Hottest day of the year

Yesterday afternoon was by far the hottest day of the year. In the morning, it seemed very nice and my daughter and I had breakfast under the umbrella in the backyard. Our relaxing spread of food and Sunday paper dashed into the mid-day scorching heat and inside the house we went. Luckily, the house somehow retains cool temperatures despite the oven that was protesting its way outside.

After a breezy run to the library and Ikea we returned to the house for a light snack. While finishing up last minute details for a school report, playing games and just taking it easy I contemplated a yummy dinner; preferably for eating outdoors. Ambitious and energetic, I declared to make taco salad, a wonderful alternative to tacos that my Dad used to make before he passed; a story that was passed down to me from my mother and older sister. Around three o’clock I headed up to the grocery store for fresh ingredients and bargain sales.

Born and raised in Walnut Creek, I have no problem with the heat. I remember those long hot days in the classrooms where the teacher turned off the lights and had all the students put our heads down. It was then that I learned how making fans out of wet paper towels used more energy, thus making us hotter than necessary. All I could think about was jumping into the pool at Heather Farms. I had been thoroughly trained to avoid cooked bike seats and anything metal with the forgiving fabric of my clothes. We didn’t have air conditioning either at our house so it was best to get out of it and return once the sun had set. Even then the oven was still cooling down. If I wasn’t at the park or pool I was in the library enjoying a good read.


As I’m driving up Alcatraz Ave. with the top down and KPFA’s Latin Jazz blaring from the radio, I’m loving the blistering heat. It reminds me of vacationing. Mexico. Puerto Vallerta. Everything comes alive under the sun.

As I pulled into the parking lot, I headed inside the grocery store with list and coupons raring to go. Surprisingly, the store was packed with university students and families but nevertheless I was out of there in a flash. While pushing my cart into the parking lot I noticed two beautiful Huskies eyeing me from the hatchback of a parked Suburu. I love Huskies but would never have one because their thick coats are too much to clean up around the house. As if they could hear me, 'Shouldn’t you guys be in Alaska or something?' I then suddenly realized that they were panting and there wasn’t one cracked window. Even if there was, those dogs did not need to be trapped in that car. I put my groceries in my trunk and scooted my cart back to the store front and asked to speak to a manager inside. When she appeared out of the crowd of shoppers and checkout stands I asked her, 'Can I show you something?'

Five years ago I called the police, when two young college students who stood by in shock couldn’t, because a mother had left her toddler and baby in a parked car on the hottest day of that year. Whether done maliciously or without intent to harm, it behooves us all to act immediately when we see something drastically wrong. Five years ago, before the police arrived, I opened that car door.

Years ago when I first started baking in my Grandmother’s kitchen, I was such an amateur. Inspired by who knows what, I’d flutter around the oven like a fairy never touching the ground. It was so romantic to be baking with old fashion appliances circa 1950. By the time the cookie dough was in the oven baking, I’d get distracted by a toddler or a phone call and forget all about my masterpiece. Never using a timer, in the end, all I’d have left were crispy cookies blackened on the bottom. I’d only eat them out of pride. Having children and pets is a voyage in sacrifice and humility. They simply come first.

By the time I arrived home from my trip to the store I succumbed to my woes of the animal neglect and human neglect varieties and instead of taco salad we dined on hot dogs.

The problem with black and white

The problem with categorizing people as Black or White is that it robs them of their ethnic identity. It is a character polarizing the United States American’s as a competitive people based on color. In many ways, it’s a commodity which elbows out distinguished groups and generalizes other ones, also. How do Asian-Americans fit into the color scheme? Furthermore, does the term Asian-American even give an accurate picture of a group of people?

