CIRCUS

CIRCUS
Copyright; George Holmes April 9 2010

--You know you really make me laugh, Erica. Well, laugh and weep at the same time. You are the center of your own little world-oh I know it’s not little to you. You think your life is a constant soap opera, that everyone wants to know what’s going to happen next. But, let me tell you, no one is interested; you have an exaggerated sense of your own importance. No one wants to know about the tawdry life of your wretched conniving mother, the pitiful efforts of your drunken father. Is it any wonder you crave attention all the time with your hysterical behavior, by wearing clothes only seen in a circus and a hairstyle reminiscent of the nineteen forties. Your husband walked out; your children are in foster care. You are forty-five. Isn’t it time you grew up?
--Have you finished demolishing my life, Clarice?
--Oh no I haven’t even started. Let me see. Have you…..have you…eeeerrrrr Oh fuck what’s the line?
--OK OK everyone take five everyone except you, Angie. Angie, this scene is the crucial one of the play. Clarice holds the secret to making this clunking play work but it’s only going to happen if you know your fucking lines. This is the last time. Next week, dear Angie, you’ll be back to walk-ons. And one other thought, in case you are thinking of that bottle of gin in the dressing room, we open tomorrow.”

FIDELITY

FIDELITY:
BY George Holmes 3/20/10

They’d been married twenty-two years. Then she was diagnosed with lymphatic cancer. The progress of the illness was rapid. Nurses came and went, the doctor shook his head. Jack did not know what to do. Marie lay there in bed, often in a daze and gazed at him as if she was not quite sure who he was. What was the protocol? What does one do? He’d never been in a situation like this. She was his only wife. She slipped away peacefully one afternoon, Nurse Harrison announcing to the ward sister that Mrs. Weatherby had just died.
He was down in the lower fields attending to a hedge that had been broken by two of his cows that were sick. Cows are large and can be destructive when nervous or ill. His cell phone rang. He let it ring a couple of times.
--Yes, Jack Weatherby.
--Oh Mr. Weatherby, Sister McIntyre here. I have sad news. Mrs. Weatherby passed away half an hour ago. Nurse Harrison who was with her said she smiled as she faded from us and then stopped breathing.
He couldn’t speak but gripped the phone. Suddenly a chasm opened in front of him. All that fidelity, that devotion, that love of twenty-two years suddenly had nowhere to go. It all fell helpless into a vast abyss. It had no direction. Whereas once it had a purpose and a goal, now it did not know where to go and seemed to evaporate, an inchoate unformed mist which disappeared..
--I’ll come to the hospital.
The sister having made calls like this before said
--It’s all right Mr. Weatherby. Your mother and your son are here. Come in when you can.
She knew he was having difficulties adjusting, knowing what to say. Death is always a first for many people. For her, it was a working event and she had been in the informing situation often.
--Thank you Sister.
He stood there. He shut off the phone. He picked up his tools and continued to work on the hedge.
The dead can wait for they have limitless time ,but the living are short of it and demand attention.

FIRE

FIRE
Copyright. George Holmes 3/14/10

You know how unhappy I’ve been in that job, Sybil. I like the people, well, most of them, but not that Michael. He’d like to be boss. But the work, oh the work, has been so boring, filing and then flogging that magazine over the phone. I mean, who in their right mind, wants to buy something called NIGHT NURSES, THEIR LOVES AND LIVES. Well, would you Sybil?

--Well, I don’t know…but to get to the point, why don’t you just leave, Peggy?

Leave? I can’t do that. Let them fire me and then I’ll leave but I need the job. Anyway they’re not firing, they’re hiring. NIGHT NURSES L & L is going on TV. Everyone wants to read it and see it. There’s no underestimating the gullibility of the public is there? They’ve lined up Daphne Larue as head nurse. I hear Meryl Streep is slated for Matron, the one who’s having an affair with the head surgeon, Boris Mellors. The plots are more complicated than HOUSE. There’s even a comics version in the works and demand is high for that. Not surprising in a country where many are practically illiterate.

