RESTARTING - AGAIN (a poem)

RESTARTING - AGAIN

2010 Don Winfield

A grim future was but a fable

Of another person’s life.

Now it’s come to the table

Sure as the kids and wife.

Yesterday seemed like a window

Where man was his own master

It became a surreal doorway

Open on the path to disaster.

Madoff took a lot of dreams

Ground them to pieces small

GM lost the auto brands

And Wall Street took the call.

Good news from Obama

We’re good to go it seems

They’ve finally found Osama

But only in their dreams

If we all stick together

Hold each other to stay warm

The welfare line seems cozy

No work but what’s the harm?

Another year is dawning

Resurgence is on the way

Two thousand ten is waning

New lives for all, they say.

A GUEST CONTRIBUTION

Today's short story is a special one. This unedited short is from an old friend of mine who currently is nurturing orchids in Brazil. Mel is deservedly living the good life with his lovely Brazilian wife. I'm sure you will enjoy this story. I know it will make you think, and possibly it will invoke thoughts of some unique occurrence in your own life. Enjoy!

The Wedding Guest
by Mel Chaplin

He watched her as she turned.
She and her buddy moving off into the distance.
He just stood there.
Reflecting and absorbing the conversation, like a dream that had just transpired.

A woman and a man in their mid-40's approached him.
Holding hands and smiling.
Short. Chubby. Dressed in black suits. Wearing black wigs.
Here, at Amy's wedding, where he thought he would know no one.

She had simply said, "Hello, you are Mel Chaplin, aren't you? You may not remember me!
You were responsible for giving me the most exciting adventure of my life".

...the MOST exciting adventure of my life.
Now that was an interesting opening statement
said even in the presence of this little chubby man,
who he thought must be her husband.

Yes. He took them both in with his eyes and mind.
They were definitely a couple.
The kind of couple that seem to grow to resemble each other, as some couples do over time.
In fact, maybe they do resemble each other right from their first meeting and that's what draws them to each other.

And he returned to the conversation which was just taking place in this lobby next to the Louis XV reproduction table flowing with flowers and candles and half empty glasses of champagne.

She gave her name maiden name and introduced her husband.
She's right.
He did not remember her.
He was looking at her after she had made this amazing confession and wondering,
Who is this woman and where is this conversation going?
He composed himself. Smiled.
And responded. "Oh, Really?"

She had seen him at one of the tables.
He was with a group of people, but also alone.
How long had it been?
He had aged. Gray, Balding and bearded but still...she knew him instantly.
His face was also a bit worn, with a straightforward-look-in-your-eye pride.
His aura was unmistakably recognizable. Still the same features.
This was the countenance of the young man she had spent hours thinking about... starting when?
Over 30 years ago.
And if the truth were known, yes, even now into the present.
Wondering... what had happened to...
Wondering... what if she had only...
And there he was.
In this room.
At this wedding reception.

Was he alone?
What events had shaped his life?
In fact, at this moment in his life, who was he...really?

Did he need to know about the memories that he had provided her?
Did he need to know that over the years those memories had given her spiritual being
wings to endure those humdrum moments, those realities, which comprised her life?
Did he need to know that she still returned to the thrill of that night,
that place, as her greatest moment of adventure?

She watched him throughout dinner, unobtrusively of course.
He looked dapper.
Suspenders.
A charming little bow tie.
Cufflinks shimmering and bouncing light.
Tortoise shell glasses.
Ruddy cheeks.
A cultivated look.
A statement.

He smiled and laughed and spoke with people at the table.
He looked around the room.
He looked at her.
But when he looked at her it was the same look he had when taking in the wooden trim on the door, or the way the rays of light were dispersed from the chandelier. And the way he visually absorbed most people in the room who took his interest.
Taking them in while his mind was elsewhere.
She saw that when he looked at her.
She saw that as she watched him looking at others and his surroundings.

Was he married?
Where was his mate?
Did he have a partner?
What had happened to him during those three decades?
Would she ever know?
In fact, what did she really know about him at all?

He had wandered into the lobby, looking around at the pseudo-artwork hung on the walls, statues mounted in prominent locations and a large bowl of flowers on the table in the center of the room.

She thought... he should know how important the memories he had provided her with had been to her, to her entire life...since that one night.
She also thought that this moment of contact, even if it were just for a few moments,
would allow her to measure her memories against reality.
She felt comfortably that she could do this now.
She needed to hear the cadence and timbre of his voice for more than just a few seconds.
For longer than the few seconds she had heard his youthful speech. The only time she had heard him speak..
She knew she needed to see his facial and physical response to her confession.
She knew this was childish. She knew the confession would more than likely have no meaning for him whatsoever...
She knew he would walk away and never give that night...her memories...this confession...one other thought.

