I've decided to put both stories on one post for your convenience. First - a sweet little nugget, I thought (only 2500 words) - "Fear of Flying".
As always, comments are welcome.
Fear Of Flying
CW Lovatt – 05/02/2012 – 19/02/2012
Douglas
Adams once wrote that the main ingredient in flying is to hurl yourself at the
ground and miss.
I had always
thought that was a clever thing to say. In its pure simplicity it alleges that
flying might prove to be a bit difficult. For instance, if, say, a million people
were to hurl themselves at the ground, all in unison, odds are really good that
– not nearly,
not virtually,
but – absolutely
all of them would hit it, and hit it hard enough to make them think twice before
trying again. Pain talks, believe me: it’s only common sense.
That’s my
weakness, by the way - common sense. You see, I haven’t any, but to continue
on…
Of course Mr.
Adams’ theory is also a metaphor, meaning that the greater the risk, the
greater the reward, because let’s face it, flying would be really cool, but the
risks attenuated might be considered egregiously dire, although by some, worth
taking. In fact, flying is the most awesomely cool thing that can be imagined,
and therefore the greatest reward that there is, making winning the lottery
pretty boring by comparison. That, combined with my appalling lack of common
sense, goes a long way toward explaining why I had fallen so madly in love with
Jenny.
Jenny Anderson
has that Girl-Next-Door look, if you know what I mean. There wasn’t anything
about her that wasn’t untypically pretty, and I loved her desperately. She, on
the other hand, was way out of reach, and despised the ground I walked on…or pretended
to anyway…
“We should hang
out.” I said it lightly - light as a feather, actually - like I had just had
this brilliantly amazing idea, only modesty kept me from shouting it from the
rooftops, so light and easy was the only way to go. I made it sound like it was
no big deal if she hung out with me or not. I mean, amazing as that idea was, I
made it sound like it was no biggy, one way or the other. I came across as
though amazing ideas were merely commonplace with me. She could buy into this
one if she so chose, but it didn’t really matter; there would soon be other opportunities.
My next amazing idea was bound to be just around the corner.
I thought that
it sounded good, but she didn’t bite. Maybe because this had been the same amazing
idea I’d been having for weeks, and it didn’t seem likely to improve any time
soon.
“Thanks,” she
said, with a distinct lack of interest, “but no thanks,” and after a pause,
found the energy to explain, “I’m washing my hair.”
“Tomorrow then?”
“It’ll need
washing again.” She gestured casually around the street, her untypically pretty
nose wrinkling with disapproval at the passing, exhaust-ridden traffic, then
over to where a city crew were patching potholes in the pavement - the heavy
aroma of hot asphalt clinging to the sweltering air - and finally to the fast-food
establishment we were walking past just then, ripe with the rancid smell of old
cooking grease. Her very posture displayed utter helplessness in the face of a polluted
world. It protested that it wasn’t her fault that her hair required such an
effort. Pity, but there it was.
I had to admit
that it was an eloquent gesture, but then it was one she could afford to make
with comparative ease, I mean, seeing as how I was carrying her books and all.
When not gesturing eloquently, her arms were free to sway casually at her side,
or fold protectively across her breasts, while my own were wrapped around what
seemed like every textbook that had ever been printed, my biceps trembling from
the strain…although I made every effort to appear casually content, in a
disinterested sort of way.
“What about
later?” I asked, determined not to sound determined.
Her arm barely
paused from encompassing the world before a flick of her wrist indicated the
freight I was carrying. “I have to study.”
“We could study
together.”
“I’m a Psych
major,” she pointed out, more bored than ever, “ and you’re…” She left it at that,
like she couldn’t bother trying to remember what my major was, as if it was
beneath her interest or something.
“English Literature.”
“Right.” It was
the same tone she used when she said, ‘Whatever’.
“So what’s the
big deal? You could study Psych, and I could catch up on my Fielding. We could
just hang out.” I resisted the urge to add, ‘C’mon, it’ll be fun’. I didn’t
want to sound like I was desperate or anything.
“I don’t think
that’s a good idea.”