--Well, Peggy, why don’t you take a leave of absence?

What and let that Michael take over? He’s gay you know. Oh yes, very charming and a clever clogs but you can’t trust them can you? I heard him the other day on the phone and I quote “ Oh you’re a real doll, Eric.” I mean, really, calling another man a doll.

--Well, look, I don’t think that’s actually too bad. After all, Peggy, I think you’re a doll, said Sybil.

For once in her life, Peggy was speechless.

ORGAN

ORGAN by George Holmes COPYRIGHT Feb 28 2010

What do you mean?
I’ve found a new way to make money.
Tell me. I’m rather skeptical of your schemes. I remember the last time you wanted to import Zambian goats to make mohair sweaters to sell back to the Zambians. Not very practical as they don’t wear sweaters there, mohair or not. It’s too hot.
Well, yes, I agree on that. It was not the best plan in the world.
Well, the goats certainly kept the grass cropped. And they finally made a very good stew. So what is this new plan?
Organs.
Organs? You must be more specific. Musical organs, barrel organs, sexual organs, human organs?
Oh didn’t I say? Human.
No, you didn’t. Well, what about them? You’re not proposing selling off parts of yourself to the highest bidder are you?
Oh no. Not parts of me. Parts of you.
Are you completely mad?
No, not at all. Have you noticed something? The door has no handle. The room is sound proof and I have chloroform and gun. You're a gold mine.

FRIDAY

FRIDAY by George Holmes. Copyright. Feb 28 2010
Hello?
Oh it’s you Bella…oh Bella, you promised. You said you would definitely go as my date. I can’t go alone. I’ve told them I’m coming with my lady friend. You! Why can’t you come…You have to take the dog to the vet! Look, if you don’t mind my saying so, you spend far too much money and time on Billy. What kind of name is that for a dog? Billy? After Billy Bigelow in Carousel! Well, what can I say… I know it’s not my business but honestly don’t you think a diamond dog collar is way over the top with people starving in Africa…Oh dear. Whom can I get to go with me? What? Your mother? Is she free? Does she have a long frock? It’s black tie. Look, isn’t she just a shade too old? Well of course I know that. Age doesn’t matter. People shinning up Everest in their nineties. It’s just that, well, didn’t she have a teensy-weensy problem with the drink and being arrested for causing a scene at Sardis, and then the rehab in that convent. She almost took the veil. She’s so impulsive; a bit like you really. Like mother, like daughter. I mean what’s it going to look like, me turning up with a lady friend at least twice my age…Oh alright, ask her, I’ll hold on…what did she say? Yes? Oh good. She’ll have her hair done and I’m to pick her up at 6.00pm. Now, don’t let me down Bella. I can’t have anything go wrong with my bid for tenure. You make me so nervous…

SNOW DAY

SNOW DAY by George Holmes Copyright. Feb.27 2010

Suddenly he has a sense of freedom. School was canceled. He didn’t have to teach. A snow day. He feels liberated, almost giddy. He decides on the Metropolitan Museum of Art. He loves it, the beauty of the objects, the great spaces, even the crowds do not displease him today. He hires an audio guide. He likes to listen to the voice of Philippe de Montebello. A voice to swoon to he thinks and smiles. Today he concentrates on a large apotheosis scene. How great he thinks to become a god, beautifully formed, muscled, tumbling blond hair, dark eyes alive, exhilarated. Who was the model for this god he wonders? Did the painter have a special affection for him? It is painted with amorous care, lush and rich with reds and golds, blues and whites. Did the model pose like that? Swirling draperies over his loins, a diadem on that magnificent head? He looks at the painting for a long time, absorbed in his thoughts, soothed by that balmy voice, seduced almost, enraptured like St Theresa in ecstasy. Suddenly an irrational force of anger sweeps over him. He feels overpowered, almost out of control. He wants to slash the painting, destroy that thoughtless arrogance so cruelly spread out in front of him .He catches his breath. He knows that he will never be like that god, snow day or not. He will never be surrounded by such beauty, never feel that exhilaration except at second hand. He curses the fates that took away his mother the day he was born and gave him that twisted spine, that hump.

