I used to think the concept of suffering was innate to the human condition. I thought we were born with the idea that we preferred not to suffer. The original pioneers traveling to the western frontier knew it sucked to ride in covered wagons. Sure, it was a convenience not having to walk, but it still sucked. In fact I’m pretty sure that’s where the term, “pain in the ass” originated.         

Like everyone else, I thought I knew all there was to know about suffering. And then I started traveling by air. It was the airlines that taught me how to properly suffer. I can’t remember a single trip I’ve ever taken by an airline, that didn’t result in some level of personal suffering.

Just last week my wife and I flew from Texas to Pennsylvania. A simple one stopper in Dallas and I’m home. My E-Ticket said the total duration of my trip would be five hours. Easy peasy. Since I’m a relatively experienced air traveler, I know how to adequately prepare for the minefield of obstacles normally encountered at airport terminals. The key, is knowing how to avoid the significant suffering. That’s what’ll save you.

Ticketing and security are two major minefields I managed to breeze through without a hitch. My level of suffering had remained at zero. With my boarding pass tucked neatly in my shirt pocket, I passed cleanly through the gate…..check. My carry-on bag fit neatly in a nearby overhead compartment from where I was seated…..check. Isle seat pre-selected for additional leg room…..check. John Grisham book and reading glasses in hand…..check. The aircraft taxi’s out and somehow manages to take off on time…..check. Then the pilot comes on the intercom to inform me that we’ll be landing in Dallas about ten minutes ahead of schedule…..awesome! My suffering was still zero. As I watched the flight attendant handing out tiny cups of refreshments, I pondered the concept that it may actually be possible to travel comfortably by air. I was beginning to get cocky.

I exited the plane into the Dallas terminal with forty minutes to spare before my next flight. Learning that my next departure gate was a short distance from my arrival gate, I set off on a leisurely stroll enjoying a little window shopping on the way. I even paused to recheck my Level of suffering…..still zero. Could it be possible?

I arrived at the departure gate to learn my flight was temporarily delayed for maintenance. Apparently the previous pilot decided the breaks “didn’t feel quite right”, wrote it up in the maintenance log, and went home to enjoy the remainder of his wonderful asshole life. The airline representatives told me they hoped to be boarding in about an hour, so I convinced myself it was a nothing more than a minor inconvenience and headed straight for the nearest Starbucks. I should have remembered that denial is not an effective technique to avoid suffering. I had officially achieved suffering level one.

Four hours and three thousand dollars later, my caffeine binge was in full swing and I was seriously ready to go. My heart raced when a voice announced over the public address system that my flight was ready to board. Then again, it was already pounding out of control, so I’m guessing the announcement had little to do with it. I reassured myself, Okay, no problem, I can live with level one, let’s just get the hell out of here, and madly dashed twenty feet across the hallway for absolutely no reason.

I prepared myself for the normal boarding process and was moving through the gate when the ticket agent; a.k.a. dragon lady from hell, decided my carry-on luggage was too large for the overhead compartments. Level two. Now if I had been in a better mood, I might have commented that she was not the first woman to tell me I had a large bag, but I knew this was no place for humor. Besides, other passengers were already piling up behind me. Instead, I took the irrefutable logic approach by assuring her in my best authoritative tone of voice, that the size of my luggage had not been an issue on previous flights, and that I was sure it would fit just fine. She countered my iron clad argument with her irrefutable opinion that my carry-on luggage was too large.

Great.

When I felt the synchronized exhalation of the fifty some irritated passengers standing behind me, my level of suffering increased proportionate to theirs. Adding two points put me at level four. Concerned for my personal safety from those standing behind me, I relinquished my bag to dragon lady, I mean ticket agent, and headed down the jet way. Besides, I knew I had everything I needed for my in-flight entertainment. I can deal with level four.

I arrived at the row of seating I had preselected through the Internet a month earlier to discover my isle seat had metamorphosed into a window seat. Add a point on the suffering scale, but I don’t care. We’re leaving. I plopped down in my window seat with my wife next to me and began performing my own before take-off ritual in a futile attempt to fight back against the rising level of suffering. I was focusing on my relaxation breathing, attempting to achieve suffering level four, when ginger mom appeared. I call her Ginger Mom because she had bright red hair and I never learned her name. Standing in the isle of the plane, she asked if anyone would mind trading seats with her so she could sit with her four year old son. Poor planning on her part, was about the only thing that crossed my mind in the next two tenths of a second before my wife jumped to her feet and left me. Alone and defenseless I did some quick math in my head. Two additional points for abandonment put me at level seven. Not knowing what to expect next added another point. Level eight! Ginger mom tosses her ginger son into the seat next to me. Nine!

Eventually, the pilot pushed the throttles forward and the plane picked up speed for take-off. We didn’t skid off the end of the runway and crash violently into trees, so I considered this a good thing and subtracted one level of suffering. I also realized that since my wife had taken the seat directly in front of me, I had the unique opportunity to pull her hair throughout the remainder of the flight. Three hours of hair pulling should easily drop me back to level seven.

