"I work in the Morgue"

Her mother peeked her slightly wrinkled face into the doorway. “You’d better put on your highest heels,” she said and retreated back into the hallway. Clad in a plaid skirt, and perfectly color coordinated flats, Lisa became frazzled immediately. She whipped back toward her closet and searched for the only pair of pants that weren’t wrinkled like tissue paper. She quickly kicked off her shoes, stripped off her skirt, and pulled on a pair of bright red slacks that were only expectable because it was 1982. Taking her mother’s advice, she slid on her highest pair of pumps, and after taking one last glance at the mirror, she pranced out her room and down the stairs. Lisa had only met Lenny once before; they had been introduced by a mutual friend at a party. He had come from a Honeywell softball game and was sitting casually on the arm of a sofa, covered in infield dust. It was hard in that moment for her to create any real sort of opinion, and she was eager to see him again.

As little five foot nothing Lisa entered the breezeway, she was struck by her mother’s words. “You’d better put on your highest heels” was an understatement. Although her pumps gave her an extra few inches, Lenny still towered above her. At six feet three, he had to cock is head to one side when entering through the doorway. He was different than any guy she had dated before. He was tall and thin, but with broad shoulders than gave him the allusion of added size; his face was partially covered by a full beard, and although her family stood there awkwardly, he seemed to feel no sense of discomfort. Lisa gave a meek hello, and he responded with a wide smile that traveled up and emanated from his small, cloudy blue eyes. While he appeared completely content, Lisa was eager to escape the burning looks of her parents. She had agreed to a date with a man she had barely met; furthermore, she did not even know his last name. Explaining that one to dear old Bob and Winnie was far from easy, but since she was nineteen, and a grown girl their objections fell flat, and she had their consent as long as they met him beforehand.

Lisa followed Lenny towards his car, taking quick little steps to keep in stride with his long legs. He led her to his little cadet blue Camaro, which she would later find out was in fact his younger brother’s. After opening her door and walking around towards his, Lenny turned the little car to life. The engine roared ferociously, and Lisa jumped a little at the sudden noise. As they pulled out the driveway and picked up speed, they both quickly realized any attempts at conversation would be hindered by the thunder of the engine. Lenny tried to ignore the noise and chat; however, he was only received by a couple confused looks and inaudible replies.

Fortunately, the drive was short and they quickly turned off Rt. 1 into the parking lot of a restaurant Lisa had never seen before, the Hardcover Restaurant. It seemed to a real swanky place, the kind with small portions but high prices. The kind a

As the two headed to the hostess podium, Lisa listened earnestly for Lenny to give his name. “Uh ya, a table for two please.” He said, “Under Flinstone.” As Lisa rethought the entire date, Lenny turned and smirked at her as if it was a joke for only them. Completely confused, Lisa smiled back.

After a few short minutes the two were sat, and once the ordering had been done the interview process began.

And then came Lenny asked the question. “So what do you do for work?”

“I actually work in the morgue at the Lahey Clinic in Burlington.” Lenny choked on his Coke. There Lisa sat, the pretty little size zero with a shy, peeking smile. He just stared dumbfounded for a minute. He was not one to be caught off guard, and moreover, he was never one to be at a loss for words. She didn’t seem to notice his utter shock. Finally, after the initial surprise wore off, he replied “Cool,” and he meant it. He had never met a girl who could handle the thought of dead people, never mind work with them. “What do you do there?” He inquired earnestly?

And that was that. Little Lisa Zimmerman, and whom she would soon find out was Lenny Rowe, not Flinstone, sat and chatted for hours. They discusses their professions, their families, their plans for the week, and what they would eventually like to happen with their bodies upon death, which is surprising not an awkward topic when one works in a morgue.

Convergence

It was the spring of 1976. She was working as a cocktail waitress at Cajun’s Warf – one of the most popular bars in Little Rock. It’s still there. An impressive, wood shingled structure resembling a fancy beach house - two stories with a large deck that hangs out over the Arkansas River, its lights reflecting in the dark water below. It was Monday and she usually worked upstairs by herself on Mondays. Tall, with long blond hair and bright blue eyes, she had a way with people, an easy smile and graceful presence. She was married, but separated. At the beginning of the year she had left Fayetteville and her husband and his crazy friends and moved into a tiny garage apartment in Little Rock near the Division Street warehouses, trying to make some money and finish school and start over and let go and find herself. She was twenty-three.

