murmuring to myself. It started out as a whisper and escalated. Understand, I'm not talking out loud, but my lips are moving. Usually I am carrying out some task while I'm murmuring. Somehow it doesn't seem as quirky if I'm doing something. If I were just standing there carrying on this personal monologue people would notice and move away. Understand, this is not a conversation or any kind of dialogue with an invisible entity. It's me and me alone.
What subjects are covered? Mostly reminders what I must do next, because, you see, my day consists of hundreds of tiny projects, which, if completed successfully, boost my confidence. Example: (soft voice) Okay, now I open the car door and stick out my legs and emerge. Lock door. Put keys in pocket. Put away glasses. Walk to Staples. Make sure I have my wallet. Don't run over the little kid running right at me with no sense of direction.
In this way, I am twittering to myself, providing instantaneous updates about my goals, like purchasing large paper clips in great quantities. It's called controlling one's environment. Seldom has anyone noticed or heard these soft words. I stop immediately if I sense someone looking at me strangely.
Should I unconsciously raise my voice and begin talking out loud, I would probably seek help, an intervention of some sort. Maybe chew a giant wad of tobacco so no sounds emerge. Okay, here I am in the paper clip section...

In My Trunk

It's all about balance and proportion when organizing a trunk. My car trunk contains the usual--flashlight, seat cushion, spare, anti-freeze, tool kit,Cameron Diaz inflatable doll for those long trips.
     My other trunk is in my basement and contains a wealth of history. I keep rejection letters from editors and women right next to my banded collection of therapist receipts. My one athletic trophy for hop scotch is centered, next to a recording of my Henry Kissinger impression from the seventies. Autographed copies of Jewel's and the Octomom's collections of poetry are in the corner.
Family photos predominate, including Uncle Dom's unfortunate attempt to hang glide and baby Ernestine spitting up on Cousin Sophie.
Over 1400 marbles, won during various competitions, are in a sealed box. Fleece clothing lines the bottom of my trunk. When I'm depressed I empty the entire contents and relive all the poignant experiences these objects represent, including the failed recipes for fish. Somehow things seem brighter when I rub fleece all over my shirtless body. If only I hadn't traded my old baseball cards for investment advice from John Corzine.

My Doctor's Son

My doctor's son is now my doctor. He's much taller than his father and seems energetic, not at all jaded, which is natural since he's only been in the office about a year. He listens to me without being bored. Or maybe he's bored, but disguises it well. His father listened to me too, but spent too much time answering the phone. The problem could be with me. I'm basically a boring patient. I report the same problem every visit--too much eating at night leading to high sugar numbers in the morning.  Lately I've been getting this pain in my right buttock, which is separate from the discomfort in my hip. I don't think it's my posture.
Am I boring you?
Anyway, I have a family photo of my doctor's brood from years ago and his son is maybe ten. He's smiling and looking really small and preteen. Now this little fellow has my life in his hands. His mother works right in the office and his aunt handles billing. Sometimes they have a family conference right in front of me, arguing in Indonesian about something I know has nothing to do with me, unless the son is angry at his dad for transferring such a dull patient to him. Maybe they're pissed at me for breaking their toilet last visit. It's a long story I've probably already told because, not only am I boring, but my memory's going.

Nap

I really want to take a nap right now. I love napping. It's the best thing about being retired. Even if I'm only half asleep, just lying there and daydreaming with TV and radio off, not caring about anything other than switching sides periodically, is at least as productive as meditation. Napping after hitting the gym is Nirvana because you don't feel guilty about sacking out. If you toss in checking emails, opening snail mail, sweeping, writing something brilliant and vigorously flossing before you nap, there is no chance you will feel bad about yourself.
One thing you quickly absorb in retirement is not to think about all those who are out there working. Blank them right out. You did it for thirty plus years and no one sobbed for you. The down side is, of course, you are much closer to death than them. But what is death but one eternal nap?
The dangerous thing about this activity is over napping and missing something important, which is what happened to me on Thanksgiving. But I've learned from that incident. I have to attend a wake later and I am determined to time this nap perfectly so I can be there. So I will wrap this up and get to work napping and stay on schedule. While zonked out I will also be digesting my lunch. Once again, without fanfare, I multitask.

Rain

Rain means I get to stay home and watch reruns of House and Gilmore Girls and old movies on TMC. Rain means I don't answer the phone or door, shut the blinds and don't shave. Continuous precipitation on a Wednesday excuses me from going to the poetry open mike and listen to uneven work by overconfident writers who never pay attention when I get up to read.
Rain means I can paint and read and write insightful blogs, while possibly completing that short story I'm stuck on. It means I can snack incessantly because I promise I will walk it off the following day. I can reexamine my theater pieces, revel in their humor and overall brilliance. I save gas by not moving my car. I let my imagination roam, create jokes, practice my impressions of old TV stars from moderately successful ensemble shows like WKRP in Cincinnati. I take a deep breath and clean out that ancient fruit in my fridge.
I can do hundreds of sit ups and make out bills and write letters I will never send. I can sing R&B favorites, maybe try out some dance moves. I can take my time with bowel movements.
No stress, no pressure, no angst, and, mostly, no expectations on rainy days.
Maybe I'll strip and examine myself in the mirror. Lord knows, I owe myself a reward.

