Good People

Posted on November 8, 2007 by Jim

Today was a first.  First on two scores… it was the first time I voted for a Selectman and the first time I used a paper ballot.  I am not sure about this “selectman” stuff.  I am used to Mayors and Town Councilmen; but I have been advised not to let it throw me off.  The First Selectman is the Mayor, sort of.  And the other Selectman are like the Town Council… or a band of merry men, sort of.

It probably has something to do with the difference between a City and Town.  Ellen’s brother Will tried to explain the technical differences to me one time after dinner… but by that point we had several iced vodkas, and this was after a few aperitifs and wine with dinner… I think it had something to do with how things were set up in our Colonial period… and that took place long before the Dodgers moved to Los Angeles and understanding it all seemed far more than it was worth.

I have decided that First Selectman means that Woodbury is a fancy shmancy town like Westport and New Canaan.

This was my second voting experience in Woodbury.  Last year we voted for State and National offices so there was more hoopla about the vote.  A larger turn out also meant that the polling place was in a middle school… and we had the voting machines… just like the ones that I have used in previous elections in other towns.

But this year it was just for local offices… and the polling place was in our Town Hall.  Town Hall is also the place where Art Shows and Soccer Sign-Up take place.  Maybe the First Selectman is the head of the soccer league and director of the art guild?  Town Hall is also used for blood drives by the Red Cross… maybe the First Selectman has something to do with that, too?

It was my first time in Town Hall… my kids don’t play soccer any more.  I’ve been tempted by the art show; but would feel compelled to buy something… and I don’t have the scratch for that.  Blood?  That make’s me feel antsy.  Or maybe I would just find the First Selectman in there eating donuts and making rude comments about the lengths of skirts these days.

But there I was at 6:10AM… given a quick lesson about filling out a paper ballot.  I got spooked… didn’t that district in Florida have trouble with “hanging chads” from paper ballots… and as a result we’ve had to suffer with the worst President in our Nation’s History.  Maybe there would be similar shenanigans with the paper ballots in Woodbury?

All this said… I prefer local elections.  It’s not really about the Party… it’s about the People.  On the local level we’re not concerned with large issues… foreign policy, the national debt… We’re concerned about Education, plowing the street, a new truck for the fire department and keeping Dunkin Donuts and other chain operations out of Woodbury.  It’s why our paper ballot had as many entries for Planning and Zoning (and related areas) as anything else.

I am still very new to Woodbury… and not knowing the people put me at a disadvantage… it would mean that I would have to vote for a Party (which on a local level, as noted, doesn’t appeal to me), or listen to Sandy (but she seemed to think that to run for office, by definition would put you on the dark side… she had negative things to say about everybody… or nearly everybody). 

Then to my surprise… one day when traveling on our Main Street I noticed a name on one of those “vote for…” signs that clutter the lawns this time of the year… I know that guy!  Hey!  I know someone who is running for office!  It didn’t say what he was running for… but there he was: George Hale.

George, I have known for as long as I have been working at Grapes.  He buys wine from me on occasion.  We’ve always gotten along well on the phone and when I moved up to Woodbury, Sandy and I had dinner with George and his wife Terri at John’s Cafe.  It was a terrific evening… little did I know then that we were sitting down with a mover and a shaker in local affairs.

So… this morning when I braved the stiff rain, stepped inside Town Hall for the first time, said good morning to Ladies of the Ballot (they reserve the men for voting machine elections), and knew that I was going to vote for George Hale.  I didn’t know what he was running for… I didn’t know what Party he represented.  But I was there to cast my paper ballot because I knew George.  I liked him.  I liked they way he thinks.  I trust him to use good judgment.  I may not agree with everything decision he would make pertaining to local issues… but I would expect him to think things thru and make decisions based on what he thought was right.  And I’ll happily live with that, even if we don’t agree on all issues.

This morning it was real simple for me… it’s about people.  And George Hale is good people.

Posted in Politics | Leave a comment

Mrs. Poodle & the Master of the Revels

Posted on November 1, 2007 by Jim

“Objectionable?  Exactly what are you referring to, might I ask?”

“Among others, there is this line: ‘Her words felt like a foul blow…”

“What is objectionable about that, Mr. Tilney?”