The wheels had barely retracted up into the aircraft and I was already reaching for one particularly vulnerable hair projecting out from the side of my wife’s head. That’s when Ginger son puked on my arm, taking me directly to suffering level twelve. Trust me, when projectile vomit from an unfamiliar four year old saturates your shirt, math calculations are no longer necessary. I was still reeling from the odor when I saw my wife looking back at me with one eye through the space between the seats. She was obviously enjoying the same odor I was. Ginger mom was already busy cleaning up her ginger son; no concern for me, when he let loose with a second round of puke in her lap. The second wave of odor increased my level of suffering to thirteen. Prior to that specific point in my life, I didn’t know the scale even went that high.

As I endured the sensation of ginger son’s stomach contents dripping from my elbow, I heard a familiar “bong” sound, and looked up to see that the airline captain had made doubly sure the seatbelt sign remained brightly illuminated. For added measure, the cabin attendants parked their drink cart directly in front of my only escape route to the center aisle. I was going nowhere. I closed my eyes in complete resignation and reflected on the entire crew’s unique ability to conspire against my best efforts to avoid suffering. Their prior planning and coordination must have been exhaustive. The timing alone was nothing less than inspiring.

I opened my eyes to the voice of a cabin attendant asking if there was anything she could get for me. Her voice was like an angel from heaven. A comforting voice that discredited all thoughts of conspiracy. I was grateful for her assistance in my time of need and asked her for whatever she had that would help. She handed me a tiny cup of Pepsi.

One week and thirty seven showers later, my suffering has diminished to level one. I don’t feel as though I can fully return to normal until I stop smelling vomit every time I blow my nose. My new therapist suggested I should stop obsessing. He’s certainly a zero.

I gently extracted myself from the car.  “What’s wrong? “ I whispered, my voice carrying through the still air of the night.  I squinted down at the dimly lit clock on my cell phone noting the time.  Nearing midnight.

“Grandma’s stuck in the car,” he droned, as if this was something that happened every day.

“She’s stuck in the car?  What do you mean she’s stuck in the car?  How did she get stuck in the car?”  I asked, as if these were the only words I knew.

“She can’t get out,” he explained, “We can’t find the keys.”   He shook his head and his expression leaked, You’re a moron, what’s not to understand here?

“Oh, I see,” I dithered stupidly.  I’m not normally so slow on the uptake, but at that moment, my mind was apparently folding in on itself.  I couldn’t find the connection between the lost key and the ability to get out of the car, and I seemed to be the only one who was confused.

Her head swung back and forth between us while we talked before she slid herself back through the window and began fiddling with things inside the car.  We’d been talking over her as if she was invisible and I thought I saw her glaring at us through the tinted glass.  I looked over at my son again.  Apparently something had gone missing between his brain and his mouth because he seemed to have nothing else to offer by way of explanation.  He resumed his pacing.  I continued probing while he raised his hands in the air, waggling them at me dismissively like I’d just had a lobotomy.

Yes, I was confused and I cocked my head from left to right like a parrot, and continued my parade of questions.  Annoyed, he mirrored my movements, before booming with the force of a Town Crier, “We can’t open the door without the key,” and then he went on with the arm waggling thing again while muttering something about alarms, neighbors, and noise. “And we need to get Grandma out.”

Perhaps he noticed the vacancy in my eyes, the lights-out-nobody’s-home placard I had tacked to my forehead, because he  was now speaking in italics, enunciating every syllable.  “We need a flashlight to find the keys mom, could you find one please?  I don’t know where one is.”

“Okay,” I lamely offered up into the suddenly rising tension, “I’ll try to find one.”

Mom tipped her head and slid it through the partially opened window again, “I need my phone too honey.”

I was so lost.  “For what?”  I didn’t wait for an answer, “Here use mine,” I offered, placing it into her hand through the window.

She handed it back and rolled her eyes.  “I need mine,” she insisted, “I can’t remember his number; it’s programmed into my phone.”

“Whose number?”

“Richard’s.   I’ll call him and he can bring another set of keys.”

I still wasn’t getting the whole key thing and I somehow sensed that this whole episode may have been brought on by some mishap of my son’s.  A rush of panic fluttered across my face.  That and she had on what I believe to be called a “duster” you know those frumpy house dress thingies?  I found it disturbing, for company anyway.

“You can’t call him, look how you’re dressed, and look what time it is.”  I tapped the face of my phone offering proof.   She stuck her arms through the window waving me off in a go on silly girl; just get me my phone gesture.  My mind began skidding off to some distant plane of consciousness and I was now staring off into space considering how a “duster” got its name in the first place.

Then my son’s words sliced through the air again, breaking my semi fugue state.  “The flashlight mom, we need the flashlight.”  And there was the enunciating thing again, and now shooing motions as if I was some errant child being sent off to my room.

“And my phone,” my mother piped up again, her neck and arms still wrenched through the window.  Her tone was sweet, calming, as if she expected fireworks to ignite at any moment from the powder kegs of either my son or myself.

In the glow of the street lamp, I noticed how pretty she looked.  I took a moment trying to reign in my obviously drifting mind.  This was about keys, not potential photo ops, and she was starting to look concerned.

I held my hands palms down, fingers splayed, trying to smooth the air in a placating fashion.  “We’ll get you out somehow mom,” I lied, hoping I looked every inch the part of someone who was actually in control of the situation.

