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Thursday, February 25, 2010

Victory Dance

You are at a meeting in Santa Monica with your much adored University of Santa Monica project team, and the universe has conspired to have you forget that you are in a two hour parking space, so you never go downstairs to move the vehicle. You will need the lesson that is still six days away. You do, however, at approximately the time you are receiving the ticket, feel disoriented and call out “Earthquake,” not realizing that this is an earthquake of the inner world.

After a delightful nearly four hours, you walk to your car basking in the energy of the meeting. Your masters in spiritual psychology weekend is to begin in just over an hour and life is good. Arriving at your car you see something under the windshield wiper. You grab it, plop into the driver’s seat, and look at the document. It is a $61.00 parking ticket.

Your inner victim is unleashed even though the two-hour parking sign is just feet away; you want something or someone else to be responsible. You remember that the last time you’d gotten a parking ticket was in Santa Ana and wonder if perhaps you should avoid cities beginning in the word – Santa – and perhaps, you muse, it has something to do with your bah humbug attitude about the man of the same name.

Although the ticket did portend the bit of emotional victimhood that you experience during the weekend, you do have a good class. The days after class go smoothly, and you feel your inner world shifting.

You are paying bills when you take the parking ticket from its envelope and see that there is second ticket. You accept your part in getting the first ticket, but the second creates a state of confusion.

At first you think this must be someone else’s ticket, but when you look more closely it is a $35.00 ticket for a missing front license plate. With your victim-self up front and center, you move swiftly into denial.

You run down to your garage and notice that you indeed have no front license plate, and actually, you have no way to attach a front license plate. You are angry because a front license plate will ruin the beautiful Cars look of your Cube, so you do the first thing you can think of and call your Nissan dealer.

You ask about the necessity of a front plate and hear that in California you do need one. You ask in a most snippy manner how one is supposed to put a license plate on a car that has no place for a license plate. You are told that you should have brought the car in when you received your plates eight months ago, and that if you bring in the plate they will install it. You ask if there will be a charge; you do not get a straight answer.

You want to make them pay for the ticket and perhaps burn at the stake, but you don’t know how to logically put the oweness (which you don’t know how to spell) on them because you realize that you are in crazy person overdrive and you also have a niggling feeling that perhaps you did know but ignore this because you didn’t want to ruin the cuteness of your Cube’s face.

Perhaps it is your fault, but rather than moving into loving forgiveness, you successfully, habitually, and quickly move into self-loathing and frustration on a magnitude of the earthquake you felt six days earlier. You remember the words of your writing group telling you that you are way too hard on yourself, but you are just not in the mood for a lecture – or to feel better. You cry and scream and wonder how you will find the plate placed God-knows-where nine months ago. Nine months you think, what are you giving birth to?

You are aware that if you do not find the plate you will probably have to pay for a new one. You catastrophize about how you be unable to drive your Cube until you have received the million dollar plate from the incompetent DMV hopefully by the time you are 60.

You decide that it must be somewhere, and you begin the tear-filled hunt. You look in some obvious places such as the filing cabinet to no avail. You run into the garage and look around at the multitude of boxes, many of which you’ve been through and know it is not there. You decide to look on the movable shelf anyway. You pull out a plastic milk carton filled with miscellaneous bruhaha from the family room before you changed your floor to the stupid tile which makes your bare feet freeze in the winter. You find, amazingly enough, the cat brushes you have been wondering about and semi looking for during the past several weeks.

Your positive energy begins to return as you marvel at your ability to emotionally yoyo. You reason that just as the brushes were around, so must be the license plate.

You remember that part of your spiritual psychology second year project is working with your intuition and you are aware that you have a golden opportunity. At first you just follow a few “logical hits,” but they are all disappointing; however, you are not willing to give up (you are now on the manic side of life). You wonder if you should just let things percolate, but then realize that perhaps this would be a good opportunity to actually use your intuition intentionally.

You sit down, close your eyes, take a breath, state your intention out loud – “I want to find the second license plate for my Cube” – and then you let the question go. You take in a breath and move to your gut. Immediately, you feel something heavy – something on top of something else. Then you move your attention out to the borders of your body and you see, clear as day, the lower kitchen cabinets next to the pantry. Your first reaction is “I would never have put it there.” But you are not going to look this gift horse in the mouth, and you run down the freezing tile staircase and into the kitchen. You start with the cabinet nearest the fridge opening each door and rummage though. When you get to the last cabinet you open the door. There sticking out from under a load of serving plates you never use, is the license plate. You have some trouble getting it out because the plates are heavy.

