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Bride's big day
Sixteen's too young to be married. Oh, for welfare kids who
can't wait to be welfare mothers perhaps, or trash already
pregnant. Not a girl who can afford to have 3,000
Swarovski crystals sewn on her dress, by hand. Women
should be proud of their bodies, not try to conceal
themselves in thirty layers. Her sister tries. Her mother
tries. There's no talking her out of it. It takes her over nine
hours to dress and by then she's so exhausted she has to be
carried to the altar. The bridegroom waits. His parents
stare at her. Now the dress is stuck in the doorway. With
its sixty-foot train still on the dirty church steps, the dress
does all it can to help.
Cadillac Ranch sports the color of courage
"You ain't nothing but a hound dog" rang out from the
Victrola on the dining room sideboard as she sucked her
mother's breast. "Let's play house," another song began,
and her mother sang along, breasts bobbing in time with
the music. She held on for dear life, sucking frantically.
You may drive a pink Cadillac but don't you be nobody's
fool. . . It made so much more sense than all the other
lullabies. As a toddler she thought breasts last forever.
Then, at eight, she thought all her sucking had killed
them, despite what aunts and uncles and teachers and
well-meaning neighbors said. Pink nipples, she thought.
Pink lipstick. No one said the word "cancer" in those days.
Now pink ribbons sprout in store windows all along
Division St. and some crazy rich Texan paints ten vintage
Fleetwoods pink. Even Elvis only gave his mother one, and
it was blue and white when he bought it.
Company Sees Market in Funeral Glasses
Her mother's family is Italian, so if anyone needs dark
glasses it would be them. But even so, their crying is
always loud and full of heads thrust back (eyes up to God),
then lowered. Not like her father's Puritan ancestors--
quiet, reserved, dotting at their tears with a tissue.
Sunglasses would be the finishing touch for them, but of
course none would think to wear the glasses they use on
the beach any more than they'd think to attend the viewing
in a bathing suit. Suspended halfway between mother and
father, the father who died six years ago and the mother
whose funeral is this afternoon, the glasses will also hide
her dry eyes, bits of crud still in the corners.
Couple celebrates with 50-year-old tinned chicken
Saved from a food basket they received as a wedding gift.
Shared at their dining room table on their golden
anniversary. Their pictures were in the press, there will be
a tv blip on Valentine's Day. Their daughter, nearly 1000
miles away, yells at them for the risk they took. He's 73
years old, his wife's 77. They're face to face with a single
room at the local nursing home, already planning what
possessions they can dispose of. His wife suffers from
arthritis and he's had two heart attacks. Yes, they knew
the risk. But the god-damned chicken tasted fine.
Woman pleads no contest for dirty Shih Tzu
She's depressed. Her husband left her for a woman half her
age. She thinks she has the right to be depressed. The
dishes have been piled up in the sink for three weeks now.
She keeps the shades drawn, not that this apartment gets
much light to begin with, and the film of dirt on the
windows doesn't help. She's taken to watching daytime
game shows, a large bag of corn chips on her lap. She's
gained fifteen pounds. Friends invite her out for lunches
and dinners that she picks at, then drops the doggy bag
foist on her in the nearest trash can the moment she's out
of sight. Maybe it's those doggy bags that give them the
idea that a dog will be the perfect companion, demanding
walks that keep her active as well. She reluctantly agrees,
thinking a German shepherd or other large dog that can
offer protection as well as consolation. A refugee from the
Pound perhaps. Instead her friends blow hundreds of
dollars for a yipping lapdog with long silky white fur, a
reminder that her own hair will probably turn white or
grey soon. She can't stand to look at the thing, let alone
comb it. Behind her back, friends whisper no wonder her
husband left.
93-Year-Old Drives ThroughToll
With Body On Windshield
Well, she thinks, at least it's not her father running
someone down and driving off without even knowing.
Thank God it's not her father. Or her husband's father. At
91, her father-in-law no longer drives 1500 miles to Florida
every winter, but his new car will be shipped down to him.
At 89, her father no longer drives at night and keeps his
car in the driveway, not trusting himself to navigate the
tight garage (he didn't have to spell that out for her).
Either father, if asked, could tell you what day it is, what
time it is, what month it is, what town they're in, and the
name of our president. That, and an eye exam, is as much
as anyone should expect from either man. Her father,
though, lives alone, just like this woman driving through
the toll, and knowing at least to stop for the toll. His lady-
friend, who passed away last year, would have been 93.
Dentures Removed From Man's Bronchial Tube
Three years. Three god damned years. He's turned the
mattress on the bed, checked the sink drain. For three days
he searched through every wastebasket in the house, then
his neighbors' garbage cans. Looked in the refrigerator, the
oven, the potato bin, the clothes dryer. She knows the
feeling, her own dentures popping up sometimes as she's
chewing, food getting caught between the bridge and gum.
One time, when she first wore them, a single pea caused
havoc. But three years is hard to imagine. They say his
dentures caught in such a way that they didn't block the
flow of air. Just this shortness of breath sometimes. She
knows that, too. Maybe it's old age that makes her prone to
losing things. A whole hour searching for the hat that was
on her head. And her glasses two or three times a week
now. For six months her father's been searching for his
hearing aid.
Foul-Smelling Orchid Blooms in Australia
It needs flies for pollination, so smells like rotting meat to
attract them. Sort of a mix of three-day-old dead flesh and
manure. Finger-shaped red petals, tongue-shaped leaves
that reach out three feet. After twenty-seven years they
transplanted it, and it bloomed for the first time. The
smell's only going to get stronger. The garden staff has
warned tourists not to visit. Just once every three years,
they say, its normal bloom cycle. All the other days and
weeks and months when people dragged her off to see the
pretty roses, lilies, and gardenias no one seemed to notice
how the scents affected her.
Man Stops Carjacking With Hot Coffee
He remembers his grandmother's funeral, stopping at Bess
Eaton Donuts on the way to church, ordering a large
coffee. From that point on he might as well have been in
the circus. First, he spilled some when he took it over to
the counter, obviously because it was too full. Then,
stirring in Sweet and Low made more spill. Finally he got
it to the table. But the cup was huge, and he has small
hands, and his hands that morning were shaking. It
seemed as if every time he picked up the cup more would
spill. Even, gathering papers together to throw in the
trash, the lid sort of tipped up and splattered more on the
shirt he'd just wet down with a napkin. Ever since then,
he's taken his coffee to the car where, if he spills some, at
least there's no one to notice. He wouldn't think to drive
with an open cup, he just sits in the car as he would at a
table, sometimes leafing through the paper while he's
waiting for it to cool. Sometimes a friend or client spots his
car and taps at the window. So this tap of a gun didn't
really surprise him. As to throwing that coffee in his face,
well, if he hadn't he'd have spilled it getting out of the car,
or sliding over to the passenger seat, and he didn't want to
scald himself. Not again.
Rochelle Ratner lives in New York City. Her books include two novels: Bobby's Girl (Coffee House Press, 1986) and The Lion's Share (Coffee House Press, 1991) and sixteen poetry books, including House and Home (Marsh Hawk Press, 2003) and Beggars at the Wall (Ikon, October 2005). An anthology she edited, Bearing Life: Women's Writings on Childlessness, was published in January 2000 by The Feminist Press. Links to her writing on the Internet can be found on her homepage: www.rochelleratner.com. (February 2006, December 2006). See also "Books" link in Lunarosity Menu. (In Memoriam, 2008).
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