Gone But Not Forgotten

One of the harder things to accept in life is the loss of people that made you smile and feel good. As a writer I've been fortunate to meet many who fall into that category. Some were fellow scribes, but others fall into the performer slot. Because I include theater pieces as part of my work, I've been lucky to work with superb talents. It is hard to describe the feeling of watching actors on stage giving life to your words.
Two and a half years ago at a local theater, I sat riveted as two actresses performed a twenty-five minute piece I wrote. The director was also young and gifted. Of all the pieces of mine I've seen performed, including dozens of monologues, this skit filled me with tension the most. I always make it clear that theater is collaborative and the choices made by the actresses were perfect.
I will miss Emily Rees, who moved to California, and Laura Williams, who moved on with her life, but I'll never forget that moment when all of the reasons one writes become crystal clear. I wish them both success in their pursuits.

Stamp Thief

Someone sneaked into my condo and stole a book of stamps. That is the only explanation I can come up with after searching everywhere. I mean everywhere. I went through my credit card statements, my letter files, my garbage, my miscellaneous files, looked on the floor, behind and under objects, checked my wallet and pockets, every room in the place, including the bathroom. There is no way I lost a new book of stamps in my own kitchen. No way.
I am convinced some sadist got into my place, looked around to see what object would drive me nuts and correctly chose the stamps. I'm serious. This has got me angry and frustrated. Remember, that is $8 worth of stamps. I do not use online payment. My pension is from the Post Office and I'm obligated to support them by using snail mail and that means smacking stamps on bills.
So I went to the local office and bought another book. I was going to ask the clerk if there were some way I could get a freebie book to replace the lost one. After all, I'm a 50 year customer. But I stayed silent as I watched another $8 disappear. I promise you, somehow I will declare an added deduction on my taxes to make up for this unethical activity. I can't accuse anyone, but I'm on guard now. Next time it could be Gus, my stuffed bear wearing a postal uniform. That loss just might push me over the edge.

Now What?

Okay dad, we're in the boat, we're on the lake, our lines are in the water with bait attached. What now?
Son, we sit here and wait for a nibble.
That's it? That's fishing?
It gives us a chance to bond.
Can I check my messages first?
Later, son. Tell me, what have you been up to?
Uh, let's see. I go to school five days a week, sit there and learn stuff. Then I come home, go on the computer to check Facebook. Then I text friends on FB, take a nap, have supper, do some homework. Then I go out and hang with the same kids I text and message. Then I come home, brush my teeth, floss and go to bed. How about you?
Okay son, I go to work checking gas meters. I have lunch at twelve, drive all over the city. At five I punch out, come home, change out of my uniform, have supper. Then I read the paper, watch some TV and have a glass of wine. On Tuesday and Friday your mom and I have sex. That's about it. Isn't bonding great?
Dad, what do fish do all day?
I don't know, son, but it can't be as great as what we do.
I think my pole moved.
Yank on it, son. Life is all about yanking at the right time.
What happens if I catch something?
You look at it and toss it back in and we start over again.
Seems silly.
No son, adjustable rate mortgages are silly. Want some salt water taffy?
But if my teeth get stuck we won't be able to bond.
Good point, son. I sure didn't raise a dummy.
Is sex as good as fishing, dad?

Fish Out of Water

One of the few times I don't feel like a fish out of water is with my writer friends. It just seems like the conversation flows easily. My shoulders don't tighten up and I speak in complete sentences. I can be watching two writers deep in conversation and not feel intrusive if I decide to stand nearby and listen.
In other social situations I freeze up, sitting in the corner gazing around the room like an astronaut on alien terrain, always the awkward outsider.
I have come to the conclusion that I must learn to dance to fit in. Any dance. Karaoke is another strategy I should employ. Telling funny anecdotes, jokes and stories will add to my charm. I will mix in accents and dialects, monitor my pacing. Yes, I will have them on the floor, curled up and shaking with laughter.
Before all this, however, I must master getting up and walking across the floor without spilling anything or tripping or bumping into anyone. I tend to wind up doing a lot of that.
I guess it would really help me connect with others if I didn't have these damn gills. But you work with what you've got.

Fudge Zombies

Normally civilized people lose all control over fudge. My short story critique group consists of educated, well spoken writers you would be proud to sit next to at any event. They close their mouths when they chew, seldom hiccup, and excuse themselves after burping. They sip their coffee and tea quietly. They listen intently without cutting others off.
We have had a variety of baked goods at our monthly meetings, held at a member's home. No one hogs the refreshments, nor are people shamed into sampling the exquisite sugar laden delicacies. This system worked well until our last meeting. Every mysterious plate was covered with foil. The discussion was so intense no one was eating.
Except me. I innocently, out of curiosity, peeled off the foil from one plate and almost gasped. Fudge. In perfect squares, bite sized, incomparable fudge. I quickly snatched two pieces, figuring as soon as the others spotted it, all hell would break loose. But no one moved. I stress I did nothing to disguise my treasure as I took tiny bites, wanting the sensation to last. Still no one attacked the plate.
I took another square. Swallowed it whole. I knew if I didn't say anything I would consume the whole plate and the person who made it would be furious. So I said one word: fudge. I pointed to the plate. There was a pause; then, like crazed zombies, all six of them converged on the coffee table, growling, snorting, drooling, grasping with both hands, pushing and elbowing, slobbering, bestial, single minded.
When the fudge massacre ended, several writers lay on the floor, curled into a fetal position. That is the sacred magic of fudge.
Me? While they were preoccupied, I uncovered another plate full of sugar covered lemon bars, extraordinary in themselves. Just not fudge.

Liver Spots

Call me vain, but I don't want people seeing my liver spots. I stare at the backs of my hands in dismay. Wrinkles connote character. Liver spots signify trembling hands and support socks.
How could the liver have anything to do with these spots and why only located in that one area. Unless I have others in places I don't usually check. Scary thought.
Do Africans get them? Indians? If so, how would we know? Perhaps I shouldn't complain. They don't itch or ache or become scaly. I know people who have them on their face. Mine aren't too pronounced. What if I dotted them with flesh colored oil paint to disguise them? Would the paint seep into my lower levels of skin and poison me?
I'm asking a lot of questions. I do that when I get nervous. I know I can't stop the aging process. I just can't help comparing my hands with the smooth, unblemished skin of young people. I do think my veins are way more impressive. And my fingernails are strong and clean. I can pick at things you don't want to know about.
Or do you?

A Job?

Do I need a part time job? It sure seems like it. I don't like the way my savings are shriveling. But what to do?
Should I try to sell some of my beloved paintings? Maybe I could charge people for imparting my writing wisdom. What about posing as an artist's model? I am half way to getting a washboard stomach.
I could open up a private help line for those addicted to Apple Jacks. I'm a bit too old to be a Chippendale's dancer, but I bet with a little instruction I could teach the mambo.
Realistically, I suppose I could be a shopping cart retriever. I'm used to being out in all kinds of weather and don't mind working alone. What if I'm not strong enough to push forty or fifty carts at once? What if customers have to put down their groceries to help me?
No, I'm better off inside shelving things. Shelving is an under appreciated skill. I have three full shelves of hand puppets, lined up by softness. Visitors have commented.
There is no doubt I could be a first class bicycle messenger. You should see my quads. Hey, for a price that is easily accomplished.
Of course I could go cold turkey on fast food places. Yeah, right.