The Starchild of Third Street

Raul Medina, a thin child with large dark eyes, raced through the city streets.   His limp became more pronounced when he ran.  He had to hurry.  Abuelita would surely scold him for being late.  He tripped on the cracked sidewalk, and upon standing surveyed his pants for dirt or rips.  He had no desire to hear additional tirades for ruining his school pants.  With only two pairs to his name, each had to last for three or four school days before washing.  

At last he arrived at the cleaning plant above which he lived with his mother and grandmother.  Thump a lump, thump a lump; Raul limped up the stairs in haste.  

He opened the door and immediately, the pungent aroma of chiles cooking in tomato broth captured his senses.  The smells accompanied by pans clattering in the kitchen told him that dinner was on the way.  Raul braced himself for what he knew was coming.

“You’re late shouted a thin voice from the kitchen.  Raul approached the kitchen with his backpack carefully positioned to hide the dirt stain on his left pant knee.  The boy knew better than to make excuses.  He simply waited for his grandmother's rant to dissipate and then hugged her.  She in turn, tried very hard not to smile while telling the boy to get himself a snack and begin his homework.

Raul carried his pan dulce and tea to the living room. He set the dishes on the coffee table and plopped down on the tattered sofa.  He looked around the room.  In spite of  sparse worn furnishings, Abuelita managed to create a sense of warmth and comfort by placing colorful embroidered cloths over the tears in the couch and upholstered chair.  She crocheted lace wall hangings to hide the cracks in the walls and no one ever saw a spot of dirt in any room.  He curled his legs under his body and relaxed as he thought about his mother..  She hadn’t yet returned from work.  Mama worked six days a week in the cleaners downstairs.  She usually came home tired.  He knew it because of the red eyes and the way her body drooped, but she never complained.

While the boy ate, his mind drifted.  Raul wanted more than anything else to be an astronaut when he grew up.  He read everything he could about rocket ships and the lives of astronauts spending as much time in the school library as he was allowed.  He watched all the space shuttle launchings on the televisions in the shop windows (the family's old television could only receive one channel).  Raul frowned when he remembered sharing his dream with his mother. 

She, who had long ago lost her ability to hope, sighed while gazing with tired eyes at her young son.  She said to her boy, "Ay, m'ijo.  Tú tienes sueños grandes.  A lo mejor, no tengas tantos sueños.   Entonces no recibirás tantas desilusiones.  (My son, you have big dreams.  It would be better not to dream so big, then you won’t be disillusioned).

Raul learned from that not to share everything in his heart.  Then no one could tear down his dreams.  His mother knew disappointment as a constant companion but not Raul.  He could still hope and wasn't ready to give that up.         

Raul walked with a slight limp because his crooked back made one side of his body higher than the other.  Often cruel children would make fun of him and called him names.  Abuelita told him to ignore their taunts.  Raul never let the bullies know how small they made him feel.  He told himself the other boys had no dreams. They didn't know how to imagine a wonderful future, but he did.  In his private world, this thought was his revenge.

One Saturday morning in early spring, Mama’s boss asked Raul to deliver some draperies to a store in another part of town.  Raul would be paid five dollars (some of which would be needed to pay for a bus ride).  Five dollars was a lot of money for a small boy from Third Street Barrio.  As Raul sat on the bus he imagined what he would do with the three dollars he could keep.  Perhaps he could money to buy a used book about rocket ships and astronauts.  Raul awakened from his daydreaming when he heard the bus driver call out his stop.  Raul walked along the sidewalk carrying the heavy draperies. Something caught his eye.  A window display of a small featured kites of many shapes and colors.  In the middle of all of them stood a large kite fashioned to resemble a rocket ship in flight.  A blaze of red and yellow streamers, suggesting powerful energy flowed from the tail.  Raul wished he could fly that rocket.  He knew that he would take such good care of the kite if it were his, but how could he afford the price?  The sign said ten dollars.  Raul didn't have that much money.  I couldn't tell you how long Raul stood before that window, nor could he.  When time suspends itself, lifetimes fly by in an instant.  

Sometime later, Raul's trance was broken when the crackled voice of an elderly gentleman shouted, "Why don't you come in and buy it?" 

Raul blushed with embarrassment. He hadn't realized that anyone saw him starring at that kite.  He stammered for a moment and then said sadly, "I don't have enough money, sir." 

The man, a small withered gentleman of Asian descent, beckoned him in.  He had a white beard covering his chin and long white hair bound in a braid at the base of his neck.  He bowed politely and reached out a hand to Raul.  “Son”, he said softly with a gentle voice, “My name is Sheng Wong.  I am a kite maker and the owner of this shop.  If you would like to help me from time to time, I would gladly pay you for your trouble, and then you can buy all the kites you like.” 

Raul knew that he should have asked permission of his family before accepting, but like many dreamers, he quickly put aside practical considerations, and accepted the offer.  The two shook hands.  Then Raul remembered his unfinished business, said goodbye and left.

Raul found time to spend a few minutes now and then at the kite shop without telling his grandmother.  Mr. Wong showed Raul how he arranged the papers and wood to fashion flying fantasies that might float on breezes off every hill in the city.   Raul tried to memorize each step.  When Mr.  Won handed the newly completed kite to Raul, the boy held it as if he carried the future of Earth in his hands.  Mr.  Wong observed the boy and smiled.  Then Raul would wrap each kite carefully as instructed and place it on a shelf in the store room.  He always looked to Mr. Wong for approval when he finished. 

Before long Raul  spent more time at the kite shop, and Abuelita began to worry.  Her nagging ceased having an effect on the boy.  She discussed her concerns with her daughter, who told Raul he must come directly home after school.  The boy explained about Mr. Wong and argued that he was old enough to come home when he pleased.   That earned him extra chores under Abuelita’s stern supervision.   Raul would need to spend an hour each day before dinner vacuuming the living room, dusting the furniture, and whatever else Abuelita decided.  When his mother and grandmother went to bed that night, the boy removed a torn brown wallet from his backpack.  After he counted twice to be sure, Raul let a grin spread across his face.  He had earned enough money to buy the kite. 

The next day Raul risked more scolding by returning to the kite shop.  After putting his money on the counter he told Mr. Wong in a quiet voice that he couldn’t come any more because his family worried about him.  Mr. Wong smiled, and told Raul not to worry. “My friend, you must always respect and honor your family above everything else”.  He also said that he and Raul would meet again.  Mr. Wong handed the Kite to Raul, and said, "Goodbye until next time".  The boy raced home.

Raul showed Abuelita the kite he had earned.  Although his grandmother wanted to scold the boy for disobeying again, she resisted when she saw the sparkle in his eyes.  Later, Abuelita and Mama promised that he could take the kite to the park the following weekend. 

During that week the dreams began.  In sleep Raul saw himself in an astronaut training program.  He wore an orange uniform.   The first night he sat strapped into a simulated space ship while a machine simulated the effects of weightlessness.  Many sensors attached to his body measured his responses.  Raul felt slightly nauseated when the simulated vehicle spun around.  Raul knew the somewhere beyond the training center was the ship. If he passed all the tests, he would travel to distant worlds on that vehicle.   He willed himself to pass.

