Passing of Ships

                            
                                                  Passing of Ships.

        Kelvin stood under the school cafeteria portico and watched streams of rain cascading off the shingles.  It was the last day of college and everyone was scuttling around like ants, emptying their dorm lockers and stuffing all their sticky belongings into the interior of their cars.  It was a wet and gray morning.  Stained panties, ratty aluminum folding chairs, splintered furniture, and empty pizza boxes, were all piled into huge green dumpsters, signaling an end to the academic year. Kelvin was already packed and ready to go.  He lingered a bit, savoring his anxiety to leave.  By the end of next semester, he would have had his Bachelors degree in Art, and his heart sank at the thought of it.  Financial support by his parents will be at an end and he will be force to face the real world...and find a job.  Fat chance, he told himself, making a living as an artist, an occupation that his pragmatic parents considered nothing but a hobby, and certainly not a profession.

        There was no a rush to get into his old VW bus for the drive home.  Might not even make it, what with that engine blowing up twice on him.  Another reason for his procrastination was his father's butcher shop waiting for him to help out between semesters.  His father didn’t want Kelvin to be a butcher.  Like all emigrant parents,  they wanted him to be in the professions or, better still, a surgeon. His father felt that his son would have had a head start in that department.  There was little difference between a surgeon and a butcher: one sliced up people parts and the other sliced up animal parts.  One happens to be alive, and the other happens to be dead, quipped his father. 

        Kevin had time for a cup of coffee, a pastry and perhaps a minute to say goodbye to fellow students that haven’t left.  While he was standing facing the main quadrangle of the college, a girl came dashing through the rain toward him with a duffle bag filled with what he surmised as folded clothes and dorm room flotsam.  He recognized her.

        “Wow, it’s really coming down!” she shouted, as she swung the bag off her shoulders and ducked under the overhang. “Is the cafeteria still open?”

        “I think so,” said Kelvin.  She stomped her army boots on the landing making her earrings, the size of small hub caps, sway back and forth.  Her hair was long, black, and wet, and she shook it like a wet dog spraying the water all around her.  Then she whipped it behind her in one smooth motion.  Army surplus fatigues under a wet yellow poncho draped her stocky frame.  If her intention was to stand out in an art school where everyone dressed like homeless refugees, she certainly succeeded.  When he first saw her on campus, he didn’t know how to go about ingratiating himself.  There was never a time where they were in the same place, at the same moment and within touching distant of each other,,,until now.  Knowing she was popular with the student leaders, he automatically dismissed himself.  She was out of his league.  Her friends nick-named her “bullet head” because she seemed always to be dashing headlong into any activities that might require some form of risk.  It was the sixties and she, with other unsavory students, were in the forefront protesting the Vietnam War.  They would go during weekends and walk picket lines or bang ashcan lids in front of city hall.   Like her or not, she was exotic and attractive and unreachable…to Kelvin, anyway. 

       
        “Say, I’ve seen you around…in Mr. Leader’s Art History class, I think it was,” she said, breathlessly, as she scuffled her hair and picked up her wet duffle bag.  Kelvin acknowledged with a nod.  “Boy, was that class the shits.  You going in?” She pointed toward the door.  Again, Kelvin nodded and mentally hit himself.  They walked in together, Kelvin got his doughnut and coffee with cream and sugar, and she just had her coffee black.  The coffee was lukewarm and sour. They found a table next to the windows.  The cafeteria smelled of Lysol, but it was warm with few students present, none known to Kelvin. The kitchen workers, anxious to leave, were hustling in the back, clanging pots and pans, putting away utensils, closing up for the semester. These last two customers were not welcome.  

         “There was just too many in that class.  That's why I dropped out three weeks in.” she said, as she sipped her coffee.  She began wiping off spots of spilled coffee on the table with her sleeve.  “How’s the doughnut?  How can you eat that mushy shit?  Looks stale as hell.  You're gonna get indigestion and wrinkles if you keep eating crap like that." There was a moment of silence, "You don't talk much, do you?”