¨

He had seen her from across the room the week before, weaving in and out of tables and chairs on a packed Saturday night with a try full of drinks, gracefully picking up empty glasses and replacing them with full ones. He was from New York, a northerner displaced among the deceptively subtle yet strict mores of southern culture. He was recently out of law school and practicing as an associate out of the single room he rented from the two partners at the firm. He lived in the room as well and every morning he would fold up his Murphy’s bed, throw his personal belongings into the closet and move his desk into the center of the room to begin working on his cases. It wasn’t much, but it didn’t bother him. He had always had a willingness to go where his fortunes took him. He had traveled across the country and back, protested Vietnam, climbed mountains in Colorado, dived wrecks in the Caribbean, been married, divorced, driven a red sports car, but lost it to his ex-wife. Now he drove a huge, brown, 1970 Oldsmobile with a dying muffler. He could never say exactly why he did anything in particular at any given time – it always seemed as though the decisions were made for him and all he had to do was hop along for the ride. In the same way, he wasn’t sure what it was that drew his eye to her. But he couldn’t deny it.

A few days later he had asked Debbie Steinman, whom he played tennis with a few times and also worked at Cajun’s, who it was that he had seen that night. Debbie told him that her name was Donna and that if he wanted to talk to her he should stop by early on a Monday night because she worked upstairs by herself.

¨

It was Monday night, around nine o’clock. The upstairs at Cajun’s wasn’t too busy so she had time every now and then to stop and talk to her friend Bobbye the bartender. Debbie had told her that a guy had been asking about her. She had seen him come up the stairs and just stand by the jukebox for a few minutes. A young lawyer from New York who liked to rock climb and scuba dive, Debbie had said. She was curious, but not too interested. You get hit on a lot as a waitress, it’s the nature of the job and she had always been careful to keep things professional.

She stole another glance across the room. He had the tall, thin build of a runner with jet-black hair and wire-rimmed glasses, dressed well, but not too well. She pretended not to seem him looking at her. She turned her back to the stairs and fiddled with something behind the bar, grabbed her tray and headed over to one of the tables. As if he had finally summoned together all his courage he started towards her and she stopped and let him walk the last few feet. He smiled and then looked away and said something she couldn’t understand.

“Um, excuse me?” she said, leaning forward and cocking her head a little.

He looked embarrassed then, cleared his throat.

“Hi, I’m Marty,” he said in a distinct New York accent.

“My name’s Donna.”

“It’s nice to meet you. And, um, I was wondering if it would be okay if I called you sometime?”

She studied him for a moment. This wasn’t her style, but there was something about him that made him seem a little different. He had a certain look about that made you know that at that moment he was paying attention to you and only you. She had told herself that she needed to be on her own for a while. And besides, legally she was still married. Would he care? Should she tell him? But there was something about him. She smiled, pulled her notebook out the pocket of her apron, wrote something down, handed it to him.

“Are you free on Saturday?” she said. “I’m going to the circus, if you’d like to join me.”

Parents

I got half way through writing this and realized I didn't like it, but it was too late to start over.....

Peggy and Clif never planned to get married. Peggy never planned to get pregnant. They were both in their late 30’s with successful careers and previous marriages behind them and retirement ahead, but life is lonely without someone to share it with, so they agreed to a blind date arranged by their mutual friends.

It was a hot late August evening when Clif pulled his maroon 1967 two-door Mercedes-Benz 300SE into the freshly paved driveway of Peggy’s small condo. He was sweating beneath the setting sun and his wool pinstripe suit jacket so he loosened his narrow black tie, but remembered he was there for a date and tightened it back up. A quick glance in the rear-view mirror to straighten everything out and he hopped out of the car.

He headed for the path leading to the front door, but remembered Peggy told him to come in through the garage in their brief phone conversation earlier. He spun on his shiny new oxfords, turning to face the open garage. There was one of those tiny Toyotas parked inside; its narrow rear tires and chrome-less, boxy rear end highlighted by the receding band of sunlight.