Although it is true that many African-Americans are not privy to an obvious direct link to their ethnic roots, it is fair to say if their surname is of English, Dutch, French or Spanish origins then they probably are descendents of the United States African Slave Trade or the Atlantic Slave Trade. Many African-American friends of mine have English or Dutch surnames which as a child differentiated my identity from them. Often I would have to explain my ethnic heritage which was no more estranged as theirs but certainly of a different path to the United States. At times, this separation made me feel isolated and I found myself wondering why I wasn’t embraced like other African-Americans. Of course, as a child there were understandable reasons why other children immediately associated my ethnicity with Mexico because it is the closest Spanish influenced country near my home state California. However, even as an adult exploring life through my college years, living on the east coast there were numerous opportunities where my ethnicity was misconstrued into some distorted perversity which I had to demand clarification. Once, a professor sneered at me through her disposition after a pleasant walk to campus when she learned my given name Mercedez. Although my name is an authentic Spanish name it is widely identified as a luxury vehicle. Beyond that, the story of German engineer Karl Benz was that his wife was Spanish and upon completing his automotive design he decided to name the car after their daughter Mercedes Benz. The professor scoffed at the astounding rate which African-Americans, at the time, were naming their children after expensive inanimate objects. Much to my annoyance, I explained my ethnic heritage.

Another professor met me with similar discontent even though I shared early on my ethnic heritage. The professor presumed that because of my knowledge of Spanish descent I was born predetermined for success. Again, not only was I separated from others because of my ethnicity there was a huge gap of understanding where the U.S. African Slave Trade was concerned. What was the difference between a U.S. slave and a Caribbean one? The climate, the food, the industries, the culture but at the end of the day they were both still slaves. Perhaps the Spanish were less harsh than the Southern United States Masters but that gave me no more information about which African country my folks descended from.

I have survived intense conversations with Hispanic friends who chime that their voice is not included with identities based on color. It has come to my awareness however that the color hierarchy of African-Americans over the 20th Century is parallel to Hispanics. Where in the United States circa 1950’s dark complexion Negros were the most undesirable and light complexion Negros were more favorable the same was true for Hispanics. Although slavery had been legally abolished by that time, social pillars distinguishing light and dark were still intact perhaps not intentionally but nevertheless impacting grand social themes personally and collectively. What seems to sneak from debate is how similar Native Americans and some of the dark complexion Central and South Americans look.

When I think about the color spectrum of people and how it dictates how their viewed, with or without their permission, my feeling is their given and surname are really strong indicators of their ethnic identity. That is why African-Americans have had such an enormous challenge figuring out who they wanted to be because it was never established with dignity; a basic human right. If a person has a Jewish surname their basic ethnic heritage is evident regardless of how they have chosen to steer their life. If a person has an English surname but clearly is of African descent it may be no wonder why that person would want to rebel from anything remotely related to the English descendents as well as present European or Caucasian influences. Even if their perspective is myopic, given the messy nature of ethnic identities who can blame anyone for feeling contempt? Needless to say, there is plethora of people in the U.S. where it is impossible to know by name or looks what their ethnic heritage is. But then there are people still that you can guesstimate.

What I love about it all is how people are affected by their regions, culture, education and friendships or better yet how individuals can impact their regions, culture, education and friendships. It fascinates me to learn about people’s personality and character but to know the lingering background of their family like a halo to an angel. For me, I have always held onto my own ethnicity as a way to understand who I am and what I like. Certainly, I’ve been a person who has experienced how unique one can be given all the complexities of being human. It’s nice to know that though I’m a human being, being human about all the many layering patterns of life in the United States of America has not impeded my freedom to be me.

Television Blues

How is it that we, the people, watch television without the bi-lingual conscious that what we are viewing is neither real nor totally unreal? Television is a world in of itself. It is a parallel universe which is composite of cameras, directors, producers, writers, make-up artists, hair stylists, stylists, and designers who are never, with regards to some exceptions, present before us to view but which in fact control the images for which we process as entertainment. How is that after 100 years plus of motion pictures does this fact not resonate with the general public which consumes it. We need to be media literate. It isn't as though there is no truth in what we see on TV but frankly there is much more that the eye can see. People we need to be cognitive of that. There is no more quality in information which is neatly packaged into a reality television show, news or movie than your home videos. It’s like comparing the packaging of a Tiffany's gift to a Target gift. One has a distinct branding that is recognizable and the other is just cheaper. But who's to say which one is more valuable? The buyer or the seller? I choose the buyer. I am the viewer: one person in an audience. TV can try and sell me these stories, ideas and such but I know where the real power stands.

