M. Newman's Blog, page 3
June 17, 2012
Eddie Jones
“Jones, in my office,” Mr. Jarvis bellowed. “Now!”
“God damn it,” Eddie muttered to himself. “What does that asshole want? It’s almost five o’clock and I’ll be damned if I stay late.”
Jarvis was actually a good boss. He was usually easygoing and supportive of his employees but he was nearing the end of his rope with Eddie Jones. Eddie had been a pretty good employee until recently. . .had done excellent work, was punctual and had gotten along well with his colleagues. Lately, however, he had changed. His reports were sloppy and were often completed after deadline; he was surly and argumentative and he regularly arrived late. Today, in fact, he had waltzed into the office at 10:15. The last straw, though, was the Gates report that Eddie had handed in about fifteen minutes ago (several hours late, of course.) Said report was now sitting on Jarvis’s desk like an oracle predicting the loss of the Gates account. The report was missing crucial sections and was chock full of grievous miscalculations. “I’ve had it with this guy,” Jarvis decided.
Eddie didn’t really care that he’d been fired as he left the office, turned left on crowded Seventh Avenue and, along with a huge mass of pedestrians, mindlessly trudged towards the downtown IRT subway train. He stared straight ahead with disinterest and only raised his apathetic eyes as he passed majestic Madison Square Garden, home of the New York Knickerbockers.
Things had not been going too well for Eddie for the past month or so, since Elizabeth had left. They’d been living together for nearly a year and Eddie had intended to ask her to marry him sometime soon. If he were honest with himself, Eddie would have to admit that the breakup had been his fault. At the start, he’d been loving and attentive, had basically treated Elizabeth like a queen. Somewhere along the line, though, he began to take her for granted. On the rare nights that he bothered to stay home, he invariably plopped down in front of the TV and spent the night watching basketball. Most nights he went out with the boys, usually returning well after Liz had retired for the night.
Through it all, Liz loved him and stayed loyal; until, that is, she met a guy at work to whom she was desperately attracted. When, one evening after work, he lured her into the bedroom of his fancy Fifth Avenue apartment, they finally fell together in a frenzy and the next morning Elizabeth told Eddie goodbye.
Eddie had been depressed ever since. He cared nothing for his job and it showed in his performance. He’d tried a few times to patch things up with Liz but she was not interested. He told himself he didn’t care, that he could have any girl he wanted whenever he wanted. Really, it had always been easy for him. But since the breakup it hadn’t been so easy. He’d been in some kind of a slump.
Last night had been typical of his recent struggles. He’d stopped at the Botanica Bar, a notorious pickup place on the Lower Last Side. Like most Thursday nights in Manhattan, the place was packed with what seemed to be a ratio of nearly two girls for every guy. Try as he might, Eddie could not connect with a single good-looking babe. Like a pathetic loser he spent most of the night drinking Jack Daniels and offering stale pickup lines to a growing number of annoyed women. As closing time approached and the crowd had thinned he surveyed the room for what he had decided would be the last time. As he swiveled his stool to get a better look at what the bar had to offer, a brief rush of vertigo nearly got the better of him. Fortunately, he caught himself before falling and with a mixture of amusement and disgust said aloud, “Damn whiskey is kicking my ass.”
Finally managing to gain his balance and focus his drunken eyes, he noticed a redhead alone at a table in the corner. “Damn, she is hot,” he declared. “I wonder why I didn’t notice her before.” He staggered to her table and announced his infatuation and before long he found himself in her bed. The girl was eager and he was willing but somehow he could not get hard. Despite her disappointment, she was sympathetic. “Don’t worry, honey,” she said. “It happens. You just drank a little too much. Just put your hand here and help me get off.” Eddie was embarrassed but compliant and after a time the girl climaxed.
He awoke the next morning with grenades exploding inside his head. He glanced sleepily at the girl beside him and wondered what he’d seen in her last night. He shook his head slowly, carefully trying to avoid increasing the pain in his head. Then he looked at his watch. “Oh shit,” he cried. “I’m late for work.”
The girl stirred and murmured something romantic but he struggled free from her hungry embrace. “Sorry babe,” he said, “but I’ve got to get to work.”
“Whatever,” she replied, angered by his rejection. “Call me sometime. I’m sure next time you’ll be able to get it up.”
Eddie was able to put the incident behind him. It was Friday night and tomorrow morning was what he lived for. Every Saturday he played in a pickup basketball game. It wasn’t Rucker Park or the West Fourth Street court in the Village but the talent at Theodore Roosevelt Playground was pretty good. He was one of the better players and rarely sat, even if his team lost. If the next team needed a player, Eddie was the one they usually picked. All his problems and humiliations faded from his memory when he was balling. Shooting hoops was what made his life worth living.
“It’s too bad I never made it to the NBA,” he thought. “I bet if I’d gone to college my game would have improved enough for me to go pro.”
Eddie had been an above average high school player who dreamed of playing at an elite university but when no scholarship offers came he decided to get a job. When in a certain mood he felt that the need to earn an immediate living was what prevented him from playing in college. He was thinking along those lines when he entered the court on Saturday morning.
Suddenly, he saw the light. “Who am I kidding? I could never play in the NBA. I’m too small and a step too slow and my shot is no better than average. And I jump like the white boy that I am.”
So when he arrived at the game, Eddie was not as ecstatic as usual. Still, he laced up his Jordans and stepped on to the court to warm up, first doing some light stretching, jogging once around the court, practicing a few layups then taking jumpers from different spots. By the time he finished his routine his mind was back in its usual Saturday place.
A small crowd watched as the game began. Eddie glanced at the onlookers and two of them caught his attention. One was a petite black woman with a pretty face ,wearing colorful beads in her braided hair. She caught his eye and offered an alluring smile. He decided that he was playing for this girl today. He meant to impress the hell out of her with his basketball skills.
The other spectator that he noticed was a sunburned, dapper man in a neat, summer-weight suit and a black bow tie. He seemed out of place in this world.
The games began and Eddie was having a great day. His shot was falling and he was out-quicking all defenders on his drives to the basket. Defensively, he was a “man of steal,” intercepting pass after pass and pickpocketing dribblers of the ball. On the final play of the final game, a bitterly contested battle whose score was tied, Eddie stole the ball from Bobby Garcia, the opposing point guard, and raced to the other end of the court. When he got to the foul line he gathered the ball, took two steps and leaped high into the air, finishing the play with a fierce tomahawk dunk. It was the first time he had ever dunked the ball. His ecstatic teammates hoisted him upon their shoulders as the little crowd went berserk. The pretty black girl applauded wildly and shot him a look that told him she was his for the taking. The sunburned little man smiled sardonically and walked slowly toward him.
“Hello, Eddie,” he said as he offered his hand.
My name is Fore. Louis Charles Fore. I have a little proposition for you.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Eddie replied as his eyes searched the park for the girl. “What’s the proposition?”
“I’m a scout for the New York Knicks and we’re looking for a player with skills like yours. We think you’re just what we need to help us break through to the next level. I’ve been authorized to offer you a contract for the rest of this season.”
“Is this some kind of a joke?,” Eddie asked as he continued to look for the girl out of the corner of his eye. “I’m not NBA material.”
“Let me be the judge of that,” Fore said pulling a contract out of his suit pocket and handing Eddie a pen.
Eddie signed and the two men shook hands.
Eddie’s life had been transformed. Within days, he had moved into the Knicks starting lineup, creating a sensation throughout the NBA. The newspapers were full of stories about his rise from nowhere to become the best and most exciting point guard in all basketball. Louis Fore was a fixture behind the Knicks bench, always smiling that devilish smile and seeming to transmit a curious energy in Eddie’s direction. Basking in the adulation of the rabid fans and the energy of Fore, his guardian angel, Eddie carried the Knicks on his back to the top of the Eastern Conference; the World Championship seemed to be on the horizon.
Overnight, he had become a folk hero. Be it at the Garden or any other arena in the country, fans wore Jones jerseys and carried handmade signs of praise. After games he was escorted to clubs where scores of sycophants slapped his back and brought him drinks; beautiful women lined up to lie with him; lucrative endorsements rolled in.
But Eddie was uneasy. Something was wrong. He’d never been this good. He was beginning to suspect, irrationally, he knew, that he was drawing some sort of supernatural strength from Lou Fore. He’d begun to think of the scout, not as a guardian angel, but as a dangerous little devil who was somehow building Eddie up with the help of an evil power.
He was also, inexplicably, uncomfortable with all the feminine attention that was being lavished upon him. Never in his life had he imagined sleeping with a different actress or super-model every night. And yet he felt sexually unfulfilled. He’d been unable to forget that pretty black girl from the playground and he was bewitched by the memory of her dark beauty.
Game 7, NBA Finals; score tied at 100 with 10 seconds left in regulation. The crowd at the Garden is tense as the hated Lakers bring the ball deliberately across half-court. Their plan is to use most of the clock and try to score with a second or two remaining, depriving the Knicks of an opportunity to retaliate. The Lakers figure that the worst case scenario would be a missed shot and the game would go into overtime. With 8 seconds remaining, the Lakers start their offense. Suddenly, Eddie swoops in for a steal, robbing the point guard of the ball in broad daylight. With the speed and the grace of a gazelle, he dribbles towards his basket. The clock runs down and the fans roar as he goes up for a dunk, smiling, soaring Jordan-like more than ten feet into the air, poised to jam the ball through the basket...
Everything had gone dark. There was a strange, arhythmic pressure on his chest. Distant voices floated through the ether and finally made their way, muffled, into his ears. “Come on Eddie, stay with us...Please Eddie, hang on.” He opened his eyes to find himself on his back on the hard pavement of Roosevelt Playground. Bobby Garcia was kneeled over his supine body, administering chest compressions. In the distance he saw Louis Fore, an evil, somehow satisfied smile on his face. Eddie was bewildered and panicked. He struggled for a breath then suddenly smiled and relaxed. The pretty black girl was approaching, her arms outstretched and her large, dark eyes conveying the message that she’d long been awaiting this moment. “Come to me my darling,” the girl whispered. She knelt and gathered him in a suffocating embrace. He hungrily inhaled her earthy scent and his head seemed to fill with a syrupy sweetness. Gradually, he melted into her honeyed darkness where he knew he would remain for eternity.
“God damn it,” Eddie muttered to himself. “What does that asshole want? It’s almost five o’clock and I’ll be damned if I stay late.”
