My Baby the Star

Last night I dreamed I was breast-feeding Rerun from What's Happening. He wore a cloth diaper and his signature rainbow suspenders and red cap, but was otherwise naked. As he clamped his mouth to my nipple, I felt a rush of liquid leave my teat. He guzzled greedily, my milk spilling from the sides of his mouth and trailing down his chin. I pulled him closer, cradling him in my arms and positioned him in my lap to minimize his effortful suckling. When he was through feeding, I pulled him from my nipple and burped him over my shoulder. I saw that his teeth had cut my areola and a trail of blood trickled down to my stomach and settled in my belly button. I burped him, rubbed his back and rocked him to bed.

While I'm Still Warm

I had risen at 6 that morning and went for a swim, enjoying the serenity of the cool water and its soothing effect on my back. Marjorie was still in bed; she hated getting out of bed before 8. She always watched the 7 o'clock news and afterwards would rise and put on a pot of coffee. While I was completing my 60th lap, I heard her scream. Within minutes she came running out barefoot of the house, frantic and still in her nightgown.

"Whitey, she's dead," my wife screamed, "Marilyn is dead!"

"No way, no damn way. I talked to her the day before yesterday and she was fine. What do you mean?"

"It was on the television, Whitey. They found her this morning, and oh God." She stopped at the edge of the pool and dropped to her knees, her words cut off by heaving sobs.

It was like she was speaking another language. I stood up in the pool and looked at my wife. "What did they say Margie? What happened?"

"She...she.."

"Damn it Margie, please. What did he say?" I spoke quickly, words rushing out of my mouth. My voice rose up at the end, squeaking like a goddamn teenager. I jumped out of the pool and ran over to her and grabbed her by the shoulders.

"Margie, what did they say? What happened to her?"

"Only that Eunice found her this morning. Dr. Greenson had gone over last night and they couldn't wake her and they saw there was a pill bottle on the floor..." With these words my wife buried her head into my dripping chest and sobbed, her wails ringing in my ears.

We stood there for a few minutes, her crying and me staring at her back and shoulders.

"I think we should go inside dear. I think I ought to lie down."

Marjorie lifted her head and caught her breath. "Of course. I should go in and start making some calls. Poor Marilyn. Poor Eunice, the dear. Oh, it's all just so awful."

I climbed the stairs to our bedroom, my hand tightly gripping the wrought iron railing. I went to the nightstand beside our bed and took out the gold Tiffany money clip that Marilyn had sent me a few weeks after we finished filming the Hawks' picture. It wasn't unusual for her to give me a gift after filming, but this was one was special. Dixie Lee, Bing Crosby's wife, had passed from cancer towards the end of the shoot. Dixie died on a Saturday but couldn't be interred until her family had arrived in Los Angeles from Tennessee. By the time they arrived on Monday morning, she had spent more than 30 hours in the morgue freezer. The idea terrified Marilyn, that Dixie laid untouched for so long. She said that it wasn't bad enough that Dixie died, but to "have lain there in the cold, alone" was an unbearable thought. At that moment she turned to me, and asked if I would do her makeup when she passed. I assured her that it would be a very long time and I would likely be dead before her. But she was serious and grabbed my hands and said "If something happens to me, promise you'll do my makeup so I look my best." It was a morbid thought, so I laughed it off saying, and said "Sure. Bring the body back while it's warm and I'll do it." When the money clip was delivered, there was no note, just the clip in the robin egg blue box. The engraving read "Whitey dear While I'm still warm Marilyn".

Henry

“Marjorie, would you bring in my messages, please? I’ll also take my coffee now, thank you.”

