SHORTS

THE DAY MAMA BURIED SHELLEY WINTERS

2009-07-26T11:16:00.000-07:00

Shelley Winters was the only woman my mother was jealous of. Growing up I was aware if the actress was mentioned, mama would go red in the face and start to sputter. It was the only thing sure to set her off.

Home from college one weekend I’d come down stairs to find her muttering to herself, “That damned woman!” It didn’t take me long to realize she was referring to the screen star.

“Mom, you don’t even know this woman, how can you hate her so?”

She waved her lit cigarette in the air, “Don’t start in,” she warned.

I was wise enough to know not to tangle with mom on the subject of Shelley Winters.

In the 1950’s my folks lived in Long Beach, California, daddy was a commercial fisherman. Tuna fishing off Mexico, the two Oregonians had settled in southern California for convenience. Mama was happy in Oregon, but daddy was always looking for adventure. One night while stranded in port off northern California, he walked into a bar for some companionship and shot of Irish whiskey.

“Son-of-a bitchin’ weather, a guy can’t even make a living,” he groused to no one in particular. Two Portuguese fishermen heard his lament, said they were heading south to fish for tuna. Daddy listened, then over the next few months he did the same. It wasn’t necessarily easier fishing, but warmer, so he stayed.

It was then that he met Shelley, or at least as he told it.

“I’d finished at the dock and was heading home. Out on the highway, hood up, was this slick looking automobile, a convertible parked on the side of the road. I didn’t see anybody so continued on my way. A quick look in my review mirror I seen someone’s head pop up in the front seat. Thinking they might need a hand, I hung a U.

When I pulled up behind the car and a beautiful blonde looked back at me, I figured I’d made the right decision. I still didn’t know who it was. I got outta the old truck, took a quick look at myself in the mirror, shifted the cap on my head and sauntered towards the convertible. About that time, the car door opened and the two most beautiful legs a guy ever had the pleasure to set eyes on swung into view. Tiny feet crunched on the gravel, perfectly painted toe nail flashed from sandals.

“My lucky day, “the blonde said, white teeth framed by crimson lips.
“Can I help?’ I offered in my most gentleman manner.

That’s when I recognized her. We were about three feet apart, and she was toddling towards me, being careful of the gravel and all. I guess she realized she was no longer, ‘just a blonde in distress, but Shelley Winters, film star. She sort of halted and this look came over her face. Then she stuck out her pretty little hand, “Hi, I’m Shelley.”

It took me a minute to respond. Not thinking, I thrust my hand forward ready to shake only to jerk it back.

You don’t want to shake this dirty old hand, “I told her. “I just got off work.”

Her hand fluttered in the air like an excited bird, then landed at her side.
“Glad to meet you anyway, “she said.

“So what’s the trouble?” I asked, shifting my eyes so as not to stare.

“Damned if I know.”

Her familiar voice sounded like it was coming off a movie screen.

“The hum changed. You know the sound a motor makes?” "Suddenly it sort of wheezed like an old dog. It shouldn’t do that, it’s near new. Come have a look.”

She bent and looked under the hood, me at her side.

I tinkered a bit, checked the plugs, one was a bit loose. I tightened it, nothing out of the ordinary.

“Go ahead and fire it up, “I suggested.

She slid behind the wheel and started it fast like a woman would, then let out a shriek of joy.

“Oh thanks!” She yelled over the growl of the gunned motor.

I closed the hood and walked to the driver side.

“No problem, just take it easy. You might want your mechanic to check it out if it happens again.” I wiped my hands on my pants.

“Hey wait a minute; I don’t know your name?” That famous smile beamed up at me.

“Lee, just Lee,” I told her.

“Listen Lee, give me your address, and I’ll send you an autographed picture.” She opened her handbag and poked around. “I’ve got a pen here somewhere.”

I tried to tell her it wasn’t necessary, but waited long enough for her to locate one. I guess I was too star struck to ask for an autograph, didn’t seem right as we met the way we did, her needing help and all. But she took my name and address, and then left me standing in a cloud of dust and whiff of her scent.

