Prose

The Black Truck

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by Eric Roper

1955: Molly’s Diner and Truck Stop – six miles from Ames, Iowa

Six men gather for their regular morning “confab” about chores on the farm.

“I saw that Riley’s dealership has a lineup of the new Ford trucks,” one observed. “He has green one, a kinda yellow one, one bluish and two black.”

“Don’t know why those black ones came in,” interjected another. “Lots of people in this town are superstitious about black trucks. Reminds me of a hearse. Especially with those two guys who died last week; crushed in a heavy baling machine. Wives almost had to share a hearse ‘cus of the damn economy.”

1990: Somewhere on Main Street – Stockbridge, Mass.

I’m headed back from Albany and spot a black ’55 Ford F100 with whitewall tires outside a small garage with a sign: “All stock / runs good / prized to sel / inquires within.” I’m thinking: “Maybe a vehicle for local stuff – take the wife and kids around town in a parade or two.”

Now, I’m kind of conservative. But occasionally I follow my impulses into something curious and unusual.

Go inside and this dude is wearing an engineer’s cape, coveralls and penny loafers – don’t get that last part, but what the hell. “Howdy,” I tell him. “Seen that truck sign – what’re you asking?”

“Got to get $2,500. All U.S. big ones on the cracker barrel.” Odd expression. Maybe he means barrelhead? “Take her for a drive – if ‘yer interested but not outa sight.”

I go, “OK” and do just that. It’s “three on the tree” – trucker for gears on steering column – which took some getting used to. I fiddled with the AM tube radio, first one I’ve seen in several decades.

Mostly I’m doin’ circles around his lot. But in my head, I’m seeing a small town parade. Maybe the truck is up front. Kids waving flags. The din of a band somewhere. Summer sun.

So I make a deal.

2018: Kent, Ct.

I’m sitting in the village, having my “sledgehammer – decaf” combo, reading the local rag. The most fun part is looking for things like impeachment with two e’s or Trump with a “q” at the end.

Town’s kind of a biker stop and three dudes – all leathered up – ask if my table’s free.

“Sure – them seat’s yours.” I hate heavy biker talk. Non-stop about exhaust pipes, saddle bags, Harleys vs. God-knows-what – you know the type. One dude’s talking about college stuff and says his only kid who made out decent was the one that could always find Waldo growing up.

My thing about conversation is to compliment people on tattoos –which, personally, I hate. But it never fails to stir some discussion. Since these dudes are all leather jackets and the like, instead I ask, “What’s your favorite lawn fertilizer?” Blank stares all around. So I’m figuring these dudes are all “mo, blow and go” hedgie/dentist types and don’t know fertilizer from bird seed.

Back to the rag, when I hear, “Oh My God, Oh My God – whose black truck?” I look up and there’s a heavy-set lady with big owl-type glasses.

I pipe up: “Mine.”

“Perfect for our Yankee Magazine fall cover,” she says.

“No way, I’m a Mets fan,” I tell her.

“No, it’s a country–type magazine, nothing to do with sports. Do you have a dog?”

“No – it’s lost,” I say, growing a bit tired of the situation.

“Oh My God, Oh My God,” she says. “That’s terrible, did you put up flyers and call all around?”

“No, she passed.” And then the woman started that Oh God business again.

She goes, “Well we can find a dog and just want to photograph it in the back of your truck with a picnic basket.”

I’m thinking this lady must be nuts or what.

“It will be great, a real country scene,” she said, growing excited.

“No people,” I tell her.

“Don’t need them.”

An empty truck, picnic basket, dog and no people don’t add up to any picnic I ever heard of. Just makes no sense. Plus, I still hate the Yankees!

 

Eric R. Roper is a lifetime learner, avid reader and lover of old trucks, particularly the one pictured above which had been his regular weekend buddy for almost 20 years.