You laugh and feel like a nutcase for having put it there in the first place, but holding the license plate facing you in both hands, and pumping it up and down, you do your victory dance around the house while singing “Yes, oh yes, oh yes, oh yes!”

You go lightly upstairs to your clean desk, excited to pay the $35.00 ticket for this inexpensive class that is moving you forward on your path to being more consciously in tune with yourself.

Days later your inner vampire takes hold and starts to tell you that you put the plate there yourself no matter how unconsciously, so of course you would be able to get that information. You begin to sing the song “Die Vampire Die,” and your inner Dracula swings his boney, cape-covered arm in front of his face. Only his eyes show as he backs his nasty life sucking body away. He may return someday, but you are prepared. You found the license plate. Next stop the lost keys, and then maybe actually touching base with those who are gone from this place. Your hope springith eternal because you just never know.

copyright 2010 by Nancy Grossman

Monday, February 15, 2010

Nine Hundred Dollars

by Susan Cameron

“This bar smells like forty years of spilled beer and armpits,” said Sheila. “I don’t get it." She sipped her red wine. "Spoons had decent food and good drinks and we weren’t risking hepatitis. Why did we switch to this beer-and-wine portapotty?”

Jim shrugged. “It’s Timmy’s hangout. Timmy made the call.”

“You can buy a drinkable two dollar bottle of wine at TJ’s. Where did they even find wine this bad? The first glass tasted like somebody’s grandfather’s feet were in it.”

Jim grinned at her. “Why are you drinking your second glass, then?”

“The first one murdered half my taste buds, so the second one seems only half as bad.” She took another sip. “I don’t drink beer, so this is the alternative.” She looked at the glass in her hand. “I drank Mad Dog and T-Bird in my wasted youth, so I’ll probably survive this too. But still.” She shook her head. “I think I’m getting too old to drink bad wine.”

“I have no suggestions. I don’t know what to tell you.”

“Then tell me something else. Did Timmy steal the tip money we all left for the Spoons waitress last week?”

Jim shifted his weight and looked away.

“He did, didn’t he? That’s why we wound up here. She always took good care of the twelve of us. I liked her.”

“I don’t know,” he said to the beer mug in his hand.

Sheila looked at him and nodded. “I heard he lost another job. I heard he’s nine hundred bucks behind in his rent. That waitress’s tip money wouldn’t have put a dent in it.”

“I don’t know anything about it. I don’t get involved.” Jim gestured at the newly-vacated pool table they’d been waiting for. “We’re up. You want to rack ‘em or break ‘em?”

“Neither.” She finished her glass and set it on the dirty table. “It’s getting late. Busy day tomorrow -- I've got an employee I need to fire. I should get out of here.”

He checked his watch. “Yeah, I probably should too. Dude!” he said, looking up and behind Sheila. “I’m outta here.” He stood up. “You need a ride tonight?”

“No, I’m cool,” said Timmy. He carried a beer in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. “I’m going to stick around a little while.”

“Okay, later.”

“Later.” He set the wine in front of Sheila and took Jim’s place. “Got you something.”

She shook her head. “It’s getting late, and two’s pretty much my limit these days.”

“Aw, come on. Everybody’s leaving and I don’t want to go home yet.” He cocked his head and smiled. “Come on, stick around and keep me company. I already bought the wine.”

She felt a twinge of annoyance but shook it off. Nobody was waiting for her at home, so what the hell? “I guess one more won’t hurt. Thanks.”

“Cool.” Timmy smiled, scooted his chair in closer, and slightly adjusted his backwards baseball cap, tucking his dark hair behind his ears. Sheila had never seen him without the cap. It seemed to be his talisman, or a battered security blanket.

“So,” he said. “I really liked your story.”

“It’s almost there,” she said. “I got a lot of good advice from the group tonight.” She sipped the third glass of wine. “I knew I needed to tweak it a little, but sometimes I look and look at my writing for so long I stop seeing what’s there. I can’t put my finger on what's wrong.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” he said, sipping his beer. “It happens to everybody.”

"That’s true.” Funny thing about bad wine, she thought – by the time you hit the third glass, it’s not so bad any more.

“You know, Sheila, I think the talent level in our group is incredibly high.”

“I think so, too.” She sipped her wine and nodded.

"So many good writers."