Towards the end of that week of dreams Raul received his orders.  He would piolet the ship.  Even in his dreams, the elation was beyond measure.   Raul met the captain of his ship, an older man whose face her never saw.  He taught Raul how to manipulate the many buttons and switches on the control panel.  Animated by the magic of his dream world, Raul learned everything he needed to know in one session.  By the end of the week Raul knew in his dreams he was ready to fly the ship.  

On Saturday, Raul went to the park to fly his kite rocket.  He laughed when the ship sailed on the winds and became smaller and smaller as he lengthened the string.  For two hours (or maybe more) Raul became an astronaut flying his ship through space before he returned to help Abuelita with chores.  Raul entered the apartment chattering about his kite and how it flew through the air.  Abuelita smiled and handed him the broom.  

While he cleaned, Raul imagined traveling to another galaxy where he maneuvered a large ship through space.  He barely heard when Mamá returned from work. Abuelita had to shout at him to set the table for dinner.  Raul listened to the two women gossiping about the lives of their neighbors from a distant portal, one that connected his family’s world to that of his dreams.  If the women noticed him in reverie, they didn't mention it as they continued chatting about this one and that.  

Later, when the dishes were washed and put away, Raul asked to be excused to prepare for bed.  He took a shower, brushed his teeth, and then he carefully put away his clothing.  He spent a few hours reading his favorite book about space travel.  He had left planet Earth long before he shut off the lights.

That night in his bed, Raul dreamed he put on his space suit and helmet and climbed aboard the ship He strapped himself strapped into his seat while his body heart raced with exilleration excentuated by the rumble of the rocket's powerful engines.   As the control tower counted down, the ship  ignited, and the ship lifted off the earth.  Lift-off was as thrilling as Raul always imagined it would be.   His stomach did flip-flops as the forces of gravity fought to maintain its control on the departing vehicle.  Raul theought felt as though he turned inside out.

The ship rumbled through earth's atmosphere.   Raul watched his planet become smaller and smaller in the view screen.  Soon it resembled one of the world globes present in every classroom.   After leaving Earth's gravity field, the astronauts in the ship unbuckled themselves and luxuriated in the sensations of weightlessness.  Raul pretended to be a super hero while flying through the tiny cabin of his ship.

Raul awoke the next morning feeling exhilarated and desiring to return to the park with his kite.  After attending church with Mamá and Abuelita, he was given permission to spend a few hours at the park.  While he was flying the kite and dreaming of space trips, the kite fell and found its way into the jaws of a playful dog.  The dog, thinking only of play, and not of broken dreams, shook the kite violently with his head.  When he was done, the kite lay broken and shredded on the ground.  Raul  stared at the broken toy with his mouth open.  He could not move.

 In that moment Raul’s stature seemed to shrink.  His eyes glazed over with the same dull look of despair that his mother often had, but only for a moment, for when he looked up he saw Mr. Wong standing in front of him with a smile on his face and a large package in his hand.  “I thought that it was time to give you this", he said.  He spoke softly and handed the package to Raul.  "It is a gift, and none too soon, I might add.  Please enjoy your new kite"

 Raul tore open the wrapping.  He beheld inside the brown wrapping paper a kite in the shape of large star with a comet-like tail.  Its orange, red and yellow papers shimmered like twinkling light when the kite moved.  

Raul’s face came alive with excitement.  He almost forgot to say, "Thank you", but he did remember at last.  Mr. Wong bowed in reply, and Raul bowed back.  Mr. Wong said that he had to go and that he would be seeing Raul again very soon.

That night in his dreams, Raul saw the destination of his ship for the first time.   On his view finder was the star, the very star that Raul had held in his hands that afternoon.   This time, however, it wasn't made of paper and string.  Its twinkling was nearly blinding, but nevertheless,  Raul's eyes remained transfixed on the screen.  

Each night after that, when Raul slipped into the deep sleep where dreams reside, the ship drew closer and closer to the star system.  He learned that the star was called, "Arcturus" as was the  the planet where they would land.  Each night the excitement in the dream grew until at last the day came for touchdown.  

At first the sensation of reentering gravity felt uncomfortable.  Raul thought he would explode, but gradually his dream body grew accustomed to the newly added weight.  As Raul stepped out of the rocket, he saw a group of beings approaching.  The majority of them wore short white robes with sashes that twinkled like their sun star.  As the group neared, Raul saw that their leader was his friend, Mr. Wong who held up his hand in salute to the crew.  "Welcome to the Arcturian Order of Kite Makers" said Mr. Wong.  You will work with us as apprentices to learn our trade and then share what you have learned with your world.  We are looking forward to our lessons together" In his dream, Raul knew he had found his home and smiled as he followed the kite makers to their city.

When Raul awoke the next morning, and stretched.  He smiled, and decided not to share this with anyone. 

The Library Gnome

Mrs. Thomas, the librarian looked once more at her watch.  She sighed.  “Quitting time at last!”  She opened the drawer below the counter where she had locked up her purse.  A large aspirin bottle fell to the floor.  “Oops, empty.   I’ll have to stop and pick up some more on the way home.”  She rubbed her forehead in the exact spot where the pain usually began.  As she shut the lights and locked the door, she almost thought she heard movement amongst the shelves.  She turned the lights back on and searched for the source of the noise.

“I am over-due for a vacation,” she said in a hoarse whisper to herself.  She closed her eyes and imagined relaxing on the white sands of a tropical beach.  She pictured the damp salty air washing over her face while she watched the sea roll in and out.  “Ahh, no shelves, no books just the breeze and me.”

The library opened at ten o’clock the next day.  Mrs. Thomas nearly arrived late.  She had forgotten to bring the new bottle of aspirin and had to return home to fetch it.  “Surely, I’ll need it,” she thought.

She unlocked the main doors and cautiously entered.  “Well, everything’s in place, but then, it usually is.”  She put away her personal items and waited for the library regulars. 

Mrs. Thomas looked at the calendar on the checkout stand.  “Tuesday the third; I expect Mrs. Findlay will come in today.  Sure enough, just then, in walked the older woman, her back curved downward as if she carried an unseen burden.  She deposited two books in the book drop and walked towards the French literature section.

Mrs. Thomas braced herself wondering when it would begin.  Her right hand fondled the aspirin bottle while the left hand shook in anticipation.  This time, she hadn’t long to wait.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Thomas,” squeaked Ms. Findlay’s crackled voice, “the pages are in this book are blank.”

The librarian popped two aspirin and rubbed that spot on her forehead. “She groaned and startled the older woman.  ” Not again!  I really do need a vacation; a long vacation.”

Mrs. Findlay decided not to get any books that day and walked out the door at a brisk pace.  Twice, she looked back over her shoulder and mumbled something to herself.

