Me’n Mazie and Nigel

dontravis.com blog post #343

  

Courtesy of Pixabay

I hope you enjoyed Mark Wildyr’s River Otter post last week. If so, let him know at markwildyr@aol.com.

This week, I’d like to a do piece of flash fiction about some kids growing up and going through the difficult process of discovering who they are. I suspect more of us are ambivalent about these things than we suspect. After all, just because the other fellow acts so confident of himself doesn’t mean he always is. So let’s get about it.

*****

ME’N MAZIE AND NIGEL

                                                                  

I’d known Nigel Blaine ever since we were both in diapers. I’d grown up watching him learn to crawl—before I did—and toddle around on two legs and get out of diapers—again before I did. I was there when he hit his first homerun and made his first basket and dated his first girl. Need I say… all before I did.

Looking back at it now, I think it was safe to say that I was in love with Nigel. It was good having the best-looking guy in town grow up two doors down from me on High Street. How did he feel about it? He was always saying, Blake, you’re my best friend. That’s a high honor, but somewhere down inside me, I was hoping for more. More what? I didn’t have a clue.

Mazie Angelicus and her family moved in next door three years ago. For the first twelve month, I just looked past her house to see if Nigel was home. Whenever we’d be outdoors tossing the ball or simply sitting on the porch swing ragging one another, she’d show up to contribute her two cents. An interloper of sorts.

Then last year, she did this Jekyll and Hyde thing and started looking like a girl instead of a tomboy. Spiky hair turned honey brown and fell across her shoulders. Freckles faded as her skin began to glow. She abandoned boxy trousers for slacks that took on a shape. And as always, Nigel took notice before I did.

When he asked her out, my stomach fell down into my guts. My hackles rose, and I didn’t know why. I guess it was because things were changing in our tight little group. The dynamics were different all of a sudden. That might have been it, or perhaps I was just jealous she claimed some of his time without me around to participate.

Whatever the reason, I sort of withdrew. I found other things to occupy my time when they wanted to go do this or that. I hated myself afterward because I was making it easier to cut me out. But for some reason, I did it anyway. My pop would have said it was all a part of growing up and growing away. And maybe it was, but I couldn’t see him in his room crying because his best friend, Mr. Potter, got married and had a family. And I was convinced that was what was coming down the road. Well, if Nigel asked me to be his best man, I’d come down sick… maybe terminally.

I couldn’t avoid them at school, so I put on as brave a face as I could, but other kids noticed. I answered the question “What’s up with you’n Nigel?” with a “Nothing” more times than I could count. Still, he was friendly and asked me to go to games and the like with him. I did, but it was different in some way I couldn’t explain. Nigel didn’t seem to notice.

Then came the winter prom our senior year. He caught me in the garage tinkering with the 49 Ford my father had given me when he got a new Expedition. He was no sooner through the door than he asked me who I was taking to the dance. “I almost said “You” before I caught myself and shrugged.

“Why don’t you ask Mazie?” he suggested.

I about dropped my wrench as I pulled my head out of the motor well. “Mazie. Aren’t you taking her?”

“Nah. I asked Helen.”

“H-how come? I though you and Mazie were together.”

“I asked her out a couple of times, but it’s like going out with a buddy instead of a girl.”

“She know you’re taking Helen to the prom?”

He nodded as he tested the drive chain. “Seems a little loose. Yeah, we talked it over, and she’s cool with it. Whoever you ask, we can all go together. Make a foursome of it.”

The next day when I spotted Mazie coming home from school, I saw her through different eyes. I grabbed a jacket and flew out the front door before she disappeared into her house.

“Hi.”

“Hi, yourself.”

“Teacher keep you after school? I’ve been home for half an hour.”

“Well, you had wheels. I walked.”

“You know you can ride with me whenever you want. You’ve done it a hundred times.”

“I know. But a couple of us went for malted milkshakes.”

“Uh…”

“Uh, what?”