Copyright:2/3/10
The four words were VANILLA, POLICE, TRAIN, and FORGIVENESS. From these words comes this story entitled. Initial story took two hours. Editing and revising took longer.It may well be tweaked more.....
QUEENS NEW YORK THE EIGHTIES

One.
>
He remembered that night so well, recalled thinking that cooking could be annoying when one did not have the essential ingredients.It seemed so important to say that. He always said afterward that nothing would have happened, they would still be a happy family if he hadn't run out of vanilla that night. He was so stubborn about it. It was vanilla cookies, his speciality or nowt. His native Yorkshire came out when pressed. They had been living in New York then. Both of his children were American born. Making vanilla cookies was his contribution to the kitchen world normally reigned over by his beautiful blond wife of eighteen years. He really loved her. It was a good marriage. He called to her, “Joan, ,oh damn, there’s no vanilla. What a bore, just when I was in the mood.”
Joan had said, “Never mind, I’ll just pop down to that little bodega. Juan and Juanita are sure to have some.” Juan knew their family, one of the first white ones to move into the up and coming area of Queens. Normally Joan took the car to Fairway or even over to New Jersey to do what she called “a big shopping”. She often said however, “We should patronize the local shops; support the neighborhood businesses. It’s our duty. Juan and his wife are so nice and I get to practice my Spanish. Besides, their shop is open almost twenty-four seven. Did you know there’s a new flower shop over on Walker Street that actually has orchids on sale. It’s so great to be part of a city on the move isn’t it? Better than stodgy London, so immersed in its past.”
They had bought at the best time when the market was on the turn. The house was a single room occupancy building that had been abandoned for at least a year but was solidly built. It had a double garage and a garden with a cherry tree. It had originally been a one family home at the turn of the twentieth century. The one terrific advantage was that the house has six showers, baths and toilets so when they reconverted it; they had a room and a bath each and a couple to spare.
Joan said, “Oh darling, you’d better stick to banking. I’ll be in charge in the kitchen. But don’t worry this time I’ll nip down to the shop.”
She put on a coat, kissed him lightly on the cheek. He remembered her perfume. It was 8.30 in the evening.


Two.

Their son Alexander recalled,“Dad continued mixing the other ingredients so they would be ready by the time Mom returned. He also opened a good bottle of cabernet sauvignon from California and had put the oven on low so that when she returned he could slosh in the vanilla and bake the cookies. He hoped to make about four dozen. It was only after finishing the first glass of wine that he called out to his son Bob, “What time did mum leave?”
“Around 8.30 I think, Dad. Don’t worry she’s only a few minutes late and the shop’s only at the end of the block. I bet she ran into someone she knew and has been gossiping. You know how she loves to talk recipes and homemaking.”
“Yes, but still,” his dad replied.
They were both startled by a loud ring of the front door bell.
“Who can that be? It’s rather late for visitors. Go upstairs, you two.” He looked at his two children. They obeyed him.
Although they felt safe in the neighborhood there had been one or two incidents in the past and so they had a drill ready in case anything unusual happened.
Picking up a large baseball bat he kept by the door, he saw through the frosted glass panel two figures standing there. The door has been one of the clinchers when they bought the house. It had a handsome stained glass transom which they loved. Cautiously he opened the door.
Two policemen stood there.

Three.

