Writer’s Note: The late Leonard Cohen added many, many unheralded verses to his cherished “Hallelujah” on his way to completing the classic piece, though only a few are usually heard. “Many, many” is likely wishful thinking in this case, but it is my intention to add verses to this open-ended poem over time, because . . . why not?
So we raise our glasses high, where love is in the air, and we fill them, the way we always dreamed we would, as a chorus of high-spirited voices endorse the moment – ” Hear! Hear!”
♦
Lassie Lynn and Aladdin Finn met years ago in the park at the end of the road, near the old sawmill where their dads hacked logs on third shift. ♥ Each of them fast taken with the other. As sunset drew nigh, he held her hand in his; she gently tousled his hair. Lassie Lynn and Aladdin Finn.
∞
The widow Stone and Patrick Strong danced a waltz at an Elks lodge in Fort Wayne, Indiana, on a Saturday night last November, nose to nose, eyes shut, awed. ♥ Love grew fast in their hearts; breathing as one, proclaiming their bond, perceiving their closeness, with lifted souls and high hopes. The widow Stone and Patrick Strong.
∞
Nicole Gentry and Maggie Malone, longtime lovers, lifetime friends, condo-cohabitated in Wells, “Maine’s Friendliest Town.” They hiked and biked, laughed and cried, fished, swam, talked. ♥ Kissed at dawn, and at dusk, and in between; cool, calm, spirited, both secure, feeling free, living the dream, their destiny. Nicole Gentry and Maggie Malone.
When the Wrath raged at night, with hot fire straight from Hell, I disengaged from the fight, too weary to break its spell. My endless, painful, plight wore on without farewell. That spiteful source of fright drummed dirges as I fell.
Vicious, vile, it stabbed my soul with a searing, piercing spear. It cut me down to half my whole, it broke my will, it fed my fear. I struggled to disrupt its goal, to interfere, to persevere. But I failed to seize control, to make the terror disappear.
“Focus, Wayne, the Wrath’s surreal. Your distress keeps it alive. You’re the one who spins the wheel. It needs you to survive. You won’t get well, you can’t heal, peace will never arrive, if you don’t end this long ordeal. Resist. Reflect. Revive.”
Whose voice was that? Can it be? The words rang strong and true. “Breathe. Be calm. You hold the key. I did my best to strengthen you.” She read my soul, she set me free, cleared my mind, framed my view. Her spirit opens this path for me, lights my way, guides me through.
Though fury fans the blaze, and trauma strains my core, though chaos cuts both ways through its unrelenting roar, I’ll conquer this murky maze, and begin to settle the score. Then I’ll stare down the days, till the flames burn no more.
When the Wrath rages tonight with hot fire straight from Hell, I’ll be ready for the fight, and quickly crush its spell. My dire, perpetual plight will wane in fast farewell. That intrusive parasite will toll its own death knell.
#
Introspection:
Each night, every night, all night . . . long, mean, cruel . . . it surrounds him . . . then daybreak comes, the shadows fade, some faster than others, but all, and soon, at last . . . daylight hours bring sleep, relief, time to plan, prepare, persevere, before the next round descends as the sun dutifully drops, and the treacherous trek begins anew, as the weary, wary wayfarer resists throwing his hand, mindful that another dawn will come, just in time, to save him, as the circle cycles unbroken, but for now, as darkness knocks, the violent, visual loop plays fast and hard and the gut-wrenching sound echoes off bare, bedroom walls, and he sets his jaw, closes his eyes, and defiantly turns up the volume in his headphones, and hums along to “Let It Be.”
–
The Aftermath – “Morning Mind, Mourning Mind” – (Clean it up, or let it be.)
It was almost 9:00 PM by the time Hannah Gray and Gary Glidden checked into the Commerce Hotel, in downtown San Antonio, on Thanksgiving Eve. Holiday traffic from Austin had been heavy, and their late arrival had already delayed the secretive session of privately-owned Harrison Foods’ nine-member Board of Directors.
The five men and two women had been sworn to secrecy regarding the time and location of the gathering and, for that matter, the fact that there was an ad hoc meeting at all. The remaining directors, brothers George and Jason Crane, had not been notified, and for a very good reason. Word was that their conduct had been deemed by The One to be detrimental to the company’s reputation. Their futures would be decided that night as they unwittingly gathered with their families back in Austin.
It would be fitting to say, in light of the fact that Harrison was rooted in the commercial baking sector, that the sugar was about to hit the fan, and no sweet deals would be forthcoming. The One was reportedly irate and unforgiving, and had issued a very harsh motion for the seven directors to approve. All seven were based in Greater Austin, the corporate home of Harrison Foods; thus, the San Antonio locale, some 80 miles to the northeast, had piqued curiosity.
Gray and Glidden dropped by their room to don their mandatory Director Suits, then joined their associates in Executive Suite 507, where Chairman John Horne’s escape bag rested conspicuously by the door. Horne cohabitated in a downtown Austin penthouse loft with The One — a powerful, enigmatic, magnate who always commanded the last word in company business.
In addition to Horne, Gray and Glidden, directors present were Elizabeth Murphy Durrow, Walt Schroeder, Barlow Giles, and Craig Traylor. All were properly attired in the traditional Harrison Director’s Suit, which was actually a yellow, cotton blend sweat-suit, adorned front and back with a baker’s dozen images, in various sizes, of the company logo – the brand’s iconic dark chocolate chip cookie. Scattered haphazardly across the yellow material, they looked like weathered sunflowers tumbling askew. The offbeat garments were informal, gender-neutral, and comfortable, and reflected the casual quirkiness of Harrison’s guru, who embraced eccentricity.
The One’s personal attorney was also present in the room, to everyone’s dismay. Even though he did not represent the firm, he had become an opinionated and unwelcome presence at company events for years, and was known to be a pain in the collective assent of the corporate attorneys.
The other directors had been firmly instructed by Horne not to communicate with the Crane brothers about the meeting. Their absence confirmed the weight, though not the substance, of the innuendo and rumors. This was something big, and they relished the power they were surely about to employ.
John Horne called the meeting to order at 9:32 PM. The attorney immediately handed him a sealed and taped 9×12 Kraft envelope. Horne dramatically held it up, displaying it to the others as if it was a message from On High. After momentary frustration as he fussed with the tape, he tore it open with an air of grandiosity, and quickly skimmed through the single sheet of paper it contained. He breathed deeply, his nostrils flaring. Then he spun himself around, grinning maniacally. His eyes caught fire. He rolled them left and right, taking in the faces of his colleagues, then howled with a sick blend of contempt and elation.
He gleefully told them they were all fired, canned, sacked, given the heave-ho, effective immediately, and that the new Board would operate with just three members, with George and Jason Crane having been absolved of their sins and retained in good standing. Gasps, then silence. He autonomously declared a 7-0 approval vote, then abruptly adjourned the meeting. He callously wished them each a pleasant holiday, and herded them out the door, like cats astray. His only regret was that he didn’t have a six-pack of symbolic, rubber axes to hand out as mementos of this special occasion. Parting gifts are always appropriately delicious. The boss taught him that.
The One’s attorney appeared to be stunned at Horne’s unexpected arrogance and incivility. He picked up the sheet of paper, perused it, put it back into the envelope, and tossed it at Horne in disbelief. The Chairman had always resented this smug turd who acted like he owned the business and was always dismissive of Horne’s interactions with The One. He proceeded to usher the shit-bag out the door, with a parting shot – the third cousin of the aforementioned parting gift. “Should have fired you too, asshole!”
