The following excerpt is from Simple Abundance by Sarah Ban Breathnach.
“Some of us hear our passion calling when we’re very young, but most of us do not because we’re too busy listening to what other people, especially our parents, are telling us. So we embark on a vocational path, trying on different lives for size until we find one we can wear even if it doesn’t necessarily fit.
Perhaps you’re conflicted about continuing the journey you started twenty-five years ago but have outgrown. You know you’re not heading in the direction you want to go, but at least your daily motions are familiar. And familiar feels safe. In today’s uncertain world, feeling safe and secure seems the emotional definition of sanity.
Perhaps you’re skilled in one occupation but not thrilled about using those skills anymore. Some other work does secretly thrill you. But the stakes seem too high. perhaps you’re dismayed, even embarrassed, by the thought that you don’t know what Great Work waits you.”
Prompt: Write whatever comes up for you when reading this. Or write about the work that secretly thrills you. Or write about feeling safe and secure. Or, what would you do if you could do anything? Just write!
heartmom
I always wanted to dance. Oh, I never told anyone – there really was no point. In my family, money was tight and even if we could afford lessons, I wasn’t built for dancing. Short and squat, large chested and knock-kneed, I would have been a corgi among greyhounds. I could hardly bear to look at myself in the bathroom mirror, much less focus on walls and walls of my image in a dance studio. Besides, I was the “smart” one, not especially pretty or graceful, better suited for academics … and yet I dreamed.
I dreamed of letting music flow through my body like a brisk breeze, electrifying every cell and inspiring me to defy gravity. To leap and spin, to make human pictures of timeless song. I wasn’t dancing for anyone but myself; there was no desire for eyes or attention; people looking at me always made me uncomfortable. Alone in my parents’ living room, I would dance until I dropped – until the music died away, leaving me in the inky silence to seek and find my center, and start anew as the next notes sounded.
My grown-up children dance. My daughter, Barbara, was born dancing – straight from the womb to the Marley floor. Dance has been her solace and exhilaration for a lifetime. My son, Jake, stumbled upon dancing when football was no longer an option. His athletic, all encompassing approach to dance leaves me breathless. They dance as I couldn’t, although a little piece of me flies when they fly, and I feel their joy as they make their art. If I could, I would dance. Proudly watching my children will have to do.
mcullen Post author
Lovely writing. I especially like, “I dreamed of letting music flow through my body like a brisk breeze” and “to make human pictures of timeless song.” Your writing is like this . . . your writing flows through me with an enticing lilt, welcoming me into your creation with a friendly greeting and come-on-in invitation. And once in your writing world, I am not disappointed as your words soar, lift and tip in lovely notes.
Ke11y
Rarely, we come across an opening sentence that is so tight, so revealing, and sets the reader on a path of exploration.
I always wanted to dance.
Immediately my mind went to this famous opening…I had a farm in Africa…
So my curiosity only reads the word ‘wanted’. Just as that same curiosity once focused on the word ‘had’.
Oh, I never told anyone – there really was no point.
So now I’m drawn into the writer’s ‘secret’ not a revelation that would interest anyone else.
I wasn’t built for dancing.
A statement bluntly put. The explanation follows…
Short and squat, large chested and knock-kneed, I would have been a corgi among greyhounds.
Even husky voices need to sing!
And so I’m drawn into the secret world of this girl dancing, her whirling world, and the body beautiful in motion. When she dances there is no image, only movement, only the beating of her heart to the music.
And so the reader is taken from this unseen world, to the real world, and how her love of dance has been captured in the souls of her children.
I feel their joy as they make their art.
It is a temptingly sad sentence, but regret becomes joy, becomes dance.
If I could, I would dance.
But you are dancing…you have music in your life…and the symphony you’ve written plays out in your heart, and the hearts of your children.
You always were dancing, Heartmom. Always.
I read this piece, and gave a little jump of joy.
mcullen Post author
Beautiful. Simply beautiful.
Ke11y
Dawn rises in the form of a thin bright line above the curve of the earth. It is a heartbreakingly beautiful morning. Smudges of tangerine, like a whore’s blusher, heralding its arrival. A perfect dawn for execution.
THUD! A thick white line trails the projectile. Even before the missile impacts with the target – the men know it’s over. They stare helplessly, holding their breath and awaiting the inevitable, as the line twists, wriggles on its downward arc, tears of frustration well up in sorrowful eyes. Throats constrict, blasphemies slip unheard from tight lips, and hearts become heavy.
BOOM! A second chilling thud. This explosion happens somewhere deep within a rib cage, followed by utter quiet, then a mighty gasp, as one agonized breath blows crimson onto the wind. The whale calf is thrashing on the ocean in its bloody red death throes.
Russian women jump gleefully, crowding along the deck railings of the Slava, Russia’s biggest whaling factory ship. For these women it’s all about money; money for their children’s education; new clothes for a long dark winter, medicine for a sick relative, or perhaps an opportunity to settle a long outstanding debt for heating fuel.
For the eight men in the two zodiacs, it is murder with might. In the near distance another ship, bearing a rainbow on its hull, observes the illegal insanity.
In the far distance a father is calling….run…run…run…but it’s too late. There’s no more running; no more protecting. Then a burst of excited activity as one man leaps to his feet and points, his yell lost on the wind.
The men look up. There…there…a glimpse of hide. Followed by a sudden frantic activity among the rubber-clad zodiac crew. The powerful outboard motors splutter, smack into life as salt water sparks silver on the air, and the inflatable craft skims speedily into action. The second zodiac joins the pursuit. Nearby the blubbery blackness surfaces, and a small fountain salt water breaks over the gleaming hid of the female calf whale.
Two of the Russian whale-women also see the shining glimpse of whale. Frantically they try to attract the attention of the lookout.
The rubber-suited men spring into action, yelling, slapping the ocean’s surface, making as much noise as possible. The calf is frightened, and flees, diving, but only for a minute or two, being as her lungs are still so young. The zodiac crews know she will surface again shorty, making a target for the harpoon gunner.
Oh no…comes the cry.
The calf, not understanding the immediacy of the danger, turns instinctively back into danger. The zodiac skips briskly between the calf and the harpoon boat, its cannon loaded with an explosive harpoon, sticking out menacingly from the bow. The calf is a mere twenty-feet long, weighing something close to five tons, and probably just off suckling.
Beneath the ocean’s surface a voice is calling, its echo-clicks desperately trying to give direction to the calf…but icebergs crack and groan and block those desperate messages.
It’s her father. The bull whale is making top speed toward the calf, toward the danger, because this is his child. She is part of a nation: grandparents, mothers and fathers, other children playing in the oceans, traveling great distances, talking, eating, and giving birth.
For two hours her brother had struggled, fought against the agony, knowing the terror of drowning, until his young life could stand no more. The water is crimson.
The rubber craft twists and turns, trying to steer the calf away from danger, with the harpoon-gunner less than sixty-feet away. There is no attempt by the whalers to winch the dead calf into the stern of the boat, where it would be sliced open with flensing knives, its blubber put into great boiling vats, later to become lipstick, or shoe polish, before chainsaws attack its skeleton.
The calf swam in circles, confused, frightened, listening for instructions, but there were engines thumping the water, icebergs bouncing back pleas to: run…run…run…and so the calf froze. Exhausted.
Father was coming…he was coming fast…faster…and all the time he was telling…run…run…and she was calling…come…come…come…I’m frightened.
THUD! – vibrates the air. The noise shudders through every tingling nerve of the men in the zodiacs. Breath is held. Prayers are prayed. Then calm as the harpoon squirrels through the air…it missed! It missed….hearts begin beating.
The calf is directionally confused, alone and frightened. The gunner curses! A second harpoon explosive is being loaded. The calf takes off – diving in panic.
Ten miles away a father is calling – sonar clicks rushing through the divide icebergs – of – terror – of lostness, and all the time he is reassuring. Hang on…hang on….I’m coming…and this time those sonar clicks are heard…father…father…where are you…
On the whaling ship all attention is focused on the gunner. He’s mad he missed with the first harpoon.
This time the whale calf does not turn back, but rushes headlong toward the message.
Exhausted, men sit quietly, rocking on the Berent Sea. It’s hard for them to look at each other; it’s harder still to understand what happened. Their eyes downcast. There are no answers today – no celebrations, there is only desperation and tiredness. Words cannot say what the heart feels. Steaming to their aid in the dimming light, carrying cups of hot chocolate, new plans, dry clothes, and the wishes of many, is a Rainbow.
Today the fight is no longer mine, or even the fight of my friends.
There is no right or wrong here. It is about education. It is about understanding how desperate the whalers are for money: to feed their children, give them schooling, and deal with the kind of hardships most of us can know nothing of. Most Russians’ love whales as much as I do, but there is no other work, no other way to earn an income, and they love their children.
It is not my place to judge. It is my place to help educate.
mcullen Post author
Wow, Kelly. I held my breath to the end, wondering how this would end. Your word choices mirror the energy and pace of this event. . . short sentences read fast and quick. The tension here is palpable. Well-executed writing.
heartmom
Geeza, Ke11y – like an arrow to the heart – you suck us in with the very first words, set the stage, and then “blow us out of the water”. This read like a staccato piece, and held us throughout. I loved your ending paragraph; it has stayed with me all day – the lack of judgement and view of life from ALL perspectives.
Ke11y
Thank you, Heartmom:
Things and events have shaped me.
Ke11y
Overheard in a Mexican bar, a young man on his cell phone to a middle aged American woman.
It iz being a long time since we eez being together, and I ‘av been missing you very muchly. It iz very ‘ard remembering ‘ow it iz when we waz loving each other, no? Your kisses tasting very much sweet, your
touchings so much passionately. I eez wishing this time will come again, no? When the moon is being shining on my bed in zee night, I find myself wanting you very muchly at zis time. When you eez so close lying with me, when your breathing eez feeling on my shoulders, it eez very sensuous, no? I eez missing this feeling so muchly. I eez ‘oping this eez not much time away, when you can be ‘aving my love again.
I have a beer gut, a scraggly beard, nose hair, and still, I almost fell in love with him myself!
mcullen Post author
Chuckling. Actually, laughing out loud. Kelly, you crack me up!
heartmom
… and they say romance is dead (smirk smirk) 😉 I read this several times, Ke11y and laughed every time – then I shared it with my husband, and he is convinced you are a literary genius.
mcullen Post author
Kelly, I agree with Heartmom’s husband. . . You are a literary genius!
Ke11y
Dear Heartmom…
It eez being very kindly, that you be saying zis nice thing, no? Oops, sorry. I’m back.
Blessing to you both, an illiterate genius I am. My dream is to have the romance of that gentleman.
mcullen Post author
Big Smile! 🙂
Ke11y
The tree fella
Paddy McBride had dreamt for years of leaving Belfast. He’d dreamt about a lot of things. He wasn’t the smartest lad, but considered himself gifted with common sense. So you’d have to ask yourself this question; why had Paddy dreamt of being a lumberjack?
No one could quite understand why he had such an ambition.
The truth is, fame and fortune never found Paddy. By the age of forty he’d repaired several motorways, and improved thousands of driveways. He’d worked all hours that God created, except those he saved for the pub. And it was in the pub that some of his drinking pals suggested he take a holiday in Canada. Paddy had never been away from Belfast, so the idea excited him, most especially when he saw pictures of the Canadian forests. Could this be his opportunity? It was certainly the time, he thought, seeing as all those trees still standing up.