Media, with the exception to the internet thank God, is one of the few products available where the consumer pays before they receive it. I consider that one of the biggest scams ever. Personally, I've walked out of movies that offended me or were inappropriately rated. I've even written letters and made calls to studios and the rating company. But I'm one person. Most people won't even bother to give feedback and even if they wanted to there isn't a bee line available anyway. We are too passive when it comes to our entertainment. After all, it's just a form of communication to which we are entitled to communicate right back. Who knows what the media will look like 50 years from now? As we hit our middle age and presume enormous responsibilities I hope to see one of them to be in the 21st Century that we exercise our privilege for ourselves and for our children so they will look at us not with scorn but with respect that we knew something and did more than what was expected of us.

I'm stepping down from my soapbox now.

© Unpublished 2009

Mr. Peterman in new shoes

Written for and inspired by Chris Parnell of SNL

Mr. Peterman was an ordinary man. He worked in a big building on the nineteenth floor in a cubicle maze near the bathroom hall across from the water cooler. He lived in a white stucco building with red shingles and large succulents adorning the walkway. He drove a hybrid. He was doing his part. He ate beans & rice with sometimes baked chicken or fish.
Mr. Peterman had no children. He had no friends except for his extensive music collection. Mr. Peterman was a man with soul.
One day while driving home from work Mr. Peterman’s CD player started skipping his favorite Miles Davis CD, Sketches in Spain. Annoyed, he quickly took it out and placed it on the dashboard face-up while in traffic. Stuck on the highway without his usual selection of musical distractions he opted for the low-cultured, random, chaotic, commercially inflicted common radio. As he pressed the radio button, accelerated the car a bit then pressed on the brakes, he promised himself that if he got out of this alive he’d invest in satellite radio.
Oh, the dread of listening to such filth of the hip hop youth with its’ silenced profanity. Mr. Peterman knew what they were saying. He may be square but he was young once too. Then there were the water-downed pop songs and all their silly repetitive lifeless meaningless declarations of love. What do these girls barely clothed know about matters of the heart they’re hardly old enough to know the minds of dirty old men. Then there’s the country and their quacked out ways. The techno club sounds revving up his nerves to no end.
Mr. Peterman had had enough. He turned the radio off with a huff.
As he accelerated a bit more then pressed on the brakes, he could hear sounds that he never considered. He opened his window with the push of a button and was exonerated with the sounds of the highway, his fellow travelers and the city that accompanied it. He rolled his window back up and accelerated a bit more then pressed his foot on the brake while he turned the radio back on.
The song was good. It had a nice upbeat tempo to it. The melody was catchy and cheerful without any pretentiousness. It was like he’d found his ordinary sound.
****************************************************************************
Out of traffic and into his neighborhood, Mr. Peterman drove out of his way to the record store. He felt as though there might be another world out there that he hadn’t quite given a chance. Even though the radio was off he was smitten with his new found love song. He wanted to keep the tune in his head. No distractions, just singing the tune over and over. He’d wished he had satellite that way he would’ve known who the artist was because the DJ didn’t say so. Despite the odds, he was determined he would have his new song. He was in love.
Mr. Peterman parked his car in the Sunny Vale shopping mall and took the elevator to the Barnes & Noble Booksellers level. Through the double doors and past the rows of bookshelves with heroic muscular men holding up beautiful damsels in distress he stopped a bookseller for directions to the music section.
“It’s downstairs”
“Thank you”
He passed a table of cookbooks and the one that caught his eye had a woman on it with the title Extraordinary Recipes for the Ordinary Guy . He thought to himself, “She seems pretty smart. I think I’ll get that book too”. He held it in his hand uncomfortably as though he was going to buy it but hadn’t just yet.
Down the escalator he went and passed the metal detectors to the front counter where no one stood. He looked around for a sales person when someone caught his eye and started to make their way towards him. Mr. Peterman excited but nervous waited for the salesperson to arrive.
“Can I help you find something?”
“Yes. I’m looking for an album; CD actually but I’m afraid I don’t know the artist or the name of the song”.
“Oooh, that can be a problem. Do you know any other song titles by this group? It is a group or is it a solo artist?”
“It’s a group; a band, I think”
“OK. Good, is it female or male mostly?”
“Uh, male. I can sing it for you if that’ll help.”
“I don’t know if that’ll help but you can certainly try.”
“Bada bada dad a, Dad a dad a dad a dad a da, Dad a dada dad a dad a my atmosphere…(he took a long pause). The salesperson looked curiously in the air as if he could somehow see the band in the atmosphere. Mr. Peterson continued on beat, “Where soul meets ba-dee….Where soul meets ba-dee….That’s all I know.”
The salesperson smiled widely, “Man, that’s Death Cab for Cutie. They’re awesome. You’re in for a real treat. I can get that for you.”
Mr. Peterman could not contain his happiness for the rest of the way home even though he didn’t dare play it in his car stereo.

