Crossing Nevada

May was so tired when she saw the pitiful little gas station out in the middle of the desert, that to her, after miles and miles of no gas, no food and no restroom, it was an oasis. In her mind's eye it had palm trees and enormous tents filled with soft rugs and fruits and delicacies of every description.

The reality was a dilapidated shack and two gas pumps out in front. In place of a handsome sheik, coming out of the screen door to pump her gas was a tall, thin guy of indeterminate age with no smile on his weather lined face. Both he and the stark scenery of Highway 50 seemed to say if you can't tough it out crossing Nevada then maybe you shouldn't be there.

"I guess you'll be wanting some gas," he said in a tone that didn't guarantee that there was any.  "I speck there's enough to fill your car, but just barely. A big truck came through here and almost pumped us dry."

"Yes, please and some food and your bathroom," May replied. She fervently hoped that there was enough gas. She couldn't spend the night in her car parked outside the filthy garage wondering where this strange man would be in the middle of the night.

"Outhouse is out back and you'll find some chips and sody inside, candy too if you're a mind."

She found the outhouse and was grateful in spite of the primitive services. She felt better with gas in her car and a Coke, some chips and two candy bars. When she paid him, he also softened slightly and wished her a good trip. He promised she would have enough gas to get to Utah. She'd still be in the desert, but a little closer to civilization. She sighed and then smiled. The moonscape of Nevada wasn't going to take her this time. She was on the road again.

If Bowls Could Speak

As the door closed lightly, there was an almost audible sigh throughout the apartment, and then, nearly imperceptible movements as all the objects woke from their daily slumber, ready at any moment to return to immobility if she should come back.

"Thank God she has to run errands or we'd never have a moment's peace!" said one of the white bowls. They were everyday worker bowls, proud of their spotless whiteness, their uniformity and their unassailable modernity. Of course, they were the ones she used the most, so they felt quite important.

Adele, the blue green pottery bowl who sat in the middle of the dining table, thought that she was the star of all the bowls. She nodded in agreement, "Yes, I needed some time off, some beauty rest. Being as elegant as I am all the time is exhausting and especially when I'm always the center of attention."

Leona, the silver filigree bowl on the desk, who was older than any of the others, had more money and a pedigree so distinguished that the white bowls and Adele had never even heard of it, laughed.

"You are very pretty, but somehow I doubt you would be worth a farthing at an estate sale, whereas I would be considered a treasure and very valuable.  I have been carefully placed in a predominate position on this 19th century mahoghany desk for a reason. I represent wealth and stability, not popularity."

The little silver bowls for sugar and cream on the armoire in the hallway began to giggle."Yes, Leona, you are the richest and most important. We will always be behind you, supporting you and making you shine. Thank heavens she remembers to polish us now and then. What's a farthing?"

The large green Mexican bowl with fluted edges like a pie, also quite old and bigger than the rest, spoke in a solemn and ponderous tone, "Por Dios! You must stop boasting! I was made by a peasant in Mexico and sold for a few pesos to her mother. I am the most humble of all, but, she puts me on the coffee table where everyone can see me. True beauty is in the eye of the beholder and never for sale!

The wooden salad bowl, alone in the high cupboard, was quite shy, so she only said, "I agree with Jorge. We should all get along."

The apples, bananas, sugar and cream applauded and said, "We love you all for holding us so tightly and so lovingly! Please don't fight anymore."

And they didn't, not for a week at least!

It's Just Criminal!

A street in a big city. A policeman walks up to a tough looking young lady who is standing over a dead body on the sidewalk.

P:  Hello, m'am. I'm Officer Davis. (he shows his badge) I need to talk to you about what happened. Were you a witness?

L: Yes, yes. I was right here. (cries and covers her face) Excuse me, I just feel so nervous and afraid. It was all so terrible.

P: Well, try to be calm and remember as carefully as you can what you saw. How long has he been laying here?

L: Well, can I just tell you something first?

P: Of course, I need all the facts.

L: It's lying, not laying.

P: What? Did somebody lie? Who?

L: No, no. It's that lying is an intransitive verb unlike laying which is transitive and has to have an object. You know, the chicken is laying eggs, but the man is lying in the street.