The empty book rested on the counter in front of Mrs. Thomas.  The librarian broke out in a cold sweat behind the checkout counter.  All her muscles contracted.  Her face looked pinched and her brows knitted tightly over her eyes.  Two customers had already asked if she felt well, and she admitted to one of them that she didn’t.

She didn’t hear the muffled munching sounds from the fairy tale section of the children’s books.

In the afternoon fifteen minutes after school dismissal, the boy came in with his mother.  She spoke to the pale librarian about a library card for her son while he wheeled himself to the children’s books.  He started to reach for a book and then stopped.  “Hello, he said looking between “The Elves and the Shoemaker” and “Santa’s Elves”. 

Two shiny yellow eyes squinted back at him.

“Get out of here,” growled a raspy voice. 

“You’re not very polite,” scolded the child.  Didn’t your mom teach you any manners?  You should say hello back.  What are you doing there anyway?” 

“I said, get out of here.  Are you deaf?”

“No, that’s not my disability.  Don’t you see?  I’m in a wheelchair because I can’t walk, but my hearing works very well.   I can’t reach the top shelf.  Would you do it for me?  I want to read the book about Snow White.  I saw the movie last week.”

“Kid, I’m a gnome.  We aren’t nice to humans.  We scare humans, play tricks on them.  Why aren’t you afraid?  Boo!”

The boy laughed softly so as not to be shushed by the librarian.  “You’re silly.  And you’re not scary either.  Why do you want to scare people?  That sounds mean to me.  You must not have many friends.”

“I scare people because that’s what gnomes do.  I don’t want any friends.  Now, leave me alone!”

“Do you live here in the library?”

“Yes, right here.  Now get lost.  It’s my bedtime.”

The boy continued undaunted by the gnome’s attempts at rejection.  “Do you know that you have ink smeared all over your face?  I wash my face when it’s dirty.  Mom makes me.  Doesn’t your mom make you wash up when you’re dirty?”

“No.”

“Anyway, my name’s Billy.  What’s your name?”

“Grimflix.  Now, weren’t you leaving?”

“Hi, Grimflix.  I’m glad to meet you.  I never met a gnome before.  Will you get that book for me now?  Otherwise, I’ll call Mom to get it for me.  You’ll like her.  She can get grumpy like you, but she’s really very nice.  I bet you are too.  Mommm…”

“Shhh, don’t call her.  Grownups don’t like magical creatures.  They don’t believe in us which makes us disappear; very unpleasant business.  I had to leave my last library because of a nasty encounter with a grownup.  Here, take your book and go away.”

“Bye Grimflix.  I’ll look for you the next time we come to the library. 

Grimflix growled at the boy and then curled up behind “The Giant Book of Elves and Gnomes.”  Before long, his quiet snoring blended into the shuffles of feet and whispers of children.

Later, Mrs. Thomas wondered if she could safely take another dose of aspirin.  She stared once more into the empty pages of “The Complete Works of Honore de Balzac” and “A Tourist’s Guide to Paris”.  She shook her head and just kept mumbling, “Why me?  I’ve been a good person.”

Meanwhile, in the fairytale shelves of the children’s books, the library gnome chuckled and whistled two verses of “Frere Jacques” before he swallowed the word, “Paris”.  His full belly rumbled.

Two weeks later, Billy and his mother returned to the library.  A new librarian stood behind the desk.  Billy hardly noticed.  He rolled over to the children’s books and called, “Grimflix, where are you?  I want to show you something.”

Grimflix’s face popped out of a tall book with the word, “castle” half hanging from his mouth.  He glared at Billy then sucked in the rest of the word and swallowed.

“Not you again, kid.  What do you want this time?”

“Look, Grimflix.  Yesterday was my birthday.  Lots of friends came to my party.  I’m six now.  I got my own library card.  Do you have a library card too?”

“Kid, I don’t check out books.  I eat them.  I live in the library because I eat words.  Go away.  It’s my lunchtime, and I have a craving for castles and giants.”

“You eat books?”

“Just the words, kid.  That’s what library gnomes do.  Now, if you please, I am really hungry.  The number book I had for breakfast just didn’t fill me up.”

"But Grimflix, if you eat up all the words, soon we won’t have any more stories.”

The gnome lifted up his pointy chin to get a better look at Billy’s face.  “So what?” he shouted.  “I don’t care!  No one cares about me anyway.  Why should I care if you don’t have stories?”

The new librarian looked at Billy and put her forefinger to her mouth.  Billy’s mother gave him a disapproving look.  He started to protest that he didn’t say anything when he had a great idea.

“Grimflix,” he said softly, “have you ever had a birthday party?”

The gnome looked at him without speaking. 

Billy went on not seeming to notice the silence.  “My friends and I could give you a party.  We’ll make you a special birthday book with delicious happy words in it.  When you finish the words, we’ll make some more.  What do you think?”

“Could I have chocolate cake and ice cream? 

“Yes, three flavors of ice cream with chocolate sauce and whipped cream.  We’ll add a piñata filled with candy and lots of balloons.  Would you like balloons?”

“Yes, red ones.  I want red balloons.  When will you bring me my birthday book?”  Grimflix didn’t want to act too excited, but no one had ever given him a birthday party.  “Could it be today?”

“Well, Grimflix, you will have to be patient.  Mom always says that to me.  My friends and I will have to make your book first.  I’ll be back in two weeks.”

Billy didn’t return in two weeks.  Grimflix had just finished eating all the words in the preschool books when he heard his name.  He looked into the eyes of a new child, a boy about the age of Billy.  Brown eyes flashed at yellow ones as if light swords battled for supremacy of the galaxy.  The new boy rocked back and forth on his two legs.   The two stared at each other for a few moments until the boy remembered what he had come to say.

“Billy told me to give this book to you.  He is very sick and can’t come back to the library, but he wanted you to have this birthday book.  We all helped him make it”

The boy held out a book made of lined papers stapled together.  The words inside had been written in wavy pencil strokes by children’s hands.

The gnome grabbed the book and scurried behind the shelves to munch in peace.  He loved the words, “red balloons” and “chocolate cake” the best.  While residue from the word, “chocolate” still smudged his face, he found more words at the end of his book.

“Dear Grimflix.  I am sorry I couldn’t come to your birthday party.  I have to stay in bed a long time because I got sick again.  If you ever get out of the library, come visit me.  I will put more words in your book.  Love, Billy Ortega:  23310 Basal St.”

Library gnomes rarely ever leave their libraries, but Grimflix really wanted to taste more of Billy’s delicious words.  “It’s just for the words and nothing else,” he assured himself.  So one evening around midnight, he slipped out of the library clutching his birthday book in one hand.  He made sure he closed the door behind him.  Then he began the search for Billy’s house.  When he found it at last, Grimflix slithered through an open window. 