Clif squeezed past the econo-box and mashed the lighted doorbell button to the left of the brown interior door. It whipped open before his hand was back by his side.

“Clif?” Peggy asked, patting her freshly washed and tightly permed hair.

“Hello, nice to finally meet you in person,” he said, extending a hand and stepping over the threshold and into the small room connecting the condo and garage. It smelled like wet dog for some reason.

Peggy grasped his hand in a quick, friendly handshake.

“So, shall we get going? I made reservations for 7,” Clif offered, gesturing toward the driveway and his freshly washed, polished, and waxed Mercedes.

“Can we take my car, I just bought it last week,” replied Peggy.

“Uhh, I guess we can do that,” shrugged Clif, slightly disappointed. He went back outside and moved the Mercedes to the street.

Late Seventies Car Ride

A white sedan, a 68’ Buick skylark, is bounding down the darkening, winding, windy roads of a suburban New England town. And sounds of laughter can be heard by housewives and househusbands outside their homes as they grill cheeseburgers or arrive at their different households that happen to be just different shades of boring, finally back from work, and as they watch their kids ride their training bicycles for the last time before dusk turns to night and it’s time for the babies to go inside - but they hear the laughter only for a moment, because the car is just so damn fast because it seems like the guy, the driver, has got a lead foot and the gal, well, she just can’t stop laughing about something, like he’s telling a riot of a joke or something. And these squares, they shout real loud with lots of breath and really cherry red faces “HEY YOU KIDS. SLOW DOWN, KIDS.”

But the guy is twenty but looks like he’s sixteen and his new gal is eighteen but she looks like she’s twenty-five so not they’re not really kids at all. The guy, the driver, he’s real plain looking, though. Lots of dark brown hair, kind of slouches, and he’s still got some of his baby fat but he’s really got his old, run down sneakers pressed damn hard on the ignition for the gal, cause this chick, she’s gorgeous and she’s holding a beer and the breeze is running through her dark, curly brown hair it’s making it bob up and down and she’s laughing and smoking a cigarette and having a grand old time in the car cause she doesn’t even have her license yet and she kind of likes this new guy cause he isn’t so much of an asshole like her last boyfriend who sucked to the point of being classified as a leech.

And they keep going down the winding roads, past trees and houses and old black mailboxes with rotted-out posts, and they just manage to stay between those two dire yellow lines. And the guy, he’s pretty nervous cause he’s had a beer and he hates making waves with the police but she’s laughing and her teeth are so damn white and her eyes are so big and brown and her lipstick is bright red and all he wants to do is kiss her on that nice hill and have another beer before the sun’s goodbyes are all over and done with. And the radio is blasting and something incoherent is coming out cause the speakers are broken but it doesn’t matter cause they’re almost there and the light sure is fading fast.

And they hop out of the car and run, stumbling slightly, not from beer but from newness and they feel the tall grass hitting their bare legs and they run and run and finally reach the top and the sun is just about to fade behind some real tall pine trees and the girl, she’s smiling and the guy is loving it and I guess what they do is look at each other and kiss or something. And they sit down in the tall tall grass and in the back of the guy’s mind the word Lyme Disease comes up but he doesn’t get up because the girl doesn’t get up. Instead she lights another cigarette.

And I guess she looks into his eyes and gives him a kiss on the lips and he turns real red cause he hasn’t kissed a girl before and they turn and say goodbye to the sun and the sky filled with oranges and blues and purples and pinks and yellows and all the clouds and they seem to be smiling, and I mean everything seems to be smiling.

The Hitchhiker

Randall Marcheuk felt claustrophobic on Route 4 in southern New Hampshire. There had not nearly been so many trees growing up in North Dakota. It made his lungs and muscles tighten up like ice. He had peered and peeked at every corner, anxious not to miss his destination but trying not to lose control. Never mind that the vanilla Toyota pickup, his only means of transportation, was rusting in some areas and yellowing. But thank goodness the man living in the weathered white country house on that road permitted him to take his vacant apartment. For a rent.