A Matched Pair

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by Ira Rubin

My mother can only be described in bold, upper case type. Her friends called her Diamond Lil, a reversal of her first and last names, because she resembled that flamboyant Mae West character. She was what they used to call a “bombshell,” with long legs and the voluptuous figure of a pin-up girl. Her hair was dyed a vivid red and she had a smile so overpowering it obscured the rest of her face, like the Cheshire Cat in Alice In Wonderland.

You always knew when my mother was in the room; she would have been offended if you didn’t. Her raucous laugh, too loud voice and gregarious personality demanded immediate attention. “Off stage” she was a different person, less concerned with how she looked and mostly interested in her women friends. As she put it, “girlfriends are forever.”

My father, Sol, had the characteristic gut of a former high school football player, but the first thing you’d probably notice was his warm smile and open face. Charming Sol was your friend the moment you met him, and just being in his company was an instant remedy for most worries or anxieties. I never saw him unhappy for more than a short time, perhaps because he made few demands on life, content as long as he had my mother and friends nearby, good food and a book or crossword puzzle.

Most memories of my father are not about experiences we shared – I wish more were – but about things I saw him do or heard him say. For example, once he picked me up at the airport. We hadn’t seen each other for three months, and as we were walking to the exit, he said, “You haven’t noticed how much weight I lost.” Before I could answer, a stranger behind us who must have overheard, shouted, “Hey, you look like you lost a lot of weight.” Without a second’s pause, my dad turned around and shot back, “Sure, I knew I could depend on you to notice.”

My brother and I agreed my parents were like opposite poles of a magnet, strongly attracted by their differences. My mother was insecure and needed unwavering support, my father needed to be needed. It was unimaginable that anything could break them apart, though that certainty was tested on Valentine’s Day in 1960.

My father, brother Ray and I were hanging out in my parents’ bedroom. My father was lying on the bed writing on a piece of paper as Ray and I watched television, when my mother barged through the door and made a request of my father that led to an argument.

“Sol, I need you to drive me to the beauty parlor.”

My father glanced up from his writing. “I’m sorry, Lil, I have to finish writing this.”

“What can be so important that you can’t take a few minutes to drive me?”

“What’s the big deal; it’s only a ten minute walk?”

“Everything is too much for you, Sol! Why can’t you just do it because I asked you to?”

The phone next to my father rang and he reached over to pick it up. His beaming smile told us the caller was his life-long best friend, Jack. After he hung up my father told us he had to leave immediately to give Jack a ride to New Jersey.

My mother exploded. “I don’t believe this! You can’t take a few minutes to drive me to the beauty parlor, but you’re going to take Jack to Jersey. That’s at least an hour’s trip each way. Why should I be surprised! That’s how it always is. I have to plead with you to do something for me, but let Jack ask and you jump.”

“Enough, Lil. I’m going as soon as I finish writing this”.

“That’s it,” my mom screamed. “I can’t believe I married such a selfish jerk! I’m leaving you. Lots of men will thank their lucky stars for a chance with me.”

I stared in panic as she marched to the closet, pulled out a small suitcase and started packing.

“Dad, do something,” I called out in alarm.

My father watched, a bemused expression on his face, but said nothing, while my mother slammed the suitcase shut and stormed out.

“Dad, why didn’t you try to stop her?” Ray cried.

“Relax Ray. You don’t know your mother like I do.”

My brother and I tried to convince him to go after her, but he ignored us and went back to his writing. No one spoke again for the next few minutes. The silence was oppressive. I could feel the room shrinking and had an irresistible urge to chase after my mother. Before I could get up, my mother came bursting into the room.

“You don’t how lucky you are, Sol. I just missed the bus. A minute sooner I’d be gone.”

My father winked at Ray and me.

“Well, I’m glad of that, Lil; I was really worried.”

They stared at each other in silence. Then as if on cue, they both broke out in laughter.

“Yeah, I guess that did sound a little lame,” my mother said. “What are you writing that’s so important you have no time for me?”

“It’s a Valentine’s Day card for you, Lil. I couldn’t find one that said what I wanted, so I wrote my own. Here, I’ll read it to you.”

