Tag Archives: Short Stories

Take the Umbrella

9 Mar

The other day while sitting at the diner, eating some scrambled with little interest, three people sat behind me in a nearby booth. I imagined they were all friends, the male and female on one side, coupled, the other, the third, a woman sitting opposite. All were in their mid-40’s. 

The couple began, seemingly in agreement, telling the woman  she should file bankruptcy, that she would get out of debt quickly, and maybe even have all her student loans forgiven.

I took an uncustomary turn, and listened closely to what I overheard.

The couple seemed very convinced that filing bankruptcy would make their friend’s life easier and the pressure she was feeling would soon be relieved. The couple, having filed bankruptcy before, knew the burden taken off their shoulders, and they strongly advised the woman to consider it.

Are you one of those people who still give advice? If I tell you to stop doing it, you probably won’t stop. I use to give a lot of advice. No one ever took it. No one takes advice. Most of the time, people ask for your advice, but in the end, they’re going to do exactly the opposite of your advice. That’s why I’m not going to tell you to stop giving others advice. 

The woman said, “I can’t file bankruptcy. I got myself into this mess, and I’ll get myself out of it. Besides, it would adversely affect me for years. By that time, I’ll have paid all my bills.”

I asked the waitress to bring me a side of bacon.  The anticipation would be perfect, smelling the bacon coming in on a hot plate, eying the waitress’ extended arm as she brought it out, making room on the table. To my delight there were 5 pieces – generous! usually there’s only the customary three.

I picked up each piece of bacon and bit into it with wanton ferocity. The greasy blast completely changed the paradigm of the scrambled eggs, and it allowed me to tune out what it was, and, by all accounts, I did an admirable job.

When finished I got up, paid for my coffee, and when I caught the eye of the woman, I smiled at her as I passed by. 

I didn’t say, “Good for you, I think it’s admirable what you’re doing. To be accountable for your actions,” nothing like that. 

The hostess asked, “Was everything all right?”

“Yes,” I said, “very good. Loved the bacon.” 

It was raining hard, but it wasn’t when I arrived and entered the diner. This blasted winter. I was without a hat and had forgotten my umbrella in the car. With the wind, the umbrella would be useless. 

 “Are you going to be okay,” said the hostess, “it’s raining so hard. We have an umbrella for our patrons!”

 “But how am I going to get it back to you if I have it with me.” I told her. 

Without hesitation, “Don’t worry,” she said , “I’ll have one of the busboys meet you at your car, and he’ll have another umbrella.” 

 “Okay,” I said, “I’m going.”

I grabbed the umbrella and summoned its explosion in the diner lobby. It was wide, a golfing umbrella of some kind. It held up in the downpour. The busboy met me at my car with a dual umbrella, same kind, different colors.

I said to him, “How did you know it was me, my car?”

“We watched you run out.”

As I was about to pull away, I saw the three people who sat in the booth behind me, running, trying quickly to get to their cars. The guy held his companion about the waist as they made it down the row of parked cars; the diner was busy. The single woman ran out in front of me trying to get to her car and I bucked quickly to hold the break. It looked like she had taken a menu from the diner to shield her hair and face from the rain.         

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A Different Road

4 Feb

I am moving again. Back to NJ.
LI is no longer me. Funny how it is, funny how where you came from may not always welcome you.

I’ve got wanderlust and I can’t seem to find “Home.”
It’s probably my wandering, searching soul… always a page in me to explore, to somehow be rewritten, to unlock something else.

I admire people who settle down, born and raised in their town, high school chums, have a family, buy a house… Proliferate, promulgate, fruitful and fortified fortresses of all you have worked hard for.

I chose a different road. My choices have surely been different, free; I walk out of meetings that make no sense; I flip the middle finger nicely – and yes, there is a certain way to do it – and I surely am my own woman.

But all this freedom has come at a cost.

So what’s the better path?

I do believe I couldn’t have done it, this life, any other way except for the way I’ve already done it.

No regrets. I have loved and have been deeply loved. Money will never count for the love I have enjoyed in this one life I own.

I have traveled around enough to know that, in the end, all that matters is Love. …and then Lynora came.

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The Push

24 Aug

The Push

 

I walked the Airport road, three miles at least, passing hillsides and rambling meadows, scents of honeysuckle and clematis filled the air, and I was as far away from an airport as you could be. It’s a good road to walk, without a light or a stop sign, and if you’re on horseback, you can come up on a racing horse very fast, and then suddenly, you would stop to meet a main road. But by the time you reached it, you would have already had your thrill. The main road is not that big or busy, it’s just another way to get into town. But back roads going north to south are different, they’re less busy, and with the day’s casting overhead and a misty morning, it was a good time to walk on.