"Absolutely."

“Collectively, we’ve been producing some really excellent stories.”

“Yes, we have.”

“And I’ve been thinking, it’s about time for us to showcase our work.”

“Um, yeah?”

Timmy leaned in. “I thought, why not a chapbook?”

“A chapbook?”

“Printing a chapbook would be a great thing, don’t you think?”

“Maybe so.”

“I looked into it, and it really wouldn’t cost that much.”

“Is that right?”

“Not as much as you might think.”

“Really?”

“It’s actually pretty reasonable.”

“How much?”

“Only nine hundred dollars.”

She looked at her glass, then at Timmy’s face. “Nine hundred dollars.”

He nodded. “Just nine hundred dollars, which really isn’t so much if you stop and …”

“I gotta pee, Timmy.” Sheila put down her glass, stood up and wobbled her way to the ladies’ room. She washed her hands, opened a stall door, knelt down and heaved without even having to stick her fingers down her throat. When she was finally done, she hauled herself up, walked to the sink, cupped her hands and rinsed and gargled until the taste of red wine sick was gone. She looked at her bloodshot eyes in the mirror and got the eyedrops out of her purse, brushed her hair, put on lipstick, popped a stick of gum in her mouth. When she left the bathroom, Timmy was still at the table, waiting for her.

“Way past time for me to go, Timmy.”

She saw him sigh. “Okay. Me too. I’ll walk you out.”

They stood outside under the light of the bar’s neon sign and she smiled at him. You’ve got to appreciate the snake that rattles first, she thought, and she gave him a big hug goodbye. “See you.”

She staggered to her car, sat in the driver’s seat and looked in the rearview mirror. Timmy had unlocked a bicycle and was straddling it in front of the bar, looking at his reflection in the window. He pulled off his baseball cap, and under the red neon light his bald head glowed like a three-ball. He smoothed the hair that remained around the perimeter, put the cap on backwards just so, the way he'd been doing it for twenty years, and rode off into the darkness.

As Sheila put her key in the ignition, she saw a cop car creep along the street in front of her, trolling for drunks. She sighed and pulled out the key. She opened the glovebox, found her earbuds and player, and settled in for an hour’s worth of tunes. If she wasn’t careful, this could be one very expensive night.

Susan Cameron, copyright 2010

Monday, February 8, 2010

The Cassie Chronicles

Decisions

I’ve decided I should sell cupcakes for a living instead of homes. It’s got to be easier than dealing with the McNultys.

Randy and Arlene McNulty are empty nesters who couldn’t decide which house to buy. For weeks they’ve toured the models, visited available sites and stood at the topo table staring down at our miniature neighborhood as if their answer lay hidden in the tiny trees. Finally, last week Randy brought in a deposit and scheduled today’s contract appointment. They were an hour late, looking pinch-faced. My cancellation radar was pinging.

Once they were settled in my office, I asked for their completed loan application.

“Not done yet,” Randy grumbled, “and I need copies of my tax returns.” He shoved a thick stack of papers across the desk.

Judy started copying while I helped Randy with the loan application. Like a delicate bird, Arlene perched on the chair’s edge, wringing her hands.

“Are you okay?” I asked her.

“I guess,” she said, teary-eyed. “It’s just…”

“Arlene, it’s settled,” Randy snapped.

Arlene sniffled and waved off the Kleenex I offered.

“If you’re not sure, let’s not spend three hours signing,” I said, tapping the four-inch thick stack of papers I’d prepared. Cupcakes crossed my mind. A cupcake purchase wouldn’t require all this paperwork. They’d select a cupcake, pay and be gone.

“Everything’s fine,” Randy said.

We got back to work on the loan application.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” Arlene said and bolted outside to the public restroom in our first model.

Randy and I completed the application and waited for Arlene’s return. He tapped the desk with his pen. His legs bounced up and down. He glanced toward the door.

“I’ m gonna go get her,” he said and left to find his wife.

I stood behind the topo table, pretending it was a bakery case full of beautiful, fragrant cupcakes. I pictured happy McNultys selecting their favorites.

Finally, they came back up the walkway. Randy pulled Arlene by the hand. She resisted like a toddler. They stopped, argued, glared at each other and came back into the office. So much for happy McNultys.

“What’s the problem?” I asked.

“I like the Plan 2,” Randy said.

“But I like the Plan 1,” said Arlene.

“The Tuscan exterior’s best,” Randy volleyed.