Another day. Fifteen years to bring this company from the spare bedroom of our first apartment to the top floor of a Manhattan highrise. Fifteen years of deals, mergers and acquisitions to make this one of the most profitable companies our shareholders have in their portfolios. Damn, I’m tired. The days are no longer exciting; I haven’t woken up excited about going to the office in many years. By now, it’s just an excuse to get out of the house and away from Madeline and her incessant chatter. Twenty-five years of marriage and she still hasn’t run out of things to say. “Henry, are we going to the de Kampfs’ for dinner? Henry, the Wallermans are expecting us to sit at their table for the Whitney benefit, what should I tell them? Henry, did you call our son? You know it’s his birthday today, don’t you Henry? Henry, did you know that?” For the record, yes Madeline. I called him from the office, told him that if he values his sanity, to never get married. As for the rest, they’re your friends and you’ll answer yes anyway. Why go through the rigmarole of checking with me? If it were really my decision, not that I’m deluding myself that this is the case, but I’d say that de Kampf is an ass, Wallerman cheats at golf and I’d prefer not to spend my time with such people. I’d rather be home, reading.

“Thank you Marjorie. Please hold my calls; I’ll be out for most of the afternoon.”

If Madeline calls, she’ll think I’m at the club. This is partly true. It is a club, of sorts. I had to join, pay membership dues. Who wants sit around with a bunch of cranky old men when you can receive a lovely massage from a girl who doesn’t speak? Hell, it’s worth spending the four hundred dollars just for her silence.

Nate

Nate walked into his father’s room to pick out a tie. His suit was pressed, teeth brushed and hair combed. This was the final thing he needed to do. He opened the closet and saw the ties hanging from their place on the automated tie rack his father had on top of the dresser. The machine was unnecessary; his father only had three ties. One black, one blue and a red and green reindeer patterned tie that he wore every Christmas Eve. Nate took out the black and blue ties and approached the mirror. The black tie was strictly for funerals and holiday office parties, when Nate’s dad wanted to present the most professional version of himself as possible. Nate had given his dad the blue tie for his birthday a few years ago, right after he got his after school job pumping gas.

Holding the blue one to his neck he could see his father the last time he had worn this tie. It was his cousin Sarah’s wedding and his dad took full advantage of the open bar. Halfway through the reception, they had to leave because his father started yelling obscenities at the groom’s mother. When she had suggested the he might switch to coffee, that he might not want to get so drunk before they served the main course, he loudly called her a controlling cunt. Then, turning to address all the guests, announced that Sarah’s new husband Jack should count his blessings to finally be free of such a woman. With this, he grabbed Nate’s mother’s wrist and headed for the door. Nate got up from his salad and followed them out to the parking lot. His mother recovered the keys to drive them home. The tie was also worn the night of Nate’s tenth grade parent/teacher night, when his dad went to meet Ms. Keller, his math teacher, who was new to the school and eager to make a good impression. This eagerness didn’t extend to dad’s grabbing her ass when he went up to introduce himself. Nate wasn’t sure what transpired that night; just that by the next day, the car was towed home and he was transferred to Mr. O’Leary’s class.

His mother walked in behind him as he was looking in the mirror. “C’mon honey, we gotta get going or we’ll be late”, she said mournfully. Catching his eyes, she said “You know, I always liked him better in the black.”

“Yeah, mom. Me too.” said Nate as he looped the tie around his neck and walked down the stairs to the car.

Late

Ohfuckohfuckohfuck…I can't believe that I'm late again. Mr. Pirelli told me yesterday that if I was late one more time, he'd fire me. I don't see the problem; all I do is stock shelves in his drug store, clean up a little when things were quiet. What's the big deal if I'm a few minutes late? It's not like I work the register and holding up customers by being late. But with Pirelli it doesn't matter, punctuality is everything.

"Eddie," he said the other day, "I can't have you coming in late all the time. We've talked about this before. You need to be here at 9am when we open the store or else you're no good to me."

Maybe I can still make it on time, maybe the train will be in the station when I get down there, maybe he'll be on the can when I get there and won't notice. Oh good, it's there, stay open, stay open…

"Could you hold the doors? Thanks."

OK, now I've got ten minutes to get there, but the train takes fifteen. Plus another five minutes to get to work, so that's ten minutes late. Ten minutes isn't so bad. Who notices ten minutes? Just wait for the train to get downtown then haul ass to work, it'll be fine. Just read your paper and take a deep breath. Ahhhhhh. Better. Now let's see how fucked up the world is today.