Although I was
careful to remain outwardly impassive, my heart gave a flip that probably
registered on a Richter scale somewhere out on the west coast. Maybe it was
nothing more than another case of my natural avoidance to all things logical but,
at that moment, it struck me that she might be entertaining suspicions about my
intent. If so, then the idea of the two of us
alone, with the possibility of my making advances, had
appeared at the forefront of her thoughts, and therefore been given life. You
know what they say - wherever there’s life there’s hope.
I couldn’t let
the moment pass.
“We could order
take-out.” Take-out wasn’t a date – not an actual date – but it
was close.
Yet, whatever
inner turmoil I was causing, outwardly Jenny was fielding my assault on her
willpower with casual – if not jaded – ease.
“No.”
That’s when I decided,
and took a very deep breath, before slowly letting it out again. My options had
now dwindled to one. The moment had finally arrived, and I was nervous as hell.
But it all came down to whether I could continue with the status quo, or discover
if there was any chance that it could lead to something more. The problem was
that what little I did have with her would be lost forever if I failed, and
that seemed all too likely. Still, if there was a chance of our going further,
both of us would have to see something in me other than what was currently
being displayed. So, girded with thoughts of how God hates a coward, I took the
plunge and opted for Plan B:
“We could go out.”
I had just
metaphorically hurled myself at the ground, even though I could already see how
it lay: hard as flint, and unforgiving as sin. No two ways about it, this was
gonna hurt like hell.
To be sure,
Jenny sighed, long and loud; then her eyes did this dramatic roll, like this
was something that had been expected all along, but was totally unwelcome.
“Look Kevin, I don’t…”
“To Ottavio’s.”
She stopped in
mid-sentence.
Ottavio’s
wasn’t trendy like what the university crowd was used to, but it was posh and
romantic, with a maitre d’, and the whole nine yards. It was also expensive…which
would be why I’d be working double shifts at Giuseppe’s
for the next six months, on the one-in-a-million chance she said yes.
In fact, she didn’t
say anything. My mentioning Ottavio’s had got her
thinking, like she realized that I was offering her the impossible, like the
Taj Mahal or something. I was surprised by her hesitation, but I wouldn’t say I
was delighted – I didn’t dare.
Then she laughed.
I thought that her laughter was untypically pretty, too.
“You’re pulling
my leg! We couldn’t possibly get a table on such short notice!”
I found myself
speaking around this huge lump in my throat, vaguely aware that it must be my
heart.
“Say yes,” I
told her (completely disinterested, you understand), “and it’s as good as
done.”
Jenny wasn’t
just kidding about how difficult it was getting into Ottavio’s;
she was speaking from experience. Untypically pretty girls attracted
untypically rich guys like ants to honey – the type that liked to impress. That
didn’t always work with Jenny, though…or with Ottavio’s
either, for that matter. In addition to being posh, romantic and expensive, it
was also pretty exclusive, requiring reservations being made weeks – if not
months - in advance. To just walk in off of the street and not be turned away
was so unlikely, it seemed like madness even to try.
It was my boss
who first put me onto the idea.
Giuseppe could
be difficult to work for. Sometimes he could be a real pain in the butt. He was
one of your swarthy, sharp-tempered Italians who ran his pizzeria like a
fiefdom. But he had a heart behind that teakwood exterior…and he had an
Italian’s passion for amore.
Just the other
day he’d cornered me in the kitchen, and said, “Listen-a to me, boy,” in a deep
basso-baritone, the thumbs and middle fingers of both hands forming perfect
‘O’s. He held them to the sides of his face and shook them at me, the way he
always did when he…well, the way he always did. “It’s-a seemple! You like-a
this-a girl? Then you must-a feed her!” He
continued, with his face twisting in ecstasy. “Food! She’s-a the heart of-a
life! But wine! Wine she’s-a the soul!”
and brought the lecture to an end by tapping a sagacious finger against my
chest, “A woman, she knows-a theese!”