        “Nothing to talk about...uh, and the doughnut's okay, you get use to the food around here," Kelvin was suddenly struck by this tremendous god awful urge to make an impression on this women sitting in front of him.  He looked sideways at the steamy windows and tried not to think.  When silence began to lengthen between the two, he realized that she was waiting for him to continue.  "Yea, I remember seeing you in Mr. Leader's class, sitting way in the back of the lecture hall.  I m-m-missed you when you didn’t s-s-show up for the rest of the semester,” he blurted out.  How cool was that?  He, again, mentally smacked himself in the head. 

       “Really?” she said, and leaned slightly backwards. “Sorry about that.  I have a problems with teachers I don't feel comfortable with.  That's why I dropped out.  I do remember you, though.  Only because you were the only one that seemed so serious.  You were the only dude still awake when Mr. Leader finished with his lectures. I really admired that."  She went on about her other reasons why the short tenure in the art history class and how all the female students were paying attention to the lectures while all the males were either asleep or dying of boredom...with the exception of him.  She continued with her judgment of the students and Mr. Leader's outline of the course, and of Mr. Leader himself.  "I thought he was a fairy because he was so effeminate.  Not that I'm homophobic or anything like that," she added quickly. "I have nothing against homosexuals, just him."  After a pause, she asked, "Say, you're not one of those, are you?" 

       "What the hell?  What makes you think I'm a pansy?" he snapped back and was immediately sorry he was so abrupt.

       She was silent for a moment and then said,   Hi!  My name is Fiona, and you are?”

        “Uh…I’m Kelvin.”

        Suddenly, her eyes widen and she burst out laughing.  Kelvin was startled and bewildered.  He blushed and stared into his coffee cup.  He couldn't think of what to say.  Why is she laughing?  Why can’t I make clever conversation when I need to?  I hope she doesn't think I'm a kid or, worst still, see right through me.  What’s wrong with me? he asked himself.  It took some time for her laughter to subside.  Finally, she took a deep breath and said, “Oh, I’m so, so sorry.  I didn’t mean to laugh but…but you look so like a Kelvin.  You do," and she burst out laughing again.  Snot appeared on her upper lip and Kelvin quickly tore napkins out of the holder and handed it to her.  “Thanks,” she said, without a hint of embarrassment, and immediately wiped her nose and eyes. “Sorry, sorry, again.  Let’s start over.  I’m Fiona and I’m really glad to meet someone like you.  I meet so many guys who think they're so clever and so full of bullshit that it’s half way nice to meet someone, someone so completely sincere and innocent.  You should be in the Marines.  They need people like you.”

       “I'm not that sincere and I’m not that innocent” said Kelvin, peevishly, thinking his masculinity  was being in question. 

       
        “Oh, yes you are.  And I don't mean it in a bad way.  I know you.  I think I’ve known you all my life,” she said, and lifts her coffee cup to examine the bottom for leaks. “My brother’s like you.  Sweet and shy, who never thinks evil of anybody.  And that was his problem.  Everybody took advantage of him, especially the draft board.  And I think you’re just like him."  Satisfied that there were no cracks in the cup, she puts it down.  "I’ve noticed you and I've asked around."  She lowered her voice and spoke coyly, "I heard what the guys say about you.  You do remind me of my brother."  Her eyes narrowed.  "It's too bad you'll never meet.  You wouldn't believe how much you two are alike.  I mean, even the way you carry your taciturn self. You're both so ingenuous." And with a wave of her hand, she dismissed his weak hearted arguments that he wasn't a person to be taken advantage of.  But he was already euphoric from that moment she said, in her off handed manner, that she noticed him.  Him! Of all the students, she had noticed him around the campus.

        There they sat; she, giving a synopsis of her life, her accomplishments, and her opposition to the Viet Nam war, while he interjected between her diatribes, snippets of his life: meat cutting, the safety measures on knife sharpening, and personal hygiene when handling food.  To the relief of Kelvin, she dominated the conversation.  He found his life uninteresting and, in comparison to hers, not worth a paragraph.  But he listened.  To Kelvin, she was the most beautiful thing in the whole wide universe, and here she was, actually sitting opposite him, talking to him.   He was thrilled.  Every movement of Fiona, every gesture, her raspy voice, the tiny space between her front teeth, he devoured while she prattled on.  He was slowly dying by inches.  He had the urge to slide his hand across the table and touch hers ever so slightly.  The horrifying thought that she might pull back and reject his touch, stopped him.  She might make some hurried excuse and leave, and then what?  He couldn't take the chance. He was never a chance taker.  Maybe that was his problem.