The unfazed attorney looked back and offered a knowing laugh, before returning to his own deluxe suite, where a bottle of champagne was chilling and a female guest was likely warming up the sheets. He wasn’t about to let a buzzard in a cookie-covered sweat-suit ruin his Thanksgiving getaway. Still, he was puzzled over the Chairman’s bizarre response to The One’s directive.
Meanwhile, the severed six shed their silly suits and gathered in the hotel bar, where they drank themselves into a group stupor. Gray and Glidden slept it off in their room. The remaining fired four, suddenly in the role of irrelevant pawns, faded into the silent shadows of the Texas night.
John Horne was not, by nature, a people person. Buttressed by the events in Suite 507, however, he had further morphed into a cold-blooded cutthroat. He theatrically placed the envelope into his new leather attaché case, locking it for safekeeping, After donning jeans and a company hoodie, he swaggered out of the hotel. In the parking lot, he gently laid the briefcase on the rear seat of his prized ’65 Thunderbird, then headed back home to Austin, to inform The One that the deed was done. Surely, he would receive “Attaboy” accolades and the usual “special favors.” Images of pink SnoBalls and Kentucky Bourbon filled his head, and he pressed down harder on the gas.
When he got to the penthouse, the door was locked. He tried his key, but it didn’t turn. A recluse extraordinaire, The One rarely left the nest, so something was off. He knocked. Nothing, He shouted. Nothing. He called in on his phone. It went straight to voicemail. He texted. Nada. It was well past midnight. Worried, he placed calls to the resilient Cranes to fill them in and feel them out, suspecting corporate foul play. Both answered, despite the hour. Both hung up on him. Not a good omen. As a three-member Board, they could overrule him on a whim, out of pure spite, despite his steering capacity as Chairman.
Reluctant to make waves that might anger The One, the despicable douchebag checked into a budget motel to get some much-needed sleep. He was certain that Thanksgiving morning would bring simple answers and a reunion with his housemate. It didn’t. He left more voice messages, to no avail. Distraught, he had one too many at the only open downtown bar he could find, then foolishly tried to drive back to the residence. Suddenly, WHAM! His T-bird was T-boned by an unforgiving 4×4 as he ran a red light. Just before impact, the briefcase still rested in peace where he had placed it the previous evening. After impact, well, it didn’t matter, because, in the blink of an eye, he had become just another irrelevant pawn, a jaundiced John, a silenced Horne.
Days later, The One eulogized him at a near-empty chapel. Unsurprisingly, none of the six directors he had ridiculed and sent packing back in San Antonio were present at the brief service. Gerald Murphy sat alone in the back row, expressionless. Later, The One brought him home. Home to the penthouse loft, the one she previously shared with her late husband.
Seventeen years earlier, John Horne had gotten down on a knee in Paris, popped the question with a stunning, three carat diamond ring, and told her he knew that she would always be “the one.”
Karma. Kismet. A Kodak moment in a selfie world.
A blind date with a 4×4 had deprived John Horne of a second reading of the letter, from which he would have learned that, in addition to the Crane Brothers (who had been active participants in the upheaval), the revamped Board would include a new Chairman – the aforementioned Gerald Murphy, The One’s personal attorney.
At 9:34 PM, after he had wasted more than a minute berating the buxom Ms. Durrow for making her sunflower cookies “prance around in a provocative manner,” on Thanksgiving Eve, in Suite 507 at the Commerce Hotel in San Antonio, Chairman Horne had scanned the page too quickly, jumping the gun with his assumption that he was to be the third member and retain his role as Chairman of the downsized Board. In his exuberance over the sacking of his fellow directors, he had started waving the page around and doing a happy dance without reading the last couple of lines. ALL directors present were to be declared terminated, without cause, immediately upon the directive being read aloud to the attendees in the presence of The One’s personal attorney. On her authority, as sole owner of Harrison Foods, ALL, including the one who was about to receive divorce papers, had been kneecapped.
Gerald Murphy had indeed been baffled at Horne’s apparent celebration of his own dismissal. Even more so than the woman waiting for him with the champagne and warm sheets. Before their night of drinking and playing and giving thanks began, he initially feigned a serious tone, somberly and dutifully reporting the results of the meeting to her, including Horne’s obviously incomplete reading of the page, as well as his unhinged celebration. Then he grinned. “Olivia, get this. After they all left, the numb-nuts said, ‘I sure as hell Horne-swoggled them sunflower stooges to hell and back. Did you see their faces? Did you see ’em squirmin? Oh, man, revenge is sweet sayeth the Chairman. Now, time for you to hit the road, Skippy.’ He called me Skippy! What a friggin’ hoot.”
From a dim corner of the room, clad only in a blue-velour Commerce Hotel bathrobe, The One slithered sensuously toward him, making a cackling sound, a blend of witch and hen, while letting out a howl of her own. “Show me, hon. I wanna see.” Then an impatient, “No, not that, that’s for later. The video.” The beaming Mr. Murphy, at her request, had stealthily, clandestinely, videotaped the meeting and the aftermath, just the way he had most of those company events (and affairs!) that he had routinely dropped in on. Poor John Horne. She had seen and heard everything, all of it, over the years, and kept the tapes as evidence in the upcoming divorce proceedings.
“See there, I specifically told him that when you handed him the envelope, he was supposed to actually read the order to them, not read it to himself and ad-lib an announcement. He never listens. Did he keep it as a souvenir?” “Probably, not sure.” “So he could be re-reading it as we speak? And realizing he’s out the door too?” “Yep.” They both imagined him looking at it again to recapture, and savor, the thrill of victory, only to be hit between the eyes with the real story. It was a moment of shared ecstasy, and they hadn’t even begun to make love yet. She turned off her phone and salivated over the panic the old boy would feel when he got home and she wasn’t there. This would be her best Thanksgiving ever. “Serves him right for perving on Beth’s big tits just before the bomb was dropped.”
“Olivia, do you want to see that other thing now? It’s Murphy’s law, ya know.”
“What a braindead meathead I married! What a sap. Took his money right out from under him and he never had a clue. “
(Guess not, Mr. Murphy.)
“I give the chump a few bucks here and there, let him cop a feel now and then, and the schmuck toes the line. Easy-peasy. Johnny Boy keeps thanking me for letting him use that clanky, old Ford the Governor signed over to me for giving him my, um, full-throated endorsement three years ago. ‘Gee, the Governor is such an honorable and generous man!’ he says. ‘Maybe you can do it again next time around.’ he says. ‘Yes, yes, I’m sure I will, dear. Now fetch me my red heels, I’m going out for the evening.’ I swear, the clueless dipshit walks around in such a daze that I wouldn’t be surprised if someday he steps off a curb in front of a bus.”
(Well, Mrs. Horne, Johnny Boy wasn’t walking, and it wasn’t a bus, but sixteen hours later . . .)
_____________________________________________
Weeks passed. On New Year’s Eve, at midnight, Hannah Gray and Gary Glidden, proud new owners of a party supply store at an Austin mall, tooted horns, lit sparklers, and danced spitefully on John Horne’s grave.
They wore their chocolate chip cookie sweat-suits, and they left dead sunflowers on his newly-placed headstone.