The door to Billy’s room stood ajar.  The night light flickered when Grimflix entered.  The gnome rushed into the shadows out of habit to escape his enemy, the light.  Billy’s arm was attached to a tube that connected to a sack filled with liquid.  Drops from the sack flowed through the tube into Billy’s arm.  The sleeping boy clutched a folded piece of paper.  Grimflix saw the writing.  It said, “New Words for Grimflix.  The Gnome grabbed the paper.  On it Billy had written, “Best friend, happy, smile, gnome, companion.”  Grimflix took the paper and gobbled the words.  He tried his best to keep a smile from spreading across his face.  When he failed to do so, he wiggled between two books on Billy’s table and went to sleep still grinning.

Thus it was that Grimflix went to live with his friend Billy Ortega.  He lived in Billy’s bookcase where he curled up each night with his special birthday book.  Every morning, Billy filled the book with new and interesting words.  Sometimes he made whole stories for the gnome’s entertainment and growing appetite.  In the afternoon, the gnome told Billy stories about enchanted forests.  Some of those stories went into his birthday book.  Billy told his mother that when he got better he wanted to be a writer.

           

           

Serendipity and the Traffic Cop

 Lost in mental lists of unfinished projects, I didn’t notice the blinking lights or screeching siren.  My awareness popped to attention, however, when an amplified voice broke through my reverie.  “Blue sedan, pull over now!”

Great!  Now I would be late for the interview, my only shot at becoming employed.  Stupid police!  Always harassing someone!

“Oh, hello, officer.  Lovely day isn’t it?  Did I do something wrong?”

“Lady I clocked you at ninety miles an hour.  Do you have any idea of the speed limit here?

I smiled and fluttered my eyes at him which he ignored as he continued lecturing me.  He reminded me of my father when I used to come home late from a date.   “Blah blah…safety…blah blah… danger…what were you thinking young lady?”

“About more important things than road rules, you nincompoop!”

“Oh, officer, I’m so sorry.  It’s just that I have this important interview, you see, and I’m so nerv…”

“Yeah, yeah, lady, I know.  There’s always a reason.  Look, your driving is a hazard.  You need to pay attention to speed limits.  I'm going to recommend that you attend traffic school.  Now, give me your license and registration.”

“Pig,” I thought as I offered up a card that displayed the world’s ugliest photo.   He scrutinized the photo and then my face.  “Yes, road cop, that crone is actually me.”

“Mr. Officer, I can’t seem to find my registration. I'm going to see if it’s in the glove compartment (did he just growl?).”  Wads and wads of papers exploded out of the small cavern and covered the seat.  I began sorting through the pile trying to spot the missing document. Eventually, I looked up and smiled at the traffic cop.  He grimaced back.  

“What’s this?” I wondered.  I pulled from the rubble an official looking unopened enveloped addressed to me.  The return address showed that it came from a major publishing house.  Months earlier I had sent queries to various publishers.  I never heard from them and assumed they were uninterested.

 Eagerly, I tore open the envelope forgetting about the man who drummed his fingers on my window.  “Dear Ms. Watson,” it began.  Well, my heart pounded as I read on.  “We have reviewed your manuscript.  We think it fits our needs and would like to discuss a contract.  Please contact…”

“What?  What?  Oh my gosh!  Oh my gosh!  This is so amazing!  How could I have missed this before? Oh my!  Oh my!”

“Lady, did you find your registration or not?  I don’t have all day!”

“What?  Oh yes, (giggle), imagine that!  It was in my wallet all along.  I guess I was so nerv…”

“Just hand it over please!”

“Oh, yes, sir.  Thank you, sir.  Oh, thank you very much.  It’s so wonderful that you stopped me.  You’ll never know how grateful I am.”

He scratched his head and shook it several times as he wrote my ticket, returned to his patrol car and drove away.  I think he was still shaking his head as he drove off.  “Have a glorious day!” I shouted.  Then I revved up my engine and sped off.

The Train Set

On a gray December afternoon in Brooklyn, a young boy, Harold Becker, raced out of school with a big grin on his face. His chubby body and winter padding slowed him down somewhat, but he labored to reach home as quickly as possible.  He ran past the large brownstone apartments where women sat on the stoops of the buildings and gossiped while keeping an eye on their children.  He heard the shrieks of small children playing on the sidewalk.

             

He approached a gathering of tough Irish boys laughing and smoking ahead of him.  In 1928, Brooklyn served as home to many immigrant families.  For the most part, people only associated with folks from their homeland while they viewed others through distorted lenses.  Occasionally, street fights broke out between ethnic gangs of youths as they vied for dominance of the street.

Harold twitched nervously.  The boys looked mean and tough.  He didn't know how to defend himself if he needed to.  He clenched his  shoulders as he prepared to pass the ruffians.  They were all older than he.  One of them grimaced, flexed his arm and shook his fist at Harold.

             

“Go Jew boy!  Hurry home to mommela,” he taunted. 

             

Harold moved to one side as the boys tried to block his passage and narrowly missed tripping because one of the thugs stuck out his foot.  When his book bag slipped to the ground Harold retrieved it without looking up.  He turned his face away from the bullies to hide his tears.  The raucous laughter of the O’Malley brothers and their friends taunted him as he ran away. The small gang continued yelling insults at the boy until he disappeared around the corner.

             

When Harold turned the corner he breathed a sigh of relief and calmed himself by remembering why he needed to hurry home.   He quickened his pace once more and ran past the green grocer, the butcher shop and the bakery.  Normally, he would stop at the bakery to buy a sweet treat, but not now even though the fragrance of freshly baked pound cake momentarily weakened his resolve.  He had to remind himself that today he had important business at home.  At last, he reached the tiny shop, “Becker’s Grocery and Deli”.  The sign on the window of the small shop needed repainting, but that cost too much money.  Panting heavily, he burst through the door and startled the  customer, a good friend of his mother. 

              

“Ma, Ma!  Today’s the day!  Is it here yet? 

             

“Heshie, please apologize to Mrs. Goodman and then go upstairs.  We’ll talk later.” The boy’s mother, Sadie, stood behind the deli counter.   Her dark eyes shifted from the customer to her son as she gave him a sharp look of disapproval and then continued her conversation. 

             

“I’m telling you, Ida, I saw Sarah Jacobson’s daughter holding hands with that goyishe boy.  No good can come of it!  Oy, poor Ida has her hands full with Miriam!”

            

 “Sounds like Miriam has her hands full too!”  The two women chortled at the little joke

            

Hanging his head down, the boy slowly climbed the stairs to the family apartment above the shop.  He entered the bedroom he shared with his sister, Evelyn.  Posters of trains both freight and passenger lined the wall on his side of the tiny room.  His sister hadn’t come home yet.  “Good, he thought, I have some time to myself.”  He pulled out a book about trains from under his bed and plopped on the bed to read and dream.

            

Harold had always loved watching the commuter trains as they passed overhead through the middle of his street.  His heart quickened each time the cars rushed above his head clacking on the tracks while the locomotive’s whistle screamed “Make way, make way”.   

             

Last November the boy had seen an electric train circling its track in a toy shop window.  He watched in fascination as the miniature locomotive pulled its cargo round and round a small village with houses, trees, shops and a train depot. A horn sounded each time the Engine passed the station.  His mother tugged at his sleeve and urged him to move on.  She had many errands to complete that day.  The boy resisted until she used that intimidating tone of voice all mothers use when they mean business.  “Heshie, now!”