“Why Mr. Marlowe… a ‘foul blow’ could also be heard as a ‘fowl blow’.  Fowl blow, sir!  Do you think audiences will find oral pleasures from a chicken appropriate?  Oral pleasures from a chicken!  Abomination!  That’s what this is… an abomination!  This play is not fit for the stage!  Re-write the offending scenes Mr. Marlowe, or write a new play.  Good day, sir!”

And the playwright Christopher Marlowe took his leave.

I heard this exchange from the room next door.  My name is William Short… or Will Short, for short…  I was a junior in the employ of the Lord Chamberlain.  It was my first Appointment.  At one time the Lord Chamberlain’s Office was responsible for Royal Festivities & Entertainments.  With the rule of Henry VIII, however, a separate Appointment of Master of the Revels was awarded to Thomas Cawarden.  That would have been… let’s see, 1544 I should think.  And twenty-five years later Edmund Tilney received the patent as Master of the Revels.  Mr. Tilney reports to the Lord Chamberlain.  The Lord Chamberlain reports to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth.  And I report to Mr. Tilney.  I assist Mr. Tilney…

Mr. Tilney maintains a very busy schedule.  There isn’t a production at The Curtain or The Rose that he hasn’t first judged for the appropriateness of its content.  He watches rehearsals, he supervises productions for the Court.  He is forever on the move… and when he’s out on the rounds of the playhouses, I am “in charge,” as it were.  Which means that I have to respond to inquiries and/or make the necessary appointments and/or recommendations in Mr. Tilney’s stead.

One such day when Mr. Tilney was attending a rehearsal of The Jew of Malta, I responded to the knock on the door.

“Mr. Tilney?” the question coming from a woman as she opened the door.

Ignoring the direction of her address, “Can I help you?”

“My card, sir.”  Which she proffered to me with a rather lofty air.  Unusual for a Lady to have a calling card, a beautifully perfumed card at that…

“Mrs. Poodle?”

“Poo-dell.  Poodle, sir.”

“Quite.  How can I be of service Mrs…. uh, Mrs. Poodle?”

Before I proceed with my story, perhaps I should tell you that Mrs. Poodle was married to Reginald Poodle, a wealthy grain merchant.  Mr. Poodle spent much of his life elsewhere.  But he was always sure to keep his wife well appointed… hand carved carriages, homes in the country, a house in London, servants every where, lavish wardrobe.  A rare example of what wealth can do, even when it was not connected to Nobility.

Her status preceded her to the door of Mr. Tilney.  That she had never crossed paths with the Master of the Revels put me in a position to adopt his Office, after all… I did answer the door.

“Mr. Tilney, I understand that you are known to the great writers of our time?”

“Yes, that is correct Madame.”

“Mr. Marlowe?  Mr. Shakespeare?”

“Of course.”

“Then there is a matter in which you may be of invaluable assistance.  It will require a high degree of discretion.”

“Mrs. Poodle, you can rely on my integrity.”

Perhaps it was lucky that Mrs. Poodle had by chance encountered me, thinking me my employer, instead of my employer, whose integrity could be challenged on a daily basis… a challenge that, more often then not, could put a chink in his vaunted reputation.

In short, he could be bought.  Either in coin of the realm, or in the case of the lovely and beautifully scented Mrs. Poodle, perhaps in kind…

I pondered this as I tried to imagine what could bring this woman of social standing to the door of the Master of the Revels… on a matter of discretion?  I closed the door to insure our privacy.

“Now, how can I be of service?”

She produced a substantial portfolio, untied its ribbon to reveal numbers of pages in manuscript.  “Are you aware that Christopher Marlowe was killed last night in a Depford Inn?” she asked.

“Killed?  Why no!”

“I am told it was an argument over a bill…”

“Oh, the vanity, the vanity!”

“It was a bill, not the billing!  I bring manuscripts in his hand that prove his authorship of a number of works that have been attributed to William Shakespeare.”

“How did you come by these Mrs. Poodle?”

“Mr. Tilney… a proper gentleman wouldn’t ask that of a lady.”

