Blind Date

blinddateLife finally caught up with Rufus Wadwallow. Heretofore he had lived the life of a complacent bachelor, but his mother, Abilene Wadwallow, had finally decided that Rufus needed to be kicked out of her well-used nest and build one of his own. After all, he’d lived with his long-divorced mom for 29 years. It was enough, already. She now wanted a life of her own. Well, not precisely her own. Simply put, she’d got her eye fixed on Simon Peter Pickwick, the neighborhood butcher, and, let’s face it, his supply of prime beef, and I’m not necessarily talking only about chuck steak. She wanted a life with that old guy. True, both were past their prime, but between purchases of chuck short ribs and sirloin tips over the years, a spark between the two had finally burst into flame. And Abilene Wadwallow did not need Rufus underfoot to trample the fire. He had to go.

Although Abilene did not care much who Rufus might marry — just as long as he married somebody who was a female, reasonably tolerable, and not a harridan . . . and was finally out of her hair — she knew that if she waited for him to go shopping for a wife on his own, she may as well wait for hell to freeze over. A bit of motherly intervention and encouragement were in order . . . in other words, some push and shove and, if needs be, a hefty kick in the pants. It was high time to initiate some unexpected experiences into this boy’s busy schedule of connubial inertia.

For starters, a blind date.

Abilene knew thing or two about blind dates. Namely, she’d gained much experience by watching countless Chinese, Japanese, and Korean soap operas on TV (with English subtitles), where arranged marriages seemed to still be alive and thriving overseas. Obsessive Asian mothers were forever setting up blind dates for their sons and daughters for the purposes of marriage and the speedy generation of grandchildren whom they could thereafter spoil rotten in their old age. This antiquated custom seemed rooted in their genes . . . or at any rate in their teledrama genes. Abilene would not have tolerated it for a second in her own case, naturally, but these were desperate times. Which every schoolboy and girl knows require desperate measures. To be frank, if she were right this minute to have been asked to choose between her son and her butcher . . . well, while she loved her Rufus, Simon Pickwick would win hands down in a heartbeat. East Asia: 1; USA: Ø.

Abilene also had a sizable working list of available single women between the ages of 21 and 35. Some of these were the daughters and granddaughters of friends. Others were the daughters and granddaughters of acquaintances. Still others were the daughters and granddaughters of perfect strangers. Sisters, cousins, nieces, and even a select number of unmarried friends, no-longer-married moms, and soon-to-be spinster aunts (if they didn’t stop messing around) were also on the list. Abilene wanted Rufus married and out of the building in a bad way, and as such had become an equal opportunities procurer, so to speak.

Abilene was no dope. She knew that Rufus would probably balk if she came right out and confessed her plans. She had to use subterfuge, at least initially. Later she might have to resort to cajolery, coercion, blackmail, and beatings, but this would mean a greater output of energy. Better first to attempt simple deception. If he was off his guard, all well and good. If not, then she’d have to call out the big guns. See above.

Abilene knew that she had to work cautiously, and for a number of reasons. First, she had to consider her son’s tastes in women. Second, she had to consider prospective dates’ tastes in men, particularly in men like Rufus. Third, this had to be played out with a certain degree of finesse (stealth) on her part so that Rufus would not rebel against her interference or just because her motives to get him out from under her roof were not as pure as the white of freshly fallen snow. Fourth, she wanted that her efforts not end up in a marital disaster for her son and her future daughter-in-law for which they could point their respective accusative finger at afterward. Her own first marriage had not been exactly a Cinderella and Prince Charming tale, assuming of course that after Cinderella and Prince Charming had married, they lived happily ever after. Who’s to say how that story really turned out in the end? Then there was the matter of the evil stepsisters. No evil stepsisters. Not a single one. In any case, Abilene did not wish her first marriage on either Rufus or his bride-to-be. So they had to have at least some kind of compatibility so she would not feel racked with guilt for the rest of her life.