That done, they felt whole again. They no longer had an axe to grind, not even a rubber one.
Writer’s Note: This poem was written as an entry in an international publication’s 2023 annual poetry competition. All entries had to respond to a unique, one-word, all caps, exclamatory prompt : “LOUD!”
(Hmm, where should I go with this?)
⇓
Fiona Fay, our flaky, finicky, family feline, goes gaga in the presence of a cute canine, preening herself till she’s groomed real fine.
Her snivels and whines, common, well-known, are low in volume, and nonthreatening in tone. They arrive with a grunt, and leave with a groan.
But now and then, she’ll just holler and hiss, squalling and bawling, like something’s amiss.| We nuzzle her neck, and her blues turn to bliss.
That tri-colored, calico, mouser of ours, paws for hours, sleeps when it showers, plays on the lawn, pees on the flowers.
The amber-eyed creature is near and dear to the five human beings who are living here. Queen Cat makes the rules, and we adhere.
She listens to birds from the window sills, then merrily mimics their chirps and trills, their vibrant chants, and their piercing shrills.
As she chimed high notes in a morning salute, she was hounded in our yard by a surly ol’ brute, who nipped at her tail while in dogged pursuit.
Believe me when I say, in the here and now, that the wail we heard, someway, somehow, rang out like a squeal from a mating sow.
Riled by the mongrel’s growl and grumble, our caterwauling gal was raring to rumble, and make that critter stumble and tumble.
Fiona Fay circled like a lioness proud, thundering strong like an angry cloud, at the mutt that bit her butt, then bowed, all ‘cuz the Queen had meowed too LOUD!
Three men walked into a Barlow’s hardware store, bought survival knives, a compass, and a first aid kit, then drove north toward the White Mountains of New Hampshire on a raw, misty October morning. Their plan for the day was to breathe a lot of clean, country air, explore nature amid colorful, leaf-shedding trees, and keep those aging legs moving. Perhaps an idyllic back road would lure them into the obscure beyond, where bears and wolves might pick up their scent and challenge their manhood. “Bring ‘em on!” Brave men, indeed!
Each had his own small apartment in a sprawling retirement complex southeast of Boston. They had become close friends over a period of three years, often referring to themselves as Tom, Dick and Harry – inseparable, spirited geriatrics who walked their talk. They took kidding and kudos in stride, savoring attention in all of its flavors.
Curtis “Sonny” Logan, 71, was a retired Realtor with a “Cher” tattoo, long hair and an intimidating beard. Quipster extraordinaire.
Doug Wilkes, 72, was Kojak bald and John Wick bold. He was a career Marine with gout and a gut.
Both men were widowers and grandfathers, tall, and profusely opinionated.
Toby Jensen, 67, was the runt of the litter at only 5’6″, but lean and fit. Boyish smile. Belonged to something called Mensa, which impressed no one except Mona Lott, who liked anything that included “Men.” Spent years as a fraud investigator, and bragged that he could “smell a scam in the blink of an eye.” Favored dark chocolate, light poetry, hard puzzles and soft ice cream. Never married, but had a thing for women with big, beautiful, breathtaking… blue eyes, even more so when the bearer flashed and flaunted them, freely and frequently. Tried to avoid standing between his towering allies because they got off on patting him on the head like a puppy, to the delight of the ladies in the rec room.
Turning off I-93 at Exit 38, their stomachs growling under a clearing sky, they stopped to gas up, chow down, and ask for directions to winding back roads, preferably unpaved, with easy, accessible walking trails. While surveying packaged sandwiches and an array of snacks at Big Buck’s Bodega, Toby flirted a little with the 40-ish lady behind the counter while Sonny and Doug sniffed pine-scented souvenirs and contentiously debated Cheetos vs Doritos, and Snickers vs Kit Kat.
Toby told her they were looking for a secluded spot where they could traipse around a bit in the woods, pretend they’re serious hikers, and bring home exaggerated tales of derring-do to impress the women of Weymouth. “I can still knock out five miles in my sleep, but these other guys are kinda old and out-of-shape, as you can see, and I don’t want ’em to keel over and check out under one of Frost’s beloved birches.” Sweet-giggling like a schoolgirl, she displayed a stunning sparkle in her left eye that he found instantly intriguing.
Her right eye was covered by a black leather patch. She didn’t seem self-conscious about it until she noticed him focusing on that sparkle and mistakenly assumed he was staring at “it.” She called up her husky voice: “Ya like me eye patch, there, matey? Put it on for Talk Like a Pirate Day last month, ‘cuz me wooden leg was in the repair shop and I needed a prop. Got lots of raves from the knaves and scoundrels, I did. Went over so well, I just keep wearin’ it, sometimes even forget I got it on.”
She smiled at him, suppressing a sudden impulse to reach across the counter and pat him on the head. Toby smiled back but he wasn’t buying it and felt like he had inadvertently backed the poor soul into a corner. “Probably lost that eye in a car accident, or fighting off an angry customer or some other deranged assailant,” he surmised. That short, but tall, tale was apparently her go-to cover story for visitors passing through, like him, to make them feel more at ease around her. Brave woman, indeed!
When only the three friends remained in the store, the lady made Toby an offer. “Tell ya what. I’m outta here at noon, got nothin’ planned, can take you guys to a pull-off next to a short loop trail, maybe half a mile beginning to end, and you finish where you started. How’s that sound?” Then that tantalizing twinkle flared anew, and she fluttered her lashes (well, half of them) at him as the two too-talls joined them – Sonny chomping on Cheetos, and Doug unwrapping a candy bar. Toby shook his head at Sonny in mock disgust. “Those things will turn your skin orange for two or three days, man, hope you realize that.” “No, they won’t.” “Yes, they will. Maybe longer. Mona will razz your azz.” “No, she won’t.” The lady rolled her eye and wondered who Mona was.
Toby announced to his cohorts that the sweet-smiling, sweet-smelling attendant was going to be their guide in about an hour. The two men exchanged raised eyebrows and both nodded approvingly. “You fellas got names?” Shunning their “Tom, Dick ‘n Harry” shtick, Toby introduced Sonny and Doug, then himself. “Toby, with a y. And you, ma’am?”
“Lizzi, with an i. Lynne, with an e. Lizzi Lynne.”
“With an i” was all Doug and Sonny heard as they pondered her patch (the leather one.) Doug stifled a snicker while almost choking on a Snickers. Sonny smirked sideways.
A composed Toby focused on that sparkle. “Is it Mrs. Lynne or Miss Lynne, if I may ask?”
“It’s Miss Flynn. Lizzi Lynne Flynn, Texas-born and bred.”
Sonny swiftly went back to sniffing pine sachets in a far corner of the store, out of sight. Doug swallowed hard and haltingly sought a clarification. “Lizzi actually has two i’s. right?” “Um, yes, one near the front and one at the back.”
Doug mumbled, “I see,” before quickly escaping to the rest room to exhale and relieve himself, executing the classic flee-and-pee maneuver flawlessly. She gave him the eye and shook her head as he retreated. “Funnin’ with me is fine. Funnin’ about me ain’t.”