If I was going to reveal my true identity to this exquisite lady, it wasn’t going to be at this time.  I had a number of ethical situations before me… most significantly, that I was representing myself as someone else.  Next, that I was now party to proof of plagiarism, or even worse, literary theft… putting at risk the reputation of England’s finest poet and playwright.  Lastly, there was the matter of Mrs. Poodle herself… a lady of high standing, very much married, whose compensation for a matter of discretion would potentially compromise her reputation as well.

I am sure you can see, in short, that this was a complicated issue ripe with hazards.

“Why bring these pages here?”  I asked, as I scanned through the manuscripts — and having seen Marlowe’s work before, I could attest to their authenticity.  Surely she could have kept them or destroyed them, none to be the wiser.  Or turned them over to Master Shakespeare himself.

“It’s about reputation Mr. Tilney.  How shall I put this?  Mr. Marlowe had been a close friend.  A very close friend.  If it were known that I held these manuscripts for his safekeeping, it would produce questions about the nature of our relationship… a relationship which I assure you was strictly literary.  But still, in the eyes of others, say Mr. Poodle, he might think there was an involvement of a different sort.”

At this point the lovely Mr. Poodle produced a delicate linen handkerchief from her sleeve and brought it to her cheek to absorb a single tear.  She continued, “It would pain me to think that Will Shakespeare, that reprobate, will take credit for that which rightfully belongs to Kit Marlowe.”

“I see, and what specifically would you like me to do, Mrs. Poodle?”

“Mr. Tilney, you’re Master of the Revels.  You know Kit Marlowe’s hand.  You’re in the position to expose William Shakespeare as a fraud!”

“I see.”

“Don’t you see how important this is?”

I nodded, “I can imagine that you would prefer that your connection in this episode remain, in short, anonymous?”

“Mr. Tilney… I knew I could count on your discretion.”

You can see that we were at a critical tip point in our negotiation.  I doubt whether the real Mr. Tilney would have been overly troubled by the situation.  His concern would only have been, what’s in it for me?  The real irony here was that the real Mr. Tilney couldn’t stand Shakespeare.  He may not have liked Marlowe; but he had contempt for Shakespeare and he would have welcomed any piece of evidence to shatter his reputation.  What Mrs. Poodle didn’t know — Tilney would have done her bidding for nothing.

I, on the other hand, thought very much of Shakespeare, and had no interest in causing him harm.

In terms of what would now take place, in a matter of delicate discretion, the reputation of Shakespeare or Marlowe was neither here nor there in my mind.  My mind focused on the lovely and fragrant Mrs. Poodle.  And if I laboured initially over the ethical questions, I now surrendered body and soul to the presence and aroma that captivated me.

“Mrs. Poodle… let me refresh you with some wonderful wine and perhaps we can share our literary interests…”

Posted in Stories & Brief Tales | Leave a comment

Let’s Change the Subject

Posted on October 23, 2007 by Jim

READERS WARNING:  The content of what follows may be considered, by some, as controversial, nay, repulsive.  Do not feel compelled to read it.  As the great Oliver Wendell Holmes said, and I quote, “Regardless of the age, there is a little 8th grader that never leaves the man.”  To which I can add… it begins on the playground in the 8th grade, proceeds at flank speed to the locker room in high school & staggers into the fraternity house in college.  The piece that follows does not include my editorial endorsement… it’s simply an attempt to faithfully record what transpired when four buddies got together.  PROCEED AT YOUR OWN RISK.

We didn’t all agree that it was a good idea when it was first presented… and this was even with the benefit of a whisky or two.  You know how it is… knock back a few… the laughs come easier, the ideas are sharper, insights are more incisive.  It doesn’t stop there… we become younger, thinner, better looking… and there isn’t a woman who could resist our irrepressible charms.  Particularly when you’re the starting backfield of the Conference Champion… granted, a couple of decades removed.

There we were… Walter, “nom de guerre“: Stuffy (because he could “stuff” it across a goal line), William: The Hulk (our blocking machine), Lewis: Sweet Lew (he of fancy moves & did it all) and me: Killer (because I wasn’t).  Our custom is to gather a couple of times a year to review past glories and share present day ups & downs.