I came upon a railroad crossing and looked down the rails. Grey gravel, tightly bound and unmoving, flanked the rails. Stepping into the gravel, I tried my footing. I could walk on it and follow the length of the rail. Walking on the gravel for a time would be good, I thought. I could easily turn back and would not get lost, as I often do. I tried walking on the gravel. Because I was not in shoes, but only sneakers, I walked slowly. It was a bad idea. I could not walk for long and turned back to reach the road.

Standing in the middle of the crossing with my dog beside me, I looked to her, and she was looking down the rails, too. Sitting between two large cornfields facing east to west, until the rails touched the horizon, and the gravel looked flat, and I could no longer see where it ended, where both rail and gravel looked as one, it was there, at that vast expanse of rail, silver and straight, and the gray muted gravel, stark and supporting, that I thought of Paul.

Paul walked the gravel every day, checking railroad cars. “Paul, just how long is a railroad car?” I asked him one day. When he told me the cars he inspected were over a mile long and that he walked the parked cars, each one of them, every night in the Albany freight yard, and that was his job; he was a railroad car checker, an inspector, I was surprised. He always blamed the railroad and that darn gravel for pushing him into an early retirement.

I thought of Paul as I walked up the last hill and down the next. I called for my dog to hurry; the rain had picked up. I wore a white cotton shirt and I knew it would not hold up for long. I reached the car; my dog was wet as she jumped into the hatch. I toweled her off. I got into the driver’s seat, adjusted the mirror, and opened the window to get some air into the car. I wiped the rain from my face and the fog from my glasses. I had come clean and nothing else on my mind.

 

©Terry Rachel, 2014

 

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Candy When

10 Aug

Candy When

 

When my first dog, Candy, a Schnauzer, Grand Dame of three litters of pure-bred, silver pups, passed away after sixteen years, she was cremated and interned in a majestic bronze urn emblazoned with her full name and dates, Candy Girl, born September 1964 – died, November 1980.

She lived a long time. Candy was given to me as a present for my ninth birthday; I was thrilled. I named her after the Four Seasons’ hit song, after the same name. Candy Girl was a simple pop song, without harm, just about a love, charming just enough, my parents agreed to the name.

But Candy didn’t stay my dog; she became my mother’s dog instead. When my mother passed, she took Candy’s remains to the family plot.

***

Like I do every weekend, I try to spend the most time with my dog. Because of my daily hours, where I’m out of the house 10 to 12 hours each day, it’s a long time for my dog, Gem, to go without company, so on weekends, I dedicate a few hours on Saturday and Sunday for special walks, long walks, hikes to state parks, and trails that I know she will like. It makes up for the time, I think, for when she endures the lost time from me during the week. And for myself, too, as I miss my friend, Gem, when I can’t see her. I would love to take her to work, but that’s another story for another day.  

Yesterday, as I was walking Gem, I thought about Candy, and it only dawned on me at that precise moment, while stepping over a small stream of water in Point Mountain Park, as I watched my adventurous, happy dog, take laps from the cool and refreshing water, that when Gem dies, what will I do with her ashes?

I don’t think I want her boxed away, taken down into the earth; no. I don’t think I want that at all. She’s been too free, her makeup is that of courage, loyalty; she’s a good hunter, she’s strong and agile, and smart. She knows who likes her and who doesn’t like her, and so she’ll shy away, and go about her business. She doesn’t push, she knows better.

So what do I do, as I know my dog is exceptional in behavior, she must have an exceptional going out, how do I keep it in line?

 

In 2008, I lost two of my cats, 7 months apart. I had those cats for seventeen years. I trained my cats, as much as cats could be trained. They didn’t go on counters, and they didn’t stain anywhere except their litter box. I changed the litter often, as I knew the behavior of cats, and I knew my own cats well. They were friendly cats, outgoing, not shy, not spiteful, they enjoyed seeing others, and readily greeted new faces. And of all things not akin to the feline, they allowed me to take a brush to them.

One time, I brought Angelo out for a walk on a leash. He didn’t like it, and we didn’t do it again. But over the course of those 17 years, both Romeo and Angelo hung out with me, and came with me on many a move. Romeo didn’t do well in the car. He always threw up, but Angelo, was hardy. Both were brave, both good mousers. They didn’t cough the hairballs too much, thanks to the brushing.

 

So when they passed away, I cried for several days. And then one day I stopped crying. It just happened. It was like the flow of emotion just settled. Where all that emotion went, I don’t know. Two months had passed, and it was lonely without my cats, those chatty little bastards, how I missed them. But I found composure, accepting the Circle, as they say, The Circle of Life.