….And if I didn’t love you–
…………Would your smile be as sweet
…………Your manner as charming
…………Your arms my retreat
…………And your lips just as warming?
….And if you didn’t love me–
…………Would I treasure each day
…………Without rhyme–without reason
…………Would each month be May
…………And spring every season?
….If we didn’t love each other–
…………It’s drunk I must be
…………Such ridiculous chatter
…………If our love wouldn’t be
…………Then what else would matter?

My mother framed the poem and hung it near the apartment’s front door, where it was the first thing you’d see on entering.

Even death could not break their bond to each other. The gravestone spanning their resting place is inscribed with the words, “If our love wouldn’t be, then what else would matter?” To which I would add, “Sparkle forever, Mom; watch over her, Dad.”

Ira Rubin is delighted to be an active member of IRP since 2017. He was trained in and taught social psychology before changing careers to work as an evaluation specialist in NYC government. He developed his writing skills in Toastmasters, a public speaking organization, and in continuing education courses at NYU and The New School.

Gulliver’s Travels: An Urban Fable

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by Judith Meyerowitz

Gulliver uncurled from sleep twitching, sensing this would finally be the day. He took his time to go through careful preparations: first having a bath, methodically washing every nook and cranny of his lean and muscular body. Then he did the same stretches he did every morning.  Lastly, he drank a bowl of cold milk to give himself the energy he would need.

Gulliver had often looked out the window at the world below, but everything was so small. He had to get closer. From an early age, he was known to be extremely curious. It came naturally to him, as much a part of him as his breathing. He was sorry. He couldn’t wait to say goodbye. He was too excited about setting off on his travels. As soon as the door opened for the delivery guy, he executed his plan to slip out. He was fast, very fast and had surprise on his side. It worked! He was on the other side of the door for the very first time. And ran, and ran—smack into a wall. In fact, all he saw were walls, every which way he turned. Then he couldn’t believe his eyes— one of the walls separated right in front of him, like magic. He was scared, but his curiosity got the better of him. He stepped into what looked like a box, but in a few seconds, he felt himself falling. Was he going to have to use one of his nine lives?  Suddenly, the box came to a stop and the walls separated once more.

He ran as fast as he could again but he found himself caught between glass and feet and going in circles. Suddenly, he was propelled out of the revolving door onto the street and it took him a little while to come to his senses. He was met by a parade of marching feet. He barely escaped in time by jumping off funny little stone ledges. Surprisingly, they were his height and magically they seemed to keep the marching feet in line.

Thinking he was safe, he didn’t see the metal monster with wheels bearing down upon him; Gulliver is paralyzed. In the nick of time, he was shoved and grabbed by the scruff of the neck, roughly pushed out of the way. A very skinny, black furry thing yells: “Stupid! Get out of the way! Hasn’t anybody taught you to cross the street?” “Wha…Wha…What is a street?” asks a shaking still terrified Gulliver.

“Were you born yesterday?” the furry thing says gruffly. He doesn’t know that Gulliver has never been out of the apartment nor spoken to a furry thing. “A quick survival lesson for the streets: always dodge moving monsters and hide behind not moving ones. Zig and Zag. Got it!”

All Gulliver can do is gulp and say, “Thanks!”

“C’mon! Follow me. There’s still time for lunch.” Everyday at noon a lady left some scraps a few blocks away. It wasn’t the sumptuous feast of milk and tuna Gulliver had at home, but his travels had made him hungry. He understood now why he could see the bones on his new friend. They were in luck. After eating, he showed Gulliver a slab of concrete on which to stretch out and nap in the sun. Later, the street wise cat had some parting words: “Remember, always land on your feet!”

Gulliver had learned that travels come with risk. He had terrifying moments but also new exciting experiences. This couldn’t have happened had he played it safe looking down from his window. And he wouldn’t have made a friend. He zigged and zagged and made it back through the magical revolving door and walls that separated. He dodged the feet of the delivery guy, and quickly slipped back into the apartment unnoticed, as the door closed behind him.