I felt a headache unfurling over my right eye.  Maybe it was the bump on the head I got at the amusement park, or maybe it was hunger, as my lunch had blown off into the bay during a picnic.  Whatever the case, I moved slowly, my right leg feeling somewhat loose, unhinged, from the little race thingy I ran the previous morning.  I was concerned that it might fall off.

Like a mantra, I kept repeating, flashlight, phone, flashlight phone, hoping to remember what I was in there for.  I walked past a pile of laundry and I have no idea why, but I reached down, scooped it up and tossed it in.  Flashlight, phone, flashlight phone, I kept repeating to myself as I poured a bit of soap into the filling tub.

Something was wrong with me, really.  Electrolyte imbalance or something.  Possibly I had sweat away my IQ, but I carried on searching; everywhere…..

…….After turning over the last couch cushion, I stopped the ridiculous flashlight search and turned to go back outside.  When I got back to the car, my mother was punching numbers into her cell phone and my son was holding the flashlight pointing it inside of the car, fiddling with things on the door.  This all happened while I was searching in vain for both, with vast gaps of unaccounted for time.

Netting ourselves in unusual spots seems to be a family hobby but I believed we were reaching new heights of absurdity because no one seemed to think this was out of the ordinary.  Standing next to the car, I started to laugh.  It had a ripple effect, spreading like a rogue wave.  While hee hawing, I tried to stop her from calling her friend, but she already had.  I really thought we could handle it ourselves.

Right.  Handle it ourselves.  When we were now laughing like a trio of drunken seals.

Anyway, somehow the keys were found inside of the car, the alarms were disengaged, or something like that, but I still haven’t figured the damn connection.  Strange wiring maybe.  Anyway, mom got out of the car.  Then like magic, Richard pulled up, a twinkle in his eye, a smile on his face, and everyone began chatting as if we were at some normal midnight gathering.  God love a man with a sense of humor.  The same man who drove two hours to exchange the suitcase I had accidentally brought back from the airport – belonging to someone who lives in Dubai – and returning with the one that actually belonged to me.  Sweet sweet man.

And then I looked down, and to my horror, I realized I had run my little late night errand with my t-shirt on inside out and backwards, the tag flapping in the front like a cute little flag.  How stylish of me.  But then I also noticed that, Praise the Lord, nobody really seemed to notice, or they did,  and it just somehow struck them as normal – for me anyway.

Busy

Visible

to the less connected,

the D list.

You speak in sotto voce,

“I am here; see me, but leave me be.”

Secretly Available to the select,

the keepers of the symbol,

the knowers of its meaning.

Conspicuous absence,

otherwise, you’d be Invisible.

Copyright, Sharie Peters Parker, 2010, all rights reserved

Bull Frog by Shudrbug

A few days ago…

“Build it and they will come,” I opined gently, as she thumbed through the well worn pictures of the back yard of our previous home.  Like her movements had been rehearsed, she turned toward the living room window and peered through the glass as if searching for a perfect spot.  A purposeful sigh escaped her lips.  I’m telling you right now, the girl is an actress.

And then on cue, she looked up at me.  “What’s so bad about frogs anyway, mommy?”  Her doe like eyes settled on mine before wistfully returning to the photos.   Oh, she was smooth and I was smelling defeat.

I put on my best this-isn’t-going-to-happen-smile before resting my hand on her head, smoothing away at her wispy hair.  I tried to explain further, but I was clearly getting nowhere.  Not yet born when we sold the last house, she never got to enjoy the little pond and waterfall like the rest of us did.   And this, I will never hear the end of.

Just steps beyond the French doors, it bubbled and gurgled at a fork in the brick path that wound its way through our tiny suburban oasis.  Wildlife quenched their thirst in plain view of our breakfast room windows.   A frog Mecca it had become over time, but she didn’t care, she wanted one and I was clearly losing ground.

I kept dropping references about the frightening nocturnal noises they’d made hoping to scare her away from the idea, but she wasn’t having any part of it.  What kind of mother am I anyway?  Why don’t I make her afraid of the Easter Bunny too while I’m at it.  God, I’m awful, but I still don’t think it’s gonna happen, not if I have my way anyway.  It went on for years and years until we moved and I can’t do it again.  My reasons?  Let me explain a little.

It started one night many, many, many years ago and it happened something like this…

* * *

I slapped away at his muscled shoulder trying to rouse him. “What the hell was that?” I screeched, my words clipping through the house like little bolts of lightning.  “Wake up, I heard something,” I went on, my voice caught in a weird pitch of hysteria.

He stirred slightly, his groan barely audible over my shrieking.  He grabbed a corner of the sheet and pulled it up to his chin.  My hero, my protector, lay blissfully in a coma, his arms and legs covering three fourths of the bed.   Now I shook him, but the unyielding lump that lay beneath the rumpled sheets refused to move, seemingly sinking deeper into his coma.  I was clearly on my own, the weasel, and now he was snoring.

I wasn’t sure where it was coming from, or what it was, but I grabbed the flashlight from beneath the kitchen sink and made my way to the French door.  I didn’t know what to expect, but one thing was certain, the noise was coming from something really big.

