Henry and Ruth

 



 

  

                                                       Henry and Ruth

 

          Henry was a widower who, late one evening, stood naked in his bathroom brushing his teeth before going to bed  After brushing, he poured a small cap full of blue mouth wash, tilted his head back, emptied it into his mouth and loudly gargled.  Ruth, his wife, always complained about the disgusting noise he was making.  She’s been gone now for nearly three years.  As he spat it out, he leisurely observed the mouth wash and his saliva mingling, forming a gelatinous stream on the side of the sink.  He watched as it slid slowly down the white porcelain, gathering speed as it approached the drain hole.  Tomorrow was to be his seventy-six birthday and  his daughter, Amy, thought it a good idea to celebrate the event next day at her home. 

      

         Glancing up, he switched his attention to the image in the mirror.  There were shadows over his deep eye sockets.  He was getting to be a farce: overweight, his wrinkled face, ugly by anyone’s standards, was charmless.  As he stood there, it occurred to him that he has had this teeth brushing  and mouthwash ritual every night since he could remember.  He had no idea why, at this particular moment, he should be thinking about this.  He wasn't thinking about this when he was shaving this morning.  Although he looked into a mirror twice daily, it was only on this particular day, on this particular evening, when he became cognizant that he never really looked at himself.  True, there is his reflection, but he had only concentrated on the parts, never the whole.  He paused to take it all in instead of the myopic version.  God, how I’ve aged…and what a terrible shape my body is in.   Now I know why they invented clothes, he joked to himself. 

      

          He began neglecting his physical appearance the moment he got married.   Presently, he managed to hide his fat with loose t-shirts and baggy pants.  Still, he looked startlingly unattractive when naked.  He looked in the mirror and gathered in his pads of fat around his chest and sides.  He grabbed his sagging pectoral muscles and addressed the mirror.  “God Amighty, I’ve got breasts. Ruthie, wherever you are, I hope you’re not seeing this.”  Staring at his reflected face, Henry watched it gradually contort and twist into a scowl.  Putting both hands on the marble counter, he leaned over the sink and hung his head.  After a pause, he tried to suppress a surge of bile coming from his inner being onto the top cavity of his mouth.  He couldn’t.  He released his grief with a gush, accompanied by tears running down his face.  “It’s so quiet here, it really is, Ruthie” he whispered. “I have to shake this…silence.  I don’t want to do anything stupid, now do I?  I’m really tired…and my back is killing me.”  He promptly plopped down onto the tile floor.  Sitting there quietly, he noticed, through his tears, that there was rust around the base of the toilet bowl.  There must be a leak, he thought.  I should fix that.

 

         “No, son, don’t pick me up.  I can still drive.  I’m not helpless, you know. I’ll meet you there.”  Henry hung up the phone.  It was a gray morning.  His suit was laid out on the bed and he thought he did a pretty good job of getting a matching tie to go along with it.  Hardly ever wore a suit now since he retired as a department head nearly twenty years ago.  He was but a minion in a large corporation where his main duty was to appear worried.  But that was long ago.  He sat on the bed and fingered the tie.  Ruth did all the selecting: his suit, his tie, where to go on vacation, who their friends were, what kind of car to drive, what to eat, and where.   They were high school sweethearts and were married right after graduation.  He never officially proposed.  They got married because it was just the natural order of things.  She went to work while he finished college.  They had two children, a boy and a girl three years apart.  She quit her job when Henry began climbing the cooperate ladder.  Ruth took over the business of family then and organized every thing so Henry could concentrate on his worried look.  By the time the nest was emptied, Ruth became the dominant partner and steered the course of their lives; Henry was happy that she did so.  In fact, when they went places together, she was the driver of the family car while Henry always sat as the respectful passenger.

      

         After his retirement came the round of traveling, remodeling the house, and making unannounced visits to irritate their grown children and grandchildren.  Pay back time, Ruth would  laughingly call these visits.  Slowly the novelty of retirement began to wear thin and Ruth and Henry, having run out of obligations to others and to themselves, began to have the leisure time of getting to know one another.  But it was cut short.  The doctor said that it was a blessing that the stroke finally killed her.  Otherwise she might live as a vegetable, unrecognizable to anyone and a burden to everyone.  Henry remembered sitting by her bedside while she was in her coma.  He spent the whole day and her last evening just talking to an empty face, reminiscing down memory lane, planning about future travels, about the kids and grandkids and how great they turned out to be.  He tried praying.  He had no faith in religion but he felt he, at least, had to try.  Lying there in the hospital bed, Ruth began to change in Henry’s eyes.  She slowly morphed into the girl he married when they were teens.  By morning, the vision and Ruth had faded.