“No, it’s the Cottage,” countered Arlene.

“Ocean view,” he said.

“Valley view,” she said.

“Lot 52.”

“Lot 65.”

See? There’s the beauty of cupcakes. They wouldn’t have to agree. He could have his chocolate marshmallow and she her peanut butter chip. My stomach growled.

“Why don’t you go have lunch?” I said. “Talk it over.” It was a gamble, but I needed a break from these two.

Randy agreed, but Arlene whined, “I don’t know if I can eat.”

She probably didn’t even like cupcakes, I decided.

As the McNulty’s drove away, Judy brought out Randy’s mountain of copies.

“Where’d they go?” she asked.

“Lunch,” I said.

“Are they coming back?”

I shrugged as my vision of red velvet cupcakes vanished, just like my sale to the McNultys.

Copyright 2009 by Liz Zuercher

Monday, February 1, 2010

Homecoming

The following is the beginning of a short story to be continued. Its time period is pre-cell phone in the early 70's, so despite the aggravation that cell phones often create, Tandy could have used a cell phone in this situation.

The snow began to fall in soft, sporadic flakes as the ski school bus turned into the middle school parking lot. Parents huddled in cars with motors running to keep warm and patches of ice on the blacktop glistened in the muted glow of streetlights.

Tandy peered out the window, searching for her mother’s station wagon. She didn’t see it and slumped back into her seat. All the way home, she’d crossed her fingers, hoping that tonight her mother would be on time. She kicked the seat in front of her so hard the boy in it turned around and glared at her. She hated that she was always the last one to be picked up.

As the bus came to a stop, the kids jumped out of their seats, grabbing backpacks and jackets, and spilled out the doors like ice cubes tumbling out of an automatic dispenser.

Tandy waited for the crowd to clear, retrieved her skis and sat down on a snow bank to wait. She watched the cars leave, one by one, until finally only the fading rumble of the bus motor broke the silence as it, too, pulled away and disappeared.

She glanced over at Brad, the ski school supervisor, putting his gear into his car. He was young, just a year out of college. Tandy thought he was really cute, although at thirteen, she knew she was too young to interest him. He always waited with her until her mother arrived, but the forced small talk between them embarrassed her and made her feel even more awkward than she usually did around boys.

Brad waved and started toward her. She stopped him with a gesture. “Hey, Brad, go ahead and leave. Mom will be here any minute. No need for you to wait.”

Brad smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “I really don’t want to leave you alone.”
He ignored Tandy’s protesting gestures and approached closer. He put his arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze. “Usually I don’t mind waiting at all—it’s part of my job and I like getting to know all the kids better—but tonight’s my girlfriend’s 21st birthday. There’s a big surprise party and I need to be on time. You sure your mom is coming?”

“Absolutely. My parents always go out Saturday night and I babysit my twin brothers. They’re just two, so it’s hard for her to get ready on time—get them fed, bathed—you know, all that stuff. She’ll be here, though, don’t worry.”

Brad gave her a two-finger salute and turned back toward his car. Tandy watched his red tail lights vanish while the silence and cold coiled around her like mummy wrapping. Piles of snow lined the parking lot, blocking her view of the homes on the side streets surrounding the school and Tandy huddled beneath a flickering lamppost. Snowflakes, falling faster now, sprinkled the sky like confetti and dusted her parka and ski pants.

She heard a car turn the corner and stood to gather her skis, but then sat back with an irritated flounce as she watched a pickup truck slow for a minute at the parking lot entrance and then drive by. She kicked at a patch of ice beneath her feet, comforted by the scrape and scratch of her boots in the still, deserted lot and checked her watch. Her mom was twenty minutes late now. Snow began to stick to Tandy’s hair and eyelashes and she brushed it off with an abrupt angry swipe.

Just then, she heard the sound of another car coming down the street. She stood up, sure that this time it had to be her mother. She hoisted her backpack up, then turned to grab her skis and boots, thinking about what she was going to say to her mother. She muttered to herself while she gathered her things and then whirled around to face her mother.

“Well, it’s about time,” she said. “Do you know how late…”

Tandy caught her breath. She stared open-mouthed at the driver of the pick-up truck—the one that had passed slowly by the parking lot just a few minutes ago—as he opened the car door and said with a smile, “Well, how are we doin’ tonight, little girl? Looks like you’ve been stranded and need a ride.”

Copyright 2010 Susan Matthewson