Jarvis was actually a good boss. He was usually easygoing and supportive of his employees but he was nearing the end of his rope with Eddie Jones. Eddie had been a pretty good employee until recently. . .had done excellent work, was punctual and had gotten along well with his colleagues. Lately, however, he had changed. His reports were sloppy and were often completed after deadline; he was surly and argumentative and he regularly arrived late. Today, in fact, he had waltzed into the office at 10:15. The last straw, though, was the Gates report that Eddie had handed in about fifteen minutes ago (several hours late, of course.) Said report was now sitting on Jarvis’s desk like an oracle predicting the loss of the Gates account. The report was missing crucial sections and was chock full of grievous miscalculations. “I’ve had it with this guy,” Jarvis decided.
Eddie didn’t really care that he’d been fired as he left the office, turned left on crowded Seventh Avenue and, along with a huge mass of pedestrians, mindlessly trudged towards the downtown IRT subway train. He stared straight ahead with disinterest and only raised his apathetic eyes as he passed majestic Madison Square Garden, home of the New York Knickerbockers.
Things had not been going too well for Eddie for the past month or so, since Elizabeth had left. They’d been living together for nearly a year and Eddie had intended to ask her to marry him sometime soon. If he were honest with himself, Eddie would have to admit that the breakup had been his fault. At the start, he’d been loving and attentive, had basically treated Elizabeth like a queen. Somewhere along the line, though, he began to take her for granted. On the rare nights that he bothered to stay home, he invariably plopped down in front of the TV and spent the night watching basketball. Most nights he went out with the boys, usually returning well after Liz had retired for the night.
Through it all, Liz loved him and stayed loyal; until, that is, she met a guy at work to whom she was desperately attracted. When, one evening after work, he lured her into the bedroom of his fancy Fifth Avenue apartment, they finally fell together in a frenzy and the next morning Elizabeth told Eddie goodbye.
Eddie had been depressed ever since. He cared nothing for his job and it showed in his performance. He’d tried a few times to patch things up with Liz but she was not interested. He told himself he didn’t care, that he could have any girl he wanted whenever he wanted. Really, it had always been easy for him. But since the breakup it hadn’t been so easy. He’d been in some kind of a slump.
Last night had been typical of his recent struggles. He’d stopped at the Botanica Bar, a notorious pickup place on the Lower Last Side. Like most Thursday nights in Manhattan, the place was packed with what seemed to be a ratio of nearly two girls for every guy. Try as he might, Eddie could not connect with a single good-looking babe. Like a pathetic loser he spent most of the night drinking Jack Daniels and offering stale pickup lines to a growing number of annoyed women. As closing time approached and the crowd had thinned he surveyed the room for what he had decided would be the last time. As he swiveled his stool to get a better look at what the bar had to offer, a brief rush of vertigo nearly got the better of him. Fortunately, he caught himself before falling and with a mixture of amusement and disgust said aloud, “Damn whiskey is kicking my ass.”
Finally managing to gain his balance and focus his drunken eyes, he noticed a redhead alone at a table in the corner. “Damn, she is hot,” he declared. “I wonder why I didn’t notice her before.” He staggered to her table and announced his infatuation and before long he found himself in her bed. The girl was eager and he was willing but somehow he could not get hard. Despite her disappointment, she was sympathetic. “Don’t worry, honey,” she said. “It happens. You just drank a little too much. Just put your hand here and help me get off.” Eddie was embarrassed but compliant and after a time the girl climaxed.
He awoke the next morning with grenades exploding inside his head. He glanced sleepily at the girl beside him and wondered what he’d seen in her last night. He shook his head slowly, carefully trying to avoid increasing the pain in his head. Then he looked at his watch. “Oh shit,” he cried. “I’m late for work.”
The girl stirred and murmured something romantic but he struggled free from her hungry embrace. “Sorry babe,” he said, “but I’ve got to get to work.”
“Whatever,” she replied, angered by his rejection. “Call me sometime. I’m sure next time you’ll be able to get it up.”
Eddie was able to put the incident behind him. It was Friday night and tomorrow morning was what he lived for. Every Saturday he played in a pickup basketball game. It wasn’t Rucker Park or the West Fourth Street court in the Village but the talent at Theodore Roosevelt Playground was pretty good. He was one of the better players and rarely sat, even if his team lost. If the next team needed a player, Eddie was the one they usually picked. All his problems and humiliations faded from his memory when he was balling. Shooting hoops was what made his life worth living.
“It’s too bad I never made it to the NBA,” he thought. “I bet if I’d gone to college my game would have improved enough for me to go pro.”
Eddie had been an above average high school player who dreamed of playing at an elite university but when no scholarship offers came he decided to get a job. When in a certain mood he felt that the need to earn an immediate living was what prevented him from playing in college. He was thinking along those lines when he entered the court on Saturday morning.
Suddenly, he saw the light. “Who am I kidding? I could never play in the NBA. I’m too small and a step too slow and my shot is no better than average. And I jump like the white boy that I am.”
So when he arrived at the game, Eddie was not as ecstatic as usual. Still, he laced up his Jordans and stepped on to the court to warm up, first doing some light stretching, jogging once around the court, practicing a few layups then taking jumpers from different spots. By the time he finished his routine his mind was back in its usual Saturday place.
A small crowd watched as the game began. Eddie glanced at the onlookers and two of them caught his attention. One was a petite black woman with a pretty face ,wearing colorful beads in her braided hair. She caught his eye and offered an alluring smile. He decided that he was playing for this girl today. He meant to impress the hell out of her with his basketball skills.
The other spectator that he noticed was a sunburned, dapper man in a neat, summer-weight suit and a black bow tie. He seemed out of place in this world.
The games began and Eddie was having a great day. His shot was falling and he was out-quicking all defenders on his drives to the basket. Defensively, he was a “man of steal,” intercepting pass after pass and pickpocketing dribblers of the ball. On the final play of the final game, a bitterly contested battle whose score was tied, Eddie stole the ball from Bobby Garcia, the opposing point guard, and raced to the other end of the court. When he got to the foul line he gathered the ball, took two steps and leaped high into the air, finishing the play with a fierce tomahawk dunk. It was the first time he had ever dunked the ball. His ecstatic teammates hoisted him upon their shoulders as the little crowd went berserk. The pretty black girl applauded wildly and shot him a look that told him she was his for the taking. The sunburned little man smiled sardonically and walked slowly toward him.
“Hello, Eddie,” he said as he offered his hand.
My name is Fore. Louis Charles Fore. I have a little proposition for you.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Eddie replied as his eyes searched the park for the girl. “What’s the proposition?”
“I’m a scout for the New York Knicks and we’re looking for a player with skills like yours. We think you’re just what we need to help us break through to the next level. I’ve been authorized to offer you a contract for the rest of this season.”
“Is this some kind of a joke?,” Eddie asked as he continued to look for the girl out of the corner of his eye. “I’m not NBA material.”
“Let me be the judge of that,” Fore said pulling a contract out of his suit pocket and handing Eddie a pen.
Eddie signed and the two men shook hands.
Eddie’s life had been transformed. Within days, he had moved into the Knicks starting lineup, creating a sensation throughout the NBA. The newspapers were full of stories about his rise from nowhere to become the best and most exciting point guard in all basketball. Louis Fore was a fixture behind the Knicks bench, always smiling that devilish smile and seeming to transmit a curious energy in Eddie’s direction. Basking in the adulation of the rabid fans and the energy of Fore, his guardian angel, Eddie carried the Knicks on his back to the top of the Eastern Conference; the World Championship seemed to be on the horizon.
Overnight, he had become a folk hero. Be it at the Garden or any other arena in the country, fans wore Jones jerseys and carried handmade signs of praise. After games he was escorted to clubs where scores of sycophants slapped his back and brought him drinks; beautiful women lined up to lie with him; lucrative endorsements rolled in.
But Eddie was uneasy. Something was wrong. He’d never been this good. He was beginning to suspect, irrationally, he knew, that he was drawing some sort of supernatural strength from Lou Fore. He’d begun to think of the scout, not as a guardian angel, but as a dangerous little devil who was somehow building Eddie up with the help of an evil power.
He was also, inexplicably, uncomfortable with all the feminine attention that was being lavished upon him. Never in his life had he imagined sleeping with a different actress or super-model every night. And yet he felt sexually unfulfilled. He’d been unable to forget that pretty black girl from the playground and he was bewitched by the memory of her dark beauty.
Game 7, NBA Finals; score tied at 100 with 10 seconds left in regulation. The crowd at the Garden is tense as the hated Lakers bring the ball deliberately across half-court. Their plan is to use most of the clock and try to score with a second or two remaining, depriving the Knicks of an opportunity to retaliate. The Lakers figure that the worst case scenario would be a missed shot and the game would go into overtime. With 8 seconds remaining, the Lakers start their offense. Suddenly, Eddie swoops in for a steal, robbing the point guard of the ball in broad daylight. With the speed and the grace of a gazelle, he dribbles towards his basket. The clock runs down and the fans roar as he goes up for a dunk, smiling, soaring Jordan-like more than ten feet into the air, poised to jam the ball through the basket...
Everything had gone dark. There was a strange, arhythmic pressure on his chest. Distant voices floated through the ether and finally made their way, muffled, into his ears. “Come on Eddie, stay with us...Please Eddie, hang on.” He opened his eyes to find himself on his back on the hard pavement of Roosevelt Playground. Bobby Garcia was kneeled over his supine body, administering chest compressions. In the distance he saw Louis Fore, an evil, somehow satisfied smile on his face. Eddie was bewildered and panicked. He struggled for a breath then suddenly smiled and relaxed. The pretty black girl was approaching, her arms outstretched and her large, dark eyes conveying the message that she’d long been awaiting this moment. “Come to me my darling,” the girl whispered. She knelt and gathered him in a suffocating embrace. He hungrily inhaled her earthy scent and his head seemed to fill with a syrupy sweetness. Gradually, he melted into her honeyed darkness where he knew he would remain for eternity.
May 20, 2012
She Was A Real Oxymoron
Dawne Knight was a young adult whom many people considered to be an idiot savant. Boys thought that she was pretty ugly. She was flat-breasted and her belly was a little big. She fell asleep one afternoon and had a nightmare. In it she went out west and rode a horsefly. She began a love-hate relationship with a cowboy. He wasn’t terribly nice. When he visited her he attempted to commit date rape but she thwarted him with a head butt. The bad dream ended with a silent scream.
When she woke she had a meal of jumbo shrimp, a 12 ounce pound cake and coffee with non-dairy creamer. She got in her car which was parked in the driveway and proceeded to drive on the parkway to her job as a student teacher. She was a graduate student studying business ethics but her ambition was to make a career in Military Intelligence. She hoped to specialize in all aspects of M.I. but in particular, the rules of war.
She had an affair with a Government Worker from Boston who she thought was seriously funny and as smart as a whip, although in actuality he was extremely average. “Now, then,” he told her shortly after they met, “I would love to see you half-naked.” When she seemed offended he told her that his remark had been “clearly misunderstood.”