I stepped out the back door, my two foot long five pound flashlight in hand, and waited. It didn’t take long before it let out another bone cracking noise that seemed to be coming from somewhere around the waterfall.  On my hands and knees wearing only a nightshirt, I aimed the beam of light between the rocks.  With the slitted eyes of a cat, I waited.  And there he was.

The perpetrator, all 2 inches of him, regarded me with beady eyes.  He wagged his tongue and sat still, his testosterone pumped up neck expanding with each breath.  He let out another croak and with God as my witness…he smiled at me.  His big wide mouth mocking me, I was sure of it.  I didn’t exactly know what else to do so I asked him nicely to be quiet.

And there I was, on my hands and knees, shushing a frog in the middle of the night.  I know, I know, but what else was there?  I didn’t know of a nighttime frog relocation program, so we had to achieve harmony somehow.  Possibly a friendship would form.

He was quiet for a moment so I turned to go back inside.  Well, that was easy enough, I thought to myself, but as soon as I got inside, be damned if he didn’t do it again and I mean it was LOUD.  This wasn’t your average ribbet, or however it’s spelled.  It was lengthy, mighty, and as we would soon find out, it would go on for hours, years.  Mating call I think.  Whatever.  Get a date you maniac, I need to sleep.

Well, anyway, I went back outside with my really mean face on, crouching low enough to meet him eye to beady eye.  It didn’t work; he studied me with arrogant disinterest.  That was it.  I let out some really inappropriate exhortation, given it was the middle of the night, we had neighbors, and I was after all, talking to a frog.  With that, he seemed to look right through me.

If there really is such a thing as flaring nostrils, I had them.  I stared at him with red-rimmed eyes and yelled something else that made no sense to even me.  There he sat, water rolling off his back, watching me make an ass of myself.  I think I stood up and stomped around a bit hoping to scare him, because by now, I didn’t give a crap what I was doing.  This had to stop; we had to get some sleep.

Then all of a sudden, like Mary Poppins, three jammy clad little boys materialized at the back door.  They were whispering things to each other.  Why were they always doing that?  They still do it.  Why is that?  Anyway…

* * *

Back to a few days ago…

And now there I was, my little girl begging me to build another one, another cute, harmless waterfall just outside the back door. I smiled, somewhat agreed to do it someday, and then all of a sudden that old weird song started running through my head…”they’re coming to take me away ha ha to the funny farm, where life is beautiful all the time and I’ll be happy to see those nice young men in their clean white coats and they’re coming to take me away, ha ha…

"Piece" by IceSabre

The legs of the chair scraped over the vinyl as he pulled on it, quickly sliding it from beneath the battered table.  Once out, he lowered himself onto its unforgiving surface, stretching his legs full length in front of him, his arms crossed defensively.

The light was dim and he took his time studying the puzzle.  It was complete, the pieces locked together in a perfect fit.  Still beautiful, but it was gathering dust and he wanted something more.

The new one sat in its cardboard cube, inviting, ready to be opened and explored.  He carefully slid the old one to the side before slipping the cellophane off the new box.

Such a nice picture.  He ran his hand over the glossy photo before prying the lid with his fingernail.  This one would take time, but he had lots of it now, more than he knew what to do with in fact.  The other one was finished and it was  a lovely sight, but he was restless, always, always, looking for more.

He picked up the first piece and laid it down in the center of the table and quickly reached for another.  He could smell the newness.  The beginning was always the best, the freshness almost intoxicating.  It was the journey that mattered.  To him anyway.  The first pieces always went together easily and this one was no different.  He came to life again, like a plant being watered.

Out of the corner of his eye he spied the one he had willfully pushed to the side.  It was still beautiful and he liked it, but it had lost a bit of its luster and it seemed to be getting in the way.  It was distracting him and he didn’t know what to do.  How could he get rid of something so nice, so perfect.

He held still for a moment trying to harness his thoughts before suddenly removing a piece straight out of the middle.  Ah, not so perfect anymore.  He pulled up a few more pieces and the picture began to fade.  How remarkably easy it was to do this, to alter the image to suit his plan.  Just a slight of hand, a trick of the mind was all it took.  But he still trembled while he pried away at the rest.  He stared at the image and watched it weaken even further.  Before he knew it, it was nearly disassembled.  Once whole, now vestigial remains.  It was easy to change what it once was, to what it is now.  He felt strong and pressed on.

It was nearly gone now, completely unrecognizable to what it really was and he decided to go ahead and do it.  It would be easy to move on with no remorse, regret, or even sorrow now.  “Look at it,” he said to himself out loud, “It’s nothing to me, nothing at all.”  With one swift slide of the arm, the remaining pieces flew across the room landing here and there.

There was a time when he would pick up the pieces, at least attempting to put them back into their box, attempting to put them away for safekeeping, but not anymore.  Now he just let them pile up at his feet where he’d shuffle through them like they never even existed.  Afraid they’d somehow put themselves back together again behind his back if he took too much care.  So he didn’t.  Out of sight, out of mind.  But like a burr on his sock, they lingered.

The bulb in the lamp finally burned out and darkness encroached.  It was done, he had finally gotten rid of it.  In the dimness, he reached into the new box to pull out a few more pieces to begin his new project, his new quest, and without warning, the Brown Recluse bit him.  A network of lines traveled across his face.