Sonny and Doug returned to the front just as a teenager, wearing a ring in her nose and sporting blue streaks in her hair, slithered into the store. Lizzi whispered, “light-fingered,” to the men. Doug began to offer a heartfelt mea culpa for his insensitivity, but she quickly cut him off. “Hey, zip it, Ziggy.” He was taken aback and abruptly stopped talking, then looked confused as she stared at his private area. “Ohhh, ZIP it! Sorry ’bout that.” “No problem, Snickers, I tend to notice every little thing.” Ouch! “Gotta watch that kid now. Come back at noontime and you can follow me out there.”
The men drove to a nearby ice cream shop, where Sonny and Doug licked two-scoop cones like they were twelve again. Toby abstained because they didn’t sell soft-serve. Doug asked him about the black patch and Toby said it was likely a traumatic story and not to go there. “If she starts talking like a pirate, hold your tongue. No one-eyed bandit jokes.” (Sonny thought he said “parrot” and mumbled “WTF,” the familiar internet acronym for “Women Talk Funny.”)
Lizzi Lynne Flynn occupied each man’s mind as they watched the clock on the wall. Mighty trusting of her to head to the wild with three male strangers. Sonny speculated she might have some sleazeballs lying in wait to bushwhack them. Doug scoffed. “It would take a whole lot of goons to walk away with THIS Marine’s wallet. Bring ‘em on!” Toby chose to believe she was simply being neighborly and nice, maybe wanting someone to talk to after her shift, a sad, lonely spinster with no one to go home to. Doug stood up and checked his fly, still smarting from her “little thing” jab and wondering if everything really was bigger in Texas. Sonny crammed the last of his cone down his piehole and headed for the door. “It’s go time.”
“AFT”
When they arrived at Buck’s, she was nowhere to be seen. The store was eerily quiet. No customers. No one at the counter. At noontime, with all those sandwiches. Odd. Doug’s thunderous, “Anyone here? Oorah!”, shattered the silence and ricocheted off the walls. “I’m comin’, hold on fer chrissake.” Out from the back came a burly, barrel-chested bloke wearing a freakin’ black leather eye patch!
“Buck? Big Buck?”
“There ain’t no Big Buck or no Little Buck, mister. It’s just a name. You the fellas supposed to scoop up Lizzi?” Doug heard “two-scoop” and he smirked and snorted thinking about the ice cream, but no words came out. He simply nodded. The man growled, “Ain’t anyone gonna ask me about this patch?” It was clearly time for Toby to take the reins.
“Of course, please pardon the flippant attitude of the a-hole to my left. We are trustworthy gentlemen on a day trip and Miss Flynn is going to take us to a quiet place where we can walk a bit and take in the essence of these rural surroundings. No harm, no foul, I trust.” The guy studied Toby’s face. “You talk kinda uppity for a half-grown man. I knew he was just funnin’ around with me, don’t matter how or why. I ain’t no uncultured, slow-thinkin’, dimwitted bozo, ya know. Got a TV set and a VCR back there, like other people. So no harm, and the only thing foul around here is your prissy speechifyin’.”
With that, Toby stepped back, and Sonny took over. “Namaste. dude. I can tell you’re an okay guy. So, what’s with the patch?” No-name told them he owned the place, which was struggling financially. He paid minimum wage and Lizzi was the only one who would work for him “because people say I can be a chippy SOB sometimes. She’s hard-workin’ and loyal. When that awful eye thing happened to her, she hardly missed a day of work, if you can believe that. What a trooper she was. Still is. I started wearing the same kind of patch over the same eye to make it seem like the store had taken on a pirate theme, if ya know what I’m sayin’ here. She felt more normal right away.”
The owner went on. “Gonna be straight up with you guys. Lizzi’s mouth churns faster than her thinkin’ sometimes. When I got here, she was sobbin’ a tad ‘cuz she made a promise to you that she can’t keep. She’s already at one of her other jobs, cleanin’ rooms and scrubbin’ toilets over at the fancy motel. That eye thing cost her a ton of dough and she’s way behind in her bills. I used to help her out a little but now I’m behind the eight-ball myself. The whole situation is a cryin’ shame, as my sweet momma used to say.” A crying shame, indeed!
The visitors huddled up just as Ms. blue streaks/light fingers returned. Doug led off. “I’m embarrassed, man. I misjudged both Lizzi and this guy. Let’s ditch the fresh air and the bear stories, give them something, then head home.” Sonny was not feeling sunny either. “I’m with you. That poor woman. He even said ‘one of her other jobs,’ with an s. We gotta take action. Right here. Right now.” And then Toby. “First, I’m neither uppity nor prissy. That said, we can help both these folks. Check your cash.” Credit card reliant, they only came up with $94 and decided to spend it all at the store, to help the guy who had been helping Lizzi, then send her a $750 check. Sonny: “$250 apiece? We can do better. I’ll go $400 if you guys will.” Both agreed.
After nose ring girl left, empty-handed, the guys approached the counter with armfuls of crap they didn’t need. It totaled $88 and they tipped him the other $6. They told him their plan and he gave them the store’s mailing address, said “make the check out to Elizabeth Flynn, with a y,” and thanked them on her behalf, seemingly holding back tears. He shook their hands and wished them a safe trip back to … “hey, where you fellas from?”
“Weymouth. Down in Massachusetts.” Off they went, southbound and down. He locked the door behind them. “Massholes, figured as much.”
His voice boomed, “Ahoy, lassie, the landlubbers have abandoned ship and the loot’s secured.” Out from the back came a beaming Lizzi, dancing around and waving her patch (the leather one) high in the air, her two big, blue eyes blazing like supernovas. Twirling his own patch, he asked if she heard everything. “Bits and pieces, Bart baby, tell me.” “Well, I sold them rovers a bunch of crap for 94 greenbacks. And blimey, me hornswagglin’ wench, we have twelve hundred more comin’ by courier. Not a bad day on the quarterdeck of the good ship Con-Heir.” “Blimey, indeed! That’s some major booty, and I didn’t even have to shake mine, nor shiver me timbers, much less (she took a breathy, Scarlett O’Hara pause) blow the man down, like I did with grinnin’ Jack from Nantucket last month.” (!!!!!)
Oops. A faux pas?
Had she spilled the beans, tipped her hand, dropped the ball, pulled a boner? Or … was she just yanking his chain?
Bart suddenly looked gassed and aghast, as a tense and awkward hush set in. He glared at Lizzi. She glared back. His face got real red, real fast. She waited. His nostrils flared. She waited. His forehead popped a vein. Whoa, timeout, she hadn’t seen that before! “Just joshin’ with ya, amigo. Now give me a hug.” Greatly relieved, he smiled and gave her a big one. “Ya had my belly in a blender for a minute there, little lady.” Together, they reveled and roared like rogues on rum, then Texas two-stepped toward the back room where her blue-streaked, “light-fingered” daughter, Lynne (with an e), was making tacos. The trio high-fived and bumped fists. Life was good at Big Buck’s Bodega on Exit 38.
Toby, Sonny and Doug were almost home, proud of themselves for stepping up and doing the right thing. The generosity and graciousness of these judicious gents won the day and deserved a proper toast. Chivalry, indeed!
They pulled the SUV over in Boston, and tapped an ATM. The trio high-fived and bumped fists. Then, triumphantly, the…
three men walked into a bar.
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“Funnin’ with me is fine. Funnin’ about me ain’t.”
Dearest Elise, the blue in my skies, I bring to you this birthday surprise. It’s neither silver nor gold, but this day I’ve been told it will bring tears to your emerald eyes.