The location and bar tab is handled on a rotational basis.  On the evening of the story I am about to relate, we were on my “home field”: the Ash Creek Saloon.  I was just about to ask James for my third Wild Turkey when the William came up with his great idea, “Why don’t we have a long turd contest?”

Killer: What?

Hulk:  A long turd contest.  We’ll all take a dump and see whose turd is the longest.

Sweet Lew:  Great! Sorta like parallel play. And afterwards we can put down our special towels on the floor, listen to a story and take a nap in the solarium.

Stuffy: Long turd contest? That’s disgusting!

Killer: Man, that’s a new low… even for you, you disgusting pig!  Where the fuck did you come up with that revolting idea?

Hulk: One day last week I took my normal morning dump… and I don’t remember what I had eaten… but when I get up I’m staring at one continuous turd that curved around the bowl… it was amazing!  I didn’t want to flush it!  It had to be a record!  How do you think something like that happens?”

Killer:  Maybe it had to do with the tides…

Stuffy:  Too bad you didn’t have your cell phone.  You could have taken a picture and sent it around.

Sweet Lew:  Yeah.  We might have gotten you a grant from the National Endowment of the Arts.

Stuffy:  Or we could have sent it to the Johns Hopkins School of Medicine and they could have put it into their Hall of Turds… along side of specimens from Teddy Roosevelt, Shoeless Joe Jackson & Isadora Duncan.

Hulk:  I’m serious.

Killer:  You’re gross.  Let’s change the subject.  How ’bout “What I did on summer vacation”… I’m first… I ran over a raccoon on the Merritt Parkway…

Sweet Lew:  Oh, that’s an improvement!

Hulk:  No… hear me out.  This could be like the new thing.  Like Fight Club; but without the blood and loss of teeth.  The “Long Turd Club”… to be a member you have to drop a deuce of a certain minimum length… say 18”.  Two members have to certify the length…

Killer:  Oh, Jesus… I can’t believe this.

Stuffy:  I imagine it has to be a certified bowl as well.  Like taking a shit in the woods wouldn’t count?  Say… I’ve been meaning to ask you, Killer… and I’m going to change the subject…why don’t you like the New York Jets.

Killer:  That’s not correct.  It’s not that I don’t like the Jets.  I hate the Jets…

Sweet Lew: Uh, oh… here it starts… Tragedies of our lifetime: the War in Vietnam and the New York Jets.

Killer: I’m a Colts fan!  Need I say more?  Super fucking Bowl III!!  The first NFL team to take it on the chin from the old AFL.  You should only know the personal shame I have had to deal with all these years.

Sweet Lew:  But the Colts won the Super Bowl last year.  Can’t you give it a rest?

Killer:  That can’t remove the stain.  Ten Super Bowls couldn’t remove the stain!  Well… maybe ten Super Bowls could remove the stain… that and if Joe Namath appeared before the United Nations General Assembly and admitted that he was a douche bag… him and his Goddamned Fu Manchu moustache!

Stuffy:  Killer, a Fu Manchu would be a good look for you…

Killer:  I hate Joe Namath… the most over rated QB in the solar system.  I hate Joe Namath and Mark Gastineau!  Hulk… what do you think Coach would have done if you did a “celebration sack dance” after tackling a QB for a loss?  I tell you what he would have done… he would have benched your ass!  I hate the Jets… for all eternity.

Sweet Lew:  Tell us what you really think Killer…

Killer:  If my Mother, may she rest in Peace, were playing for the Jets I would hate her, too!

Sweet Lew: Well, that explains a lot.  I think that Hitler hated his Mother.

Killer:  Hitler’s Mother didn’t play for the Jets… and besides… he resented his Father, he loved his Mother.  Did you know that the Fuhrer was a great dancer?

Sweet Lew:  What would have happened if Hitler played for the Colts?

Killer:  Then I would have been seriously conflicted.  James — another Wild Turkey please.

Hulk:  Maybe it could be a team sport.

Killer: What?

Hulk:  Well… you know… sorta like curling.  You know that sport… one person launches that thing, and another guy scrapes the ice in front of the thing and another sweeps the ice.  A team.  We could do the same thing… one guy picks out a stall, one guy drops the turd, and another guy settles the bowl down to make sure that the turd remains intact.