“Mr. Henderson?”
“Yes. Is everything alright?”
“Oh yes, Sir, we think so. It’s just that we found this wallet by the bodega down the road. It appears to belong to a Mrs. Joan Henderson at this address.”
“It’s my wife’s”
“Is she in, Sir?”
“Well no, she just went down to the shop around 8.30. To buy some vanilla, “ he added.
“Vanilla?”
“Well, yes, I’m baking cookies and we’d run out. Where is my wife?”
Well, that’s it, Sir. We don’t know. We know she was walking in that direction because we had a plain-clothes car down there watching the comings and goings at the bodega. There have been a few reports of suspicious activity and a neighborhood watch committee suggested to us that we might keep an eye on things. You haven’t heard about it?”
“Well, no. I’ve been away in London for a month on business and we could not attend the last meeting. Did you see anything suspicious? I assume my wife went to the shop.”
“We think she did, Sir. We noted her approach. She’s rather striking, Sir, being blonde. Our line of vision diagonally across the road from the shop was suddenly obstructed by a large gray van that drew up in front of the bodega cutting off our view. It’s not unusual as trucks do stop there for refreshments. The owners cater to truck drivers. The van drew up so we didn’t actually see her go into the shop. Our walkie talkie buzzed at that moment with a call about a train accident but others were dealing with it. When we looked again, the van had gone.
Now, you’re sure your wife did not return unbeknownst to you? Do you have a back door here? I see you are enjoying a bottle of wine and isn’t the house rather warm? Is the oven still on?”
John had stammered, “Yes, yes, sorry, I’ll turn it off. Look, what are you saying/. Where is my wife? She can’t just have disappeared. That’s impossible”
Officers Del Flores and Holmes said, “we are mystified too, Sir. We went into the shop just to check up on things. Juan and his wife had not seen a woman for about an hour or so. The last customer, who was just there had ordered two cokes to go. They had not seen him before. However they would recognize him if they saw him again.Juan and his wife had been in the back and apart from serving the van driver, there had been few customers that evening, it being rather cold. They did hear the driver’s companion shout out in a loud accented voice for him to hurry up. When we came out we spotted the wallet in the gutter.”

Four.

If only he’d had some vanilla that night, their lives would be the same as they were before. Now here he was faced with an eternal dilemma. Should we forgive those who have trespassed against us?
Or should we exact a tooth for a tooth, an eye for an eye? John had pondered this question repeatedly after the verdict of guilty on all counts came in. The trial was not long as the evidence was overwhelming. The men were guilty through and through of murder in the first degree. The press had had a field day. Xenophobic feeling ran high. There was keen interest in the day appointed for the sentencing.
The two men who were driving the stolen van were illegal immigrants. The big burly one Stefan Kostas, had accosted Joan as she was by the shop. She was startled but smiled at him, thinking well of him as she always thought well of everyone. He had grabbed her and knocked her to the ground. She dropped her wallet that fell away from her. He had not noticed. She cried out but he struck her again and she fell against a piece of metal, the jagged end of a vandalized bus stop sign, stunning her and causing her head to bleed profusely. She passed out. This was deduced by the autopsy report. There was no noise as it all happened so quickly. The man panicked, picked her up and threw her in the van. The sliding door opened on the side by the shop so nothing could be seen. He shouted out to his companion to hurry up and they drove off. He did not tell his friend until they were on a secluded stretch of road by a wood. They took her out, found she was still breathing and proceeded to rape and kill her in cold blood. They hacked off her finger to get at her wedding ring and engagement rings they sold for $150.00. The rings were worth at least three thousand dollars. They left her mutilated body in a wood, climbed back into the van, bought alcohol, got drunk and passed out. A passing police car found them, checked out the number, noted it was stolen and arrested the two befuddled men. Their clothes were stained with blood. The men were amateur, stupid, had little or no education and spoke little English. One was married but had left his wife and two children. They were incompetent and inept. They were beyond the pale. They had broken the rules of society. They had got their stories muddled and one has blamed the other. Brutes of low intelligence, they had wept at the trial. It was painful to watch. The translator choked as he said, “She was so beautiful, so white, so fair haired, like an angel. We didn’t mean to harm her. We wanted her to be kind to us; she fought us, called us beasts. We are not beasts. We killed her. She had everything and we had nothing. We are sorry.”
The judge at the sentencing talked of the extreme punishment, an eye for an eye in this case. But he left a time for John to say whether he wanted the death sentence or life without parole. Could John take their lives as they had taken his beautiful wife’s life? He got up to speak.
THE END

: