PRESS RELEASE: COUNTRY SIZE, COUNTRY-CLUB FEEL
Seattle-based Boeing Company reported the sale Friday of three colossal custom jets of the new 777-77 Series.
Spokesperson Lee Whittock says they will surpass the 747 fleet outfitted for the Saudi Royal family and the 769 created for Oracle Executive Chairman, Larry Ellison.
The buzz centers on the addition of on-board golf and swimming.
Par Three Air-Golf with actual balls and real grass became a reality with the inclusion of two holes with hour-glass shaped greens at either end of a banana-shaped fairway inside the aircraft. Tail-ward, the pins are 100 yards left of the tee. Teeing off toward the nose, the flags are 110 yards to the right. The detachable belly of the plane allows the course to be watered, mowed and occasionally patched. Groundskeeper Julio Marquez thinks their course is the equal of any par-3’s on the ground. “The in-flight turbulence is an equal handicap to all but the veteran space traveler.” Says Marquez: “Those astronauts really know how to use gravity.”
She wanted help, the thin, jowl-eyed lady. Long pink scars scattered like brush strokes up her brown arms and onto bare shoulders. Her hair hung resignedly past her shoulders. Her lipstick was only approximately in position. She teetered on gold open-heeled shoes.
“Just give me a strong lock and chain; 3 feet of chain that can go around the door handle. My husband threw the other one away. And he broke the last lock I had, like, like it was made of candy. He gets so rough when he drinks. I need to lock the bedroom better. When he decides he wants me, he just comes and takes me. I need a better way to keep him out.”
Kevin sold her a Master lock 5D and three feet of ¼” proof-coil chain.
The next week, she wore a yellow tank top so much too large that both shoulder straps were in danger of slipping off simultaneously. Her barely concealed breasts looked like socks full of sand. She was brown so far down her front that Kevin speculated to Mike she must garden in the 3:00 PM sun, wearing just her red lipstick and nail polish.
She sought out Kevin again, this time as he was front-facing the picture hooks. “I need a lock and a solid hasp,” she said. “So I can sleep in peace tonight. He comes in the window and I never know which sounds are him forcing the latch. The window latches are just the cheap junk that came with the window.”
She bought another 5D lock and a good size hasp. Kevin asked her how she was going to fasten the eye of the hasp to the aluminum slider. “There’s a guy in the mobile home park who can do it, unless you want to,” she said. She cocked her head a little.
Kevin told her he didn’t do side jobs.
He couldn’t avoid the public while working retail, he had discovered. He imagined a membership card based on intelligence, good manners and good grooming. And maybe looks. Revocable.
Three days later, part-timer Carla said: “Kevin, your girlfriend is here.” Kevin looked up to see Lock Lady coming past the front counter dressed in a thin long-sleeve blouse and a black micro skirt. Her nails and lipstick were cherry red and her hair was in a bun with black lacquered sticks.
Kevin fled past the shelf bracket and curtain rod display to the back aisle to hide from her. Somebody else could help her.
“Is Kevin here?” she asked at the service desk.
“There he is,” said Mike, pointing and smiling.
Kevin, usually reserved, said: “Oh, my God.”
“Can you show me some locks that work with slide bolts,” she asked him. “I am going to need a long, thick slide bolt, and a big strong lock to keep it in place. It’s because of my husband,” she said. Kevin decided he would just focus on the sale; not let it bother him. If she wanted to waste time being paranoid, the store still got another sale out of it. He showed her the shelves of contractor grade security hardware and locks.
“That looks perfect,” she said.
Kevin bent over to note the model number on a cashier tag.
From behind him, her thin arm silently extended over Kevin’s shoulder as he knelt in front of the bottom shelf. Her hand reached into his open shirt collar. Her fingers dove into the curly brown hair of his chest and splashed and played in his hair for a few seconds like a dolphin in the bow wave of a cruise ship.
Kevin jumped and shook himself like he had a bee in his shirt.
“Just about the sexiest thing I have ever seen,” she said.
“What are you doing?” he asked, regaining his dignity a bit.
“I just had to touch it,” she said. “So silky!”
“Well, it makes me uncomfortable,” said Kevin, certain he did not have to tolerate this in the name of customer service.