             

“Ma, could I have a train set like that one for my birthday?”

             

“Heshie, you’ll ask your father tonight.  Now, hurry up.”

             

Later, that evening at home, Harold’s eyes glowed as he described the model train to his father. “You should have seen it Papa.  It ran on electricity and had a horn and everything.  The houses looked so real. They even had lights on.  I would set it up on a board and store it under the bed.  Maybe later we could add more tracks.  Oh, please Papa, please, do you think I could get one for my birthday?”

             

Morris eyes closed for a moment.  He opened them and frowned as he considered the eagerness in his son’s face.  Finally, he answered.  “Heshie, I can do better than that.  I know a man who makes model electric trains.  We’ll get him to make you a set better than the one in the store.  Your birthday comes in a few months.  Surely, he can have a train ready by then.  Dancing around the small living room, Harold transformed into a whistling steam engine.

             

Unfortunately, Harold’s birthday came and went without any trains.  The man hadn’t quite finished yet, but according to Papa, the train set grew more elaborate as time passed.  “The man wants you to have the best gift ever.   Have a little more patience.  When he finishes, you will have the finest toy railroad in all of Brooklyn.”

             

Finally, the day arrived when Harold’s papa said he would pick up the completed train.  When Harold left school he wondered if the train would be waiting for him.  He remembered his previous dissappointment, so nervousness dampened some of the excitement as he raced home.  Sounds of the city, the swish of cars, beeping horns, shouts of street vendors whizzed by him until he reached his destination.   He noticed the door to the shop squeaked as he opened it.

             

Ma stood behind the deli counter cutting meat.  Papa was putting some groceries in a bag.  He nodded at his son while finishing his work   “Well?” The boy looked expectantly from one parent to the other.  His mother wrung her hands and his father clenched his teeth.  The boy bellowed, “Where is my train?”

             

“Oy, Heshela, lower your voice.  Papa went to see the man just this morning.”

             

“And?”

             

“It seems he hasn’t finished your train set yet, but it’s because at he’s adding some new pieces.  The village will have a town hall, and the track will pass through a tunnel under a mountain.   I hear he’s also making an engine that blows real smoke.  I’m telling you, Heshie, this train set will be a beaut!  Soon you’ll be the envy of all your friends!”

             

The boy didn’t hear that last bit.  In his mind the engine with real smoke was already hauling freight through the mountain tunnel as Engineer Harold worked the controls. 

             

While the boy stood daydreaming, Ma looked at her son and smiled sadly before removing her apron.  Lost in her own thoughts, she went upstairs to fix supper without hearing the question her husband asked.

             

The whole family, Papa, Ma, Harold, and his older sister Evelyn ate dinner together every evening after the shop closed.  That was the happiest time of day.  Evelyn helped her mother, and the two would gossip together while Harold stole bits of the fixings.  Papa came up after closing the grocery.  Then the family would sit together and share thoughts while eating heartedly.  Money was scarce in those days, but Mama could transform a few potatoes and some scraps of meat into a feast.

That evening at the dinner table while stuffing his face, Harold asked his father once again, “When will you talk to the man again, Papa?”

          

 “Heshie, don’t talk with your mouth full, “scolded Mama.  His sister, Evelyn, sniggered.  Harold glared at her.

             

Morris’s body tensed as he pondered a few moments over his son’s question.  He knitted his brow.  After a moment he smiled and answered, “Soon, Heshie, soon”.   Then turning to his wife, Morris said, “Sadie the brisket is very tender.”

            

Young Harold wanted to ask more questions about the man and his train set, but now the family conversation focused on the meal, Evelyn’s school project and other family issues.  The rest of them could think about other things, but nothing mattered to Harold more than his amazing train set.  It would be so much better than the one in the toy shop.  He talked to all his friends about it constantly.  He promised they could play with it when it arrived, but warned them that they would have to be very careful.

            

After dinner, Harold went downstairs with his father to help stock the shelves in the grocery for the next day.  He loved the sound the knife made as it sliced through the unopened cardboard boxes.  He stood on the ladder and looked down.  From there, his father seemed so small. 

            

“Here, Heshie, take these.  His father handed him cans of pumpkin, beets and peas.  Harold took the cans and carefully placed them on the proper shelves stacking them one atop the other.  “Papa,” he said, “when do you think the man…?”

            

“Heshie, enough already about the man and the train!  It’ll be finished when it’s finished.  You just have to wait!

             

The boy nodded as tears filled his eyes.  He knew he shouldn’t sound impatient or ungrateful.  These things couldn’t be rushed Papa had explained.  All the details being added needed precision and care to be done authentically.  But didn’t Papa understand how he longed to play with that train?  He even had an engineer’s hat ready to wear when the set finally arrived.   Bernie Goldstein’s father worked as an accountant for the railroad.  He got the hat for Harold.  It sat on Harold’s nightstand waiting just as Harold waited.

            
Harold thought, “I am tired of waiting for my train.  Why isn’t it finished already?”  Suddenly, he dropped a can of beets and watched it hit the ground with a loud crash.  

            

“Oy, be careful.  You almost hit me!” scolded Morris as he picked up the can.  It’s dented too.  Now I’ll have to sell it for discount.  We can’t afford to lose the money.”  Morris saw the remorseful look on his son’s face and immediately regretted snapping at the boy.

             

“My son’s such a good boy,” he thought.  Then he said aloud, answering the unasked question.  Heshie, the man promised to have it ready by April fifth.  In six months you will get your miniature railroad.  I promise”

             

“Six more months!”  The boy scowled.  “Why does it have to take so long?  Well at least there’s a date to look forward to.  Do you promise it will be ready then?”  Papa nodded.  The boy’s face brightened.  He finished stocking the shelves with canned vegetables.  While descending the ladder the father and son looked at each other.  “Thank you, Papa.”  The man mumbled, “Hmm”, while he checked the shop door and switched off the light.

             

Then the two climbed the dimly lit stairs that led to the apartment.  Mama and Evelyn had just finished cleaning up the kitchen.  Evelyn turned on the radio as she and Mama sat in the living room to listen to their favorite radio program, Fibber Magee and Molly.  The family leaned in listening to the small radio and laughed together before retiring to bed.

            

As he fell asleep that night, Harold imagined how envious his friends would be when they saw his train.  He would only let them play with it if they followed his rules.  Harold’s smile relaxed only slightly as he drifted off to sleep.

            

During the next six months Harold plagued his father with questions about the train set.  Papa assured him that the train would be delivered on schedule as he gave updates on the additions to the project.   As April fifth approached, the train set consumed the boy’s thoughts more than ever and left room for little else.  His friends grew weary of train talk and threatened to stop playing with him if he didn’t talk about something else.  Once Harold’s teacher called home to say he often seemed distracted in school.  When Mama questioned him about it Harold lied and said his teacher didn’t like Jewish boys.  Ma looked at him suspiciously.  “I’m going to talk to some the other mothers to see if she treats their sons poorly.”  Harold begged her not to.  “Then you’d better pay more attention young man!”