The epicurean nature

Prologue

Life is so good to me. I can’t complain at all. It’s as if there is nothing in the world that I can’t have or need because I have it all. I have it all? Yes, I have it all. But then what else is there to live for? Oh, there’s so much to live for. There are the birds in the trees singing their sweet little songs. There’s the sun shining so bright and eagerly that it cannot wait until you step out of the dark and into its’ light. There’s the light blue sky so far beyond reach that it escapes you though it shapes your mood inside your heart. There are the green leaves that insist on sprouting out of the brown tree bark or the dark chocolate soil and beams up at you to notice. Don’t even think about forgetting the flowers that blossom and know they are fabulous whether you believe in them or not. Don’t even start about the pollution, the bills, the prices and what is all wrong. Because you won’t get any sympathy from me. It’s not all bad out there. It’s just a world waiting to be. And how about your heart? Is it growing everyday with your words, thoughts and actions? Are you stretching it as if you were a healthy athlete of love exercising your right to give without expectation in return? Are you being the love that you want to have? Do you see it all around you? You do? Do you? I hope that all is well with you in your heart and in your mind. Because honey moon, that is all you’ll ever have in this green-blue earth. And that’s all you’ll ever need baby child.
Chapter One
Her dreams were good. If she were truly tired and needed the sleep she’d keep on dreaming because they were so informative. There was so much going on up there in that brain of hers that she was OK in sleeping in for another hour or so. The mattress was firm and comfortable. The pillows were fluffy and huggable but when she woke up she knew it was time to get up. Even though her eyes were still closed and she was still dreaming, she knew it was morning. The light gave way and reached out for her eyes to see. Taking in a deep breath as if giving into the day, she lifted herself up and stepped out of the bed.
Her thoughts buzzed around annoyingly. She was up but damn!
Into the bathroom, for a quick-cold water wake-up splash on the face, towel-dry the water right back off, looking into the mirror was a renewed face. A face of confidence and love that couldn’t wait to start the day because she knew it would be a great one.
Down the stairs she stepped avoiding the creaks memorized intuitively. It wasn’t the paper she wanted though it would be read eventually. She loved to read the paper, like her mother did, like a novelty, but what was wanted could be more. Walking across the lovely pale peach ceramic tile Isabella picked up the kettle to put on the fire. Surprised that there was enough water in it she went onto to do the next thing. Grinding the shiny coffee beans, the rude sound awoke her more than the drink itself; then tipped it sideways tapping the coffee into the golden cone that snugly sat in the mouth of her French bowl. What she wanted was a moment. A perfect sense of fresh earthiness layered under a bed of rose petals. She was looking forward to it.
Tip-toeing out onto the old wooden floor of the back porch she froze in the sunshine spotlight. There she stood thawing out until the kettle whistle blew, like a school bell calling her back to duty. Getting the coffee taste was just as important as getting the right beans. It wasn’t these little moments that mattered though, though there was a careful cautionary deliberation about it all. What mattered was, what mattered was…
Sitting in a comfy chair on the front porch sipping on hot coffee, the dream came alive once more. It was a gut feeling that love was near and ready to stay for good. Oh, how she wanted that feeling to be true and realized. Just sitting pretty in work-out clothes and puffed up hair in a loose bun untouched like the dirt about to be gardened. If there were any other way would it be known? Would it be some secret instinct niggling around inside? Patience and sighs. Taking another sip of coffee. The neighborhood is up. People are getting on with things. The day is born again and she is beautiful.
Chapter Two