Killer: What?

Hulk: Intact.  If the turd breaks apart it’s like falling backwards in the Long Jump pit.  It’s worse than a foul in basketball. The turd has to be kept whole… that’s the point:  one long, continuous, glorious turd.

Killer:  I’m glad we got that point cleared up. I can’t believe this…

Hulk:  That’s why the “Bowl Master” is such an important part of the team.  Retaining the shape and length is essential.  Water dynamics is the key.  We need an engineering expert.  Hey!  Killer you went to Union College… didn’t they have an engineering department?

Stuffy:  Engineering expert?  Well, that leaves out Lew.

Sweet Lew:  What a crushing disappointment.  I was looking forward to measuring turds and controlling the water pressure.

Stuffy:  We’ll put you in as the first alternate… and, for the meantime, pencil you in as “Flush and Clean Technician”.

Sweet Lew:  Why do I think that I am getting screwed?

Killer: “Flush and Clean Technician”?  That sounds like a better position.  I’ll bet you’ll attract all the chicks.

Sweet Lew:  Let’s change the subject.  The Spotted Owl is making a come back.  That means we can cut down trees again, or begin eating owls.  Hulk… have you ever eaten owl?

Hulk:  Yes… YES!  I think you’re on to something!!  Chicks!  We’ve got to have cheerleaders!  Sure… it’s perfect!!  I’m sure that Carole will come down from Vermont.  She’ll call Barbara.  I’m sure Alison will be game…

Killer: What?

Hulk:  We’ve got to have cheerleaders… for the team.

Sweet Lew:  That works… take a shit, take a shit… take a loooooong shit!  They can work out the dance steps.

Killer:  Wait a second.  You keep talking team.  This still sounds like an individual sport to me.

Hulk:  Killer you wound me.  It’s about the team.  I see leagues popping up all over.  “in-town” teams, “travel” teams… who knows?  Maybe it could become an Olympic Sport.

Killer:  You know what I think?  There are evenings like this when I am grateful that Kentucky is a part of the Union… and I have a ready access to Bourbon.  William, friend… teammate… I think that you should go home, fill your bathtub with warm tapioca pudding and sit in it ’til this episode passes.  Then you should get up, pick up your hand held Stop Sign and go to the cross walk and help the kids cross the street.

Sweet Lew:  I like the idea of leagues.  Sorta like dart teams being sponsored by saloons and bars.  It would be fun… like Tuesday night could be “Turd Night.”  the location shifts each week.  the Home Team supplies the buffalo wings and TP.

Killer: It’s time to change subjects.  Resolved: FDR was the first President to wear boxer shorts.

Stuffy:  It’s a Democrat thing.  Hilary Clinton wears boxer shorts, too.

Sweet Lew:  It’s OK.  J. Edgar Hoover dressed in drag and Joe Namath wore panty hose in December games.

Killer: I hate Joe Namath.  Maybe he should be made the Commissioner of the North American Long Turd Federation.  Perfect.  Commissioner of Shit.

Sweet Lew:  Let’s not get started…

Hulk:  Do you think that style points should be awarded for the colour of the turd?

Stuffy: Colour and pattern.  Triple bonus points if the turd is in a recognizable pattern… houndstooth, check, herringbone…

Hulk:  I think that it should be aesthetic as well as athletic.

Stuffy: That sounds too close to rhythmic gymnastics and ballroom dancing.  You may have to count me out.

Hulk:  This should be an uplifting and cleansing sport.  A sport that involves pride & the senses… a sport steeped in rich historical tradition.

Killer: This should be good…

Hulk: It began with the Greek guy who ran all the way from the Battlefield at Marathon to the Athens.  It was thought that he ran the 26+ miles to bring news of the Greek Victory over the Persians.  That’s the traditional view… But, in truth, the reason he ran all that way was that he had “to go”… he couldn’t find a decent bathroom… just the kind like they have in England, with the tank above and you crap on to a dry shelf…

Stuffy:  *uch*  I hate those toilets…

Hulk:  Yeah, the Greek guy didn’t like it either.  So he had to hold it in, see.  He ran all that way… the guy barely made it to Athens.  He took the biggest dump of his life and then died.  To this day in Greece he is known more for his shit then for running the distance.  Go ahead… ask any Greek who Pheidippides is and they’ll say, “are you shitting me?”  See?  Tradition!