Opening the paper, I hear the screech of the rear subway door slam shut and a shuffling of feet. Looking up, I see an unshaven black man, probably in his thirties, a bright red sweatshirt over a plaid shirt, both hanging off of his small frame, paint-splattered blue jeans and untied work boots. He pushes his way through half of the crowded car as he begins to speak.

"Ladies & gentlemen, I'm sorry to bother you. My name is Douglas and I am currently living on the street. My apartment building burned down last May and I have not been able to get on my feet since then. If you have any spare change or extra food to help me out today, I'd really appreciate it. Thank you for your time and consideration."

God, these guys are too much. Everybody always wants something for nothing, don't they? Isn't there a shelter or somewhere to help these guys? Why do they make us feel like we're responsible for helping them? If I don't meet his eyes, then it's like he's not there. Just concentrate on the paper and ignore him. Here's my stop, finally! Now if I can get ahead of this Spanish woman with the cart and run up the stairs, I can be there in four minutes. That's only eight minutes late. Maybe Mr. Pirelli won't notice.

He noticed. "Eddie, we need to talk."

"Morning, Mr. Pirelli. I'm sorry I'm late; there was some problem with the train. I'll be on time from now on, I promise."

"Eddie, you promised the same thing Monday, Tuesday, last week, and last month. I'm tired of hearing it. I'm sorry, but I can't keep you on."

"Mr. Pirelli, please. Just give me one more shot. I'll be here on time, please."

"Eddie, I can't, I got a business to run here. I think you forget that sometimes. You have a few days pay coming to you. I'll put the check in the mail on Friday. Take care of yourself. I think you should go."

Damn, I needed that job. It wasn't until I stepped outside that I realized just how much. I've got nothing. One dollar and forty-eight cents in my checking account. A Metrocard with ten dollars left on it. Rent is due on Thursday and there's no way, even with the check I was getting from Pirelli, that I'd have enough to cover what I owed my landlord. I still owed him half of last month's rent. Plus, there were the phone and utility bills that hadn't gotten paid in over a month. I needed a job, and quick. I picked up a copy of the Voice on my way back to the train. As I passed the park a block before the station, I changed my mind about returning home and sat down on one of the benches. Hell, maybe I'd see something about an opening in the neighborhood and head over there. You know, really jump on the opportunity.

I had forgotten how intimidating the help wanted section of the paper can be. There were an infinite number of jobs that I'd never qualify for, ads for jobs in sales or real estate where you needed a resume and tie and shiny shoes. There were postings for phone jobs, but I'm no good on the phone. I'm more of a people person. Any jobs where there was an extended interview process probably wouldn't pay me in time for me to pay my rent. Here's an ad for a delivery person, but I don't have a bike, or the money to even buy a used bike. None of the ads are looking for stock help. Here's one for handing out fliers, I could definitely hand out fliers. I'd smile at people passing me by and they'd want to take one out my hands, to see what my smile was all about. I called the number from the ad, but all I got was a recording for me to leave my name and number. I used my most professional voice and left my name, number and the best time to call. With no other prospects, I figured that was enough for today. I deserve at least one day to regroup, think about what to do with myself. Hell, I only got fired a half hour ago. I'll head home, take a nap and start the search for real tomorrow.

As I entered the apartment, I flipped the switch to turn the lights on, but nothing happened. Damn, I wasn't that late! How could they turn off the lights? I'd only gotten two letters from ConEd with the red stripe on them, the ones that let the whole world know that I was late with paying. I thought that they'd give me more time to pay, I wasn't that far behind. I took a beer from the fridge, if I wasn't working, I might as well start drinking. I had just about a full case of MGD left in the fridge from the weekend, and there was no time like the present to get drunk.

Happy Birthday

She had six minutes before we sat down for cake, and even though she called earlier in the week to confirm the time, there was a chance that she wouldn’t show up. If Janet came at all, then she’d definitely be late. Last Thanksgiving we held dinner for two hours, waiting to see if she'd show. She did eventually, slurring apologies at the door and quickly taking her place at the table next to my mother. There were no arguments that night; we sat silently around the table eating dry turkey and crusty stuffing until Janet stood up, said she had an early work day and quickly left before dessert. My parents announced, after she kissed them each on the cheek and walked out the door, that she'd no longer be allowed in the house when she was drunk.