     

            After the funeral, Henry became despondent and couldn’t bring himself to go home.  The children drove him to a hotel because he refused their offer to stay with them.  He was uncomfortable with his children’s spouses when Ruth wasn’t there to engage with them.  Hotel rooms were neutral and he stayed there for weeks.  The first night home, he spent sleeping on the living room sofa.  He had the television turned on, blaring out voices and loud music drowning out his thinking.  The large screen flooded the room with its cold blue light exposing the dark corners so it would not threaten him.  The television was constantly on for several months, then gradually the volume was turned down and periodically he would turn the set off for a brief moment.  The brief moment grew into hours, then into days, and finally he managed to sleep without it being on.  Henry solved the problem of sleeping in their bed again by talking to Ruth, as if she was there.  Henry had now compress his grief into the deepest recess of his mind and managed to keep it there by talking to his long dead spouse.  But as time passed, it became arduous for Henry to keep up the pretense that she still existed, even in a nebulous way.  The acceptance that she was gone, never to appear again, began to surface and brought a burning sadness to his very being.

      

         As Henry drove away from the house, he took a glance at his rearview mirror.  It showed the ranch style house they have been living in for over fifty years.  It was in need of maintenance.  The wooden roof shingles were split and cracked as were the gutters.  Window frames were in need of repair and their screens needed painting.  All the windows were in dire need of washing.   He used to love doing repairs but now he lets it all go.  All his tools in the garage were covered with the remnants of disuse.  He was no longer the caretaker of things.  That would be his children’s job, or whoever inherits the house after he’s gone.  As of now, he couldn’t bring himself to care.  

      

         It began to rain heavily and, for a harrowing moment, Henry forgot where the windshield wiper controls were on the dash board.  The windshield wipers stuttered to life as it was turned on.  I have to get new ones, he thought.  It was a twenty minute drive to Amy’s house but he was in no hurry.  Henry was a very private person and only comfortable when Ruth was around.  Since her death, he dreaded gatherings such as this birthday party, even if it is with his own family.  He usually ended up with a drink in his hand, sitting alone in the corner somewhere, radiating unfriendliness.  It was okay when Ruth was alive.  She did all the conversing when they were in social gatherings, and all that was required of him was to nod, now and then, with a few words sprinkled in.  He was immensely happy with that arrangement, and was sure that Ruth was too.  But she was no longer here and he would be standing alone. 

     

          There was a grassy knoll over a rise in the road.  Henry parked to the side and turned the ignition off.  Rain clattered on the roof of the car and muddled the windows so visibility was nil.  The low gray clouds made the sky dark and menacing.  It was cozy sitting there, so private.  Reaching into his shirt pocket, he pulled out a package of cigarettes.  He started smoking again weeks after Ruth passed away.  Henry didn't have to please her anymore.  In fact, he didn't have to please anybody.  He inhaled deeply and blew the smoke toward the passenger side.  Placing his arm on the headrest he turned to Ruth and said, “So, what do you think?  What am I going to do with what’s left of my life?  You know, you were pretty, pretty damn selfish leaving me like that.  You could have bail out a lot earlier and I could have married somebody else.  Now, whose gonna hook up with an old fart like me, huh?" There was a long pause.  Henry winded down the window a bit and waved the cigarette smoke out with the flat of his hand. Then he continued, "Yea,  I know the smoke bothers you and I'm sorry.  A lotta things about me bothers you, don't it?.  Heck, you could hardly stand me when you were alive." Henry looked at the end of his cigarette, stuck it through the crack of the window and flipped it out. "I really thought I was gonna go first.  Who'd think you'd beat me to it.  You were really inconsiderate, you know that?  You could've made it a lot easier for both of us by not dying.  No, I’m not kidding.  I’m not kidding,  I’m really not kidding,” and Henry bent his head and began to silently sob.   Ruth smiled and stroked his hair. 

       

         A break on the horizon let out a stream of sunlight.  The rain fell intermittingly and then stopped altogether.  The break in the clouds broadened and the rays of sunlight were sharply contrasted against the ominous sky.  A rainbow appeared.  The spectacular scene made Henry exclaim, “Ruthie, look, Judgment Day and the second coming of Christ!  No crap.  Wow, what a sight.  We might be seeing Jesus coming down from the clouds at any moment now.”  Henry had no idea how long he had been sitting there, conversing with Ruth.  It was so easy to talk to her.  Opening the glove box, he took out some paper tissues and wiped his eyes.  There he sat, quietly, for what felt like an hour, then he turned to Ruth and said, “I know it sounds corny… but we did have a really long run, didn't we?  I had fun and I do miss you a lot....But there's nothing more left to say, is there?.. except I really loved you and I just didn't know by how much, until now...so, I guess we can say goodbye, sweetheart....so, I'll go ahead and say it...goodbye.” 

     

          “Yes, it is corny and it is has been a long run," said Ruth. "Goodbye, dear, remember me to the children, see ya."  And that's exactly what Ruth must have said, thought Henry.

      

         Henry turned on the ignition, shifted the car into gear, and joined the ongoing traffic.  He just turned seventy-six today and he wondered what sort of gifts his children were getting him.  

