Everything Else - Jo B. Paoletti

Sewing skilz

5/11/2017

I swear, the prompts get worse every day. But the typo (?) makes it all worth while.

Your company sends you to meet a costumer at their house. It’s a standard, nice neighborhood. You ring and ring but nobody answers. The door is ajar, and you enter, calling aloud. All is in order in the living room apart from an overturned potted plant on the expensive-looking rug…

"Hello, hello?!" I shouted louder and louder as I walked into the foyer. It was more than a bit creepy, between the slightly open front door and the immaculately clean living room. I was supposed to meet the famously reclusive Nanalee Wendy Ross, to discuss the costume designs for my next Broadway show, but she was nowhere to be seen. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a slight movement to my right, and turned just in time to see a large cactus in a terra cotta pot begin to teeter, then sway, and finally crash to the floor. Dirt spilled across the rare kilim.

I began to back out of the room, then turned and head for the door.

"Wait!!" a high-pitched voice called after me. I froze, and then looked. The cactus was upright, waving one spiny arm at me.

It was Nanalee Wendy Ross herself, and I knew this would be the collaboration of a lifetime.

Chance encounter

5/10/2017

I swear, when the semester is over, I will use my own prompts. This one was the very devil.

Think of a chance encounter that could leave you shaken, stirred, or in deep trouble.

Molly banged the door to the toilet stall and swiftly began to relieve herself. Seeing a familiar pair of beat-up Uggs to her right, she called out , “Becca?”
“Yeah, What’s up.”
“I had such a night! I am so not ready for this test.”
“Me neither,” Becca agreed. “God, I hate theory.”
“I hate theory, I hate this class, and I hate HER.”

Becca’s toilet flushed, and then Molly’s, and she grabbed her backpack and swung the door open.

To see the professor rinsing her hands at the sink. Smiling.

Susan's secret

5/8/2017

"Can you keep a secret?"
"Of course!"
"Peter and I have decided to start a family. We're expecting a baby in September."
"That's great news!"
"I had to tell somebody. And you're my very best friend. But keep it up it under wraps for now." "OK. Mum's the word."
She had every intention of keeping her promise. But this was the hardest secret she had ever been entrusted with. And it just got harder and harder to stay quiet. It seemed like every day she came close to blurting it out. They could be in the middle of planning an event for next fall or someone would mention the number of office pregnancies that year -- now up to three, not including Susan's. After two days she found herself fidgeting and looking away during these conversations. After four days she was grinding her teeth during meetings. Her coffee consumption doubled. Exactly a week after Susan had shared her news, the secret could no longer be contained. The department social committee was picking dates for the office picnic.

"Well what about the Saturday after Labor Day. Everybody will be back by then, and the weather is usually nice."
There were murmurs of agreement around the table.
"And we can ask Susan if we can have it at her house again."
"Well -- uh uh uh -- I think uh uh --", she said trying desperately to think of an innocent reason to suggest another location.
Every eye was in her face, which was turning very red.
"Er -- I think they expect -- uh -- I mean plan to -- Susan and Peter might be busy in September."
"Really?"
She nodded. "Uh huh." They weren't going to get any more out of her.
"What-- is Susan pregnant?"
She busied herself with her notepad, trying not to react.
"She is, isn't she?"
"Well, yes." She admitted. "B-b-but it's a secret."
"Not anymore," A gleeful voice whooped.
She sighed, realizing she would have to warn Susan that the cat was out of the bag.

"Susan, I'm sorry. I tried so hard not to let on."
"That's OK, sweetie," Susan said with a hug. "Now everyone knows, and I only had to tell one person. I knew you couldn't keep a secret like this for more than a week. "

Self Reflection

5/7/2017

Today's prompt was to imagine meeting someone you hadn't seen for a long time, perhaps someone from whom you were estranged, and to ask them a question. The person who kept into my head was Ronald, a boy I knew in high school. I have written about him before, but this prompt gave me a chance to go deeper into my own reasons for telling the story.