P: OK, OK. I hardly think that will help the investigation, but let's keep going. How long has he been LYING there? He sure don't look like he cares much about my grammar anyway. (laughs a little)

L: Doesn't.

P: Doesn't what?

L: He doesn't care. Third person present singular of the verb to do. You don't, but he doesn't.

P: You got me again. (trying to be patient) You're a smart one alright! Hey, is this guy Oriental?

L: Oriental! You can't say Oriental anymore! Oriental is for rugs, nowadays we say Asian for people.

P: Oh, wow, who knew? (starting to get a little annoyed)  OK, let's get down to business. Where are we at?

L: No, no! It's where are we, not where are we AT. You can't end a sentence with a preposition. What kind of training do they give you guys anyway?

P: Lady, you're not very helpful. Do you know this man? My partner said he's the same man who you gave a ride to earlier.

L: It's "the man to whom you gave a ride earlier". I know that's a little harder than some of this other stuff, but still you should know when to use who and whom! Wow, where did you go to school?

P: (stiffening a little) M'am, I will ask all the questions from now on. You should be worried about something besides my grammar. In fact, I just wrote down, "Their's something suspicious about the witness. Maybe she's the murderer!"

L: (Sneaks a look at his notebook.) I can't believe it. You didn't spell "there's" correctly. You've had a very weak background in English. How do you think it should be spelled?

P: (throws his hands in the air, dropping his notebook) That's it! I give up! No more questions. You are free to go. I'm going to try to forget I ever seen you.

L: Sorry I couldn't be more helpful. It's "saw", but don't worry about it, I won't report you! (She leaves smiling with a last scornful glance at the dead man.)

The Envelope

Sofia loved her new apartment. She had had to cry and beg and generally make herself obnoxious to convince her parents to help her buy it. But she did have a job and she could pay the mortgage, she just needed a little parental underpinning to make it really happen. After all, they had a house in the country and in the suburbs, surely they could see why she would want at least one.

Of course, it was barely a house, just 395 square feet, but so beautiful, three million kroner, a pittance to be able to live in downtown Stockholm. It was in a traditional 19th century building, but inside it was pure 21st century, thanks to Ikea and her own good taste. Here she could breathe more easily. A twenty-five year old lawyer cannot live with her parents, she exclaimed to herself as she sat at her own little kitchen table.

What was that? Something white had been slid under the door. She reached down for what turned out to be an elegant cream colored envelope, sealed with no markings on it anywhere. She opened it and found a blank sheet of paper neatly folded inside. Just like the envelope, it was thick, expensive paper. She felt a frisson of fear. Who sent this? A stalker who couldn't write, or, worse, a stalker who wouldn't name the terrible things he would do to her. Suddenly being alone in her own apartment didn't seem so glamorous.

She sat down again at her one table and stared at the envelope and the letter with no words. Then, her cell phone rang. It was her dad, who had been most set against her moving out. She had been angry with him, but now his voice would be a comfort.

 "Hi, how are you? Did you get my letter?" he said.

"What letter?" she replied.

"The one under your door of course!"

"Dad, how could you?, she answered. "You put the envelope under my door? Why? You scared me half to death. Why didn't you write anything on it?"

He laughed, "I'm sorry, I didn't plan to scare you. My father did the same for me when I got my first job and my first apartment. It's for you to write your future on, not me. I just hope it will be a happy one!"

She smiled and picked up her pen.

Free

Abigail felt old and tired. She looked in the long mirror and saw the body and face that Adam had left and she just wanted to cry, but her eyes were dry.

Adam had gone to Alaska to work on a fishing boat and make money, a lot of money, so they could be comfortable and he would not have to go to work each day, but instead by the miracle of three months of hard, dangerous labor which was very well paid he would be free. Free to do what she had wondered when he first told her? To sleep. to play video games, to drink coffee, to drink beer, to smoke hundreds of cigarettes? What was his goal?

That's when it came to her that he wanted to be free of her, of their life, of obligation, of any future at all. She had asked so little. Her brown hair was cut sensibly, she wore no make-up, she bought her clothes at Goodwill, yet, it was not enough. She would have to become no bigger than a dot on a page to satisfy him.