Said the Lady to the Lad:
Dear Aidan, the light in my darkest of nights, the one who has turned my wrongs into rights, any gift you bestow will delight me I know, you’re the finest of my acolytes.
Said the Lad to the Lady:
Please my lady, please my love, I fervently pray to the gods above that you not think of me as just one of the three who serve the needs that you speak of.
Said the Lady to the Lad:
But what would I say to your peers in grey if I took for granted what they do each day? Your heart is pure and true and I highly treasure you, and so I wish not to lead you astray.
Said the Lad to the Lady:
What am I hearing, what might you mean when your words cut like daggers, swift and keen? I delivered each time you searched for a rhyme when you wrote that poem for the wake of Colleen.
Said the Lady to the Lad:
My sweet lad, for that I’m in debt to you, your words so tender, offered on cue, but Colleen would feel so sad if she knew her young man had used them to barter, used them to woo.
Said the Lad to the Lady:
When my mother abandoned me at the age of four. It was you who found me outside your door and welcomed me inside, though my spirit had died, and I couldn’t have been blessed any more.
Said the Lady to the Lad:
Then listen and learn from the one who knows why a woman with the love of a Burns red rose chose this place, this face, she knew would embrace her laddie when her ill-timed sickness arose.
Said the Lad to the Lady:
My father died in the war before I was born and mother Colleen cried every morn missing his courage, his grace, missing the smile she couldn’t erase, near the end, most cheerless, lost and forlorn.
Said the Lady to the Lad:
Ten years have passed and it’s time you knew that Colleen had a sister and a brother too. His name was Alec Erick and when Colleen got sick he came from Scotland to bid her adieu.
Said the Lad to the Lady:
I have an uncle, is that what you say? Where is he now? Will he come this way? And an aunt as well? Please, I pray you tell, why at fourteen, do I learn this today?
Said the Lady to the Lad:
Dear Alec Erick, I must sadly report has gone to his Maker, his life cut short, not unlike his sister Colleen, he left the earth at only nineteen, leaving you here for me to support.
Said the Lad to the Lady:
My mother was nineteen at the time she departed? She gave birth to me when her life had just started? I arrived here at four, she lived eight years more, This news is not for the fainthearted!
Said the Lady to the Lad:
No, I meant like his sister, he died far too young, Colleen was twenty-five when her church-bells rung. He was seventeen, in Glasgow for school, when he came back that day to Liverpool to hear once more, her song left unsung.
Said the Lad to the Lady:
Well, that’s a relief, her age I mean, that she didn’t die when she was nineteen. Would have had me at twelve, a thought I’ll just shelve. Go on, and I won’t intervene.
Said the Lady to the Lad:
You are so young and it’s confusing I know. So prepare yourself for an emotional blow. Colleen and her brother, from one to the other, once viewed their older sister as foe.
Said the Lad to the Lady:
Though it’s still far from clear, it would appear that this sister is someone I don’t want to be near. I’m glad she went away to no one’s dismay, at best insincere, a woman to fear.
Said the Lady to the Lad:
Dear Aidan, she never left, she’s not gone. The poet would say she’s hither, not yon. Colleen saved you for her and lost her own sir when he left one morning at dawn.
Said the Lad to the Lady:
You mean he left for the war, a hero so brave, a man for his country his life he gave? It’s sad I never knew him at all, still unborn at the time of his fall. She lost her sir – my dad – when he went to his grave.
Said the Lady to the Lad:
Colleen wasn’t married, nor did she bear a child. She was a maiden lass, pure, undefiled. Her sir walked away when you went to stay. She made you her life when her sister last smiled.
Said the Lad to the Lady:
My mother Colleen did not give me life? The man who died at war- she was not his wife? Those tears that she shed when she lay in her bed, pierced my heart, like the blade of a knife.
Said the Lady to the Lad:
The brave man was not his wife, but he was your Dad. Her tears were for you, so don’t feel sad. Abandoned you were, but not by her. Your Dad was another woman’s Galahad.
Said the Lad to the Lady:
So for ten long years, I held hate in my heart toward a woman who saved me from some cheap tart? The world is cruel and I played the fool, I’m young but I’m strong, I’ll tear her apart.
Said the Lady to the Lad:
Cast aside your anger, it’s ill-mannered and wrong. You were birthed by her sister, alone and not strong. Just six weeks after his flag was unfurled, you picked up his mantle and entered the world. And now at this hour, I’m singing his song.
Said the Lad to the Lady:
You knew him before Colleen left me here? You know where she is, this woman I jeer? Tell me straight out what’s this all about and please be perfectly clear.
Said the Lady to the Lad:
I’ve no place to hide, no place to run, I am your mother and you are my son. Your peers are your brothers, from unknown young mothers who gave them up when their demons won.
Said the Lad to the Lady:
So it wasn’t fate I was left at your door. Colleen did for you, what you’ve done twice more. In time I’ll be proud to be an equal as one of the three, but how do I fare, losing the one I live for!
Said the Lady to the Lad:
You’ve not lost a thing, you’ve found your mother, a friend, A new book has opened, its ending yet to be penned. When you see me that way in the light of the day you will find fitting presents to bring and to send.
Said the Lad to the Lady:
Dearest Mother, the blue in my skies, I bring to you this birthday surprise. It’s neither silver nor gold, it’s my heart that you hold, seeing the tears in your emerald eyes.
Said the Lady to the Lad:
Dear Son, the light in my darkest of nights, the one who has turned my wrongs into rights, this gift of your heart is a true chance to be part of your Galahad dad, the finest of Knights.
Nothing of note happened in the valley town of Gnames on October 10, 1961.
But thirty miles west, at the fancy new hospital in Delfeye ¹, a liberated little girl was delivered into the world by Hephera “Heffie” Drillings and Zachary “Zeus” Drillings. In truth, a doctor delivered the kid – Heffie just pushed when she was told to. Her dazed hubby sweated whiskey and water droplets onto his faded t-shirt, while murmuring unintelligible gibberish in a manner that seemed to calm his wife and amuse the young doctor.
Heffie had wanted the tiny creature to be a girl that would be named “Effie” because she was sure they would look alike and sound alike, while and Zeus favored a boy who would be named “Hercules,” because he’d grow up strong and tough like his old man, but each was dismissed by the other from the get-go, and any chance for agreement spiraled downhill from there. They agreed there was plenty of time, and there was – until there wasn’t.
Heffie was a twice-divorced, seasoned 33 year-old. Five years her junior, Zachary was immature, undisciplined and indecisive. She met him at a produce stand on a hot July afternoon and was immediately enamored with his big biceps, country charm and childlike naivete. For his part, he liked that Heffie was an experienced older woman with well-rounded assets. She was a typist and he was a laborer. (She was his “type” and he put her in “labor”, he told Lou the barber.) Though very different, they complemented and complimented one another, compromised often, and somehow kept their knot tied tight.
The attending nurse said they needed a name, now, for the birth certificate.“We’re still thinkin’”, revealed Zachary. Now three years into their marriage, Hephera had heard this refrain one too many times: at the used furniture store, in the concessions line at the Hesiod Hills Drive-In Theater, and the order window at Bacchus Burgers. After subtly sizing up the nurse, however, the new mom carped the diem.