 

Coming out of a hot shower, I lay on my back naked in the hallway of my home, staring up at the ceiling, I thought about my cats. It was late winter, a quiet day, a Sunday in March. I sat up and stared at the bookcase that flanked both bedrooms, here were the boxes that held the remains of Angelo and Romeo. They were on the second shelf, next to their pictures. They was a stuffed play mouse between the two pictures. They liked being outdoors, lying in the hot sun. How long do I keep them on display on this bookcase?

My mind shifted to the day, and I dressed quickly. I gently brought down their remains from the shelf, placing them in a shoebox, and then taped the shoebox all around. I opened the car door, and placed the shoebox on the back seat floor. I drove to Durant Nature Park in Raleigh, North Carolina.

There’s a section to the nature park where a house once stood, but no one knows it. No one ever walks that trail because it’s closed off for what the park calls, ‘sensitive feeding area.’ So no one goes through the trail. But I do because I am horrible at obeying rules. So, I walked that part of the secluded trail, and when I reached the stone chimney (that’s all that remained), I opened up the shoebox, and then opened their boxes. I was staring at a palm-full of each cat’s remains, asking myself, How do I do this? Do I sprinkle here and there, under a tree over there, where? I decided just the way my cats had lived a frisky and eager life, to let their ashes spring to life, and then, without a thought, threw their ashes like a bouncing ball. Once, twice, three times, and then watched them settle. They were free.

***

It’s a Sunday, it’s bright summer, and I am headed for the Delaware Water Gap. I will hike again today with Gem. And I will remember each and every blessed day I have with my dog, while my dog is with me. But she isn’t coming with me to the family plot, no. Just as in life, she was raised and trained to be a fighter, a courageous dog, a smart dog, never beaten, never caged, she will always be free, never encased on a shelf or a bookstand.

 Copyright Terry Rachel, August 2014

 

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But there’s…

15 Jul

There’s never been anything that’s ever been easy.

I just walk around, bike, try to talk to people, and try to make new friends. I bring my dog wherever I go, it’s just that this moving around isn’t easy. I miss certain things, I think I miss the friends I made – I know I miss the beach. I use to know the one pizza place I liked the most, but it’s certainly far away now. I tell people here, strangers that I do know a good pizzeria, but it’s not here in Reston, Virginia. Nope. No, it’s in New Jersey. Then I think about my home, the one in Raleigh. I wonder how long it will be before I move back there. Or will I ever? Really. Seriously. Why am I keeping this house? Will I ever move back to Raleigh, North Carolina? Oh, I don’t know. There’s so much…

I used to live in Colorado – don’t know a soul from there – a long time ago. I must’ve been 18 when I hitchhiked out there, lived there for a summer. I fell in love with a boy there, or I should say, he fell for me and I just went along. Never saw him when I returned to New York. In 2001, a visit to Vermont turned into a move to finish my last semester in college. I took away one friend from there who I still speak with – well, kind of – we ‘talk’ on Facebook. In 2007, Atlanta was a completely bad move – I moved there for a contract, thought it was going to be great. Boy, ha! What a joke that was. Get a load of this: in the course of six weeks I was robbed 3 times. Yeah, no kidding. But you know, I took away one friend from there who helped me out of a jam, and I still speak with her on occasion, not a lot, but that’s okay. Look at these towns: Brooklyn, Uniondale, Long Island, Albany, Schenectady, New Rochelle, New York, Stockton, New Jersey, and Trenton. Now I’m in Reston, Virginia. I’m going to tell you why I move so much, but first I want to tell you this:

I was watching this reality show about Long Islanders, how they can’t make it now, how they lost their jobs, how their homes are facing foreclosure. The show profiled these once all working people, how they use to pay their bills, how they use to have a lifestyle where they saw their goals for retirement and the foundation for getting there, and, unbelievably, all three couples were now lost financially on Long Island. Come to think of it, I think that was the name of the show. And Long Island’s not cheap, I mean you have to have money to live there – the taxes are crazy. People there have weird-ass accents.

I moved out of Long Island when I was twenty-nine. I knew the place was gonna’ get crazy. It was nice in the 1960s, 70s, even 80s, but then it got crowded, too crowded for me, so I moved 160 miles north of there and landed in Albany.

This friend of mine just passed away. She was 83. She lived in Albany in the same house since, I don’t know, I want to say at least 50 years. Fifty years! Fifty years in one house. Never had a foreclosure.

Now, personally, I would die. There is no way I could live in the same place that long. Granted, I don’t have kids, and, sure, children make you grounded because of school, friends and friends of theirs; you don’t want to upset the routine they’re in and so on. I get it. But I am a lesbian and I’m a single lesbian and because I am, I can move around and pretty much move, and that’s what I do.

And let me tell you why I love to move: there are so many places and people to see. There’s a completely different culture out here. Take the accents, take the Long Island accent – NO ONE speaks like that in any other part of New York. It’s strictly a Long Island Accent. Albany people don’t sound like Long Islanders and people from New Jersey sound nothing like New Yorkers. I could go on and on about the accents, but you’re getting the picture.