Of course no one believed dad’s story. He went on telling it and taking the flack. He assured everyone when his photo of Shelley arrived they’d see!

About a month after the incident dad quit asking about the mail. Mom never let it drop. “Sorry Lee, no letter from Shelley today.” She’d chuckle and wave household bills in the air.

Dad had been at sea for about two weeks. He remembered the reunion with mom on his return.

“There she was standing dockside like she always was when I came home. I waved as I pulled up to the dock. I didn’t see her wave back, but then the sun was glinting off the wheel house. She kissed me and asked about the catch, nothing seemed different. When we got back at the house I headed to the bedroom and a shower. Then I saw it…

Shelley’s photo was propped up on the dresser.

“It came!” He said he felt like a kid whose decoder ring had just arrived in the mail.

It must have been a publicity shot, it was pretty racy.

“J-E-S-U-S!” He held the photo. It was about that time he noticed mother’s reflection in the mirror. She stood in the doorway, a set look to her mouth.

“The letters on the dresser,” she said in a tight little voice.

Being a man, he didn’t think twice about mom’s mood.

Dear Lee, Sorry for the delay, I’ve been busy working on a picture. No automobile trouble since the day you rescued me. Thanks, Shelley

On the picture she had written, ‘To Lee, My Life Saver. Love, Shelley’. it looked like movie star's handwriting, all waves and curls.

It took dad a couple of days to figure out mom was none too pleased with the Shelley business. From then on it was full out war. It never ended. Christmas dinner, everyone happy, enjoying the day and one of my uncles would sit back, grin and ask, “I wonder what a movie star does for Christmas?” Dad would try not to get pulled in, but someone else would carry on and eventually someone would say her name. Mom would go into a tailspin. She never had a sense of humor about it, and that was unusual for her.

Over the years, she often threatened to destroy the photo. At times it would disappear for days, then reappear propped up somewhere around the house.

When one of Miss Winter’s films was released daddy might see it in the paper.

“I’ve got to see this one.”

Daddy never went to the movies but mom didn’t stop to think about that. She’d puff up like an old hen. Daddy would wink at us kids and go right on reading the paper.

I think the maddest she ever got on the issue was when daddy was hit on the head and rushed to the hospital. Helping to unload a boat, a box shifted and the corner of the wooden crate struck him on the side of his head. By the time mom got to the hospital dad was coming around.

Frantic she rushed to his side. “Lee, I’m here, are you okay?”

“Shelley?” my father asked, his eyes still closed. Even his impish grin and the fact that he was okay didn’t convince mom he was just having some fun. Humiliated and angry she left the hospital and our uncle had to bring dad home. Aware it was a bad joke daddy swore he didn’t remember any of it.

After dad died, we moved mom into a condo nearer to where I lived. I use to go over and spend Wednesday nights with her. It was an important time for us both. One night we stayed up late talking and laughing about the early years. Mom was making tea and I switched on the television. I flipped channels and got the Johnny Carson show. It took me a minute to figure out who the guest was. Next to Johnny was an older, plumpish Shelley Winters! I didn’t know what to do. Mom stood in the doorway, the tea tray in her hands. She stared at the screen, and then our eyes met.

“Well I’m glad to see she’s showing some age,” my elderly mother said as she set the tray on the coffee table.

I burst out laughing.

“Oh mom, don’t tell me she still bothers you?” Do you still have that picture she sent dad?” I hadn’t thought of the photo in years.

“Nope,” my mother said. She sat next to me.

“The day we buried your father, I buried Shelley Winters.”

“Are we speaking symbolic?” I was confused.

“Nope,” she repeated, color coming into her cheeks. She poured the tea and continued.

“The night before the funeral I went to see your dad on my own. For some reason I took that goofy picture with me. I stood next to him and had my say. I told him it was a dirty trick to leave me all alone. I didn't know how I could go on without him, he being the love of my life. I stood for a bit not knowing what else to say. Then I remembered the photo, so I folded Shelley and stuck her in his pocket. I just figured we’d both be happier that way.”

IN THE ZONE

2009-06-04T11:14:00.000-07:00

(Zone: the place of operations/residence in the oilfield)

In the basement of a Kuwait villa, a tall, drunk man in worn cowboy boots shouts, “PUSSY,” and plunges his fifty-year old face into the crotch of a frosting lady atop a large cake. Party guests whoop, holler, and chant, “Puss-EEE! Puss-EEE,” then break into a disjointed version of Happy Birthday. George Strait’s, ‘What’s Going on in Your World’ competes from a CD player.

The Gulf War is over and the oil fires out; dependants arrive daily to join loved ones who helped extinguish the fires. Now everyone is working to get Kuwait back on its feet.

In the days after liberation great quantities of booze arrived in Kuwait. Some was smuggled inside tanker trucks. The end of the tank would be cut off and then welded back on after being filled with cases of alcohol. Containers marked ‘oil field equipment’ easily passed security points. A blue 20’ container known as, “The Liquor Store” was one such shipment that arrived at our company’s yard. For days, it was Mardi Gras and the Fourth of July. If you weren’t drinking, you were hoarding. In my pantry behind jars of marmalade and Classico pasta sauce stood bottles of Black Label, Stoli and Special Reserve Cuban Rum. Thanks to the “Liquor Store,” good times would roll.

Alongside my husband, I belt back a shot of Sauza Gold Tequila, more as self-preservation than an acquired taste. I’d promised a dance to the birthday boy who now stands front-and-center, a glowing Tiparillo clenched between his frosting coated lips. I raise my empty shot glass in a welcoming gesture, and quickly set it on a table next to where I stand. He leans down and with his arm sweeps me to him; his cigar dangerously nears my hair. As he moves us out across the terrazzo floor he gives a sigh and slumps against me. He smells of sweat, smoke and bourbon.

Nearby, his wife, a menopausal bottle-blonde with a cackle of a laugh has pulled an Indian waiter onto the dance floor. She jerks him close towering over him, her arms draped over his shoulders, He fidgets nervously. Her fuchsia-painted nails flash in the reflection of the disco ball they dance beneath. She soon releases the embarrassed man and twirls across the room hip-bumping any male in her wake.

Cigar ashes fall at my feet. I duck under my partner's chin, push him from me and back away. He stands a moment, tilts left and then right. I lunge forward to steady him. He reels back, catches himself and remains upright. Smoke circles his haggard face. With thumb and forefinger, he extracts the Tiparillo, blinks several times, and then turns and staggers back to the bar where the serious drinkers congregate and bullshit reigns.

The Oklahoma state flag decorates one wall of the large party room. An American couple is being trounced by an English twosome at the dartboard. Small groups of people stand around discussing life in Kuwait and what is “better back home.” I pull my Mah Jong set from where I stashed it earlier and move to a table in the corner. Three women who make up our weekly game join me and tiles click into play.

In the early morning hours, the smoke is stale and the revelers snarly. We say our goodbyes and escape. Our clothes and hair reek of cigarette smoke. We laugh how nothing ever changes in the oilfield - just location. Hung over or not, the night’s honored guest would be at our door at a moment’s notice should we need him. His gold-bedecked wife would fight tooth and false-nail on my behalf. We have little in common, other than being employed by the same company, but ‘in the zone’; everyone is family, for better or for worse.

4 Villa Malakoff

2009-05-28T08:17:00.001-07:00

Sex in a city, it surrounds me in Paris. Since my arrival two months ago I’ve taken up watching those who are being watched, a full time job. Street side at Brasserie Trocadero I sit with my café crème and tear at a pain aux raisin pastry, my new addiction. I am reminded of a painting in the Louvre, a Rubenesque woman on her belly, butt up and exposed. She must have suffered the same addiction, I recognized the dimpled butt.