God! This matchmaking business was more complicated than she had anticipated! In the end, she threw up her hands and cried out to hell with caution. She got out her eligible women’s list, set it on the kitchen table, closed her eyes, turned around twice, sightlessly aimed and dropped her her right index finger . . . into a bowl of jam. Bad aim. This wouldn’t work at all. She next wrote out everybody’s names on separate slips of paper, tossed them into a salad bowl, shut her eyes again, and drew.

“Oh, my God!” she exclaimed. “Gretchen Mangjeol!”

Gretchen Mangjeol, a Korean-American — with perhaps a smattering of German, Abilene presumed — wasn’t exactly a dazzler, but she was by no means a dog either. Kind of somewhere in between. But that was okay, because Rufus was no George Clooney or Denzel Washington in their prime either. And Rufus had never expressed a proclivity for drop-dead beautiful women. Gretchen would do for looks. Mmm. The girl was also reasonably intelligent, good-natured, trusting, harmless, tidy, honest, and hospitable. At least, thought Abilene, that’s how she came across in public. One never knew what dark secrets lurked under the veneer. On the plus side, she was of Korean descent. No doubt if those k-dramas were any indication, her own mother would be more than eager to see the girl married before she turned thirty.

Abilene nodded now with satisfaction. “She’ll definitely do.” She then turned her eyes toward the ceiling. “God forgive me if this is so, so wrong, but may this be a match made in heaven.”

The next thing was to figure out how to get the two united. Abilene mulled it over for a moment, then looked skyward again. “Any tips up there how I put these two lovebirds together?” She waited. “Right. I’m on my own for this one.”

She sighed, just as Rufus entered the kitchen, finally awakened from the dead and scratching his head with one hand, his tummy with the other. She glanced up at the kitchen clock and frowned.

“Morning, Mom,” he said sleepily, glancing then at the paper-filled salad bowl on the table. “I hope that’s not what we’re having for breakfast.”

Wide-eyed with alarm, and surprised that Rufus was even there, Abilene swept the incriminating evidence away and scooped her telltale nefariousness into the waste basket.

“Sorry, son. Nothing but cereal again this morning. My, you’re up early today.”

“It’s nine a.m., Mom.”

“I was being sarcastic.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Weren’t you supposed to be at work an hour ago?”

“Mm-hm. Normally, yes, but the boss gave everybody the next two days off so that the exterminators could get rid of the office vermin that have infested the whole building, without gassing the employees as well.”

“That was thoughtful of her. You’ve got vermin at work?”

“Eight-legged, six-legged, four-legged, and also a few two-legged.” He grinned at his joke. “The two-legged ones are the hardest to get rid of, though.”

Abilene nodded with a knowing chuckle. “That they are, that they are.”

In that instant a lightning flash of inspiration illuminated both her brain and her face. Could this be divine intervention? Maybe God was hard at work on her behalf after all.

“Listen, Ruf, I’ve got a couple of phone calls to make. I’ve already eaten, so fix yourself whatever you like. As long as it’s cereal.”

Abilene mentally rubbed her hands together and exited stage left. Out of earshot, she seized her cell phone and started punching buttons.

“Hi, Gretchen?” she said. “How would you like to help make an old woman’s most cherished dreams come true?”

Four hours later, Rufus Wadwallow found himself sitting across from a bespectacled young lady of Asian visage he’d never set eyes on before, at a table in a local Korean restaurant he’d never been to before, called Meogja, which turned out to mean ‘Let’s Eat’ in Korean.

“It’s a subterfuge,” she said pleasantly, after he’d explained that his mother had been suddenly called away to an unexpected emergency but had been unable to contact her to cancel their luncheon engagement.

Rufus blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“A subterfuge. Your mom set you up.”

“What do you mean?”

“This is supposed to be a blind date. Your mother set you up.”

Rufus was astonished. “A blind date . . . a blind date!?  Why would she do that?”

“Because that’s what mothers do when they want their children married and out of their hair.”

“They do?”

