It ain't all pizzas and cream

At the Savoy

Charles O'Hay — Fri, 08 Feb 2013 09:02:30 -0500

"I sed I wunt dees onions kooked!"
said the man at the counter.

His voice was a regime
in the midst of a coup, his accent
from a part of Europe
where one must dig deep
to reach water.

The waitress's face
waved a flag of surrender.
"Fry the onions on this burger!"
she hollered at some unseen chef
as she walked the plate back
thru the swinging doors
to the kitchen.

When the burger returned,
the man glared at it in disgust.
"I wunt dese onions borned!" he said,
"BORN DEM!"

The next time the burger appeared
the onions were cinders,
the burger black
and still on fire.

The man looked down at it
and grinned
before saying grace.

A daydreamer's work

Charles O'Hay — Sat, 02 Feb 2013 19:01:53 -0500

People do it every day: uproot and relocate because of work. Sometimes the work moves first--the factory relocates, a new refinery opens. And sometimes the pay and opportunity are simply elsewhere. My dad did it, though only along the New Jersey Turnpike. New York to Philly, then back to New York, and finally (sad and defeated) back to Philly.

I remember being barely tolerated at one school then being moved to the next, where I started again from the bottom of the social order. The fat kid with the crippled arm. A failure at sports. Nonexistent to girls. Private schools, public schools, even a Quaker school for one year. Five in all, between kindergarten and high school. I was that kid who ate lunch alone until Thanksgiving. The kid with a parent's note for gym class.

Once my dad applied for a job at a firm in Detroit, and I remember my mother scouting rents in Grosse Pointe. May as well have been Istanbul or the third moon of Jupiter. I was relieved beyond imagination when that one fell thru. Then there was one in Newark, NJ. But it was an insurance company and he failed the physical because of his heart. That one hurt him--the fact that his talent and expertise weren't worth the risk on his health.

So we went back to Philly. And he enrolled me in prep school. When I learned that school rules required a jacket and tie, I said, "That's ironic because I'll never wear that in real life." My parents were horrified. "Don't you want a CAREER?" asked my mother. "Mom," I said, "I don't even want a job." "You'll be a WARD OF THE STATE!" my mom said. A year later, my dad died of a heart attack. The insurance company had been right after all.

Turns out, my life has been pretty true to my prediction. I've stayed out of offices as much as possible. Have drifted from salesman to stock clerk to proofreader to freelance writer. I own one dress jacket and two ties: one for weddings, one for funerals. I can't picture ever moving for a job, tho my daughter is far more adaptable than I was. If we had to pull up stakes and move, she'd be fine. And anywhere there's a mop or a laptop, I suppose I'd find work.

Off Broadway

Charles O'Hay — Thu, 31 Jan 2013 20:59:59 -0500

I don't remember the play. But I was about 12 and I living with my parents in New York, and they decided to take me to the theater, or as my dad preferred to say: "expose me" to the theater. I wore a white turtleneck, itchy gray pants, and a blue blazer. I never liked blazers, with their doubloon-like brass buttons. Even the word--blazer--rubbed me raw. But there I was, flanked by my parents and wearing my blazer. Entering the upper tier, the first thing I noticed about the structure was its profound gravity, the way the stairs clambered up each balcony, stepping over each other to keep from being sucked down into the orchestra pit. Once seated (and past the initial sense of vertigo), I looked down at the people, milling about, finding their seats, and then up at the ornate trim, paint, and plaster work of the ceiling. Then I slipped into the type of meaningless idle daydreaming that only yields anxiety and sadness. Did I leave such-and-such textbook at school? Why doesn't so-and-so girl like me? Then the lights dimmed to near blackness, the murmur of the crowd stilled, and the play began. Thinking back on it now, all I can remember is how silly and fake it all seemed. The actors shouting their lines, mincing around the stage, the characters too self-absorbed to see that the nature of their problems lay within themselves. By the second act I had this nearly overwhelming urge to climb down to the stage and solve their problems for them. Realizing that would be problematic, and likely involve the police, I went back to daydreams. I can't say my view of the theater has changed much over the four ensuing decades. I still have the urge to climb on stage and tell everyone what's what. It's clearly a mental defect of mine. So for everyone's benefit, I'll stick with movies.

THE NEIGHBORS

Charles O'Hay — Tue, 29 Jan 2013 21:46:21 -0500

I've lived in apartments most of my life
and have had all kinds of neighbors:
loners and drunks like myself,

Couples who made love
as loudly as they fought
and almost as often,

A 40-year-old divorcee
who had braces and wore a kimono
whenever she took out the trash,

A drug dealer, who partied
all the time until his young wife left
and took their baby,

A lunatic who howled at the moon
so I had to turn up the TV
just to get some sleep,

And a bail bondsman who got calls
late at night. "Yeh," he'd say,
"I know the place. I'll be there soon."

