Positive Earth, Negative Earth

July 7, 2009 Leave a comment

The summer of 1967 was my summer. It was a time of unbounded restlessness for me and the turbulent world around me. This summer contained all of the raw ingredients and organic circumstances to make an incoming high school freshman into a seasoned, four star adult. I would never be the same after this summer. What I didn’t know was that this summer would become the context for my childish naiveté to be cornered and raped.

From my vantage point of a take-on-the-world teenager, the current events of 1967 became larger than life: The Outer Space Treaty with the Soviet Union, the United Kingdom and the US had been signed earlier in the year. On June 1st the Beatles released Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely hearts Club Band, “The Soundtrack for the Summer of Love.” Only a month before, on May 1st, Elvis Presley and Priscilla Beaulieu were married in Las Vegas. On June 25th, the Beatles debuted “All You Need is Love,” as 400 million viewers watched the first live, international, satellite production. The Doors self-titled album had already been released in January. I was collecting 45s and LPs as fast as my paychecks were handed to me. On June 23rd, President Johnson would meet with Soviet Premier Aleksei Kosygin in New Jersey to determine the temperature of the Cold War. The Vietnam Conflict was on everyone’s mind, except mine. I wasn’t seventeen, yet. For me, “The Beat” went on.

Simmering social unrest and heated war protests boiled over each evening into our living room though our boxy tube TV set. Angry protests became a nightly news feature. The 1967 summer broadcasts contained the Vietnam Conflict, the Cold war and the first Sudanese Civil war. I can still see my father watching the fatherly Walter Cronkite announcing his impassioned but formal newscasts. My dad, laid back, unsettled in a stiff sofa, would shake his cantilevered knee wildly up and down as if sowing the nightly news together word-for-word with a Singer sewing machine.

This was the summer before I entered High School. I had already started the summer band program and was waiting for the fall cross country program to begin. I also worked during that summer at Skrudland’s Photo Center, selling photofinishing and canisters of Tri-X 125 speed film. Though working full time, I made sure to take some time off of work to hang out with other teens from our church. My social clock had already begun ticking. And, with a few hard-earned dollars stuffed in my pocket I was ready to be wild and precocious on a tattered jean budget.

It was June, 1967 when I first met Ken. He pulled into the parking lot of the Auburn Bible Church driving his 1963 sky blue convertible T-bird, the voice of Dean Martin singing “Amore” on the AM/FM radio. Ken‘s small head and face, a vignette of James Dean without the looks and hair, stuck out of the driver’s seat like a bobble head toy. Getting out of his car, his lanky body navigated over toward us guys and right in front of me.

“Hi, I’m Ken.”

“Hi.” I responded looking at my neighbor friend Bill. “I’m Denny.”

“Do you think that we’ll get everyone together and get over to the park? He asked.

“I think the girls are figuring out who they are going to ride with.”  I responded looking at the ground.

‘Yeah, I think your right.’ “Are you just starting high school?

“Yeah, I’m a freshman.” I started kicking loose gravel.

“I’m a senior this year. I transferred from York High School because they finished building the high school here in town.”

“I’m in summer band and I’m on the cross country team,” I answered, trying to sound more senior-like.

“You can ride with me to the park.”

“OK.” was my answer, with an air of instant pride at being selected by a senior to ride in a rag-top. I asked my best friend Bill to ride with us. With the T-Bird filled with just the guys and with me in blue jeans and a white tee shirt, I was on top of the world. Once the girls had decided on their carefully selected seating arrangement, we all boarded the few cars available and headed out to Churchill Park.

That summer there were many such teen outings and I joined them all in hopes of making new friends before entering high school. My best friend Bill, who lived across the street from my family went along on these outings.  Early on, I had invited Bill to come to our church. We were both eight years old when this happened. He tagged along and soon became a regular with our family. To our families, Bill and I were the left and right pockets on the same pair of jeans – we could always found together.

After the social initiation of the group outings, Ken started calling me and asking me to come over to his house. He said that he had a Triumph TR3 that he was rebuilding and that he needed some help. I told him I didn’t know anything about cars except something about oil changes but he begged me to come over. I finally accepted his invitation on one hot, boring summer day. I was eager to be friends and to learn about cars. I figured that I would be driving soon enough.

That day I rode my bike across town to Ken‘s house. I pulled up to his parent’s house and found the garage door open with Ken standing inside. His hands were black, holding an oily car piece in his hand. The TR3 was parked in the garage with the hood up. I said “Hi” and then asked about his parents. He explained that his mother worked in a clothing store and his father worked at a country club in the men’s locker room. He told me, “They were never home during the day”. I felt a little unsettled not knowing the neighborhood or Ken that well. It must have showed.  Ken immediately began talking about the TR3 and what he was trying to do.

Looking at the Triumph, Ken explained: “The Triumph has a positive earth electrical system and I’m trying to connect a radio. There are only three items on a stock positive earth TR3 electrical system that care what the polarity of the system is, the ammeter, the coil and the generator.” I jut nodded my head and looked informed. The most I knew about what he was saying was that there were positive and negative forces in the world. Opposites attract and like polarities repel.

I went on to handle a few car parts trying to look into the whole matter. My hands soon became like his, greasy, with fingernails full of the black muck of spent oil. I was extremely interested in seeing the sporty little car repaired, especially if Ken would let me drive the car. At fourteen, I sensed the spirit of fast sporty cars was racing through me. And, I also became keenly aware that a new friendship was forming in the pit stop.

As Ken spoke about the car, I quickly scribbled the steps to make a polarity conversion, just in the chance that I should ever come to own a TR3 and an AM/FM radio:

1. Disconnect and remove battery.

2. Switch the leads on the ammeter. Move the wires from one connecting clip to the other.

3. Switch the low voltage leads on the coil. Disconnect the leads, loosen the clamp on the coil holder, rotate the coil 180 degrees and reconnect the wires. Keep the same lead routing.

4. Disconnect the small wire on the generator. Note: The connection post is labeled F (for field).

5. Place the battery back into the battery tray in the opposite direction as it was sitting. Re-attach the hold down bracket.

6. Connect the clean ground connector to the negative terminal of the battery. Note: The terminals are different sizes. Make them fit.

7. Disconnect the wire at terminal “F”. Take a length of insulated wire and connect one end to the battery’s positive terminal. Touch the other end of the wire to the field (F) terminal of the generator a couple of times. This generally produces a spark. Remove the wire from the battery. This re-polarizes the generator. Note: The “F” may be hard to see on the generator. You can also do these steps on the wire at the voltage regulator “F” terminal.

8. Reconnect the wire disconnected from the field (F) of the generator.

9. Attach the battery cable leading to the starter solenoid to the positive terminal of the battery.

After we completed the polarity conversion Ken invited me inside the house.  There, we washed up.  Ken then offered me something to drink. He handed me a glass of lemonade and we sat down in his kitchen, talking for a while. After about half-an-hour, Ken asked me if I wanted to play cards. I told him I didn’t know how to play cards. He said “I can show you.” I thought that here was something else that I could learn from another guy so I agreed.

Ken left the room and came back shortly with a deck of cards. He began to shuffle the deck in ways I had never seen shuffled before except perhaps on the TV show Gunsmoke. He began to tell me the different hands and their value and the rules of the five card stud, his favorite game.  He dealt the cards and I gathered them up, holding them, fanned out in my hand, just like Maverick would hold them in the TV western.

I quickly lost every hand I played but Ken he convinced me to keep trying. After seven games and only one win, Ken asked me if I wanted to bet on the next hand. I said “I don’t bet.” He came back, “It will only be for candy.” He threw a handful of M&Ms on the table. I hesitated and then said, “Why not.” I continued to lose the rounds and my pile of M&Ms disappeared. I said I had to get home for dinner. I grabbed my bike and headed back across town toward home. It felt good knowing that I had a new friend and that I had learned ‘guy’ stuff in the process.

In June of that summer I hung out with the teens from our church seeking ways to be with the girls as much as possible. In July, Ken began calling our house often He was inviting me to come over to his house. I finally went over to see him.

 We again worked on his TR3, this time cleaning the carburetor. He asked about my family. While cleaning out the butterfly valve with some solvent, I told him that, “My dad works in town, my mom is at home and I have two brothers and a sister. We moved here in 1960.”

Ken and I finished the carburetor repair. We cleaned our hands and then grabbed a couple of Cokes from his parent’s icebox. I soon noticed a deck of cards on the kitchen table. With our cold drinks we sat down and played several hands. After winning a few rounds, Ken wanted to know if I “wanted to play for stakes?” “I don’t know.  I just like playing,” I responded.

Ken then pestered me to “up the ante” and I kept saying “No”. After several more hands he asked me again and I said “what are you talking about.” He said that if I were to lose the next hand that I would have to do what ever he wanted and that if he was to lose that he would do whatever I wanted. It felt weird to me but at the same time I knew that I always had the power of “No”, so I said “OK”. I desired his friendship and socially, it would help having a senior as a friend in high school. Would he ask me to fix a tire?

I lost the next hand. He told me what he wanted me to do: “I want you to clean the house. Sweep, vacuum, everything.”

I looked at him incredulously. “What?’

“You lost, you said you would play and now you lost. You must do what I want.”

I resisted, looking everywhere for a way out of the bet. “I’m not going to clean your house.”

“You have to,” he insisted. “You gave your word. You’re a Christian aren’t you?” He left the room and came back to the kitchen with a small men’s Speedo swimsuit. “I want you to wear this while you’re cleaning.”

My face flushed lobster red. I said, “No way!” I immediately began trying to lower the debt to just cleaning the house. I felt like running. I also felt that I needed to somehow save face, to be a Christian and honor my word. I had no idea of the consequences this bet imposed on me. Rattled, I got up from the kitchen chair I promised to come back another day and help him with the TR3 and maybe even play cards again, “Without betting,” I added while heading for the garage. I got on my bike and sped off, relieved to be pumping the pedals in the direction of home.

In August I started cross country training. I ran ten miles every day, five days a week. I soon realized that I was more of a sprinter but I didn’t want to quit what I had started. I just kept running the long distances even though it meant coming in last most of the time.

I loved to run and so I was very happy to be doing it while wearing the school’s jersey. I enjoyed meeting up with my team friends on Saturdays for a “fun run” through the town. We ran wherever we wanted to go and I would perpetually come in last. My teammates would always be waiting for me at the end our run, where I would run up to group panting like I would die on the spot. They would heartily laugh, having already recovered early on from the run.

Summer band was now in full swing, literally. I had auditioned for the first trumpet section and I won the seat. I sat behind a sophomore who was the solo trumpet. He often played fourth trumpet in the Civic Orchestra in Chicago. Our concert band was top notch. We played classical music transcripts written for concert band instruments. I was overjoyed. As a youngster, I listened to classical music at home every night. I especially enjoyed the brassy pieces of music: Mussorgsky’s, Pictures at an Exhibition; Aaron Copland’s Fanfare for the Common Man and Sousa marches.

That summer I was invited to play in the concert orchestra and the swing band. I had many close friends in each of these groups. The increasing number of friendships with kids in the band, the orchestra, the swing band, the classrooms, the cross-country team and the church were all the positive charges that I needed to keep things running smoothly.

At the start of August, twenty days before school started, I got a phone call from Ken. He wanted me to “come over”. “The Triumph is ready to roll. I’ll take you for a ride.”

Thinking that this would be a harmless way to honor my bet I said,” OK”. I headed over to his house and found the Triumph parked on the street. Ken walked out of the garage and asked me if I was ready and I nodded “yes”.

We got in the sports car and Ken started the engine.  He shifted into first and then turned on the newly installed radio. “Superjock” Larry Lujack, a regular the WLS AM station, came on the radio, sarcastically talking about the ”klunk letter of the day”. As we listened, Ken drove the TR3 out of the neighbor hood and headed for the nearby highway. The convertible sports car responded quickly, moving effortlessly through five gears. The wind whipped through my hair. Radar love.

We returned to his house an hour later. Ken parked the car in the garage and we went in for a Coke. I knew at this point that I would not play cards so when he asked I said, “No.” He persisted in asking and I persisted in resisting. Finally, he said that he had a roulette game in his bedroom. I had heard about roulette from a TV show but I reallyknew nothing about the game. Ken persisted in his desire to show me. I went with him to his bedroom thinking that I would see this thing and then head home.

When we got to his bedroom, Ken uncovered the roulette game from a box that was stored under a bunk bed. He spun its center wheel, showing me how it worked. He handed it to me and I sat down on his bed to hold the wheel on my lap. I spun the wheel to see where the red, black and white balls would land. As I did, Ken sat down next to me. I quickly moved over to make room for him. Ken then moved closer. He then put his arms around me and started wrestling me down to the bed. I was in complete shock.

Taller than me, Ken leveraged himself on top of me, grappling every which way to confine me. I squirmed under him, thrashing my arms every which way, trying to push myself out. I was yelling “Stop it!” over and over.

Ken began to use his feet against the footboard of the bed and his tall frame as a lever to hold me down against the bed. He then grabbed one of my legs and pulled it up onto the bed. As I lay face down across the bed, I struggled in vain to get out from under him. I had wrestled many kids when I was younger so I reacted to his “take over” by trying to roll out sideways from his body. When I started to do this Ken grabbed a rope from the wall side of his bed.  He must have hidden the rope for a time like this.

While on top of me, Ken tried to loop my neck and hands to the headboard. I continued to struggle, turning sideways, but with no luck. Then, I felt his pelvis thrusting into my backside. I immediately pushed myself up from the bed with all of my strength and put a shaky leg on the floor and then quickly another. I had to forcefully wrench my head out the headlock he put on me.  When I finally pulled myself free I ran out of his room, headed straight for my bike and took off for home. The adrenaline racing through me caused me to pump the pedals even faster.

That night, I ate dinner silently. I never mentioned what had happened to my parents or to anyone until now. I felt shamed and wounded.  I felt dirty, dirtier than when I worked on the car. I had once read the word “rape” in an Old Testament story. I only understood it to mean something that only happened to women. I didn’t understand a lot of what I felt about that day until forty years later. I then came to realize that I felt shame, disgust. At fourteen, in 1967, I had never heard the words “homosexuality” or “being gay”. And, I didn’t have any understanding that someone would take advantage of me and my desire for friendship. I was deeply saddened by the broken trust. I have always wanted to be good friends with anyone I had met. But, to Ken, our natural friendship meant forced and unnatural sex to him.

From that point on, throughout high school and afterward, I always made a point of never being alone with Ken. Whenever Ken was around my best friend Bill, my right jean pocket, would always be with me. I wanted my friendship with Ken to continue but it would be at a distance.

My 1967 ‘TR3’ summer had become forever flawed and so would I.  That school year I would go on to act as nothing had happened. It was a time and place that I didn’t want to remember and yet the memory of it would occur every time I sought a close friendship with anyone:  Would this new friendship become a vehicle for violating me? Thankfully, there have been trustworthy friends in my life.  Friends like Bill.

Much later, I would find out that Ken would go on to become a mayor of a small village outside of Chicago. Ken had always boasted to me of his being a lifelong Democrat. He knew that I was a Republican. In the end, he would never get my vote.

© Sally Paradise, 2010, All Rights Reserved

Filed under 1967, Human Interest, Short Story, Uncategorized Tagged with , , ,

Patina

July 7, 2009 Leave a comment

National_Park_Service_9-11_Statue_of_Liberty_and_WTC_fire

Patina

It was a dream that possessed him until he flashed his eyes open at 5:58 am. Will lay in bed recalling the improbable nightmarish image: a smoldering giant throwing a commuter train onto a tree, a limb breaking off, people were falling out of the train, there was the sound of a buzz saw somewhere, then an endless open road lay before him, a magnet pulling him down into the . . . the startling beeps of the alarm clock ended his surrealistic sleep. It was 6:00 am on Sunday morning. Will jumped up and quickly shut off the clock so as to not wake up his wife Jenny. He ran downstairs. He made some coffee, he let the dog out and then he came back upstairs to wake his kids and then his wife. They were leaving town for a few days of fun and rest.