A week later Paddy was putting on a chequered jacket, fur boots, and headed up the mountain looking for work. Half a days trekking brought him to a huge lumber mill. On the gate, as if pre-ordained was a notice: Wanted, experienced lumberjacks.
Paddy marched to the office.
“Bless yer, sir, I’ll be lookin’ to take that job.”
“You got experience?”
“Och aye, sir, you’ll be asking me any question.”
“You know what the tree is called?” The site manager asked, pointing out the window.
“That’d be a Spruce, sir. I surely read about’em.”
“That one, over there?”
“A Douglass, sir. That’ll be one’o the finest. It will indeed.”
The man put his arm over Paddy’s shoulder and took him outside, and he peered into the distance.
“That one way out there, on the peek?”
“Beejeezus, sir. I’ll be blessed if it’s not a Southern Pine.”
The manager scrapes his fingers across his unshaven chin.
“Tell me, that Spruce just here, tell me which is the front of that tree?”
“Aye, really sir. You’ll be wanting to know what is the front of the tree?”
“Correct…well?”
“Would ya be givin me a moment, sir…”
Paddy walked over to the tree. He looked up and down it. Measured the width of it….and walked round it. He then returned to the manager, who had watched his antics.
“I can be tellin’ yer, sir. This side o’the tree, the side facing us; that is the front o’ the tree indeed.”
The owner looked amazed.
“Now tell me, how did you come to that conclusion?”
“That’ll be simple in the tellin’ sir…
…you see, a wee dog has taken a crap behind it!”
mcullen Post author
Yer keepin’ us in stitches here, m’ lad.
Ke11y
The line disappears around the corner of Union Square, having started at the front door of Macy’s, down Powell, past the Stratford Hotel, as far as O’Farrell. It’s a chilly morning, the winter sun just now appearing from behind tall buildings. If I could move up the line a bit, maybe fifty people, I would be standing in a crack of brilliant sunshine. It’s still fifteen minutes to the start of the sale, and as people anticipate the doors opening, we all shuffle forward. It’s then that I see him, the guy sat in the wheelchair outside Swarovski’s fashionable window. He’s holding a cardboard placard: ‘Vietnam Vet, homeless, jobless, legless.’ That last word is a little misleading, as anyone observing him can clearly see he does have legs!
They can also see they are incapable of carrying him.
My particular interest is within the shoe department. One day only, 50% off the lowest marked price. With luck, I can get the pair I’ve had my eye on for a week now, regularly $140, but now I have a chance to get them for fifty-bucks! So here I am, on Christmas Eve, waiting in line to buy a pair of shoes. It could be worse, I could be sitting in that guy’s wheelchair, having no working legs, and holding up a cardboard placard, begging. The wheelchair guy is no stranger to me, I’ve seen him before. He’s a regular in the square. It’s quite a story, having listened to him one time, a soldier caught up in a helicopter crash, being pulled out of Khe Sanh, paralyzed from the waist down, and using heroine for pain. San Francisco, like any city, has its drug problems, but yet, even today we still deny people in the most fearful pain the two most effective pain killers, help and Opium.
Ten yards more and I’ll be bathed in sunshine. I’m seldom comfortable talking with strangers, but when I tell you about the man standing close to me, well you’ll understand why I did engage him. He must have been as anxious as me to get into that spear of sunshine coming down Geary, reaching over the Westin St. Francis. He cheerfully offers me a ‘good morning’ and goes on to tell me he’s waiting to buy some new sandals. “Just look at these,” he says, holding up one sandaled foot. “I haven’t had a new pair in two thousand years!”
I laugh at the joke. That said, looking at their condition, there is every possibility, they are indeed two-thousand years old, and I smile to myself.
Ten minutes to opening, the line squeezes up more tightly. Nearly there, another five yards and the warmth of sunlight will be instantaneous. People are pushing now; we are all leaning on each other, eagerly awaiting the sudden rush. I look at the guy standing next to me, and say:
“Have you ever seen anything like this, crowds pushing to be in front!”
