Writing
Thank you for visiting my writing page.
Here are excerpts from my new book of stories, POSSOONS
Excerpt from "Not About Tahiti"
Eva couldn't resist the giant Philodendron she saw at The Home Depot. It had sprawling stalks and ten inch fingers. It made her feel tropical, like she was bringing home a little piece of paradise. Eva placed the plant on a stool in the entrance foyer, right beside the brass coat rack. She named it Phil. She wondered if her husband, Alvin, would even notice it.
Hawaii, Tahiti, Bora Bora — Eva had always dreamed of exotic places. She collected brochures and maps, showed them to Alvin. All he'd say was, "I'm not going any place that looks like a fly speck in the middle of fifteen inches of ocean." But Eva didn't give up. She taped photos to the bathroom mirror — floating lotus blossoms on clear pools, unspoiled lagoons, beaches melting into aquamarine sea. Not like the edge of the Atlantic that lapped at Fort Lauderdale. That ocean was murky and polluted. Tar washed up on its shore. Eva had stepped in it more than once and hadn't been able to get it off her feet for weeks.
Alvin opened the front door. Eva watched him, undetected, from the kitchen archway as the new tangle of plant attacked him. "What the hell…?" he said, then shoved aside its groping hands and hung up his jacket. A minute later, as if he'd noticed nothing unusual, Alvin mumbled "I'm home," walked into the living room and collapsed into his recliner with the newspaper.
Eva approached him. She was barefooted, her recently highlighted hair pulled into a chignon, a pink hibiscus fastened behind her ear. She wore a sarong with magenta and white flowers on it, cupped by green leaves. She felt like she'd stepped out of a painting by Gauguin. Eva waited for Alvin to look at her. Finally, he shifted his eyes toward where she was standing.
"Don't you think you're a little old to dress like that?" Alvin said.
"I'm not old." Although she'd recently turned sixty, inside, Eva still felt forty. It was funny how that happened, how, on the inside, she could feel her best age, like she hadn't moved beyond its beauty and desires. Yet when she looked in the mirror, how betrayed she could feel by the outside sags, bags and wrinkles of time.
Alvin returned to reading his paper.
I'm sick and tired of being treated like I don't exist, Eva thought, like I don't matter. But this time, she didn't say a word. When it came to Alvin, words were a waste of energy. Instead, she dumped the Tropical Mango Chicken she'd spent all afternoon preparing down the disposal and listened to it grind her efforts to mush.
"What's for dinner?" Alvin called from the living room.
"Nothing. I tossed it down the sink."
That, plus the uneven growl of a motor got Alvin's attention. He rushed into the kitchen, pages of news unraveling in his trail. "You'll mess up the whole mechanism. And if you don't put baking soda in that drain, it'll stink."
Eva thought things already stank.
It hadn't always been that way. Or maybe it had, and it was only that lately Eva felt she'd reached her limit. Women her age often did. Something happened to a woman after menopause. She might paste banners to her rear car bumper exclaiming I'm out of estrogen and I've got a gun. She might watch Shirley Valentine, Fried Green Tomatoes, and, in Eva's case, South Pacific maybe fifty times. Suddenly, she might not care a hoot how she appeared to others, not even her husband — particularly not her husband — only how true she was to herself, and there was no telling where that might lead.
"You'll have to fix your own dinner tonight, Alvin." Never in thirty-two years of marriage had Eva used those words, yet her voice was calm and certain.
Alvin stared at her like a child with a boo-boo expecting her to fix it, but Eva was tired of being Alvin's Band-Aid.
"There are eggs," she said. "And cheese. You can make yourself an omelet. I'm going out."
Alvin stood, slack-jawed and slump-shouldered, in the middle of the kitchen, the bulge above his disappearing waistline even more exaggerated. Eva fought the impulse to help him out of his misery. She took a breath, sighed, then headed for the bedroom to put on sandals and a sweater. When she came back, Alvin hadn't budged.
"Didn't you hear me? You're on your own tonight."
"If you think this tantrum is going to get you to some South Sea island, you can think again."
"This is not a tantrum, and I know better than to think it will get me anywhere. Now, if you don't mind, I'm leaving..."
Hawaii, Tahiti, Bora Bora — Eva had always dreamed of exotic places. She collected brochures and maps, showed them to Alvin. All he'd say was, "I'm not going any place that looks like a fly speck in the middle of fifteen inches of ocean." But Eva didn't give up. She taped photos to the bathroom mirror — floating lotus blossoms on clear pools, unspoiled lagoons, beaches melting into aquamarine sea. Not like the edge of the Atlantic that lapped at Fort Lauderdale. That ocean was murky and polluted. Tar washed up on its shore. Eva had stepped in it more than once and hadn't been able to get it off her feet for weeks.
Alvin opened the front door. Eva watched him, undetected, from the kitchen archway as the new tangle of plant attacked him. "What the hell…?" he said, then shoved aside its groping hands and hung up his jacket. A minute later, as if he'd noticed nothing unusual, Alvin mumbled "I'm home," walked into the living room and collapsed into his recliner with the newspaper.
Eva approached him. She was barefooted, her recently highlighted hair pulled into a chignon, a pink hibiscus fastened behind her ear. She wore a sarong with magenta and white flowers on it, cupped by green leaves. She felt like she'd stepped out of a painting by Gauguin. Eva waited for Alvin to look at her. Finally, he shifted his eyes toward where she was standing.
"Don't you think you're a little old to dress like that?" Alvin said.