“I will not let that girl ruin another family dinner”, my mother said as she cleared the table, “I just can’t do it, she’s killing me.”

My father, in return, said “She thinks she’s such a big shot that she can come and go as she pleases? And come into my house smelling like some bum on the street? Well, no more!”

“She’s got problems, my Janet, but I just can’t sit here and let her ruin my life.”

“If she thinks that this is how she can act around this family, then she’s got another think coming.”

They volleyed Janet’s problems between them, a unified testament to her faults. I wondered why they couldn’t say all of this while she was here; she was the person who should have to listen to this, not me. But this wasn’t for Janet; she had already heard and long tuned out their threats. This was the vestiges of the arguments that she used to have with them, a one-sided phone call.

When I was five, she was in her mid-teens and spent a lot of her time out of the apartment and away from the family. The memories I have of her are vague; they’re mostly of her fighting with my parents and them threatening to kick her out again. At seventeen; a week after she graduated from high school, she left the apartment and didn't come home for six months. She returned for Christmas, a small gift for each of my parents and me, but no reasonable explanation of where she'd been or why she hadn't called. The years that followed, she came to the house for Christmas and Thanksgiving, and would call on everyone's birthdays, but this was the first time she had shown up on a non-holiday in years.

I heard the buzzer a few moments later, and ran to the intercom to let her in.

"Hi, come on up."

"Hi honey, can't wait to see you."

I turned from the door to face my parents staring back at me. My father sat in his tan corduroy barcalounger, turned to look from me to my mother, who stood in the entranceway to the kitchen with a dishrag in her hands. There was a synchronized sigh and rolling of the eyes between them, a gesture that seemed rehearsed. For a second I pictured them, practicing together in their bedroom to get it just right, the coordination of their reactions, but dismissed the idea and figured that this was just their automatic response to their only daughter. That this could be just another of Janet's breakable promises; she might decide halfway up to turn around and leave.

I opened the door to my sister throwing her arms around me. The smell of beer on her breath was slight, feint at best. Her auburn hair smelled like smoke, and the sleeve of her denim jacket was torn at the shoulder. Her red leather purse swung and rocked me as held me.

"Oh Jackie, it's so good to see you. Happy Birthday!"

"Thanks Jan, it's good to see you, too."

"Hi, Ma. Hi, Daddy." She said as she walked over to them. I saw my mother's nose crinkle as Janet's arms encircled her. Janet walked over to my father's recliner and kissed the top of his head from behind.

"How are you, Janet? You look good. How's work?" My mother asked.

"Work is good, Ma, no complaints."

"Good. Well, have a seat. I was just gonna put the coffee on."

"Here Jackie, I got something for you," Janet said as she rifled through her purse, "I wasn't sure what to get you, I mean, what do you get for an 18 year-old kid? So I got you what I wanted when I was 18."

My parents, again in unison, winced at the possibilities.

She pulled out a birthday card. Awesome, I thought, I could use the money and just hoped she hadn't written me a check, which would probably bounce. But the card looked bulkier than it would have if it contained money and felt weightier still when she pushed it into my hands. I opened the envelope and pulled the card out. Before I could flip the card open, a pair of gold keys on a silver key ring fell from it and dropped to my feet. Without reading the inside, I bent down to pick the keys up, and looked up confusingly, first to Janet, then my parents.

"They're keys to my place!" she said with a big smile on her face. "Now you can visit anytime! You could even stay with me for a while if you wanted. I was sorta hoping that you'd want to come live with me, now that you're an adult, about to graduate from high school. You could get a job, come and go as you please. It'd be fun, right?"

I didn't know what to say. Even if I had the words to express my confusion, they would've been drowned out by my parents' yelling.

"Are you out of your mind? Why would Jack want to live with you?" said my mother frantically.