       
       So the morning slipped by, two of them drinking coffee; him getting refills for them both, she stretching, making sounds of contentment.  Both, feeling their youth.  There weren't the usual awkward moments when a period of silence settled between the two.  They sat there like a young, old married couple, safe and warm, comfortably sipping the hot black liquid, looking out the windows as the cold rain pelted down. He would utter some non-descript; she would laugh loudly, and then give a dissertation of the non-descript.  Both seemed to know that this was a rare mini-episode in their lives to be savored. The kitchen help, mostly Hispanics, were beginning to wipe down the steam tables and emptying the coffee makers.  They would stare at the privileged couple with resentment.  They couldn't close early while the two were still sitting there.  The cafeteria was now empty except for them.  Finally as if by mutual consent, they both looked at the wall clock  above the steam table counter and began making efforts to leave.  

       "Say, can I give you a lift?  I don't care where you're going, I can take you there," he said, trying to stay calm. 

       She thought for a moment, "Geeze, my sister's picking me up at the bus stop in about..." and she looks back at the wall clock..."ten minutes? Yicks, where did the time go?  Damn it, I better hurry!"   

       Kelvin was crestfallen, and said hopefully, "Hey, I'll be seeing you next semester. What courses are you taking?"

       "Oh, I'm not going to be here.  My dad, you see.  We're moving to Virginia.  He does government work," she said.  Kelvin's head was spinning.  It was too much to take in, and it was  happening so quick.  She suddenly brighten up and said, "I know.  Give me your address and I could write to you.  I'll let you know where I'll be when we get settled.  We'll be pen pals.." and they both began searching for paper and pen in their pockets.  He quickly scribbled numbers on a scrap of paper with a very chewed up pencil as she looked on over his shoulder. 

       He hands her the paper with his address and said solemnly, "Now, write to me when you get there.  I'll be here waiting."  He had no idea why he said he'd be waiting.  It sounded kind of pathetic. Thank God she didn't seem to notice and, cheerfully, took the paper and stuffed it in her breast pocket. With a slight grunt, she swung her duffle bag over her shoulder, turned, waved, and headed toward the door.  He wanted to say something, anything before she disappeared entirely.  He watched her leave.

       Kelvin stood there for several minutes when he realized he had to be brave for once in his life.  "Fuck this," he shouted.  Covering his head, he rushed out after her.  The quadrangle was empty.  Fiona was nowhere in sight.  How can she disappear so quickly? he wondered.  He remembered her mentioning the bus stop.  It was right outside the front entrance of the quadrangle which was fifty yards opposite of where he was standing.  The rain was coming down in torrents.  He ran through the puddles and out through the entrance where he caught sight of the bus stop and, to his utter disappointment, it was empty.  Her sister had already picked her up. She was gone. 

       Maybe it was for the best.  He hadn't a clue what he would say to her if she was there. He would have been standing there, drenched, saying something mawkish and stupid and he would feel like a fool. Anyway, he would write.  He was a much better writer than a talker.  Yes, a much better writer.  He turned to walk to his car when, in the corner of his eye, he spotted a tiny, white ball floating in the gutter next to the bus stand.  He hesitated.  It was just some litter, a crushed soda can, maybe.  Instinctively, he walked back to where the litter was.  His heart sank as he bent down and picked up the soggy scrap of paper that was crushed into a ball.  He could still make out his address in the ink stains.

      
        

    

   

                                                         

                                    

Senator William Bushton on the Iran Treaty, wealth distribution, and gun control

                               

 
                                   Another Interview with Senator (Bill) Bushton

       Here in our studio overlooking the Potomac, we are fortunate to have with us today Senator William Bushton who kindly consented to have, in his own words, a "down to earth Trump style" interview.  The Senator, as we all know, is running for President and has expressed hope that, through this interview, the voters will know where he stands on several complicated foreign and domestic  policies, now being considered by foggy bottom.  These policies, if enacted, will have far reaching affects on the Nation and on the American people.