“All the time. Trust me. My own mom is at the top of the list of schemers. She’s been working on me for ages to get married. I’ve been on more mom-arranged dates than you can shake a stick at. I’m sick to death of them. I would have flat-out declined your mother’s ploy, but I accepted out of pity for you, just to do you a favor so you’ll be on your toes in the future.”

“Wow! I am stunned. My own mother.”

“Yep. That’s how they are. And once you go home and tell her that I’m not the girl of your dreams and to mind her own business, she won’t stop. She’ll be cagey and try again and again. Then she’ll get downright aggressive. It’s a war of attrition. I know this from first-hand experience. They are unrelenting. They won’t let up until you either acquiesce out of sheer exhaustion, or you move to a different country under an assumed name.”

“This is absolutely amazing.”

“I know. So, let’s eat.”


“Let’s eat. Your mom’s paying for this. We may as well make the most of it. I’m famished.”

Rufus stared at the girl goggle-eyed for a moment. She adjusted her glasses, which had slipped down her nose, and smiled conspiratorially.

“Are you familiar with Korean food?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“Okay, why don’t you let me order then? Otherwise we’ll be here all day while you try to figure out what the heck bulgogi, bibimbap, galbi, deun shim, kimchee jigae, udon, sam gyup sal, ojinguh bokkum, and jajangmyeon are supposed to be. Oh, by the way, a lot of Korean foods are spicy. Do you have any preferences? Any restrictions? Beef? Pork? Fish? Chicken? Or are you vegetarian?”

“Uh, medium spicy, no restrictions . . . omnivore.”

“Good. Me too. Okay if I order what I like for the both of us?”

Rufus nodded dumbly. “Please.”

“I promise it won’t be too bizarre, and who knows, you might even like some of it.”

He did. They were married in the fall.

“Thank you, God,” breathed Abilene Wadwallow . . . soon to be Mrs. Abilene Pickwick.

Steve Pulley
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Tied Up in Knots

tiedupinknotsMaggie Inselwood was not metaphorically tied up in knots that morning. Quite literally — screw the metaphors — she was tied up in knots. Well, to be more precise, tied up in straps. Thugs of unknown origin had done this — broken into her apartment, seized her whilst in languorous slumber, the bastards, stuffed one of those red plastic ball gags in her mouth that seem to be all the rage in kinky bondage flicks, and cinched her up in straps like some crate to be shipped off to Bangladesh like an over-sized CARE package. Only they didn’t ship her off to Bangladesh. Instead, they carted her off to her own living room sofa and set her down so she could watch them ransack her apartment.

Once muted, cinched, and deposited, Maggie made no effort to struggle or protest. Struggle and protest were no longer options, in any case. Instead she used her captivity to study the brutes while they cleaned out the place. In a way, they were rather clever brutes, she concluded. There were six of them, all dressed up in furniture mover duds — with an Acme World Transport logo silkscreened onto both the front and back of their white overalls. They did not bother wearing masks or similar disguises. There was really no need. They simply looked like every-day, husky, run-of-the-mill laborers that you see, well, every day, lugging people’s appliances and belongings from one address to another. Maggie realized with a certain amount of begrudged admiration that she would never be able to identify these men were she asked to down at police headquarters, mainly because they were so nondescript. None had distinguishing scars, tattoos, cauliflower ears, broken noses, body rings or studs, or other marks or bling that she could pinpoint. Even their voices were nondescript. She even doubted she would be able to recognize them in one of those police mug shot collections, or whatever you call those picture books with endless pages of suspects and convicted felons. Obviously, they had been carefully selected. Whoever was running the operation was no dope.

These guys, other than quickly subduing her, had in no way mistreated her. In fact, they were uncharacteristically polite, almost apologetic. From time to time one or another — she could barely tell them apart — would check on her and ask if she was okay and assure her that they would be out of her hair soon and she could get on with her life normally . . . sans furniture, appliances, and accoutrements, of course. Except for during their initial abrupt arrival, she found herself not feeling excessively apprehensive of these men.