“Do… do you have a date for the prom?”

“Billy asked me, but I told him I already had another date.”

“Do you?”

“No, but I didn’t want to hurt his feelings by saying no.”

“Would you hurt my feelings?”

“What? By saying no if you asked?”

“I guess.”

She tossed that gorgeous honey brown hair of hers. “Are you asking?”

“Uh, I guess so?”

“Geez, I’ve never been asked for a date is such a romantic way.”

“Does that mean no?”

“It means ask me, you dopehead.” Her smile took the sting out of the “dopehead” part.

“Okay, will you go to the prom with me?”

“I’d love to go with you.”

My stomach did a flip-flop. I could feel a smile stretching my lips as far as they would go. Then I frowned.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nigel wants to double date.”

“That would be fun.”

“Uh… I mean….”

She laughed, and I felt my face go red.

“Blake, I have no problem double dating with Nigel and Helen. After all, he’s my best friend… except maybe for you.”

Things got serious between Mazie and me after that wonderful prom, just as they have for Nigel and Helen. Helen’s a regular member of our group now. Awkward at first, but perfectly comfortable now. I know I can’t do anything until after college, but I’m seriously thinking of asking Mazie to marry me sometime in the future.

But you know what? Nigel Blaine will always be my first and lasting love, even though it will forever be unfulfilled. During unguarded moments, I believe he feels the same way.

*****

Childhood bonding is strong and slow to let go sometimes. How many of us have felt as Blake does at sometime in our lives? But we soldier on and fulfill nature’s call to propagate. Well, some of us do. The braver souls follow their nature wherever it takes them.

Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say, so say it!

My personal links: (Note the change in the Email address)

                                                                                                    

Email: don.travis@aol.com.

Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982

Twitter: @dontravis3

Buy links to Abaddon’s Locusts:

https://www.dsppublications.com/books/abaddons-locusts-by-don-travis-486-b

https://www.dsppublications.com/books/abaddons-locusts-by-don-travis-487-b

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Abaddons-Locusts-Vinson-Mystery-Book-ebook/dp/B07JLHKJLY

Apple: https://itunes.apple.com/ca/book/abaddons-locusts/id1439968525

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Google: https://play.google.com/store/books/details?id=R0Z0DwAAQBAJ

Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/abaddons-locusts-don-travis/1129769593

See you next week.

Don

New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

Danny and Sophie

After a look at The Lovely Pines last week, I’d like to return to puffery, please. Appropriate, since the little story that follows involves clouds.

*****

Courtesy of Pixabay

DANNY AND SOPHIE

 “Danny?”

“Yes, Sophie.”

“Do you love me?”

She in her backless pink and white sun dress and he in his khaki walking shorts lay on their backs in the grass at a city park allowing the early spring sun to warm them. For the last half-hour, they’d studied the clouds and remarked on funny shapes and patterns.

Danny paused to consider her question as the aroma of lilacs wafted in from somewhere to tickle his nose.

“You’re taking way too long to answer,” she said.

He propped his long torso up on one elbow and looked down at her. “It was a serious question, wasn’t it?”

“Of course.”

“Then it deserves a serious answer, so I was giving it serious consideration.”

The lines around her soft mouth tightened. “It ought to be automatic.”

“Love is automatic?”

“Your answer, dodo.”

“I should give an automatic answer to a serious question? Okay. Then yes, I do.”

She sat up and reached around to brush debris from her back. Danny automatically did it for her, noticing the weird pattern of red marks the grass left on her skin. Oh well, they’d disappear soon… automatically.

Sophie slapped his bare leg so hard it stung. “That wasn’t a sincere answer. That was a smart aleck answer.”

“How can you tell?”

She huffed a little. “Way you said it.”

“Do you even know what a smart aleck is? It’s an obnoxious conceited individual who pretends to be clever.”

“Appropriate.”

Danny gave her a sharp look. “What do you mean?”