     Shall we begin, Senator?  I see you're wearing a purple tie.  Is combining the color of the red and blue ties, that other candidates wore during the Republican Debates (in which you weren't invited, by the way), is your idea of making a symbolic statement? 

     I'm glad you caught that.  Yes, I am wearing a purple tie to show that I am neither in the red or blue faction that is tearing our great country apart.  You know, of course, that mixing the colors blue and red, you get purple.  This will show that I am not at the extreme nor liberal end of the spectrum of the conservative party.  I am running as an Independent.  That is the main reason I wasn't invited.  Nor will I waste any of the American people's precious time discussing about you know who.

     Are you referring to Donald Trump?

     I said I wasn't going to discuss that!

     Fair enough.  Let's get to the meat of the problems facing our nation.  What do you think about this treaty with Iran concerning their atomic program and it's military implications, and are you for it or against it?

     First, let me explain simply what the treaty basically is: it is a promissory note that the signer, Iran, will halt all activities in the making of atomic weapons.  In exchange they get their own money back that is presently tied up in foreign banks.  Also, nations will lift their embargo and begin trading with Iran, meaning we will be buying lots of their oil so we can store it underground for arm conflicts we will have with them in the future.  In exchange for the oil, they will get paper credits so they can use these credits to  arm themselves with the latest conventional  weapons so they can defend themselves against an enemy who would like to see Iran destroyed.

     You mean Israel and the United States.?

     No, no, not us.  I'm talking about ISIS.  They're the Hatfields to the Iranian McCoys.  We give them the means and let them duke it out among themselves.  It's a private family matter and we shouldn't interfere.  That is why I'm all for the treaty.  It's a win-win situation for our nation's  businessmen and weapons manufacturers.   We get lots of  their cheap oil while having set up, and arm, another foe against ISIS, and we kick the atomic can down the road for another ten years.  What can be better?

     But how can we trust them, even with inspections and drone monitoring, aren't they able to somehow get around that?

     You don't get it, do you?  Nobody who is anybody seriously gives a crap about wither they cheat or not.  And they probably won't.  It's not in their interest.  Them building an atomic weapon is only smokescreens, all that stuff about time tables, and inspection charts, I mean, stop, and think about it.  China have atomic bombs,  Israel have an unknown amount,  all the European nations have it, Russia's got hundreds, and even those really, REALLY crazy North Koreans have it... so why are we so concern if Iran have just one itty bitty bomb, or even several?  We've got thousands.  You think Iran is more dangerous than North Korea?  The only nation that is really concern is  the nation of Israel, and its leader, Netanyahu.  Old Ben is really concern, and so would I be, if I was sitting where he is.

     Why?

     Because if the treaty is signed, then the Jewish nation will suddenly be the potential sacrificial lamb, and  Old Ben knows it.

     In what way?

     Look, there's no way we have a legitimate excuse to go to war with Iran unless it attacks Israel. And the only way Iran will attack Israel is with an atomic weapon secretly bought from North Korea from the money we freed up.  This should practically wipe Israel out with the first attack.   It is a small country, after all.  They hate Israel.  Don't you see?  It's beyond politics, it's beyond reason, it's personal.  Any which way, Israel will get it first. 
     Of course, we will be enraged when it happens...and we will  definitely avenge them by blowing Iran off the map.  We will, also, have the bonus of having wiped out our paper debt for all that oil we bought from them.  Iran will be no more......but what good is that to Israel?  They'd be  completely wiped out from the first get go, hundreds of thousand will die, their properties render useless for ages from radiation poisoning.  In other words, in signing this treaty, we are gambling with Israel's lives and properties...not ours.  That is why Israel is frantically trying to halt the deal.  Old Ben want us to go to war with Iran, not sign a treaty. 
    