They went to a bar and he got her a little drunk. “I want you,” she told him with mild passion. “I’m no damned saint,” she said in response to his surprised look. They took a room and had sedate sex. “That was wicked good,” he told her when they were done. She told him almost exactly the same thing.
Weeks later he took her to dinner at a luncheonette and he told her that it had become clear to him that he could no longer see her. When she asked him why, he cited her many prejudices. “I hate intolerant people,” he declared. His statement was met by a thunderous silence.
“Parting is such sweet sorrow,” she cried after several minutes. “But you can’t leave me now. I think that I’m a little pregnant.”
“I know that to be a false fact,” he replied. “You see, I’m very impotent.”
For weeks after the breakup she walked around like the living dead until finally she made a decision. The next day it was reported that her lifeless body was found at the seashore. The newspapers stated that she was an apparent suicide victim.
When she woke she had a meal of jumbo shrimp, a 12 ounce pound cake and coffee with non-dairy creamer. She got in her car which was parked in the driveway and proceeded to drive on the parkway to her job as a student teacher. She was a graduate student studying business ethics but her ambition was to make a career in Military Intelligence. She hoped to specialize in all aspects of M.I. but in particular, the rules of war.
She had an affair with a Government Worker from Boston who she thought was seriously funny and as smart as a whip, although in actuality he was extremely average. “Now, then,” he told her shortly after they met, “I would love to see you half-naked.” When she seemed offended he told her that his remark had been “clearly misunderstood.”
They went to a bar and he got her a little drunk. “I want you,” she told him with mild passion. “I’m no damned saint,” she said in response to his surprised look. They took a room and had sedate sex. “That was wicked good,” he told her when they were done. She told him almost exactly the same thing.
Weeks later he took her to dinner at a luncheonette and he told her that it had become clear to him that he could no longer see her. When she asked him why, he cited her many prejudices. “I hate intolerant people,” he declared. His statement was met by a thunderous silence.
“Parting is such sweet sorrow,” she cried after several minutes. “But you can’t leave me now. I think that I’m a little pregnant.”
“I know that to be a false fact,” he replied. “You see, I’m very impotent.”
For weeks after the breakup she walked around like the living dead until finally she made a decision. The next day it was reported that her lifeless body was found at the seashore. The newspapers stated that she was an apparent suicide victim.
April 22, 2012
They Danced Until They Died
On a warm, sunny morning in July of 1518, a middle-aged housewife named Frau Troffeau stepped out into the streets of the city of Strasbourg, France and began to dance deliriously. No music played and her face portrayed no expression of joy. She appeared to be unable to stop herself from her frenzy.
Before anybody could blame the Frau’s behavior on drugs or madness or demonic possession, a neighbor joined in; and then another. By the end of a week more than 30 people were dancing night and day in the streets of the city; after a month, upwards of 400 dancing, hopping and leaping Strasbourgians were swept up in the bizarre phenomenon.
Gendarmes and doctors arrived on the scene and, inexplicably, they prescribed “more dancing” to cure the bedeviled dancers. They erected a wooden stage for the dancers and musicians were called in. By the end of the summer, dozens had died of heart attacks, strokes and sheer exhaustion due to non-stop dancing.
For centuries scientists have unsuccessfully attempted to explain this weird incident which came to be known as “the dancing plague of 1518.” The theories include mass hysteria an affliction in which numerous people believe themselves to be stricken by a common malady. Mass hysteria often occurs during times of extreme stress within the community. The Strasbourg incident occurred during a period of rampant famine and malnutrition.
A second theory suggests a condition called Ergotism which occurs when grains of rye are attacked by a specific type of mold. Eating this mold can lead to seizures. The validity of this theory seems unlikely as the movements of the Strasbourg dancers looked more like traditional dancing than seizures.
Others theorize that the dancing was the result of a religious ecstasy caused by the veneration of Saint Vitus, the patron saint of epilepsy.
None of these theories completely explain the phenomenon. Gradually the afflicted dancers stopped and the dancing ended as mysteriously as it began, remaining only as a quirky footnote to history.
Before anybody could blame the Frau’s behavior on drugs or madness or demonic possession, a neighbor joined in; and then another. By the end of a week more than 30 people were dancing night and day in the streets of the city; after a month, upwards of 400 dancing, hopping and leaping Strasbourgians were swept up in the bizarre phenomenon.
Gendarmes and doctors arrived on the scene and, inexplicably, they prescribed “more dancing” to cure the bedeviled dancers. They erected a wooden stage for the dancers and musicians were called in. By the end of the summer, dozens had died of heart attacks, strokes and sheer exhaustion due to non-stop dancing.
For centuries scientists have unsuccessfully attempted to explain this weird incident which came to be known as “the dancing plague of 1518.” The theories include mass hysteria an affliction in which numerous people believe themselves to be stricken by a common malady. Mass hysteria often occurs during times of extreme stress within the community. The Strasbourg incident occurred during a period of rampant famine and malnutrition.
A second theory suggests a condition called Ergotism which occurs when grains of rye are attacked by a specific type of mold. Eating this mold can lead to seizures. The validity of this theory seems unlikely as the movements of the Strasbourg dancers looked more like traditional dancing than seizures.
Others theorize that the dancing was the result of a religious ecstasy caused by the veneration of Saint Vitus, the patron saint of epilepsy.
None of these theories completely explain the phenomenon. Gradually the afflicted dancers stopped and the dancing ended as mysteriously as it began, remaining only as a quirky footnote to history.
April 3, 2012
The New Skipper
(I wrote this story about 30 years ago and recently re-discovered it while sorting through some old papers. I made some minor changes and decided that with the dawning of the new baseball season this would be a good time to share it.)
The New Skipper
News Item: June 2
The New York Mets, concerned about their poor 6-30 record, have fired easygoing manager, Ben Gentile. Thousands of irate fans, perhaps a bit more concerned about the team’s dismal showing, rioted outside normally deserted Citi Field, forcing Gentile into hiding. He is now believed to be en route to sanctuary somewhere in the Black Hills of South Dakota.
News item: June 3
The Mets today hired as their new manager, former Army coach, Will Steele. He will replace Ben Gentile, who is reportedly under siege by a mob of persistent fans at his mountain retreat.
New manager Steele stated that “this is a fine ballclub despite its record. I’m sure that with a little discipline we can turn things around.
Steele’s first moves as manager were to ban music from the locker room and to set a 9:00 PM curfew for the players’ wives.
News item: June 4
Met manager Will Steele announced today that he has cut ace pitcher Joe (Knuckles) Grogan from the squad. Grogan, who had 5 of this season’s 6 Met victories, was released for failing to complete the 26 mile post-game run, newly initiated by Steele. Manager Steele said that “any man in such poor physical condition is obviously not an athlete.”
Grogan, incidentally, pitched a no-hitter earlier in the day, only to lose 1-0 on three Met errors in the ninth inning.
News item: June 12
The New York Mets won their 7th game of the season, their first under the leadership of Will Steele. They squeaked by San Diego, 20-19. The Padres (who played without their gloves, which had been stolen before the game) nearly overcame a 20-0 Met lead. Steele credited the victory to his new policy of mandatory crewcuts and clean-shaven faces for all players, claiming that the policy was already building character in his men “San Diego almost came back,” he said, “but we held on. It was a close shave.”
News item: June 28
“These men must learn to take orders. What I say goes!” said Will Steele in response to a report that his players were grumbling about his latest order: “All players must wear their underpants inside out until the Mets win the pennant.”
“This time he’s gone too far. I can’t possibly follow that rule,” complained outfielder Ed (Fat) Chance. “I don’t wear underpants.”
News item: July 3
The Mets today were bopped by the Braves, 18-2, for their
15th straight loss. Will Steele declared after the game that the Mets will start winning soon. “I’m really going to start getting tough on them now,” he promised.
News item: July 4
The Mets lost to the Cubs today, 3-2, on a 9th inning error by second baseman Bob (Claws) Castro.
Under Will Steele’s new “get tough” policy, Castro was executed by firing squad after the game.
News item: July 6
The New York Mets players have revolted against their manager. Enraged by Will Steele’s “inhuman” treatment, they have refused to play for the man. The incident that touched off the revolt was the human sacrifice of third baseman, Bob Backhand. “I don’t understand what’s the problem,“ said the manager. “Backhand was expendable and we have to satisfy the baseball gods somehow.”
News item: July 7
The Mets have fired beleaguered manager, Will Steele. According to club officials, Steele “seems to have lost the ability to communicate with his players.”
When informed that he was fired, Steele refused to leave.
Bulletin:
Fired Met Manager, Will Steele, has barricaded himself in his office, threatening to “blow the head off” any person who comes to get him.
Bulletin:
After a two and a half hour tension-filled stand, Will Steele has surrendered to a police S.W.A.T. team which was able to break down the door to the manager’s office and carry him out.
News item: July 10:
A bitter Will Steele, former manager of the New York Mets, denounced the club for firing him, calling them a “horsebleep organization that doesn’t know spit about baseball.” Steele insisted that, if given time, he would have turned the team into a winner.
When asked about the absurd firing of his star pitcher, two murdered players and the refusal of the rest of the team to play for him, Steele replied, “So what? We were rebuilding anyway.”
The New Skipper
News Item: June 2
The New York Mets, concerned about their poor 6-30 record, have fired easygoing manager, Ben Gentile. Thousands of irate fans, perhaps a bit more concerned about the team’s dismal showing, rioted outside normally deserted Citi Field, forcing Gentile into hiding. He is now believed to be en route to sanctuary somewhere in the Black Hills of South Dakota.
News item: June 3
The Mets today hired as their new manager, former Army coach, Will Steele. He will replace Ben Gentile, who is reportedly under siege by a mob of persistent fans at his mountain retreat.
New manager Steele stated that “this is a fine ballclub despite its record. I’m sure that with a little discipline we can turn things around.
Steele’s first moves as manager were to ban music from the locker room and to set a 9:00 PM curfew for the players’ wives.
News item: June 4
Met manager Will Steele announced today that he has cut ace pitcher Joe (Knuckles) Grogan from the squad. Grogan, who had 5 of this season’s 6 Met victories, was released for failing to complete the 26 mile post-game run, newly initiated by Steele. Manager Steele said that “any man in such poor physical condition is obviously not an athlete.”
Grogan, incidentally, pitched a no-hitter earlier in the day, only to lose 1-0 on three Met errors in the ninth inning.