I love to move because, I have to work, and I’m older, and I don’t want to be without work while I’m still young enough to work, and not quite old enough to retire. I get bored easily. Yes, and this is a big one. Last winter I was sitting outside smoking a cigarette, it was right after the New Year, and all of a sudden, after glimpsing the white snow, cresting on a pine bough, I saw my stretched out dog through the pane glass, and said, “it’s time to go.” I guess those are the right words, well, they’re familiar, that’s for certain.

When I lost my last contract – and I did so damn well, I thought they would offer me a full-time gig but they didn’t. I was like, “Fuck it.” I’m moving again. It came as a surprise to everyone. I just got so sick of so much.  Being let go again. What the fuck? Talk about silent age discrimination. It sucks and it’s alive and well. But like I said, I get bored easily. But one thing I knew, one thing I had going for me was that, even through all my adventuring, I knew my word was good, that I was honorable. I knew that if the corporate sector didn’t appreciate my background, I’d pull out my ace in the sleeve – saving it for my older years, so to speak, and that was when I decided to apply for a Secret Clearance job with the government. The government liked that I never cheated on the government and didn’t have a rap sheet.

I’m there five months, right, and guess what I told my boss? I’m like sitting in his office, and he’s giving me my 3 month review (which I did very well; I got a 3% raise – hey it’s something), and I say to him, “You know, I’d be open for relocation.”

There are just no words, there’s only action for me. Because there’s so much more to do.

I think about those people from the reality show, those people on Long Island who are sinking – they don’t want to move. I think if they moved, opened up their mileage and scope for looking for a job – they could keep their house – rent it out, but move around in order to survive. In the olden days people moved all their shit in covered wagons, leaving the rocky roads of Maine, for example, forging into wild, unchartered land because they heard about the California Gold Rush. Americans have always been pioneering. I could go on about how the lazy counter of time can be a killer when you’re looking for work and not finding anything – I’ve been there, I know the trouble, but nothing’s ever been easy.

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When the Wine Left

15 Jan

This morning I went through an old wine box made of wood.  One time, a long time ago, I received a trio of wines before I even knew how to drink wine, and received this trio as a Christmas gift. The wine was shared – and was good to drink, but I couldn’t part with the box. And so it remained.

For a long time I didn’t know how I would use it, this simple pine box, but it was of a good design, with a sliding door, but then slowly  I found myself storing birthday cards and letters from my grandmother and brother, and kept the concert stubs and the movie stubs, the cut-outs of favorite editors that sparked my interests; Haley’s Comet – I made it to Jones Beach on a cold November at 3 a.m to watch that one; the day JFK Jr died – I was on Block Island, the same body of water his plane went down in, his watery grave, the same ocean I swam in only the day before, covered the news. I kept that clipping.

Over the years the box grew larger and larger with news clippings, birthday cards,  love letters, more movie stubs, pictures were now tossed in of my friend’s children, my nieces and nephews graduation announcements, the death notices I’d collected. I could hardly pick up the box, it had grown that much.

Since the beginning of the year I have thought about going through it – the stuff I’d collected since 1979, way before my collective spirit and the events that shaped me and made me, out of pure survival, become so hard; me, then, a lamb, a cognitive and curious soul, an innocent – but I was prepared to face my past, and my past was in that box.

In that box were dead things from people who were dead and their wishes were long gone and I was wrong to keep their memories in a box. It was time they be set free. If I could get rid of their vanished thoughts, I’d be better now to face them rather than have their well wishes wind up in some Ephemera show at a sports arena in some strange and faraway place.

I didn’t read everything, and I went through it quite clinically, saying aloud, “You’re not in my life…you’re not in my life…” flip, throw out the card; “You’re dead….you’re re-involved…” flip, throw out the card. Some memories failed me and I found myself asking, ‘Who did I see that concert with?’ I couldn’t remember.

Then there were Brian’s letters, several of them. He was an old friend – best friend. We had been friends since we were 10. He died in 1996 of AIDS, I was by his side. He loved me.  I kept his cards, all his letters. I remember when he died I couldn’t travel from St. Vincent’s in New York, and so returned to his apartment for one last look, one last time. On his kitchen table, he’d written on a simple tablet, his own hand, and put down these thoughts, “Oh, Dear God, why? Why, why, why?” I took the letter from the tablet – it was very personal and I know I should not have, but I did. I stored the letter (it was much lengthier and charged with emotional turmoil than I can say here), but I folded the letter and threw it away. It was his talk with God and I had no business in keeping it.