“You don’t know how scary it is, feeling threatened by him all the time. When he gets drunk, he just takes me, whenever he wants. I can’t get any sleep, because I have to be ready to defend myself.” A single tear squeezed out of the corner of her eye.
“I don’t know,” said Kevin.
“You are so helpful, I’m going to tell the manager how much you’ve helped me,” she said. She seemed ready to embrace him, so Kevin stepped quickly back.
“Don’t have to do that,” said Kevin. “Good luck with that.” And he hurried to the next customer.
She bought the hardware.
Two weeks later, Debbie, a long-time colleague of Kevin’s, brought in a news clipping. “Isn’t this Lock Lady?” she asked him as she posted an obit picture by the time clock.
Libby Morrow died in a mobile home fire. She was found in bed, after a cigarette blazed up in her mattress during the night. The firemen had difficulty getting to her. Her unit had been securely bolted at the bedroom door, entry door and all windows.
“She lived in a fortress,” said a firefighter.
Kevin said nothing but the minimum for days.
The manager denied his request to switch to a branch of the store in a different region. Gradually the other employees forgot about Lock Lady and stopped teasing him.
Sometimes, when he stocked the padlocks, Kevin felt a gentle hand on the back of his head.
He didn’t pull away.
first published: Halfway Down the Stairs, June, 2013
About six years ago, a dark-haired, thirtyish man in a white T-shirt pushed an arresting young woman in a wheel chair up the main aisle of the hardware store. She had intense brown eyes, smooth tan skin like her companion, and exuberant, thick eyebrows.
He approached me. “Do you have a little time you can spend with my sister? Anna has a few questions.”
“Sure. What can I help with?” I said. I was grateful. I am a rover in the store, free to help almost anybody with pretty much anything, but especially a pretty girl.
The girl had the same shiny rich, black hair as her brother, shoulder length. Her upper body was brown and broad; her legs were in jeans, but Velcro-wrapped to the foot rests of the chair.
“Well, I hope you can help me with pulleys, because I have to invent some things. I can picture it, but I need help to get the pieces together.”
Her eyes were mirrors into which I didn’t dare look. “Okay. Anna, I’m Jerry. What are we building?” Continue reading
first pubbed ezine and podcast: 10-2011
He dumped you; hard. You decorated his smell out of the apartment.
Later, as you chased a rag up and down the new heron-leg stools and along the front of the Uba Tooba counter; as you polished the rubber plant; gave the prayer rug a shake; combed the sand on the end table with a tiny rake; artfully managed not to disturb the bonsai or knock the crystals from advantageous points in the high corners while you dusted;
the edge of the golden gong silently sliced your index finger. A smile of blood slowly formed. Impulsively, you wiped it on the flat brass face. Your missing peace settled on the apartment like warm rain. You struck the gong and your ears echoed the thin roar, shedding voices, dislodging hurtful jibes. You struck again.
You clean weekly, since then, but gong daily. A drop of blood keeps it real. The gong is the color of rich oxblood shoe leather. You see the good place you are in reflected in its face.
I’m Southern by adventurous inoculation. I left college in Chicago the first week of January as a White Seattleite with Mardi Gras on the brain. My friend and I got a lift from Farrell Haney in a rumbling Camaro convertible with Texas plates, and spent the first night away in a hotel in Kentucky. Pool was closed and covered with a thatch of brown leaves that stuck to us like fish scales: baptized as we swam a celebrating-being-free lap.
When Farrell disappeared with all our stuff in New Orleans, we tracked him to Homa, Not the Other Homer, where we got to look into the flashlights and down the barrels of the Sheriffs’ guns, in the process of getting our gear back. Continue reading
I think my Dad invented Thursday Night School so he could avoid reading the notes my mother left taped to the fridge.
Dad made Thursday nights out to be a big deal, the weekly seminar at our house; he prepared for it all week, looking statistics up on line and checking newspapers, but I’m the one who had to haul the empty brown bottles to the driveway, Fridays, and sweep up all the cigarette butts and left over pizza crusts. Once in a while, I had to wash out a waste can laced with curds of old puke and napkins.
He was teaching the course: Inebriate Verticology. He had a sign, too, on his office door in the boiler room of John Russell Middle School: “Dept. of Inebriate Verticology.” He’s head janitor. Continue reading