By omission he
was admitting that Giuseppe’s wasn’t the right fit for what
was required. If I was serious about Jenny, I would have to set my sites
altogether higher, and in our town, that meant Ottavio’s.
Meanwhile, Jenny
continued without speaking, and I could almost feel the wind in my face as the
earth rushed up to greet me. We’d just reached Twenty-fourth and Park; the
apartment she shared with three other girls was another block over, so I slowed
to a crawl, forcing her to follow suit. I had to admit that it didn’t look good,
but one way or another, I wanted an answer before we reached her front door.
Finally, still
mesmerized by something on the sidewalk, she said, “I really do have to study.”
“Sure thing.” I
tried for light and breezy, but the weight on my chest was pulling me down to
my destiny. No surprise there.
“So, even if by
some sort of miracle you did manage to get a table, I wouldn’t be able to stay
very long.”
At first I
didn’t understand. Inside, I was already curling into a protective ball,
bracing for the inevitable collision with the ground. So when her meaning
finally filtered through, I had to do some radical uncoiling. She was actually
considering saying yes! I might not be flying – the earth was still coming up
pretty fast, but it hadn’t reached me yet. This was an updraft under fledgling
wings: not strong enough to keep me aloft, but sufficient so that the words
‘hurtling downward’ no longer applied. For someone who bore too many bruises
from too many encounters with the downside of life, this was a very big deal.
“No one’s asking
you to.”
Then she did
look at me: her untypically pretty eyes were cold, and the ground lurched
dangerously close. “There’s something else we’d better get straight.”
“Okay.”
“This wouldn’t
be a date, understand?”
It took a
super-human effort, but I forced a smile, and lied. “Nothing was further from
my mind.” This was love after all. Everything was fair.
She continued to
study me, like she was seeing me for the first time, or maybe she was searching
for the lie. If so, I had it buried deep beneath the thermals, and never let on.
Then something
curious happened. Whatever she saw in me must have prompted her to try for a
little honesty herself, maybe for no better reason than to give us both a
chance to back out, considering that an evening together was bound to be a
waste of her time and my money. She cared that much, at least, and I felt the
updraft again, and thought that maybe this time it was a little stronger.
She said, “I don’t
like you, Kevin,” but the ground didn’t come any closer.
“I know, I was
hoping to change that.”
“You’re just
so…so…”
“Underfoot?”
She gave me a
glare…that gradually softened into a sad smile. My heart gave a turn when I
realized just how untypically sweet it was.
“Everyday you’re
around me like some sort of lost puppy, pestering away until I end up letting
you carry my books.” Her mouth twisted into a bitter smile, but I didn’t think
that the bitterness was directed at me, “and I always allow it.”
“Because you find
me useful?”
“Because I find
you useable,
Kevin, there’s a difference.”
“Oh.”
“That doesn’t
reflect very well on me, does it?”
Every instinct I
had urged me to say whatever was necessary to sooth her conscience, but then
the cosmos took yet another quirky turn, and I found myself deviating from the
script at the most crucial moment of my life.
I said, “It
doesn’t reflect well on either of us.”
The smile grew
sadder, and she nodded slowly to herself.
“I don’t have
time for a boyfriend. My course load’s pretty heavy.”
“I’m not your
boyfriend,” I told her. In the span of a millisecond, the idea had become
juvenile. “I’m Kevin.”
Suddenly she
laughed, and I could have swore that there wasn’t anything bitter or angry this
time. I also could have swore that there was something playfully coquettish in the
way she slapped my shoulder, and I was sure that the ground receded a few
inches.
She took a
breath – paused - then reached a decision.
“Okay, hot shot,
you’re on.” She produced a pen and wrote her number on the back of my hand. “If
you can arrange it, give me a call.” In the brief moment that followed, her
smile became quizzical, like maybe she was wondering if I was a magician –
maybe even hoping I was.
That’s when the
ground fell away altogether.
After she
disappeared inside her apartment, I was left with a sense of all parts of
myself flying off in every conceivable direction. Compared to the miracle that
had just happened, getting into Ottavio’s would be
simple - in fact nothing could be easier.