Then there were the love letters. ..I kept some of those to help remind me how I once believed in love. I saved all my old driver’s licenses – it’s amazing how I’ve aged, and I find it curious that the ID’s really show the timeline. I came across a picture of my brother Victor and I – I was happy about that, and I will get that picture framed (I’d forgotten about it). The cards and letters from my old friend Elaine, were kept. I read those today, not all, but some, and I realize how much she once cared about me. But people change and you can’t hold them to the person they want to be now. In some letters she talked about her husband, “Big and Ugly” Gary, before we even knew he would die within 10 years.

Inside the box I’ve made room for the people who are in my life now, for the events, for the new news of my life, for whatever new challenges I face, whatever new concerts I may attend.  But in the bottom corner of the box, I had folded away an old calendar page (I remembered keeping it). It spoke about my love of nature, because I always loved nature far more than anything I could ever love and admire, was a poem by Joyce Kilmer and inside of this  was the hair clippings of my cat Angelo of 17 years. And because he loved outside as much as me, I gave him this poem:  “I think that I shall never see A poem as lovely as a tree. Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree”

Some things should never be thrown away.

copyright, Terry Rachel 2012

Some Things Should Never Been Thrown Away

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The Fruits of Labor – Paulie and the Blueberry Letter Part 1

10 Dec

Paulie Arcevita is a nineteen year-old out of Brooklyn, a rogue and a ruffian, he got chops from the “school of hard knocks.”  Cut fresh and edgy, with an attitude as sharp as a butcher’s knife, he’s still got a heart of gold under that metallic hard surface. Everything Paulie does he does the hard way.

***

Every time I walk somewhere I look at the ground, but there is no money on the ground. I know for a fact people lose money, but I walk everywhere and I never see any lost money – and forget about a wallet. Man, how I’d love to see a wallet with some money. Or a bag with some money. I’d be crazy with excitement if I ever found a bag of money.

I’m walking like I do on some avenue that’s kind of dirty with houses that don’t turn on their lights at night and during the day their blinds are shut. They gotta’ keep it out, you know. I know behind those blinds is some kind of dysfunctional shit going on. People who leave the door open, lights on, they seem more normal.

Several months, you know, after this, like what I’m telling you, I’m walking – again – and one day, I’m walking, right, and I pass near a forgotten lot and these bushes are enormous like no one, and I mean no one –  has ever trimmed them or taken care of them in any way, right. So in the bushes is a bag. The bag is small and it’s ripped just a little so I pick it up. The rip in the bag reveals a little piece of paper with a paisley design and, at its end, where the white creamy border is, is curled just a little so you know it’s packed tightly. I’m thinking, Oh, Jesus, it’s money, Oh, Jesus, it’s money!  My balls are itching with excitement. I ignore the marsh-like mud that creamed one of my boots, and I grab the bag. I’m excited and I wipe the mud off my boot on the back of my other leg and get my jean leg dirty, but I don’t care. So I’m holding this bag and then all of a sudden I feel angst! Now I feel kind of criminal and figure it’s normal and I begin to walk with the bag detouring my original destination. I go behind the bakery and sit way back behind the garbage and I open the bag. Sure enough, there’s a roll of twenty dollar bills wrapped in a rubber band and a deposit slip for $2500.00. The address on the deposit slip reads “Van Vranken Avenue Garage.”

I keep the money in the bag and take out two twenties. I go into the local DVD store – one still left that hasn’t been hit by Netflix and Blockbuster. Don’t ask me how this guy is still making it.  Anyway, I’m taking my time, spinning through the store, and I feel like the clerk is rushing me.  He knows me as a customer who usually goes to the back room where all the porn is and where the kids aren’t aloud in.  Today he’s surprised when I pull out cash and pay for two movies instead of renting them.

At the counter he says to me, “Popcorn?” like he knows I always take the popcorn, and I could see he’s wondering how come I didn’t get no popcorn for free.

“Because, man,” I wanted to say, “I don’t eat your lousy heat lamp popcorn no more. Only when I got these shit-ass movies for rent did I want your heat-lamp popcorn because I felt like that was part of the deal. But now, now, I’ve got no deals to make with anybody because I’ve got money on me!” But I don’t say anything, no. I just tell him, “No, thanks.”

Then I pass George the mechanic. He hasn’t seen me in a while. I never pass that way, that street, whatever way you want to say it. And I like George and all, and him and I get along good and he’s a good mechanic. He’s surprised to see me and we shake hands.

“Man,” he says after I hand him the money I owed him from, God knows how long ago. “What? Did you hit the lotto, Paul?” he tells me.

George got a greasy face and greasy hands and grease under his fingernails.  I like George, but George knows a lot of people, and he’ll stand around in his shop for hours talking about people and I’ll probably be one of them. I don’t need that.  George fixed my car almost a year ago right before I got hit with a DUI and lost my license. Then I had to park my car and that’s when I owed George money.  “No, George. I’m working now, and I’m doing good. I didn’t hit no Lotto.”  That’s what I told him.