As her household swiftly disappeared through the front door, almost like she imagined stars swallowed through a black hole, Maggie at first bewailed her loss — as much as she could with a gag in her mouth. It seemed as though her entire life was also vanishing. Everything — at least everything inorganic for the most part — that she had acquired, amassed, hoarded, saved over years and decades that meant anything to her was on its way out. It was as though she were dying, and all her worldly goods no longer amounted to a hill of beans anymore, and so they were now passing on to other hands.

The last piece of furniture to be removed was the sofa she’d been sitting. They sat her on the floor and hauled that away as well. When they had finished, two of them loosened her straps just enough that it would take her several minutes to work her way out of them. By that time they would be long gone. They also left the gag in her mouth — “a memento”, they said with a grin — which she could take out and scream bloody murder only after she’d extricated herself from her bonds. Of course, by then there would be no point in screaming bloody murder. They told her that they were leaving her land line and cell phone, but both had been hidden in one of her closets to further delay her from calling the cops. They also declined to make off with her computer, her photo albums, and her credit cards. They weren’t monsters, after all. And then they all lined up in front of her briefly, gave her a nod, and thanked her kindly for her patronage and cooperation. She rolled her eyes, shrugged, and nodded back. And on that note they were gone, closing the door gently behind them.

When Maggie Inselwood had finally extricated herself from her constraints fifteen minutes later, she remained on the floor for a time, shaking her head in dismay. She glanced around to observe the emptiness of her apartment. Well, at least they didn’t take the carpet, she said to herself, then allowed a sardonic chuckle. She made no move to find her phone, to call the police. What was the rush now? She wanted to collect her thoughts first, to savor for a moment what she discerned in a curious way as her death to nearly all of her earthly possessions. It almost seemed a dress rehearsal to the real deal. And to her astonishment she found herself detached from all her anticipated gnashing of teeth, tearing of hair, rending of clothes, and weeping and wailing. Why was that?

What was it that one of her captors had remarked?

“Lady, trust me. I’ve been in this business a lot of years, and I can see that you aren’t the type who’s going to miss a thing.”

And he was right! How could he have known? How could she have known? She felt a distinct sensation of release. She now knew that when she did finally die, it would be like this. Release! She almost wished now that they’d taken her phones, computer, photo albums, and credit cards as well. Even her hair brush. Did they take that as well? Ye gods, what would the police think!

At last she struggled to her feet, sighing, and made her way to the balcony glass door on opposite side of her living room, slid it open, and peered down at the street three stories below. Of course, her home invaders had long gone.

Still, she took a deep breath and shouted at the top of her lungs, “Have a great day, guys!”

Steve Pulley
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yesterdaytodaytomorrowOutside my apartment there grows a flowering shrub. Its common name, yesterday-today-and-tomorrow, may seem long and perhaps a bit pretentious, but it is certainly more descriptive than its scientific name, Brunfelsia pauciflora, of the nightshade family. Its name reflects the color of its flowers: purple or blue-purple, lavender, and white. Its name describes the ages of its sweet-scented flowers. When they first burst forth, they appear a splendorous purple or violet or deep blue, depending on the variety. As they mature, they become progressively lighter, and before they finally expire and drop away, they have transformed to a hoary white, with a little yellowing along the fringes. The flowers are small, profuse adornments that grace a hearty, green-leafed shrub whose seeds and berries prove to be toxic if eaten.

This may be a stretch, but as I see it, yesterday-today-and-tomorrows are as close as a plant can get to being human.

I find I cannot resist stopping to gaze at the shrub with a certain degree of awe at its simple beauty each time I step outside and pass by. If I have a camera in my pocket, more often than not I’ll feel the irresistible urge to snap off a picture or two. And if I’ve left the camera inside, the temptation to dash back inside to fetch it is almost overwhelming.