In the fall of 1965, my small rural high school in western Connecticut was host to two African American "exchange" students who came up from Alabama. I realized much later that it must not have been much of an exchange, because no one from my school went down to Alabama. One of the boys had a great time -- prom king, all kinds of yearbook superlatives. The other — Ronald, quiet and bespectacled, had more trouble fitting in. He was in some of my classes, and we sometimes talked about school and books. In late September, there was a sock hop at the school, and Ronald and I danced three times -- fast dances, like the Pony, which was one of my favorites. But then he asked me to slow dance. I told him I didn’t know how. What I really didn't know how to do, at 16, was anything that my peers would have remotely frowned upon -- like slow dancing with a "colored boy".

In the more than fifty year since then, I have thought about Ronnie many times. I've searched for him on Google. When I find him, I'll ask him why he left Connecticut at the en did the school year. Why did you do back to Alabama, Ronnie? Did your family need you? Were you homesick? Or was my rejection just one of many, perhaps the first of many?

There were so many times in my life when someone has said to me, “That’s just the way it is”. Eventually, you start saying to other people -- and to yourself. Sometimes it’s said with a sense of comfort and justification, sometimes an uneasy apology. Sorry, Ronny. I really wanted to dance with you, but I was too chicken. And that is “just the way it was”. Some days I feel like I have traveled light years since then; some days I am not so sure. But I am working on it, every day. Writing is part of the journey.

Moving away

5/6/2017

At first, it just seemed like a big adventure. "We're moving east; Daddy has a new job in New York." New York! To a little girl on the high plains of Nebraska, New York was as magical as Oz. The Empire State Building! The Statue of Liberty! A Christmas tree as tall as the Pawnee Hotel! I was the envy of my third grade class.

As our old Chevy pulled away from the stucco bungalow on Willow Street, I waved excitedly at my best friend Jane, who smiled wanly at me from her own front yard across the street. "We're off!" Mommy said, a little too loudly. In the back seat, Bobby and I leaned against the curved rear window of the Chevy for a last look at North Platte.

A year later, in my bedroom in our new home, I sobbed at the memory of the Willow Street house, with its lilacs and rhubarb plants. I thought of Jane and cried even harder, berating myself bitterly. "I smiled! I smiled!" How could I have been so stupid, so blind, so ignorant of what "moving away" would mean?

Nebraska was so far away, and New Jersey was so different. Bobby was sent home from school for wearing jeans. My classmates teased me for my clothes, my accent -- everything, it seemed. I learned quickly never to mention Nebraska or North Platte, which would set their eyes rolling as they mimicked her flat nasal tones. The family had arrived just before Christmas, and so I'd been left out of the class gift exchange. Even worse, I was behind in arithmetic. We'd been just about to start column addition in North Platte; in New Jersey they were already passed it. My teacher, Miss Saneska, had been teaching the children to play the recorder and speak French, but hadn't counted on having a new student arrive midyear. So three times a week, I was sent to the library to read while her classmates sang "Sur le Pont d'Avignon" or played their instruments. Life in New Jersey was miserable.

By three months after the move, I had added a line to my bedtime prayer.

"Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
If I should die before I wake
I pray the Lord my soul to take.
And please let me wake up in North Platte."

But it wasn't a dream, and I never went back to North Platte. I moved again and again, from New Jersey to Connecticut to upstate New York to Massachusetts to Pennsylvania to Rhode Island and finally to Maryland. I learned to relish being "the new girl", and having the chance to reinvent myself with each new home. I took on the role of welcomer, helping other newcomers to settle in.

A Friendly Warning

5/5/2017

"Are you out of your mind?!"

"Could be. But it's been on my bucket list for years now, and it was too good a deal to pass up."

Walt turned the brochure over his hand, shaking his head. “I wouldn't do it for free." He's snorted." You couldn't pay me enough to go bungee jumping.”

I shrugged. "Well you can have your bucket list and I'm going to have mine."

Handing the brochure back to me, Walt shook his head once more and said “You're nuts” and walked out of the room.

We didn't talk about it for the rest the week. There was enough going on to distract us: sales reports, staff meetings, and a baby shower for one of the sales reps. On Friday afternoon, I walked back into my office after a long meeting and saw a cryptic message on my whiteboard.

Whatever you do, don't die. See you Monday.