"I'm not old." Although she'd recently turned sixty, inside, Eva still felt forty. It was funny how that happened, how, on the inside, she could feel her best age, like she hadn't moved beyond its beauty and desires. Yet when she looked in the mirror, how betrayed she could feel by the outside sags, bags and wrinkles of time.
Alvin returned to reading his paper.
I'm sick and tired of being treated like I don't exist, Eva thought, like I don't matter. But this time, she didn't say a word. When it came to Alvin, words were a waste of energy. Instead, she dumped the Tropical Mango Chicken she'd spent all afternoon preparing down the disposal and listened to it grind her efforts to mush.
"What's for dinner?" Alvin called from the living room.
"Nothing. I tossed it down the sink."
That, plus the uneven growl of a motor got Alvin's attention. He rushed into the kitchen, pages of news unraveling in his trail. "You'll mess up the whole mechanism. And if you don't put baking soda in that drain, it'll stink."
Eva thought things already stank.
It hadn't always been that way. Or maybe it had, and it was only that lately Eva felt she'd reached her limit. Women her age often did. Something happened to a woman after menopause. She might paste banners to her rear car bumper exclaiming I'm out of estrogen and I've got a gun. She might watch Shirley Valentine, Fried Green Tomatoes, and, in Eva's case, South Pacific maybe fifty times. Suddenly, she might not care a hoot how she appeared to others, not even her husband — particularly not her husband — only how true she was to herself, and there was no telling where that might lead.
"You'll have to fix your own dinner tonight, Alvin." Never in thirty-two years of marriage had Eva used those words, yet her voice was calm and certain.
Alvin stared at her like a child with a boo-boo expecting her to fix it, but Eva was tired of being Alvin's Band-Aid.
"There are eggs," she said. "And cheese. You can make yourself an omelet. I'm going out."
Alvin stood, slack-jawed and slump-shouldered, in the middle of the kitchen, the bulge above his disappearing waistline even more exaggerated. Eva fought the impulse to help him out of his misery. She took a breath, sighed, then headed for the bedroom to put on sandals and a sweater. When she came back, Alvin hadn't budged.
"Didn't you hear me? You're on your own tonight."
"If you think this tantrum is going to get you to some South Sea island, you can think again."
"This is not a tantrum, and I know better than to think it will get me anywhere. Now, if you don't mind, I'm leaving..."
Why Stefan had to rent a sander and refinish the floors in Brenda's bedroom
When the cashier prematurely and automatically, without a twinge of uncertainty, gave her a senior discount, Brenda felt compelled to paint every room in her house Chinese red. She went to Lowe's and sorted through palette samples. Chinese red turned out not to be so simple. She compared tints and hues, finally deciding on a shade that reminded her of a clingy swingy dress she'd worn to see Baryshnikov dance Romeo at Lincoln Center decades ago when her hair had pigment and her skin knew how to hold itself in place.
Not having painted anything in a while, Brenda asked the twelve year old "design consultant" named Binky what else she would need. He helped her gather painter's tape, stir sticks, rollers, brushes, plastic, all of which she carted home along with eight gallons of Peking Passion. She wondered what Stefan would think. They'd only been lovers for three months and were still at the stage of undressing by candlelight, and watching each other sleep. He had not yet witnessed female hormones — or the lack thereof — run amok.
Brenda began with her bedroom. She flipped on Ravel's Bolero, shoved furniture, draped, taped, then rolled overlapping v's along the wall behind the bed, burying forever all traces of Perfect Pearl. Feeling the echo of horns and drums rumble in her belly, she dipped a brush, wrote WILD WOMAN in letters two-feet high on the adjacent wall. Heavy spatters of crimson sprayed her cheeks. Her hair became an impressionistic blob spreading across her old Kirov Ballet t-shirt. The music opened, wound back on itself, ascended. She dipped again, wrote HOT TOMALE, added HOOCHIE MAMA ROJA. She grabbed the old paint-speckled towel from the corner, slid it around her blue-jeaned hips, swished it from side to side. Cajoled by a swell of strings climbing toward crescendo, her body searched for a developpé, an arabesque, an entrechat-six it could not find. Bolero thrashed and pounded to climax. Brenda, trembling, collapsed to the floor. So much red was unsettling, like playing with more fire than she remembered how to handle.
Not having painted anything in a while, Brenda asked the twelve year old "design consultant" named Binky what else she would need. He helped her gather painter's tape, stir sticks, rollers, brushes, plastic, all of which she carted home along with eight gallons of Peking Passion. She wondered what Stefan would think. They'd only been lovers for three months and were still at the stage of undressing by candlelight, and watching each other sleep. He had not yet witnessed female hormones — or the lack thereof — run amok.
Brenda began with her bedroom. She flipped on Ravel's Bolero, shoved furniture, draped, taped, then rolled overlapping v's along the wall behind the bed, burying forever all traces of Perfect Pearl. Feeling the echo of horns and drums rumble in her belly, she dipped a brush, wrote WILD WOMAN in letters two-feet high on the adjacent wall. Heavy spatters of crimson sprayed her cheeks. Her hair became an impressionistic blob spreading across her old Kirov Ballet t-shirt. The music opened, wound back on itself, ascended. She dipped again, wrote HOT TOMALE, added HOOCHIE MAMA ROJA. She grabbed the old paint-speckled towel from the corner, slid it around her blue-jeaned hips, swished it from side to side. Cajoled by a swell of strings climbing toward crescendo, her body searched for a developpé, an arabesque, an entrechat-six it could not find. Bolero thrashed and pounded to climax. Brenda, trembling, collapsed to the floor. So much red was unsettling, like playing with more fire than she remembered how to handle.