This old story of mine has gone through several revisions. I hope you enjoy it despite its imperfections. I appreciate your time and attention.
Sunlight poured through the large gaps in the curtains, warming my face. After wiping my eyes clear I was fed a delicious view. The petunias were bold and colorful, the hibiscus just as charming, the whole scene greeting me like a bugle call. Easing into my usual routine at the bedroom window, a cup of tea warming my hand, I stared at my neighbor’s perennials, all in full bloom. Savoring the show, silence crystallizing the moment, I wondered how many others appreciated the same display, the result of old lady Millie’s countless hours of gardening.
I raised my cup, sipped my tea, and watched her drizzle water over the patch of trumpet-like petals, a cheerful bounce in her step. Then the moment evaporated before my eyes—my tranquil morning was interrupted. Angela Sanford, who lives across the street, was rushing down the brick staircase to get to her car, a cell phone clasped to her left ear, her loud voice carrying. With her other hand she couldn’t stop stroking and adjusting her hair. She never left home without her cell phone, never went anywhere without it.
Millie greeted Angela, an earnest smile sweetening her face as her voice sang “Good morning” like a well-played flute. Angela heard nothing as she talked and talked. Her husband appeared in the doorway behind her, a bag dangling from his hand—a small purple one with white handles, flower prints decorating both sides. Angela sped away. Her husband stood there, his face showing strain. “You forgot something, Ang.”
His wife had already disappeared around the corner, leaving him to ponder, among other matters, what might go wrong next. I felt bad for him while he stood there gazing at the ground, his hand tightening into a fist around the bag handle. Of course, drawn to others’ problems like metal to a magnet, the same group of neighbors were huddled in the middle of the street, whispering, one or two holding steaming mugs of coffee—the usual scene when the neighbors picked up the scent of domestic discord.
I know Victor well. He is humble and kind. Laid back. A big heart inside a big frame. He values the little things—the moments many don’t appreciate because their tastes are larger, more sophisticated, they say, more cultured. What rubbish.
I too appreciate things that many don’t. Like long walks on beautiful days, good movies, reading anytime, anywhere, sitting under a tree or at the park, maybe even scribbling a few words of my own that might mean something significant later, watching the birds and squirrels and other animals sneak up to the sliding glass doors to say hello—looking for a quick snack before scurrying back home. These are precious things. Victor cherishes them as much as I do—yearns for them whenever life at home becomes a knot he cannot loosen. They make a lot more money than we do but he wants what my wife and I have. I mean, we prefer pizza and beer or a home-cooked meal to dining at an expensive restaurant. Our house has always been our sanctuary. After a day’s work we enjoy simple conversation and simple leisure. Granted, our jobs pay modest incomes. But what we earn is enough to meet the bills and a little extra to enjoy life’s little pleasures, even take a vacation once a year. We laugh at each other and with each other. Sitting in the living-room playing a game or watching a movie or a program or reading what we like is time and energy well spent.
However, like Victor, sometimes I feel sour. I feel as though I’ve been robbed of something. Something significant. Something that can’t be replaced. Like… even at social functions or in the street or at the store, someone’s attention is always drifting. There is endless phone play and gossip, people looking for the next social call or diversion rather than enjoying the moment they’re in. When these things happen, I find myself shaking my head, puzzled, wanting to withdraw from this part of life that has been foisted upon us, one filled with endless static of one sort or another. Yet most people seem to want more of it.
Old lady Millie is someone I can always count on though. Her craftsmanship in the yard and her consistent personality cut through the static. Always ready with a joke or some good cheer, happy to be aging fast but young at heart, still the same person she was in her prime—her spirit alive and thriving, burning like a bonfire—unlike many half her age.
Now I remember a conversation I had with Victor about a week ago. I'd been sweeping the driveway. He came home with groceries. His wife was not around that Sunday morning. Who knows where she was. I was in a strange mood then, sounding philosophical, but trying to make a point.
“Just look at what we’ve become,” I told him. “No one thinks for themselves anymore, it’s done for them.”