Entering Sue’s house, the lights around the interior were gold but not terribly bright, in fact they were pleasant. They illuminated some shades of crimson here and there. The carpeting was nice and rugged, too.

“Ah, Randall! There you are!”

Sue spoke with her cheerful, slightly deep tone as she walked forward. Her young son, Rob, around eight years old with short brown hair and a passive face, seemed at a loss as to what was going on in his own house.

“Hey! Thanks, Sue!” Randall replied, relief welling in his veins.

“You’re just in time, we’re about to start dinner.”

“Alright, thanks,” Randall added with a hint of tiredness.

Everybody started to gather at a somewhat long table with a linen cloth draped over it stood in the center of a neighboring room. Randall took his seat, settled in, and patiently draped his napkin over his lap.

Ellen Jayce was sitting across the table from him.

The Leggy Secretary

Brian Sullivan started working at Raytheon right out of Bentley College.  The president of Raytheon was his father, so there was little anxiety about finding a job right out of school.  He insisted on working his way up the corporate latter, wanted to avoid getting any sneers from the calloused veterans at the office.  So Brian the twenty-something took a job as a product manager.

                It didn’t take very long for people to find out that he was the president’s son.  Brian received fresh coffee to his cubical, like clockwork, every morning at 7:30.  He was a tall Irish man with thinning blonde hair and light blue eyes.  His clothes always looked worn and had a patch or shaded section in the fabric.  Waste was a cardinal sin to him, rarely did he throw away any article of clothing unless it looked like it was jammed in a shredder (His father grew up during the great depression in New York City, and the only evidence of that was his modest and hardworking ethics).  Brian learned to put up a mirror in his cubical to be used as a rearview mirror so he could tell people to piss off without even moving an inch.  In return, those people gave him a toothless comb.   They sniffed out his insecurity about the receding hairline.

                Wednesdays were always frantic.  The accounts closed the books every Wednesday so on every floor  you would see people running from cubical to cubical with a manila folder clutched nervously in there hand.   There was a mound of folders collecting on his desk.  When you’re a newbie you don’t want to turn away too many people. 

“Hi..Brian?” chirped a timid voice coming from behind him in the doorway.

“Mhm? If it’s another fucking spreadsheet you got for me you can leave it here with the others..” he swung his chair around and looked at her square in the eyes.  She wasn’t holding a manila folder or a coffee.  She wore a red dress with a matching jacket and although the length of dress fell below the knee, her tan and slender legs made it look provocative.  He glanced at her stilettos, wondering how she got around in those things.  She gracefully swept the brown hair away from her eyes and asked coolly, “Me and some girls from work are meeting at Friday’s tonight for dinner.  Would you like to come too?”  He was embarrassed to ask her of her name.  He was sure he’d remember her if he met her before.  He didn’t want to show any hesitation on his face because he could see that she was just trying to extend a friendly dinner offer.  That was all.  God she’s gorgeous.  Wait I think I remember her from the Christmas party..Nancy Doborough.

“Yeah, what time are you meeting there?”

“Your party is already here,” said the snotty hostess girl, snapping her gum, “Right this way.”  There were four unfamiliar faces sitting with her all sipping a cocktail.  Nancy smiled as he walked toward her, and then whispered something and the five of them huddled together like gossiping linebackers making a play in a tied game in the last quarter.  “Hey, sorry I’m late.  Hi Nancy,” His eyes met the faces of the other women, “I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met before! I’m Brian Sullivan.” The woman with the curly red hair hurriedly sipped the rest of her drink and replied, “Oh we know, I’m Holly Cahill,” as she put out her hand.

The other three introduced themselves and after five minutes of the typical start-up conversation Holly yawned and said she was tired and should head home.  The rest gave the same yawn and excuse, got up, and left.  Brian was set up.  He rejoiced on the inside.