Yesterday-today-and-tomorrow, for reasons I don’t quite understand, seems to be the vegetable world’s image of myself. Vain, surely, but also fascinating and unsettling, it conjures up something within me, a vision of my life from a seed, a pregnant berry, bursting into a brilliant flower that excites the imagination of its potential, then its softer maturation, and finally to a wizened, frail, white-haired old man, with withered edges, and then death. But not death. For in the end, as the blossom falls to the ground and disintegrates, there lies fallow a new seed, a legacy for the future — potentially toxic, potentially a thing of fragrant beauty if allowed to flower.

Steve Pulley
Posted in Comments and Asides | 2 Comments

What Whispers Your Name in the Night?

“Ste-e-phen . . .”

At half slumber, I reckon a telltale teakettle whistling in the kitchen. The sound hisses softly from afar, a suspired zephyr through a crack in my bedroom door.

“Ste-e-phen . . . ,” it whispers with gentle, unremorseful insistence.

I listen, semi-conscious, my mind tugging back to a dream that I half imagine contains the guarded secrets within the corridors of time that enwrap my entire life from birth to now, perhaps all the way to the end.

Where is that special place within
That quiet space where all the noise without cannot penetrate
Wherein my soul may contemplate
Without distraction?

“Ste-e-phen . . . ,” it persists.

“What? What?” I mumble miffed as the dream recedes, dissipates only half-told, even that soon to be forgotten.

A brief silence, and then . . .

“What have you done with your life, Stephen?” it replies.

Steve Pulley
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Ghosts of Memory

ghostsofmemoryGhosts of memory ebb and flow through her mind like wispy fog in a breeze, but so swiftly they waft by that she has difficulty holding onto them long enough to peruse their worth. She still maintains just enough of her marbles, as she calls them, to know what is happening, but she feels what little are left slipping away piecemeal and she no longer commands the show. For her it is now like watching scenery roll by while riding in a car meandering aimlessly through the countryside. Here it comes, there it is, there it goes. And whoever chauffeurs the car declines to pull over to the side of the road long enough for one to get out and stretch, sniff the air, relish the scenery, pee, and shoot a photo or two.

She wants her ghosts to stick around long enough to remember that they are more than ghosts. They are precious bits and pieces of her life come to pay tribute or chide her or remind her, “Hey, we did this together. How ’bout that!”

She lives alone now. Everybody who’d mattered to her has died, moved away, or become estranged. She misses her husband, but only now and then when his ghost flits by to remind her that she’d been married to him for forty years. Her current neighbors, for the most part friendly, though in an impersonal, slightly condescending way, do not nurture friendships. Who wants to feel somehow obligated to an old woman obviously going senile? She does not begrudge them. She can sometimes remember that she had been the same way when younger. And in any case, she feels no attachment to these people; why should they for her? Her bungalow, always warm, neat and appealing, has begun to harbor cobwebs, forgotten dust in corners, a bit of grime here and there, that her failing sight now ignores along with her memory and a small, tentative growing array of six- and eight-legged creatures on the prowl.

She misses her family and old friends when she can remember them — even a few enemies, if that’s what they were. They no longer stay fixed in her can of memories, but float in and out as wayfaring phantasms, the flotsam and jetsam of some sea disaster. When she sees them, she delights, but they visit only a few fleeting seconds, a minute or two at most, and then move back into the fog bank, leaving her vaguely wistful and nostalgic. She would cry sometimes, but then forget why.

She knows it’s dementia — her mother went through it — but for how long will even this awareness remain? It occurs to her that she might waste away without anybody knowing, until her festering corpse finally makes itself redolently known. She wonders if it might be better for her just to sit out on the porch for the end and wait for the postman to notice. The idea briefly tickles her and she grins. But then she thinks she just might expire on a Sunday or some holiday, and it would be the feral cats instead who would first discover her. She shivers, fights back tears, but again her old sense of humor kicks in, and this time she laughs. Though it now sounds to her a bit more like a cackle.

