Hello and Happy Friday,
This is the last time I’ll be writing from this location. I'll be moving to a new site, a change/new job, on July 1st. I’m not happy about it but it’s a job and I’m very grateful these days to have one—just about any kind—until things look up. Though the only way this happens is that you do what you need to do to find a better positiong for yourself or start your own business or do what it takes to move forward, make your own life what you want it to be because this is the only way it’ll happen.
It’s the same with the writing. The only time your books, plays, short stories get written is when you do the work, write, then re-write and re-write and keep on through the challenges until your work is where you want it to be—no different from getting your life where you want it to be; a good place for yourself and your family.
Write and always keep of the good fight to do more and be more.
If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com
Until next time, God willing.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Friday, June 19, 2009
Hello and Happy Friday,
Here is the rest, I hope you like it.
Less Than (continued)
I know you’ve guessed ‘the until’. Yes, I saw the numbered white appear over Clare’s head. I shouldn’t have been surprised to see it, though it sometimes caught me off guard; yet I was surprised because I loved her. I had fallen deep though I hadn’t spoken more than a word or two to her or looked into that lovely face for more than 5 seconds. I’d passed their table many times, walked by her back memorizing its shape, the straight, smooth vertebrae; wanting to touch that warm vulnerable spot that was the nape of her neck, her hair parting against it. I’ve never fallen in love at first sight though I’ve been in love before, it just never lasted and not just because I might know why she shouldn’t buy that new car next year.
I adored this woman whom I knew nothing about except for how long she would live. I needed to know her, to find out if she was happy and if she wasn’t I would make her happy for as long as I could. I needed, was desperate, to do this. And I understood it just wasn’t for Clare--because of how I felt--it was also for those whom the numbered white appeared and I was helpless to do a damn thing.
So the next time she came in alone—before the Timothy-Dalton-look-alike-arrived—and sat down at her table; me watching her from behind the kitchen door, oblivious to the noise from the staff; I took a deep breath, walked out and over to her. Pulling out the chair facing her I sat down. She looked startled at first then calmed. She had seen me around of course.
“My name is Fletcher,” I began. “I’m the manager here.”
“I know,” her eyes I saw were the color of summer leaves. “Sherry told me. I asked because you’re always here, you say hello to everyone with a smile and mean it.”
Caught off guard by the fact she’d noticed me. “It’s a pleasure to do it; I want every one to come back.”
“Like we do.”
“Like you do.”
“What do you want?”
I went for it. “Whatever you want.” I glanced up and saw him coming toward us. “To make you happy; for as long as I can.”
There was silence; we stared at each other until she said, “I love Coney Island.”
The End
Finally.
If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com
Until next time, God willing.
Here is the rest, I hope you like it.
Less Than (continued)
I know you’ve guessed ‘the until’. Yes, I saw the numbered white appear over Clare’s head. I shouldn’t have been surprised to see it, though it sometimes caught me off guard; yet I was surprised because I loved her. I had fallen deep though I hadn’t spoken more than a word or two to her or looked into that lovely face for more than 5 seconds. I’d passed their table many times, walked by her back memorizing its shape, the straight, smooth vertebrae; wanting to touch that warm vulnerable spot that was the nape of her neck, her hair parting against it. I’ve never fallen in love at first sight though I’ve been in love before, it just never lasted and not just because I might know why she shouldn’t buy that new car next year.
I adored this woman whom I knew nothing about except for how long she would live. I needed to know her, to find out if she was happy and if she wasn’t I would make her happy for as long as I could. I needed, was desperate, to do this. And I understood it just wasn’t for Clare--because of how I felt--it was also for those whom the numbered white appeared and I was helpless to do a damn thing.
So the next time she came in alone—before the Timothy-Dalton-look-alike-arrived—and sat down at her table; me watching her from behind the kitchen door, oblivious to the noise from the staff; I took a deep breath, walked out and over to her. Pulling out the chair facing her I sat down. She looked startled at first then calmed. She had seen me around of course.
“My name is Fletcher,” I began. “I’m the manager here.”
“I know,” her eyes I saw were the color of summer leaves. “Sherry told me. I asked because you’re always here, you say hello to everyone with a smile and mean it.”
Caught off guard by the fact she’d noticed me. “It’s a pleasure to do it; I want every one to come back.”
“Like we do.”
“Like you do.”
“What do you want?”
I went for it. “Whatever you want.” I glanced up and saw him coming toward us. “To make you happy; for as long as I can.”
There was silence; we stared at each other until she said, “I love Coney Island.”
The End
Finally.
If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com
Until next time, God willing.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Hello happy Monday I hope,
"Less Than" continued.