             

On the morning of April fifth, Harold pounded on his parents’ bedroom door.  Outside, only a hint of gray suggested that dawn approached anytime soon.

            

“Ma, Papa, today’s the day!  What time will he bring it?  Can I stay home today and wait?”

Harold heard groans from within his parents’ room.  “Heshela,” began the groggy voice of his mother, “you’ll go to school.  When you get home, it’ll be here.”

            

The muted voices of Harold’s parents droned on for a while.  “Are they arguing?” he wondered.   He couldn’t hear the words, but he didn’t worry much about it.  Ma and Papa often quarreled just like Harold and his sister, Evelyn.

            

Quietly, Harold got dressed and lost himself in dreams of trains as he waited for Mama to get up and fix breakfast.

             

After school, Harold didn’t run home.  He deliberately measured out each step along the way.  He wanted to savor the moments of anticipation until he first saw his new model railroad. 

            

He passed Mrs. Goodman on the street.   She called to him.  “Harold, come here a minute.  I have the face powder your mother asked me to buy.  Come with me to my apartment.  You’ll take it to her.  I have some cookies for you too.

            
Harold couldn’t refuse his mother’s friend.  He knew he would never hear the end of it if he did, so he went with Mrs. Goodman to her apartment.  The rooms looked just as small as his family’s home with similarly shabby furniture.  Harold took the box of powder but refused the cookies saying that he had eaten a big lunch and wasn’t hungry.  

             

Finally on his way again, Harold spotted the O’Malley gang in the distance.  He took a longer route to avoid a confrontation.

             

When at last he arrived at the shop, both his parents quickly disappeared into the back room.  He heard a hushed conversation from the stock room.  Perhaps they were setting up the train.

            

“Ma, Papa” he called as his heart raced.  Is it back there?”

            

“No!”  They called out in unison.

             

Then, losing the control he used getting home, Harold raced up the stairs two steps at a time.  He searched each room but found nothing.  “Where is it?” he shouted down the stairway.

            

Ma and Papa called him to come back to the shop.  Ma beckoned the boy to come close.  Her face looked somber.  She pinched her mouth and twisted her apron strings before speaking.  “Heshie, the man died this morning.  There’ll be no train.

             

The boy stared silently at his parents.  He felt as though he had aged several years, and before Ma even finished speaking, beheld the two adults with different eyes.  He saw how they lowered their faces to hide the betrayal, and in that moment, they seemed to shrink in stature.  He noticed that wrinkles lined Ma’s face.  He saw that Papa’s back hunched as he stood and regarded with distaste Papa’s large bulbous nose.  How dingy the shop suddenly looked to the boy. 

           

Harold’s body tightened, and he ran out to the street.  Sadie rushed forward to stop him, but Morris held her back.  Evelyn, who had just come in, started to ask but decided to keep quiet.

            

Harold came back later that evening.  He nodded to his parents and went into his bedroom.  The boy walked to his nightstand, removed the engineer’s hat and placed it on his head for the first and last time.  Then he carefully tucked it into his bottom drawer with the beloved stuffed bear he no longer played with.

             

The next day, Harold ate breakfast and went to school.  He greeted his schoolmates.  They played handball together against a backdrop on the playground.  There was no more talk of trains.

           

The Healing

"I am the dragon who imprisons the maiden and also the victim trapped on an island in the sea of morose. I must rescue myself now." She recited these words to herself while sliding under the crumpled covers of her bed.

She woke the next morning at the crack of dawn. Actually, the clock read nine AM, early by her measure. “Arg,” she grumbled regretting her resolve to reform. Last night it had been so strong. Why, she actually turned off the TV and went to bed. Her usual habit had been to fall asleep on the couch and stumble to bed at daybreak.

"No," she said admonishing her lazy self, "today is the day. Step one is to get up early, make a healthy breakfast and do something useful."

Although she had promised herself a major change, she hadn’t quite gotten to the part about what to do after eating. "One step at a time," she whispered to herself.

So one slightly overweight middle aged woman unwrapped herself from the bed covers and went to the sink to slap water on her face. She looked into the mirror and saw droopy eyes still heavy with sleep peering tentatively back at her.

"Hmm," she thought, "not terrifying, even for this time of day. With a little bit of makeup and the right clothes, why I bet I could pull off a job interview. Of course, then I’d have to work." Looking at her mirror image, she addressed her phantom self.

“Do you want a job? Would that resolve the emptiness?” Through the looking glass the other image appeared just as puzzled. No answer there. She decided to shower and get dressed before breakfast. Perhaps my head will clear up in the shower.

She gathered some clothing from her messy closet carefully selecting the few items that weren’t too wrinkled. She never ironed and often left the clothes in the dryer for days. A pair of black slacks and a white blouse looked fairly presentable; not too wrinkled, coordinated well, and might even give her a slimming effect. Smiling at her choice, she grabbed some underwear from the dusty chest of drawers and went to the small bathroom. As she stepped into the shower, she noticed the hard water mineral deposits that crusted the tiles of the little shower cave. “I don’t think Suzie Housekeeper would approve,” she mumbled out loud. “Oh well, she doesn’t live here!” Twisting the knobs one way and then the other, she achieved a decent water temperature and immersed her body in the warm liquid stream.

She stood soaking herself turning this way and that to wet all of her body. She began to sing. The song came from a place in her memory folds from a time long ago when she lived with her family, Mom, Pop, and her little brother, Tommy. She remembered the feeling of being loved and cared for. Within the walls of their modest tract home, she wanted nothing. Her family completed her. As she sang, she found the resolve to turn her life around. Today really was day one of the search for her better self.

She rubbed some soap on the wash cloth that hung in her shower for three months. Its stiffness melted into pliancy as the thirsty fibers drank the water. She cleaned herself and twisted the knobs to off. An arm extended out of the water-heated shelter. She felt for a towel, found it, and dragged it into the shower stall. She dried off still humming her song. She remembered the CD of children’s music that she played over and over on her Fisher-Price CD player. Tommy and she often sat together and sang loudly while Raffi crooned his tunes for them. Sometimes she and Tommy danced together, not controlled simple dances, but wild heathen dances suggesting some tribal ritual or simply, the joyful abandon of two young children.

Suddenly, she popped to attention as if someone had called to her. “I know what I need to do first,” she sang to the tune of the song in her head. “I must call Tommy; arrange to visit him and his partner, Cooper. Yes, that would be a great beginning for my new adventure.”

She dressed and went into the kitchen. The little white cordless telephone stood in its dock like a soldier at attention. She reached for it. As she held the phone in her hand, she realized that Tommy and she hadn’t spoken for a couple of years. “I wonder why our lives became so distant” she mused. “ Oh well, never mind. It’ll be great to catch up with him.”