My yellow sweater hangs over the arm of my chair. Earlier I wore myself into a frazzle draping it over my shoulders, across my back trying to look Parisian. It didn’t, I’m not! I suspect there is a class, ‘Sweater Draping 101,’ taught at an early age, soon after the girls go on to, ‘Scarves – A friend for Life.’ I gave up scarves soon after I left elementary school where I was forced to wear a ‘bandana’ tied tightly under my chin in cold weather. I’ve yet to see a woman in Paris with a scarf tied under her chin, not even a Hermes scarf like the Royal Family in London.

Close by, a young couple in their late teens, early twenties sits. They have been cooing at each other, since they arrived. He wears lightweight jeans, loafers with no socks, a T-shirt with an early picture of Madonna. His hair is short but full and thick. Parted on the side, it dips seductively over his brow.

She has on a skirt, or what I assume is a skirt… when she sits it is only a ribbon of color atop two shapely legs with fashionable flats on dainty feet. Her chartreuse sweater looks cashmere, it is cut high exposing a tan little waist. Her Audrey Hepburn neck supports a heart shaped face with pixie features. Rosy lips part exposing blindingly white teeth. Her hair is curly, coal black.

She faces her partner, their chairs pulled to the side of their table allowing them total access to one another. Her lanky legs are pressed together flanked by his masculine open legs. He constantly runs his hands over her pointed knees across smooth skin. I slop coffee down my front as his hand darts beyond knee. She giggles, relaxes her legs. I wipe myself off and look away. Uncomfortable but curious I turn back. His head is near hers, he whispers. Quickly, she moves her head, tiny pink tongue darts out, licks the rim of his ear. He laughs, sits up and adjusts his jeans. I see he has an erection. He doesn’t try to hide it; he rubs his hand along it and rolls his eyes at her.

The girl shifts in her chair, stiff nipples poke at the soft sweater. She leans back and pushes curls away from her face. Large dark eyes never stray from his stare. The boy runs his tongue over his lips, again touches himself and laughs a deep guttural laugh. She gets up, leans down and kisses his nose, then disappears into the restaurant. He sips water from a glass held in long fingers. His nails are well kept. Did I ever know a boy with such self assurance?

She returns and stands next to his chair. He runs his right hand up and under the cashmere, she leans slightly forward and down. I visualize her small breast nestled in his damp palm. He encircles her hip with his free arm, his hand drops, squeezing her buttocks. A lone male at a nearby table also watching, smiles in my direction and nods. I blush and cross my legs. The girl speaks softly to her partner, and then scoots back into her chair. He slouches, his legs out front, his manliness between them. The waiter passes, the boy calls for their check.

I am glad they are leaving, I feel over heated and unsettled.

As they walk away entwined a Paris fantasy fills my head. I quickly drop francs onto my table and briskly walk towards 4 Villa Malakoff and a husband who waits.

ONE FINE DAY

2009-05-02T09:15:00.000-07:00

“Let’s do lunch,” she said.

“Sure,” I replied.

‘She’ was Nancy Kimball… cheerleader, prom queen and royal pain in the ass from my past. Our mothers had been sorority sisters. Nancy followed in their footsteps. I went on to ‘knocked-up’ University.

“Sarah Locke,” she'd gushed as I stood in the grocery check-out line, a pint of Cherry Garcia and a box of panty liners clutched to my chest. She had aged well, too well. Perhaps a bit fuller at the hip, but who noticed with tits that still stood at attention. As long as it took me to plunk my two items onto the conveyor belt, she had filled me in on her life.

“Sublime, simply sublime,” she chirped, tossing her golden hair out of perfectly made up eyes. Her first brief marriage annulled, she was now married to Chip, an older man of substance and father of their twelve-year-old twins, Mack and Zack.

“How many kids did you and John end up with?”

“Josh,” I corrected. “Three boys, all grown, Josh and I and split up three years ago.”