“Guess it’s just you and I!” Nancy exclaimed as if he didn’t realize it for himself.  She sat closer to him, and they didn’t leave the restaurant until 5 minutes before closing.  He didn’t want the night to end yet though.  She was an outgoing girl from Lawrence Massachusetts; her Dad was a high school principal and cartoonist.  She’d been living on her own since she was 18 and never finished high school.  She laughed at all of Brian’s jokes as if they were pure hilarity.  Nancy had a much different life than Brian, anyone could see that.  The only parallel was their relationship with their fathers. They both adored them.  He found himself loving every detail as if it were his own.  He could see their lives coming together, as if it were air flowing into a stuffy room.  She revived him.  Her spirit flowed into him so effortlessly it nearly took his breath away.

When the dishwashers started glaring at them, Nancy sweetly asked, “Would you like to meet my daddy?”

“I’d love to.”

Brian didn’t know that Nancy Doborough was actually Nancy Ferris.  She was trying to get out of a bad marriage.  He didn’t flinch or care about this “baggage”.  He paid for the divorce papers and held her hand in the court room.  There was so many things working against them, all odds of them being together forever worked entirely against there favor.  They took each step together, and didn’t let their opposite poles pull apart the course of destiny.  Because that’s exactly what it was.   

My Mom & Dad..married 27 years

The Rat Within the Grain -- Damien Rice

The Rat Within the Grain – Damien Rice

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A1qelBr8tw4

I only wanted for the best. I thought that was clear. Nonetheless, that blackened cloud of skepticism hovered above our heads. Fanning toes, I settled my unsandaled feet upon the cold stone, keeping my eyes fixated upon the nails badly in need or trimming, upon the blisters between which would create secret pangs of pain shooting up my spine on the way back. While the sun lowered, I knew I was running out of options. Her eyes had been settled upon mine, which were upon toes. The words bulged her lips outward, and those strawberry-glossed guards kept the imprisoned accusations back, waiting for the right moment to strike.

Had we actually went through the motions to plan anything, we would not be here at present. I arrived, in silence. I don’t want to mislead. There was talking, of course, but nothing which actually mattered. The words were simple, hollow… Concealing those spiteful accusations which were ever seeking ways out into the open. Stepping forward to embrace her form, Dawne retreated, resting in a toppled heap against the doorframe, leaving no space for my arms to settle ‘round her middle. Her nails dug against her jeans, finding that small, useless clasp framing miniscule right pocket which must have been designed as a joke, too small to be of any use.

“Joel, no…”

The first shot, a startling devastating one, yet her arsenal showed no signs of shrinkage. The words rubbed against one another within her chest, budding and replacing the supply. All those collisions must have created fiction, as her face was flushed, showing through the messy primrose strands covering her face, bare of makeup. She could riddle me with a clip of accusations, split me in half with an incendiary “I should have known better… My friends were right,” or simply vaporize me, leaving a shadowy figure upon the wall. The location would go down in history for the dropping of Dawne’s “Break Up” bomb. Total victory was achieved. Knowing full well her potential, her intentions, we continued with our itinerary. Only she canceled plans, and she was intent on following through.

After several minutes, we settled in the familiar spot. Rocks jutted from the ground, each unabashedly reaching for the sun, using fellow stones as stepping-stools to reach their lofty target. The cliff was the location for many firsts. My first swig of Jack Daniels. My first kiss. My first time with a woman… It was the setting for anything important in my life, a prominence which I shared all too readily with those I loved. It became routine. Dinner, movie, cliff. It became tacky, despite the marvelous view of the city, the constant buzzing hum from the electrically-veined hub my people.

Back to toes. Toes and eyes, firmly fixed on one another. The rugged, well-traveled digits scrunched inward, as if trying hiding from the caustic gaze from the woman with something to say. The callouses offered no protection. Finally, a breath escaped those swelling lips, ready to burst. I swore the noise resembled, “Caught.”

“You know, this spot is special to me, Joel… Was,” she explains, glaring at eyes which refused to stare back. “Private, natural, romantic, under the stars...” We retreated to the cliff to catch the sunset two months prior, arms linked, side-by-side, kisses exchanged. I watched her closely, the way she dressed, the way her hips swayed in a happy little wiggle. We made love that night, as I knew we would. You can just tell when someone’s ready. For her, it must have been special…

For me, she was the fourth woman I brought here…

“Why didn’t you tell me…? You made me part of a series. I’m not like those other women, Joel…” Those eyes were relentless, pupils narrowed in an expression of pain and rage.

