A short-short story I wrote in November 2001 at 4:52 pm.
Breakfast.
Joanna looked at her dining room and decided they would eat there this morning. Not at either end of the table the way she and her late husband did, always formal. They would sit across the middle, close yet individual.
The breakfast would be a little plain, english muffins and coffee and the Sunday paper. She was so glad she had splurged for home delivery of The Sunday New York Times. She would have a tussle with him over the Arts section. Hm. That never had happened with John. He was a front page junkie. Editorials came second and the rest of the paper could rot.
She was toasting english muffins for someone else, another wonderful man, and using John's table informally. She had thought, a whimsy after John died, to copy an idea she'd seen in a decorating magazine, have the top of her dining room wall painted with the Alice in Wonderland quote about believing six impossible things before breakfast. But she aborted that idea as a product of grief and anger, getting back at John for dying on her.
But here she was. He had spent the night, they did it last night and they did it this morning again. Did it for fun, for the hell of it. She offered to make the coffee while he showered. He would like to shave. There is a new disposable razor, but it's pink. He smiled, it'll do. No one could question his manhood this morning, she teased.
And now she was setting the table across, the short way. Impossible things? Was that six? She would call the painters tomorrow.
.
posted by Fran / Blue Gal at
3:18 PM
4 Comments:
Don't call your writing "shit."
It's lovely.
What QD said.
It's short-short, and that's a very good length for it.
Keep writing. I want to get to know your characters.
Nioe story. I agree with Shunra. I assume you were aiming for brevity and didn't want to overwrite it.
Your tag line about intelligence and the puzzle is very cool and this is by no means a come on. I'm 2x divorced but have nothing buy respect for those who make it work.
There was a highly-sexual right-wing blog whose proprietor was a Southern woman who hated left-wing men and had nothing but calumny after calumny for us. Even though I'm Jewish and can do the puzzle in pen, I have people all over the South, from Richmond to Selma. Best story about Southern guys is one I heard from a woman in Greensboro who told me that there isn't a man she's known -- tattoos, confederate flag bumper stickers, harleys -- who isn't afraid of sex. I'm too decorous to go with the story.
A male friend -- radical, thinks Chomsky's too soft -- from Pensacola who did time on and off in Panhandle, AL and Louisiana, confirms and adds on. Said toughest two guys he knew were a young gay fellow in the Pensacola slammer and another older, patrician gay dude in the Edwin Edwards crew in Louisiana.
Birmingham and Selma, obviously, are pretty different but as Selma is my only connection to Alabama and it's "left", I'll tell you kind of a mean, undecorous story for you to remember when rednecks or AIPAC get you down.
I'm a couple of years older than you, Blue Gal, but you'll probably get the references.
Each summer from maybe 11 to 17, I would fly to Atlanta to meet my cousins. We'd drive down to Savannah to meet up with more cousins and finally drive to Daytona where the family had rented out any number of rooms and cabanas at some resort. If you've ever seen the movie THE FLAMINGO KID you'll flash on this scene immediately.
Generally speaking, we Jews kept to ourselves and the Gentiles to themselves. On our side of the fence, Gin Rummy was the thing. All of us played it morning, noon and night. All ages, men and women. We played, of course, Hollywood Style scored with 3 lines going simultaneously and various bonuses.
The "godfather" if you will of this whole thing, the rooms, the meals, etc., was a distant cousin by marriage, about 50 years old who lived in Selma and was one of the biggest bookies in the South. He always had the best seat on our side of the pool and his gin games played the hugest. Often they'd play partnership gin. His usual partner was some rich dry-goods guy from Chattanooga.
At any rate, it was a real hot July day and I wanted to jump into the pool and cool off for a while before starting my game up again. I jumped in, cooled off and was leaning against the side in the shallow end because someone on the Gentile side had a radio and was listening to music. The song playing was "We Just Disagree" by Dave Mason. Guess that would make me 15 about to be 16. I've got my sunglasses on, my eyes closed and am pondering gin rummy situations. Had I made a mistake knocking early with a 5-hitter in order to avoid a blitz? That type of thing?
I feel a tap on the shoulder and the ultimate, Southern, sorority blonde, says she's been watching me and would I like to go up to the dunes to party and have some fun? I say sure. And off we go. We smoke a joint. Fool around a little. Soak up some sun. And go back to the place.
I resume cards. She goes god knows where.
The next day, the seat next to the bookie was conspicuosly open. I come out by the pool and he calls to me "Boy! You playing partners with your Uncle today." I walk over and say thanks, it's an honor and that. He doesn't say anything. Silence. Two pregnant minutes pass.
"This ain't charity, boy. Jerry says you can play and I liked the way you handled yourself with that shiksa."
In his day, that bookmaker was a major player in the Democratic Party and no left-wing poltician could get anywhere in Selma politics without that guy's say-so.
We're not all AIPAC. Or Rahm Emmanuel.
That's a nice piece. I take it it's a short-short, and not the intro to a longer piece?
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