So she stood there, thinking how sad she must be, when suddenly it struck her, she was free. Free to buy a new dress, free to go out and have a drink, free to stay up late. She didn't ever have to worry again about being too much for him, she could be so big that she could fill the whole apartment with herself alone. Her hair could be long, her lipstick could be bright red, her jewelry could be ostentatious. She could speak loudly and no one would know. The smallest trickle of true joy began to flow in her newly awakened bloodstream.

The Dress

The dress was iridescent green and blue satin. It moved slowly and sensuously almost by itself as she watched herself in the mirror. The pain of a new high school and no real friends was eased as she imagined the success she would be at the party. Milwaukee seemed so dull and lonely after New York, but her grandmother was socially prominent and able to foot the bill at the exclusive girl's school where she felt out of place, but still happy to be among the elect.

Her great aunt Missy had bought the dress. To her grandmother and her sister nothing was more important than family and social success, and Jane felt the subtle, but omnipresent pressure to join the elite and be popular. Her previous life in New York had been more humble and middle class. Her father's salary as a teacher, while maintaining his social status as a professional, did not touch the expenses of a girl in high society. There was no question of being a future debutante like some of her classmates, but at least she could attend cotillion looking as good as any rich businessman's daughter.

Foundation, eye shadow, eye liner, mascara and lipstick, she felt ever more excited as she applied each magic elixir to her girlish face. Then, slipping into the matching shoes, she was ready. Of course, she couldn't really think that she was beautiful, but she hoped that someone might believe the illusion she was creating. She had a blind date, who no doubt felt equally awkward at the thought of going to a dance where he knew no one, but who would be glad to have her by his side, no matter how she looked.

When they entered the dance, the band was playing loudly and they immediately jumped in with the others to dance as passionately and wildly as they could in their formal attire. Allen was tall, thin and not very impressive. Neither he nor she had much to say, but they could dance and not worry about conversation, a near impossibility anyway, the music was so loud.

Halfway through, one of her new acquaintances from school approached her with the news that Sam, from a neighboring boy's private school, had been watching her and had said that he liked her moves. He wanted to know if they could switch dates and leave the party. She knew it was wrong, but she was overjoyed that she was attractive to someone. She hesitated for one shimmering, gossamer moment, but then, sucked into the glory of having an admirer from afar, she acquiesced and they made the arrangements.

Later, and for many years after, the moral ugliness of that agreement filled her brain in a way that having a date with a cool boy never could have. Sam had turned out to be even less exciting than Allen, and she only saw him once more. However, everyday she had to study with her classmate who had been so casually dumped. Francine belonged to an equally admired group, the brainy crowd. There were three of them and they were always at the top of the class. Jane's shame prevented her from ever making any overtures of friendship.

Now, far from Milwaukee, in California, each year the summons come to the annual reunions. Francine is often in the pictures, still in glasses, but looking confident and successful. She has aged gracefully and seems quite unconcerned about a small humiliation that occurred fifty years before.

Joyful Tears

Anna Maria stood outside her trailer exuding an air of frustration and irritation. Her director had just asked her to display "joyful tears" when her boyfriend returned from the war in Iraq. She was not an actress who found it easy to cry at a moment's notice, and to add that she had to weep for happiness just completely flummoxed her. Who the hell, she thought, really cries for joy? Anyway, Anna Maria was a soap opera veteran so she knew she could do it, and nobody would be too much the wiser if the emotions weren't real. She went in the trailer and cut up the usual onions and stuck a few in her pocket. When Joe called "Action!" she was ready. She embraced the dumb SOB that played her boyfriend/ returning war hero, smiled, pressed her onion juice coated fingers against her eyes as though trying to stop the flow of tears, and lo and behold, a profusion of clear salty liquid wet her lovely cheeks.

Mad Confusion

Like a fool, I agreed to come with Ishwar to America. "Rich," he said, "we will be rich. Beautiful houses, fabulous cars, luxurious clothes. We will live like maharajahs!"

But, no, we live in a rat and cockroach infested apartment in Oakland, a town so full of drug addicts and thieves that they have to kill each other to survive. What do I know of the blue green Pacific Ocean and the sandy beaches that I saw in pictures before we came?  Nothing, I tell you, nothing.