Stuffy:  Before this goes too far a field, I just want to say right now… that if the Team goes overseas I am not taking a shit in any English toilet, even if it would make the measurement phase easier.  That’s final!  If those guys want to compete… they got to come here!!  American Standard all the way, baby!

Killer: The next subject for discussion: “the tickle treatment and its use as an instrument of torture.”  The tickle treatment goes back to the Spanish Inquisition.  They would begin tickling you, and tickling you… you couldn’t repent if you wanted to, you were laughing so hard!  You’d be laughing so much that it hurt and you couldn’t feel a thing when they ripped out your finger nails and poured hot molten silver into your eyes and ears.

Stuffy:  For real?  The way I got it figured… this Inquisition guy just liked to hear Jews laugh.

Sweet Lew:  Forget about that.  When do we start training?  The great thing about this sport is there is no age restriction!

Killer:  I have this vision of Adolph Hitler, wearing a Jets uniform, taking a shit while eating a Spotted Owl.

Stuffy:  I thought he was a vegetarian.

Sweet Lew:  I have this vision:  Joe Namath dressed in a spotted owl suit, having lunch with Adolph Hitler watching a tape of Super Bowl III.

Killer:  That really hurt.

Stuffy:  Boys… I don’t think this is going to work.  It’s too controversial.  Maybe we could form a “Fart Team”… I think that would be more acceptable… more main stream… easier to get commercial tie-ins and endorsement contracts.  Geeze, Killer… you could give up your day job and become a touring pro!

Sweet Lew:  Does this mean that we have to give up the cheerleaders?

Stuffy:  Absolutely not!  I’ll call Carole tomorrow…

Hulk:  If anyone wants to see my last dump, I left a qualifying example in the john… stall on the right.

Killer:  That’s good news… I was sort of disappointed that we didn’t get to see the prize winner that was the source of your inspiration.

Sweet Lew:  Let’s change the subject.  Killer, would you like another Wild Turkey?  You’re buying!

Posted in The Ash Creek Bourbon & Conversation Corner | Leave a comment

The Day the Rum Hat Came Off

Posted on October 17, 2007 by Jim

You visit a room often enough and it becomes impossible to separate the room, its “things” and its inhabitants.  So it was for me and my Aunt Meggie’s den… first in Woodbury and then re-created on the Cape in Chatham. 

As a kid, I loved Meggie’s house… the many small rooms, each containing special corners and hiding places… perfect ground for a young imagination.  No room captured me more than her den.  No room offered a better representation of my Aunt… art on the wall, figurines in the étagère, the furniture itself: Uncle Saul’s blue club chair, the thick couch, the Hitchcock rocking chair and a formal chair that no one sat on.  It was all Meggie.

Each visit I would find something new.  Not that it was new.  Just a new discovery to young eyes.  “New” because there was only so much that I could take in on any given occasion.  Sure I may have loved Meggie’s oatmeal raisin cookies… I think I loved this room more… the old fashioned globe standing in the corner, the tally desk with its multiple drawers (each one that had to be investigated), the Beatrix Potter figurines, the hat rack, the Lautrec poster, the Tiffany lamp, built-in bookshelves, a Sharp’s buffalo rifle (perhaps the biggest surprise to those who did not know of Saul and Meggie’s early days)… I loved it, particularly when the adults talked elsewhere, leaving me to explore the den and its possessions in solitary joy.

But at some point in the visit, Meggie would get comfortable in the den.  If Uncle Saul commanded the dinner table, Aunt Meggie held court in the den.  When I was a kid and the adults gathered there, “adult conversation” ruled… meaning: how cousin Roz looked like “death warmed over” because of her ridiculous diet.  Or: how Philophage the florist got a girl in trouble (I didn’t know what that meant).  I would try my best to ignore their talk… and rather busied myself with the miniature lead dinosaurs from the Peabody Museum that graced the lower shelf of the étagère.

It was only later… after Uncle Saul, my Mom & Dad had passed away, that I truly learned to appreciate that room, and the stage it provided for the marvelous stories Meggie could weave.  No one told a better story than Meggie.