But she also knew she was here, hand in hand with her husband, Mr and Mrs "X".
While he was alone.
If she didn't catch her breath and allow this moment to happen...make this moment happen...there would never be an opportunity again.
Yes, she thought.

Yes she responded.

Her mind returned to those memories of over younger days and she wasn't even nervous for one second, as she thought she would be.
Her speech just flowed as she recreated that night.

"You lived on Stenton Ave. right near the drug store. My girlfriends and I walked to that drug store every night in the summer. When was it? I was 15. It must have been '62 or '63. After we got the soda at the Deli, we shuffled through the magazines at the drug store and we left. We killed time. We crossed the street and there was your house. That was part of the planned route. Your motorcycle was parked outside. It was beautiful. Shinny silver and black, big and totally out of place in 'our' neighborhood. We would just stand there and stare at it and wonder about who owned it and where the owner was and make up stories and giggle."

"We know this motorcycle was very well taken care of...the kind no one had better even touch. And we didn't. Until that summer's day...on a dare. I walked up to it. I touched the leather seat, it was not as I expected, it was firm. How do I mount it. I rested my foot on the rubber peg. swung the other leg over and there I was perched upon it."

"A second later you came out the door.
I slid off the seat and expected you to be upset.
Instead, you just said, wanna go for a ride?"

"Go for a ride? Wow!
The idea of really riding on a motor cycle was about as real for me as going to the moon. And about as scary. But my girlfriends were all standing there waiting for my response. You had just asked the question any one of us had dreamed you would ask but you asked me.
My head throbbed.
My heart pounded.
The sweat beads gathered on my eyebrows.
I could feel my thigh tremor but the only possible response was , "sure!".
You got onto the bike.
Fiddled with some controls, and with a few deft kicks the engine roared into life.
You gave me a helmet and I got on behind you.
I sat hugging your chest.
Scarred to death."

"Out onto Stenton Avenue we headed. Dust and wind stung my face. I held on tightly, with sweaty hands. We turned onto a winding road and as the bike tilted from right to left going thru the turns I felt a thrill and fear, I've never known since.Ten minutes later we were back to the corner of Stenton & Durard."

"What happened afterwards?" Hubby wanted to hear more - maybe.
"Nothing", she responded.
"My friends were on the patio, where you parked the bike, waiting for me when we returned.
I got off the bike. You got off the bike. We all said good bye and that was it!"

He looked at her and she thought she heard him wonder...why didn't you come back for more?

"We continued to walk to the drug store and then across the street past your house, the parking lot, your motorcycle...every night for the rest of the summer.
I never saw you again.
Then you moved and I went away to college...
And I still always think about that ride every time I see a motorcycle actually lots of times."

"Hmmm...You're right I don't recall that, but I've got a poor memory.
But I'm sure it happened. I'm glad that evening was able to provide you with so much excitement and memories over the years. Thanks for sharing that ."

They walked away.
She didn't know him one bit more than she did before she shared this filled with meaning and emotional confession of her life. But sharing it had been easier than she had thought.
And now she was...she was... liberated from herself.

He watched their chubby short bodies diminish as they waddled away.
He once again became absorbed in the sounds and sights of the people the movement in the room and the dynamics of the interactions. Chatting amicably with other strangers

Mr and Mrs "X", they were out of his space. And he reflected.

Yes, he remembered.
Maybe not her specifically...but the general feeling.
Asking a girl to go for a ride on a motorcycle..
Smelling the robust scents of summer of the city...
Of summer...on bare skin.
Sensing the changes of temperature as day turns into dusk and pockets of cold air surprise you,
even on the hot nights.
The sensation of the power of the machine becomes a part of you with a twist of the throttle.
The oneness with the landscape as it hurtles by.
Feeling the tightening of her bare arms around your firm stomach.
Feeling your chest tighten.
Feeling your groins dig into the bike.
Feeling the balls of your feet push into the pedals.
Feeling the softness of her breasts
and the firmness of her young nipples pushing into your back.
Feeling her warm breath on your neck.
Feeling the wind sting your face.
Moving forward and fast.

