The Turkeys

The turkeys woke me this morning. They roam our Boston neighborhood in a gaggle, like a gang of delinquent teenagers. They are unafraid; defiant even as they strut across the sidewalk daring pedestrians to cross their paths. I’ve witnessed them charging the oblivious passerby, their brown wings extended, red wattles flapping and eyes narrowed. This morning, they are just outside my window.

When I lived in Franklin, MA a lifetime ago, the turkeys hung out on a rural back road next to a restaurant called “Ma Glockner’s,” an establishment famous for their chicken dinners served with a fresh cinnamon bun. It opened on Maple Street in 1937 on Thanksgiving Day, serving the domesticated big breasted, white, dumbed down brethren of the wild turkeys.

The land surrounding the restaurant could have been lifted from the pages of Watership Down; sun-dappled stones walls, birch leaves alternating green and silver as they shudder in the cool breeze and rabbit warrens burrowed among the twigs and russet colored leaves of the forest floor.  

I used to pass the turkeys of Maple Street on my morning and evening commute. I was mostly unaware of the beauty surrounding me. But every once in a while, one of those damned birds would run along the side of the road, hook a left and attempt to become airborne. Their lumbering bodies would tumble mere inches over the hood of my car, more like an awkward long jump across the road than a graceful bird taking flight. Startled, I’d pull my car into the parking lot of Ma Glockners and wait for a minute while my heart stopped pounding.

I sat there once, listening to Al Green on the radio singing “Love and Happiness.” The tune so sweet it made me tear up. A strip of clouds blushed orange in the western sky. Squirrels chattered in the Oak trees, turkeys huddled. I wanted a love that would make me do right and make me do wrong. Next life, I thought.

But here I am.

Each morning, I check the balance of my 401(K). I calculate the years until retirement. I glance at Facebook. I wait for an email from my agent. Perhaps he worked out a deal at two AM with a publisher and sent me a contract. It could happen. I re-read the same essay I have been working on for two months. I delete a comma and then I put it back. I look to see if any of the publications have accepted my submissions.  

How easily we fall into a routine. But this morning the turkeys gathered outside of my window and sang me a song. Gobble, gobble, gobble—“Wake up mother-fucker.”

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Life Virgins

Watching TV home improvement shows is my religion.  Specifically a show called Property Virgins, which sounds slightly offensive. Like a couple of naïve teenagers have ventured out on a first date with a realtor who strips them of their cash and sweet talks them into buying a new home.  The host will laugh when the virgins ask a silly question “Ha, Ha, Ha!  You are such virgins” and I’ll cringe, because who wants to be reminded of their first awkward fumblings in the back seat of a car when they are attempting to purchase a new home?

At the beginning of the show these virgins will list what they must have and simply cannot live without: four bedrooms, two and half baths, walk in claw-sets (which I understand is southern speak for closets) stainless steel appliances, granite counter-tops  a man cave for the TV and a big back yard for their little fluffy dander mop named Boo. Often, the final decision will hinge on whether they think Boo will have sufficient yard space to use as his toilet.

“I might could live without a three car garage,” the wife will offer begrudgingly and in the background you’ll see the husband mouthing the words “No way in hell.” 

“Our budget is $157,000,” they’ll say.  This is firm.

 “Ha, Ha, Ha! You silly virgins,” the Realtor will laugh.

She will then take them to the most beautiful neighborhood and stroll beside them smugly asking if they like the area, knowing full well that they couldn't possibly afford it.  These shows used to be based in Toronto, but apparently all of the Canadian property virgins’ cherries have been popped. Now they exist in Possum Snout, Georgia, a suburb of Atlanta.

“I love it!  I could see us living here forever!”  The virgins will say in unison.

When the Realtor has them in the palm of her hand, she’ll bring down the other fist and squash their dreams.

“These homes cost 1.2 million dollars!”   

The camera zooms in on the devastated faces of the couple.  Clearly these virgins have never performed any Internet research on the area.

When all is said and done the virgins choose a home that is never what they expected in the first place and always just a tad over their budget, but they couldn't possibly see themselves living anywhere else.  The final scene shows the couple, no longer virgins, sitting on their front porch smiling and entertaining friends with a nice cool glass of Riunite Lambrusco and watching little Boo pop a squat.

When I was young I prepared a list of many things I thought I couldn't possibly live without;   a McMansion in the suburbs, this person’s love, that person’s friendship, the C-level job title, designer labels, bulging biceps and the list goes on.  I thought I had them all too. 

Then one day God appeared wearing a scarf thrown back over her shoulder walking along beside me and asked how I liked the neighborhood. I told her this was everything I thought I ever wanted.

“Ha, Ha, Ha! You silly life virgin,” she said and then Squash!

Pan the camera to a look of devastation on my face.

Of course you know the final scene. I am sitting on the deck of our tiny cottage in Maine with friends and family I never thought I’d have in a place I never would have considered, but can’t imagine any other way.