“Not since my crucifixion!” He responds.
I’ve always loved people who can come out with a funny one-liner. I turn to look at the man responsible for my laughter. He has, and I’m not kidding, the face of an angel. I don’t know why, but I suddenly feel I’m standing in bright sunshine, yet remain in the shadows.
“It wasn’t that funny, it hurt like hell!” He remarks, hearing my burst of laughter.
“Oh, Christ! Stop, geez, my stomach is hurting.”
“What was I going to do anyway? I was born in a barn!”
Just when I think my laughter cannot become more, it does. It becomes an ache, a stomach turning ache that forces tears to my eyes, and I want it to stop, but it won’t. It just keeps finding a way to hurt more. I want to cry. I want to ask for help. Where did this guy come from!
“Man, you should be a stand-up comic. Brilliant!” I tell him.
I want to stare into his blue eyes, but cannot, so I just listen. How am I suddenly feeling this warmth, shadows surrounding me. Across the street I see another man holding up a sign:
‘No sob story, no work, just need help.’
I look down at my shoes, they are old, but honestly, they are still reasonable, so I leave the line, with the doors to the sale just opening, and cross over the road, walking up to the guy with his sign, and put my fifty-dollar shoe money into his hand.
I’m still chuckling to myself. That stranger’s funny one-liners about the crucifixion had me rocking. It just fell out of his mouth, as natural as a breeze across grass. I cross back over the street, but instead of taking my place at the back of the line, I head toward the parking lot, and my car. It’s now I recognize the Vietnam Vet from the wheelchair, he has attracted a large crowd around him. The Vet is weeping. Unbelievably he gets up, staggers, walks some, and staggers a little more, but with each step he gains in strength and stability. People come, gather, and they are amazed. Only then do I look down at his feet; I recognize a two-thousand year old pair of sandals.
I look toward the east corner of Union Square, just in time to see the stranger walking away from Macy’s, wearing a new pair of Timberlands, and smiling; a smile that shines its kindliness into a world that has a lot of ugliness. He raises His arm, and as He does so, I find that I’m finally standing in that crack of sunshine. I won’t be in Union Square on Christmas Day, but if my friend is, I hope there’s a long line of people waiting to hear what He has to say. His one-liners are quite brilliant.
‘For God so loved the world that He gave His one and only Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish, but have eternal life.’
mcullen Post author
When I read your writing, Kelly, I don’t realize I’m holding my breath. I read the next word and the next, completely mesmerized,feasting on your delicious words and tantalizing story. I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until the very end, when I exhale a satisfying sigh and take in a refreshing breath, energized and invigorated with your lovely writing. You are a reader’s joy. . . producing such excellent writing.
Ke11y
Hi Marlene:
Thank you for your ever continuing support and encouragement. Recently I was at my dentist, and watched fish in an aquarium, which resulted in this shorty story. There is bad language within the text. It may be that it is unsuitable for inclusion here. I will leave this to you, and will take no offense at all if you feel it inappropriate.
Burt has lived three years alone in the bowl eight inches across, and eight inches deep. But today, that changes. It isn’t going to be the instant friendship you might expect when two goldfish meet for the first time, especially in confined quarters. Understandable then, you see, when it might be a matter of life or death!
Burt has lost weight since the family who look after him went on holiday for two weeks, not making sure someone would put feed into the bowl while they were away. He was, in fact, close to death in a bowl that contained no food, and was so dirty he could not see out. Thankfully the family returned just in the nick of time. When the family did clean out the bowl, Burt found himself staring at another goldfish. This other goldfish was slightly bigger, weighing in at half an ounce, and fully two inches long. This was all Burt needed; a fat friend in his eight-inch world. Burt liked his space, even if there wasn’t much of it. Now, it seems, he’s going to have to share it! Frank, the newcomer, is the first to make the tentative introduction.