The drug dealer got busted
the lunatic was netted and hauled off
and the bail bondsman moved out.

I don't know what happened
to the rest, but one day
I saw the woman in the hall

On her way out with the trash:
she had her braces off
but not her kimono.

The Drunk I Carry

Charles O'Hay — Tue, 29 Jan 2013 10:37:39 -0500

In every photograph my grandfather
wears the look of a man hungover
pained as a vampire by daylight
and hoping life and all its nonsense
will soon be over.

In every photo
his pants are hiked up a bit too high
as if he were quickly assembled
by a child and his lower half affixed
backward.

In every photograph
he holds a cigarette, pinched
between the index and middle fingers
of his right hand as if about to grind it
into the eye of some snitch

some no good peeping tom
some lens.

Charles O'Hay — Mon, 28 Jan 2013 19:38:02 -0500

6YO: Meow meow meow meow meow.
Me: Honey, please stop meowing.
6YO: It's not ME. It's my KITTY.
Me: It was YOU. The kitty is stuffed.
6YO: You don't BELIEVE me! You don't believe in Santa! You don't believe in God! You don't believe in ANYthing!
Me: Fine. It was the kitty.
6YO: Meow meow meow meow meow.

Pears

Charles O'Hay — Mon, 21 Jan 2013 09:16:38 -0500

The worst is forgetting
what you love. Like pear halves
in heavy syrup, the ones I loved

as a kid on sweet summer days
that began with a mourning
dove cooing through river fog.

The worst is forgetting
the tiny lagoons whose shores
had never seen a footprint,

the softness of them between
the tongue and palate.
Tiny cellos in the womb

of summer days, the whole of July
stretched out like a shady road.
The worst is forgetting

what you love. The best
is remembering
now.

The Bus to Bethlehem

Charles O'Hay — Thu, 10 Jan 2013 12:05:21 -0500

When I was a kid the bus to Bethlehem broke down. My parents were taking me to my grandparents' place for the remainder of the summer, and somewhere between noplace and a cornfield the bus coughed and died. The cell phone was decades away, and there wasn't a phone booth for miles. The driver radio'd dispatch and was told it would be an hour until another bus could reach us. So we sat there and sweated. Some stretched and sighed, then walked outside into the slim shade to smoke. I remember staring out at all that corn and nothingness and feeling bored, frustrated, and utterly helpless. I thought about all the things I would do if we ever reached our destination. The fishing. The swimming. The long evening walks to skip stones across the green still water of the old flooded quarry. In about an hour, as promised, the rescue bus arrived. The tired people dropped their smokes, grabbed their bags, and climbed aboard. My dad wiped the sweat from his face. My mom combed her hair. How I hated that place as we drove away--and strange how often my mind drifts back there now. The quiet shushing of the corn. The buzz of the occasional fly. The faces of the people like creased cardboard. The smell of Kents and Tareytons. The whole drowsy world laid out like a meal on a lazy breeze before us. The future a place we could only imagine.

Hold On

Charles O'Hay — Wed, 09 Jan 2013 08:59:27 -0500

I shared this entry on Facebook a few days back, and it seemed to strike a resonance with lots of my readers, so I'm posting it here again.

_________________________________________

When my daughter was a baby, often the only way she could get to sleep was to hold my pinky, her torch as she ventured into the dark caverns of sleep. As recently as last year she still occasionally asked to hold hands at bedtime. Then she stopped. A big girl. Unafraid. Tonight, quite unexpectedly, after lullabies she asked again. Her hand filled so much more of mine than it once had. The room was quiet and dark, as if we alone were tumbling through space. I felt her grip loosen as she relaxed into sleep. Finally she let go. But I held on. Just a while longer.

Baby, it's cold outside

Charles O'Hay — Sat, 05 Jan 2013 18:49:17 -0500

During the harsh winter months, you may tend to see fewer homeless people on the streets. That doesn't mean they don't need your help. Often to escape the elements, they will flee to underground subway concourses, panhandling during the busy rush hours and retreating to the shadows or shelters at night.

This is Nick. He lost his left hand in a fireworks accident.

Join me in handing out gift cards to those in need. As little as $5 on a convenience store gift card can mean a meal. A $10 Subway sandwich shop card can mean two sit-down meals out of the rain and cold. A drugstore card from CVS, Walgreen's, or Rite Aid can mean basic first aid or medicine or even a pair of gloves.

A little help goes farther than you think.

Thanks.