It was good to pay off George.  It was an old debt – $150.00 bucks.  Now I can walk on this street again.  When I said goodbye to George he was standing under the shop’s sign: Van Vranken Avenue Garage.

This one guy I know parked his Miata in a garage and somebody broke into the garage and stole his freakin’ hard top. That’s lousy. So even though my car’s in a garage and I can’t drive it for another three months –  and it kills me, because it’s gonna’ be summer soon and I won’t get to the beach, and I won’t get to show up for softball practice because the park is way out of the way, and I’m gonna’ have to hoof it everywhere, even with this freakin’ money – and me, like a jerk, gives it to the video guy, and then back to George.  Shit man, what am I gonna’ do? What if George catches on? Holy shit. I’m gonna’ be in so much freakin’ trouble it’s not funny.

So I keep walking and I know I got to be home. I got to feel safe. I feel uptight. I want to watch the movies. The bus is coming, that’s good. I get on the bus, and I could tell it’s a new driver but I can’t tell if this driver is a man or a woman. The black girls are sitting way in the back. The same girls – I’ve seen them before; they go up to the community college and take the bus pretty regularly. The three of them, here they go, whenever they see, they start singing.

© Terry Rachel, 2011

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Five People Who Need “Telling Off”

12 Nov

 

1. You don’t really think I believe you, do you? I just let you think you’re original, but you’re about as original as a grain of sand. You’ve stolen everyone’s ideas – and, clever girl, you’ve somehow managed to sell the idea to others. What is one thing you have done that was the very fabric of your own mind? What? Name one thing. ….I’m waiting.  Right. I didn’t think so. You’re a leech. You’ve always been a leech sucking out others ideas. Don’t think I don’t see, because I do. You’re probably waiting for me to ask you….but I have never asked you to represent me in your make-believe artistry and I never will –  ever.

2. You’re so ‘phony-baloney’ and so transparent. You have pathetically (and countless times) made feigned attempts to propose we get together on a friendly basis. I remember when you asked me out for a date. I was so shocked by this because you had only broken up with your ex two weeks before. I am not a rebound, babe. Sorry. Doesn’t really say much for your character does it? You gave lots of thought to that one, huh? Really mourned the loss of your two-year relationship. Do you really think I would trust these behaviors? No way, man. And so you get on my Facebook page with your polite gestures telling me how positive your life is going (while you talk about me behind my back) and then give me a ‘parting shot’ before you leave. Do you really think I give a fucking shit about your part and parcel life? No. I don’t.

3. I did not like that you came to my little rental apartment to insult me. I did not appreciate your telling me I was overweight – when, you are 3x more overweight than me. You spent one night with me and you a) didn’t bring a dime with you; b) verbally mistreated me the entire time you were here; c) complained and complained about everything. I spent close to $300 on you – even paid your transportation on NJ Transit. Ugh, you were such a drag. I couldn’t wait for you to leave. Honestly, you’re not welcome in my world again. I do not miss you. I do not salivate or long for your long, drawn-out political views and your provincial viewpoints on public policy and homosexuality. You are quasi-intellectual and quasi-religious – two qualities that irk me to no end. Honestly speaking, I have no more room in my life for you.

4. You send me a letter with 4 deposit slips, my house key and a check for $50.00. This is, of course, how you end a friendship. In the first place, you never, ever should have cashed a check for fifty dollars for doing nothing. I asked you six times, “Please paint the closet. It won’t take long. It will take about an hour.” And copious times you said you would. I asked you, “Please collect the rent?” You said you would. You did not. Then you’re nowhere to be found: you don’t return calls, you don’t respond to inquiries. This is a friendship? What is this friendship based on? Friendships begin with mutual respect, trust, kindness, discretion.  You have completely lost my respect and the opportunity to witness a generous heart. My generosity is rare. But it’s too good for you.

5. You dated me close to six weeks. In this time you did not spend a dime. I took care of everything (Oh, wait, I think you bought the popcorn at the movies.) I went out of my way to see you, call you, and then when I began the talk of sex or kissing or lovemaking, you put your feet in the sand and drew a line: there was no compromise with you. You’re terribly set in your ways; a cranky old bitch – I saw that, but I was willing to overlook it. It didn’t work out. But then you show me a lack of respect by breaking off with me through an email. I called you after the email because I wanted to hear you tell me what it was – you never called me. You never called me back. You didn’t have the guts to speak with me. For all the kindness I showed you and the respect I gave you and the generosity I so handedly shared, you didn’t even have the courtesy to speak with me.