“Whatever you think I mean.”

“So you think I’m a smart-ass because I tried to give your perfectly serious question a perfectly serious answer?”

“No, I think you’re a smart-ass because you gave my perfectly serious question a smart aleck answer.”

“That’s redundant.”

“What’s redundant?

“Smart-ass and smart aleck are the same things. In the dictionary, I mean.”

“Oh, you and your precious dictionary. Go make love to it. I’m going home.”

“Oh come on! I said it, didn’t I? I love you. Danny loves Sophie. Sophie loves Danny. All’s right with the world.”

Sophie stood and slipped her feet into pink sandals. “Sophie thought she loved Danny. Now she’s not so sure.” With that pronouncement, she flounced away.

“Wait!” he cried, but she ignored him. Danny flopped onto his back and sighed. The truth was that he did love her. Or thought he did, anyway. No, he knew he did, just like any eighteen-year-old stud would know. But she was just so easy to tease that he couldn’t resist it. She’d get over her snit eventually.

As he stared up into a blue sky studied with gray-bellied white clouds, a little puff separated itself from a bigger mass of vapor and floated free in the high altitude wind. As if kneaded by a deliberate hand, the little cloud morphed, a neck and head appearing here and four stubby legs there.

He laughed aloud. “A donkey,” he exclaimed in delight. “Hey, Sophie!” he called to the retreating figure. “Look at the cloud. A donkey!”

Without pausing, she yelled back. “No… an ass!”

*****

Stir up any memories for those Dannys and Sophies out there? I hope it kicked off memories—preferably those that ended up being pleasant ones.

Let me know if you enjoyed this little story.

The following are some links to me and my writing and to DSP Publications (my publisher):

Blog: dontravis.com

Email: dontravis21@gmail.com

Facebook: dontravis

Twitter: @dontravis3

DSP Pub ebook: https://www.dsppublications.com/book/the-bisti-business-by-don-travis-360-b

DSP Pub paperback: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/the-bisti-business-by-don-travis-31-b

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Bisti-Business-Vinson-Mystery-Book-ebook/dp/BOIMSATKCO

iTunes: https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/the-bisti-business/id1661475375?mt=11

Barnes & Noble: http://ww.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-bisti-business-don-travis/1113760492?ean=2940157409005

As always, thank for being a reader.

Don

New blogs are posted at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

Back on the Air with a short story called “Phoebe”

On January 3, my site went off the air because Google said I failed to renew. Renew? Who knew? I received no requests or warnings, so I blundered blithely on until they pulled the plug. Getting reinstated wasn’t easy, I can tell you. I had to call on St. Larry (whom regular readers have met before) to perform his magic. It took until today, Jan 30 for him to get the reinstatement.

At any rate, I hope not too many people have given up on me and will find the site again. So here we go with another short story.

*****

PHOEBE

Phoebe… what a savage name. It rolls off the tongue and evokes images of a rad curvy Greek titan with lustrous blonde hair and sky blue eyes. One of Saturn’s moons got dubbed with that name. You know, after her. Of course, Phoebe’s also a longhorn beetle, but I don’t ever mention that.

A name shared by poets and musicians, actresses and artists, playwrights and screenwriters, Phoebe also served as the given name of the first female U. S. Marshal in America. I know. I looked it up in my Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary.

The Phoebe in my life wasn’t up to those standards… yet. Of course, we’re still in high school so she has some growing to do. Okay, she’s a little vanilla, but she’ll develop into her name. Then too, she’s a brunette with brown eyes, but they’re nice brown eyes. Can’t quite claim she’s voluptuous. Still, I can look down the road and picture how she’ll be… when she gets there. Yeah, my Phoebe will do just fine.

Except she’s not really my Phoebe. We’ve been buds for years. Sat beside one another in more classes than I can count. Been to the same fleekin' parties together. But not … together. I sus she thinks on me like fam. That was going to change. Today. I asked her to meet me in the park after school and snuck out of my last class a little early to swing by the drug store for two strawberry milkshakes. That’s her dime… you know, favorite.