Emerging from a winter so cold  and gray I nearly went mad, I anxiously set out to reclaim my garden from the season’s unforgiving hand.  I tread cautiously, winding my way over the freeze dried lawn, my toes scraped by the prickly carnage.  Just days before, I’d spread enough nitrogen to build a bomb, and felt triumphant, smug, as I tossed the chemical bag to the side and began watering.  I wanted green, and be damned how I’d get it.  I watched carefully for signs of life and was ready to take the next step.

Chin in hand, I studied the trays of  Begonias.  I’d been down this road before and couldn’t help but wonder at my sanity; but I’d done a little research, made a few mental notes, and I’d wage war if I had to.

I planted the flowers, feeling a little giddy at the display.

I checked them the following day, feeling eager and a bit too full of myself, but the emotion soon fled as I discovered something had had  its way with them.  With guarded optimism, I poured another shot of water over them and waited; yet disturbingly, they were even smaller the following day.

On my hands and knees, I inspected them closer, peering through the foliage while searching for some elusive clue.   Slimy trails wound their way through the freshly laid mulch, criss crossing it wildly.  Well fuckity-fuck, I thought to myself, they did it again.

I remembered the powdered baits I’d tried.  I took the creatures for fools and they mocked me, determined to reach the buffet of pink on the other side.  I remembered the  ton of diatomaceous earth I’d spread - I have no idea what it is, but it didn’t work either.  I’m certain they laughed while springing over it like a slinky.

I’d try something different this time; something simple, easy and cheap.  So there I stood, my liquid minions in hand - a couple dozen tiny bowls  and a twelve pack of  beer.  I’m sure I looked nothing short of insane.

Through a cloud of desperation, I waged war.  I twisted the top off a beer and took a long hard swallow before looking around to make sure no one was watching.  I alternated between sipping, digging, and watching until all the tiny holes were complete.  I set the bowls down into the holes.

I noticed my neighbor stepping outside, raising a bushy eyebrow.  I smiled, waved, and continued, topping each bowl off with a healthy dose of the beer.   In theory; they’d slither into the alcoholic moat and drink till they drowned.  It sounded pleasant enough.

I took a few more swallows and sat down Indian style on the front porch, silhouetted menacingly against the brick wall.  I swatted maniacally at the mosquitoes that were loitering around and picked away at the mulch that caked beneath my finger nails.  I finished another beer but I was getting tipsy and having second, and well, third thoughts.

With questioning eyes, family members took turns peering through the glass door, turning away and whispering things to each other.  I frowned, held up my empty bottle, and mimed them off (best done in combination for the scariest effect).   By now, my ass was falling asleep and I was running a little short on beer.

With all the clarity of a drunk in the dark, I made my way to the flowers but the walk rushed the alcohol to my brain and I saw nothing - they were waiting in the shadows for me to give up, or pass out.  It made no difference to them and I could have sworn my bushy browed neighbor peered through his window again.  Now three sheets to the wind and mosquito bitten; I was still no closer to a slug annihilation than before.  And so it goes…

I really have no idea exactly how the evening ended, but I’m certain I gave up and went inside.  Since no one had me committed and the flowers are still there, I’ll count it as a victory, but who knows how long it will last…

I swerved to the right, narrowly avoiding a head on collision with a suspiciously lurking sales girl. She watched from beneath raised eyebrows while I gathered more and more, and seethed while noticing the racks hemorraging steadily. After my frenzy, she’d be the one to put them all back.

She nodded disapprovingly. I frowned back at her.

Though clinging to physical fitness and youth by a fraying thread, I wasn’t ready to give in just yet. I had to find one and she was beginning to piss me off.

I entered the room and disrobed, involuntarily sucking in my stomach, smoothing over my pasty winter skin with my hands. Compliments of the weather, my hair was frizzy and wild, the strands pointing horizontally from the sides of my head. I stared into the mirror in horror.

The items hanging precariously on the hook were taunting me, toying with me, urging me to try them on, but the fluorescent lights and fun house mirrors that decorated the walls told me to stop – before it was too late.

I fantasized about hunting down the cad whose idea it was to install the damn things and slapping the crap out of him. I know for sure it was a him;  no woman in her right mind would even consider installing floor to ceiling mirrors on all sides that were guaranteed to suck the sale, and most certainly the self esteem from someone in a single gulp.

Exhaling purposely, I stepped into the spandex, pulling it up over my winter body, tugging, pulling, scraping, and then finally exhausted, I found myself panting like a dog.

It wouldn’t work. The thin strips of fabric designed for the top part of a woman’s body resembled a thong stretched over my ample flotation devices.  Melons in miniature hammocks; you get the picture.  Torn between sexy and decency, I was forced to throw it down – there are kids at the pool after all, and well, grown ups too.

Looking for something unspeakably dazzling, I continued my search but the smell of defeat began wafting through the air, rendering me panicked. Ruefully, I looked back at the stream of holiday festivities and bad weather that got me where I am – five pounds heavier than last fall, then looked over at the sales girl; her arms crossed, her shiny red talons tapping piano like over her lithe 20-something biceps.  She punctuated the scene with a huff.