The store clerk said to Isabella, “You haven’t lived until you’ve smelled a gardenia in bloom”. She spoke as if its smell were so strong that it inspired her like a healthy lover pumped with anticipation or a steamy bathroom, supple from taking a long hot shower. The clerk continued, “It’s a light aroma, sweet as a blush-pink top sheet being gently fanned on top of you” as if she meant like the sway of a falling feather the natural fragrance making a subtle impression. Its presence is known and unknown as if an idea were planted simply by the artists’ aesthetics, the work unappreciated though influential.
Isabella went home with a bottle of massage oil scented in Gardenia.

Though skeptical, the clerks’ spirit lingered and on one warm quiet evening with the light in the room blood orange from the suns’ sunset Isabella rubbed the sweet almond oil with Gardenia into her skin. She wanted it all over her as if she were the flower herself. Planting drops of it on her wrists, rubbing them together like equal mates spreading it on, behind her ears, inside her knees and down the center of her chest like a beaded necklace delicate and enticing she was absorbed.

The night fell into a morning Persian blue with a hint of its cunning air bringing her sheet closer to her.

The clerks’ voice penetrated her thoughts even days later, “The whiff goes through your nose and straight to your noggin making it light-headed and giddy. It affects your outlook and how you feel. Surrendering to the fragrance puts you in a mood no matter where you are it will drive you to dream of a window to peer out of”.

In the past, there were too many times when Isabella fell for a line or a smile. If she believed everything that flew out of her mother’s mouth, her fathers’ gut or anyone else who wanted to have an influence, or rather were influenced by her, though dared not to admit it, she would be buried; like shit under a thousand flies. She mistakenly believed that the greatest strength came from autonomy; from being alone. Through her isolation she could hear no noise. Instead, she heard the sweet sunny songs of her own thoughts; her own thoughtfulness. It made her smile.

Chapter Three

It wasn’t yesterday it is today. It isn’t the moon and stars it is the bright yellow sun. It is the day. It is the beginning. It is the way in which the fruit will bear. It is the will, want, the energy and the happiness.
It is the courage the strength the perseverance the fog losing all sense of time, the determination the step forward the creative process the design the building the friends the latitude the grind the stiff back the piano hands the lost in space the look the sigh the music the rhythm the motivation the stress the panic button the ability the agility the credence the humility the gratitude the joy the flirt the dance the chance the risk the biting of the bottom lip the chin cupped in hand the long drive back home the damn! The responsibility the career the childhood the future the history the mistakes the hope of it all turning out like sweet cakes the looking forward to tomorrow.

Then there was a moment. You could call it an epiphany though that would be too pretentious for Isabella. She would never dare associate the power of God with her own mere life. For her, life was like a spec in the ocean; insignificant amongst the great vastness of the natural world. If for any reason she found herself sitting on the bed thinking it wasn’t because she was on some profound quest though that was exactly what she was doing. In her mind, she was just tired. Sitting down was something one does when one needs rest.

Isabella looking in the mirror talking out loud, wrapped in a terry-cloth robe, “How dare you not trust in the universe and let your body flow. I cannot make you do what you do with your body; your actions. I cannot tell you what to think and feel. Neither alive nor numb I am escalated from the pain of despair from many years ago. I listen to music and hear the roots of trees. Kiss them I say and they will kiss you back with tongue. They will speak their minds and show their feelings of desire of many years to come. Perhaps, your children will get the message”.

She spoke softly to herself, “I hear the voices of India; the women in their elongated games. I hear the wailing hearts angry with no shame. I am no more addicted; a word inappropriate to love. I am no more addicted. I feel and that is a human gain. To be alive is well beyond the mores of preciousness. It is a category waiting to be abolished. Our sounds derive from the baking bread of clay and fire. Where is your fire? Your clay can be found deep in our ocean of forgiveness. It is a grateful time to be alive. Taking in deep breaths and swimming around in the air like a butterfly in search of a flower. Let it be raining and pouring the water that represents emotion. I am happy to be alive. Are you?”