By the time I entered the park, she already sat at a picnic table reading and scratching the back of her head. Probably chilling on a romance novel. Bad. Nobody around.

Phoebe closed the book, which turned out to be our geometry text, and accepted the milkshake I offered. She took a big slug before speaking. “What’s up?”

“Does something have to be up?” I dissembled. This was harder than I imagined. We’d exchanged thousands of words—maybe millions—but none like the ones I wanted to say.

She blinked. “Not every day you ask me to meet you in the park. You need help with one of your classes?” She took another deep draw on the straw.

I smiled and shook my head. My egghead Phoebe. She set the grading curve in her classes so high the jocks bleeped her. But I managed to keep up. “Nope. Acing my classes.”

She plopped the book down on the concrete table and crossed her hands on top of the text. They were kinda broad and stubby. Another sign she’d fill out when her day came. “Okay, what?” she asked.

“We haven’t collected any down time together lately.”

“We studied for the biology test for two hours not more’n three days ago.” She raised her hands and slapped them back down on the book. “And we test quizzed one another on geometry yesterday. What else do you want?”

“Well. You know, some personal time.”

“Personal time? Since when do we need personal time, Boris Whiznant?” She stopped talking, and I endured a piercing stare from those brown orbs. “Are you getting funny ideas?”

I slipped off the table where I’d been perched and took the bench opposite her. “Funny ideas?”

“We’ve known each other since the fifth grade. We’re buddies. Pals. Study freaks. You gonna mess that all up?”

“H-how?” I stammered.

“OMG, you are! By getting mushy, that’s how.”

“I don’t want to be pals. Buddies. I want—” I had to stop and gulp air “—to go out with you.”

“Go out with me?” Her big mouth dropped open. I thought for a minute she was going to kek. “You mean like hashtag BF, GF?”

I reared back and said it like a man. “Yeah, exactly like that. I want you to be my girlfriend.”

I could have taken it if she had keked—you know laughed aloud. Instead, she threw dark shade at me like I was something gross lying on the table, got to her feet, and collected her textbook, pausing long enough to slurp down the rest of the shake. “I can’t even.”

“How come, Phoebe? Lay it one me.”

She shrugged her wide shoulders, another reason why she’d be—

“How do you chill with someone named Boris? Boris for crying out loud. You can’t make a cute pet handle out of Boris. You can call John, Johnny. Tim, Timmie. But Borie is boring. Borisee sounds like a German lake. Can’t shorten it. Bor is a wild pig. Can’t use the second syllable, either. Is is a part of the verb ‘to be.’ And Isie? Yuk!” She made a rude sound through her nose. “I just can’t.” She edged out from between the concrete bench and table, finished the dregs of her milkshake, and walked away.

I stood and yelled after her. “You can’t go out with me because of my name? Because of my name?”

I plopped back down on the hard concrete and rested my head in my hands. Unbelievable. Just because of my name. How shallow can you get?

*****

Hope you recognize some of the current teen slang. It almost left me behind… and I wrote it! At any rate, let me know what you think at dontravis21@gmail.com.

Keep on reading, guys. I always look forward to hearing from you.

See you next week.

Don

Next post will be at 6:00 a.m. on Thursday, putting us back on schedule.

Robin Seggblue

How about a little short fiction this week? Sometimes I wonder how much of the fiction comes from the mind and how much comes right out of suppressed memory? Hard to tell. Let me know if you’ve had any experiences like the following.

*****

ROBIN SEGGBLUE

“You have the most bea-u-tiful eyes, Robin Thackery,” the girl said. ”They mimic your  name. You know, Robin’s egg blue.”

I remembered blushing ten years ago when Marella Hughes had spoken those words. My cheeks had grown so red they’d actually stung, just as if they’d been frost-bitten.

Marella and I were both twelve at the time, and while I can’t claim I was smitten, I was uncomfortably interested. We’d played together most of our young lives, but I think I’d just realized that she was somehow different from me … and the other guys in our little group.

Whatever. But she’d marked me for the next few years. My last name became – outside of parents and teachers and preachers – Seggblue. Robin Seggblue.

In the way of things, we grew up, best friends yet not intimate – beyond confiding most of my secrets to her – and eventually lost touch when her family moved to Cleveland. I remember being despondent most of my high school freshman year. We’d kept in touch for a while until they moved again. Then she vanished entirely from my life.

In the meantime, the years passed. I grew up, went off to college, and returned to my hometown earlier this year to take a position as an instructor of Computer Sciences in the local community college. New life, new interests, new friends, but still no real, lasting, permanent girlfriend … as Marella might have been.

And then this morning, as I walked down the hall toward my cubbyhole office, I heard something I hadn’t heard in six long years.

“Robin! Robin Seggblue!”

My heart tumbled and my mouth went dry as I turned toward the sound of that voice. I almost didn’t recognize her. Still looking for that skinny sixteen-year-old with freckles and pigtails, I saw intead a tall, emerald-eyed, raven-haired, sophisticated-looking woman in a silk pantsuit with sensible shoes.

“M-Marella?” I couldn’t keep the question mark out of my voice even though I knew this vision was my old buddy.

She came forward with arms held out. “Didn’t you know I was coming?"

I shook my head mutely as she clasped me to her, making me take note of another change in this stunning creature. This was a full-bosomed Marella, not the girl with the budding knobs I remembered.

“I took a year’s contract at CC to teach English. I wanted a break before I go for my Master’s next year,” she explained.

I held her at arm’s length. “I hadn’t heard. Great to see you.”

“Let me see if those eyes are still the way I remember them. Yup, pretty as ever. Robin’s egg blue.”

“Yours are pretty great, too.” I glanced at the people swirling by us and wondered if anyone had heard. Not that it mattered … I guess. I dropped my arms away. All I needed was to hear gossip that Mr. Thackery got caught practically making love to this … purrrr … pussy cat in the hallway between classes.

We agreed to meet for dinner that night at Blue Corn Joe’s before rushing our separate ways. I entered my classroom slightly breathless to find the room atwitter. Of course, it was Susan who’d taken notice of my chance meeting and spread the news to the classroom. Anyone else would have let it go, but not her.

“Who was that sweetheart you were buzzing in the hallway, Thackery?”

Susan Horvacs was one of those bright kids who had the brains to start college-level courses while still in high school. Now a year past graduation, she had almost enough credits for her Associate Degree. She was pretty, confident, and full of brass. I couldn’t even get her to call me Mr. Thackery like the rest of the class, including seventy-year-old Mrs. Harper who was determined to get some kind of a degree before she passed on.

“What was it that vision of loveliness called you? Segblew? The “vision of loveliness” part had a slightly sarcastic ring.

Damnation, nosy Susan must have been lurking out of sight and witnessed the entire meeting. I tried to put some authority in my voice. “Don’t know what you mean.”

“Yeah, she called you something like that. Robin. Robin Segblew.” This sharp young woman gazed straight into my eyes, and I saw the tumblers fall into place and unlock the puzzle in her brain. Her eyes widened.

“Blue. Robin’s … Robin’s egg blue. She called you Robin’s egg blue.”

After that revelation, it took a little effort to get the class settled down to Window’s Excel, but eventually I had them working problems with the formula function of the program.

*****

Blue Corn Joe’s is a little classier than its name implies. Originally a Mexican food joint, Joe Reynaldo, the owner, had branched out into Anglo food. Burgers and dogs. Then a few years ago, he’d redone the décor and turned it into one of the better restaurants in town.