 ***

As I near the closing of 2011, I remember these real events. I point them out because I have little tolerance for others – particularly at this stage in my life – who treat me with less than the respect I deserve. I don’t turn the other cheek. I see a lot of bullshit, and these behaviors I’ve described here – where they think they fool me, where they think they can take advantage of my precious time and life – trust me, I’ve got it, trust me, I see it all, and I’m here to let you know it’s not okay to get away with bullshit. This hardscrabble bitch has your number.

copyright – another ORIGINAL by Terry Rachel, 2011

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Barbara Walters Interviews Author Terry Rachel

30 Oct

We sat down with Terry Rachel, author of A Hardscrabble Daughter at her Connecticut home.  She welcomed my team and I into her sprawling ranch home overlooking the Long Island Sound. Here’s what she had to say about her life, her new book, and why she considers herself hardscrabble.

Barbara Walters: Terry, it’s so good to see you.

Terry Rachel: Thank you. It’s nice to see you, Barbara.

Barbara Walters: You were quite heavy last year. Have you lost weight?

(Terry laughs aloud and crosses her legs, she’s wearing a red cashmere sweater and corduroy slacks. She summons her assistant who brings us freshly ground coffee and scones. It’s a cool October morning.)

Terry Rachel: Yes, it was time.

Barbara Walters: Do you feel free? Free of that baggage?

Terry Rachel: It was baggage. I lost 40 pounds.

Barbara Walters: The last time I saw you was at a Beat Writers reading.

Terry Rachel: Yes, yes, in the Village.

Barbara Walters: You’ve come a long way. This home is quite large. And you have how many dogs?

Terry Rachel: I’m breeding Border Collies. Here I have the Grand Dame, Jewel, and her litter – Ring, Shake, Speare, Robin and Hood. So 6 all together.

Barbara Walters:  Interesting names.

(Terry laughs)

Terry Rachel: Yes, well, I have to detach from them soon. So the names will probably change with their new owners.

Barbara Walters: What was the price tag on the home?

Terry Rachel: Five and a half – well, almost six. It came in around $5.9 million.

Barbara Walters: Let’s talk about your writing. How did you go from blogging on WordPress, to complaining on Facebook, to reading your stories  in coffee houses, to a New York Times Bestseller? You’re doing book tours – there is some talk that Showtime wants to turn some of your stories into short films – is this true?

Terry Rachel: Yes, they’ve been in touch with me.

Barbara Walters: Barbara Lowenstein?

Terry Rachel: Yes, she’s the agent that got the ball rolling.

Barbara Walters: How did you get the attention of the Lowenstein Agency?

Terry Rachel: I kept writing. I entered some contests and won one, then another and another. And I would post these wins through Twitter, Facebook. I had a following through email and before I knew it, all this.

Barbara Walters:  And all this success………. but there is no one to celebrate with – no one living, to share in your success. You mention that your family is all gone, you are estranged from your nieces and nephews, even cousins.

Terry Rachel: My stories have death as a continual theme. It’s through these stories that I release my frustration.

Barbara Walters: Your sadness. Your lesbianism.

Terry Rachel: Yes, that too.

Barbara Walters: Are you really ‘hardscrabble’ as you say?

Terry Rachel: I can be. My life was very hard. I lived for a long time as a minimalist. I saw how people viewed me. But honestly, I was unburdened from material things.

Barbara Walters: Do you think your lesbianism added to being “hardscrabble”?

(Terry laughs at the question)

Terry Rachel:  Let’s put it this way: I was duped many times.

Barbara Walters:  And now that you’re fifty-eight your whole life has changed. You have a home overlooking the water, you’re a successful dog breeder, a full-time author. You live very well now.

Terry Rachel: Yes.  I thank God for my reversal of fortune. It’s nice to be comfortable for a change.

(The phone rings, Terry excuses herself to take it by walking to a quieter space in the living room. The turn of events would cut short our interview.)

Barbara Walters: I have one last question: if you were a tree, what kind of tree would you be?

(Terry laughs at the question)

Terry Rachel: Didn’t you ask Katherine Hepburn this?

Barbara Walters: Yes and I took heat for it by the way. But I think it’s a fitting question for you.

Terry Rachel: Hmmn. What kind of a tree… a fiery maple. Yes, a fiery maple. That would fit me perfectly.

 

***

Copyright, 2011 Terry Rachel

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Season 1 – The Introduction

1 Oct

 October 1, 2011

Good Morning, Dear Readers,

 

With this writing I begin with a series about three young girls –  Lisa, Claudia and Olivia – orphaned at an early age in Quebec, Canada,  they are chestnut-haired, hazel-eyed, French-Canadians, and all very pretty –  they would be soon adopted after the accident that killed their parents by a young couple who were barren, Yvette, and Richard Oakley, each established writers, living in an affluent suburb of Long Island, they would move the sisters to their home in Garden City where they would grow and play and live their lives as any normal pre-teen girl, but when each girl’s sexuality peaks, together they  question the path to take as they come to the crossroad of their lives.