I frowned again; the smartass, before violently spitting out the Hershey Kiss I’d been sucking into the palm of my hand.  I dreamed of life-flight taking me straight to Jenny Craig. Nothing like a dressing room house of horrors to launch my spring physical fitness routine.

Anyway, dozens of suits later, I slithered away empty handed hoping the now rabid sales girl wouldn’t somehow track me down and slap the crap out of me. Last year’s suit isn’t looking so bad after all. I don’t think I can do this again, really, I don’t.

 Ahhh, the rites of spring, and in Texas; it is here.

Where passionate kiss
in a drape darkened room
is bathed in the mist
of seductive perfume
held breathless and helpless
while lust does consume
and bodies merge
as their love is resumed

Where fingers dance
over curvacious line
and surging lust
shoots through delicate spine
And glistening skin
in moonlight does shine
where hair is laid out
like a tangly vine

And the rhythmic sway
over love heated flesh
as he tantalizes
with wanton caress
and nirvana seeps
as their souls enmesh
in a darkened room
where their hearts confess

In dreams awake
to another time
where lustful memory
is soulfully mine
and where rumpled sheets
of another time
hold candy hearts
and drizzled red wine

Copyright Sharie Peters Parker 2010,  all rights reserved

Grape vineyards, apple orchards, and hills blanketed with endless tufts of green filled the rearview mirror as the concrete ribbon of highway poured endlessly in front of me, yanking me away from the dying rust belt town whose smoke stacks laid fallow, whose chain link fences toppled, whose lights dimmed for lack of green to keep them aglow, whose promise of a future laid in waste amongst the feet of the young who tripped in their search for a reason to stay in the warm September air that was saturated with the scent of turning leaves and ripening grapes.  Young, very, and filled with intrepid dreams, of the pipe variety, I rode in the passenger seat of the blue ’76 Buick Electra, hardtop, south south south to the Promised Land in search of what…I didn’t know.

Old tires rolled through flatlands of other places where decrepit towns laid dormant amongst the cornfields plowed by bankrupt farmers who barely had shoes, whose farms would be lost to the banker with the shiny black shoes, who stapled notices on doors of barns emptied by lack.  The felt headliner of the Electra fluttered in the breeze untethered by its decaying adhesive, to be ripped away soon as frustration mounted in the heat of the sultry air.

I held my purring cat as we drove through another place where ranches wound fences for miles, painted in white around hills and fields of green where horses frolicked and Crosses stood tall on hilltops, shouting the message of salvation over the land.

Then on past cotton fields where sharecroppers sat on dusty porches and half naked children ran over sun baked yards of blowing red dirt filled with broken toys amongst the old tires and rusted trucks, their noses dripping in streaks of brown over their sun drenched cheeks that glistened in the frying sun, sharing their world with the cattle who grazed.

Past ice houses on the side of the road where cords dangled needlessly from booths that held no phones, where men and women met for lunch and held  sweaty bottles of beer and sat around whiskey barrel tables on sawdust covered porches, where juke boxes played and the wind blew the dust and the scent of barbeque through the scorching air, and where men with bolted down southern drawls smoked Lucky Strike’s and waved and tipped their Stetsons high above genuine smiles at the passersby whose license plates wore the names of other places.

Past homesteads that stood isolated against the sides of highways that cut through their lives like scissors through ribbons, dividing the land in half in pursuit of progress that pushed its merciless hand through and wound itself recklessly over homes that now sat at the foot of bridges, where no river ran beneath, just another concrete ribbon crisscrossing the first.

The Electra rolled over overpasses that shaded caravans of  rustbelt refugees whose dirty u-hauls held the contents of their lives as they searched in vain for the land of milk and honey with no skills that fit the land on which they stood, soon to return to the land of which they came, as their funds ran dry as a creek bed in July.

Past ethereal oasis’ of homes standing proud, planted like corn in the middle of the prairie, jutting their wooden bones into the air of the Promised Land where the young and the old shared a piece of the world with a name dreamed up by a man whose money built the streets and named them after far flung places, and where swimming pools surrounded by concrete were filled with children escaping the torrid heat of the sun baked prairie light, and where lakes with fountains were carved to hold floodwaters so homes would stay dry when the rains would fall in buckets over the land in spring.

Then on through the complex thicket of the city past glassy buildings that scraped the sky, whose mirrored facades reflected the world around them, with top floors that lent views as far as the eye and imagination could see, and towered above the hodge-podge landscape that sprouted around them like hallucinogenic mushrooms popping up helter-skelter in the sodden fields of the sandy loam.

Past the rows of shotgun houses that felled their paint and were skirted in oleander and palm, where lines of wet wash hung between trees and the glassy buildings were not far behind, where juxtaposition was invented and defined.

Near tamale stands where women soaked and rolled the husks of corn then wrapped them delicately around the mush that filled their centers that men wearing starched jeans and pressed white shirts, cowboy hats and boots with taps on the bottom, would buy by the dozen.