News item: June 12
The New York Mets won their 7th game of the season, their first under the leadership of Will Steele. They squeaked by San Diego, 20-19. The Padres (who played without their gloves, which had been stolen before the game) nearly overcame a 20-0 Met lead. Steele credited the victory to his new policy of mandatory crewcuts and clean-shaven faces for all players, claiming that the policy was already building character in his men “San Diego almost came back,” he said, “but we held on. It was a close shave.”
News item: June 28
“These men must learn to take orders. What I say goes!” said Will Steele in response to a report that his players were grumbling about his latest order: “All players must wear their underpants inside out until the Mets win the pennant.”
“This time he’s gone too far. I can’t possibly follow that rule,” complained outfielder Ed (Fat) Chance. “I don’t wear underpants.”
News item: July 3
The Mets today were bopped by the Braves, 18-2, for their
15th straight loss. Will Steele declared after the game that the Mets will start winning soon. “I’m really going to start getting tough on them now,” he promised.
News item: July 4
The Mets lost to the Cubs today, 3-2, on a 9th inning error by second baseman Bob (Claws) Castro.
Under Will Steele’s new “get tough” policy, Castro was executed by firing squad after the game.
News item: July 6
The New York Mets players have revolted against their manager. Enraged by Will Steele’s “inhuman” treatment, they have refused to play for the man. The incident that touched off the revolt was the human sacrifice of third baseman, Bob Backhand. “I don’t understand what’s the problem,“ said the manager. “Backhand was expendable and we have to satisfy the baseball gods somehow.”
News item: July 7
The Mets have fired beleaguered manager, Will Steele. According to club officials, Steele “seems to have lost the ability to communicate with his players.”
When informed that he was fired, Steele refused to leave.
Bulletin:
Fired Met Manager, Will Steele, has barricaded himself in his office, threatening to “blow the head off” any person who comes to get him.
Bulletin:
After a two and a half hour tension-filled stand, Will Steele has surrendered to a police S.W.A.T. team which was able to break down the door to the manager’s office and carry him out.
News item: July 10:
A bitter Will Steele, former manager of the New York Mets, denounced the club for firing him, calling them a “horsebleep organization that doesn’t know spit about baseball.” Steele insisted that, if given time, he would have turned the team into a winner.
When asked about the absurd firing of his star pitcher, two murdered players and the refusal of the rest of the team to play for him, Steele replied, “So what? We were rebuilding anyway.”
March 18, 2012
The (Original) Artists
The enchanting French silent movie, “The Artist,” this year’s winner of the Academy Award for Best Picture, entertained moviegoers as well as critics. The film’s stars, Jean Dujardin (Best Actor) as George Valentin, a swaggering silent movie idol who's career is ruined by the advent of sound, and Berenice Bejo, as Peppy Miller, the girl who loves him and becomes a star of talkies were charming actors who pleased the public with their portrayal of the performers of that era. Without the benefit of sound, Dujardin and Bejo exhibited extraordinary expressiveness in bringing their characters to the screen. That being said, their efforts fell short. Eager and likable as they were, compared to the actual stars of the silent film era these two were one-dimensional, “moving,” as David Denby wrote in The New Yorker on 2/12/12, “in a straight line in each scene and staying within a single mood.” The great silent actors did so much more.
The silent cinema arrived like a storm, a medium devoted to primitive passions and explosive emotions. The multi-faceted stars produced obsession in their huge audience. Compared to the films of that era, “The Artist” is little more than a likable spoof, its actors simple and passionless.
Here is a quick look at some of the brightest stars of the silent era:
Greta Garbo - The great Garbo made 10 silent films before she appeared in talkies. Although a silent superstar, she became even more successful when ads for her first talkie proclaimed "Garbo Talks!"
"The Artist" is probably inspired by her relationship with John Gilbert whose star waned with the advent of talkies.
Charlie Chaplin - Originally a music hall star in London, Chaplin found overnight success as an inventive director/star in Hollywood. Famous for his tramp persona - bowler hat, baggy pants, mustache and funny walk - he produced, directed and starred in great films including "The Kid," "The Gold Rush," and "City Lights."
Harold Lloyd - A funny man who played a naive, middle-class go-getter wearing a suit, tie, boater and horn-rimmed glasses. In his most famous scene, from the magnificent "Safety Last," he is seen clinging to life from the hour hand of a clock outside an upper floor of a skyscraper. This year's multi-Oscar nominated film, "Hugo" (my choice for Best Picture) pays homage to that scene.
Douglas Fairbanks - The handsome, athletic son of a Jewish lawyer became famous as the swashbuckling hero of adventure films such as "The Mark Of Zorro," "Robin Hood," and "The Thief of Bagdad."
The silent cinema arrived like a storm, a medium devoted to primitive passions and explosive emotions. The multi-faceted stars produced obsession in their huge audience. Compared to the films of that era, “The Artist” is little more than a likable spoof, its actors simple and passionless.
Here is a quick look at some of the brightest stars of the silent era:
Greta Garbo - The great Garbo made 10 silent films before she appeared in talkies. Although a silent superstar, she became even more successful when ads for her first talkie proclaimed "Garbo Talks!"
"The Artist" is probably inspired by her relationship with John Gilbert whose star waned with the advent of talkies.
Charlie Chaplin - Originally a music hall star in London, Chaplin found overnight success as an inventive director/star in Hollywood. Famous for his tramp persona - bowler hat, baggy pants, mustache and funny walk - he produced, directed and starred in great films including "The Kid," "The Gold Rush," and "City Lights."
Harold Lloyd - A funny man who played a naive, middle-class go-getter wearing a suit, tie, boater and horn-rimmed glasses. In his most famous scene, from the magnificent "Safety Last," he is seen clinging to life from the hour hand of a clock outside an upper floor of a skyscraper. This year's multi-Oscar nominated film, "Hugo" (my choice for Best Picture) pays homage to that scene.
Douglas Fairbanks - The handsome, athletic son of a Jewish lawyer became famous as the swashbuckling hero of adventure films such as "The Mark Of Zorro," "Robin Hood," and "The Thief of Bagdad."
February 26, 2012
The Black Man In Baseball
As we near the end of Black History Month and approach the start of the baseball season, it seems appropriate to write about baseball's first African-Americans. Many fans may be surprised to learn that Jackie Robinson was not pro baseball's first black player. In fact, some 30 black players saw service in organized baseball in the last two decades of the 19th century.
Bud Fowler who, ironically, was born in Cooperstown, NY, the home of the Baseball Hall of Fame and, allegedly, the birthplace of baseball, holds the distinction of being the first black professional baseball player. Fowler debuted as a pro in 1872 and played for 25 years. He played as a pitcher, catcher and left fielder but excelled as a second baseman. During his career Fowler encountered a combination of discrimination, physical abuse and grudging acceptance. Some baseball historians credit the invention of shin guards to either Fowler or Frank Grant, another black second baseman, for protection against white baserunners. By some accounts, white players developed the feet-first slide "to give the frequent spiking of the darky an appearance of accident."
Moses "Fleetwood" Walker was the first African-American to actually make it to the major leagues. Tall, slender and handsome, Walker combined athletic talent with considerable intellectual capacity. He ultimately became a businessman, inventor, newspaper editor and author. He attended integrated colleges and played pro baseball only on integrated teams.
The experience so soured him that near the end of his life he advocated the emigration of blacks to Africa. Walker, a catcher, batted .263 for Toledo in 1884. His brother, Weldy, the second black in the majors batted .222 for Toledo in five games.
Frank Grant was considered by many to be one of the finest second basemen of the late 19th century. When he played for Buffalo in1886 he batted .340 and was described in "Sporting Life" as "a great all-round player (who) creditably can hold every position on the diamond but his specialty is second base...He is exceedingly hard to fool at the bat and his shots are generally long...I think I can say that Grant is the best all-round player Buffalo ever had."
In 1887, racial tensions worsened in pro ball. Binghamton released Bud Fowler. The following year the Buffalo Bisons refused to pose for a team picture if it included Frank Grant, their best hitter. By 1889, Fleet Walker was the only remaining African-American in organized baseball. By 1892 the color line was firmly in place. No teams in organized baseball fielded blacks nor did they invite black clubs to join any major or minor leagues.
While this color barrier certainly existed, there was no written code of segregation. Organized baseball relied upon the doctrine of common consent and coercion, the "Gentlemen's Agreement," to exclude non-white players.
From this point on, blacks could only play in the Negro Leagues and were excluded from organized baseball until Branch Rickey signed Robinson in 1946.
Bud Fowler who, ironically, was born in Cooperstown, NY, the home of the Baseball Hall of Fame and, allegedly, the birthplace of baseball, holds the distinction of being the first black professional baseball player. Fowler debuted as a pro in 1872 and played for 25 years. He played as a pitcher, catcher and left fielder but excelled as a second baseman. During his career Fowler encountered a combination of discrimination, physical abuse and grudging acceptance. Some baseball historians credit the invention of shin guards to either Fowler or Frank Grant, another black second baseman, for protection against white baserunners. By some accounts, white players developed the feet-first slide "to give the frequent spiking of the darky an appearance of accident."
Moses "Fleetwood" Walker was the first African-American to actually make it to the major leagues. Tall, slender and handsome, Walker combined athletic talent with considerable intellectual capacity. He ultimately became a businessman, inventor, newspaper editor and author. He attended integrated colleges and played pro baseball only on integrated teams.
The experience so soured him that near the end of his life he advocated the emigration of blacks to Africa. Walker, a catcher, batted .263 for Toledo in 1884. His brother, Weldy, the second black in the majors batted .222 for Toledo in five games.
Frank Grant was considered by many to be one of the finest second basemen of the late 19th century. When he played for Buffalo in1886 he batted .340 and was described in "Sporting Life" as "a great all-round player (who) creditably can hold every position on the diamond but his specialty is second base...He is exceedingly hard to fool at the bat and his shots are generally long...I think I can say that Grant is the best all-round player Buffalo ever had."
In 1887, racial tensions worsened in pro ball. Binghamton released Bud Fowler. The following year the Buffalo Bisons refused to pose for a team picture if it included Frank Grant, their best hitter. By 1889, Fleet Walker was the only remaining African-American in organized baseball. By 1892 the color line was firmly in place. No teams in organized baseball fielded blacks nor did they invite black clubs to join any major or minor leagues.
While this color barrier certainly existed, there was no written code of segregation. Organized baseball relied upon the doctrine of common consent and coercion, the "Gentlemen's Agreement," to exclude non-white players.
From this point on, blacks could only play in the Negro Leagues and were excluded from organized baseball until Branch Rickey signed Robinson in 1946.