She clucked like a mother hen, touched my arm and offered up hopes that I wouldn’t be alone much longer. Perhaps she could think of someone to set me up with?

“Not necessary, I like being alone.” Anyway, I figured we’d said all there was to say. I waved her out of the parking lot in her Mercedes SUV, and she headed back to her little slice of heaven.

When she called a week later I was confused by the voice.

“Who?”

“Me silly, Nancy Kimball!”

“Oh shit,” I said. Then apologized.

There was no getting out of it; she wanted to meet for lunch.

“You choose,” I insisted, then was sorry when she did. Palm Garden, an up-scale eatery I’d had only read about in the local press.

I arrived early and parked my dirty Honda at the far end of the lot. As I approached the front of the restaurant, there she was hopping out of her immaculate SUV like a young colt. She spied me as she took the claim check from the valet.

“Hi,” she said and pulled me in for a hug.

By the time we were seated it was clear everyone knew Nancy. She had been squeezed, kissed, probed and patted, while I stood alongside, mute. She ordered white wine, I ordered a Cosmopolitan. What the hell, lunch was her treat. Waiting on drinks I noticed her eyes stray to the right of our table. At a glance, I saw a good looking man, alone, at a table next to the window.

“Do you know him?”

“He keeps staring at me, he’s yummy.” She fluffed her hair, smiled and turned back to me.

“I don’t remember you being a redhead, did you do that yourself?”

Before I could declare my magenta-hued hair a conscious choice, our drinks arrived.

“To girlfriends,” Nancy toasted.

I winced.

Her attention flitted back and forth from me to the stranger across the room.

“He’s probably gay,” I said, and slurped my drink.

“I don’t think so, not the way he’s ogling me.”

Into her second glass of Pinot Gris and a blow-by-blow description of her active sex life we both looked up to the handsome stranger as he approached our table. Nancy’s toothy smile widened, if that was even possible. Her hand played with the top button of her silk shirt. She bent at the waist and leaned slightly forward as to greet him. However, at that moment he turned to me.

“Could I speak to you in private?”

He smelled of musk, woodsy and warm. I felt his breath on my face.

“I guess so,” I replied, perplexed.

“I’ll just run to the ladies,” Nancy offered. She jumped up, her crisp white napkin falling onto the green paisley carpet as she turned and disappeared.

The man’s dark eyes shifted. He reached into the pocket of his linen sports jacket and pulled out a business card.

“Please don’t think me forward.” A tan manicured hand pressed the card into mine.

“You should call,” he whispered. Then he was gone.

I pulled my glasses from my handbag; maybe ‘alone’ wasn’t exactly as good as I professed. Adjusting my bifocals I read, DR. SAMUEL BEAKIN – PLASTIC SURGEON. Under his name in script, ‘Be the Best You Can Be’.

Flustered, I felt heat rise to my face. I’d barely caught my breath when Nancy rushed out of hiding.

“What did he want? Did he ask my name?”

I slipped the card into my skirt pocket.

“Another drink please,” I fanned my face with the menu.

“What? Tell me!” Nancy begged.

Impatient she could barely contain her excitement. Flustered I tried to think straight; to come up with some logical reason the man had singled me out.

The waiter set a second crimson cocktail in front of me, swiped my empty glass off the table and left us alone. I took a quick sip and leaned in. Cubes clinked in Nancy’s water glass as she moved it out of the way, our heads met mid table.

“He wants me to meet him later.”

“YOU! Why?” she asked.

“Sex,” I said.

“Sex?” she stammered.

“Sex,” I sighed, then shrugged my shoulders in a “gee, I don’t know why either,” sort of way.

Air escaped her chest, a noise not unlike a punctured inner tube. Her painted nails swept across her brow, as though she felt faint. She glanced at the man’s empty chair, then back to me.

“My god,” she said, her tone, as though she had witnessed a miracle.

I shifted back into my seat, stalled, and then in a triumphant gesture raised my glass. A smug grin on my face and in my sweetest voice, “To girlfriends and one fine day!”