In eyeshot of the refineries whose lights glowed like cities on the delta and who refined oil for the millions of cars that rolled over the roads, the surface smoking beneath their tires, and where miasma billowed out of their stacks filling the sultry air with the smell of money that wafted in clouds over the East End, near the Channel that carried ships full of cargo and all things useful to the others who want endlessly, and where the goods are loaded onto trucks and trains to cross the country to the insatiable. 

Then on to the final miles with the city in the rearview mirror and the marshy water’s edge laid out before me where egrets fished in the bayous and where shrimpers and yacht owners shared the same salty water.

Arriving at the land of hot and cold, floods and droughts, oil and space age, flat and hilly, all worlds, all languages, all cultures, all economic levels, all wrapped up in one wonderful package.  It is a place where the past has expanded before my eyes and the future will shrink accordingly, and it is where I am, and it is good.

Twenty eight years later, I look out the window at the dawn of another misty balmy December day and I remember the vineyards and the orchards and the snow, and the roots of my life that are still tattooed on my mind,and the people, oh how I miss the people, and  I remember the scent of ham and mashed potatoes and gravy and sweet potatoes and corn and fruit salad and rolls and apple pie wafting through the air on Christmas morning and I remember sitting around the Christmas tree of my childhood home and today; I miss it, I miss it a lot.

There was a small knock on the door before the butler entered with a new tray of drinks. Colonel Mustard lifted himself to his feet, re-tucking his shirt, and traded his empty glass for one filled to the brim.

“How much longer until dinner, Gladwell?” Mustard inquired. The butler sighed.

“The cook is recording herself preparing the meal on video to send to a chef’s contest in New Jersey, so she’s doing multiple takes. It won’t be for another hour or so, I’m afraid.”

“Why are we here, Gladwell? Whose house is this? We all figured out we’re being blackmailed by the same person who goes by codename “Straight,” but why were we invited here? Who do you work for?” Mustard asked angrily before taking a swig of his drink. Gladwell shook his head.

“The cooks and I were asked to come here by some anonymous person for a fair amount of money. I have four children, sir; I can’t afford to pass that kind of money up. But I do know that whoever is blackmailing you has to have access to government records. Take Green there, for example. He’s a treasurer, blackmailed for embezzling money. Shifty character if you ask me. Very rude to me when he came in. And Scarlet,” Gladwell went on. Mustard leaned in. “Scarlet is a secretary for a government branch… Blackmailed for being less than virtuous, if you know what I mean.”

Both men looked Miss Scarlet up and down, a slit in her bright red dress cutting all the way up to her hip. Mustard gave a low whistle. Gladwell adjusted the drinks on the tray and continued.

“And Peacock there- her husband was a high up government official. He committed suicide half a year ago, giving the misses a fortune. There’s quite a bit of evidence against her proving that it wasn’t a suicide; that’s what she’s getting blackmailed for. She’s quite a character.”

Mustard clucked his tongue. Gladwell nodded in agreement.

“And Plum? A professor studying nuclear science and teaching at a local University. Blackmailed for getting a little too friendly with his students. Nervous fellow, he is. Mrs. White is a maid for the same official Scarlet works for. She’s being blackmailed for using the man’s credit card for her own personal purposes when he gives it to her to run errands, though she’s a very sweet lady. Her pay is almost as low as mine.” Gladwell looked at Mustard. “What about you, Colonel? What’s your story?”

Mustard took another sip of his gin before responding.

“I… may have been, uh… selling military equipment illegally on the black market…” He cleared his throat and tucked his shirt in some more. Gladwell chuckled.

“It’s alright, sir. What’s said in this house stays in this house. I certainly do not have the guts to blackmail any of you myself. Besides, it seems like codename “Straight” has done a thorough enough job of doing so anyway.”

Mrs. Peacock came over, her musty feathered hat bobbing on top of her hair-do. Gladwell nodded and handed her a glass.

“But I see what you mean about Straight having access to government records,” Mustard said. “It seems as if everyone here works for the feds.”

Mrs. Peacock narrowed her eyes and titled her head, the feather hairpiece wobbling dangerously.

“What are you two gentlemen discussing over here?” she asked. Gladwell grunted.

“Just reviewing the facts, is all,” he said. Peacock pursed her lips.

“Perhaps you should go back to the kitchen, butler, to assist the cook. It seems as though dinner may take a while.”

Mustard furrowed his brow, but Gladwell set the tray on the end table and left the lounge silently. The colonel coughed awkwardly.

“So… You’re a widow, eh?”

Mrs. Peacock rolled her eyes.

“I need another cigarette…” she muttered. She left to go get a new pack from her coat, leaving Colonel Mustard standing alone.

Across the room, Mrs. Scarlet downed the remaining liquid in her glass and clapped her hands. She grinned at Mr. Green, who was sitting to her right.

“Don’t you just love this song?” she asked, snapping her fingers to the new jazz piece that came over the radio. Green smiled wryly and shook his head.

“I hate jazz.”

Scarlet raised her eyebrows at him.

“I happen to love it,” she said. “My father was a pianist, my mother a dancer. They used to perform down at the club every Thursday.”

“I don’t care,” Green muttered. Scarlet switched her left leg over her right, facing Green. She rested her chin on her hand and flashed a smile.

“Then what do you care about?”