The spontaneous family get away had come up the night before. Without a word to the contrary, Will consented and loaded the Suburban that night. At 6:30 the next morning they were on the road. Grade school had already started at the end of August; Labor Day had just past. Will and Jenny wanted to stretch out the vanishing summer days within their familiar stomping ground of Monroe County Wisconsin. It was the start of the second week in September and in Spring Green, Wisconsin fall had already made inroads into the forested landscape, withholding the chlorophyll from the veins of the idle leaves. The trees would soon stipple themselves with their own red, purple, orange-red and saffron yellow

Will’s thoughts converged onto Wisconsin Highway 151 and the never gathering horizon. He was anxious to get to Dodgeville. The kids were anxious, too. Food and bathrooms were required after the 3 hour drive from their home in Illinois. Highway 151 and blue sky lay open before them as they headed west toward the Mississippi river valley. On each side of the road, the land began to unfurl as a lumpy black and green carpet speckled by miniature fawn and white Guernsey cows. The field air held a pungent mixture of ammonia and loam. Intervallic road signs gauged their highway passage: DODGEVILLE 60 MILES. DODGEVILLE 46 MILES; DODGEVILLE 20 MILES; DODGEVILLE NEXT RIGHT; COURTHOUSE INN TURN LEFT ON 23 THEN TWO MILES; COURTHOUSE INN SUNDAY ALL-YOU-CAN-EAT BUFFET 11:00 AM to 2:00 PM.

The Courthouse Inn had their usual Sunday fixings. Will loved their fried chicken, the cornbread, the collard greens and the sweet tea. The kids picked from the salad bar and more so from the dessert bar. Jenny, his wife, ate two big bowls of chicken tortilla soup. The restaurant stop filled some things and emptied others. The net effect, Will hoped, would keep everyone quiet in the car until they reached Spring Green. After lunch, Will turned the car north on Wisconsin State Road 23 passing the brick store fronts lining the streets of Dodgeville. They all settled in for the ride to Spring Valley Inn, their final destination.

Will turned the radio on and set the tuner to a local weather forecast: “Par clou and war…” He kept adjusting the tuner buttons trying to hone in on the station. As he did he drove past a caravan of homemade signs parked along Wisconsin 23: Taxidermy, Fire wood, Ice, Live bait, Worms, Fireworks, Horse Rides, Mini Golf, Cold beer, Cheese, Wisconsin Cheese, Craft Shop, Antiques, Butter Burgers, Rafting, Canoeing, Camping, Tomatoes, Farmer’s Market, Sweet Corn. The AM radio never settled in on a clear signal. It continued to speak in raspy unintelligible tongues. The kids were getting fidgety in the back seat. Jenny reached over and shut off the garbled noise with an “Ah.”

Will turned to Jenny and queried “Do they have food at Spring Valley?” Jenny reached through her bag to find the internet page she had printed for the trip. “It says that they have some kind of restaurant, some Italian food and some fine wine.” Jenny told him. “That’ll be good for dinner. Italian food is comfort food to me. And, some red wine doesn’t hurt either.” Will responded. “Yeah, let’s get there. I’m ready to relax.” Jenny said as she laid her head back on the headrest.

Will leaned forward letting his forearms rest on the steering wheel as he pushed his foot forward on the accelerator. He listened to the kids reciting the road signs: “SPRING GREEN 60 MILES”; “How much more, dad?”; “GOVENOR DODGE STATE PARK NEXT RIGHT”, “Can we go camping there again dad? I want to go swimming in the lake.” “SPRING VALLEY INN THIS WAY”; “Are we almost there dad?” “FRANK LLOYD WRIGHT’S TAL..I.E.SIN, INTERSECTION OF HWY 23 AND COUNTY C”; “What’s that dad? Dad? Dad? Dad!!”; HOUSE ON THE ROCK RESORT, 20 MILES; “Is there a pool at the motel, dad?”, “Dad, I’m thirsty again.”; “Gotta go dad!” Will pushed down on the accelerator.

There were more signs: SPRING GREEN’S FARMERS MARKET AND CRAFT SHOW along State road 60 and HILLSIDE HOME SCHOOL BY FRANK LLOYD WRIGHT AT TALIESIN INTERSECTION OF HIGHWAY 23 AND COUNTY C. Will decided that Taliesin was in the wrong direction and he pointed the Suburban north and east onto County Road C. He drove past the House on the Rock Resort entrance. He drove along the southern edge of Tower Hill State Park. He followed the signs (“If you like Frank Lloyd Wright you’ll love Spring Valley Inn.”) towards Highway 14 and found Spring Valley Inn. It was 5:30 in the afternoon.

From the back seat Rachel and Ryan tumbled out and hit the parking lot running. Will headed for the check-in counter while Jenny surveyed the small lobby and the restaurant named Pat’s Place. Off in the hallway the kids found the vending machines. They came to Will at the check-in counter and tugged on his shirt, asking for some change. Found changed some money with the owner of the inn and then gave the kids a handful of nickels, dimes and quarters.

“They are not gonna eat dinner if you do that.” Jenny scolded Will. “Ah, it’s a vacation trip. They can have some fun. I’ll make sure they eat something good tonight.” Will assured Jenny as he grabbed the room pass keys from the counter. Jenny rolled her eyes in disapproval. On the way to the room they found the kids in the hallway, their mouths full of something chewy and purple. They were all happy to be out of the car walking around and the kids were especially happy to be in the proximity of some candy. “Before we go to the room let’s go look at the pool.” With dad’s invitation the kids twirled around and ran down the hall to the pool area.

The pool, located at the end of a long hallway in a spacious room, had large picture windows on three sides. The windows afforded a view of a dense 100 year old towering pine forest. Inside the pool area was a hot tub, a sauna, a steam room and plenty of lounge chairs. Will liked what he saw. The kids were ecstatic and Jenny was pleased with the chairs. There was no one in the pool or in the hallway. It looked like they had the place to themselves. “Let’s go back to our room and get ready to go swimming.” Will proposed. “We’ll eat supper later.” They found their room, unpacked their swimming trunks and headed back to the pool. After an hour and a half of swimming and the hot tub they went back to their room and dressed for supper. It was now 8:00 and they would have to hurry. The restaurant closed at 9:00.

Through a screened window near their seats in the small restaurant, the family could hear the lisping call of Cicada. They ordered Italian food. Will and Jenny drank some Italian Chianti. The meal did its magic and it settled their day into quiet reflections, some smiles and a lot of yawning. They went to their room and put the kids into their shared bed. Will and Jenny watched a movie, Die Hard With a Vengeance. Will fell asleep before Bruce Willis’s McClane could save anything.

Monday was spent swimming, eating and touring the surrounding area. They drove to the state park where there was sign posted: Canoeing, Tubing, Kayaking or Camping – Tower Hill State Park along the Wisconsin River area was MADE FOR YOU. They spent the afternoon at the Spring Green Craft Show and Farmer’s Market. They ate more Italian food before bed and settled in for a second night. The movie that night was a recent release of Pearl Harbor.

In the morning, Will pulled the drapes open. Tuesday morning looked wet and dismal. The kids slowly got out of bed and began eating from their little boxes of cereal. Will went down the hall to Pat’s Place and bought some blueberry muffins and some coffee. He brought them back to their room. After breakfast they all decided to head down to the pool. They would swim until the sun came out later in the day, as forecast.