 

 

     



Incident at Falling Rock

 

 

                                                  Incident at Falling Rock               

      
       Gentlemen:  I have here in my hands a letter from the representative of the Ladies Auxiliary League of Artist’s (LALA) co-op gallery, and it is address to the City Council of Falling Rock, which are us.  The author of this letter is Prof. Ebinhoffer, who most of you know is presently serving as interim spokesman for that organization.  I wish to submit it to this distinguish body for consideration.  It is an apology from the LALA co-op, and written, in all probability, to avoid further litigation on our part for the unprovoked attack on one of our city council members.  Since I don’t have copies to hand out to each of you, I shall read it out loud instead, and ask that it be entered into the minutes of this meeting.  Are you all in agreement?  Fine.  Then I shall proceed:

 
Dear City Councilmen,

        This is an apology for that incident that took place Tuesday evening at the open forum where council member (Big) John Uptight put forth the motion that the city rescind the $5000 grant given to LALA co-op gallery.  We do not know the reasons behind this, but you can understand the emotional upheaval this has caused our members.  Without the grant, the co-op gallery will be unable to move from its present location, which happens to be right next door to the Greyhound Depot.  It is the memberships’ desire to move to a more suitable venue, like somewhere near a Macys, or a Target, or even a Wal-Mart.

        I agree.  Councilman Uptight should not have been subjected to such unwarranted physical abuse.  The grant is not small, and I do sympathize with Big John’s expressed desire on why the money should instead be awarded to groups with more pressing needs like, for instance, the Cultural German Folk Dancing Ensemble who are in dire want of a new dance floor at the Falling Rock Senior Center. 

         Ever since the craze of barefoot dancing has swept this community, many elderly folks, young ones included, have been filling the emergency room of our local hospital with injuries from splinters acquired while dancing on a wooden floor laid down during the Hoover Administration.  This would make the floor nearly ninety years old.  I also learned that Big John’s wife, a leading member of the Cultural German Folk Dancing Ensemble, personally suffered a six-inch splinter in the big toe of her right foot.  The hospital attendant said that the injury she suffered was exceedingly painful and could have been avoided if the floor was in better condition.  So you see, I am fully aware of the pressures that face Councilman Uptight to award the grant to where he thinks it is more urgently needed.

          Although the LALA co-op members has not acquired horrendous physical injuries like that of Mrs. Uptight, they do undergo a tremendous amount of emotional stress by just being located right next door to that noxious bus station.  There exist levels of trauma you people can hardly imagine.  We are presently located in, what I consider, a toxic environment and definitely not conducive to Art and elderly ladies.  I know what it’s like for I am, and have been for several years, a member of LALA. This may come as a shock to some of you but I have never made it a secret, nor have I tried to hide the fact that I am the only male member of that organization.  You may draw any conclusions you want from that, but it is not illegal.

          I know that some of our LALA members have a tendency to be downtrodden misfits and are subject to emotional depressions and violent behaviors, but gentlemen, to rescind this grant that would have enable us to relocate our co-op gallery away from that bus terminal, is deplorable and detrimental to our membership.  Have any of you been near a bus terminal lately?

           In many cities and towns, sociopaths and their homeless counterparts tend to gravitate around bus depots.  Why? I can’t imagine.  The problem is these dangerous and very anti-social people have been mistaken for the artists!  The artists are there usually participating in some art exhibitions and receptions taking place within the co-op which is right next door to the bus station.  Some of our most wealthy patrons, large donors, head of corporations, our city’s finest, attend these openings.  Some have even invited these sociopaths and bag ladies into their homes for supper thinking they were the artists in residence and later finding out that some of their silverware and small furniture were missing.  Since our better artist-members do resemble these people (it is really difficult to tell them apart), and have added tendencies not to confront nor defend themselves, we become guilty by default and by proximity association. 

          But this is not to excuse the behavior of certain protesters of our group who took it upon themselves to do what they did.  Again, we apologize, Big John, for some of our elderly members who got carried away with their enthusiasm and threw latex paint at you.  They should have taken it out of the can first.  I did caution them. 

           Since Councilman Uptight will be hospitalized for a length of time, I beg the council to table the action until he is able to get back on his feet.  At which time he is welcome to reintroduce the motion…if he cares to.  In the meanwhile, be assured that the Ladies Auxiliary Artist League Co-op wholeheartedly condemns violence in any manner, shape or form.  And that we send Councilman (Big) John Uptight, our whole hearted apologies, and that he recovers from the dent on his forehead soon.

 

                                                                     Sincerely,
                                                             Prof. Elbert Ebinhoffer

                                                           

Entered into the minutes of the Falling Rock City Council meeting on September 9, 2015     

Action taken:  All members of LALA co-op participating in the assault on Councilman John Uptight were sternly reprimanded, with the exception of Mrs. B. Bushton, who is chairwoman of the open forum refreshment committee.  She claimed she was too weak to pry open the lid.

 

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.