“Money. Now excuse me.” He got up and left for the restroom, leaving Miss Scarlet feeling self-conscious and passing Mrs. Peacock in the doorway with a newly lit cigarette on her lips.

Nearby, Plum moved farther down the bookshelf, reaching for another thick medical journal, most likely seeking more hidden money. As he touched the spine of the book, he bumped into Mrs. White, who was trying to clean a white porcelain bowl.

“Oh, uh, pardon me, ma’am,” he said, suddenly flustered.

“Oh, that’s alright. I’m just trying to get rid of this smudge! I bet this hasn’t been cleaned in years!” Plum looked around.

“Um… Right…” Mr. Plum went to the other side of the room.

A few seconds later, Mr. Green sauntered in the room and stood by a copper statue.

“You look like you need a drink,” Mustard said, striding over with a glass in his hand.

Suddenly a loud scream sounded from down the hall.

“You know it,” Green said, taking the glass from Mustard. All six guests rushed into the billiard room, where the scream had come.

The cook was standing in the doorway, her hand covering her mouth.

“I was coming to get some rum from the bar for the tiramisu when I saw him!” She pointed to the billiard table. The guests leaned forward to see Gladwell with a noose around his neck, lying on the table, strangled to death. Mrs. White and Scarlet gasped, Mrs. Peacock’s hat bobbed precariously.

Mustard raised his voice, “Alright! Everyone in the library! Including the cook!”

The guests looked back and forth at each other. The murderer had to be one of them. They all made their way into the library, the dark curtains drawn, the orange lamps glowing. Oil paintings hung on the wall, the eyes of the subjects staring at each person accusingly.

“Why would someone murder the butler?!” Mrs. White wailed, covering her mouth with her handkerchief.

“What does that matter?” Mr. Plum exclaimed. “All that matters is that we find out who it was! Because I do not want to be alone in this house with them! The doors are locked, Gladwell had the key. There’s no way out!”

A nervous titter rippled between the guests. It was true; they were all stuck here with a murderer.

“I remember the last conversation I had with him,” Mustard said, shaking his head. “He was saying how whoever was blackmailing us had to have access to governments records that contained dirt on all of us. Who else would murder Gladwell but the blackmailer? He was the only other person who knew the dirt on the rest of us. Sure, he said he didn’t have the guts to blackmail, but that may not have been true. That posed as competition to the blackmailer- a threat.”

“It had to have happened in the last five minutes,” Scarlet said. “Gladwell had just left the room after he dropped off the drinks. Who wasn’t in everyone’s sight in the last five minutes?”

Scarlet looked at Mr. Green. Mr. Green looked at Mrs. Peacock. Mrs. Peacock looked at the cook. The cook looked frightened.

“It couldn’t have been me! I was recording myself for that contest! I have proof!” the cook yelled. She pulled out a camcorder from her apron and hit play. The date and time was clear in the corner of the screen as she chopped vegetables. Everyone looked at Mrs. Peacock.

“I went to get a cigarette! I wasn’t gone all that long!” she trilled.

They turned to Mr. Green.

“Well I didn’t do it,” he said flatly.

They turned to each other.

“Besides the cook, not very convincing arguments,” Mustard muttered.

“Wait!” cried Mrs. White. They all turned to her small figure. “The rope! That was the rope from those dirty curtains in the hall! I remember- it was frayed. Bugged the heck out of me. It was rubbed with cedar oil.”

“I see where you’re going with this!” Plum said excitedly. Everyone turned to him. He paused. “Um… Actually, maybe not.”

Mrs. White gave an exasperated sigh.

“The murderer is whosever’s hands smell like cedar! They had to have tied and handled the rope!”

Scarlet and the cook clapped their hands happily.

They all turned to the suspects.

“Stick out your hands!” Mustard boomed.

Mrs. Peacock pursed her lips and jabbed her hands out. Mr. Green calmly put down his gin and held out his hands. The guests leaned forward and smelled their hands.

“YOU!” they yelled.

“Told you I didn’t do it,” Green said, stepping off to the side.

“It was Mrs. Peacock! In the billiard room! With the rope!”

Mrs. Peacock stomped her foot.

“Gladwell spoiled everything!” she shouted. “He got nosy, and had to ask everyone about their lives. Why did you tell him what you were being blackmailed for? You stupid people. He’s poor! Why wouldn’t he blackmail you, too? I couldn’t allow that. That information was mine.”

“But why?” Scarlet asked. Peacock sighed.

“My husband didn’t leave me a thing. After all that! Nothing! Except- the access to his office. He had all his records in there. Well, what a perfect opportunity! I found the most scandalous cases- you five- and earned the fortune I deserved.”

“I’m poor because of you!” Plum shouted. “Look what you did to me! I do not want to be locked in a house with a murderer like you!”

Suddenly, he reached for Colonel Mustard. He pulled the revolver out of the holster that was strapped to Mustard’s waist and aimed it at Mrs. Peacock. Every guest jumped for him, trying to grab the gun. They were all struggling to pull the weapon out of Mr. Plum’s hand when it went off.

A loud bang echoed through the whole house, making the china and other heirlooms quiver. Mrs. Peacock lay dead on the Oriental rug, a bullet in her heart.

They all looked at their own doing. In the library. With the revolver.