February 12, 2012
The End Of An Affair (a story)
Ellen returned to her tiny apartment in the East Village at about 3:00 A.M. Her high cheek bones were streaked with tears and she was woozy from a few too many vodka martinis. The martinis were chugged quickly at the seedy bar down the block from Marguerite’s apartment on E. 60th St. after Marguerite had demanded that she leave her bed forever. “You’re nothing but a little slut,” the older woman hissed angrily, after Ellen, in the throes of sexual delirium, had mistakenly called out the name of Marguerite’s former lover. “I’d always suspected you of sleeping with Eva, you tramp. I never want to see you again.”
“Please, Marguerite,” Ellen cried, to no avail. “I’m so sorry. You must know that I love you.”
Ellen did love her but she’d never been able to control her own promiscuity. Since her teenage days she had juggled lovers like human bowling pins. In fact, Eva wasn’t the only woman with whom she was cheating. Ellen’s second cousin, Kat, had recently moved to New York and the two relatives had resumed an affair that had begun when they were young girls in Arkansas. Ellen was blissfully aware that she was addicted to sex and obsessed about it constantly. She had even kept lists of her lovers, actually rating their sexual performance.
Since she had begun sleeping with Marguerite, Ellen felt guilty about her infidelity but she did not try particularly hard to change her ways. She told herself that her furtive affairs added an exciting edge to the relationship. She even suspected that she was incapable of loving a woman unless she was secretly sleeping with others.
She’d met Eva at a party about a month ago and immediately fell in lust with her. Ironically, it was Marguerite, still on good terms with Eva, who had introduced them. Eva was a tall, willowy blond whose main attraction to Ellen was that she’d slept with Marguerite. Like a high school geometry teacher, Ellen had always had an affinity for triangles. In the back of her mind, she’d kind of hoped that Marguerite would find out.
Ellen had not really wanted to go to the party but Marguerite dragged her along anyway. “It will be fun, darling,” she said in her sweetest voice.
“Oh, all right,” Ellen replied grudgingly, but somehow Marguerite failed to notice her lack of enthusiasm.
The party was in full swing when they arrived. Most of the guests, Ellen noticed, were drinking cocktails. “I’ll see you later Marg,” she said and she headed straight for the bar, ordered a vodka martini, downed it quickly and ordered another. Drink in hand, she turned from the bar and circulated throughout the room, not really seeing anything that piqued her interest. Just as she was about to return to the bar, she noticed Marguerite speaking with a pretty blond. She got another drink and joined them. “Ellen, hello. I would like you to meet Eva. We’re old friends,” she said.
“Glad to meet you,” Ellen said and she shook hands with the woman, impressed by the long, graceful fingers; involuntarily fantasizing them roaming across her body. The woman blushed noticeably when Ellen stared suggestively into her huge eyes.
“It’s nice to meet you, too,” Eva replied.
Marguerite, not quite sure why she was feeling pangs of jealousy, took Eva’s arm and led her away. She spoke with her for a few more minutes then turned to mingle with other friends. Eva went in a different direction and Ellen watched from the bar as she began an animated conversation with a tall, stocky man and then moved on to a dark-skinned woman with an extraordinarily large behind. Ellen settled in for a long night of drinking alone but she kept one eye on Marguerite and the other on Eva.
The room was filled with the cacophonous sounds of raucous laughter and boisterous conversation. Cheerful piano music could be heard in the background, performed by a tuxedo-clad young man. The long, greasy hair and eyebrow piercings of the homely pianist were incongruous with his formal attire. Ellen was wracking her brain trying to remember from where she knew the unkempt musician. Finally it came to her; he was the house pianist at Ty’s, a gay bar on Christopher St. Perhaps she hadn’t recognized him because of the tuxedo or perhaps it was because she was drunk; or maybe it was because whenever she’d been at Ty’s she’d been too drunk to notice him. “Whatever,” she said aloud to nobody. “He’s a shitty musician anyway.”
Ellen felt that the party was terribly boring and that Marguerite was ignoring her, socializing instead with her many intellectual acquaintances, most of whom Ellen did not know or care to meet. Other than Marguerite, the only person in whom she had any interest was Eva. The moment she saw her alone, she approached her and made her move. The blond was interested and the women made a date for the following afternoon when Marguerite would be at work.
Morning came and Ellen awoke with a terrible headache, alone in bed. Marguerite had long since left for work. Ellen’s memory of the previous evening was a bit fuzzy but she did remember that Marguerite had been quite aloof and unresponsive when she’d wanted to make love. She also remembered that she had a date that afternoon with Eva. “Shit,” she said. “I’d better move my ass.” She dragged herself out of bed, downed a shot of vodka for her hangover and headed for the shower.
***
“Let’s get out of this place,” Ellen said in a hoarse voice tinged with desire as soon as they’d finished lunch at Ellen’s favorite Japanese restaurant.
“Oh yes, let’s,” Eva replied eagerly and they repaired to Eva’s apartment where they began what was to be a steamy, strictly physical affair.
But Marguerite was Ellen’s true love...the woman whom she considered to be her wife. Although she had held on to her apartment on East 2nd St., she had pretty much moved in with Marguerite. When she envisioned growing old with a mate, Marguerite was the one about whom she thought.
To most observers, Ellen and Marguerite were an unlikely couple. At 42, Marguerite was more than fifteen years Ellen’s senior. She was an intellectual whose German parents had known each other as children and had miraculously survived Auschwitz. They emigrated to America and lived with distant relatives, losing contact with each other for years. They each began careers in academia and reunited when, coincidentally, they both got jobs teaching at Hunter College. They eventually married and had Marguerite quite late in life. The middle-aged parents doted on the child, instilled in her the famous Jewish love for learning, and were unabashedly proud when it became apparent that their daughter was a brilliant girl. Marguerite earned her B.A., M.A. and Ph.D. at Columbia University, was now a professor of classical literature at that esteemed school in Morningside Heights and had written several best-selling novels.
Ellen was a hard-drinking, fun-loving girl from small town Arkansas. She had never met a Jew before moving to New York and then didn’t know what to make of them. Marguerite was the first Jew she’d ever slept with.
She was a high school dropout who had come up north to become a model. That plan didn’t seem to be working out. She hadn’t yet been signed by an agency and, on her own, had found only one job, posing nude for a disreputable photographer who had paid her fifty dollars and then posted the photos all over the internet. He’d told her that the photos would appear in a well-known, tasteful magazine and instead they ended up on every XXX site on the web. When she’d discovered what the sleazeball had done, she got drunk, broke into his apartment, and attacked him with the dagger she always carried for protection. Although she managed to slice his cheek before he was able to get away, the man never pressed charges, perhaps embarrassed that he’d been bested by a girl. For her part, Ellen awoke the next day terribly hung over but with no recollection of the incident.
Ellen had never read any of Marguerite’s books or, for that matter, anybody else’s books. Her reading was pretty much limited to the popular fashion magazines. Marguerite tried repeatedly and unsuccessfully to get the girl to read.
Physically, Marguerite’s semitic features and voluptuous body contrasted sharply with the small-breasted, lanky figure of the fair-skinned younger woman. She wore expensive, tailor-made suits and dresses whenever she left the house and was often irritated when Ellen accompanied her wearing old jeans and t-shirts. “At least wear a damn bra,” she scolded one day when she was particularly annoyed. They were a curious looking couple when seen on the street but their dissimilar bodies complemented each other perfectly between the sheets.
Ellen had been working as a bank teller at a Park Avenue branch of Wells Fargo when they met. Marguerite entered the bank on a Tuesday morning, her wet blouse clinging and translucent after she had been caught in a sudden rain shower. Ellen was immediately turned on by the sight of the wet woman. The two women’s eyes met simultaneously and each felt an instantaneous yearning. Unaware that the older woman was drawn like a fly to the light of her sparkling blue eyes, the young teller prayed that she would come to her window. Her heart jumped when her prayer was answered.
“I would like to make a deposit to my checking account,” Marguerite said in a voice so sweet that Ellen was momentarily flustered.
“How may I help you?,” was Ellen’s inappropriate reply. She laughed in embarrassment when she realized what she had said.
The brief miscommunication was quickly forgotten and the two women spoke for many minutes until Ellen’s supervisor threw a withering look of disapproval in her direction. Afraid that Ellen would get in trouble with her boss, Marguerite suggested that they meet for coffee after work and Ellen eagerly consented. At Ellen’s recommendation, they met at the Bluebird, a wonderful coffee house not far from her apartment. They stayed for hours, drinking endless cups of espresso and getting to know each other. They met every afternoon that week for coffee or a drink, their attraction to each other increasing with each meeting. When, at the end of the week, Marguerite invited her up to her apartment, it was Ellen who made the first move, embracing her while they sat on the sofa sipping cognac and listening to Vivaldi.
“I’ve wanted you from the moment you walked into the bank,” Ellen said as she pulled her closer.
“Mmm, me too, Marguerite moaned. “What are we waiting for?”
Although Ellen was the seductress, once the relationship was underway Marguerite became the dominant force. Ellen was intimidated by the older woman’s cutting-edge intelligence, maturity and large bankroll. She was embarrassed by her boyish figure which she considered somehow inferior to Marguerite’s well-developed body. “How can you love my skinny ass?,” she often asked, not realizing that her skill as a lover more than made up for what she lacked in curves. She had never left her mate unsatisfied.
As the days went by, however, Marguerite, censorious by nature, became more and more critical of her young lover’s faults, of which she perceived many. “You must stop drinking so much,” she would complain. “You dress like a slob. Why won’t you let me buy you some nice clothes? Read a book for heaven’s sake.” Rather than retaliate, however, the usually hot-tempered Ellen held her tongue and fell more in love, perhaps subconsciously seeing Marguerite as a mother figure.
Now, Ellen knew, it was over. Alone in her depressing little apartment, she poured herself a large glass of vodka, lit a joint and flopped onto the beat-up sofa, feeling sorry for herself. She became more despondent with each puff of marijuana and each gulp of liquor. The tears returned and she loudly chided herself for her unfaithfulness and stupidity. “What have you done, you stupid slut? Now you’ve lost her forever.”
After another couple of drinks Ellen fell asleep. She dreamed a strange, drunken dream. In the dream, she and Marguerite, happily together again, were admiring a naked girl as she stepped into the bathtub. The girl submerged beneath the bubbly surface for what seemed like forever and when she finally came up for air, her gorgeous body glistening, she beckoned seductively to Ellen and Marguerite to join her. Only Ellen obeyed, stubbornly disregarding her lover’s insistent demands that she stay. When she reached the tub, Ellen grabbed her dagger and deftly slit the girl’s throat. Ellen awoke from the dream with a start, surprised to find herself in a tub full of blood and suds. A strange gurgling sound was coming from her throat and, in a panic, she realized that she was unable to breathe. Her final vision was of Marguerite and the naked girl leaving the bathroom arm in arm.