I wouldn’t say I was nervous, but I arrived a quarter of an hour early. The hostess, dressed in a green and white peasant’s costume with rolled hair fixed firmly in place by a huge tortoise shell comb, had known me for years. As a matter of fact, Ruby, Marella, and I had gone to high school together. Ruby selected a small, intimate table in a remote corner and agreed to bring my date upon her arrival.

Even though I could not see the entry, I knew the moment Marella arrived because there was a lot of squealing and greeting when she walked through the door. Ruby getting reacquainted, most likely. A few minutes later, Ruby returned looking slightly discomfited. A radiant Marella trailed along behind. And two steps behind her traipsed a tall, buff jock with shoulders so broad they threatened to split his form-fitting shirt.

“Sorry, we don’t have another table available,” Ruby said. “It’s going to be snug for a party of three.”

A smiling Marella clasped my shoulders and gave me a brotherly buzz. Then she stepped back.

“Robin, I’d like you to meet my boyfriend, Sam Steffans. Gus, this is Robin Thackery, or as we used to call him, Robin Seggblue. Get it?”

Gus stared straight into my eyes and grimaced. “Got it.”

*****

Worst date ever! The whole situation was embarrassing, but playing kneesies with both of them at that tiny table raised it to a whole other level. Furthermore, she had her pet name for the boyfriend, as well. His eyes were gray, so he was Steelie Sam. Steelie Sam Steffans. The whole image put me off completely. Before it was over, Marella didn’t seem quite so clever, nearly so sophisticated, and not even quite so pretty.

We said our awkward goodnights, and parted – never to see one another again, so far as I was concerned. Of course, that wasn’t true. I’d see her in the teacher’s lounge, the hallway, somewhere on campus for damned near a whole year. Ugh. The thought made Blue Corn Joe’s excellent Tuna Melt on dark rye roll around uneasily in my stomach.

I drove through the night through pool after pool of bluish white streetlights. About five blocks down the road I thought of Susan and what she’d make of the fiasco tonight if she ever heard about it.

Susan. Her eyes were huge. Huge and brown. Elk’s eyes. Nah, too young. Maybe not. She must be at least nineteen. Only four years younger than I was. Yeah. Elkseyes. Susan Elkseyes Horvacs.

It had a certain ring to it.

*****

Drop me a line and let me know how you liked it. Thanks for reading.

Don

Turn Around, Look at Me

Like many teenagers back in the day, I was a misfit in the world I inhabited. As such, one of the pop songs of the era expressed my longings, my wants, my hopes almost perfectly. Jerry Capehart wrote Turn Around, Look at Me in 1961. It was a popular hit back then and apparently remains so today. I wove a little tale around it. Hope it tickles your fancy.

******

TURN AROUND, LOOK AT ME

What was the matter with me? Why wasn’t I like other guys? Well, I was. Yet I wasn’t, either. I could talk my way around the National Football League or the basketball circuit as adroitly as anyone. I got my quota of invitations for beer with the boys, but something was missing.

What was missing was thirty feet in front of me walking down the stairs and out the apartment building. Her name was Gilda, which she pronounced Jillda, and I was desperately in lonely with her. I say “in lonely” because I’m not sure what love felt like. But that pitiful term fit when my heart reached out to her. And it seemed appropriate when I sat alone at my cramped kitchen's tiny fold-up table holding imaginary conversations with her. Or lying in bed at night throbbing for her. Or losing the ability to draw a breath at the first sight of her every day. It was a lovely, miserable condition.

I started leaving my apartment thirty minutes early in order to avoid her on the way to CNM, the Albuquerque community college we both attended. That worked okay, but then I missed seeing her so much that I went back to trailing her down the stairs, silently begging her to turn around and look at me. That’s what I meant about being different. Anybody else would have struck up a conversation. Not me. Not tongue-tied, bashful Louis Pastoria. She might tell me to go take a hike. What would I do then? Bray like a jackass? Shrivel up and die?