“ZZ”, she offered,“this nurse is so pretty and I bet she’s smart too, like our little girl’s gonna be. I bet ya she can whip up a name that sounds real good, right Missy?”. The woman in white was indeed intelligent and well-read, and had a thing for Greek mythology, which was about to become unexpectedly relevant.
“Mr. Drillings, why did she call you ZZ?”, she asked, grabbing and holding his attention. “Ma’am, because of that Zeus guy that shoots lightning bolts and bosses people around and has statues and stuff. I’d do that if I could. Got no middle name, and I liked the zing of ZZ. Top-notch ring to it, It was a toss-up between Zeus and Zorro, whose show I like, but the guys at work would razz me if I picked a cape-wearing guy in a mask over a bolt-throwin’ beast, so I’m Zachary Zeus and proud of it, ma’am.”
The Nurse’s face lit up like a blowtorch in heat upon hearing his colorful explanation. Her own father had a fixation with Zeus! Diabolically delighted, she suggested the name of a beautiful woman that Zachary’s idol had tasked a friend to mold to perfection in every way. Zeus at first gifted her to everyone on earth, who all happened to be men at the time (“Wowza”, thought Heffie, imagining the possibilities). After tantalizing those guys for 317 days, she was given by Zeus to a feckless, fortunate fellow named Epimetheus, whose brother “Pro” had done something or other to capture Zeus’ attention. “Must have been something really good to fire up my man Zeus”, declared ZZ. The devilish Nurse was clearly on the scenic route to Hades now, but she couldn’t help herself.
She ventured onward, portraying the woman as flawless – a walking work of art who instilled in mankind feelings of endless joy and brotherhood, conjured up images of sunlit nights and double rainbows, and provided orchards of fruit and rivers of mead to all. Each of these blessings she bestowed by simply, and unselfishly, opening a beautiful box she kept hidden under her bed. A wide-eyed ZZ exclaimed “Yes, yes, we’ll take it.” Heffie cautioned “Slow down, cowboy, you haven’t even heard it yet.” Both waited impatiently as The Nurse, milking the moment, playfully simulated a drum roll.
“Pandora! You could call her Panny or Dora for short. It’s perfect, please tell me you like it?” ²
Pandora Drillings? This was all Greek to her, but sure, why not, mused Heffie, briefly distracted by a passing orderly. She and Zachary made eye contact and signaled a muted but mutual approval.
In need of a middle name as well, they asked for help again and Nurse Missy tossed in “Daphne”, a gorgeous water nymph whose suitors, including the Olympian God Apollo, rested on her laurels, whatever that meant. ZZ looked riled and swore that “No daughter of mine‘s gonna be a nympho!” She laughed and reassured him. “No ‘o’ there at the end, ZZ. Daphne was pure as morning dew.” The new dad, relieved, came back with “Lordy, gotta admit I do like me some good, clean dew at dawn.” A ready-to-wrap-this-up Heffie grunted “Don’t mind him none, he don’t know no better. Go ahead and write it down.” Zachary poked back with a boisterous chant of “DAFF-NEE, DAFF-NEE”.
And so it was that Pandora Daphne Drillings became a person of record, thanks to the fanciful and fertile mind of The Nurse, who wished them the best and left the room with a gleam in her eye and a bounce in her step.
Growing up in Gnames, Pandora was proving to be charming, resourceful and inquisitive, though burdened with a manipulative and volatile temperament. She thoroughly researched the origins of her name before asking her folks if they knew who Pandora really was. Heffie regaled in telling the story of Nurse Missy describing an inspiring, celebrated, benevolent woman providing presents for all from a mysterious box back in the day.
But the disapproving girl in turn told them the story of a vengeful (or just irresponsibly curious, depending on the source) Greek Eve who opened up a big ol’ JAR of Nasty on the Earth, unleashing a myriad of misery on mankind. A spiteful icon of wicked intent, or simply an impulsive, irresponsible idol? In closing the jar, she had trapped Hope inside. Was her intent to suppress Hope, or rather to preserve Hope? The answers matter not; the result was the same. The deed was done, the damage lived on. The Drillings girl would forever be averse to a curse from a nurse.
Feeling played and betrayed, Heffie bounced a thick index finger off her husband’s forehead. “I TOLD you we should have gone with “Effie.” Flinching, ZZ said it was likely only an honest storytellin’ mistake and told his daughter to just stay away from magic boxes and don’t release bad things into the air and she’d be okay. “Easy for you to say, Dad, you’re not the one who has to put up with all the dirty comments from the boys at school. It was A JAR, dammit.” He tried to console her with “Hey, it’ll make you stronger, girl, make you tough inside. Zeus tough.” (She left the room, wondering what “zoo stuff” was.)
He was right though. Strong and determined she proved to be, pleasing to the eye, and at age 21, while working at Phycshun Plastics, she moved with a girlfriend to Ledgens, ‘bout halfway between Gnames and Delfeye. There she met one Apollo Augustus “Gus” Grissom, age 20, adopted at birth by Mr. and Mrs. Al Grissom. Born in the same hospital as Pandora. Delivered by the same laid-back doctor. Given his name by the same person …
Athena Grissom, a/k/a Mrs. Al Grissom, a/k/a “Missy the Nurse”.
Athena’s obsession with Greek mythology was inherited, her own name springing from her father’s head in tribute to Zeus and his daughter. This child-in-waiting was thus going to be an Apollo or an Aphrodite come hell or high water, and Al, as he did most of the time, simply and safely concurred. When a boy finally emerged out of the darkness with a triumphant victory cry, her cup did indeed runneth over. “Welcome to the Light, Apollo!”, she gushed in her dual roles as the attending nurse and adoptive mother. Hearing this, the doctor excused himself, and went to get a Snickers bar, which seemed acutely appropriate.
Al was a happy warrior as well, because Athena had begrudgingly thrown him a bone with the Roman middle name that could be shortened to Gus and thus be a namesake to the famous Mercury Seven astronaut Gus Grissom. Mom called the little guy Apollo. Dad called him Gus. Most people just called him “Paul-o”. He was well-liked, though generally excuse-laden and ill-prepared. Labeled “artsy” and imaginative, he was boyishly good-looking. One green-eyed young lady ga-ga’ed over him, but he never seemed to notice. His mind drifted on clouds. (More Wordsworth’s than Shelley’s.)
After high school, he went to Titan Tech in Thalia on a music scholarship for a semester, dropped out, and came back home to Ledgens. His paternal grandfather had set up a very hefty trust fund for him, with annual distributions starting at 21, balance due at 30. Good thing, as he wasn’t particularly ambitious or career-driven. Worked for Al, his florist father, at “Grissom’s Geraniums et Al”. Made deliveries. Played the cello and wrote poetry. Lived in the back with a green-eyed cat named Stella. (Not to be confused with the green-eyed MIss ga-ga, who was named Stefani.)
Hephera often told Panny that she should hang out at the Gnames produce stand in the summer so she could find her own ZZ. “No thanks, Ma. No offense, Dad.”, she’d say. Whoosh! Sailed right over ZZ’s head every time.
A delivery van pulled up to a pre-Valentine’s Day party on Saturday, February 12, 1983. The youthful driver stepped out, yellow roses in hand, and sauntered to the front door. Pandora answered his rhythmic knock. She had ordered the flowers for her roomie and wanted to be the one to give them to her. He was having none of it. “Nope. No can do, Missy.” Missy? Uh-oh.