Gulliver climbed up on the window seat and thought of his adventure. He had a Cheshire smile on his face.

Judith Meyerowitz is a licensed psychologist. She currently volunteers as a disaster mental health counselor for the American Red Cross and as a docent for The Metropolitan Museum of Art. This piece was developed in the Spring 2018 writing workshop and is in memory of our classmate Joanna Anderson.

Theodora

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by Judith Meyerowitz

It is 1926 and in a week Theodora, or Dora as she was known to her friends, would be 25, nearly as old as the century.

Every night, her circus act could be seen under the tent in Coney Island. She had been doing the show now for seven years! The crowds began to grow when the subway station was completed in 1920.

Dora took pride in being a modern young woman, living in the most exciting times in New York. She had just had her hair bobbed, as was all the rage. It was important for her to be in style. She had a plan for making this birthday trend setting. She led a life of risk-taking, making a living engaging in daredevil stunts such as being shot out of a cannon. She drew inspiration from the daring of the presidential namesake her parents had greatly admired. She wanted to live up to their dreams for her. Like TR, Dora was short in stature, a plus in her line of work, but full of spirit and heart. Standing within a few feet of her you could feel the electricity. Dora’s eyes burnt with an intensity which mesmerized people.

She lived as large as the roaring decade. Nights were spent in Harlem at the jazz clubs and the New York Theater on W.125th or in the speakeasies downtown. She could be seen in her sleeveless, sleek fitting, silver lame tasseled gown, with requisite matching neckband and headband with feathers. Dora enjoyed being out in the cabaret world, especially when she was recognized. She was not averse to sipping bootleg green absinthe in smoke filled private booths with heavy red velvet drapery.

She loved to go out dancing and even entered some of the dance marathons. She caught Houdini’s act as often as she could. Dora didn’t know what to make of the irony of his recent death from appendicitis after all the high risk moments that he had survived.  She thought of herself, too, as an escape artist, for those seconds of flight, freed from the ties to earth. However, when she came hurtling down physically, she crashed emotionally as well. Dora shook it off and thought of her next performance. She also had her gang, a group of friends with whom she partied all night after the show.

Dora lived in a time of outrageous activities. She watched newsreels of New Yorker Alvin Kelly sitting on a pole in Hollywood for 13 hours and 13 minutes. She chuckled to herself, “An act like that would be hard to top.” During her death-defying feat, the audience watched and gasped to see fuchsia silk shorts whizz by as she arced over their heads, shot from a cannon.

What did Dora see? As she flew through the air, she saw a blurred snapshot of the Speigeltent that was crafted in Belgium and brought to the Brooklyn amusement park. Then she saw nothingness. The beige of the canvas was softly out of focus and her dream state began. She knew what was to come—colors a kaleidoscope of stained glass, with hard edges, frighteningly distorted by speed. Lastly, those mirrors, everywhere, surrounding her, upturned faces watching, reflected tens of thousands of times. She thought, “In the unspoken silence did they wait for failure or triumph?” Dora awoke from the recurring dreamlike state when she hit the safety net. But seeing the sawdust covered, hard ground rise up, did not erase those thoughts.

Over the roar of the crowd, she thought back to the beginning. Dora was born into the life of a circus performer. Her parents were renowned aerialists. The crowds came to see them defy the limits, to balance on each other and on the bicycle, which trembled on the wire. Without a safety net! Two years ago, she looked up and watched them fall off the wire out of the night sky.

She could hear her heart pounding, keeping rhythm with the drumming below. Although she had done this act countless times, she never stopped seeking the attention, lights, rhythmic clapping from the audience below. She could feel their eyes upon her. She also imagined her parents’ eyes upon her. On that energy she flew, that sensation lasting mere seconds, thrilled her and carried her to a wished for reunion with her parents and living up to her daring name.