Victor shook his head, stared at the sky. “I hear ya, Ted.”
“Who appreciates a perfect summer day? The sounds and smells. Or the change of seasons? Anyone? There is so much we take for granted, Vic. Nobody seems to care. How could they? When all everyone does is moan about this and that. And stare at a little screen.”
Victor dropped one of his grocery bags. “What a relief. I thought I was the only one feeling it. Aside from a couple of guys at the garage.”
I couldn’t stop myself. “Some people, man. No real values. No real dreams. No real vision.”
“I know, I know,” Victor mumbled.
I had to keep going. “We’re getting distracted, we’re getting dumber, and nobody minds. As long as they have a gizmo.”
That was a strange moment, I guess, carrying on like that. But Victor listened to every word I said and even returned some thoughts of his own. “I know what you mean. Nobody shuts off anymore. Or listens. Or understands the meaning of ‘balance’.”
Millie cornered me later, wrapped her long arm around me, and smiled with a set of bright white teeth. “Enjoy all you have there, Ted. Hey, let’s do a shot together! Got me a bottle of brandy over there that’ll rip your throat out. You game?”
I was happy to accept. The brandy scorched me as she had promised. Not the experience I was looking for on a hot summer day, but you don’t shy away from a fun challenge like that. We shared a nice moment. No phones. Not in my hand, not in hers. She even gave me a promising cake recipe, which I planned to bake with my wife in the afternoon. We like baking and cooking together. After that, I walked over to Victor’s and rang their fancy new doorbell, a medley of piano notes. He answered the door, shook my hand. I apologized for bothering him, but he was gracious and invited me in. We drank sodas. He went on about his wife’s schedule, the long hours, the working weekends—their eroding relationship. I put my hand on his shoulder. “If you need to talk, I’m here. What we discuss stays between us. You have my word.”
Out it came. “She’s got that damn phone to her ear every stinkin’ second. A real motormouth. Our time together is empty time. Sure, we have to work hard and make money. But her attention is always somewhere else. Even that car they gave her—the company car. You know it, right?”
I nodded.
“That alarm. . .what a nuisance. The other car was better. I used to lock that son of a gun with a key and sleep in peace. No more. That thing goes off day and night.” Victor looked around the room, rubbed his eyes, then used the back of his hand to wipe his nose. “I’m surrounded by all this… stuff. It has turned Angela into a robot. A hard-hearted one too. I miss the days before this job, when she worked the day shift with that guy out in Pottersville. Our life was normal then. Meaningful. There was love and respect. We never needed all this. . . crap. Who does? It’s all. . . a pointless show—but Angela thrives on it. Craves it. Talks about it with her friends. They compare notes: Who’s got what. Who wants what. Who deserves what.”
He was really unloading and I didn’t want to stop him. “Yeah, money matters. But it can’t fix my life. I mean, look at us! I want to live again, before it’s too late. But Angela never gets off the phone long enough to hear me out. Talking and talking. To co-workers and friends. Nonstop. No time to even discuss a divorce. If that’s where we’re headed. We can’t go on like this.”
Victor picked up a bag nearby—the one I’d seen earlier—the one his wife wouldn’t take. He reached in and pulled out the contents: a fresh red rose. Sighing, he placed it on the table. He glanced at me and then at the rose. He unfolded the piece of paper pinned to it, paused for a few moments with his eyes closed, then handed it to me. It said: “Ang, we need to talk. Whenever you have some time. Love, Vic.”
I hugged him, the big man softening in my arms.
After we came apart, Victor waved his hand, wanting me to follow him. “Screw this,” he said. “Up for taking a walk? The hot dog truck is at the park today. They’re on me!”
Spoken Word
This CD will touch the deepest inner part of your humanness and spirit, you will never be the same after listening to the depths of struggle, the reality of life, the touching voice of truth. It will shock you, move you to tears. It w
This old story of mine has gone through several revisions. I hope you enjoy it despite its imperfections. I appreciate your time and attention.