Will played with Rachel and Ryan, chasing them through the pool and making them squeal. After some time, Will told Jenny that he would check out the steam room. They had the pool area to themselves that Tuesday morning. Will went to the steam room and started the steamer. He waited in the hot tub until he could see the steam completely fogging the window of the little glass room. He got out of the hot tub and went through the tiled room entrance to the steam room. As he did, he stepped on a slippery spot near the floor drain. His right leg went straight sideways to the right and his left leg went the other direction. He landed on the floor, wrenching in pain. He had pulled a groin muscle down his right leg. The pain was tremendous. He gathered himself up by holding to a railing nearby. He could barely walk. He rubbed his leg and hobbled over to the door. He called to Jenny. “I just slipped on this floor and really pulled my leg muscle. It really, really hurts.” “Ouch. Are you gonna be OK? Jenny yelled. “I think I need to wait and see. It hurts like crazy. I’m gonna sit in the steam room and rub the muscle and see if that helps.” He turned as he was speaking and, holding the hand rail slowly, walked to the steam room and went in. The intense steam made the air sweltering hot. Sweat dripped down from Will’s head; rivulets of moisture moved down his frame toward the floor. After fifteen minutes he left the room carefully, limping as he went. He made his way over to the pool, sat down and slowly eased into the cool water. His right leg hurt more than wanted to admit. They were there to have fun and he didn’t want to spoil that time for his family.

After an hour, Will and Jenny and the kids returned to their room. Will switched on the TV set while he helped the kids with their wet swimsuits. Onto the screen in the dark room came a stark outline of New York City: the Statue of Liberty holding its torch above two smoking towers. A tremulous voice, full of shock, spoke uneasy words. The reporter scrambled for phrases to describe the horrors he did not understand. With the announcement of the deaths of hundreds of people, the word terrorist had become alive.

Will kept watching the TV in shock. President Bush was about to speak to an elementary school in Florida – someone’s whispering to the President. Unflagging, the president now heard what no American had ever wanted to hear. Will looked for a tell-tale sign of terror in the etched lines of the President’s subdued and controlled face. He saw the piercing of the American armor – her good nature. The disposition of America changed from confident and trusting to one of grief and fear and of a newly found anger.

Terrorism. A word that seemed so foreign to Will’s midwestern mindset was now close to home. Why here in the U.S.? He wondered why anyone would hate so much so as to kill innocent people. What were they thinking? What can you gain by shedding innocent blood? Did the terrorists really think that they could frighten us with their acts of mindless valor? Box cutters? Innocent people: Twin towers of innocent people; four airplanes of innocent people. Two-thousand nine hundred seventy-four innocent people. It was a mass murder Crusade, a death wish without liberty and justice for all who were murdered. Did they think that we, the American people, could be brought to our knees with their cowardly acts of terror in our own homeland?

“Dad, what’s happening?” “Why, dad?” Will didn’t answer. His blank stare revealed his unspeakable response:

America does not beget terrorists. America begets free people, people who freely give to other nations of their money, their time, their trade and their friendship. America is not a perfect nation with perfect people. It is a nation of free will, free choice, free speech and, at one time, of personal responsibility. A nation where people like American film director Robert Altman can say without fear of reprisals “When I see an American flag flying, it’s a joke.” It is also a nation of patriots that says, “Give me liberty or give me death.” To which these terrorists respond “we give them death”. By any measure, America did not deserve this Kamikaze death wish by ‘wannabe’ martyrs who knew nothing of the lives of the blameless people they would destroy. What kind of mad-hoc country or religion is it that begets citizens and then hijacks their souls causing them to eagerly say, “I wish to die and embrace martyrdom”? Then, they kill themselves along with hundreds of innocent people: “Don’t you know, you citizens of America that we terrorists kill only infidels and not infants, freedoms and not families, persons and not people? Thank Allah for being so kind-hearted.” Did Allah bring these terrorists to their knees for this? Maybe Allah knows that the dead no longer have a free will. The dead no longer struggle in the ways of God.

The television reports continued. Will listened clenching his right leg which was throbbing with pain. He couldn’t believe the devastation to the World Trade Twin Towers. He couldn’t understand our own country’s exposure to these terrorists. He had no words other than, “My God.” After getting dressed and packing up their stuff, Will went to the front desk to check out while his family loaded the Suburban. The sky had cleared but Will was downcast and driven. He had never imagined anything, anything like this. He just wanted to get his family safely home before something else happened.

Will drove them home. He drove past Taliesin. He drove past the House On the Rock. He drove past Governor Dodge State Park, past Dodgeville, past the Hill of the Mounds, past Madison, past Janesville. He drove through the fertile dairy lands of Wisconsin into the astringent, business-like land of Lincoln, through the bunched car reservoirs of toll gates and onto Route 59 straight south and home. He drove on, his pained right leg pressing his right foot which was pressing the accelerator, not saying a word until he reached their street: “We’re home.”

He pulled into the driveway and stopped short at the edge of the sidewalk. Before him lay a wind snapped maple tree. It was wedged across the driveway, its top branches having struck a shard path into the house through the dining room window. Jenny said, “Oh, my god!” She jumped out of the car, grabbed the mail and the plastic bog of newspapers and headed inside to call her family. Rachel and Ryan scooted out the car’s back door and went down the street looking for their friends. Will, now alone, looked out the windshield at the fallen tree and then looked into the rear view mirror at the car load of clothes, toys, books and stuff. He got out of the driver’s side and looked at the sun descending behind the garage. It would be dark soon.

That night Will finished clearing the tree and the car after midnight. Jenny and the kids were already tucked in and sleeping soundly. He stood on the back porch, looking out through the black screen. He listened to the sound of night in his neighborhood: the distant come-and-go commuter; the dog, Oliver, being let out next door; the cricket’s see-saw chirps; the garish sound of a carnival somewhere in town and the gush of a prayer he heard himself mutter. He was exhausted. He locked the doors, shut off the lights and headed upstairs. He lay down on his familiar bed and turned his head into the pillow. His mind accelerated through the rolling pastureland and up to the tree-blocked driveway, he saw again the smoking towers and the black and blue swath left on his leg by the pulled groin muscle. He heard again the unsure voices of stunned reporters describing the “Attack” and the “terrorists” and the simple voices of his children still asking “How much longer, daddy?” He fell into a fitful sleep, into a deciduous dream: he saw the east coast and the Statue of Liberty; he saw the west coast and a house built on a cliff. The house fell onto the sand and was swept into the ocean; he knew the name of the house: “Responsibility”; a verdigris arm holding a torch above two smoking steel matches, a shiny nickel rolling out from between two narrow buildings; words, “In God We Trust” embossing a black and blue sky, a news reporter announcing that cows have died on hills, the land under them ebbing from spilled acid, an edge of a puzzle missing; a die cut shape. A great vacuous silence awoke him at 5:01. He opened his eyes. The dream vanished in a second. He slowly pulled himself out of bed, carefully moving his right leg out of the bed covers. He gradually stood up. He went to the kitchen and made some coffee. He took a shower, got dressed and then left for work. He didn’t know what the day had in store for him. He only knew that in the land of the free and the home of the brave he would raise his two children to love what is good and to stand firm against the crushing blows of evil.

© Sally Paradise, 2010, All Rights Reserved

Filed under Human Interest, Short Story, Uncategorized Tagged with , , , ,

Together Life

June 30, 2009 Leave a comment

Together Lifepenguin_pair

 (Living with gender dysphoria) 

Born one way,

          Alive another.

Dysphoria.

Neurosis?  No.

Psychosis?  No.

Gnosticism?  No.

Birth trauma?  No.

Original sin network? Probably.

Original child?  Yes.

Anomaly?  Yes.

Why?

Womb designed:

“You have possessed my reins, You covered me in my mother’s belly.”

Estrogen informed inheritance now a

                                                Concave mystery.

The diagnosis     outside the womb:

I am defined by anger-

                    “We don’t like what we don’t understand.” And,

                    “This must be sin, a mental malady.”

We need a label for this can of worms.

          Black and white must exist as separate strata.

          Grey must be painted black.  Restore order.

                    “Things must be done decently and in order.” And,

                    “We’ll call it homosexuality, perversion, lack of truth, neurosis.”

A preconceived label reveals the toxic ingredients to the weak of heart and stomach.  Not socially viable. 

-I find a new family,

 Formed with friendships,

                   Extending beyond the continents of fear.

 It draws me into uncrossed arms

 Nesting my being,

 Wombing me.

-Grace and mercy now affix their approval onto my head with a kiss.

          (My Lord accepts me as His daughter.)

 He has many names for me.  These endearments are hush-hush.

 These names and many other things are spoken from His lips

 To my understanding

 To my DNA:

          A shepherd boy, a shepherd girl-

          “Man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart.”