 

I hope you will enjoy their journey.

 

My best,

Terry Rachel

 

 

 

The Oakley Girls of Garden City 

 

 

The Introduction

 

Lisa is the youngest of the sisters, at age 10, she plays with boys, preferring their company over girls. She is smart in school but takes advantage of not doing homework, a little bit of a know-it-all, she’s keenly aware how pretty she is.  Today, Saturday, she’s hogging the bathroom more than usual, not having to be rushed out by her sisters, she stares long in the mirror, examining her face. She pretends to put on mascara, as her mouth gently drops open, she purses her lips to throw a kiss, and thinks that her lips are too big. Taking out her barrette she shakes her head to loosen her hair, flipping the ends, she bends her head to her knees, sweeping her hair in a downward direction, she snaps up straight and shakes again her magnificence she is most proud of. She can do styles now. Her older sister, Olivia,  taught her how to use a curling iron – but she doesn’t always get to use it, because Olivia and Claudia use it the most, and she feels like she gets what’s left over. She knows she has to be very sweet with her sisters.

Claudia is the middle child, at twelve, she has green-hazel eyes, and sunburned features, freckles across her nose and some to her cheeks, she has long, thick lashes the color of caramel, her hair is naturally two-tones of chestnut and dark blonde. On the swim team from 6th through 9th grades, Claudia is slender and elegant, some would say she is the most beautiful of the Oakley sisters – but as the good Lord gives the human mind or, at least those willing to accept it, the gift of modesty, Claudia prefers to concentrate on doing good for others, volunteering takes up most of her time when she is not with her swim team.

In her marmalade-colored room, one sunny window shines its morning light, as Olivia sits writing an e-mail to a school chum she met in her sophomore year. School begins next week, right after Labor Day, and Olivia, thirteen, has been thinking about her girlfriend for weeks. Ever since Cathy left for a family vacation to spend the summer in Michigan, Olivia has texted her nearly every day. The light pours onto her flawless olive skin, her dark eyes read again what she is about to send to her friend. Her hair is never in her face, unusually confident for her age, her  ballet instructor expressed to Mrs. Oakley that Olivia has the potential to go far as a dancer.

Yvette Boulanger-Oakley was raised on Long Island, but spent summer vacations with her parents’ family in Quebec City, Canada, where she held a soft spot for her faraway cousins she rarely got to see. With her love of travel and her natural affinity for uncovering a secret, Yvette went onto Syracuse University – a difficult school to gain entry to for its quality journalism studies, and after graduating interned for Newsday where she would eventually write a daily column, taking over for Erma Bombeck, her editor saw how good she was at telling a story in less than 1000 words that pulled on the heartstring of her readers. Yvette has auburn hair, her glasses sit on the bridge of her nose, or on top of her head, she wears turtlenecks tucked inside a belted skirt, knowing not too many women can pull it off; she dresses always to show off her flat stomach.

When she was thirty-two and married to Richard six years, herself having been to several fertility clinic trails, and Richard, having gone through countless sperm tests, both of them unable to have children of their own – rather than getting completely down over it, and being the type of woman to see her way through any obstacle, she was an optimist at best, and so she and Richard considered the next best thing would be to adopt.  On an early morning on December 24th, at her office, Yvette was the first to pick up the AP wire that a family in Canada endured a terrible accident, where the driver of the car was killed along with his wife, but that the children, three young girls, were alive, having survived being hit by a semi-trailer while on their way to a Christmas event reported by the mother’s side of the family.

Richard Oakley is meeting today with his editor at Random House, he is on his third book for them and the advance of $10 million that he received took him well into his fourth year to complete the novel. It should be a good one; he thinks it’s got a market. The novel is based on a family of prosperous dairy farmers who lived in Hungary during World War II but were forced to leave from the Nazi advance, buying their way to America being guests of a family living in Minnesota.  In the cab ride from Grand Central up Park Avenue, he is dressed in a pair of linen slacks and denim shirt, his blonde hair sweeps down, in Robert Redford fashion, just above his blue eyes; he adjusts his sunglasses to take in the other yellow cabs lining the busy street. The manuscript sits on his lap as it is boxed; his editor prefers to read on paper. Richard didn’t mind printing it out, even though printing out over 150,000 words took a lot of paper, he poured his heart into this effort, not counting the rewrites, he hopes to receive the remaining $12 million by the time it goes to print. Under his breath, come the words, “Right in the bank for my girls,” and then to the driver, “This will be fine here, thanks!”

End Part 1

© Terry Rachel, 2011

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