Isabella walking around their room unbeknownst to her, “Over-bearing, over-caring, over-indulgent, over-protective are words non-descriptive of love. I am over those words in search for more nothing. A little bit of meaning is enough. I flex my legs with ease. I stretch my arms and trust in the universe; I trust in the pulse. When people make love and are in rhythm there is a pulse that is cohesive to the earth’s heartbeat. So love the trees. And kiss them for me”.

Chapter Four

With the reunion approaching, like a tornado about to whirl into town, Isabella definitely felt enormous pressure to go. It didn’t feel good. It felt great. It’s as if big things were about to take place, her intuit worked like an animal how they scurry around right before an earthquake hits, simply because they can feel it; tension and anxiety were understatements. It wasn’t just coming from her. It was everyone. Some of these people hadn’t seen each other in four or five years; some in 15. Knowing this was a good thing, though scary, was the wisdom of a reunion. Transformation always seems to occur overnight though in reality it’s an energy that’s constantly moving inch by inch ever so slowly, like a moon eclipsing the sun. The apprehension didn’t come from a place external to the human heart. It came from within. Everyone was a little nervous whether they’d admit it or not because these were the people who could look at you and within a trice size you up from your unintentional childhood image; your natural imperfect self. From your chubby cheeks, shaggy bed-head, nasty crusty eye, hungry belly, neglected heart, abused ego, to your skinny legs or foul body odor because no one ever taught you to use deodorant. These were the folks that spent incredible amounts of time with you. Day in and day out they saw you, sat next to you, ate with you, exercised with you, laughed with you, mocked you, judged you, made fun of you, admired you, copied you, or just plain ignored you. But they had to know that you were there to make a conscious effort to act as if they didn’t. It was all public and incomprehensible; a social hierarchy of nonsense and unexplained reactions.

What did make sense though was a need to reconnect. There were many memories dormant even before the reunion that settled into Isabella’s soul like butter melting into toast. The desire she felt came from her grown-up self; her maturity. She wanted to see these people; heck, it was an opportunity to go back if for at least the joy of giving out hugs and compliments to people who’d appreciate it most. Not because they needed it but because they’d never expect it from her. Isabella was reformed. When she drove into her high school town passing along the same old diners, the same old motels, the same old hospitals and same old shopping malls she was reconnecting to the little girl that lived there and knew nothing else in the world. It was a small world that escaped her many wonders and left her often to interpret things on her own little imagination. She did well to entertain herself with her siblings and friendships but they too were confused about their world and what it all was really about. What Isabella didn’t have in her childhood would be made up for in her later years.

Isabella loved to cook little appetizers for her friends. She herself was a snacker. Eating three large meals a day were possible out of routine and structure but on her own accord she’d rather nibble on a piece of fruit while bird watching in the park. Isabella ate very little because she consumed life like passion for experience. From around the corner of the kitchen she would proudly set a tray of homemade-looking appetizers like a picture out of Betty Crocket; photogenic food. People stood around the buffet table grazing while others collected what looked good on a paper plates and settled into a cozy corner to chat with old friends. Isabella thought that life was pretty much like a party. Clyde loved watching people relax in a comfortable environment with soft conga drums playing in the atmosphere and the level of noise buzzing like a swarm of bees, intriguing because he knew that everyone was engaged socially. He felt it was a gift to have such experiences whether as a creator or a traveler. As if they understood the game of love, Isabella and Clyde often would find themselves creating distractions, illusions and mazes that would ultimately create so much confusion between them that they’d get lost and take on the pursuit; the mission of being found again.

Over a decade later they met again at the reunion. This time he decided to turn up the charm. This time she decided to wear the Gardenia oil. When he leaned in to give her a friendly hug he suddenly didn’t want to let go. She smelled so good to him he was surprised he hadn’t noticed it before. Of course he let her go but when he did she noticed a look in his eye. To her, he seemed almost drunk all of the sudden as if the whiff of her made him a little silly. She didn’t smell any liquor on his breath but she wasn’t exactly in his face either.

