Lounging  Joan Brady

Mostly, I lean back on a bed of  nails called 

‘shoulds’...each one sharp, piercing...and when 

I acquiesce, I am led into further densities...

but tonight it is sunset, and I brush my aged cat, as 

she roles over on her back, belly-up, legs spread...purring.

She has been with me through many landscapes...

all more turbulent than this place we now find

wound around us...so hushed...filled with light...

and I am playing the old music...listened 

too in another century, long before I got her. 

It wears well...jazz, soft piano, blues...Hancock/Holiday...

and there is a momentary melding between those 

days...and the present...without in-between intrusions.

                                  ***

A Career  Dave Lewis

The choice of a career may have a variety of origins. In some cases it may be inherited along with a farm, a ranch, or a business. Some people’s choice may have been dictated by a parent’s prodding, and some people have a career epiphany during their youth that sticks with them. A great number of folks just ricochet through life like the random motion of the missile in the old fashioned pin-ball machines, responding to gravity with an occasional slap from an external force.

The later scenario was the case for Nefarious Ames, an unaccomplished citizen who was serving jury duty for his first time at the age of 25.  During jury selection he had to admit to the lawyers trying to impanel those favorable to their cause, that he had various occupations but no career.  Nefarious was selected, since  both the lawyer for the plaintiff and the defendant saw him as moldable clay. During that trial Nefarious got the slap of inspiration, just like  pinball missiles are directed by a flipper.  The flipper in this instance was a drama revealed by the trial.

The plaintiff was an insurance company attempting to recover payments and cancel continuing payments to a claimant who was purported to have injured himself while employed and then been deemed by medical experts to be irreversibly unable to work again. The plaintiff’s case was based upon motion pictures, covertly recorded by the insurance company’s investigator, showing the claimant doing all kinds of arduous tasks: roofing a house, chopping down a tree and splitting logs, changing a tire on a large truck, and loading and unloading 80 pound bags of rock salt for a water conditioner. The jury looked askance at the defendant that would enter slowly with a cane and a grimace and seat himself slowly with clenched teeth.

The trial ended quickly when the claimant’s defense interviewed an identical twin brother. When the brothers stood together it was obvious that they were easily confused since each had identical long beards and shoulder length hair besides being otherwise identical.  It was established also that they still practiced the childhood habit of identical dress started by a doting mother. The brother had been working around his own home when filmed.

Though that trial died a quick death it naturally created several more trials – like a classic boomerang. This was a eureka moment for Nefarious as he saw the huge impact of an alibi with a strong visual impact. Nefarious had done poorly in high school and one of the few things he retained was his interest in acting.  He had his five minutes of high school fame because of talent in several school plays. Now he saw a manner of cashing in on the one thing that interested him. From that moment on, he became “Alibi” Ames and he started a lucrative career.

He had some business cards printed. They presented his name,  “Alibi” Ames, his slogan:  …loyal to a fault …,  and an unlisted cell phone number.  To slower potential clients he had to explain that the slogan could be interpreted in several ways. 

“Alibi” used an actor’s disguises to create a persona that could be mistaken for his client and then create a situation where innocent bystanders would testify that the client had been seen where he wasn’t. Some of these gigs he worked himself and for some he recruited helpers.  “Alibi” wasn’t interested in “past tense” situations or in covering up major crimes, that was too risky.  There were a number of people who wanted to be considered in location “A” when they were really in location “B”, usually doing something literally undercover. A common theme was wealthy clients visiting a mistress while a private detective watched someone they thought was their target have a long lunch with “Alibi”.  Some rascal clients found they could mislead two or three females simultaneously.

Naturally there were other circumstances in business where a more complex drama was needed for business reasons.  A leaked simulation of a board of directors meeting with a hushed and secretive nature could create a lucrative opportunity on the stock market; a bubble that “Alibi” took advantage of,  providing capital to improve his scope of operations.

“Alibi” found he could also have a hand in politics.  The TV Entertainment/News programs loved to catch political favorites  at some unpleasant activity. For instance a decoy tryst by a stand-in would attract enough news-jackals to constantly watch a candidate and eventually catch the real target at something tawdry.

“Alibi” managed to stay clear of activity considered illegal.  If the public mistook fiction for fact that was the fault of others.  He wisely avoided mob activities because they would enforce vengeance outside of the law. When “Alibi” had accumulated all of the wealth he needed he retired and spent his time coaching novice high school actors. He passed on to them the potential benefits to a future career of acting, on or off the stage.

                                     ***

Bad, Bad, Bananas - Joan Shepherd

”Good Morning, Mr. Granville,How are you?” 

“I am not happy, Alfredo, you have made me very upset this morning.”

“Me? What in  the world have I done to upset you?”

These two men have known one another for years as Mr G lives in an old tall brick apartment building just a block away from the produce store of Alfredo. Mr. G is getting on in years, uses a cane, and has a routine for shopping every third day, rain or shine. If the third day falls on Sunday, he skips that day as  most shops are closed anyway.

“Always, with a few exceptions, you sell me prime quality goods. And now I have a complaint!”

Again the storekeeper asks, “What have I done for you to complain?”

“See this?”

 “ Yes, it is a banana.”

“ What kind of a banana is it?” 

“ Well, it’s a regular banana from the Philippines, not plantain or a miniature from Mexico.” 

“You get bananas from Mexico?”  

“Sure. we get lots of produce from Mexico.”  

“But you said this banana came from the  Philippines?”

“ Right.”  

“ That’s probably the reason, but it is your fault.”
  

“ My fault for what? You keep saying that but don't tell me why. What is bothering you with all  these questions?”   

“This banana is no good! Can't you see it is dark? It should be yellow. It attracts fruit flies too. I cut off a little end this morning to cut up the banana on my cereal  and this banana is no good.  I wouldn't feed this to a dog.”   

“First of all, I don’t know a dog that eats bananas, even overripe ones.” He paused, thinking it was a joke but became annoyed again.

“Today is Thursday. You haven’t been in the store this week. I don't sell bad bananas. If you keep them too long, they become very soft and dark. You weren’t here Friday, Saturday or Sunday, and I’m always closed Sunday.  That’s a week since you were here and if it was ready to eat then, it is now over ripe! It’s old! It is a bad banana!” 

           

“But you sold it too me!”

Alfredo shook his head in frustration. Could he just tell this older man and a good customer to go to hell ? He could just walk away – this man, actually he liked the man – this man 

Mr G would go to the A&P store not much further away. Gaining his composure, Alfredo, the green grocer, patted Mr. G on the shoulder and  said, “OK. Have you had breakfast yet?”   

“No, you see, I  was going to have this banana on...”  

Alfredo interrupted him. “yes, yes, I know. I sold you a bad banana. Look, I have some cornflakes in the back. Let's both have some cereal and get  some good bananas, I'll   even throw in some strawberries and...”

Now it was Mr.G's turn to interrupt.”I don't like cornflakes.” 

“Well, you'll like the way I fix them”, and he pulled over two crates, one full of carrots and the other of lettuce. Then he kind of pushed Mr. G to sit on the carrot crate, shook his finger close to his friend's face saying, “Sit there until I get back in  just a few minutes.” Mr. G. did stayed seated.

Ten minutes later, the few people passing by saw two men sitting on crates, each eating a bowl of cereal with fruit and milk. The Starbucks coffee shop across the street sent over two cups of coffee and when the bearer of the coffee told the clerk in the bakery what he had done, that clerk sent over two muffins with the same guy. It was a nice scene. Two men,  talking with an occasional laugh, sitting on crates, eating cereal for breakfast with two  perfectly yellow banana skins tossed on the ground beside them.

                                  ***

Whitney  Janet Wentworth

“I don’t give up”

said Whitney

at her 5th

birthday lunch

Whitney nearly lost it

when first born

just hours old

with flailing arms

she turned purple

in her crib

it took emergency oxygen

to bring her breath back

nasal passages too small

on her new face

Whitney, five today

loves life

peddles her bicycle furiously

no training wheels

for her

climbs trees

reaches for the stars

thank you Whitney!

I will never give up

Nana

                          ***

A Duck Trilogy - Beverly Koepplin, Joan Brady, Joan Shepherd

Feeding ducks is a small and childish delight,

not on par with, say, the frighteningly exciting experience of going to camp

but not insignificant in any of our childhood wanderings.

Feeding ducks is the way we learn there are hours

to be frittered away with the small things, the things that do not talk back,

the things that are tucked away in a less-traveled part of your world.

In feeding ducks, you can let your mind wander,

float up and away, above the water and all the way to the sky,

without any one to say “don’t” or “no” or “because I said so.”

When you feed ducks, you can practice your whistle

or you can say silly things to the waddling and quacking birds

or you can even be silent and listen to the rhythm of your heartbeat.

When you feed the ducks, your world stops for that time.

You do not have to be anywhere else, you do not have to remember your lunch,

you do not have to go to practice.  All you need is to be there, food in hand.

Feeding ducks is a small and childish delight, 

one that we should never forget for in its simplicity

we learn the preciousness of time spent dreaming, of time to be just us.

                                            ***

You were supposed to comfort me today....

in your pursuits, your lounging, with similar...

and dissimilar kind.

My birder friend says that some of you show

distinct evidence of crossbreeding within species.

And today you were supposed to comfort me,

but it is hot, “much warmer,” the on-line, Underground

Weather Channel predicted, for the passing of this 

day...and it was right, and the heat is steadily rising.

 (It has been three days now.)

And you have buried yourselves in reeds, creating 

textures of feathers, between bent, bending , streaks

of green, still trying to reach upward, toward the sky.

And, everywhere, there are signs saying ‘not to feed you.’ 

And in my pocket, there is a small packet of crackers, 

the kind I know you like from before...and when I scatter 

them, discretely, you rush to me, and I take pictures of you. 

Such a scrambling, and a settling again. It is another world.

You were supposed to comfort me today, 

but...instead...today there will be no rushing 

to devour, to savor. Too much heat too long...

and you, none of you, has the stomach for it.