Capistrano’s is a bistro that serves simple fare: pot roast and new potatoes, hearty vegetable soups, sandwiches with fresh bread, homemade cakes and pies; nothing too fancy but all cooked with the healthiest, leanest ingredients we could buy. You’ve heard it’s only a good idea to partner up with your best friends if you don’t want to be friends long, but we did it anyway and it’s been successful which is a plus since its my life.
I arrive there usually by 7 to meet with Charles and Janice to discuss the day’s operations, the day's menu and the previous night’s business we had already discussed the night before. I go over the receipts, review the staff and do other managerial duties, enjoying most of them.
It’s not a big place, yet just right, well-lighted with windows all around that bring in the sun. We wanted to make it a ‘clean, well-lighted place’ a la Hemingway and it’s full of warm sun even when it’s gone. It’s inviting, a place to relax and breathe for a while and not just for the clientele. I love its atmosphere, the feel and look of it. Sometimes I'll sit by the window at my favorite table by the coffee bar and watch the room, what people are eating and drinking and if they're enjoying it.
At other times I’ll sit over my black coffee, very still, staring out at the people moving along the street, some with the numbered white fluttering over their heads. The numbers that brilliant black Modern.20: 40, 27, 6, 71, 18, 1 and on and on. It’s not as if I see them all the time—thank Heaven—marking the end. For the most part I’ve learned to live with them or even--on my best days--not really see them, more like catching something from the corner of my eye I refuse to heed. It’s the only way I can live a normal life.
We have regulars; are lucky to have them. There's a group of retirees, four men, all who seemed old enough to have been retired for twenty years or more. They pay for their first cup of coffee and cinnamon scones but get anything extra on the house. They show up at least six days a week and if one is missing; Lila, who works the coffee bar and who knows them by first name, would ask after him and they always appreciated the asking.
There is Wayne and Steve, office workers from Regus who come in for the lunch special; who tell bad jokes to each other and anyone else who'd listen; jokes they think are hilarious.
Do I see the numbered white over any of them? Yes…and no. I saw it materialize over Wayne and two of the retirees but I looked away, willed it away so I never got their numbers and can greet them with a genuine smile untinged with sad hopelessness.
So we have our regulars, most I was used to seeing, even glad to see except for one; I was not just glad to see her but had come to a ‘need’ to see her.
Clare.
When I first saw her, it was Wednesday, the 23rd. She walked in on his arm and I glanced at them because I was counting glasses behind the bar and went immediately back to it. I knew they were new customers, new faces which was fine; I was glad for it and hoped they’d be repeaters, this was my only interest in Clare…at first.
From that day on the two would come in once or twice a week. She always held onto his arm and he would seat her first like a gentleman before taking his. They would sit across from each other, their faces very close with her looking directly at him and no one else; her face so tensely attentive on his it was as if he were her whole world. He looked to be in his late thirties, in good shape, with brown hair swiped with gray; he reminded me of the 4th James Bond, Timothy Dalton. It was she though that drew me of course. I began to really look at her, then openly stare even when I tried not to.
She was New York City attractive: slim, but shapely in the stylish clothes of the city girl. Yet, it was her face of course that captured me. She had long black hair and even, delicate features, the face of a smiling, open, unworldly Midwestern girl used to wide spaces, gentle turns of neighborliness, virginal blankets of snow. A face that knew no unkindness, no darkness, no pain; I grew to be fascinated by that lovely, innocent face.
Since they sat at the same table almost each afternoon, Sherry, the waitress who stationed the area, began to tell me; after they’d departed of course, what they had talked about, argued over, laughed about.
Sherry told me her name.
“I heard him call her, Clare,” Sherry said, “That’s it.”
And it was perfect. Until…
Finishing up--I hope--in the next installment.
If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com
Until next time, God willing,
Lori
"Less Than" continued.
Capistrano’s is a bistro that serves simple fare: pot roast and new potatoes, hearty vegetable soups, sandwiches with fresh bread, homemade cakes and pies; nothing too fancy but all cooked with the healthiest, leanest ingredients we could buy. You’ve heard it’s only a good idea to partner up with your best friends if you don’t want to be friends long, but we did it anyway and it’s been successful which is a plus since its my life.
I arrive there usually by 7 to meet with Charles and Janice to discuss the day’s operations, the day's menu and the previous night’s business we had already discussed the night before. I go over the receipts, review the staff and do other managerial duties, enjoying most of them.