Giuseppe was
always willing to help when it came to matters of the heart.
“Boy, you get-a
that girl to go out with you, just-a say the word to Giuseppe,” he’d shrugged
with his shoulders hunched up around his ears, “an’ she’s a done-a-deal! After
all,” he’d continued, with his eyes a-twinkle, and a wicked grin lurking deep beneath
the heavy brush of his moustache, “Ottavio, he’s a smart-a boy! He knows-a
better than-a to say no to his papa!”
I turned for
home, soaring high above the clouds…and flipped open my cell.
The End
CW Lovatt 19/02/2012
"The Thing About Pantyhose" (also 2500 words) is the only non-fiction story in my entire repertoire, and probably one of the easiest to write, as I was merely recounting events as they happened. Sure, maybe those events happened more than a half century earlier, but the memory's as fresh as if it were only yesterday...probably because my family never let's me forget! Just kidding! No, I think what makes it so memorable - apart from the personal trauma - was that this may have been the time that I first discovered how good it felt to make people laugh. Hope you do, too.
The Thing About
Pantyhose
CW
Lovatt – 03/06/09
I was twelve
years old, that precarious age between child and unchild, when I had my first
experience with that mystery-of-mysteries, one that holds a fascination for
boys of all ages: women’s underwear.
The story I’m about to relate took place in
the early sixties, on the prairies of southwestern Manitoba, where our family
of seven (Mom, Dad, two older brothers, two older sisters, and myself bringing
up the rear) farmed a thousand acres.
Now, a farm
takes plenty of work, or at least it did in those days. With this in mind, I could go on and on about getting up
before dawn to milk the cows, feed same, as well as the pigs and chickens, not
to mention clean out the pens and stalls, generally seeing to the well-being of
the livestock before we had our own breakfast, and then afterwards, out on the
fields, spending long hours tending the crops. So too could I wax nostalgic by
telling you that it would all have to be done over again in the evening, and
then often working the fields well into the night, before going early to bed in
order to have a running start on the next day. After all, it’s well known that
those of our years glory in reciting tales of how rough we had it compared to following
generations; but calm yourself, I have no interest in boring you to tears. This
story has a different path.
It was harvest
time and the mornings were warm, so it must have been late August, or early
September. While the sun evaporated the dew prior to our getting out on the
land, we filled those mornings maintaining our machinery.
At twelve years
of age I would be just learning about that end of things. But young as I was, I
felt poised to take on a man’s share of the work, and so to be accepted into
that hallowed circle. It seems strange now, to be in such a hurry to grow up,
but I was quite determined not to fail in whatever rites might be required of
me for that long awaited passage, and took care never to miss an opportunity to
show my father the stuff I was made of.
So you see how
the stage was set when, on one particular morning, my dad was demonstrating how
to check the fluid levels on our old 1953 Chevrolet ton-and-a-half grain truck.
First, with myself hovering keenly at his elbow, he pulled out the dipstick to
check the oil. Invariably, there would be a frown before telling me to draw off
a quart from the drum in the shed. When this was done with all due haste, he
would twist off the caps of the battery cells to check the water level.
Another frown.
Finally, he
checked the radiator to see how the fluid was holding up there as well. My
father’s disapproval notwithstanding, it wasn’t extraordinary for those levels
to be down. That old Chevy only had a six-cylinder engine, and the lugging was
heavy, plowing over the soft earth with a full load of freshly harvested grain,
going as fast as possible, to and from the granaries. It wouldn’t do for the
combine to be just sitting out in the field with a full hopper when you got
back. To my dad at harvesting, the worst sort of sin was a motionless combine.
Considering all the pitfalls nature could inflict on an uncollected swath, in
almost less time than it takes to mention, even I could understand his point of
view. So during those sweltering days of summer, with clouds of suffocating
chaff constantly being sucked into the grill, that engine lived life on the
edge.
He twisted off
the cap and peered inside. By the familiar set to his face I didn’t need to be
told the core was showing.
Without looking
up, he told me, “Get a pail of water out of the cistern.”