She searched through the old phone book pregnant with slips of paper and filled with notes scribbled over all the pages. Pushing pages with a moistened finger, she reached the one with Tommy’s numbers. He had moved often in his youth when they still spoke on a regular basis. Several numbers had been written and eventually crossed out. She located the most recent one. “I hope he still has this number,” she thought. “I’ll have to ask if he has a cell phone when we speak.” While thinking these thoughts, she pushed the buttons that would hopefully reconnect her to her sibling. One ring, two, then, “Hello?”

“Tommy, it’s me, Miriam.”

“Miri? I can’t believe it! How the Hell are you? And why are you calling? Is something wrong?”

“No, no, it’s not like that.” She hesitated. Why was she calling? Then she remembered. “It’s hard to explain, but this morning while I was taking a shower, I just remembered when we used to dance together to Raffi. Remember? I don’t know what made me think of that, but I knew I just had to connect with you.”

“Well, I’m glad you did, sis. There’s so much to talk about, but the best news of all; Coop and I have adopted a baby. You are going to be an auntie!”

“What” Wow! That’s big! Are you going to call Mom and Pop?”

“No!” While he spoke of his parents, his voice changed timber. “They said their piece when I came out to them. If they want to apologize, they need to come to me. I can’t do it.”

“I was going to call you, though. We just wanted to make sure that everything was settled first before announcing to anyone. We don’t have him yet, but little Eduardo is practically ours. We can’t wait to bring him home. We’ve decorated a whole nursery and stocked the house with bottles, baby wipes-you name it and we’ve got it ready and waiting for our new son.”

She could feel his smile through the phone. Its beam, so potent, infected her with his joy until she too smiled with unbridled happiness. “Well, Tommy, the first thing I’m going to do is find a copy of that old Raffi recording. I’m going to have some serious dancing to do with my nephew.”

“Let him walk first sis. So, are you going to come visit us?”

"You bet I am!" As she said this, another thought came into her head. She needed to speak with her parents. She didn’t know how yet, but she knew. Her next step in her personal revolution would be healing her family.

After hanging up the phone, Miriam cleaned the kitchen still singing the words to the song as she stacked plates into the dishwasher slots.

Redemption-When the Empty Page Needs Just a Little More

Six months later, the note gnawed an uncomfortable hole in my psyche. “Dear Nancy, I haven’t heard from you in a while. I am reminding you that your deadline for the completed novel is December 31”. My editor had pressed upon me the urgency. She needed a manuscript in her hands by the end of the year. She had a quota to fill. "Oh yes!" said I. "Of course I can have it ready for you, no problem. Why it’s practically finished already." Lies, lies, lies! I tell such convincing lies. I even believe them myself!

The truth of the matter; my almost complete opus only needed an ending. For three months now that small thing eluded me. A writer has many tricks to avoid facing deadlines and other realities. One of mine is to stop changing the desk calendar. The date before my eyes consistently read November 1, for nearly two months. It’s a delusion, but much less threatening than the real date.

With my writing career in dire jeopardy, I needed to face facts or find a new job. I began by ripping off the pages of wasted time. “Goodbye Thanksgiving and farewell Christmas. It’s so nice to send you back where you belong.” I sang to the tune of “Hello Dolly” as I threw the past into a small waste basket. Papers overflowed the basket of trashed time. “Perhaps I should say a eulogy for those lost days. “November was such a lovely month spent in foggy day dreams. Too soon, December pushed her into oblivion and then met his own demise after cramming the third piece of mince pie down his gullet. Farewell to days gone by.”

Well, calendar, at least now you tell the truth; December 28. Oh the panic! Only two days left until my career comes crashing down. Oh no! Oh no!”

On the computer monitor those darn fish danced about the screen. I watched for a few minutes and then rubbing the mouse across its pad, I revived the desktop and clicked the game icon. I had already played four games of Solitaire before conscious thought returned.

“What am I doing?” I shouted at myself. With two days to meet this deadline, I’m sitting here playing Solitaire. I don’t even like Solitaire!”

Outside the window, melting icicles from the eaves of my roof dripped in a rhythmical beat as they pelted the ground below. “ Ah, a jazz piece; the melting ice rag; not an end to my novel, but a great jazz piece! How long does it take to become a composer?”

“Okay, reality check! It’s time look at this *&%* story. Maybe, inspiration will hit me. I didn’t really believe it but opened the story anyway. “Hmm, I guess I should reread this. Maybe I can figure it out.” So, once again, this would-be author sat hunched over the computer engrossed in text last worked on three months earlier.

Arriving at the final words, I thought, “Wow! Who wrote that that? It’s not half bad! Maybe I can finish this in time if I just focus. What would Maria do next, I wonder?”

“Why don’t you just ask me, loquita?”

"What? Who spoke? Is this the beginning of insanity? Now I’m talking to myself and answering too?"

“No, fool, it’s I, Maria, your protagonist. I’m ready to move on in my life. You’re holding me back. Please release me! I must continue!”

“Okay, I can play this game. Tell me then, what do you really want? You know that Alfredo is no good for you, yet you keep going back to him. What’s the matter with you? Why don’t you leave him for good this time?”

“My dear creator, give me a reason to leave him. Right now, I am nothing without him. What can you add to my life that will allow me an escape?”

“Well let’s review your life. You supported yourself and your daughter without help from that scumbag. That shows strength of character, no?”

“I washed other people’s clothing! I took in sewing. Can you even imagine how humiliating it was for me? An unwed mother outcast by her community, I left my village and found survival in Madrid. Yes, I did what I could to keep my daughter fed and warm. Alfredo makes beautiful babies, but he doesn’t give a damn about their welfare. I wonder how many more fatherless children wear his genetic stamp. But you, you created all this. It’s your fault the way my life worked out. This is our last chance. How do we resolve it? I will tell you this. Make me respectable or kill me. Even my daughter regards me with shame and wants nothing to do with me. This is what I ask you to fix. I need respect!”

“Wow, calm down. I didn’t realize how much bitterness you harbor. My dear creation, let me fix things for you. You’ve finished raising your daughter. Now you can focus on yourself. Together we will redeem your life. Tell me, what did you dream before Alfredo planted his seed within you? What did you hope for your life?”

“My dreams then were the dreams of a girl. I am a middle aged woman now. My foolish younger self wished to be an actress. People used to remark on my beauty; told me I should be on the stage where all could admire me. I don’t even know if I had the talent to pursue that nonsense, and what does it matter? Before my seventeenth birthday I held my daughter to my breast. From that time on, all dreams faded. What hope lies ahead for me now? Please tell me.”

After much consideration, an idea popped into my head. “I know what you need to do. The countess of Aragon needs a companion for her invalid daughter. You will present yourself to her. She will see the strength of a woman who has endured pain and survived. You will live in her palace and prosper. Your daughter will feel remorse, but I will let you decide whether or not to forgive her the pain she caused you. In time you will become a respected lady. Alfredo will never again cross your path. If you like, he could die an unpleasant death at the hands of a scorned lover. Perhaps, another man will capture your heart, but not in my book. If that interests you, look for him when my tale ends.”