     You make it sound so simple, but let's move on.  If you're elected president, what would be your solution to the problem of inequality in the distribution of our nation's wealth.

     Would you accept the premise that the poor will always be with us?

     That is a cliche in poor taste, especially in a country as rich as ours.

     Cliché or not, we have reached a point in our society that we cannot afford NOT to have people living below the poverty line.  There is no problem with the distribution of wealth.  The country is rich because of rich people.  If we begin taxing rich people, like you are hinting, then we won't have rich people.  Who, then will donate huge amounts to save children in Africa from malaria?  Who will contribute to keeping Public Television alive?  Who will sponsor charities to help the homeless?  Who will buy U.S. treasury notes by the billions?  I mean, I could go on and on.....
     And what happens if you raise the living standards of the poor to that of the working middle class?  They would form more unions, and unions are mainly there to protect slackers. You get expanded government because government would have to hire more unemployed people because it's the only way they know how to distribute the wealth. 
     And if you think we have immigrant problems now, think of all those poor people who have now graduated to the middle class and don't want to work in the fields anymore.  Our agriculture will suffer.  We will have to import even more migrants because somebodies got to pick the tomatoes and harvest the grapes. You know, of course, most poor people don't vote, which is a blessing.  But the more they become  middle class, the more they would want to go to the polls because they think that is what is expected of them. 

     And what is wrong with that?

     Nothing, if they knew what they were doing.  Most of them don't know what they're voting for to begin with.  Poor people climbing up to the middle class doesn't mean they got smarter.  How many do you think really read the voting pamphlets detailing the propositions?  What really happens is that rich people will have to spend their hard earn cash on sound bites to make sure that people will vote intelligently: voting intelligently means to vote what is good for rich people so the country can stay rich and prosperous.  Luckily, poor people in the middle class can be swayed so easily with hate propaganda.  Hate is good.  You can get people riled up to your cause with just a sprinkle of hate.  Still. rich people are forced to spend a huge amount of money to make sure that the new middle class do the right thing.  Makes all those T.V. and cable people happy...and very rich.

     I hate to say this, senator, but, in all due respect, I don't think you have the least notion of  what you're talking about.

     I thought you said you wanted the truth?

     All right then, how do you feel about gun control?

     I always carry one.

    
    

    

    

    

An Essay on How to Cook for One

 

 

                                                   How to Cook for One

        I am a man who likes to eat.  No, really.  People think everyone likes to eat.  Not true.  What many people want is a tasting experience.  Meaning these people look for quality, not quantity.  Food presented to them must be fresh, crisp, oozing with tantalizing sauces, and color coordinated.   And it has to be in tiny portions: it shows that these people are not gluttons. 

        If you’re wondering, I do have a wife who cooks but she belongs to the category of people who wants a tasting experience.  She would decorate a string bean because it would otherwise be unpalatable.  She is, like many millions of wives in this country, liberated, health-oriented, and dieting.  She has been dieting forever and, by my calculations, should have disappeared into the ether years ago.  Since we are two people with two different eating habits, under the same roof, eating on the same kitchen table, at the same time, face to face, is it any wonder that we are always on the brink of divorce?

       So, she cooks her things and I cook mine, and we’ve been doing it for a long, long time.  Does that sound strange?  I bet it happens in a lot of households. 

       I use to eat anything edible and in large proportions.  If it’s tasteless, I would just add ketchup and sprinkle salt on it.  If it’s really tasteless, I will resort to MSG (It may cause heart palpitations, and that experience might scare you, but, contrary to popular belief, MSG isn't a threat to your health).  I usually end up with plastic plates to hold my food but in a pinch, paper will do.  Also, I didn't mind using plastic folks...but all that has changed. I've changed.  Not as drastic as to become one of those fine food aficionados.  Somewhere in the middle, I would say.

       Getting back to the subject of cooking for one and not knowing how, I was forced to eat at mom and pop restaurants, chain restaurants, elegant restaurants that couldn’t have been a chain…but were (they disguise them so well), pizza joints, and rib joints (that advertise baby back ribs, with young people in the background having a hilarious time munching on them).  I discovered, in due time, that restaurant meals will inevitably taste the same.  With the exception of a few taco stands, I began dreading to eat out.  Traveling salesmen will know what I mean.