My visits to the den in Chatham were usually motivated by a need for healing… to re-connect with firm ideas and secure emotions… what my Father would have called touching base.

On one visit, the hat rack called to me.  An old Yale football helmet (supposedly worn by Albie Booth), a nifty straw boater (retrieved from the Head of the Charles Regatta), a dusty Stetson (I was told that it was worn by Bill Hickock when he drew a hand of aces over eights), a freshman beanie from Union’s Class of ’71 (this was my contribution), a small mauve colored hat with lace trim (worn by Katherine Hepburn, if we are to believe).  And then some dumb non-descript porkpie hat that seemed out of place for lacking notoriety or a story.  Or so I thought.

I looked out the den window… storm clouds gathered over the Atlantic.  The sky deepened to a dark grey, the wind picked the water into white caps.  Aunt Meggie turned on the Tiffany table lamp which cast a dim glow to the room and its many artifacts.  She sipped her glass of tea and I contented myself with a whisky.

“Meggie… is that ugly hat new?  Tell me that Clyde Barrow wore it when he bought the farm!”

“That hat?  No, it’s not new.  Hardly.  Maybe it was too ordinary for you to have noticed it before.”

She put her glass of tea down, got up from the Hitchcock rocker, approached the rack and took down the mouse colored hat from its perch.  She brushed it… she held it to her breast and closed her eyes.

“This was your Uncle Saul’s.  Well… not really his.  But he ended picking it up off the floor.”

I took another sip and let Meggie’s voice lull me.

“Saul and I first met in Paris.  We were young and each of us had gone to Europe in search of adventure.  I was going to study dance and Saul was playing clarinet in a klezmer band.  What can I say?  We were young.  Paris.  Broke.  We fell in love.  We didn’t know from the Depression. Everyone was broke.  It wasn’t a special deal.  We lived in a fifth floor flat in Montmartre… from our tiny kitchen (a closet really) we could see the Sacre Coeur.  Those were the days!  Some of the happiest I have spent.  Young, in love… when a half baguette, some cheese and a bottle of red was a banquet!”

She put the hat back to its proper place and returned to the Hitchcock.

“Time marched on.  And Europe was getting ugly.  It was 1934.  Hunger in our bellies we could deal with… but what was taking place in Germany put a damper on our pursuit of art.  I had hurt my knee.  Saul’s band split up. That mishuga Hitler was Chancellor.  It was time to return home.  But we were broke and couldn’t afford passage home.  And did I mention that my parents, your grandparents, weren’t pleased that we were living in sin?” 

I think she enjoyed this part of the story the most. It made her feel contemporary… “living in sin”.  That’s my Aunt Meggie and Uncle Saul!  I just can imagine my Grandfather waiting at the dock in New York with a shotgun… make that a Sharp’s buffalo rifle!

“The RMS Mauretania was getting set to sail to New York on what would be her final voyage.  Saul noticed that there was an opportunity for couples to dance their way across the Atlantic!  Cunard Lines had the idea of offering ’round the clock entertainment on board ship.  A ‘non-stop dance marathon’ for the amusement of the paying patrons… a sizeable cash prize to be awarded in New York for the winning couple… and of course there would be some wagering that would add sporting interest to the contest.”

She got up from the rocker again… went to the bookshelf and fetched a shoebox… another item I had not noticed before, maybe it was also too ordinary to attract the curious eye.  Meggie opened it to show me a pair of red pumps with a low heel.

“I wore these shoes from Liverpool to New York!  Two days before boarding ship the Cunard hosted a ‘dance night’… the purpose was to give ‘sponsors’ a chance to see couples dance.  The sponsors would cover the cost of the trans-Atlantic ticket… and hopefully would have their investment returned in New York in the form of the cash reward… and of course there would be side bets as well.  Fifty couples were permitted on board.  We were one of the lucky ones.  Couple #12.  Our sponsor was Michael R. Sullivan… also known as Mickey the Cigar.”