“What the hell is wrong with him?” she thought.


The space was right. The decorations were set. The streamers hung superman-blue and twisted like a high school prom held in a gymnasium. The yellow balloons carpeted the entry way like puffed up chests proud to be there. Even the crystal punch bowl sat adorning the setting with its sweet pinkish lemonade as if saying how pristine the whole affair would be with floating lemon slices dyed pink from the punch making things a little more realistic. The subtle drums playing on the stereo were harmonious with the warm air coming off the summer sun. All was whimsical, attributes of a proper festivity. A party really but there was no celebration per se. There was no reason to come together. No triumph or victory had just occurred; just a group of like-minded people who enjoyed festivals. No different from children gathering in a sandbox.

Isabella came into the recreational room from the kitchen wearing a champagne silk dress and red shoes that matched her lips. She didn’t want to overdress and make her guests feel uncomfortable yet she wanted to dress up for the occasion. She didn’t know what the occasion would mean for her for so it was hard to decide. People were coming; that’s all she knew so it was better to overdress than under-dress as her mother would always say. Walking along the sofa she fluffed the pillows and turned them around so that the cushion would be firmer for people when they sat there. Then decided it was time to rest. Isabella crossed her ankles a position picturesque.

Soon the guests would arrive. These were lovely times to catch up with friends and meet new ones. Betty was bringing her new beau, though through their phone conversations not only did this dreamy bloke seem already familiar he was like one of the guys that could lull a lion to sleep. Presley Scott was a young trumpet musician who traveled around the world playing jazz. Incidentally, in the middle of buttering bread out of the corner of her eye Isabella noticed the first guests arrive through the movement beyond the distorted front door window. Even yet, she could see that Betty wore a red polka dot dress with black heels.

Betty, curvy and audacious, opened the door; she has arms that work just fine. On the other hand, Isabella opened the door by opening up the conversation. She was the hostess and wanted to make sure that that was established.

She blurted her thoughts, “I was just thinking about you!”
Betty bantered, “And here I am! It better be good thoughts.”“Great thoughts,” Isabella concurred.
“This is Presley. Presley this is Isabella”
“Hi, so nice to meet you, come in, come in. I’ve heard only wonderful cool things about you”

Clyde walked up to the excitement and wiped his hands on the sides of his trousers as if he’d been cooking. Isabella noticed the play and chuckled a tad inside.

Extending his hand to Presley, “Hey, nice to meet you, I’m Clyde”.
“I’m Presley, likewise”
“Hey Betty Boop,” Clyde leans in for a cheek to cheek kiss.
“Clyde you smell good what are you doing with yourself these days?”
“Just using soap Betty. Now, be good”

They laughed to break the ice; the kind of water that’s so frozen solid it could cool a room just by looking at it. They laughed because they wanted everyone to be happy but they wanted that joy to be reached quickly, too quickly. They also wanted to insure energy. They were the party people bringing life to the beginning of the festivities. The talking wouldn’t stop. There would be little room for a serious moment. As more guests arrived because Betty and Presley were the first they became Assistant Hosts and Hostesses taking coats, pouring drinks, making conversation, creating comfort. Each time a guest would arrive a hierarchy of hosts and hostesses would develop until everyone was hosting somebody.

Once the reunion took flight Clyde made his move. He regained his confidence and was determined not to separate from her anymore than what was socially appropriate. So he took her hand in his and led her out of the recreation room to take a stroll in the garden. As they breezed by the roses showing off his talents in horticulture she could sense his compassion more than she remembered. He was thoughtful and caring; always making sure she was at ease, touching her somewhere, whether it was her hand, her elbow, her lower back, her face. She didn’t know how to feel about all this contact. All she knew was that it was causing her heart a workout. She felt flushed.

As the day disappeared and night made its entrance, Isabella and Clyde were no longer friends but rather two people who saw the other’s true humanity. It made the whole group feel real; even more than the memories that seemed more authentic. Isabella felt a tinge of hope, from girl to woman, which seemed to take a thousand years to reach though really was just a dance at a party waiting to happen.