Cabbage and Cauliflower

I have been neglecting cabbage and cauliflower. I consider myself a savvy eater, but those two veggies have always eluded me. Cabbage gives me gas, especially with mustard slathered over it. I think I've had cauliflower less than ten times in my life. I saw on TV how good it is for you. The expert said you can eat it raw. Eating raw cauliflower on a Friday night alone in your apartment means you may as well turn on the gas, shut the windows and lie down.
I recently began consuming black beans. This passes for excitement in my life. You can't have enough fiber and beans are cheap. Oddly the Goya aisle is more expensive than the American bean aisle. I refuse to use the word legumes. It is a high end name for beans. Debbie Gibson will never be Deborah, veranda must not replace terrace, marsupial never supersede monkey, spittoon will never be replaced by vertical saliva container.
How big of a bite should one take of the cauliflower? Do you spray it with anything first? Why aren't there more blogs about gassy foods? Enough. I have Christmas cards to write.

The Lurker

The kid, about 14, is lurking outside my condo. I pulled in and parked in front of my garage located right across from my place. He saw me and now he is waiting, yes, he is going to wait me out because I see he's holding some sort of folder and he wants me to sign up for something that is going to cost me money like support our visual aid department which is a victim of budget cuts and we desperately need a contribution, anything, a dolllar, a quarter.
I will out wait the little bugger by sitting in my car a few feet away, reading a novel from my Nook and I don't care if I have to sit there for an hour, I will outlast the ferret booger nose, except after five minutes I have to pee and the damn kid is still there, I can see him in my rear view. I sense he knows I'm suffering and will have to emerge. He dares not come to the window because he feels my disdain. There is a whole line of condos waiting to be disturbed. Why is he not moving? I simply cannot afford to buy anything extraneous; I have a budget.
I don't recognize him because I pay no attention to kids anywhere. In fact I move away from them as fast as I can. He could be from another town. I swear if he doesn't get going I'm going to give him the finger and I know he can see it because he keeps looking my way expectantly. Let the bastard lurk. I'll pee in my thermos. I have a back up container in my cabinet. No way I'm letting this kid win, even if it's Easter Seals. Okay, maybe I'll make an exception there.

Shots

Give them the shots, all of them. Keep inoculating kids with every damn anti-whatever in your arsenal. This nonsense about basic shots causing autism has been disproved once and for all. You can't have unprotected kids getting polio or mumps or whooping cough and then passing it on. We have wiped out these horrible diseases because of the brilliant work of Dr. Salk and others.
Sooner or later these men and women will cure hiccups, lazy eye, anal fistulas, halitosis, corns, hernias, stammering and ingrown toenails. These are the real heroes of our time. I HAD chicken pox and it was hell. Same with mumps. Superstition and old wives tales cannot hold back medical science. There will come a time, with the right financing, that excessively wide foreheads and recessive chins will be a thing of the past. There is nothing more humiliating than having someone ask if they can rent ad space on your forehead or mistake your chin for a small onion.
If your kid is afraid of needles lie to him. Tell him each needle will enable him to consume more soft ice cream with sprinkles. However, if your pediatrician dresses up as a clown while filling the syringe, get your kid out of there as fast as possible. There are limits to tough love.

Pulled Over

Driving past someone who's been pulled over by a cop has to elicit more than a little feeling of curiosity, as well as relief. Glad it's not me. You catch a glimpse of the poor driver's expression and it varies. Anger, confusion, nervousness, impatience, panic, vulnerability. Some frantically search for the right ID. Others look straight ahead, not wanting to meet the eyes of others going about their business.
I once saw a young man foolishly jump out of his vehicle, take a few steps toward the police car before harshly being told to get back into the car. Once you're stopped, the cop will sit there forever, checking to see if it's a stolen vehicle. You know your day is probably ruined, even if he decides to limit things to a lecture.
I had a PBA card, which I never used. If I knew I was in the wrong I'd just take my punishment. But one time a polite young cop said I went through a light and I know it was amber. But I didn't argue because you never know what kind of mood these guys are in. They run plates just for the sake of having something to do and maybe they just might catch someone. My registration was expired last summer and I never got a renewal notice to remind me. So I got pulled over, they took my car and keys and I had to take a bus home.
No one wants to see those flashing lights in the rear view mirror. But when it happens to someone else you do tend to feel superior.

Footsteps

She's moving around up there. I can hear everything. Sometimes it's quick steps as though she's scurrying. Then the ponderous ones like she's pacing. The times when she seems to be moving furniture around are most intriguing. Can't she make up her mind? I wonder if she's learning to dance up there alone. When it's completely quiet, I'm on edge, waiting for the next fusillade of footsteps.
The suspense is getting to me. She's not doing this on purpose. Seems like a nice woman. Comes home late at night. Maybe she's a waitress or nurse. She orders a lot of stuff, but it stays in our mutual hallway for weeks before she brings them upstairs. I think maybe I'm the one who ordered these boxes, but her name is on the address label.
I should not be paying attention to any of this, but every time I resolve to mind my own business the bell rings at midnight. It's the pizza guy delivering for her, but ringing my bell by mistake. Who orders pizza at midnight?
There she goes again, scurrying across the floor. What if she has a hidden child up there or an illegal alien, barricaded in a closet? Between the pizza guy and me, we could probably break down her door and rescue whoever. Something to contemplate. I could use a slice right now.