“Hi, my name is Frank, I’m glad to meet you. Nice place, bit small, but nice.”
Burt turned tail, went to his side of the bowl to bubbled away his anger.
“Give me a break! Look at this place, there’s not enough room to swing a minnow and you want to share?”
Frank, being bigger, is used to asserting himself.
“Hey, pal, as if choice is an option?”
“Yeh.. Yeh… Yeh…Great. So, where were you before you suddenly felt compelled to join me?”
“On the road with a carnival. What’s your name anyway?”
“Burt. Like, kids tried to win with a ping-pong ball?”
“Duh!” Frank replied, bluntly.
“Hey, don’t ‘Duh’ me, pal, I’m not the one crowding.”
Frank, more confident, hit back.
“Where else do freaking Goldfish come from, huh?”
“Hey, I used to live in a pet store in Petaluma. I had 55-gallon tank, hood, with florescent lighting, tank stand, 2 Whisper-3 Power Filters, a large air-stone, 6 feet of air tubing, large air-pump, power-strip, gravel, fish food, filter-replacements, dechlorinator, thermometer, cork, real plants, 1-way air valve, 10-gallon tank for water-changes, gravel siphon, and then I’m adopted and get a fucking bowl on the sideboard… and now it seems I have to share this tiny glass pad with you!”
“Gee, make me welcome, okay!”
“Fuck off!”
“Oh, nice… nice touch… thank you.”
“Look, let’s just get one thing straight, okay; don’t play the happy Goldfish in a glass bowl stunt. There’s people watching us, and we’re living in an eight inch bowl. So don’t act like it’s okay… OKAY?”
“Okay..okay…gee… I hate this fucking bowl…how’s that?”
“Better… just keep it that way.”
“Nice plant though.”
Are you just trying to piss me off, ‘cos you’re doing a good job.”
“I was just commenting on the plant.”
“It’s a dumb fucking plant, okay, it’s lifeless, plastic, get it?”
“Oh, right, sorry…hmmm, looks real.”
“Christ, you’re driving me nuts. It’s fake!”
“What about the little bridge here?”
“Right, that’s it! I’m done, you stay round that side of the fucking bend. This is my bend, see, all this area here, and that’s yours, and don’t piss me off by coming to visit.”
And the two fish, Burt and Frank, lived uncomfortably, and silently for two weeks, until the oxygen ran out.
mcullen Post author
Hey Kelly,thanks for the heads-up about bad language. When one hosts a blog that is open for comments, one expects there might be the day when the topic of “certain words” comes up. I don’t mind colorful or explicit language when it is within the context of the story. If that’s how the character talks or thinks, then that’s what it is. In this case, you have chosen to use certain words that your character would say (if said character could actually talk). I do mind “gratuitous” language. . . where words are used for reasons other than how the character would talk (shock value, for instance). So this is fine and in fact, it’s quite an amusing story.
Ke11y
Hi Marlene:
Thanks for your response about the use of bad language in a story. From my point of view it is very difficult to use such language, I abhor it. Put this against my artistic nature, wanting to catch the reality of life, the characters we see and hear every day, and reminding myself how such language was met with the threat of ‘soapy water’, I use the language sparingly. The above story is less about goldfish, and more about the constant invasion of our personal space! I see the car as the goldfish bowl. I listen to the language spoken when someone takes a space in front of them on the highway, (cutting up) and simply imagined them as goldfish in a round bowl. I do assure you that I’m not a writer who chooses such words without a great deal of thought about the sensitivities of the reader.
mcullen Post author
Thanks for the explanation, Kelly. Like you, I prefer not to use swear words. But, if my character uses colorful language. . . I would simply have to use it! Ah, yes. . . the soap in the mouth. Ptui. . . I remember that taste.
Ke11y
Dream Lover
He comes to her nightly
On soft midnight wings
Flies her aloft
To show her those things
Things in her world
She’d never see
Fly her then
To all that she dreams
He opens her heart
Plucks at those strings
As he carries her aloft
On soft midnight wings
But the light doesn’t matter
For darkness she craves
When sleep does cascade
In soft gentle waves
He comes black as a raven
And swift from the air
On soft midnight wings
He carries no cares
When moonlight strikes
His feathers will die
His secret lost
Not able to fly
He no longer comes
On soft midnight wings
But still he does fly
In the sleep of her dreams
Her heart is not open
To her real daylight fears
It opens at night
When darkness brings tears
mcullen Post author
Beautifully written. Your fountain of writing is a delight to behold.
Ke11y
As he’s gotten older, the weeks, then the months, and finally the years are simply flying past for Frank Schofield.
This unusually profound thought drifts through Frank’s weary mind as he slumps into the car, pulling the seatbelt across. He’s reached a point in his life where everything now smacks of conformity, and how hastily he has slithered into a smug, middle-aged existence. This thought process rumbles on at the same speed as his car, toward one inescapable conclusion: that every day in his well-ordered life comes down exactly the same. It happens like this: Before his first major decision of the day—cornflakes or shredded wheat—then take his wife a cup of tea in bed. At five minutes before eight leave for work, listen to the tragedies of the world on the car radio, and park in the same spot where he’s parked for the last twenty-three years.
The thoughts surrounding the coming weekend creates mixed feelings; being that his wife’s birthday falls on next Tuesday, and he’s promised to take her shopping on Saturday to buy a new dress. He’s not exactly sure why he did this, as there’s nothing he likes less than accompanying her around the mall. In fact the very prospect has him cringing, as he can see it all happening before him. Has it been only ten weeks since the January sales? He squirms, recalling that excursion as though it were yesterday.
“What do you think of this one, Frank?” She’d asked. “Do you think I suit blue? Does it make me look too fat?” He had learned to respond to such questions with a sideways glance, then a forced display of interest as she preened and swirled in front of a mirror.
“I like it very much, darling.”
“Really? Because you did say you loved the green one.”
“Well, yes, but that was three shops, and seven dresses ago.”
“You know, Frank, you just tell me anything. All you want is to get home and watch golf on television. I don’t know why I ask you”
“Well, why do you ask me?”
“Because you’re my husband, and you should show some interest. It should be important to you how I look.” The sharp edge to her voice is then reinforced with a glower.
“It is important to me how you look,” he’d replied with a measured display of indignity. “I really do like the blue dress. Just out of interest, how much is it?”
Inspection of the price tag introduced a further complication.
“It’s too expensive. We’ll have to go somewhere else.” She said, hanging it back up on the rail.
“Is there somewhere else we haven’t tried?”
He recalled how she’d looked at him with narrow, challenging eyes. He blinked and reviewed the options. He remembered thinking he had two choices, he could weaken, let the afternoon stretch out to late evening, and be with her while she chose matching shoes, a hat, and a handbag! Or he could remain firm but pleasant, and get home in good time to watch ‘British Open’ highlights. Instead he raised a thin smile, and peered blandly over his spectacles. Her reaction was equally ambiguous, spinning around and sweeping off to the changing booths whilst he grinned, sheepishly, at the shop assistant.
The memory of that weekend keeps him seated, unwilling to get out of the car at his place of employment. The exertion of a hard week’s toil palls into insignificance compared to a few hours roaming from shop to shop, in a people-seething city center on a Saturday afternoon. They’d lived in their home for thirty of their thirty-three year marriage. The two single bedrooms are now empty, no longer littered with paper party hats, discarded candy wrappers, or the spilt soda cans, though a couple of dolls remain, a buckled wheeled bogey in the rafters of the garage, but mostly the house is silent.
The exact age of his dear wife is well guarded secret; though he can recall the landmark fiftieth passing by on at least three previous occasions. Frank wonders what number she would declare this year. Eileen’s problem was she did not possess the quality of memory required to sustain any long-term deception. He smiles, and gets out of the car, reminding himself that today is Friday, and he would enjoy his 20 year ritual of attending Greasy Joe’s, for a juicy roadside burger on his way home.
He didn’t often outright lie to Eileen, but there were occasions, usually after his closely supervised weekly weigh in, when her queries regarding his eating habits were not fully disclosed. He was, he would tell himself, merely economical with the truth. For years and years he has stood with reluctance on the weighing scales, fully aware that she had become familiar with all his little dodges. The pointer of the scales was adjusted to zero, and positioned in the center of the room, denying him the opportunity to lean against anything to alleviate the impact upon the machine.
“These digital scales never lie, Frank. Despite dieting you are still overweight,” she would pronounce shaking her head in disbelief. “I simply don’t understand it, these scales are always right.”
Frank had learned over the years to come up with innovative explanations to challenge Eileen’s unshakeable faith in modern technology.
“It’s all about body metabolism, I was born unlucky in that department,” Frank argued, taking in a deep breath, drawing in his stomach as if this would magically reduce his weight.
Eileen had never been one to give up so easily, she wanted facts.
“Sit down there Frank,” she ordered, pointing to the edge of the bath tub.
It was during the next few minutes that Frank would become the defendant as he took his seat. Not having a bible to hand, she relied on the length of their marriage whether he was telling her the truth. She looked at him, and began cross-examination. Frank had never been questioned by a QC wearing only a bra and pants, and naturally found it difficult to give the matter at hand his undivided attention. His wife, at least, had kept herself trim. No muffin top in sight.
“You only have the bran flakes with skimmed milk for breakfast, don’t you?”
He noted she didn’t tuck both of her hands into her bra straps as she began, as his hero ‘Rumpole’ might have done.
He nodded his vigorous accession to this question.
“You do eat the salad that I prepare for your lunch, don’t you?” she continued.
Frank again agreed, but added righteously, “of course darling.”
The QC began her summing up.
“So, you have the low calorie breakfast, and the low calorie lunch, and the meal that I prepare in the evening, and you are still overweight. I simply do not understand it. These weighing scales can’t be all they are cracked up to be”, she concluded with a shake of her head. “But it’s funny that they are right for me…look,” she said stepping on to the scales, and pointing to the display.
“You don’t look any thinner,” she said, and then looked disdainfully at him as he sat there, head bowed, wearing just his underpants. “Oh, get up and get dressed. You’re sitting there like a scolded child!”
As far as she was concerned the jury had returned the verdict, the judge had agreed and, unusually, the decision involved the QC meeting out the appropriate punishment. She gave him a quick unprovoked poke in his stomach as she walked past him and out of the bathroom.
“Ouch ….that hurt,” he yelled. “What was that for?”
“To show you how unfit you are; you need to do some exercise as well as …oh what’s the use.”
“As well as what?” Asked Frank, gingerly rising to his feet.
“As well as this so called diet you’re supposed to be on…that clearly isn’t working.”
Eileen was not satisfied with the verdict of the lower court; she was going to take the matter to a much higher authority.
“I’m going to bring your case up at the next meeting of Weight Watchers, there’s something about your diet I just don’t understand.”
Then, thankfully, he sighed, she turned her attention to other matters.
Frank, having completed his week’s work, slumped back into the car for the same journey home. But with a slight diversion.
“You’re late this evening, Frank, I’ve got your double cheese burger and fries ready. Help yourself to ketchup mate, and here’s your diet cola. I don’t know how you drink the stuff. It tastes like gnat’s piss to me.”
Joe having offered his professional gastronomic opinion hands the food over with a broad grin.
Frank Schofield is a loving, loyal husband; a man sliding toward retirement, with but one marriage-long tasty secret.
mcullen Post author
More delicious writing from you, Kelly. Well-done!