          A shepherd girl slays the giant red dragon

          With a slingshot of prayer and stones of faith, faith in the one who is immutable,

           Yet, He changes m  a  t  t  e  r before our eyes.

“Man by the pool, what do you want?

“I want to be whole, Lord.”

Symbiosis?  Yes.

Living from inside out

Life aligned.

Whole.

          Dysphoria dies, yet

I am alive, as one reined in and re-knitted.

Heaven undisguised.

***

© Sally Paradise, 2010, All Rights Reserved

Filed under Christian, gender, Human Interest, Poems, Transgender Tagged with ,

FAITH

June 28, 2009 Leave a comment

 

Faith…

Inopportune

Scary

Tried and true

Worthy

Foolish

Without finite

Favorite

Generous

Gone to the Wind

Apocalyptic and

Analgesic

 

By faith…

“Come”

“Walk”

“See”

“Move”

“You feed them”

“Go”

“Tell…

It is finished.”

 

 

***

Faith:

My father, my mother

My brothers, my sister.

My faith.

***

Without faith it is impossible

to please

Him.

© Sally Paradise, 2010, All Rights Reserved

Filed under Christian, Human Interest, Poems Tagged with

Father’s Day 1985

June 25, 2009 Leave a comment

Riyadh_Skyline_NewFather’s Day 1985. I have good reason to remember that day: I was in Saudi Arabia when I called my father to wish him “Happy Father’s Day!” It was 9:30 pm Jubail time and about 9:30am in Chicago on that Sunday when I placed the call to my father. I had traveled to Saudi Arabia as an engineer/tech to start up some equipment that our company had sold to a Texas pipeline company. This new equipment would help Saudi Arabia pipe Saudi oil to waiting oil tankers on the Persian Gulf. I happened to arrive during the Saudi Islamic spiritual observance known as Ramadan. It was time of fasting, intense heat and scorched ground. It was the beginning of June and I thought I would be home by Father’s Day.

My journey to this Middle Eastern country was a long passage of connecting airline flights starting from Chicago. First I flew to Kennedy airport in New York and lay over there for several hours. Then I flew to Amsterdam and lay over there for several hours. Then I flew to the Dhaharan International Airport on the eastern coast of Saudi Arabia. I arrived about 12:30 am. Our plane was greeted by short (they all seemed short to me) khaki uniformed Saudi soldiers who searched each passenger’s luggage for social and spiritual contraband, things like glamour magazines, Bibles, etc. (I had already learned that Christians were persecuted in Saudi Arabia). After going into customs, being questioned about where I was staying (I didn’t know) and where I was working (I gave them a business card that said, “BREDERO PRICE MIDDLE EAST LTD”. They understood immediately.), then finally having my passport stamped, it was 2:00 in the morning. I walked towards the front door of the airport with my small suitcase and saw a placard being waved with my name written on it. I was relieved and scared at the same time since I understood no Arabic and I couldn’t read any of the airport signs.  I could only read my name bouncing up and down. The man waving the card greeted me in his language, said something else I didn’t understand and then waved me over to his car, a 1980 Mercedes Benz 380SL, parked at the curb.

I loaded my small suitcase into the trunk of his car and then he had me sit in the back seat. He proceeded to drive almost sightlessly through the desert at 140km/hr (about 86 mph). The two headlights hardly made an impact on the night. Blowing sand and dust filled our vision on the road before us. I saw other cars when they passed beside us and sometimes I saw camel legs. I prayed to arrive safely to wherever we might be going. A hotel, soon, I hoped. I didn’t know what the driver was told to do with me.

We finally arrived at a hotel, a Sheraton Hotel, in Jubail, Saudi Arabia. Jubail is an industrialized city on the east coast of Saudi Arabia near the Persian Gulf. During the day, one could see petrochemical plants rising out of the floating desert heat. At night, one could see the glowing gold light of the petrochemical plants and black spouts with fire shooting upwards, fires that burned off excess oil. The rising smoke created carbon black pillars in the Saudi twilight.

Inside the hotel there was more lack of communication between me and the driver and me and the hotel keeper. I was given a key to a room. I felt slightly better. I found my way upstairs and then found my room. The room looked at lot like other western hotel rooms except for the bidet in the bathroom. I turned on the TV. On several channels people were shown praying in Mecca and others making their pilgrimage to Mecca. I learned, later that day, that it was Ramadan. Another channel had a British news service. I found an American channel that played Andy of Mayberry and I Dream of Jeannie reruns 24/7. It was a TV oasis of back home sitcoms. I set the alarm for six o’clock in the morning. Two hours of sleep is all I that I would get that night.

In the morning I found the hotel restaurant near the lobby downstairs. Because of Ramadan, the Muslims were fasting during the daylight hours, from dawn to sunset, so the restaurant was empty except for me. I ordered black coffee and Swiss muesli. This was my daily breakfast the entire time I spent in Saudi Arabia. As I was reading the menu, someone approached me, a foreigner, and said in English, “When you are done with your breakfast I will drive you to the work site.” The English words were comforting. I had pointed out my food selections to the waiter and he hurried back with the coffee. I felt dog tired with only two hours of sleep. I was still on my Chicago time clock. I should be getting ready for dinner and then for bed. I finished breakfast and signed the check over to my room number. Someone was paying the bill but I didn’t know who.

I met my driver outside the hotel and he scurried me off to the work site several miles away. I was informed of the ‘rules’ of Saudi life and was basically told to stay in the car, stay in my hotel and stay at the work site. I had decided to dress and to appear as a male so that I wouldn’t receive many looks along the way, except, I believed, for my Swedish light skin and my short reddish-blond hair. I wore a baseball cap. As we drove, I saw Bedouin shepherds moving their sheep across the highways, highways populated with tall palm trees. We arrived at the work site, a collection of construction trailers and low open buildings, many with corrugated roofs and no walls, out in the barren sand field. The only shade was beneath the wavy silver roofs which deflected the sun.

I met with the site foreman and the rest of the crew. The foreman’s name was Rusty. He was from Ireland. The crew made up of all males, were from various parts of the world. There were several Australians, some Danes, one Austrian, some Germans, some Filipinos, some Brazilians and several Brits. They had come to Saudi Arabia to earn a lifetime of money in just a few short years of work. The oil company paid a high wage for foreign workers with good pipefitting/mechanical experience. I was added to their group during my time in Saudi. I was teased because of my appearance: I did look foreign (I’m Swedish and Dutch) just like them but I also looked somewhat male and somewhat female and I easily sunburned. I had to wear tee shirts because of the extreme heat. Every day I would become soaked with sweat. I just teased them back and we got along fine. Many members of this crew had been working at this site for several years. Several were getting ready to go home and retire – at 35 years of age! They had their “nest egg” as they called it. They would finally get to see their wives and their families. They weren’t being held hostage by the company or the Saudi people. It was just that the money they made working everyday, overtime and weekends was incredible. It sounded tempting to me except for the extreme heat and the fact that I was a woman in Saudi Arabia. I would only be working and going to my hotel and doing it under cover, at that. I would become a dried up fig, I imagined.

That first morning on the site I saw the new equipment which my company had shipped to the Bredero Price site. The equipment, a plastic extruder for oil pipe coating, had been installed by the crew under a corrugated roof out on a field of sand. The equipment, they said, was ready to start up. I spent the entire day reviewing the installation and getting my bearings in the scorching June heat. Noon came around and I was invited to the canteen for lunch. The food, basically variations of American food that I knew, was prepared on site. I enjoyed the taste of the hometown food and the camaraderie of the crew. It was during lunch that I learned about each of them and their families. I saw wallet tattered pictures of their wives and kids. After lunch we each grabbed two one liter bottles of water and headed back to work. The bottled water was necessary because the local water was undrinkable and each of us would sweat at least two liters a day through our clothes. The mid day Saudi temperature was 42 degrees C (108 degrees F). I also worked on the heated plastic extruder, so I was doubly parched. I couldn’t drink water fast enough.