 

There are some lessons to be learned from these home improvement shows.  One, Boo will end up pooping anywhere, two, your guests don’t care what you serve them (even Lambrusco) as long as you invite them into your home and three, you can plan all you want for the life ahead of you, but never forget that life has its own plan for you.  And that plan is almost always better than anything you could ever have imagined.

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Lotus

The world outside is melting. 

News of the heat wave rises up like steam, curling through the cracks under the door and seeping into my foggy world of cold medicine and delirious dreams where a whimpering ghost wanders through the living room. My mind is trapped in a body of stone. Wake up.

The distant hum of the air conditioner gradually becomes louder like an alarm in a dream pulling me back from a mirror life, a snapshot of this one overlaid with complex plots and nonsensical characters.  I open my eyes and watch the ceiling fan spin quietly in a blurred circle, whisking away the dream.

The angled sunlight on the wall tells me that I have slept through most of the day.  Paul has disappeared on a business trip while I have languished on the sofa watching old re-runs on TV (Sex and the City and Seinfeld if you must know) and drifting through the day on a fevered cloud of Nyquil. The clock chimes as I sit up, six o’clock.

For a day, the world kept spinning and life continued without me.

After searching the kitchen cabinets and finding nothing to satisfy my craving, I place an order with the Asian woman on the other end of the phone line. 

“Ten minute,” she says.  She always says this. 

When I step outside the heat radiates in waves from the ground up. People move in slow motion once removed from life behind dark sunglasses and ear buds.

I pass in front of a shop that is in the process of becoming something else. The store front looks like all of the others, red brick facade with two large display windows and a glass door in the middle. If you were to open it, you’d hear a tinny bell ring.  It was a Russian grocery when we first moved in, selling a handful of tired looking fruits and vegetables labeled in mystic looking characters.  It was reincarnated as a Brazilian restaurant.  The wait staff would sit alone at night, like a scene from Nighthawks, under fluorescent lights casting a dim glow on the dark sidewalk—waiting—for customers who never came. The windows are covered in brown paper now, ready to be peeled back to reveal the next owner’s dream.

When I enter the small Thai restaurant, it is cool, dimly lit and bathed in neutral Zen colors. Small glass pendant lights in blue, red and yellow paint circles of white light on eight tables.  A room length aquarium in the middle splits the restaurant in two. Fish drift slowly as silver pearl air bubbles float one by one to the surface. A couple sitting side by side on a bench briefly looks up at me when I enter and then returns to their hushed conversation.       

A waitress appears, smiles and asks “You pineapple fried rice?”

I have become what I eat.

“Yes,” I whisper fanning my t-shirt against the sweat on my back.

I return to the heat and when I stop in front of my apartment building I notice a purple flower defiantly blooming in the crack between the sidewalk and the steps.  Feet buried in cement it blooms where it grows. 

Once inside the building our neighbor, who has just moved into the apartment below us, waves at me and quickly passes by with a skittish black dog.  He begins to whimper and she hushes him. 

I have met my ghost.

Up the four flights of steps, I return to my apartment.  The coolness washes over me and the airconditioner drones.  Night comes. The moon drifts in a sea of stars. The purple flower closes.

I dream.

 

 

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Acceptance

I tap on the imaginary brake pedal.

“Honey, it still doesn’t work,” Paul sighs, staring straight ahead.  The eye roll implied in his tone is hidden behind his sunglasses.

“Well, we need to get it fixed!” I say with mock alarm and then add “When my book is published you won’t have to drive me to work anymore,” nodding as I survey the dirt encrusted snow mounds passing by the car window.  The snow is brown this time of year, with splotches of yellow, like frozen lemonade; the byproduct of zealous dogs marking temporary territory. I wince at the thought of urine soaked sidewalks, the snow like a black- light highlighting the DNA no one wants to see. 

 “Will I have to cook your meals, clean the house and wash your nasty little underwear anymore?” He asks.

“You are the man behind the man,” I say magnanimously, not fully appreciating the subtext until I say it.  This time Paul uses a finger to lower his sunglasses on his nose so that I can see that he has decided to focus on the innuendo.  My one raised eyebrow tells him to get his mind out of the gutter, but he knows that is where I like it.

Smiling, I return to my thoughts.  Having just completed a memoir writing class my focus lately has been looking at my life through the dual lenses of memory and meaning. My goal: to write a short memoir piece that would be accepted for publication in a literary magazine, which has been accomplished and will be published in the fall.

What else can I achieve?  There is only one way to find out.  Less time to write blog posts, I’m afraid, but more time to write chapters.

“Who will play you in the movie?”  Paul asks. 

I consider his question as I look through the car window.  The snow melts and the sun paints the topical waters orange.  Palm trees whisper in the wind.  I dip my toes into the pool and breathe in the heady jasmine scented air.

If you are going to dream, dream big and dream in color.

 

 

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