Deep inside, I was not as cavalier about the bungee jumping adventure as I had might've seemed to Walt. I’m afraid of heights, and I sure don't want to die. But bit by bit I had overcome my acrophobia, first on roller coasters, then on bridges, and most recently on airplanes. The arrival of the bungee jumping brochure in my mailbox had seemed serendipitous. With my 50th birthday coming up, what better way to celebrate then to face my biggest fear and jump off into the void?

Saturday morning found me standing on a bridge, the instructor at my side, surrounded by a small nervous group of would-be bungee jumpers. But I was going to go first. We already had our orientation, seen some videos, and supposedly we were ready for the big adventure. I took a deep breath, leaned forward, and was off. If you have never plummeted through the air, you can only imagine what it was like. It was scary as hell — and exciting. Just when you thought you were going to slam onto the surface of the water, you were being pulled back into the air, and coming down again, and up and down, and up, and finally down. I was screaming my head off the whole time. First it was absolutely a scream of fear, but by the end I was whooping with joy. What a rush!

I couldn't wait to get to the office Monday morning and tell Walt all about it. But when I got there the somber faces told me something terrible has happened. Walter had tripped on his shoelaces and fallen down the stairs at his house. Died instantly.

I stumbled into my office and sat at my desk, staring at the computer. On a whim, I searched “odds of dying from accidental injuries”. It turns out that your chances of dying while bungee jumping is one in 500,000. Probability of dying from falling down stairs: one in 1,797.

Spending the weekend at home? Whatever you do, don't die. See you Monday.

Footpath Poet

5/4/2017

The prompt for today was a challenge. It was just this:

Let’s play Writer’s Clue! Stories are about a person in a place with a problem. We can use the basic structure (modified to inject conflict) from the game.
For this story, write about Mx [1. a non-gendered title, in case you’re wondering. Now I’m wondering how to pronounce it…].___________ in the _________ room with a __________.

Even after breakfast, I was stuck, too many ideas running through my head. So I took out my trusty Motherpeace tarot deck and drew three cards. The first was an artist, the second depicted a dangerous, chaotic situation, and the third featured a broken weapon. And out came this story.

The narrow footpath was crowded with vendors and beggars when Priya arrived. Finding a small space, she spread out her mat and settled herself at the edge, carefully laying out her paper, ink, and pen at her feet. Finally, she placed her carefully hand-lettered sign for all to see: “Poems to order”. With a deep sigh, she rested her hands on her knees and waited.

Without warning, a small pack of schoolboys careened around the corner, shouting and laughing. They saw Priya, but too late. in a matter of seconds, the lead boy tried to stop, but instead fell forward onto the mat, with two or three more boys landing on top of him. Seeing Priya’s startled face, the boys raised a chorus of apologies.

“Oh, sister, I didn’t see you!”
“Forgive me, miss!”
“Sorry! Sorry! Let me fix it!”

Priya refused their help, holding each hand gently before pushing it away. She gathered their scattered materials and arranged them on the mat as before.The paper was dirtied, but the ink bottle was still stoppered. Her only pen, though, was snapped off just below the nib.

Smiling, Priya dipped the jagged end of the pen into the ink and wrote:

The artist sits waiting
Not for peace, or perfect tools
But for the sudden breeze
The drenching shower
The sudden shock
The artist waits for chaos
And tames it with a broken pen.

Handing the poem to the boy, she gathered up her mat and walked into the crowd.

The Doll Maker

5/3/2017

It is said, she once had a name. But it had been decades since she had become simply the Doll Maker. In the time when she had a name, she had been famous for her portrait dolls, each made in the image of the fortunate little girl for whom it was crafted. Whether through art or magic, as the girl grew to a woman, the doll mirrored every change in her face, until the day when the old woman was laid to rest, her small, white-haired companion by her side. The Doll Maker herself was impossibly old; village whispers measured her life in hundreds of years, but of course, everyone was too polite to ask her age.

Then, when today’s grandmothers were little girls, the Doll Maker suddenly stopped making portrait dolls. Puzzled and disappointed parents asked her why, and she replied with the story of her dream.

In my dream, I was walking through a crowd of people, all walking slowly in the same direction. I searched for a familiar face, but every head was turned away from me or turned toward the grounds if avoiding my gaze. Moving to the edge of the crowd, I found a small raised platform and climbed up on it for a better view. The faces on the silent, moving figures turned toward me as if on a signal, and I saw they were all the same.

It might seem frightening, but in my dream, I felt a deep sense of wonder followed by a wave of peace. Every face was lifted towards me, their lips curved in a slight smile, and their half-closed eyes opened slightly as they looked at me with with an expression of inner calm and — what was it? Welcome? Acceptance? Love?

I woke and felt drawn to my dressing table, where I looked in the mirror and saw my own face, with its familiar shaggy eyebrows and crooked teeth. I saw the scar from the time I fell from the tree where I was picking apples, and the wrinkles at the corners of my eyes. But for an instant, as if I were still dreaming, my features transformed into the peaceful, calm, open face of the strangers in the crowd.

She knew in that moment that she must fill the village with those faces, and from that day on every doll has had a single face. The face of love.

The Latchkey Kid

5/2/2017

Being a latchkey kid might sound like a lot of fun. It probably is if you're the kind of kid who is sneaky when grownups aren’t around. But I'm a good kid, and that means I come right home and stay out of trouble. No friends coming over to visit, no long phone calls, no snooping around for Dad's smut collection.

Every day, I walk home, unlock the door, lock it again after me, get an approved snack. The fridge isn't locked, so I could have ice cream and cake, or even try to cook something and maybe set the house on fire. But because I'm a good kid, I make a peanut butter jelly sandwich, pour myself a glass of milk, and settle down in front of the TV. I'm allowed to have half an hour of TV when I get home, before I start my homework.

Usually, I catch the last half hour of a talk show. There are several on when I get home, so I have my pick: entertainment gossip, family drama gossip, sports gossip, political gossip. Yesterday was Monday, entertainment gossip day. But instead of my usual entertainment talk show, there was a quiz show. No big deal, I thought. Probably just a schedule change, and I like quiz shows, too. Besides, the category for the day what science, and I had science homework, which seems like a nice coincidence.

"First question: what is the third planet from the sun?"

"Earth!" The TV contestant said. “Venus”. I said simultaneously. He was right.

“Next question: Which of Newton’s laws states that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction?"

Tough one! I shouted “First!” and the contestant answered “Third”. He was right again.

By the end of the show, I had gotten none of the correct answers, but the TV whiz kid had aced them all.

I turned off the TV, dragged my back pack to the kitchen table, and took out my science folder to start on my homework.

First question: What is the third planet from the sun? Puzzled, I scanned the rest of the page and smiled.

Sometimes being a latchkey kid can be a very good thing.

The Dead Friend (short story)

5/1/2017

The postmark was five days after Mark's memorial service. Yet here in my hand was a postcard written in his familiar crabbed left-handed scrawl and signed signed "love, Mark". “I’m not dead. Meet me Tuesday night at 8 at the Bistro at IKEA.”

IKEA had been our favorite hangout in college, a good place to stroll, imagining our more prosperous futures. We'd pick a model room and settle in for an hour or two, reading or reviewing for an exam. Then we'd head for the Bistro for a soft serve cone at a price that couldn't be beat. But that was years ago, and Mark was dead. Or was he?

The Bistro was busy when I arrived, as tuckered-out shoppers, their carts full of plates, accent pillows and frozen meatballs, stopped for a quick hot dog or frozen yogurt before facing the task of loading their cars. Finding a spot at the counter, I looked around. Mark's face as I had last seen him kept surfacing in my mind: sparse hair, sunken cheeks, his gray eyes drooping and dull. I imagined him emerging from a checkout line, his hospital gown flapping above his knees.

"Is this seat taken?" The soft feminine voice startled me. "Are you expecting someone?"

"Sort of. I'm meeting a friend but not sure..." This was awkward. Then I saw the baby in the carrier and the bulging shopping bag over her other shoulder. "Please, sit. It's ok."

The baby was awake, staring around at the commotion. She -- obviously she, from the floral headband and pink t-shirt -- fixed her gaze on me and blinked. "Hi, there!" I said softly. Her mom laughed, "I see she's made a new friend."

"How old is she?"

"Three months today. She's a May Day baby."

May 1st. Mark's birthday. The baby's gray eyes caught mine again and she smiled.

"Say hello, Marcia."