The work itself was challenging. I was working alone on the equipment. I had come there to just push buttons but there were problems and parts that needed fixing. I couldn’t directly contact my office because of the difference in time. I had to fax my requests and wait for a reply over night. Someone had to deliver the faxes back and forth to me. All of this interposing communication delayed the commissioning of the equipment. The owners, Bredero Price and the Saudi government, were getting anxious. I didn’t have my passport. It was conscripted at the hotel by Bredero Price. As I learned, they controlled things via the Saudi government. I was more than a little concerned about my situation. I was the one who felt like a hostage. Luckily, as the days passed, I was able to bring the equipment up to working order and only after removing a key component that had failed at start up. I turned that problem over to our company’s sales department and I continued down my start-up path. After two weeks, I was able to create a four foot wide sheet of HDPE plastic, one quarter inch thick. The sheet of plastic exiting the die of the extruder coated a twelve foot diameter oil pipe as the pipe revolved and moved perpendicularly away from the extruder. I was delighted that things had come together. The customer was beginning to see results, too.

My nights in town were spent primarily in front of the TV reruns in my hotel room and in the hotel restaurant trying Middle Eastern food. I liked the lamb shish-kabob with minted yogurt sauce. I finally did venture out into the city in the cool of the evening. I was tired of sitting in my room at night listening to two Saudis making love in the next room. Apparently, it was nightly ritual not related to Ramadan. I dressed in a dark blue linen shirt, blue jeans and a black White Sox baseball hat. I had seen other Americans walking around during my car trips back and forth to the hotel and the work site. I decided to see what was going on outside. I left the hotel and walked down the palm-lined sidewalks.

The first thing I noticed were clusters of Saudi men sitting on the ground smoking water pipes. I watched them from the corner of my eyes as I just kept walking. I went to the market area and walked down the narrow market streets. The crowded little shops were open to the street with pull down shutter doors. These doors were shut during the daily prayer times. I could see the minarets poking above the city skyline. I could hear the loud speaker voice calling the faithful to their prayers. I could see the shop doors being pulled down and locked for half an hour. I would continue to walk and wait till prayer time was over.

The shops were a curious assortment of everyday goods which were sold one shop next to the other. There was a row of watch stores. Then a row of camera stores, a row of women’s clothes stores, a row of men’s clothes stores, rows of food stores, etc. There were little open air cafes along the way. I didn’t try any café food. There were too many flies buzzing around. I took in the smell of mint tea, of shawarma (lamb), grilled chicken and the deep-fried chickpea dish called falafel. I took in the aromas of things I never had smelled before. The heavy enticing smell of Arabic tobacco coming from the water pipes was especially exotic, floating along with other strange scents. I returned to my room for a good nights sleep. I began to feel comfortable being in Saudi Arabia. I would visit the market places again after that, with more courage and more casual curiosity.

Halfway through my stay in Saudi Arabia Father’s Day came up. I knew that I wouldn’t be home to wish my father my love so I decided to call him from the hotel that night. It would be Sunday morning in Chicago. I placed the call on what sounded like very thin wires. My mother answered the phone. I said “Hi” and she knew it was me. She was totally surprised to hear my voice. She asked about how I was doing and other mother questions. She was getting ready to go to church. She gave the phone to my dad. He sounded extremely surprised and very happy that I would call from such a distant place. I wished him “Happy Father’s Day” and told him that I wished that I was at home in Chicago to see him on this day. He was glad that I had called. So was I.

After several weeks of work in the oven of the desert my mission at the job site was completed. The plastic extruder was operating and coating oil pipes 24/7. I finally received my passport back from Bredero Price. I scheduled a flight home via the fax machine. When the day arrived to leave I said goodbye to my new friends. I wished them well. I gathered up my tee shirts and my few belongings, packed my suitcase and headed for the Mercedes waiting for me. I enjoyed the day light ride back to the airport. I could see all that I missed traveling on that first night in the desert. There were men riding camels, sheep and shepherds and goats. There were women in black abayas with their faces half hidden with boshiyas, and hundreds of pilgrims returning from Mecca. I was glad to get to the airport to be going home.

I boarded the direct flight to New York. It would be at least fourteen hours of flying. I found my seat and let my shoulders relax for the first time in weeks. When the plane taxied the runway and then lifted off I was even more relieved. I began to see that the Saudi women were more relieved than I. When the “FASTEN SEAT BELT” light went off most of the Saudi women, mother and daughters, all of them covered from head to toe with their black burqas, headed for the bathrooms. When they came out they were each wearing jeans and typical tops worn by western women. The western transformation took off when the plane no longer touched Saudi soil. I was amazed and happy for them. I felt liberated, too. Father’s Day had past and Mother’s Day was just beginning, for some.

© Sally Paradise, 2010, All Rights Reserved

(Author’s note: This is a true story. Just ask my dad.)

Filed under family, Human Interest, Short Story Tagged with , ,

Almost like Praying

June 4, 2009 Leave a comment

Almost Like PrayingWest Side Story

It is 1967 and that’s all I know about that. I do know that I looked in the mirror tonight and I didn’t see me. What I saw was the face of a thirteen year old girl with a pony tail pulling back on acne plagued skin. The adult woman I had wanted to see was really a decrepit adolescent in the bedroom mirror. This would-be woman, this child, this me with a hint of a baby face, stood in front of her dresser preparing herself for a night with her best friend Jane and Jane’s boyfriend Mick. They invited me along, feeling sorry for me, I think, knowing that I don’t have a boyfriend. If my mirror is any gauge, my chances of getting one are slim to negative. So, I see myself sitting alone in the backseat of Mick’s Chevy Impala Caprice tonight, hiding far from view. All eyes would be focused on Jane and Mick or on Tony and Maria. The three of us were going to the Sky-Hi Drive-In on Route 53 to watch West Side Story. I am just going to try to forget myself, hide my face and just let the movie carry me away in its arms. I wish I had someone to share it with, though. Maybe the gods of love will see me alone in the back seat of Mick’s car as they look down on me from their huge screen throne. Maybe, speaking with their muted voices in merciful tones through little black boxes, they will intervene on my behalf. Or, perhaps not.

As always, I’m not sure what to do with my hair. When I was a young girl it was easy. A pony tail was easy. Now it’s up or down, ratted or flat, sophisticated or playful? And, I’m not sure whether I should be a Greaser or a Climber tonight. In my school Indian Trail Junior High everyone has to be one or the other. The Greasers wear only black: black socks, black shoes, black clothes and black leather jackets; the girls wear black tight skirts and ratted hair above their black Dracula-like mascara staked eye lashes. The Climbers, the ones like me, wear white socks, paisley, plaid and colored school clothes and letter jackets and pink makeup. It doesn’t matter if you are a Climber or a Greaser-acne shows up where it wants to. As usual, tonight I have nothing black to wear except for some Buster Brown shoes that I wear to church. The black church shoes won’t do for the drive in. So, I’ll wear my dark brown penny loafers. But, what do I do about socks? I know, I’ll wear black socks. I’ll be a Greaser and a Climber.

My face is a blotchy patchwork of pointy blemishes. I’ve had it with puberty. I need different skin. This skin isn’t working. My body and clothes are just another battle on the same front. I tug on my dryer shrunk top until I fit inside its shamrock green sheath. My jeans, which I had pulled out of the dryer half an hour ago, are still wet. They will surrender to my lower half after I complete my wrangling dance yoga inside the resisting denim. I’ve done this before.

My friends are going to show up in fifteen minutes and I still am still not made up. This is the first time I would be at a drive-in without my parents. I am pacing myself to the AM radio: Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell are singing, “Ain’t nothing like the real thing, baby… I’ve got to move faster.

I find my purse and I am trying to find my cotton candy pink lipstick somewhere inside. My mom convinced my dad that I was old enough to wear lipstick. Lipstick and some cover stick. (The lipstick was like Chapstick, my mom tells my father. He’s not sure. “It’s good for her lips.” Mom goes on. “Every girl needs cover stick, too.”) No mascara. No blush. No eye shadow. Yet. I dab my face with the cover stick trying to hit every red spot at least twice. I look at my profile standing sideways to the mirror with my eyes shifted right. Then, I turn around and look in the mirror with my eyes shifted left. I apply move cover stick. I look straight into the mirror. There is a rose bud on my nose. More cover stick. I don’t see the pretty girl there I used to know. Pretty is not going to happen tonight. Where are my shoes? “Mom?” I yell downstairs.