The pair of nurse-named saplings each had one fist around the flowers and two eyes on each other. Party-goer Ernie Eros broke up the stare-down by suddenly nailing an unsuspecting Apollo with a plastic arrow right in what Forrest Gump would later describe as his “butt-talks”. When he looked back at Panny, he surprisingly went ga-ga for her. He had been a ga-ga-ee, yes, but this was his first time ever as the ga-ga-er. Well, dang, he thought, as the light bulb over his head blinked on and off. He suddenly felt bad for ignoring the green-eyed girl. Meanwhile, Pandora got whacked with an arrow too, but hers just bounced wildly off her chest, giving her a bad vibe and nothing more.
The dude stepped in front of her. “Name’s Zeke.” “Mine’s, er, Dora.” He smiled. She didn’t. “No, I’m messin’ with ya, my real name is Apollo, like Apollo Creed in them Rocky movies, except I don’t box or nothin’ like that.” Damnnnnn, she thought, when she heard him say “box.” What are the odds, right? “Dora’s short for Pandora, like the lady with the box, except it was really a jar. Pandora Daphne Drillings. Pleased to meet you.” (She wasn’t.)
Blatantly bewitched by Eros’ arrow and Pandora’s eyes, and wanting to immediately impress her, he blurted out that in a few months he was going to start getting lots more money than other guys his age, and her ears perked up like they had been caffeinated. Pickin’s were slim for young women in these parts, so she had to play this right.
In the next few months, everything fell neatly into place for her. Both shared the stories behind their unique names. He joked that the nurse that named her must be “as loony as my mother.” Pandora didn’t really like any of his names, but to her surprise, he liked saying “Daphne” and stayed with it. She alternated between Augustus and Gus, the lesser evils, depending on her mood.
Unable to sleep one humid June night, Panny recalled the story of her mythic forename bearer and her unheralded husband. She tried to make “Epimetheus” roll off her tongue, to no avail. The shortened “Theus” sounded noble and masculine (she had ruled out “Meth” for some reason) so she relentlessly called him that for a week and he cringed every time she did. “Theus, hon.” “Theus, babe.” Jeez, enough already.
“I work with flowers, I’m just not a Theus, Daph, that’s more fittin’ for an ironworker or a welder. How about just Eppy?” Her eyes rolled back in her head. “Eppy”? You seriously want me to call you Eppy? “Oh, make love to me, Eppy”, “Let’s go to the park, Eppy” (they were IN the park at the time), or heaven forbid “Mom, Dad, this is Eppy, we just got engaged.” She calmed herself, then said “No way. You’re Theus. It’s settled. I’m going across the street to Bud’s Market. Make sure Eppy isn’t here when I get back.”
They sat silently together on a park bench as she broke him off a piece of her Kit Kat bar as a goodwill gesture. It didn’t work. Discouraged, he dutifully kissed her on the nose, got up, and headed for his van, leaving her alone and brooding. She cussed. Fumed. Seethed. Simmered. Smoldered. To let off steam, Pandora even boxed her own ears. (Whoa!) But all the while, she kept her eye on the prize – his trust fund.
Almost five months into this rocky relationship, deep into engagement and marriage discussions, it was undeniable that Daphne had degenerated into an intransigent and intolerant sorceress. She had become distant, mean-spirited, irritable, sarcastic, unpredictable, uncompromising and controlling in a way that was hard for Apollo to process. (To be fair, though, she did have perfect skin and nice nails, so there was that.)
It was almost as if she didn’t even like him, much less love him. Alas, an airtight, affable, amiable alliance was now awry, askew, ajar. (“It was A JAR, dammit!”)
Nevertheless, the pair struggled on. She kept calling him Theus just to burn his toast, and he would remind her it was Eppy paying for her ice cream. Meanwhile, their cuddlin’ time had become nothing more than fleeting cheek-pecks and one-arm hugs.
Though Pandora was in the process of loosening the lid of her own stockpile of searing lightning bolts, she suggested their parents meet in the park in Ledgens. Maybe if it went well, she and Theus could take that positive energy and get their soon-to-be-prosperous relationship back on track. He held out hope, yet feared Daphne was a simmering volcano, ready to erupt. The reason eluded him, but the tension did not.
A week later, in an idyllic setting right out of Camelot – chirping birds, clear blue sky, grass green and groomed, a picnic table somehow free of chirping-bird droppings – both parties of three approached the table from different directions, arriving at almost the same moment. It was Saturday, August 20, 1983. “Every Breath You Take” was Billboard’s #1. For an awkward few moments, breaths, deep ones, were all anyone could muster. The silence roared through the warm, lazy air.
When everyone started to speak at once, resulting in a garbled word stew, the ice was broken. There were smiles and a couple of chuckles. Each family sat down on their own side of the table, father facing father, mother facing mother, Dora facing dollar signs. Al stepped up. “Hey folks, how y’all doin’? Good to finally meet Daphne’s family.”
And with that, the awkward silence was back. At least on the Drillings’ side of the table. Panny grimaced. Eppy grinned. Though they had spent time with each other’s parents on several occasions, the Grissoms only knew Pandora as Daphne and the Drillings only knew Apollo as Augustus and Gus.
Zachary pumped his fist and let out a quick round of “DAFF-NEE, DAFF-NEE”. He had no idea why Al had called her by a middle name never used at home, and he didn’t really care. However, now that they were seated knee to knee, Hephera and Athena were able to focus on each other’s facial features. Both woman leaned in further for a closer look. Neither blinked. Each felt the leading edge of a deja vu cold front nipping at their nostrils.
The Nurse had long since forgotten the middle name part of her presentation two decades earlier. She had tossed “Daphne” at the Drillings on a whim because that was Apollo’s first crush ( Apollo the Greek God, that is, not Apollo her American son, despite both eventually crushing on a Daphne who didn’t really want them.) When Athena got home from work that day long ago, she told Al all about duping two unsuspecting strangers into naming their daughter Pandora, but she never mentioned the second act of her play. So even when their son introduced this beguiling, intriguing lass to them as Daphne, it was deemed to be a case of superb serendipity, yet it didn’t come close to ringing a bell for Athena.
Until today. In the park. Knee to knee with Mrs. D.
Heffie had turned to her daughter. “Daphne”? Panny, are you going by your middle name now?” The girl stammered and looked toward her Epimetheus, who volunteered to Heffie that he called her Daphne because he didn’t really like Dora. Athena quipped, “Daphne, Panny, Dora … how many names you got, girl?” Cognizance came a-callin’ when she heard the distinct inner echo of her own words – “Panny, Dora” – running together.
And that’s when the bell rang.
She turned to a weathered but suddenly-familiar Zachary. He, along with Heffie and Athena herself, had remained unnamed because Al’s opening mention of Daphne had derailed the introductions train before it even left the station. “And your name is …?” “Zachary Zeus Drillings, ma’am, but people call me ZZ ” Suddenly, Athena wished she was in Athens and I don’t mean Ohio. Twenty years is like two weeks when one hears a guy call himself ZZ. She didn’t remember Heffie’s own unusual first name but she saw in the face of this now 50-ish woman some bad karma coming down the road. Typing the name Pandora Daphne Drillings while filling out maternity ward paperwork had been merely a funny filling & filing fling for The Nurse, who had her fingerprints all over the occasion, in more ways than one. But now she could sense that the chicken, or at least the chicken’s momma, was coming home to roost.