Right in the midst of this heartache … bellyache … headache … whatever it was, I was sitting at my  table munching tasteless cold cereal when I heard something on the radio that nearly tore the heart right out of my chest. It was a song. An oldie from the '60s that expressed exactly what I was feeling.

“There is someone walking behind you.

“Turn around, look at me.”

Oh, my Lord! My plaintive cry word-for-word.

“There is someone watching your footsteps.

“Turn around, look at me.”

Thank God I was alone at the time because before the Vogues finished singing that love song, my mouth went dry while my eyes went wet. I swallowed hard and struggled with emotions I couldn’t even name.

Later that morning, I trailed Gilda and her roommate down the steps again, this time with the Lettermen crooning those wonderful lyrics through ear buds from my big brother's ancient Walkman. Surely, she would sense this storm of emotional turmoil behind her and … well, turn around and look at me. But she didn’t.

For the next week, I followed the object of my adoration with that song ringing in my ears. Sometimes it was the Bachelors singing away. At other times, Glen Campbell’s solo made it hauntingly personal. That said, I preferred the final refrain by the Lettermen. It left me breathless. Like she did.

I walked out of my apartment one day just as Gilda was passing, so I ended up closer behind her than usual. She was alone – as was I. Of course, I was always alone. On the top step of the stairway, a book slipped from my fingers. While performing a juggling act to keep from dropping the thing, I accidentally jerked the ear plugs out of the Walkman. Immediately, the plaintive notes of that beautiful song rang pure and clear in the stairway.

Gilda halted in her tracks. Then she turned around and looked at me. She wrinkled a pert nose finely sprinkled with freckles. My heart dropped into my sneakers … both of them, so it must have broken in half.

“Oh, that’s my favorite song,” she said. Her voice was soft and silky and exciting.

“M-m-me, too. Favorite.” Had I developed a stammer?

“It’s a beautiful song, but I prefer the Bee Gees rendition.”

“M-me, too.” Dumb ass! Say something besides “me, too.” I drew a shuddering breath and delivered. “Like the way they open with strings … I do.” My God! Now I was Yoda.

She laughed, a sound like a sterling silver bell struck with a tuning fork encrusted with diamonds and rubies and pearls. “Exactly. Violins are more romantic than drums and brass.”

Was she mocking me? I guess not because she went on.

“They’re mellower, more intimate. At least that’s the way I feel. You’re Louis from 23B, aren’t you? I’ve seen you around.” Her eyes were so green they were spots of colored light suspended in the air before me. She smelled like lilacs, which instantly became my favorite flower. Provided I could remember what they looked like, that is.

She seemed to be waiting, so I lunged down the steps and walked out the front door with her.

She continued talking like this was any common, ordinary day. “I have the Bee Gees’ recording of the song. Would you like to come over tonight and listen to it together?”

My knees failed, nearly dumping me on my face. But I recovered and cleared my throat.

“That would be way cool.”

*****

As always, thanks for reading. A little different from last week’s quirky post, wasn’t it?

New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

Sometimes Things Turn Out All Right

How about a little short fiction again this week.

###

SOMETIMES THINGS TURN OUT ALL RIGHT

     I thought I’d die when she walked up to me. Guys aren’t supposed to admit things like that, but, man, that’s the way I felt. Part of it was surprise, and part of it was pure excitement.

     Graciela (I never called her Gracie like everyone else) and I had a history that stretched back to grade school. We’d started out yanking hair and kicking shins, but that switched to lipping off to one another as we got older. But I went virtually mute the first time I noticed she had breasts. One day she was built pretty much like me and the next, these knobby little things popped out on her chest. Kinda hard holding a casual conversation while sneaking glances at those awkward protrusions.

     The real transformation took place our freshman year in high school. Those knobs became balloons. Her rounded hips made my throat go dry. Imp-face became Pixie-face. Right about then, Graciela discovered boys. Not this boy. Not the schmuck next door, but guys older than me. Guys with shoulders and biceps and pecs and Adam’s apples.