Now she needed another attention grabbing feat which would set apart her twenty-fifth birthday. She had just the place in mind. It is one which will take her from the inside familiarity of the cannon to an entirely different, more open setting and will push her death defying behavior to the limit.  In ways she didn’t understand, each night Dora revisited and overcame her parents’ early deaths. She carried the burden of keeping the family name in lights. These needs underlined Dora’s intensity. She was driven to raise the ante.

The day of her birthday, Dora travels early in the morning north from New York City by train and then transfers to a boat. It is summer, but she is surprised by the strength of the wind and coldness of the mist that hits her in the face, as she approaches the drop-off point. She is soaked even before the stunt begins. Her assistants help her to enter the enclosure. It is reminiscent of the inside of the cannon but her thoughts race ahead to the wild fury of the pouring water. This will be the last image that she sees as the barrel lid is closed and the ropes holding it are freed. More rapidly than anything could have prepared her for, but more slowly than her screaming mind can stand, she is crashing to the bottom of Niagara Falls. On her twenty-fifth birthday, Dora has become the youngest person to go over the Falls in a barrel and survive!

Judith Meyerowitz is a licensed psychologist. She currently volunteers as a disaster mental health counselor for the American Red Cross and as a docent for The Metropolitan Museum of Art. This piece was developed in the Spring 2018 writing workshop and is in memory of our classmate Joanna Anderson.

Miss Murphy and Jackie Robinson

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by Dick Kossoff

It was April 1947 and I had won a contest sponsored by Durex Razor Blades. The challenge was to write a short essay on your favorite baseball player. I picked Pee Wee Reese of the Brooklyn Dodgers, which was not surprising because at 12 years old my friends and I were avid Dodger fans. They were like a religion. We ate and breathed their successes and failures!

The prize was a ticket for the 1947 Dodgers opening game, which featured Jackie Robinson’s major league debut. One problem–the game day was on a Tuesday, a school day. In order to go I needed permission from the P.S. 199 Principal, Miss Lillian Murphy. She was a strict by “by the book” lady who rarely allowed such midweek excursions. My friends assured me that she would never let me go to a baseball game on a Tuesday.  I agreed and told my parents that it was hopeless to even try. My dad disagreed and said, “Sometimes our perceptions of possible outcomes of important issues are wrong; you have to take the chance of losing. You may be surprised.” In today’s vernacular he was saying “to win it you have to be in it.”

So with great trepidation I asked my teacher Miss Moran if she would request Miss Murphy’s permission for me to attend the game. She gave me a note on a small yellow slip of paper indicating that I possessed good scholastic ability and character. I went to Miss Murphy’s office and was ushered in. She was a large woman with a permanent scowl on her face.

“Richard, I understand that you want to go a Dodger game next Tuesday,” she bellowed. I was almost speechless, and was on the verge of bolting from the room. “Yes Miss Murphy,” I whispered. “Ordinarily,” she said, “that is not acceptable, but I am going to allow it this time since you exhibited great prowess in entering this competition and writing a winning essay. ” I was flabbergasted! She smiled for the first time and said “Who’s pitching?” “Joe Hatten for the Dodgers and Johnny Sain for Boston,” I quickly replied. She responded, “It’s going to be a tough game. Sain is one of the best pitchers in baseball and has a wicked curveball.” OMG I said to myself, she’s a baseball fan!

“Richard, I want you to realize that this is no ordinary game–it is a milestone, as Jackie Robinson, a Negro, will break baseball’s color barrier. It is a great social experiment that could have a major impact on our country for years to come. I want you to write an account of what you experienced. Don’t tell me about the details of the game–I can read that in the newspaper. Describe the attitude of the fans. How did they react? Did many boo or disparage Jackie? How did the players react towards him? Note in particular actions of players from the South whom you can identify from the program. I want you to approach this as a sociological event even more than as a ball game.”

I heartily agreed and when I returned to my room and reported the result to my class I received a standing ovation for “doing the impossible.” My dad was right; if you want to win, you have to take a chance even when the outcome seems bleak.

