Ancient Mariner Tales

Awkward Girl

August 29, 2015

 

At twelve

she sprouts up suddenly,

like a roadside weed;

a skinny, awkward, 5’8,”

clumsy, pre-pubescent girl

who wears glasses and plays the cello.

That’s about as nerdy you can get.

 

She slinks along

hunched over at the shoulders,

head down,

eyes focused on her feet,

trying to look smaller, shorter, invisible;

trying to hide the newly emerging breasts

that seem to be always at eye level,

for the boys in her class to gawk at and laugh.

 

But….. just two years later,

it’s all changed.

Boys in her high school classes

are taller than her now,

and she’s blossomed into a beautiful, statuesque,

full busted, blonde bombshell,

who attracts boys

like bears to honey.

 

Still embarrassed a bit by her height,

she dates mostly basketball players,

and inadvertently becomes one of the “in crowd”

and part of the high school elite.

No more the nerdy loser,

a new sense of confidence breeds a smile

that’ll break the hearts,

of most of boys in her class.

 

Along with that great smile,

are those 34Ds,

causing a sensation,

whenever she shows up at the town pool,

in her California bikini.

 

The blond hair and those boobs

are gonna’ be her ticket

out of a blue collar world,

into the “Leave It To Beaver” TV show

middle class life she longs for.

 

That dream crashes and burns at eighteen, though.

Knocked up in her first year of college,

it’s a shot-gun wedding,

followed months later

by a still-born baby girl.

 

The winning smile is gone now,

and the 34Ds?

They’re gorged with milk

waiting for that little girl gone.

 

A marriage doomed from the start:

Seven years of depression,

and fighting memories

of a baby held hopelessly,

for only a moment.

 

The road to middle class Utopia

vanishes before her eyes.

An impending divorce,

leaves her fleeing to New York City.

She reaches out to an old college roommate,

who offers shelter

and eventually,

a blind date with a friend.

When asked what he’s like,

her friend replies, “Hey, he likes blondes with big boobs.

You’re perfect.” “I don’t think I’m ready for this yet.” “Trust me on this one!”

 

In anticipation of this blind date,

the once confident high school “hottie,”

falters back to the awkward,

hunched over, twelve year old.

 

Prepared for the worst,

the blind date offers instead,

a humble, decent looking, blue collar guy.

There is an immediate and strong

mutual attraction on this first date,

and within days, they’re inseparable,

 

The hunched over twelve year old

once again transforms into the buxom blonde.

New found happiness

brings back that endearing smile,

and those 34Ds

are privately admired now

only by her lover.

 

Life takes on a new beginning

with revived hope

of living that middle class dream.

Happy years of travelling, working, sharing a life,

are meticulously documented by her

in countless photos,

hoping to preserve these good memories,

and the deep love they share.

 

By forty

those 34Ds are not quite as firm as they used to be.

She’s starting to get a bit self-conscious about them again,

so now the bikini’s retired

for a one piece bathing suit.

She still looks amazing, and life is good,

so fuck it!

 

Mid-forties,

she detects a lump in her right breast.

It begins a perilous journey,

shared with doctors, surgeons, radiologists,

and that blue collar guy who loves her.

 

Within a year,a second lump is discovered

in her left breast,

requiring more doctors, more surgery,

and briefly, a loss of hope.

That hunched over twelve year old

is back again,

trying to hide the destruction

going on in her chest.

 

Blue collar grit

make her a fighter though,

and she eventually regains

her strength and her life.

The surgeries leave those once proud 34Ds

a good bit smaller,

but ….. hey …… they’re still there

and they’re actually a bit more firm,

than they were at forty.

 

She passes the five year mark,

and a “thumbs up” from her doctors,

offers a big sigh of relief.

 

After ten years,

the painful memories are mostly faded,

but the long thin scar on each breast

remains as a reminder,

of how fine a line there was,

between life and death

 

That awkward twelve year old,

turned blonde bombshell,

matured into a strong, independent,

working professional,

happily married, and a survivor. . .

my wife.

 

Charlie’s Log Cabin Inn

February 28, 2011

 

It’s the late 1940’s,
I‘m six or seven years old,
and it’s a blistering hot August afternoon. 
I’m on my grandmother’s back lawn
in rural South Jersey, watching,
as Uncle Leon removes the wooden washboard
from Gram’s large metal washtub.
He places it carefully against a post
on the side of the back porch.
With little effort,
he lifts one side of the large tub
and tips it over.
A wave of soap and bleach water
foams out across the lawn
and slowly soaks into the ground.
I watch and wait.
Moments later, big fat night crawlers
start popping up
through the grass and suds,
like magic.
I grab ‘em and stash ‘em
in a Maxwell House coffee can.
I spread a little dirt on them,
cover it with wax paper,
put a rubber band around the wax paper,
and poke a fork through  it,
leaving four tiny holes for air.
I stash the can in the shade under the porch,
to save ‘em, for when I go fishing.