Peanut Brittle Run

In line at the neighborhood Eckerd's Pharmacy, things were getting a little tense. The 'church lady' looking woman being served at the register was there for the long haul. She made her third request for the cashier to go check a price, run down some Aspirin, or sort through the available stamps for just the right picture, when the gentleman three spots behind me cleared his throat. "B-itch", he hacked! The other five of us in the line glanced quickly in his direction, and most gave him an approving nod. I was late as usual for my Monday afternoon guitar lesson, and getting a bit antsy, myself. Just behind me, a little old lady in a brown knit cardigan and a matching knit beanie with two frolicking puppies embroidered on it, poked me in the back. I half turned toward her with a raised eyebrow. I couldn't wait to hear what she had to say about the unhurried shopper ahead of me.
"I'm going to pretend to faint", she whispered. "Catch me, and in the confusion the man behind me can push that woman out of the way".
That made me laugh right out loud. I thought I was the only one who got cranky when someone did their year's worth of business at the only open register with a long line behind them.
I shook my head 'no', and offered a suggestion. Turning toward the line which was now nine shoppers long, I said. "Listen folks, it looks like it's going to be a little while longer. The shopper ahead of me has just noticed that five of her items that are not marked correctly. How about we have a rousing sing along?"
That broke the ice. At least four shoppers wanted to sing songs. One suggested "Bringing In the Sheaves". Another thought that "Koumbyah" was appropriate, while two others wanted to sing sad songs of death and destruction. One guy just swore. We finally settled on "Margaritaville", a song everyone knew. After a verse of two of that, we had attracted a crowd of wide-eyed employees and shoppers. Most importantly, it accelerated the time it took the 'church lady' to decide she didn't need the disputed items. She paid and left the store.
The cashier thanked us profusely and the gathered employees and shoppers applauded vigorously.
I paid for the two boxes of peanut brittle I'd picked up, and went to my lesson.
It just goes to show you. Sometimes you can turn a bad situation around if you can only look at it from another point of view.

A PIRATE'S CHRISTMAS

Pirates say “yo, ho, and a bottle of rum”

What’s a Pirate to sing when Christmas is come?

Ye rattle yer sword and jingle yer bell

Deck all the decks and wish 'em to hell

Yer cohorts and mates are welcome to beer.

The rest of 'em dogs ain't getting' no cheer.

No grog, no grub, and no drinkin' rum.

These pirates 'll not, no never feed scum!

We'll show 'em the 'cat'! Walk ‘em into the sea

Grab our booty ya will? No quarter for ye!

Pirates sing “yo, ho, and a bottle of rum”

Time to dance on the deck. Christmas is come!

So sing “Jingle Bells” and “Oh Holy Night”.

Keep yer pint of rum in yer hand real right.

It's Christmas under the bones and the skull,

Honor yer mates at the Holiday lull.

Now we'll sail away in this ship of wood,

The gov'ner 'll catch us if his headin' is good.

We'll binge and frolic in much warmer climes,

No more plunderin', pirates. It's Christmas time!

by Juan da Pyrate

The Game

The Connecticut Committee met Thursday evening. They decided that immediate action was necessary. Barbara O'Reilly caught the next plane to Australia. A week later, she was still in Sydney, lunching al fresco at the Bondi Trattoria Café on Campbell Parade.

People moved along the sidewalk toward Bondi Beach or heading back downtown. Few took notice of the tall, well dressed brunette having a seafood salad in the open air. Barbara watched each pedestrian carefully, her sapphire eyes alert to every detail. Blending well, she was just another thirty something business woman having lunch.

Her waiter returned with Barb's check. She carefully laid out the exact change for the meal. Tipping is considered rude in Australia, and she didn't wish to stand out. Her watchful eyes soon saw what she was waiting for. The swarthy waiter standing by the cafe's side door nodded almost imperceptibly to an old woman shuffling along the opposite side of Campbell Parade. He dropped his cigarette, stepped on it, and quickly slipped inside the cafe'.

Barbara took one last swallow of Perrier and stood. She slowly arranged some items in her purse, smoothed her skirt, pushed her chair in, and casually stepped into the light flow of sidewalk traffic. Barb and the ancient woman were both heading downtown.

Barb strode gracefully along the street, keeping her subject in sight. The crone seemed unaware that she was being followed, but Barb knew better. Ten blocks and five direction changes later, Barb was standing in a dank alley, her back against the rear entry of a closed haberdashery. After moving ahead of her subject, she'd stopped in a public toilet and disposed of the chestnut wig and dark business suit she'd been wearing. Now, she was a tall statuesque redhead, wearing a white turtleneck, yellow vest, and designer blue jeans. Her right hand held a small silver revolver.

The target entered the alley from the street. Her now youthful pace quickly carried her to within a few feet of Barb. Suddenly the door of the abandoned store burst open, slamming Barb into the alley's opposite wall. She managed to stay on both feet. Instinctively, Barb raised the Colt and fired. The waiter froze in mid swing, the stiletto's long blade missing Barb by less than an inch. A dark hole appeared between his eyes, looking like a squinting third eye as he crumbled to the damp bricks. Barb's gloved left hand deftly retrieved the waiter's dagger. The young man disguised as an old woman had no time to change his course. The thin blade slipped silently between his ribs and through his heart. His last few seconds were wasted trying to understand his fate. "Allah Akbar" he whispered.

The untraceable Colt was placed in his lifeless hand. His plot would be exposed and his bombs destroyed during the investigation. Amin's jihad was over.

Jimmy Buffett music from her iPod filled Barb's ears as the 767 lifted into the warm Sydney night. "Next week," she thought. "Another game."