       So, to improve my cooking for one, I went out and purchased a cookbook.  Then, in the normal course of my life, I ended up with seventeen of them, starting with the plaided red and white cover of a Betty Crocker Better Homes and Garden, and ending with Julia Child's “French Cooking".  They're all on the shelf in my library (I call it a library because it sounds so much better than a do-over closet off the main bedroom),

        Betty Crocker was the very first one I used when I wanted to cook for one. The meal  was a challenging slice of raw pot roast.  My wife was engorged with stifled laughter as I attempted to follow the recipe.  It was the worst cook book I have ever read.  It was written in a foreign language. Most of the recipes were for the feeding of an army of Vikings on a bivouac (5 lbs. of chuck roast, 3lbs. of carrots peeled and sliced, three whole onions, 3 lbs. of potatoes, etc., and separate instructions of how to mix the portions together so it looks edible).  I ratio the amount to a serving for one and, even after I followed the instructions to the letter, the meat turned out ugly,tough and pathetic.  Jesus, all I wanted to do is prepare a slice of raw meat for a dinner for one.  What's so difficult about that?

         But having difficulties with cookbooks didn’t stop me from purchasing more, all bound up in hard, colorful, very attractive covers.  They smelled like new cars, alluring to the touch, and begging to be used.  And the bookstores have them displayed on the table with that big, red, special reduced price stickers on the front covers.  It became irresistible.  Borders and Barns and Noble are masters of cookbook displays, and I have the cash register receipts to prove it.  

        I kept hoping, but I never found one that didn't require spices from the four corners of the earth, plus dried seaweed and five measuring spoons made of blue plastic.  Since I cannot find one, I will, instead, write my own.  So after years of experimentation in front of my Viking stove, I managed to write down my very own cookbook, with tried and true recipes, especially concocted for those who is still struggling to cook for one.  I followed the usual format and started off on the first page with:
.

                                        THINGS YOU NEED

        You need a microwave.  You need a good scale.  You need a large bowl.  You need a dull knife.  You need a dull knife so you won't cut yourself or stab your toes when you slip or drop the knife accidently, and you know you will, eventually.  You need the standard utensils unless you plan to go native and eat with your hands, which is okay except some people, like me, have really ugly hands.

        Speaking of eating with ones own hands, in the Middle Ages (around 1200-1500 AD) most of the people in Europe (peasant farmers) did eat with their hands and they ate from bowls made from a very hard bread indented in the middle like a bowl  It was very practical.  When you have finished with whatever food was in your hard bread bowl, you ate the bread and voila!   Absolutely no dishes to wash. 

       According to some historians, the main cooking was done in a large iron kettle that was kept constantly boiling day and night. Whatever edibles scrounged up by the peasants, small birds, minus the feathers, whole carrots, greens, wild rabbits, some alive, some dead (some dead maybe for a long, long time), very strange herbs, salt if available, was toss unceremoniously into that boiling cauldron.  Items were cooked into a stew-like substance which was then doled out to the waiting bowls made from this hard bread.  There doesn't seem to be any records of complaints when these bread bowls were used, so it must have been all good.  Or it could be that those medieval  peasants couldn’t read or write about how sometimes the bread bowls would break in the center, due to faulty bakers, and very hot food ends up in their laps.  

Tragically, there were no lawyers present, and incompetent bakers were allowed to thrive.    

       It was easy to see that these large medieval food kettle was very much like our own   refrigerator.  It is the center of the family’s activities and serves as the centerpiece of our daily communion with each other, and so forth, and so on.  Medieval peasants are in touch with each other by gathering around the huge pot to keep warm, while we modernist leave message and photos of loved ones magnetized on the fridge door.   Anyway, I don’t want to get started on that, so let us begin with the serious business of cooking for one……but I can see that, if you’ve come this far, your eyes must be really tired, and I apologize for that, so I’ll stop.   I'll just give you one of my recipe on:

                          How to Cook a Fruit Pie for One,

sometime in the future….thank you.