And it was here
that the ignorance of youth took its toll, and another story was added to the
family’s lore, sadly, at my own expense.
I don’t know how
many of you know what a cistern is. I understand that some rural homes still
have them, but largely they are a thing of the past. So for your information, a
cistern is a holding reservoir, usually for water. Ours was a concrete tank in
the basement, and was fed by a pipe that collected rain from the eavestroughs.
Although not sweet like the drinking water we drew from our well, it was free
of minerals, and ideal for use in such things as batteries and radiators.
But all this was
of no consequence to me. All I knew was that my father wanted water from the cistern,
and I was determined to get it for him pronto.
Now, there is
one other point I feel should be mentioned, and which is my sole defense every
time this story arises, meager though it may be. Just inside the back door of
our house was a washstand. This was where the men folk (and aspiring men folk)
would wash, either for meals or after the day was done (any other reasons for
being indoors were seldom accepted). In those days running water was virtually
unheard of in the country. So, in as many homes as you might care to visit in
those parts, you would find an equal number of inventions to remedy that lack.
In our case it was a small hand pump set to the side of the basin, its pipe
descending to that holding tank in the cellar.
I have always
maintained that if my father had said, “Get a pail of water from the pump by
the back door,” I would have obeyed with flawless alacrity, but he didn’t. He
told me to get it (I will say it again) from the cistern.
I knew where the
pump’s water came from, but I was not specifically directed to get it from
there. What the reason was – or if there even was a reason – I didn’t know, yet neither would I ask, being too
embarrassed by my ignorance. Had I
but asked and been told that there was no difference – that there was no strange
transformation when the water issued from the pump’s spout - I would have been
light years ahead; but instead, determined to show my initiative, and (perhaps
paradoxically) to follow my father’s instructions to the letter, I found a
bucket with commendable speed and ran (I always
used to run) to the house and down the basement stairs.
There was a gap
of some sixteen inches between the underside of the ground floor joists and the
top of the tank’s walls, and it was to this that I now addressed myself.
Obviously, the top of the wall was far above my head, so I lost no time
dragging over various items of furniture and constructed a scaffold, the making
of which being easily achieved by an expert at reaching cookie jars and such
since infancy; but when I ascended to the pinnacle of my structure and peered
over the side into the depths below, I saw at once that the water’s surface was
well out of reach. It was obvious that I would need a rope, but there were none
to hand.
Frantically, I
cast my eye about the basement - keeping in mind that necessity was the mother
of invention - and noticed some laundry lying in the corner, among which was a
pair of my sister’s pantyhose. That’s when something tripped in my brain…and
made a fateful connection.
I don’t know if
anyone tells the story nowadays, but many’s the time I used to sit, spellbound,
listening while my older brothers - and probably my father as well - told the
legend of a certain couple, who had been out for a drive when the fan belt on
their vehicle broke. Since this was late at night, in an uninhabited,
out-of-the-way area, any hope of rescue seemed bleak. What this couple was
doing out in such a secluded place at such an unusual hour was not recorded,
but as I listened to the lurid narrative, filling in the blanks with my
imagination, it was mentioned - in grave tones of implied genius - how the lady
had removed one of her nylons so that it might be fashioned into a temporary
substitute for the worn out belt. The story had many variations before and after
this salient point, but it always ended with them reaching safety and with much
wise nodding of our collective heads over the deceptive strength of women’s
under-attire.
So great an
impression did that tale have on me, that I suppose it was inevitable that it
was in the forefront of my mind when I thankfully leapt down from my structure,
seized the pantyhose – which seemed just an advanced version of nylons - tied
one toe to the bucket, and then scrambled up again. I was so confident that my
invention would be more than equal to the task, that glowing visions of my
father’s admiration began to gather in my mind, bringing me one giant step
closer to being accepted into that fabled land of manhood.
It was only a
matter of a moment to toss the pail into the water (with a self-satisfied
smirk), but then – much to my sudden, bone-chilling consternation - when I
tried to haul it back up, it took but a fraction of that time for those
treacherous pantyhose to tear through the middle, and the bucket to plummet back
down to the bottom, carrying all hopes of efficient
alacrity and glowing admiration (not to mention acceptance
into manhood) along with it.