Still, it appeared only Athena had figured it out. ZZ and Al were comparing hands and exchanging good-natured banter. (That’s what happens when a career laborer and a career florist spread their fingers out on a picnic table.)
Heffie volunteered that she and ZZ thought Gus was a nice young man who was treating her daughter with respect. “Gus?” repeated Athena. (“Gus Grissom, ya know, ZZ”, said Al, proudly, but sadly. “Astronaut. Died in the Apollo 1 fire. I said one hell of a coincidence, but the wife says it’s one of those foreign kismet things. Whatever, it broke the boy up some, he was only four ya know.” ZZ was lost in space on this one, but figured he was safe with his go-to “Bummer, man.” response.)
Athena, knowing she was likely poking the bear, politely told Heffie she preferred her son be called by his rightful name. “I understand completely,” came back Heffie. “I’m the same way, so let me correct myself. Augustus is a fine young man, and seems quite well-suited for Pandora.”
“Augustus? Rightful name? Like Daphne?” Athena rose to her feet, aware now that dark clouds were rolling in. “Who’s Pandora?” asked Al, still staring at his hands. Athena bit off the words “It’s Apollo’s girlfriend, dear, it’s Daphne.” Heffie and ZZ looked at each other and in unison asked, “Who’s Apollo?” In the verbal chaos that ensued, a barrage of questions were asked and answered, but the two young people kept silent.
Eventually, Athena acknowledged that she had been guilty of “a bit of mischief” at the Drillings’ expense all those years ago, and tendered a decidedly insincere apology to them and to the girl, all the time thinking to herself, “You just had to call me ‘Missy’, didn’t you, lady?” An irked Pandora told her boyfriend that he was right – his mother was indeed loony. Athena pouted on hearing that, while Heffie snickered and ZZ made loon sounds to the best of his ability.
Pandora abruptly stood up and announced that she and her guy were going for a walk. “C’mon, Theus, now, and don’t you dare bring Eppy with you.” She had been expecting a proposal later that day, and she wanted it on her own terms. She hustled him away to a chorus of “Who’s Theus?’’ and “Who’s Eppy ?” Al chimed in with, “Who’s on first?”
Pandora worried that her marriage/divorce/alimony plan was slipping away. Once out of view, she warmly kissed the cello fellow, her beau-with-a-bow, hoping to reach a high note and a rousing finale. She said she was so sorry for letting her petty, pent-up hostility diminish and distract from her otherwise full jar of positive attributes. She told him she would call him whatever name he wanted from that point forward, because, you know, what’s in a name and all. Followed by, “But not Eppy, of course, and honestly, that whole Augustus/Gus thing is kind of lame, Paul-o rings hollow, Zeke is a geek, and c’mon, Apollo IS loony. So are we okay now, Theus?”
Eppy nodded. He leaned forward and whispered softly into her ear, “It’s time.” He stepped back and double-tapped the bulge in his shirt pocket. She watched his movements through dancing eyes. He gently placed the box in her left hand, and told her not to open it.
Then, Apollo Augustus “Gus” Grissom winked, turned and, for the second and last time in that park, walked away from her.
It was Saturday. He had flowers to deliver and a cat to feed.
Shaken, she held, and beheld, the velvet-covered case in her hand. Her curiosity was tempered with caution, her resolve offset by uncertainty, her indignation fueled by fear.
Fate in hand, pausing, hesitating, clutching what was now Pandora’s box . . suddenly, Pandora balks!
An eternity passed. She lifted the lid slowly, warily. Out flew Hope, escaping eons of captivity, emerging into an elusive earthly existence. Behind it, Pandora’s box sat hopeless and empty, devoid of marriage dreams and treasure schemes. The ring was gone, Apollo was gone and she was woebegone.
Though the book was forever closed that day on Theus and Eppy and a certain fabled catastrophic container, Pandora Daphne Drillings remains a person of record in Gnames and Ledgens in the year 1993. A sad person as it turns out, living with her mom, Heffie, in a house surrounded by laurel trees down by the Orontes River, which flows through the outskirts of both towns. ZZ, sadly, had blown his top when a drunk said something bad about Pandora, beat the man into a pile of pulp, and was sentenced to 17 years in the slammer. Apollo Augustus Grissom went on to play the cello with the Louisiana Philharmonic Orchestra. He lives in New Orleans, enjoying his inheritance with an aging Stella and a mysterious young woman with a tattoo of Pandora’s box, and the words, “It’s a JAR!”, on her butt-talks that he paid for. He regularly sends photos of himself in thousand-dollar suits to his mother, and reminds her that he has hope every day, pleasing the hell out of The Nurse, a.k.a. “Missy.”
And just last week, over in Delfeye, in a hospital room, a maternity nurse, days away from retirement, welcomed a request from an indecisive young couple. She was telling and selling them a compelling story of a mythical goddess, blending the names and qualities of a loving mother, Hera, and her robust, drop-dead handsome son Hephaestus, the husband of Aphrodite, his very loving and faithful wife. (Al was gonna love this one.)
As she simulated a drum roll, ZZ Top’s “Sharp Dressed Man” played in her head.
“Hephera! You could call her “Heffie”, for short. It’s perfect, please tell me you like it?” ³
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Writer’s Note #1
“Delphi was an important ancient Greek religious sanctuary sacred to the god Apollo. Located on Mt. Parnassus near the Gulf of Corinth, …” – World History Encyclopedia (Should I tell these guys that Apollo thinks they spelled Delfeye wrong? Guess he didn’t get no good book-learnin’ there at Titan Tech before he dropped out, leaving the distraught young ga-ga lady, Stefani, behind. Alas, word is she lost hope and went off the deep end in 1997. She survived, but word is she’s still . . . far from the sha-sha-shallow now.)
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Writer’s Note #2:
Oh, the Circle of Life!
“There she met one Apollo Augustus “Gus” Grissom, age 20, adopted at birth by Mr. and Mrs. Al Grissom. Born in the same hospital as Pandora. Delivered by the same laid-back doctor. Given his name by the same person …
Athena Grissom, a/k/a Mrs. Al Grissom, a/k/a “Missy the Nurse”.
“Both shared the stories behind their unique names. He joked that the nurse that named her must be “as loony as my mother.”
Yes, Apollo, she sure was!
Footnote ² → “Pandora! You could call her Panny, or Dora, for short. It’s perfect, please tell me you like it?” Footnote³ → “Hephera! You could call her “Heffie”, for short. It’s perfect, please tell me you like it?”
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Writer’s Note #3
She: “Wayne, good story, but . . . did you realize that you spelled Legends wrong in the title? No big deal, but you might wanta change that.”
Me: “You didn’t read the story, did you?”
She: “Ummm, gotta run. Have a great day.”
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Hermes, on behalf of Zeus, giving Pandora to Epimetheus, while Eros looks on, with his magic arrow – Fedor Iwanowitsch
Pandora – Nicolas Regnier
Apollo and Daphne – Gian Lorenzo Bernini
Pandora and husband Epimetheus – Paolo Farinati
“… and I liked the zing of ZZ. Top-notch ring to it, “ “As she simulated a drum roll, ZZ Top’s “Sharp Dressed Man” played in her head.”
WORDS YOU CAN TOUCH 