Reunion, con’t

As we arrived at the hotel in N.C., our car turned swiftly towards an hotel entrance overhang.

I peeked into the lobby.

“Heh,” I remarked, “I’ll wait. Two rooms, right?”

“You come too.” Phil coaxed.

The lobby revealed the same hotel smell and coffee station I had seen relentlessly as a flight attendant. Grab, the key, find out restaurant recommendations and the hours of free breakfast.

“See you at the pool?”

He looked at me inquiringly, as if to say, you really don’t want two rooms, right?

I nodded and turned to go, followed by my roller-bag.

“Thanks, see you in a 1/2.”

When we arrived at the pool, the gate was closed.

“No,” I lamented, “forgot to check the hours. Guess we can go for dinner.”

At the Red Lobster, I ordered my regular, particular bend on New England tastes. Phil surprisingly ordered exactly the same nuances, including desert.

“Do you always order just that meal?”

“Yes, believe it or not, I do. When I come here with my nephews, that’s exactly what I get!”

“Will I meet your nephews tomorrow at the reunion?”

“Yes, let’s go so we can get some rest.”

Phil saw me to my door of the hotel room.

“May I come in? My TV isn’t working, we can watch the fights.”




short story 4.25.13


Who knows where inspiration lurks?

Having my bi-weekly therapeutic massage to keep the ‘chi’ flowing – getting ALL those toxins expelled…

Yeah and the thought hits me as Tana is jabbing her elbow between my spine and rib cage – ah brain says:

“Why don’t yo write about that psycho guy you met on E-Harmony or was it; anyway yeah the Phd?”

I say Ok. Here it is: of course modified to be most like that guy and turned into a short story.

The phone rang as I finished my last “touch” email.

“Yes,” I coyly answered, “its me, Kathleen.”

“Hi,” Phil answered, “Dr. Dombray.” He spoke firmly, and a little distant.

“I know this may sound forward,” He mused, “but would you like to go with me on a weekend trip to North Carolina to accompany me to my family reunion for our first date?”

“Sure,” I had been reading his emails for a week and was familiar with his “edited” profile. I felt confident that that I could “read” his sentiments. He was okay.

We met an exquisite Saturday morning in May ready to drive a three and a half hour romantic drive, followed up by a nice weekend. He placed my luggage, or as I normally called it my Crew Bag. What a southern gentleman.

We were off.

“So what do you do when you are not evaluating?” I started the conversation.

He interrupted, “Analyze.”

“OK, ANALYZE.” I said finitely.

He began:

Well, I analyze. He looked briefly at me and back to his driving. Children who have been flagged to be counseled. I have my Phd.

“Jamming,” I adjusted my sunglasses. I had to wear them no matter what in any sunlight. I had been diagnosed with ‘Photosensitive Eyes’ early on. Severe headaches immediately once out in the sun, Winter or Fall. I flicked them saying, “But what do you do after your workday?”

I just wanted to try to delve into his past time life. Just a little probe, I swear, just a little probe.

“Well,” he smirked, “that’s a good question.”

I smirked too, oh boy.

He continued, “I set up a cage near my office, in the supply room and put my skins in there. I bang as hard and and as loud as possible, no one hears.”

“But the janitor.” I conjectured.

“OK, the janitor, he don’t care,” Dr. Dombray said dismissively. “And, anyway, its my outlet.”

I could just picture him with an unknotted tie – beating his brains out like Buddy Rich or something.

“And then I can get out all the tension.” He postured. “Out of my system, systematically.”

“H.m.” I rubbed my chin like I thought Freud, or well maybe Miss Freud would.

He went on. “You should come over there sometime with me and bang.”

“Well,” I didn’t want to say yes or no yet, I really wanted to gain nsight.

“Look,” he pointed with his hand practically in my face, “there’s a great place I’ve always wanted to stop, ‘Ole Mill Mansion’, for lunch.”

“Go got it.” I said moving his hand back to 10 and two. “So, where was your drum set before?”

“Well,” he deftly turned the rented car towards the exit to the restaurant. I had the set at my apartment, but the neighbors complained, so my landlord said.”

I didn’t want to seem like a dating detective looking, but not really wanting to find, “Deadly Dude.” But dating online can be perilous these days.







‘All a writer needs is money and a room,’ paraphrased from Va Woolf.

This is how you can find me most mornings, that room Va spoke about is merely that wonderful space in my roving mind. Would like to recommend a book to y’all, “An Alchemy of Mind,” by Diane Ackerman. Just thoughts about the brain and its journeys. So long ago and not so far away I came to the conclusion that my mind worked differently than others around me, yes, its true. Not only do I have a room and money (thank the lord) I have a desktop-image memory.     desk dreamer

It seemed that  I remembered things like a picture.  More like a  moving 3 D film with smell-o-graphy and all. I even dreamed in text, with correct typeface and formatting. It seemed slightly reversed from others’ recollection processes.

For instance, vacation pictures in a shoe box. Why? Take out the old ball jar with air pickled sea grass, shells, feather, sprigs of lavender and sand. Open the lid. Ahh, Cape Cod. I can hear the crashing of the surf, see the azure waves with foam and feel the sand between my toes.  Then the gentle  whiff of lavender is  carried on the  daylight  sea  breeze  to  my nostrils. The feather emits a sea gull’s squawk. Did he just dive bomb me? Good old trusty stick have I here to decoy the top of my head. Sorry Mr. Gull, I promise I won’t step on your sand nestled eggs.

Close the lid.

So, next month when I travel to Hilton Head, you can be sure I’ll memorize a pristine sunset for my mind’s desk dreamer.