                               ***

Children ages 6-12 months, Mothers 18-35 years:

Mothers  hold the child saying “See the duckies? Quack, quack. Can you say quack quack? Shall we feed the duckies? See, I have some bread in the sack.” She struggles for a minute between holding the child and trying to get some bits of bread, then throws the bread toward the ducks. The child  may or may not say “duck” and probably holds out a hand to try and duplicate what the mother did.

Child 1-3 years:

Mothers put the child on the grass while getting bread from the baggie tucked in a large carry-all bag. Child immediately sees a duck sleeping by a bush and runs toward it, maybe yelling “Geronimo!”in the process. Mother yells for the child to return which takes some time as he is chasing the duck that is trying to escape to the pond.

Some children will debate if they should go into the pond itself to get the duck while the mother runs to pick up the child before he falls in the mucky water.The child cries, then spends approximately 3-5 minutes actually feeding the ducks.

Child 4-7:

The child shows interest by choosing duck feeding instead of the swings or slides. Mother now brings slices of Wonder Bread rather than bread broken into pieces.These children may start breaking the bread for the ducks but keep a vigilant eye for a sleeping or walking duck that will cause them to drop the bread and give chase with an expression of pure joy on their face.

Children in this age group will notice sudden activity between two ducks and inquire, “Look Mommie, what are they doing?”  “Just playing, darling. Let's go get some popcorn.”

Child 8-12:

These children are not naive and have watched a lot of TV and seen many ads. Passing a duck pond, they are reminded of the duck activity, observed some years ago. ”Hey, Mom...” and point at the ducks.“Well dear, They put Viagra in the pond to give the males a boost  so there will be more little ducks here for us to look at and feed. It also gives them exercise because those feet paddle so easily calories aren't burned, and the ducks get lethargic and don't bother the females.”

“You mean they don't have sex? And what does lethargic mean?”

Mother clears her throat. “That's right dear. I think we'd better check the parking meter and put in another quarter. Let's go!”

Child as a teen-ager: (and wouldn’t be seen with his mother.)

Child with a couple of friends – always is seen in the company of friends.

This is like a fair or circus to them and feel they must try to hit as many ducks as possible by throwing rocks, acorns, clumps of dirt, toward the duck . Their aim is better than when throwing bread bits and the ducks squawk loud enough that the patrolman comes to investigate.  Kids see him coming and scatter quickly only to find some way to tie the swings together or to see who can knock over a garbage can with just one kick. 

They are no longer interested in ducks.

Children grown to adulthood:

The teens grew up to be lawyers, shopkeepers, and newspaper editors. Some have offices  that overlook landscaped areas with duck ponds. They enjoy the view of calm ducks gently swimming and have no guilty memories of their teen activities. Women now have at least one child that is taken frequently to feed the ducks.

                                   ***

In a Quiet Courtyard  Beverly Koepplin

The gate closes in the still night.
The only sound is that of fading footsteps.
A woman sits on the bench
Crushing a rose in her left hand
Holding her right hand to her pale face.
The blood weeps from her fingers, the tears weep from her eyes,
all in silence.

The moon comes out from behind a cloud
And its light falls on the woman,
the torn and crumpled rose,
the cold marble bench
in an attempted benediction
before it retreats behind the clouds
leaving no fading footsteps.

The flowers of the day fold softly into themselves,
their scent fading on the slight breeze,
their velvet petals turning into steel walls,
all in silence.

If you were to listen very carefully
you would hear one sound,
a quick and thin clean snap
as a heart breaks in two.

The woman arises from the bench
and silently, hunched over herself
like a small wounded animal, goes out through the gate.
The moon comes out again, 
plays it light over the damaged rose, 
the marble bench, the closed flowers
and finding nothing on which to shed its grace goes back in.
Once again footsteps fade, and the courtyard is quiet.
                                        ***

Changing Season  Joan Brady

It is all in a piece 
of chance dance,
this innovation

with steaming stone dripping 
the saliva of dragons.
Return time, not mentioned.

Me, I have no love of fire...
so, this round , cavern-place. with
skylight to the moon, assures me,
continuing, warm, madness.

It is a new way of watching...
ringed by the passing of days,
the passing of seasons

How long this journey? I remember 
it began just after the saxophone 
went silent...and the clarinet.

But today, this is a new kind
of watching, ringed by persimmon
trees...with overreaching branches. 

In the late summers, sometimes, fruit 
falls in. Even now, there is, still, an odor 
of wet seeds, in this moist dryness.

Twice now, in passing, I have 
seen each season change.

Today, evening, the
branches form a silhouette against
the sky, static, bending in wind.

Clear outside...still hot, I think. In a few hours 
the moon will pass over, visibly. Always like 
that part the best. Stay up late. Wait for it.

Does get lonely, though. Keep wishing 
the dragons would come back. Fiery 
creatures, they are. Like to lie belly up 
on their back, and roar while resting.

Then they fall into deep, smoky sleep. 
I know they will need  to stop soon. 
They’ve been gone so long now.

My friend, Custard, he was the one 
who brought me here, It was a kindness.
Afterwards, he left with the rest.

Time for them to come back again, I think.

It would be nice to have company again.

                       

                                              ***