Uncle Leon takes my hand, walks me across the lawn,
and down the side of the road about 20 yards.
We pass our neighbor “Charlie The Goat Man’s” house.
We cross over the blacktop,
and head down a narrow dirt road,
passing Chicken Yocci’s house……
He’s the weird neighbor
that all the kids are afraid of.
I push in close to Uncle Leon’s leg
and hold his hand tight, as we pass,
hoping Chicken Yocci won’t put the “Maloccio” on me.

​

We cut through an opening in a split rail fence,
encircling a lawn,
with a long, low, log cabin in the center.
There are old wagon wheels, propped up with logs on the lawn. 
It looks like a stage coach stop
in a John Wayne western movie.
As we get closer to the cabin door,
a bright neon sign flashes “Charlie’s Log Cabin Inn”. 
Uncle Leon pushes open the heavy wooden door …….
I’m wild with excitement,
and about to fall down the rabbit hole forever.

​

The darkness blinds me for a moment,
but I feel the cool air of the room on my cheeks...
there’s the smell of cigarette smoke, ash trays, beer, and peanuts. 
I hear a Phillies game on the radio. 
Eddie Waitkus is on second,
Richie Ashburn hits a homer and ties up the game.

​

As my eyes slowly adjust,
I can make out a dim light over a circular bar,
in a large open room,
with hot beams of intense sunlight,
shooting across the floor from tiny windows.
There’s some booths in the back, a juke box, a shuffle board, 
a cigarette machine by the door,
and a pinball machine against the front wall.
It’s an old Gottlieb machine
with Lil’ Abner and Daisy Mae
painted on the glass,
and Daisy May is wearin’
a really low cut, tight fittin’ blouse.

​

My uncle picks me up,
sits me up on the bar, and pulls up a stool.
He orders a coke for me and a beer for himself.
He winks at me,
and shares the knowing smile,
of two pals on “road trip.”
He pops a stick match with his fingernail,
and lights up a Lucky Strike,
while the bartender draws his beer.

​

The bartender yells over,
“Hey kid, what’s your name?”
I softly answer, “Phillip”. 
He comes back from the register,
hands Uncle Leon the beer,
and offers me a handful of nickels
painted with red nail polish.
“Ever play pinball, Phillip?”
My face lights up like a neon sign.
I nod a silent “yeah, yell a quick “Thanks”,
and leap from the bar,
one hand full of red nickels,
the other full of peanuts,
arms raised triumphantly in the air,

I make a mad dash for Daisy Mae,
wearin’ a shit-eatin’ grin,
wider than the Grand Canyon….
For me, that moment remains frozen in time
forever ……….
“I knew I found my home.”

.....................................................................................

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Johnny Boy

If there was an internet in 1955 and you could Goggle “Juvenile Delinquent”, Johnny Boy’s name and picture definitely would pop up first.

 

He’s the best looking, most athletic, and most evil person I have ever met.  He’s 6’2”, blonde; blue eyed, and heavily muscled for a teenager.  He is Marlon Brando, James Dean, and Elvis… all rolled up in one really bad-ass “Greaser”. 

​

Every girl in the neighborhood is in love with him and every guy is scared shitless of him.  We all want to be him, be like him, or at least, be around him.  I’m allowed to hang around with him only because of my sister. I do shit jobs for him just so I can tag along with the "older" guys; I’m a freshman; they’re juniors…. In high school that’s a big deal.

Johnny Boy’s parents never seem to be home. He regularly has card games in his mom’s kitchen. I run for cigarettes and coffee.  I also mix drinks for them from bottles of Seagram’s Seven that Johnny Boy and I liberate from the local bar.   He conveniently leaves a cellar door unlocked when he delivers kegs of beer for his father’s beer distributing business.  On our way out, we grab handfuls of quarters
for the poker game, from the cash register. Johnny Boy and his buddies play poker for quarters, while I mix “7&7s” for them sneaking sips from the bottle until I’m very drunk.

Johnny Boy is walking me around the neighborhood to sober me up and we stroll through the commuter train parking lot.  Johny Boy is trying out car doors, looking for an open one.  He slides in behind the wheel of a '49 Chevy and  “hot wires” the ignition with silver foil from his cigarette pack, while I watch and learn.  He presses the starter button, the engine kicks over and we head for US Route 1.  Johnny Boy looks over at me, smiles, and says, “We’re goin’ to Miami.”  I’m really scared but also very excited.  I say nothing. I nod my head, force a smile,  and light up an unfiltered Chesterfield King.   I try to look “cool”, like I do this shit all the time.  It’s dark in the car, so I’m hoping Johnny Boy doesn’t notice my hands are shaking.

 

In Maryland we pick up a hitchhiker who calls himself “Radar.”   He gets to ride shotgun and I have to move to the cramped back seat. 
Radar and Johnny Boy talk a lot.  Radar is nineteen, been in prison, and he and Johnny Boy seem to have a lot in common.  I feel myself slowly become invisible.

​

When we stop for gas in Virginia, the gas jockey asks for the gas cap key. Without hesitating, Johnny Boy gets out of the car, walks casually back to the gas cap, and easily twists it off, breaking the lock.  The teenaged attendant doesn’t say a word as Johnny Boy smiles at him and gets back in the car with the gas cap.  The kid seems clearly impressed.  We speed out of the station with the open gas tank streaming a trail of splashing gasoline.   I’m hoping Johnny Boy doesn’t throw his cigarette butt out the open window.

​

Around midnight, we’re deep in South Carolina, with Radar driving.   He pulls off the road into the woods where we sleep in the car ‘til sunup.  I wake up and have to pee real bad.  I get out of the car and walk a bit into the woods. I hear the engine start and turn quickly to see the rear wheels sliding and kicking up wet leaves.  Johnny Boy and Radar drive off.

 

At first I think they’re only messing with me, but after an hour, I get it……. they’re not coming back. I’m shittin’ myself…. I’m fourteen and in the middle of nowhere, with no money.  My stomach’s growling, I’m out of cigarettes, and my mouth tastes like ass.  Late in the morning I finally hitch a ride. I give the driver a sad story about how the last guy I got a ride with, took my money and left me in the woods. I don’t know if he really believes me, but he’s kind and buys me meals. Fourteen hours later, he amazingly leaves me off on Route 1, not far from where I started.

 

I’m afraid to go home that night because my parents will be there.  I remember that the American Legion Post is closed in August. I climb a tree and open an unlocked second floor window.  I spend the weekend drinking beer, eating pretzels and chips, and shooting pool. When I get bored, I fire off blank rounds from an old WWI Springfield rifle.

 

My father has me declared a “chronic run-away.” I have to go to court when I do go home. When the judge ask me why I continually run away from home, I snidely tell him, “My father’s too cheap to take us on a vacation..” …which is mostly true.

​

Jump ahead two years to my last adventure with Johnny Boy:
He’s breaking into bar at night with a tire iron. He’s not subtle and it’s noisy. Someone calls the police.  Johnny Boy runs a lot faster than I do. I don’t rat him out and that costs me a night in jail, a beating by my father, six months probation, and I lose my driver’s license for a year.

 

I’m expecting at least a grateful wink next time I see him but he just points his finger at me and laughs his ass off.  My mother has been charmed by Johnny Boy for a long time and only makes my sister break up with him, when he goes to prison for a two year stretch.

I’m hoping he gets to share a cell with a hard core “lifer” who makes him his bitch.

......................................................................

Yingchao

 

It’s 1998.  I have a coworker who was born and raised in Communist China. He has a Doctorate in Computer Science from some Ivy League school.  I’m here to replace him. We work together for several months,

without much interaction.  We often stay after normal work hours,

finishing up whatever project we’re involved in. One night I take a break and go out. I come back with a six pack of Chinese beer under my arm.

We sit and drink together. He talks plainly and openly, for the first time.  His wife is expecting twins any day now. He isn’t really crazy about computers. He left China in search of freedom, but now feels trapped in a career, and marriage he chose before he had a chance to experience freedom in America.  His dream of freedom and being a real American now, is playing guitar in a rock band in the village. He loves Rock & Roll;  plain and simple. Yinchao Zhang, rock on. This one’s for you:

 

The words

seem exhaled,

almost in a whisper.

Eyes downcast,

in what seems,

a traditional,

Eastern deference.

he extends his hand.

My name is Yinchao Zhang.

 

Yingchao Zhang!

To my Western ear,

this is the sound

of a dissonant, bluesy chord,

bent and blasted

through the amp

of a brightly polished

1968 Fender Strata-Caster,

then released,

to a set of giant ,

AR7 “Voice Of The Theatre”

rock speakers.

 

He works silently,

alone at his desk,

fingers constantly in motion,

scanning the keyboard,

for answers

from the gods of Unix.

Only an incessant clicking

marks his presence.

 

His mind,

daily attacks the universe,

with machine gun bursts,

of numbers,

demanding truth

and resolution.

 

The cool, quiet,

controlled demeanor,

consistently betrayed,

by bursts of brilliant exuberance;

the flowers of discovery.

 

But In daydreams,

his hands lovingly

grasp the handles

of the bright, new,

twins stroller,

as he proudly propels

his new creations

through smiling

New York streets.

 

Yet, in the quiet of his heart,

these same hands

slide smoothly along

the highly polished neck

of that Fender Strata-Caster,

forming chords that speak,

his true soul.

 

In a Friday night

smoke filled , purple haze,

“Village joint,”

looking “real cool”

behind those John Lennon,

pin spot sunglasses,

bent into the guitar,

like a question mark

Keith Richards.

Yingchao Zhang,

“Rock ON!”