She closed the box. “My Saul-ie… what a dancer!  He knew all the steps.  Which was a good thing… because we would foxtrot, charleston and waltz from one side of the Atlantic to the other… 10 minutes of rest each hour… and a half hour every eight hours.  And me with a bum knee!  But we danced and danced.  Our sponsors watched from tables that lined the outside of the dance floor… they shouted encouragement, words of advice and threats!  There were contests within the main contest… who did the best tango… who was the best looking couple… that sort of thing.  The wagering became quite heavy.”

She looked at the storm brewing on the Atlantic… my guess is that the storm didn’t interest her.  But her story brought her back to the day when she crossed that body of water… and she looked at the Atlantic in a personal way… as if it shared in her memory.

“One night… at least I think it was night, we were to have a ‘foxtrot contest’.  There was to be a $500 award for this contest, which by agreement would have gone to Mickey the Cigar.  $500 was a ton of money then.  Fine.  We were just happy to find a way to get back home.  Mickey took his seat at a table right by the dance floor… he wore this thick striped brown suit, a dark tie, brown and white spectator shoes and a porkpie hat… and, as you would imagine, a cigar gripped in his teeth.  We danced near the table, he raised his mai tai and said, ‘look kids, I’m wearin’ my drinkin’ shoes and I got my rum hat on… we’re winnin’ tonight!’ and he finished the mai tai and ordered another.  That was the first time I heard of a mai tai… some guy, Donn Beach invented the rum drink that year and it was the rage.  Well, we danced our hearts off, and Mickey downed mai tai after mai tai.”

I looked at my whisky… mai tais?  I think I’ve had one years ago… maybe.

“The judge moved through the dance floor, looking at each couple, making his notes.  One song after another, without pause. The excitement in the ballroom increased with each number… more wagers were being put down.  Folks were cheering and hooting… supporting their favorites booing others.  Mickey kept the flow of mai tais going… he loosened his tie and he was certainly ‘into it’.  We were into the last number before the conclusion of the judging.  And the judge was very close to us… Saul whispered to me, ‘he likes us, I think we’re going to win.  Just keep smiling.’  The Judge ran some type of dance studio in New York and he was always dressed impeccably.  He nodded in our direction and then turned away and gave the award to a couple from Philadelphia!  We were surprised.  But Mickey the Cigar?  He was pissed!”

Meggie shook her head and had a good laugh.  She took off her glasses to give them a good cleaning before continuing with the narrative.

“Mickey stood up and started pointing at the Judge, and then he shouted, ‘come here you dumb little faggot, I’m gonna beat the shit outya!!’ He made a move to go on to the dance floor, he upturned his table… he knocked over the table next to him, too… which gets other people involved, then he took his hat off and slammed it to the floor, ‘come here you little piece of shit… we just got robbed! Da fix was in!’  And the next thing you know there was a ruckus that spread to the dance floor.  People were shouting, fists flying… it was a good thing that we were coming to our half hour break.”

She just shook her head and smiled.

“We were near Mickey’s table, or I should say where the table had been.  Saul picked up Mickey’ porkpie, and we headed back to our bunks for a rest.  Saul intended giving the hat back to him.  But that was the last we ever saw of Mickey the Cigar: slugging it out with someone on the dance floor.  Years later we tried looking him up.  No luck.  One day I saw something in the paper about someone named Michael R. Sullivan being killed at Omaha Beach.  How many Michael R. Sullivans are there?  Lots, I suppose…”

“Did you win Aunt Meggie?”

“Win?  Saul and I did get married…”

“No, did you win the big prize?”

“Oh… that?  No.  The Philadelphia couple took the big prize, too.  We finished fifth out of fifty.  No money; but we felt pretty proud. Over the years, I can’t tell you how many times, Saul would look at me and say, ‘Doll, we’re top five stuff!'” 

I looked around the room.  And in the quiet of the pause, I could hear the wind picking up.  I looked for the old reference points of my youth.  My attention was drawn to the étagère and its lower shelf.

“Did you get those dinosaurs just to keep me occupied?”

“That was your Mother’s idea.  She bought them at the Museum Gift Shop, and gave them to me so that you would have something that was yours when you came for a visit.  She was sharp that way.”

“Sure.  Sharp like her Sister!”

“Oh… one more thing, Jimmy.  Clyde Barrow was wearing a fedora when he bought the farm.”

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