As I spoke with Maria, my fingers flew across the computer keys. Occasionally, she voiced her opinions at my choice of words and situations. I didn’t stop to eat or sleep, only to pee. By the afternoon of December 30, I typed the final period in my novel, did a quick edit, and sent the completed work to my editor via email. Click, click, end of story! Wow! I did it. Time to celebrate!

From somewhere inside my head came an admonishing voice, “Hey Senora, thank you for my happy ending. Now, Lady Smug Face, please give me some credit for the help I gave you!”

I thought about her words while I trudged through the snow to "Mr. Espresso"; the relationship between a writer and her characters; hmmmm.

I arrived at the coffee shop where that dancing coffee cup beckoned me to enter while the sign on the door still reminded me to keep it closed. I left it open on purpose.

Before reaching the counter, I saw Lilly sitting in my favorite dark corner and went to her. She looked terrible. Her normally impeccable clothing appeared disheveled and her makeup looked caked. I greeted her.

She looked up without a smile. “The Ulka Gallery rejected my latest work. “Too derivative”, they said. I am a fraud. My work is worthless.” She stared into space avoiding my eyes.

I left her to order my latte. “Yes!” I thought to myself. “Life can be sweet!”

The Empty Page

So many distractions! Each time I sit down to type my novel, I find something to divert my attention. What is the matter with me? I promised myself that this time nothing would distract me from the goal. Sixteen hundred words a day until at last I had a draft. I wrote a synopsis, so I already know what’s going to happen. Now, I only need to sit down and focus. Why is that so hard? Here I am at the computer. I’ve looked at email, checked out my social network, filed my nails, and made two cups of tea. I’ve run out of distractions and still nothing.

A beautiful butterfly flutters by the window. Its wings, a transparent blue and white, open and shut seductively as it sits on a flower sipping nectar. Look at him, after gorging himself into a coma and spending weeks inside a crowded shell, he breaks free to fly through the air in festive dress looking for his mate. Then, poof, it’s all over. In some secluded spot on earth, he folds his wings for a last time and expires. I envy him. His life, so short, ends exquisitely. I am still waiting for my wings to form so I, too, can experience that moment of glory when life’s most profound purpose becomes clear to me.

Every day I perform this ritual. I come into my special room. I designed this space so that it reflects who I am. Pictures of my favorite writers hang on the wall looking down at me. They were supposed to be my cheerleaders. I don’t hear them cheering me on. Instead, they scowl in a most pretentious way. “You dare to include yourself in our illustrious company?” they sneer. "Why, you can’t hold a candle to us. We devoted our lives to our craft. We kept company with fellow writers, drank to our writing, immersed ourselves in the words of our craft. Yes, we proudly bear the name, writer. You, fraud, stop trying to don the sacred mantle of authorship by decorating a room with our likenesses. Where are your words? Words make you a writer. 
 You have none. We refuse to look at you. Imagine our eyes closed."

I won’t listen to those pompous fools. They can’t fool me with their bravado. I read their biographies. I know all about the drunken nights, the depressions and yes, even the suicides. No my friends, I am in very good company. We are cut from the same cloth, we writers who sit in seclusion trying to bridge a window into the world with our printed words. I know of your secret fears and the days on end when no words issued forth from your hands to paper. No, don’t try to fool me with your pomposity, you humbugs!

I shall go for a walk, and when I get back, I shall write non-stop for two hours. This caterpillar needs to emerge from the cocoon. It’s a lovely spring day. Sunlight will revive my spirits and inspire me to write. Look at all the tulips. What artist came to my town to paint? His box of colors must have slipped and covered all the gardens in town. Purple, pink, orange, white, red, yellow, and some multicolored ones; surround me and infuse my senses with their vibrancy. I want to paint my computer screen with words as lovely as these flowers which like butterflies, live each spring for only a few weeks. They leave behind the promise of return; au revoir, not goodbye.

It’s time to go back, but wait. The coffee shop where they make the best lattes is around the corner. A latte is just the ticket. The espresso will clear my head and infuse me with pep. Then I can go back to write. I quicken my pace so as not to waste time and arrive at the door to the shop. “Mr. Espresso” reads the sign which is printed on a smiling coffee cup that has arms and legs. I pull open the door that has a sign on it reminding me to keep the door closed. “I always do”, I thought. “There’s no need to remind me again and again”, but of course, the sign ignored me and continued to make its request.

The girl at the counter flirts outrageously with a thin young man who smiles back at her. I see that she flutters her eyes at him just as that butterfly fluttered his wings. Well, it is spring after all. Everything is doing the flutter dance; all except me!

I have to clear my throat three times before she interrupts her fluttering to take my order. I need to repeat my request for an extra shot because the young man is distracting her with his grin. When she hands me the latte, I decide to drink it here in the shop. I had debated whether or not to carry the drink back to my writing den but decided that I might as well stay here and drink it while it’s still hot. I eye an empty plush chair in a secluded corner. The owners of Mr. Espresso decorated their store with an odd array of mismatched upholstered chairs and sofas arranged to face each other in conversation groups. I manage to find the one lone chair and grab it. From here I sit and sip my coffee drink as I observe my fellow coffee sippers. In one set of seats a group of four women are chatting and giggling. They are all dressed in exercise clothing and look to be thirty something. I hear snippets of their conversations, “…husband…kids…she said…” Obviously these women are married house wives whose children are in school and whose hubbies are working at some job or other where they don’t quite make enough money to satisfy the ambitions of their wives.

Just then, I spot my friend Lilly at the counter. I know she is asking for a chocolate cappuccino with whipped cream. “Lilly,” I call out. She sees me and signals with a nod of her head that she will join me in a moment. Lilly is a beautiful woman. I am jealous of her tall slim body, the elegant way she pairs clothing pieces so that she resembles the models of a fashion magazine. Her voice is wispy and musical. People always have to lean in to listen to her, and they always want to hear what she has to say. Lilly has a way of making anyone in her presence feel important by the way she looks into their eyes while they speak as if no one else in the world exists in that moment. Everyone loves Lilly. I wish I were more like her.

Lilly drags over a chair and sits next to me. We chat. She is an artist, a painter. She tells me that she is preparing for an opening in a gallery. Her whole face sparkles as she excitedly tells me about it. And of course, she would love me to come to the opening. She’s expecting a large crowd. Humph! I guess she doesn’t suffer from painter’s block. Did I mention that I am insanely jealous of her?

Finally, she has to go and so do I. We hug and promise to call each other soon; I won’t; will she? I wait until she leaves Mr. Espresso before I too, leave. I amble slowly on the two block walk back to my house. Around me are traffic sounds, the whoosh of cars passing, horns honking, the rumble of trucks. As I turn away from Main Street, my eyes are treated once again to the tulips smiling up at the sun in a courtship ritual that will soon end.

I reach my house, climb the stairs, and return to the writing den. I left the computer on, and I see dancing fish, my screen saver, parading about the monitor. I watch them for a few minutes before dismissing them all with a click of the mouse. Well, here we are again!