It’s not a big place, yet just right, well-lighted with windows all around that bring in the sun. We wanted to make it a ‘clean, well-lighted place’ a la Hemingway and it’s full of warm sun even when it’s gone. It’s inviting, a place to relax and breathe for a while and not just for the clientele. I love its atmosphere, the feel and look of it. Sometimes I'll sit by the window at my favorite table by the coffee bar and watch the room, what people are eating and drinking and if they're enjoying it.
At other times I’ll sit over my black coffee, very still, staring out at the people moving along the street, some with the numbered white fluttering over their heads. The numbers that brilliant black Modern.20: 40, 27, 6, 71, 18, 1 and on and on. It’s not as if I see them all the time—thank Heaven—marking the end. For the most part I’ve learned to live with them or even--on my best days--not really see them, more like catching something from the corner of my eye I refuse to heed. It’s the only way I can live a normal life.
We have regulars; are lucky to have them. There's a group of retirees, four men, all who seemed old enough to have been retired for twenty years or more. They pay for their first cup of coffee and cinnamon scones but get anything extra on the house. They show up at least six days a week and if one is missing; Lila, who works the coffee bar and who knows them by first name, would ask after him and they always appreciated the asking.
There is Wayne and Steve, office workers from Regus who come in for the lunch special; who tell bad jokes to each other and anyone else who'd listen; jokes they think are hilarious.
Do I see the numbered white over any of them? Yes…and no. I saw it materialize over Wayne and two of the retirees but I looked away, willed it away so I never got their numbers and can greet them with a genuine smile untinged with sad hopelessness.
So we have our regulars, most I was used to seeing, even glad to see except for one; I was not just glad to see her but had come to a ‘need’ to see her.
Clare.
When I first saw her, it was Wednesday, the 23rd. She walked in on his arm and I glanced at them because I was counting glasses behind the bar and went immediately back to it. I knew they were new customers, new faces which was fine; I was glad for it and hoped they’d be repeaters, this was my only interest in Clare…at first.
From that day on the two would come in once or twice a week. She always held onto his arm and he would seat her first like a gentleman before taking his. They would sit across from each other, their faces very close with her looking directly at him and no one else; her face so tensely attentive on his it was as if he were her whole world. He looked to be in his late thirties, in good shape, with brown hair swiped with gray; he reminded me of the 4th James Bond, Timothy Dalton. It was she though that drew me of course. I began to really look at her, then openly stare even when I tried not to.
She was New York City attractive: slim, but shapely in the stylish clothes of the city girl. Yet, it was her face of course that captured me. She had long black hair and even, delicate features, the face of a smiling, open, unworldly Midwestern girl used to wide spaces, gentle turns of neighborliness, virginal blankets of snow. A face that knew no unkindness, no darkness, no pain; I grew to be fascinated by that lovely, innocent face.
Since they sat at the same table almost each afternoon, Sherry, the waitress who stationed the area, began to tell me; after they’d departed of course, what they had talked about, argued over, laughed about.
Sherry told me her name.
“I heard him call her, Clare,” Sherry said, “That’s it.”
And it was perfect. Until…
Finishing up--I hope--in the next installment.
If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com
Until next time, God willing,
Lori
Friday, June 05, 2009
Hello and Happy Friday,
Less Than (continued)
Thank God? Thank Allah? I don’t know. I’ve never dug deeply into my ‘extreme sixth sense’ to consider if it’s a gift or a curse. I’ve prayed about it though, to whom? It didn’t matter, I just prayed for it to go away.
I finally understood what the numbered white actually meant two months later when Mr. Rodriguez died. He and his wife, both retired, lived two doors down from us. I mowed his lawn and after I was done his wife would give me fresh baked cookies and lemonade. Mr. Rodriguez was an avid fisherman, he and his buddy would drive over to Bugg’s Island lake a couple of times a week to catch whatever they could and bring it home for his wife to clean. He’d always save two of his catch for my mother and me though she didn’t like fish but took it anyway because she liked the Rodriguez’s and was grateful for his thoughtfulness.
I had finished the lawn and was sitting on the stairs eating a plate of chocolate chip pecan cookies when Mr. Rodriguez pulled into the driveway. He’d been fishing of course and was wearing his life vest and fishing cap with all the feathered hooks on it. When he got out the car, his bright smile at me dimmed by the brightness of the numbered white that floated over his head, as clean and as fateful as one of those dialogue bubbles over the head of a newspaper cartoon.
“The grass looks good, Fletcher.”
I didn’t respond, just stared at the 8 that glimmered with a dark shine like a black sun. The cookies in my stomach roiled and I set aside the plate.
“What’s the matter?” Mr. Rodriguez asked. “The cookies gone bad?”
“No, they’re good as usual. I must’ve eaten too fast.”