“Honey,” my dad yells from the living room, “Your mother’s on the phone. She can’t talk right now. She’s talking to Jane’s mom.”

“Oh, no. Now what? Something’s coming.”

“Jane’s mom said they are on the way. They got a late start.” My mom talks to me from the bottom of the stairs. “Your shoes are under your bed, remember?”

“Whew.” I grab my shoes and do more denim leg stretching as I bend over to get them. I walk to the hallway and I take a last look at myself in the hallway mirror. “Ugh.” The figure I see is an embarrassing collision of childhood and adulthood, of Climber and Greaser. I want to go back to my room and hide. I take another look and I think that it is getting dark soon and my “ghastly” appearance won’t matter. Besides, I’ve wanted to see West Side Story. I turn around and pause to think about what I need for tonight’s movie: I have my baby sitting money. I have my lipstick. I have my comb. Where’s my good luck pink troll key chain? Ah, I remember. It’s under my pillow.

I head downstairs and my dad says, “Hi, beautiful. Have fun tonight. I’ll be waiting up.”

“Dad, I’m gross.”

“No your not, sweetie.”

“Dad, I am, too.”

“No, No, No.” Dad protests.

Mom says, “They’re here.” Then she says, “Oh, there is someone in the back seat of Mick’s car. I wonder who that is. Jane’s mom didn’t mention that there would be someone else going with. Did Mick and Jane pick him up on the way over? I wonder.”

So do I. I look out the window and see Mick and Jane in the front seat of the Caprice and in the back seat is Juan from school. “Oh, god!” Now my dad is looking out the window, too and I say, “Mom and dad get away from the window. Quick!”

Maybe we should go say “Hi” to them and see who this is? My dad talks to my mother.

“Good idea. You go first.” My mom responds.

I stand on the front door porch. I see my parents talking to Mick and Jane parked in the driveway. My dad is now talking to Juan. He shakes his hand as he does with everyone he meets for the first time. I see him smiling. I hear a scream inside of me. I look horrible and Juan, a Greaser, always looks so cool. The scream is edging upwards towards my mouth. A flood of terror rushes through my heart like a tidal wave. I take out my pocket mirror for one last look. I see my dad and mom heading towards me. I am almost fainting. I turn and face the house.

“Honey, Mick and Jane picked up Juan on the way over to our house. Juan is Mick’s friend and I guess Juan didn’t have anything to do tonight, so they picked him up. I will call Jane’s mom and let her know that he is going along. I talked to Juan. He seems like a nice kid. He says that he is in some of your classes. Is that true?”

“Yeah, dad. I didn’t think anyone would be around to see me except Mick and Jane. I look gross.”

“Honey, all I can tell you is that you look pretty, tonight. Don’t worry. Have fun watching the movie and come home right afterwards, as you promised. I told Mick to bring you right home after the movie. Here’s some money for a Coke and some popcorn. I know that you wanted to see this movie. You have been talking about it since it came out, since you sang some of the songs in chorus.”

“I do want to see it, dad, but maybe some other time. Maybe…”

“Marianne,” my mother says my name when she wants my attention, “Marianne,” her voice lowers, “your skin looks fine. I like your hair down and your lipstick is just right. You may feel embarrassed about how you look but your father and I see a beautiful young lady. Go ahead and have some fun. We’ll be waiting for you later and you can tell us how it goes. OK?”

“All right, mom. I’ll go. I’m very nervous, though. My stomach feels like it’s in a pillow fight. I’ll go. I see you later.” With that I head over to Mick’s car and get in the back seat behind Mick. Juan smiles over at me and says, “Hi, Marianne.” And, I say, “Hi.”

From the front seat Jane turns around and says, “You look great Mare. I like that lipstick.”

I see Mick looking in the rear view mirror. “Thanks. Hi Mick.”

Mick backs the car down the driveway and says “Hi, kiddo. Juan wanted something to do tonight so I invited him along. Is that OK?”

“Ah, yeah, I guess so.”

“Good” Mick smiles back in the mirror.

I lean toward my window and look out. I don’t know what to say to Juan so I’m just going to wait for him to talk. I’ve seen him at school in the hallways and waiting in line to go into the school building. I now remember him looking at me when our school was evacuated during a bomb scare. He was in the crowd with the Greaser girls but he was looking over at me standing with my girl friends. Now I remember Juan.

Five minutes later, “Marianne, you look swell.” Juan speaks to me while combing his hair straight back.

“Thanks, Juan. You look nice, too.”

“Did you hear about Mrs. Rhoades? She’s leaving the school. I guess she’s too old to teach.”

“Yeah, she must be a hundred years old. She was always nice to me but she got angry with some of the kids, mostly the Grea…” I stopped myself.

“Yeah, you’re right. She was very strict. I won’t miss her.” Juan looked over to me.

“She was nice to me. I’m not sure why.” I looked over at Juan. He was trying to get a black forelock to stay in a curl.

“I hear that you are in the band. What instrument do you play?”

“I play the French horn.”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“It’s a brass instrument.”

“Like a trumpet?”

“Well, a French horn is round with a lot of tubes and a big bell where the sound comes out. It has a small mouthpiece. It takes a lot of air to play and it heavy to carry but I like it.”

“Cool.” Juan replies, sitting slightly forward from the seat. (I think he does that so he won’t mess his hair.) “I play the radio.” Juan laughs to himself.

I break into Mick and Jane’s conversation. “Hey Jane, put on WLS. I want to hear some music.”

Jane turns on the radio and finds 890 AM. The Hollies are singing Just One Look. I sing the words to myself as I look at my orange-pink reflection in the car window. Outside the window the sunset is washing the sky like an art class project.

We arrive at the Sky-Hi and we buy our tickets. The ticket guy checks the trunk to make there is no alcohol and no food hidden anywhere. We drive in and find a good spot in the middle about half way to the screen. All around are cars driving into their uphill spots, the car windows begin rolling down. I hear music everywhere, from every car. There are people walking to the concession stand and coming back with window trays full of food. I sit back and wait. I don’t want to be the first one in the car to get some popcorn.

Finally Mick says, “Hey, everyone let’s get our food now before this thing gets started.” We all say “Yeah” and we get out of the car. Mick and Jane walk hand in hand while I walk with Juan a few feet apart. I felt like we were being watched by everyone, that we were the movie, yet I felt safely obscure.  I wasn’t alone at the drive in and all eyes weren’t focused on me, just on our group.  At least, that’s how I pictured the way our audience of inclined viewers would view us.

At the concession stand I get a medium Coke and medium bag of popcorn. Juan gets some nachos with jalapeno and a Coke. Mick and Jane share a large bucket of buttered popcorn and a large Coke. We head back to the car. From the overhead loudspeakers I hear the Monkees sing, “I’m a Believer.” I notice as we walk back to the car that there are ascending pillars of cigarette smoke coming from many open car windows. Each pillar has an extended arm attached. The approaching midnight blue sky consumes the grey smoke while dancing on the giant screen, behind the plumes of smoke is Mr. Popcorn and Mrs. Cola.

We return to the car and listen to WLS until the sun disappears and darkness pulls in front of us. We can hear the cars around us and all the chatter of voices coming from those cars. Out of our speaker box comes the voice of the drive-in announcer telling us to be courteous to our neighbors and to not make a lot of noise. He tells us: “There are bathrooms behind the concession stand.” The previews begin with a commercial about the concession stand food: popcorn, nachos, hot dogs, Coke, Seven-Up, Jujubes, Milk-Duds, Affy-Tapples…. Hmmm, Milk Duds sound good. The previews start to appear on the screen. Car horns begin beeping and some guy is shouting “Shut up!” and “Hey, be quiet!” The surrounding murmur siphoned down into the movie sound coming from the little black box hanging on Mick’s open car window:

“The Graduate, opening January 1968… starring Dustin Hoffman, Anne Bancroft and Katherine Ross and directed by Mike Nichols. A movie about an impulsive, rebellious kind of love, but the old-fashioned notion of love conquers all.”…

…“Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner, opening in December, starring Katherine Hepburn, Spencer Tracy, Sidney Poitier, Katharine Houghton…a love story of today. Does love conquer all?”…

…“Thoroughly Modern Millie starring Julie Andrews, James Fox, Mary Tyler Moore, Carol Channing, in the happiest motion picture hit of the year. Directed by George Roy Hill. “You’ve come a long way…”

…“Wait until Dark starring Audrey Hepburn who plays Susy Hendrix, a blind woman who unwittingly becomes involved in three murderous crimnals’ drug scheme. How does a blind woman defend herself? Now playing in a theatre near you.”……Feature Presentation…Technicolor…Now were getting somewhere. At last the movie is beginning. There’s another reminder on the screen to be courteous to our movie neighbors. I sit back and lean a little to the middle of the car to see around Jane’s head. Juan moves his head towards the middle also making sure his hair doesn’t touch the car seat. I can smell his cologne. It’s not like my dads. It smells musky. It smells like a rain forest would smell: fresh, earthy, inviting.

Music begins the movie. The overture fills our small space with jarring and unsettling tritones. The music sounds jazzy, modern and classical. It sounds hip (I got this word from listening to DJ Dick Biondi). The clashing dissonance of the music causes me to wonder about the story. Will it be like Romeo and Juliet? Will there be guys fighting? Will there be romance? “O Romeo, O Romeo…” Juan says that he wants the music to end and the story to begin and yet I see him tapping his hand while looking out his rear window. I crane my neck further toward the front of the car. I want to be closer to the sound. A cool breeze floods the car through the open window. My bare arms are covered with goose bumps. I shiver. Juan remains cool. Mick and Jane continue munching on popcorn while holding hands.

Juan returns his gaze to the screen when two street gangs appear, the American Jets and the Puerto Rican Sharks. The Jets have names like Riff, Action, Diesel, A-Rab, Baby John Big Deal and Ice. The Sharks: Chino, Pepe, Indio Luis, Anxious and Toro. There’s talk of a rumble and a dance. Tony is cute and so is Bernardo. Anita and Maria, two Puerto Rican women, work at a bridal shop. I find out that Bernardo is Maria’s brother and Anita’s boyfriend. Maria wants to wear a new dress to the dance and she asks Anita to make it for her. Maria wants her dress lower in the front but Anita, the older woman, is resisting her. She won’t lower the bust line of the white eyelet party dress for Maria even though Maria insists.

Something is coming. I am beginning to sense it. At the dance the two gangs meet and square off for a dance challenge. I love the warm feminine summer dresses of the Latin women. The rival couples dance the Mambo while doing a version of musical chairs with their dance partners. It doesn’t end well. There is tension everywhere in the room except in the eyes of Maria and Tony. They see each other across the room. They come together and dance. They are falling in love. They kiss warmly and I suddenly I don’t mind the chilly car.

Bernardo, Maria’s brother, does not like what he sees and he pulls them apart. He wants to fight. A war council is set up at Doc’s Candy Store. I don’t get this. Why don’t they just fight at the dance and get it over with. Maybe because the cop is there. I don’t know. After the dance, Tony can’t stay away from Maria. I like this. He finds her apartment window and he serenades Maria. I see myself on the fire escape. “Maria…the most beautiful sound…Maria”. More tritones and more melting. Maria and Tony sing to each other while the two gangs get ready to fight:

“Today the minutes seem like hours…

…Well, they began it!…
The hours go so slowly,

…Well, they began it!…
And still the sky is light.

…And we’re the ones to stop ’em once and for all,
Tonight!…
Oh moon, grow bright,
And make this endless day endless night,

Tonight!”

There’s a war council at Doc’s Candy Store. Now I’m wishing I had bought some Milk Duds. Tony tells Doc about Maria. Doc’s not crazy about the idea but Tony says he is in love. It will be alright. Tony only wants a fair fight. Things are heating up for the Jets and the Sharks and for Tony and Maria. The next day Tony meets Maria at the bridal shop. They dream and I begin to dream…

“I, Anton, take thee Maria…”

“I, Maria, take thee, Anton…”

“For richer, for poorer…”

“In sickness and in health…”

“To love and to honor…”

“From each sun to each moon…”

“From tomorrow to tomorrow…”

“From now to forever…”

“Till death do us part.”

Tony and Maria are holding hands:

“With this ring, I thee wed.”

“With this ring, I thee wed.”

A cool breeze floods in through the open window. I shiver and think to myself, “My hands are cold.” I nest them together on my lap. Juan reaches over and puts his warm hand on top of my left hand. He gently pulls my hands apart and brings our hands to rest on the seat between us. He holds my hand there. I don’t look at him. I don’t know what to do. No one has ever held my hand before. I feel the racing pulse of my wrist in my chest and my throat tightens. I try to swallow. This is all new and all good.

Tony sings:

“Make of our hands one hand.

Make of our hearts one heart

Make of our vows one last vow

Only death will part us now.”

Maria sings:

“Make of our lives one life,

Day after day, one life,”

Now they both sing:

“Now it begins, now we start

One hand, one heart;

Even death can’t part us now.”

“Make of our lives one life,

Day after day, one life,

Now it begins, now we start

One hand, one heart

Even death won’t part us now.”

The movie rolls on but my thoughts are removed from the movie. Instead, I picture myself in the back seat of the car with Juan. I imagine concentric circles of newly found energy flowing out of me. I’m not sure about the end of the movie: There is a fight. I think Bernardo stabbed Riff and then Tony killed Bernardo, Maria’s brother. I think Tony is shot by Chino. The fighting stopped. Maria is waving a gun and saying that it was hatred that killed Tony and the others. Maria is left alone to grieve about Tony. But now, I am outside their story and inside my own. I am sitting in the back seat with Juan, pimples, baby face and all, one hand one heart.

The credits begin to roll and Mick says, “Hey, that was pretty good.”

Everyone says, “Yeah, it was.” I am still not looking at Juan.

“I better get you home, Marianne. You dad’s waiting.”

I cringe under the weight of his words. “OK.”

Mick drives me home. In our driveway he looks in his rear view mirror and then looks over at Jane. He smiles at Jane. Jane doesn’t turn around. She just says, “I’ll call you tomorrow, Mar.”

I say, “OK.” I finally look at Juan. I think I had a shy smirky grin on my face. There was too much blood flowing in my cheeks to feel the words come out of my mouth. “Goodnight, Juan.”

Juan gently squeezes my hand and says, “See ya, Marianne. On Monday.” He gently squeezed my hand again and then let go.

I smile back him and when I do see moon glow sparkle in his dark eyes. I start to speak. “Juan…”, but my words are choked off when my brain decides to stop working. I return to the smile when I get out of the car. The cool night air revives my brain: “See you guys on Monday!  I had a great time! Thanks Mick and Jane. Bye Juan.”

I walk to the front door of my house. Mick waits for me to go in the house like my dad would. I turn and wave a goodbye and smile a smile that I think could be seen a mile away. I go in and shut the door. I lean back on the door. I feel that I had just begun living. I feel my heart racing.  My head is swirling.  I look at my left hand and I see his hand. I feel Juan’s pulse in my hand. I sense his heart beating as my own. The rush of romance feels like an unstoppable prayer.

Dad is sitting in his arm-chair watching his favorite movie Pork Chop Hill. He turns and sees me leaning against the door not moving. “Hey honey, how did it go tonight?”

“Dad, you would like the movie. There were a lot of guys fighting. I guess I’ll just go up to bed. Good night dad.”

“Goodnight, Sweetie. I love you.”

Now I know that I won’t fall asleep for the rest of my life. I will stay awake and be completely alive forever. I will think of Juan and how the movie gods looked down into the back seat of Mick’s Impala Caprice and made a musical out of me with a touch of his hand.

© Sally Paradise, 2010, All Rights Reserved

All Rights Reserved

Filed under Christian, family, Human Interest, Romance, Short Story, Uncategorized Tagged with , , , , ,

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