The thought of the front porch appeals to her, and she decides to go out there immediately before the notion passes her by. Once she’s seated on one of a pair of white, molded-plastic chairs, the other being her where late husband had slouched for years, she recollects their late afternoons together there. They followed the birds — scrub jays, mockingbirds, sparrows, crows, humming birds, even parrots — as these flew over and around, perched on trees, or set about to forage for their favorite morsels. Oh, and the occasional neighborhood feline, as well, of course, foraging for its favorite avian morsel. Sometimes old neighbors — now all dead, ailing, or more senile than she — used to stop by while walking their dog around the block to say hello, gossip, shoot the breeze a bit, before continuing their perambulations. She and her husband would sit there for an hour, each with their respective mug of coffee — hers black, his with half-and-half — enjoy small talk, the flora and the fauna, and watch airliners descend in the distance as these flying behemoths made their final approach to LAX, nearly 30 miles away. The irony of it — if indeed it can be called irony — was that the planes flew directly over their burial plots at Rose Hills. Here will lie one day your moldering bones, they seemed to taunt.

Moments later her Aunt Agnes drops by unexpectedly to visit. And it is a good one — a jolly good one, you might say, for the old woman, after all, is Lancashire-born and still harbors a nasal Liverpool twang.

Only later does she remember that Aunt Agnes has been dead now a half century.

Steve Pulley
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Beauty Is in the Crackpots

beautyisinthecrackpotsI lie here in bed, clothed in sweats, head wrapped in a flea-bitten woolen cap that has been with me to three countries, looking — and feeling! — like an amorphous lump of left-over gray lava with appendages, awaiting sleep. A friend, to allay my insomnia, has given me three tea bags of a ghastly herbal glop bearing chopped up, powdered substances that smack of what the three witches in The Scottish Play stirred into their boiling cauldron to produce prophecies of doom to the kingdom. Everything but “eye of newt and root of hemlock digg’d i’ the dark.” But all organic, by God! All organic!

I roll to my right and squint at my clock. It reads 1:15 in the wee hours of the night. On the far side of my bedroom, on the other side of the wall, I hear my next door neighbor shuffle into our common laundry room and drop four quarters into the dryer. Then erupts the mechanical rumble-tumble of wet baby diapers going through hell and back to be renewed for yet another day. I dare not bang on the wall. She’s in the National Guard, for god sake. She could easily snap me like a dry twig if she were so inclined. Besides, she once thanked me for my service of a half century ago in our Armed Forces. How can a raggedy veteran possibly chide someone after that? And poor thing must be dead tired herself. I hear a door close, the shuffle of receding footsteps. The diapers rotate round and round their appointed route to Xerotes. But really: Who on earth dries clothes at 1:15 in the morning!

All right, all right. No grousing or I’ll never find sleep. Think positive. Put a new spin on it. Call it soothing Maytag white noise. Now add that phenomenal breathing exercise that has all Facebook astir, guaranteed to put you out in one minute flat. Inhale through nose to the count of four; hold breath to the count of seven; exhale through mouth to the count of eight. Four . . . seven . . . eight. Four . . . seven . . . eight. Wait! I’m only good for a six-count on the intake! Should I count faster, or is that cheating? Try again.

Suddenly there’s no dryer noise. I open my eyes. But, soft! what light breaks through yonder window blinds! My God! It’s morning!

Steve Pulley
Posted in Anecdotes | 2 Comments

How Has Your Life Unfolded?

howhasyourlifeunfolded“How has your life unfolded?” she asks.

I look up, surprised. “My life? What do you mean?”

The waitress, whose name is Emily Dickenson — that’s right — smiles her customary warm smile as she pours my coffee.

“Half-and-half? Sugar?”

“Both, thanks, Em,” I say, and return the smile.

She spoons out one sugar into the mug, raises her eyebrows slightly. I raise a hand. She nods, sets the spoon down, then pours in the cream.

“That’s good,” I say, stopping her.