“I’m sorry…” It’s all I could say. In my head, words swirled about, dexterous enough to avoid capture and release. It was still special to me… It’s not what it looks like… Please forgive me… I never meant to… My expression remained fixed, the half-lidded eyes of a caught man waiting his conviction and sentencing.

A sudden pressure on my arm stilled my heart; Dawne’s feather-light palm fell unusually heavily upon me. “I’m gonna have to think about this, Joel… All this…” That was it. No conviction, no ire. He half expected to be tossed off this stunning cliff face, given one last chance to venerate the sunset before it was all over.

I never wanted to hurt you, Dawne… I only wanted to make things special… I gave courtship clockwork innards. I made it routine, treated them all the same. This spot, this enclave of nature had been a place of comfort for me. I needed to share that.

“I’m sorry…” The phrase echoed, simple yet sincere.

“I know, Joel, I know…” The heavy weight became upward force, lifting me from my rocky seat. We went our separate ways that night, intending the best in our minds, waging wars in our hearts.

Hoppipolla

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EG-lQ-BQdrs

I chose this song simply for the way it made me feel inspired with its powerful lyrics. The thing of it is that I don't even know what the lyrics mean.

The lights were off in the church. The only illumination came from the mid-morning sun leaking in through the skylights and drawing a path from the back of the room up to the lip where the alter rose off the floor. The walls, marbled floors, columns, and ceiling were all various shades of the palest brown and red; the molding that ran along the floors was curiously painted in a St. Patrick’s Day style of green that seemed to serve as the last visible connection to the parish’s Irish roots. A young priest descended from his seat at the altar to deliver his homily. In his mind he could clearly see the copy of the Sunday Boston Globe under which he had left the pages of his speech. He swallowed a lump that had grown in the back of his throat and began to speak.

Mrs. O’Neil was still sitting in the very first room, a remnant from the church decades past and, more recently, the two earlier masses of the day. Every Sunday she would sit through three hours of Catholic service dressed in the same stone-grey suit with black trimming. The priest had noticed her facial expression never once broke from a sort of mindless complacency. Of course, it wasn’t his place to judge. As her passed her by, he was at least grateful for her consistency; the rest of the church was littered with only a handful of other people. The outlying benches, those most removed from the sun’s sharp columns, were all under a thin layer of dust.

The priest continued to rack his memory for the words he had planned to use. It was an easy thing to take about, the Sermon on the Mount. All he had to do was tell the people what Jesus had told his disciples: humility and kindness were part of the equation for getting into Heaven and receiving the grace of God. He paused for a moment and cleared his throat. He had never thought of this lifelong journey as an “equation”. It was such a callous way of describing his life’s dedication. He began saying a silent prayer, asking for the Lord to grant him the memory of the words he had written only the night before.

A mother and her gangly son sat in a row a few spaces behind Mrs. O’Neil. The mother leaned forward to watch the priest eagerly while the son seemed preoccupied with the green molding. Behind them a ways was a young Hispanic woman with her black and silver purse on her lap and pink knitting needles in hand: she was halfway done a small skiing cap formed out of pink acrylic yarn. Farther in the back, almost in the last row, was a man in a suit, and a very nice suit at that. It appeared to be custom fitted.

It happened suddenly that the priest recalled the words he had devoted the past four days to formulating. It was as if a hand had lifted that copy of The Globe and he could see the pages there on his desk in his mind. He drew a deep breath and began to teach the people. His carefully crafted words came forth exactly as he had planned them to. His arms soon joined the fray as he began making sweeping, energetic movements to highlight and punctuate the important parts of the speech. When he had finished, he was a bit short on breath but happy; he gave a silent thanks to God for giving him strength.

Mrs. O’Neil was still only aware of the three-hour sacrifice she had made this morning; her smile gave it away. The mother had leaned back in her seat and at least showed some recognition of what had been said, unlike her son who was now flipping through a Psalm book. Neither the knitter nor the business man had broken from their own preoccupations. The priest’s breath returned to him as he stared around the room. He had to remind himself it was not his place to judge as he stepped up over the lip of the altar and took his seat again.