I went to Ebbets Field that day with a thermos of cocoa and a chicken fat sandwich. I sat in the reserved seats behind third base and proudly took out my yellow pad and fountain pen. “What are you writing about?” the woman next to me asked. “I’m writing an article about Jackie Robinson,” I proudly answered. The stadium was packed with a large representation of blacks. Jackie had a mediocre day, going one for four. But that didn’t matter. Every time he went to bat he received a huge ovation from black and white fans alike. In a city where the Dodgers were so important, Jackie was “our guy” and everyone was in his corner. It was my first experience with racial harmony.

When I arrived home I sat down with my sister Janice, a wonderful writer, and crafted the essay. Two days later I sent it to Miss Murphy. She responded with a note:  “That was a creditable job, Richard. Thank you.” At the week’s assembly she asked me to read it aloud. Even the girls who had no interest in baseball listened intensely. She also sent it to the Brooklyn Eagle, which actually printed excerpts. My story was picked up by other national newspapers. I was asked to speak to the employees of Abraham and Straus department stores, local churches and public schools. This skinny, freckled 12 year old had inadvertently become a sought after personality!

I learned several lessons from that experience that served me well for the rest of my life:

–That to “win it “ you have to be in it, i.e. be ready to take a chance on issues you perceive as not winnable.

–That our parents were usually much smarter than we gave them credit for.

–That Jackie Robinson’s determination to win against all odds became a bellwether for my own life challenges.

Thank you, Miss Murphy!

Dick Kossoff was an avid Dodger fan. The success of this article energized him to continue writing, first as editor of the James Madison High School paper and later for the Cornell Sun. At a function for the late Jackie Robinson he met his wife, Rachel Robinson, who remembered the article and thanked him. This made his day!

A Metaphysics of On-Street Parking in Lower Manhattan

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by Mary Padilla

Having joined the IRP last semester, I have found that this has required me to up my game. And in no aspect is this more evident than in the matter of finding the requisite on-street parking following my commute. While defaulting to paid parking is theoretically an option, to do so would be to forgo the essence of the experience. For, properly construed, the discipline of on-street parking, I have learned, is not only paradigmatic of the intellectual enterprise with which I am now engaged, but in some sense transcends it.

Unlike its suburban counterpart, which might be likened to shooting fish in a barrel, finding parking in the West Village operates on a higher plane, involving a more refined and nuanced form of metacognition, situated somewhere between Eastern thought and the creative process. For an empty parking space cannot be willed into being, invoked by desire, or called forth by an appeal of any sort, however sincere. One can encounter it, rather, only through forfeiture of agency. It requires a searching of a particular type, one that involves the use of a species of open awareness. It is necessary to employ a form of alertness that permits you not to miss the thing that is sought by going by too quickly, intently focused on the pursuit of…that very thing.

And if a space should present itself, it would not be because of anything you could do…or do right…or not do…or not do wrong. It would just be – there – just so…or else it simply would not. It would in fact materialize more as the result of trying not to try than as the effect of trying. Only then would it present itself, so clearly what was wanted – was needed, even. It could be gained only when not looked for directly, but only by indirection, lest it be driven away by the bright glare of focused attention. For it would reveal itself only to a more drifting mode of surveillance, a contemplative state of ungrasping to be attained through a willingness merely to set up the proper conditions…and then to wait.

And if then nothing came, that void where the space should be would constitute its own statement. For on-street parking is a gift. It is not a right, or something to which we can in any sense be entitled. If it should appear, then we can only be grateful for something that we can in no way deserve. And if it does not, we need to find a way to be comfortable with this reminder that the point is the process, the exercise of seeking that which cannot be sought, but only found.

Since starting at the IRP last year, Mary has discovered that for her a major part of the experience is the drive down from northern Westchester. Approached in the proper spirit, it provides extensive time for thinking, as well as the opportunity to practice classical voice. Now that she no longer has an 8:30 study group, as she did in the first semester, she no longer even has to leave home before dawn.