This exchange is merely our little morning ritual. She already knows how I like my coffee. I’m not new to this diner.

“The usual?” she asks, continuing. She refers to what I usually order for breakfast: two fried eggs, over easy; two slices of bacon, lightly crispy; hash browns; toast and marmalade. There are other things I also order — waffles, breakfast sausages, oatmeal, danish, that sort of thing — but this morning it’s “the usual.”


She flashes her grin and retires. I’m intrigued by her question, and now she’s left me hanging. She’s never asked me that one before. We’ve known one another for a few years — three or four. Sort of as friends, but not exactly as friends-friends. More like patron and waitress friends, small-time business associates — buyer/vendor — who’ve over time transformed from acquaintances to comrades of culinary circumstance, you might say, who now can feel comfortable and informal with one another, but not to the point of sharing intimacies or dark secrets.

Which is why her question startles me. Our conversations usually revolve around weather, the news, food, family, radio and TV programs, traffic jams, aches and pains, jobs.

She returns with my breakfast, sets it on the table, then sits down across from me with a mug of her own. She doesn’t have to ask. There are no customers at the moment needing service, so it is not unusual that she takes a load off to chew the fat for a few minutes until somebody shows up looking hungry. She doesn’t say anything for a moment, allowing me to dig into the food before it gets cold. She waits until I speak first.

“Now, this is what I call a breakfast!” I exclaim with open admiration, not for the first time. “How does Frankie do it? That kid is amazing!”

Emily laughs. Frankie is the diner’s short-order chef, a young man of superlative cooking talent. It’s a wonder he hasn’t let himself be spirited away by one of the town’s ritzier eateries.

“That he is,” she replies, face lighting with pride. Frankie is also her son.

I set my fork down at last and stare at Emily. “Okay, Em, what’s with the question?”

She bobs her eyebrows and smiles. “Surprised you, didn’t I?”

“Frankly, yes. It’s a first.”

“Okay, I admit it’s presumptuous and not exactly something I’d normally ask my customers or even most of my friends.”

“Then what possessed you?” I tease, picking up a slice of bacon between two fingers and setting to work on it.

“My writing class.”

“Writing class?”

“Yeah. You know me, typical waitress out to write the Great American Novel, works on it in between stuffing the starving masses and doing the laundry at home.”

“Really?” I exclaim. This is an aspect of Emily I have not known before. I am impressed.

“Yep. So, here’s the deal: I attend a weekly writing workshop here in town, which this delightful lady from Boston, don’t ya know, teaches over at La Picaresca Library. There’s a whole passel of writers attending, each one oozing talent and wanting to develop it. We’re a motley crew, believe me, which makes it all the more exciting.”

Bacon dispatched, I wipe my greasy fingers on a napkin, retrieve the fork, and in go a mouthful of hash browns. “I’m all ears,” I say . . . or try to. With food, it sounds more like “Ahm’lleers.”

“Okay. So, each week we read writing exercises we’ve concocted from prompts that our teacher has proposed. She then encourages us and suggests ways how we might improve on what we’ve written. She also quotes from other established writers, both the dead ones and the contemporary, talks about elements in writing that we ought to work with to strengthen our skills, and gives us timed free-write exercises to spit out whatever comes to mind. That part scares the bejeebies out of me, but at the same time energizes me. Bejeebies still trumps the other, though.”

I chuckle. “And?”

“And? Oh! You mean the question, how has your life unfolded? Well, it’s one of the prompts she’s given us to write about this week.”

“Ahh! Interesting. And thought-provoking. Mm. But wait. Why are you asking me? Isn’t it you who’re supposed to answer?”

“Oh, I’ve already written my piece. I’m just curious now how your life has unfolded.”

“Oh, you are, are you?”

She nods. “Uh-huh.”

I set down my fork, wipe breakfast remnants from my lips with casual abandon, give Em a paused, thoughtful stare, and finally grin.

“Dream on, sister,” I reply.

Steve Pulley
Posted in Stories | 4 Comments