“Please, Marguerite,” Ellen cried, to no avail. “I’m so sorry. You must know that I love you.”
Ellen did love her but she’d never been able to control her own promiscuity. Since her teenage days she had juggled lovers like human bowling pins. In fact, Eva wasn’t the only woman with whom she was cheating. Ellen’s second cousin, Kat, had recently moved to New York and the two relatives had resumed an affair that had begun when they were young girls in Arkansas. Ellen was blissfully aware that she was addicted to sex and obsessed about it constantly. She had even kept lists of her lovers, actually rating their sexual performance.
Since she had begun sleeping with Marguerite, Ellen felt guilty about her infidelity but she did not try particularly hard to change her ways. She told herself that her furtive affairs added an exciting edge to the relationship. She even suspected that she was incapable of loving a woman unless she was secretly sleeping with others.
She’d met Eva at a party about a month ago and immediately fell in lust with her. Ironically, it was Marguerite, still on good terms with Eva, who had introduced them. Eva was a tall, willowy blond whose main attraction to Ellen was that she’d slept with Marguerite. Like a high school geometry teacher, Ellen had always had an affinity for triangles. In the back of her mind, she’d kind of hoped that Marguerite would find out.
Ellen had not really wanted to go to the party but Marguerite dragged her along anyway. “It will be fun, darling,” she said in her sweetest voice.
“Oh, all right,” Ellen replied grudgingly, but somehow Marguerite failed to notice her lack of enthusiasm.
The party was in full swing when they arrived. Most of the guests, Ellen noticed, were drinking cocktails. “I’ll see you later Marg,” she said and she headed straight for the bar, ordered a vodka martini, downed it quickly and ordered another. Drink in hand, she turned from the bar and circulated throughout the room, not really seeing anything that piqued her interest. Just as she was about to return to the bar, she noticed Marguerite speaking with a pretty blond. She got another drink and joined them. “Ellen, hello. I would like you to meet Eva. We’re old friends,” she said.
“Glad to meet you,” Ellen said and she shook hands with the woman, impressed by the long, graceful fingers; involuntarily fantasizing them roaming across her body. The woman blushed noticeably when Ellen stared suggestively into her huge eyes.
“It’s nice to meet you, too,” Eva replied.
Marguerite, not quite sure why she was feeling pangs of jealousy, took Eva’s arm and led her away. She spoke with her for a few more minutes then turned to mingle with other friends. Eva went in a different direction and Ellen watched from the bar as she began an animated conversation with a tall, stocky man and then moved on to a dark-skinned woman with an extraordinarily large behind. Ellen settled in for a long night of drinking alone but she kept one eye on Marguerite and the other on Eva.
The room was filled with the cacophonous sounds of raucous laughter and boisterous conversation. Cheerful piano music could be heard in the background, performed by a tuxedo-clad young man. The long, greasy hair and eyebrow piercings of the homely pianist were incongruous with his formal attire. Ellen was wracking her brain trying to remember from where she knew the unkempt musician. Finally it came to her; he was the house pianist at Ty’s, a gay bar on Christopher St. Perhaps she hadn’t recognized him because of the tuxedo or perhaps it was because she was drunk; or maybe it was because whenever she’d been at Ty’s she’d been too drunk to notice him. “Whatever,” she said aloud to nobody. “He’s a shitty musician anyway.”
Ellen felt that the party was terribly boring and that Marguerite was ignoring her, socializing instead with her many intellectual acquaintances, most of whom Ellen did not know or care to meet. Other than Marguerite, the only person in whom she had any interest was Eva. The moment she saw her alone, she approached her and made her move. The blond was interested and the women made a date for the following afternoon when Marguerite would be at work.
Morning came and Ellen awoke with a terrible headache, alone in bed. Marguerite had long since left for work. Ellen’s memory of the previous evening was a bit fuzzy but she did remember that Marguerite had been quite aloof and unresponsive when she’d wanted to make love. She also remembered that she had a date that afternoon with Eva. “Shit,” she said. “I’d better move my ass.” She dragged herself out of bed, downed a shot of vodka for her hangover and headed for the shower.
***
“Let’s get out of this place,” Ellen said in a hoarse voice tinged with desire as soon as they’d finished lunch at Ellen’s favorite Japanese restaurant.
“Oh yes, let’s,” Eva replied eagerly and they repaired to Eva’s apartment where they began what was to be a steamy, strictly physical affair.
But Marguerite was Ellen’s true love...the woman whom she considered to be her wife. Although she had held on to her apartment on East 2nd St., she had pretty much moved in with Marguerite. When she envisioned growing old with a mate, Marguerite was the one about whom she thought.
To most observers, Ellen and Marguerite were an unlikely couple. At 42, Marguerite was more than fifteen years Ellen’s senior. She was an intellectual whose German parents had known each other as children and had miraculously survived Auschwitz. They emigrated to America and lived with distant relatives, losing contact with each other for years. They each began careers in academia and reunited when, coincidentally, they both got jobs teaching at Hunter College. They eventually married and had Marguerite quite late in life. The middle-aged parents doted on the child, instilled in her the famous Jewish love for learning, and were unabashedly proud when it became apparent that their daughter was a brilliant girl. Marguerite earned her B.A., M.A. and Ph.D. at Columbia University, was now a professor of classical literature at that esteemed school in Morningside Heights and had written several best-selling novels.
Ellen was a hard-drinking, fun-loving girl from small town Arkansas. She had never met a Jew before moving to New York and then didn’t know what to make of them. Marguerite was the first Jew she’d ever slept with.
She was a high school dropout who had come up north to become a model. That plan didn’t seem to be working out. She hadn’t yet been signed by an agency and, on her own, had found only one job, posing nude for a disreputable photographer who had paid her fifty dollars and then posted the photos all over the internet. He’d told her that the photos would appear in a well-known, tasteful magazine and instead they ended up on every XXX site on the web. When she’d discovered what the sleazeball had done, she got drunk, broke into his apartment, and attacked him with the dagger she always carried for protection. Although she managed to slice his cheek before he was able to get away, the man never pressed charges, perhaps embarrassed that he’d been bested by a girl. For her part, Ellen awoke the next day terribly hung over but with no recollection of the incident.
Ellen had never read any of Marguerite’s books or, for that matter, anybody else’s books. Her reading was pretty much limited to the popular fashion magazines. Marguerite tried repeatedly and unsuccessfully to get the girl to read.
Physically, Marguerite’s semitic features and voluptuous body contrasted sharply with the small-breasted, lanky figure of the fair-skinned younger woman. She wore expensive, tailor-made suits and dresses whenever she left the house and was often irritated when Ellen accompanied her wearing old jeans and t-shirts. “At least wear a damn bra,” she scolded one day when she was particularly annoyed. They were a curious looking couple when seen on the street but their dissimilar bodies complemented each other perfectly between the sheets.
Ellen had been working as a bank teller at a Park Avenue branch of Wells Fargo when they met. Marguerite entered the bank on a Tuesday morning, her wet blouse clinging and translucent after she had been caught in a sudden rain shower. Ellen was immediately turned on by the sight of the wet woman. The two women’s eyes met simultaneously and each felt an instantaneous yearning. Unaware that the older woman was drawn like a fly to the light of her sparkling blue eyes, the young teller prayed that she would come to her window. Her heart jumped when her prayer was answered.
“I would like to make a deposit to my checking account,” Marguerite said in a voice so sweet that Ellen was momentarily flustered.
“How may I help you?,” was Ellen’s inappropriate reply. She laughed in embarrassment when she realized what she had said.
The brief miscommunication was quickly forgotten and the two women spoke for many minutes until Ellen’s supervisor threw a withering look of disapproval in her direction. Afraid that Ellen would get in trouble with her boss, Marguerite suggested that they meet for coffee after work and Ellen eagerly consented. At Ellen’s recommendation, they met at the Bluebird, a wonderful coffee house not far from her apartment. They stayed for hours, drinking endless cups of espresso and getting to know each other. They met every afternoon that week for coffee or a drink, their attraction to each other increasing with each meeting. When, at the end of the week, Marguerite invited her up to her apartment, it was Ellen who made the first move, embracing her while they sat on the sofa sipping cognac and listening to Vivaldi.
“I’ve wanted you from the moment you walked into the bank,” Ellen said as she pulled her closer.
“Mmm, me too, Marguerite moaned. “What are we waiting for?”
Although Ellen was the seductress, once the relationship was underway Marguerite became the dominant force. Ellen was intimidated by the older woman’s cutting-edge intelligence, maturity and large bankroll. She was embarrassed by her boyish figure which she considered somehow inferior to Marguerite’s well-developed body. “How can you love my skinny ass?,” she often asked, not realizing that her skill as a lover more than made up for what she lacked in curves. She had never left her mate unsatisfied.
As the days went by, however, Marguerite, censorious by nature, became more and more critical of her young lover’s faults, of which she perceived many. “You must stop drinking so much,” she would complain. “You dress like a slob. Why won’t you let me buy you some nice clothes? Read a book for heaven’s sake.” Rather than retaliate, however, the usually hot-tempered Ellen held her tongue and fell more in love, perhaps subconsciously seeing Marguerite as a mother figure.
Now, Ellen knew, it was over. Alone in her depressing little apartment, she poured herself a large glass of vodka, lit a joint and flopped onto the beat-up sofa, feeling sorry for herself. She became more despondent with each puff of marijuana and each gulp of liquor. The tears returned and she loudly chided herself for her unfaithfulness and stupidity. “What have you done, you stupid slut? Now you’ve lost her forever.”
After another couple of drinks Ellen fell asleep. She dreamed a strange, drunken dream. In the dream, she and Marguerite, happily together again, were admiring a naked girl as she stepped into the bathtub. The girl submerged beneath the bubbly surface for what seemed like forever and when she finally came up for air, her gorgeous body glistening, she beckoned seductively to Ellen and Marguerite to join her. Only Ellen obeyed, stubbornly disregarding her lover’s insistent demands that she stay. When she reached the tub, Ellen grabbed her dagger and deftly slit the girl’s throat. Ellen awoke from the dream with a start, surprised to find herself in a tub full of blood and suds. A strange gurgling sound was coming from her throat and, in a panic, she realized that she was unable to breathe. Her final vision was of Marguerite and the naked girl leaving the bathroom arm in arm.
January 23, 2012
Un-Christian Christians
Jennifer Ahlquist is a high school student in Rhode Island who initiated a lawsuit against her school, Cranston High School West, to take down a religious (Christian) banner. She won the court case but has since been bullied, ostracized, and targeted with threats of beatings, rape and murder. The situation became so bad that she has had to change schools. Several florists in the area refused, on the basis of religion, to deliver a gift of a dozen roses, violating a Rhode Island statute. Incredibly, even a Rhode Island state representative has gone public with insulting her, calling her, among other things, evil.