I sit and watch TV, game shows with people like me who wish they had more money or soap operas about the rich Americans who invent a stream of problems to make their lives seem important. I feel nothing for these people and even less for the commercials for drugs and deodorant.

My formerly honorable and respectful children come home from school talking about Facebook and dances. They listen to hip-hop and rap music. I have to cover my ears in my own home to keep my sanity. Do they study? I don't know. I only see them on their IPhones all day.

All is mad confusion to me, but I miss the familiar mad confusion of my own country. In the old days I would spend hours in the open markets bargaining for food, and even more time sitting in the shade of a patio talking with friends. Now I hate to go out. People can't understand my accent, although I think my English is better than theirs. They make fun of me behind my back.

My husband is working two jobs to earn this American dream. We see each other at dinner. He won't allow me to complain about anything. He says he's too tired to listen and he wants the children to be like other Americans. He wants them to fit in.

I may never see my mother and father again. My heart feels as though it might break. Perhaps I will find a friend who is Hindu like me. There are many immigrants from other countries in my neighborhood, but what have I to do with them?

The Wife

The evenings were so hard. In the morning, her fifty-eight years lay lightly on her slender frame, but by afternoon, the long hours at the shirt factory began to hobble her and leave her bent over, already an old woman, when she had barely finished raising her children.

Then, dinner with Alfred and Jenny and the two girls seemed an easy time with little work to do but serve the beans from yesterday, make the cornbread and fry some meat, but, somehow, the children running around, Alfred quietly angry in front of the television, Jenny complaining about her boyfriend and how long it was until his parole, and she would begin to deflate like a lost balloon after the fair was over.

Jenny put the girls to bed and Alfred fell asleep in his chair with the TV still trying to sell him more medication than he already took. The noise did seem to relieve some tension as though all the words they couldn't say among themselves were laced into those barking advertisements and the yelling took away some of the pain. She washed the dishes expertly and rapidly as she had done her whole life. Her own mother would have beat her soundly if she had ever refused to do her chores, so like an old nag she kept going although her will was flagging. 

Later, sitting on the edge of the bed staring at her nakedness in the long mirror, she saw that she was still muscular and strong, even though gravity was pulling at her flesh and distorting it. It was hard to imagine the pleasure she and Alfred had once taken in each other. Now, he too was thin and worn, but they were both too tired to mind. She reached behind her for her nightgown and slipped it on, hoping to sleep well because she would be up at dawn to make the biscuits and gravy so they could all brave another day.

She bowed her head and prayed for forgiveness that her life had for a moment seemed too hard to keep on living.

Aunt Sylvia

Walking down that street was always tense. Not that there were so many bad asses, no, the problem was the people with problems. It was homeless and half crazy central. They were all there with their dogs, their grocery store carts and their few possessions. Generally they were quiet and lost in a haze of alcohol, drugs or just deep confusion, but sometimes there could be trouble.

I had to go through that stretch every day on my way to work and although I think my empathy for my fellow man is pretty much intact, I just can't bear to talk to people who shout or ramble on or panhandle. And after all a dollar every day is thirty dollars a month. One does have to think about one's budget.

Of course someone had to hassle me. I saw her out of the corner of my eye and I hoped and prayed it wasn't me she was headed for. In her fifties, she had her hair held up with a flowered scarf and her eyes were covered with enormous round sunglasses with thick white rims. She wore a shapeless shift covered with triangles in orange and green. Her lipstick was dark red and she carried a cigarette draped delicately in her fingers. She came up to me like an aging actress approaching a fan.

"Darling, hello, how are you? It's been so long since we've seen each other."

She reached out to hug me and I must have cringed because she then said, " What! You don't remember your Aunt Sylvia? I know it's been a while, but how could you forget?"

I had no Aunt Sylvia, nor even an aunt of any kind, but I decided to play along.

"Yeah, didn't Dad say you should never call? I promised him I'd never speak to you again.

How clever I was! But almost immediately I felt like a mean girl, so I gave her $5 out of guilt and she walked away a very happy woman. Her con had worked just as she planned.