“But Ma, it’s not…I didn’t…” Janet stammered.

"You can barely take care of yourself, you think you can take care of a kid?" my father shouted.

"Why would you do this? Who gives a gift like this?"

"There's no way Jack is coming to live with you and that's final."

But it wasn't final; they went back and forth between them while Janet and I stood quietly, alternately looking at each other and the floor. Janet's smile disappeared from her face and her cheeks turned bright red. She had been shamed by what she considered thoughtful.

"I'm sorry, Ma. Daddy, I just thought it'd be nice for him to have a place to go, if he wanted or needed to."

"Jack is happy here. He's a good boy. He doesn't give us agita." said my father accusingly.

"Jack is going to college after he graduates, isn't that right, Jackie?" said my mother, "Haven't we been looking at you going to some of the local schools in the fall?"

I stood there silently. I didn't want to live with Janet, but it would be nice to have an alternative place to go, when my folks got to be too much of a handful. To accept the gift would confuse and anger them, but to refuse it would hurt Janet.

"Janet, thank you for the gift. I'm gonna stay here with Mom and Dad, but I do think it'd be nice to stay over some night, see you more often. Plus, if you ever go away, I could use the keys to get your mail, feed your cat, whatever."

Janet's smile returned. "I'd like that Jackie, I really would." She turned to our parents, "I don't know what I was thinking. I'm not gonna stay for cake, Ma, I gotta get up early for work. Come here and give me a kiss Jackie, before I go."

I kissed my sister's cheek as I walked her to the door. My parents had retreated to the kitchen, where we could hear them talking quietly to themselves.

"I'll call you, Janet. We'll set something up."

"We'll do that, Jackie. Happy Birthday."

Trio

89 dollars for a skirt? The Fashion Hut must be off of its rocker. The design is lovely; I’ll give them that, but the fabric is sub-par at best. They’ve used a rayon/silk blend when they could’ve used straight silk and it only would’ve been a few dollars more. Charging this much for this skirt is obscene. Still, it’s in my size, and it would go perfect with that maroon blouse I got last week from Dress Palace. I wonder if I should just come back in a few weeks; it’ll probably be on sale by then. On the other hand, they might be out of my size if I wait that long. I can’t spend 90 dollars on a skirt, Henry would kill me. Although I am meeting his mother tonight, and if this isn’t a special occasion, I don’t know what is. The cashier isn’t even paying attention, maybe I’ll just slip it in my purse and no one would even notice.

Lookit that girl stickin’ that skirt into her bag. Doesn’t she see that I’m standing ten feet away from her? I know it looks like I’m examining this lousy manicure Miss Rhonda gave me but I see what’s goin’ on in every corner of this store. Well go on then, honey, because today is my last day at The Fashion Hut and I don’t give a fuck. I put a dress in the back for myself when Loretta went to lunch. I say if she didn’t want me to steal, she shouldn’t have left me alone. She don’t even know it’s my last day, but what does she expect when she cuts my hours like that knowing I have a daughter at home? I guess she’ll find out tomorrow when I don’t show up to open the store. Besides, Dress Palace pays a dollar more an hour and you get a discount and not some fake ass 10 percent off either, like here. Billy the manager over there said I could start on Monday. Billy’s kinda cute now that I think about it. It’ll certainly be better than lookin’ at Loretta’s hagfish face every day.

Oh my God, is that woman stealing? I can’t see anything past that display, why do they have to put them in the middle of the aisle where you can’t walk? God, I don’t know why I shop here, Dress Palace has a much cleaner setup.. Look at that, she put that skirt right in her bag. If the cashier would stop paying attention to her nails, maybe she’s notice that a crime is going on right in front of her. I wonder if I should say something. I mean, I should say something, but what do you say in these types of situations? Stop thief? Henry would know what to do; he always knows what to do in these types of situations. But I can’t call him at the office now; he’s always so busy and rushes me off the phone. I’ll just wait until I see him tonight to meet his new girlfriend. His first serious girlfriend at 35, I just thank God he’s not a fagelah.