What's up with these so-called Christian people? In the first place, the court ruling is, in any legal sense, 100% non-controversial. For decades, the courts have made it perfectly clear that public institutions may not promote religion, either any particular religion or the idea in general.
It matters not that the majority of the people in young Jessica's community believe in Christianity and feel the need to display their feelings in the school. In a democracy, people with minority, dissenting or unpopular opinions also have rights which the majority can not take away. If the majority felt that all New Englanders must wear Patriots gear until the conclusion of the Super Bowl or that all Giants fans should be tarred and feathered and run out of town, the majority would not rule. Those in the minority have the right to root for the Giants or even the Dallas Cowboys. They also have the right to root for nobody at all.
It is a basic right not to have your government impose a religious belief on you. The right to make your own decision about religion or the lack thereof without the government enforcing a particular view that may or may not be your own is one on which our nation was founded. Some Americans may know this right as the First Amendment.
On a more human level, there seems to be something very wrong with the so-called Christians who have involved themselves in this controversy. These people do not appear to be at all Christian-like. Unfortunately, that seems to be a common trait among "Christians" as well as those of other persuasions. Some of the less-than-tolerant statements by these enraged religious zealots include:
"Let's all jump that girl who did the banner. Fuck that ho."
"Hail Mary full of grace, Jessica Ahlquist is gonna get punched in the face."
"God's going to fuck your ass with that banner you scumbag."
"Nail her to a cross."
Somehow, I don't think that Jesus would have approved of these un-Christianlike actions and remarks. He said to preach the Gospel to everyone on Earth not to force them to live under Christian law. I fear He would not be happy with His modern day disciples.
Fortunately, there is a bright side to this story. Jessica has received much support throughout the land. Many people have praised her courage and spoken out against her tormentors. A college scholarship fundraiser is being held for her by Foundation Beyond Belief. Happily, a significant sum has already been raised and hopefully there will be a little more. The money will be placed in a trust fund with the American Humanist Association. The fundraiser will last until 2/29/12. Anyone who wishes to contribute can do so by clicking on the link below.
http:www.patheos.com/blogs/friendlyatheist...
What's up with these so-called Christian people? In the first place, the court ruling is, in any legal sense, 100% non-controversial. For decades, the courts have made it perfectly clear that public institutions may not promote religion, either any particular religion or the idea in general.
It matters not that the majority of the people in young Jessica's community believe in Christianity and feel the need to display their feelings in the school. In a democracy, people with minority, dissenting or unpopular opinions also have rights which the majority can not take away. If the majority felt that all New Englanders must wear Patriots gear until the conclusion of the Super Bowl or that all Giants fans should be tarred and feathered and run out of town, the majority would not rule. Those in the minority have the right to root for the Giants or even the Dallas Cowboys. They also have the right to root for nobody at all.
It is a basic right not to have your government impose a religious belief on you. The right to make your own decision about religion or the lack thereof without the government enforcing a particular view that may or may not be your own is one on which our nation was founded. Some Americans may know this right as the First Amendment.
On a more human level, there seems to be something very wrong with the so-called Christians who have involved themselves in this controversy. These people do not appear to be at all Christian-like. Unfortunately, that seems to be a common trait among "Christians" as well as those of other persuasions. Some of the less-than-tolerant statements by these enraged religious zealots include:
"Let's all jump that girl who did the banner. Fuck that ho."
"Hail Mary full of grace, Jessica Ahlquist is gonna get punched in the face."
"God's going to fuck your ass with that banner you scumbag."
"Nail her to a cross."
Somehow, I don't think that Jesus would have approved of these un-Christianlike actions and remarks. He said to preach the Gospel to everyone on Earth not to force them to live under Christian law. I fear He would not be happy with His modern day disciples.
Fortunately, there is a bright side to this story. Jessica has received much support throughout the land. Many people have praised her courage and spoken out against her tormentors. A college scholarship fundraiser is being held for her by Foundation Beyond Belief. Happily, a significant sum has already been raised and hopefully there will be a little more. The money will be placed in a trust fund with the American Humanist Association. The fundraiser will last until 2/29/12. Anyone who wishes to contribute can do so by clicking on the link below.
http:www.patheos.com/blogs/friendlyatheist...
January 8, 2012
For The Love of Her Mother
“Dry your eyes Abigail,” Barbie advised. “Your mom didn’t mean to hit you. She loves you.”
Abigail followed her doll’s advice and wiped the tears from her face. It was good advice and it served to cheer her up although somewhere in the back of her mind she recognized several absurdities. First, Abby realized, dolls do not talk...at least not in this world. Then, of course, there was the fact that at fourteen, she was way too old to be playing with dolls. The other girls in her class had all thrown their dolls out years ago and moved on to more mature pursuits. Some even had boyfriends. In fact, she’d heard that Audrey Lang had gone all the way (whatever that means) with her current boyfriend. At any rate, those girls would laugh if they knew that Barbie was her best friend. That didn’t really bother her very much. Aside from Barbie, she had no friends. Nobody knew, or cared, that she still played with her Barbie. The biggest problem in Abby’s eyes was that the doll was lying to her.
“Oh, Barbie,” she admonished. “There’s no sense fibbing. I know that Mommy really did mean to hit me. She hits me all the time. She doesn’t love me at all.”
“You’ll see that I’m right Abigail. Your mommy does love you. She loves you more than anything.”
Oh, how Abigail wished that Barbie was right. She craved her mother’s love. She tried so hard to please her but it never came out right. Today, for example, Mommy was thirsty and Abby rushed to the sink to get her a glass of water. In her haste to please her mom, she stumbled and spilled most of it on the floor.
“You stupid little bitch,” her mother screamed. “How clumsy can one girl be? Now the floor is soaking wet.”
“Mom, it’s only water,” Abigail whined. “I’ll dry it off.”
“Only water? It’s not the water that concerns me young lady. It’s you. I’ve never seen a child that was so incompetent. I’m ashamed to be your mother. I wish that you’d never been born.”
“Oh, Mom,” Abby said, before bursting into tears.
“Stop that crying right now,” the enraged woman demanded, “before I give you something to cry about.”
Then without giving the child a chance to stop, she grabbed her by the hair and smacked her hard across the face.
***
“Abigail, come on over. I’ve baked chocolate chip cookies and they’re just waiting to be eaten.” That was Mrs. Wilson, the next door neighbor. Abby adored Mrs. Wilson. She was the nicest person she knew: always ready with a friendly smile, a good word and delicious cookies.
“Abigail, what happened to your face,” Mrs. Wilson asked, aghast at the nasty welt on the girl’s cheek.
“Oh, it’s nothing, Mrs. Wilson. “You know how clumsy I am. I wasn’t paying attention and I walked into the corner of a cabinet.”
“Abigail, you’re not clumsy at all. You’re one of the most graceful young ladies I’ve ever seen. Where on earth did you get the idea that you’re clumsy?” Then it dawned on the woman. “Abby, did your mother hit you again?”
“No Mrs. Wilson, of course not. Why would you think that? My mother loves me! She would never hit me.”
“I’m going to have to give that woman a piece of my mind,” said Mrs. Wilson, frowning.
***
“Anne,” Mrs Wilson said at the front door, “enough is enough. I know that you’ve been abusing your daughter and I’m going to report it to the authorities.”
“What are you talking about, you meddling bitch? I certainly have not been abusing my daughter. Why don’t you get off my property and mind your own business?”
With that, she slammed the door in her neighbor’s face.
“Abigail,” she screamed, in a tone that reminded Abby of a mad dog, “get your sorry ass down here right this instant.”
Abby had heard the exchange between her mom and Mrs. Wilson and she was frightened. She knew that she was probably going to get another beating but that’s not really what scared her. If Mrs. Wilson told on her mom, they would probably haul her mom off to jail and put Abby in a home. That was the worst thing that could happen. She would never get the chance to win her mom’s love. In fact, her mom would probably blame her for getting her arrested.
Abigail conferred with Barbie for several hours in a desperate attempt to come up with a solution. “Believe me, Abby,” the doll insisted at the end of the long confab, “it’s the only way.”
The confused girl reluctantly agreed to follow the doll’s advice. “I hope you’re right,” she said quietly.
***
“Who is it?” Mrs. Wilson called grumpily from upstairs when the bell rang, inconveniently disturbing her mid-day nap.
“It’s me, Mrs. Wilson. Abigail.”
“Oh, Abigail,” she replied cheerfully, perking up when she heard the child’s voice. “Hold on. I’ll be right down.”
She quickly put on the bright blue blouse and tapered white slacks that she’d been wearing before her nap and hurried downstairs, eager to let the girl know that her mother’s beatings would probably stop now.
“Hi, Ab...” the rest of the greeting suddenly turned to a horrifying scream as the crazed neighbor-girl drove a steak knife into her heart, pulled it out, and with piston-like action, repeatedly plunged the weapon into the helpless woman’s torso.
Naturally, the murdered woman’s screams drew the neighbors from their houses. Abby’s mom came running from next door, her face disfigured from terror. “Abigail,” she screeched, “what have you done?”
Abby turned to her mom, soaked with Mrs. Wilson’s blood, eyes dilated and a wide smile on her face formed by a mixture of pride and elation.
“I did it for you, Mom. Now that meddling bitch can’t report you to the authorities and get you put in jail. Do you love me now?”
Abigail followed her doll’s advice and wiped the tears from her face. It was good advice and it served to cheer her up although somewhere in the back of her mind she recognized several absurdities. First, Abby realized, dolls do not talk...at least not in this world. Then, of course, there was the fact that at fourteen, she was way too old to be playing with dolls. The other girls in her class had all thrown their dolls out years ago and moved on to more mature pursuits. Some even had boyfriends. In fact, she’d heard that Audrey Lang had gone all the way (whatever that means) with her current boyfriend. At any rate, those girls would laugh if they knew that Barbie was her best friend. That didn’t really bother her very much. Aside from Barbie, she had no friends. Nobody knew, or cared, that she still played with her Barbie. The biggest problem in Abby’s eyes was that the doll was lying to her.
“Oh, Barbie,” she admonished. “There’s no sense fibbing. I know that Mommy really did mean to hit me. She hits me all the time. She doesn’t love me at all.”
“You’ll see that I’m right Abigail. Your mommy does love you. She loves you more than anything.”
Oh, how Abigail wished that Barbie was right. She craved her mother’s love. She tried so hard to please her but it never came out right. Today, for example, Mommy was thirsty and Abby rushed to the sink to get her a glass of water. In her haste to please her mom, she stumbled and spilled most of it on the floor.
“You stupid little bitch,” her mother screamed. “How clumsy can one girl be? Now the floor is soaking wet.”
“Mom, it’s only water,” Abigail whined. “I’ll dry it off.”
“Only water? It’s not the water that concerns me young lady. It’s you. I’ve never seen a child that was so incompetent. I’m ashamed to be your mother. I wish that you’d never been born.”
“Oh, Mom,” Abby said, before bursting into tears.
“Stop that crying right now,” the enraged woman demanded, “before I give you something to cry about.”
Then without giving the child a chance to stop, she grabbed her by the hair and smacked her hard across the face.
***
“Abigail, come on over. I’ve baked chocolate chip cookies and they’re just waiting to be eaten.” That was Mrs. Wilson, the next door neighbor. Abby adored Mrs. Wilson. She was the nicest person she knew: always ready with a friendly smile, a good word and delicious cookies.
“Abigail, what happened to your face,” Mrs. Wilson asked, aghast at the nasty welt on the girl’s cheek.
“Oh, it’s nothing, Mrs. Wilson. “You know how clumsy I am. I wasn’t paying attention and I walked into the corner of a cabinet.”
“Abigail, you’re not clumsy at all. You’re one of the most graceful young ladies I’ve ever seen. Where on earth did you get the idea that you’re clumsy?” Then it dawned on the woman. “Abby, did your mother hit you again?”
“No Mrs. Wilson, of course not. Why would you think that? My mother loves me! She would never hit me.”
“I’m going to have to give that woman a piece of my mind,” said Mrs. Wilson, frowning.
***
“Anne,” Mrs Wilson said at the front door, “enough is enough. I know that you’ve been abusing your daughter and I’m going to report it to the authorities.”
“What are you talking about, you meddling bitch? I certainly have not been abusing my daughter. Why don’t you get off my property and mind your own business?”
With that, she slammed the door in her neighbor’s face.
“Abigail,” she screamed, in a tone that reminded Abby of a mad dog, “get your sorry ass down here right this instant.”
Abby had heard the exchange between her mom and Mrs. Wilson and she was frightened. She knew that she was probably going to get another beating but that’s not really what scared her. If Mrs. Wilson told on her mom, they would probably haul her mom off to jail and put Abby in a home. That was the worst thing that could happen. She would never get the chance to win her mom’s love. In fact, her mom would probably blame her for getting her arrested.
Abigail conferred with Barbie for several hours in a desperate attempt to come up with a solution. “Believe me, Abby,” the doll insisted at the end of the long confab, “it’s the only way.”
The confused girl reluctantly agreed to follow the doll’s advice. “I hope you’re right,” she said quietly.
***
“Who is it?” Mrs. Wilson called grumpily from upstairs when the bell rang, inconveniently disturbing her mid-day nap.
“It’s me, Mrs. Wilson. Abigail.”
“Oh, Abigail,” she replied cheerfully, perking up when she heard the child’s voice. “Hold on. I’ll be right down.”
She quickly put on the bright blue blouse and tapered white slacks that she’d been wearing before her nap and hurried downstairs, eager to let the girl know that her mother’s beatings would probably stop now.
“Hi, Ab...” the rest of the greeting suddenly turned to a horrifying scream as the crazed neighbor-girl drove a steak knife into her heart, pulled it out, and with piston-like action, repeatedly plunged the weapon into the helpless woman’s torso.
Naturally, the murdered woman’s screams drew the neighbors from their houses. Abby’s mom came running from next door, her face disfigured from terror. “Abigail,” she screeched, “what have you done?”
Abby turned to her mom, soaked with Mrs. Wilson’s blood, eyes dilated and a wide smile on her face formed by a mixture of pride and elation.
“I did it for you, Mom. Now that meddling bitch can’t report you to the authorities and get you put in jail. Do you love me now?”
December 24, 2011
A Hilarious Christmas Story
This is an article submitted to a 1999 Louisville Sentinel contest to find out who had the wildest Christmas dinners. It won first prize.
As a joke, my brother Jay used to hang a pair of panty hose over his fireplace before Christmas. He said all he wanted was for Santa to fill them.
What they say about Santa checking the list twice must be true because every Christmas morning, although Jay's kids' stockings overflowed, his poor pantyhose hung sadly empty.
One year I decided to make his dream come true. I put on sunglasses and went in search of an inflatable love doll. They don't sell those things at Wal-Mart. I had to go to an adult bookstore downtown.
If you've never been in an X-rated store, don't go, you'll only confuse yourself. I was there an hour saying things like, 'What does this do?' 'You're kidding me!' 'Who would buy that?' Finally, I made it to the inflatable doll section.
I wanted to buy a standard, uncomplicated doll that could also substitute as a passenger in my truck so I could use the car pool lane during rush hour.
Finding what I wanted was difficult. 'Love Dolls' come in many different models. The top of the line, according to the side of the box, could do things I'd only seen in a book on animal husbandry. I settled for 'Lovable Louise.' She was at the bottom of the price scale.
To call Louise a 'doll' took a huge leap of imagination.
On Christmas Eve and with the help of an old bicycle pump, Louise came to life.
My sister-in-law was in on the plan and let me in during the wee morning hours. Long after Santa had come and gone, I filled the dangling pantyhose with Louise's pliant legs and bottom. I also ate some cookies and drank what remained of a glass of milk on a nearby tray. I went home, and giggled for a couple of hours.
The next morning my brother called to say that Santa had been to his house and left a present that had made him VERY happy, but had left the dog confused. She would bark, start to walk away, then come back and bark some more.
We all agreed that Louise should remain in her pantyhose so the rest of the family could admire her when they came over for the traditional Christmas dinner.
My grandmother noticed Louise the moment she walked in the door. 'What the hell is that?' she asked.
My brother quickly explained, 'It's a doll.'
'Who would play with something like that?' Granny snapped.
I kept my mouth shut.
'Where are her clothes?' Granny continued.
'Boy, that turkey sure smells nice, Gran,' Jay said, to steer her into the dining room.
But Granny was relentless. 'Why doesn't she have any teeth?'
Again, I could have answered, but why would I? It was Christmas and no one wanted to ride in the back of the ambulance saying, 'Hang on Granny, hang on!'
My grandfather, a delightful old man with poor eyesight, sidled up to me and said, 'Hey, who's the naked gal by the fireplace?' I told him she was Jay's friend.
A few minutes later I noticed Grandpa by the mantel, talking to Louise. Not just talking, but actually flirting. It was then that we realized this might be Grandpa's last Christmas at home.
The dinner went well. We made the usual small talk about who had died, who was dying, and who should be killed, when suddenly Louise made a noise like my father in the bathroom in the morning. Then she lurched from the mantel, flew around the room twice, and fell in a heap in front of the sofa. The cat screamed. I passed cranberry sauce through my nose, and Grandpa ran across the room, fell to his knees, and began administering mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
My brother fell back over his chair and wet his pants.
Granny threw down her napkin, stomped out of the room, and sat in the car.
It was indeed a Christmas to treasure and remember.
Later in my brother's garage, we conducted a thorough examination to decide the cause of Louise's collapse. We discovered that Louise had suffered from a hot ember to the back of her right thigh.
Fortunately, thanks to a wonder drug called duct tape, we restored her to perfect health.
I can't wait until next Christmas.
As a joke, my brother Jay used to hang a pair of panty hose over his fireplace before Christmas. He said all he wanted was for Santa to fill them.
What they say about Santa checking the list twice must be true because every Christmas morning, although Jay's kids' stockings overflowed, his poor pantyhose hung sadly empty.
One year I decided to make his dream come true. I put on sunglasses and went in search of an inflatable love doll. They don't sell those things at Wal-Mart. I had to go to an adult bookstore downtown.
If you've never been in an X-rated store, don't go, you'll only confuse yourself. I was there an hour saying things like, 'What does this do?' 'You're kidding me!' 'Who would buy that?' Finally, I made it to the inflatable doll section.
I wanted to buy a standard, uncomplicated doll that could also substitute as a passenger in my truck so I could use the car pool lane during rush hour.
Finding what I wanted was difficult. 'Love Dolls' come in many different models. The top of the line, according to the side of the box, could do things I'd only seen in a book on animal husbandry. I settled for 'Lovable Louise.' She was at the bottom of the price scale.
To call Louise a 'doll' took a huge leap of imagination.
On Christmas Eve and with the help of an old bicycle pump, Louise came to life.
My sister-in-law was in on the plan and let me in during the wee morning hours. Long after Santa had come and gone, I filled the dangling pantyhose with Louise's pliant legs and bottom. I also ate some cookies and drank what remained of a glass of milk on a nearby tray. I went home, and giggled for a couple of hours.
The next morning my brother called to say that Santa had been to his house and left a present that had made him VERY happy, but had left the dog confused. She would bark, start to walk away, then come back and bark some more.
We all agreed that Louise should remain in her pantyhose so the rest of the family could admire her when they came over for the traditional Christmas dinner.
My grandmother noticed Louise the moment she walked in the door. 'What the hell is that?' she asked.
My brother quickly explained, 'It's a doll.'
'Who would play with something like that?' Granny snapped.
I kept my mouth shut.
'Where are her clothes?' Granny continued.
'Boy, that turkey sure smells nice, Gran,' Jay said, to steer her into the dining room.
But Granny was relentless. 'Why doesn't she have any teeth?'
Again, I could have answered, but why would I? It was Christmas and no one wanted to ride in the back of the ambulance saying, 'Hang on Granny, hang on!'
My grandfather, a delightful old man with poor eyesight, sidled up to me and said, 'Hey, who's the naked gal by the fireplace?' I told him she was Jay's friend.
A few minutes later I noticed Grandpa by the mantel, talking to Louise. Not just talking, but actually flirting. It was then that we realized this might be Grandpa's last Christmas at home.
The dinner went well. We made the usual small talk about who had died, who was dying, and who should be killed, when suddenly Louise made a noise like my father in the bathroom in the morning. Then she lurched from the mantel, flew around the room twice, and fell in a heap in front of the sofa. The cat screamed. I passed cranberry sauce through my nose, and Grandpa ran across the room, fell to his knees, and began administering mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
My brother fell back over his chair and wet his pants.
Granny threw down her napkin, stomped out of the room, and sat in the car.
It was indeed a Christmas to treasure and remember.
Later in my brother's garage, we conducted a thorough examination to decide the cause of Louise's collapse. We discovered that Louise had suffered from a hot ember to the back of her right thigh.
Fortunately, thanks to a wonder drug called duct tape, we restored her to perfect health.
I can't wait until next Christmas.