He nodded, “Got a good catch. I’ll bring you and your mother a couple as soon as they’re cleaned.” I nod this time, unable to speak, to take my eyes off that savagely bright 8.
I found out Mr. Rodriguez was dead when I got home from school. A row of cars were parked in his driveway and along the street. My mother was in the kitchen frying fish and crying and I knew.
“Ma?”
“Mr. Rodriguez he—”
“When?” I cut her off and moved to the calendar on the fridge door.
“This morning. He was coming back from the lake with Mr. Marshall when a woman, going the wrong way, hit them head on; they were all killed.”
I was half listening to the how as I counted forward from the day I had seen the number: it was 8 days exactly it had appeared over Mr. Rodriguez’s unknowing head doing its slow, languid gyration that meant everything. 8 days for the dead but it could have been 8 minutes, 8 months, 8 years; I don’t have a clue which one it could mean, I only know that once it appears, it doesn’t change, its fated.
I’m 31 now and live in New York City, well in Brooklyn. I run a restaurant in Manhattan, a bistro on Old Slip called Capistrano started with my best friends, Charles McFarland who’s the chef and Janice Spiegel, the chief baker. We didn’t believe we’d stay open 1 year let alone 7 in a town saturated with restaurants, cafes, sandwich shops, diners, you name it that open and close as fast as time. Yet to our surprise and glee we’ve been able to make it and even take out a small profit.
I order the food and produce, work with the accountant, meet the distributors and try and manage the behind-the-scene catastrophes and machinations that are the business of any restaurant.
The end to come (scary).
If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com
Until next time, God willing.
Less Than (continued)
Thank God? Thank Allah? I don’t know. I’ve never dug deeply into my ‘extreme sixth sense’ to consider if it’s a gift or a curse. I’ve prayed about it though, to whom? It didn’t matter, I just prayed for it to go away.
I finally understood what the numbered white actually meant two months later when Mr. Rodriguez died. He and his wife, both retired, lived two doors down from us. I mowed his lawn and after I was done his wife would give me fresh baked cookies and lemonade. Mr. Rodriguez was an avid fisherman, he and his buddy would drive over to Bugg’s Island lake a couple of times a week to catch whatever they could and bring it home for his wife to clean. He’d always save two of his catch for my mother and me though she didn’t like fish but took it anyway because she liked the Rodriguez’s and was grateful for his thoughtfulness.
I had finished the lawn and was sitting on the stairs eating a plate of chocolate chip pecan cookies when Mr. Rodriguez pulled into the driveway. He’d been fishing of course and was wearing his life vest and fishing cap with all the feathered hooks on it. When he got out the car, his bright smile at me dimmed by the brightness of the numbered white that floated over his head, as clean and as fateful as one of those dialogue bubbles over the head of a newspaper cartoon.
“The grass looks good, Fletcher.”
I didn’t respond, just stared at the 8 that glimmered with a dark shine like a black sun. The cookies in my stomach roiled and I set aside the plate.
“What’s the matter?” Mr. Rodriguez asked. “The cookies gone bad?”
“No, they’re good as usual. I must’ve eaten too fast.”
He nodded, “Got a good catch. I’ll bring you and your mother a couple as soon as they’re cleaned.” I nod this time, unable to speak, to take my eyes off that savagely bright 8.
I found out Mr. Rodriguez was dead when I got home from school. A row of cars were parked in his driveway and along the street. My mother was in the kitchen frying fish and crying and I knew.
“Ma?”
“Mr. Rodriguez he—”
“When?” I cut her off and moved to the calendar on the fridge door.
“This morning. He was coming back from the lake with Mr. Marshall when a woman, going the wrong way, hit them head on; they were all killed.”
I was half listening to the how as I counted forward from the day I had seen the number: it was 8 days exactly it had appeared over Mr. Rodriguez’s unknowing head doing its slow, languid gyration that meant everything. 8 days for the dead but it could have been 8 minutes, 8 months, 8 years; I don’t have a clue which one it could mean, I only know that once it appears, it doesn’t change, its fated.
I’m 31 now and live in New York City, well in Brooklyn. I run a restaurant in Manhattan, a bistro on Old Slip called Capistrano started with my best friends, Charles McFarland who’s the chef and Janice Spiegel, the chief baker. We didn’t believe we’d stay open 1 year let alone 7 in a town saturated with restaurants, cafes, sandwich shops, diners, you name it that open and close as fast as time. Yet to our surprise and glee we’ve been able to make it and even take out a small profit.
I order the food and produce, work with the accountant, meet the distributors and try and manage the behind-the-scene catastrophes and machinations that are the business of any restaurant.
The end to come (scary).
If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com
Until next time, God willing.
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