     I used to hang around hoping she’d notice me. I’d head for school at the same time she did. I went to school dances … which I loathed … just to see her dressed up like a movie star. And in the privacy of my bedroom at night, I did my best to render myself blind while holding onto a mental image of her. And felt unclean afterward.

     My senior year I used some of my hard-earned savings and bought an old Ford, a jalopy like you saw in the Archie cartoons but without the rumble seat. Guys that hadn’t given me the time of day got to be buddies, but Graciela didn’t give me a second glance.

     One warm, pleasant Saturday afternoon about one-thirty, I breezed out of the house heading for my car in the driveway. As I reached for the door handle, Graciela materialized beside me. Surprised me. Scared the crap out of me, actually.

     “Johnny,” she cooed. Only person I knew who could speak and coo at the same time.

     “Uh … oh, hi. Didn’t see you there.”

     “I need a favor. Please.”

     She had the prettiest “pleases” of anyone in town. “What’s that?”

     “I need a ride to the mall.”

     Our only mall, The Eastside Mall, was – guess what – on the east side of town. I’d intended to head in the opposite direction to meet a couple of the guys at the municipal swimming pool. But screw the guys.

     As she settled in the front seat beside me, my mind’s eye saw us holding hands and exchanging glances as I drove down Henderson Drive. Me, a man in control of his powerful automobile, and she, the woman at my side. My starter ground, shattering the image. Nonetheless, I got the old jalopy started and backed out of the drive, almost clipping the mailman as I did so. Anxious for something to say in the face of near disaster, I cleared my throat as I followed her directions and parked as close to Dillard’s as possible.

     “I can hang around and bring you back home, if you want.”

     “That’s sweet. But I don’t know how long I’ll be,” she said.

     “I don’t mind. I can just … you know, hang.”

     “I’m meeting someone.”

     “Who? Marcy?” She and Marcy were as different as night and day, but they were tight. “I wouldn’t mind having a pretty woman hanging off each arm.” Did I really say that out loud? My cheeks felt like they were on fire. They actually burned. I didn’t dare glance at her.

     “Not Marcy. Well, thanks loads.” She tossed the words at me as she flounced out of the car and slammed the door.

     By the time I got my voice-box to working she was walking down the sidewalk toward a dork named Freddy Fleisher. Last year’s fullback … this year’s freshman at the community college. All shoulders, biceps, thighs, and a real Adam’s apple. With hair on his legs, to boot.

     When they hugged, I felt like something tore loose inside me. He planted a kiss on her lips before opening the car door for her.

     I’d driven her to her date? Why didn’t he pick her up? My blood pressure dropped twenty points. I felt used. Like a taxi driver who got stiffed for the fare. I sat there like dog doo on the bottom of a shoe, my eyes watching the two-year-old Olds convertible fire up. Freddie revved the engine before throwing the transmission into Reverse.

     Movement caught my eye. A vehicle motoring down the lane was invisible to the couple in the Olds because of an SUV parked on their right. Mr. Flannery, the same postman I’d almost nailed, was headed to the mall’s substation. I could probably have honked a warning, but I didn’t.

     I expected a big crash when Freddie came roaring backwards out of the parking space but it was more of a thud and a crunch. Freddie must have been flustered – decidedly uncool – because he slammed the Olds in Drive and shot forward, smashing his front end into the Chevy parked on his left.

Graciela and Freddie piled out of the car, both talking a blue streak. What I got out of the rush of words was that Freddie was wrapped up in the wreck of his dad’s wheels, while she was bitching about being late for an appointment.

     I took a deep breath, eased my jalopy in gear and rolled past the scene of the accident. As Gracie tried frantically to wave me to a stop, I gave her a casual salute and went on by. A swim with a couple of buddies – boring though they might be – seemed like a good idea right about then.

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 That’s it for this week. Thanks for reading, and let me hear from you.

Don

New posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.