So there I was,
helplessly staring, with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, and a half
pair of pantyhose in my hands, struggling to understand how everything could
have gone so completely and suddenly awry. If this were a fictitious piece, now
would be the time to insert some sort of Divine Inspiration or Firm Resolve to
save the hero. But this is not a work of fiction, and I was beginning to have a
creeping suspicion that there was to be (alas!) no hero. Instead, finding
myself with only my own inadequacies to fall back on, I was forced to the sad
conclusion that there was nothing else for it.
Anticlimactically,
shoulders slumped, feeling more than ever like a little kid, the useless
remnant fell from nerveless fingers as I began the long trek out to face my
father, rather like a dead man walking.
When he saw me
returning empty-handed, he frowned and asked, “Where’s the water?”
Naturally, there
was only one explanation I could give.
“The pantyhose
ripped,” I told him, and I believe, may have vented some indignation that,
insofar as that item might well have been strong enough to use in place of
something so sturdy as a fan belt, it inexplicably - yet obviously - didn’t
possess anything near the resilience required to fetch a simple pail of water.
All of which, I might add, had caused a seed of doubt as to the veracity of
that particular story in the first place.
Upon hearing my
account, my father reeled two steps back, like someone who has just received an
unexpected blow to the forehead.
“What?” he
asked.
So I had to tell
him again.
He must have
been slow on the uptake that morning because he remained deeply puzzled…almost
incredulous. Whereas he was not usually given to strong emotion, that was but
the first he was presently to display.
It was when I
told him a third time, but in rather more detail, that I could see I was
finally getting through.
Yet, instead of
gentle understanding, it seemed to me his stark disbelief became mingled with
some sort of horror. But when I made no effort to clarify what he obviously
hoped was a mistake, his face quickly became a kaleidoscope of conflicting
passion.
I could have sworn
that the corners of his mouth jerked upward in a prelude to laughter…before he
caught himself and jerked them down again into an angry scowl. His eyes may
have sparkled before he could regain control, but although it seemed quite a
struggle, control he eventually achieved, and began to burn wrathful holes
through my body. All the while, apparently unable to reach a conclusion of
their own, his nostrils maintained an indecisive twitch.
Now, as was the
case with many fathers in those days, mine was a firm believer in corporal
punishment, and in order that chaos might be kept at bay, issued it without
hesitation (and at that moment, I could tell he was convinced that, if chaos
was ever upon us, it was now). So when I saw those angry eyes boring into me, I
stood in sad resignation, waiting for the inevitable. I had failed in this most
critical of tests. Let the blow fall; it would be as nothing compared to the
dejection I felt inside.
But I was wrong
about that too.
Oh, I think he
might have mentioned, in so many words, what he thought of my failed
initiative, but that was about all – and was, perhaps, the same conclusion I
had arrived at myself; but to my relief, after we had fashioned a hook onto a
metal rod, and used it to fish the bucket out of that accursed cistern, it was
back to work as normal.
For the rest of
that day, whenever time allowed, and I was not burning with shame, I reflected
on lessons learned; on the aspects of pantyhose and their various uses – how
they could be serviceable for one application, yet not another. I might have
seethed at those idiot designers, who had so foolishly not foreseen the purpose
for which I had intended, but most of all, I wondered at the many imponderables
of feminine undergarments and their curious place in the world. Perhaps too, I
might have been given a premonition as to how confusing life was to become on
the road to enlightenment.
Although the
story got out in the end (keeping secrets was never my strong suit) not a word
was mentioned of the affair during that long grueling day, nor did my father
ever allude to it again. Yet that night, many hours later, as I lay in bed
drifting off into an exhausted sleep, far away down the hall I thought I heard
something coming from my parents’ room. It was a muffled sort of thing, and
only because of the silence could my ears pick it up at all.
It was difficult
to be sure, but it sounded like
stifled gales of laughter.
The End
CW
Lovatt – 03/06/09
