Dynamite Women
Many blame the current epidemic of drug deaths on pharmaceutical companies. Here’s an excerpt from a nypost.com editorial that disputes that: “Per-capita opioid prescriptions have dropped nearly 50 percent since 2012 even as the overdose rate has surged from roughly 40,000 in 2012 to 93,000 in 2020.” My belief is personal responsibility.
That was the only fresh bit of news I spotted today, so here’s an excerpt from the piece of non-fiction I’m working on at present, culled from notes written decades ago. It’s titled Laural. I expected it to be five pages at most. It looks like it will be 10–15. This clip is about a page and a half:
Before I get to her I must cite several of the waitresses who worked at Hedges Café, a Staten Island restaurant where I tended bar during the day shift for about a year in the early ‘80’s. Eileen, an aspiring artist of Irish descent, lost her younger brother to a car accident at that time. I failed to win her. Even a poem didn’t work, although she was touched by it. Valerie, also an artist, believed in reincarnation. She was hurting badly then, as she’d been dumped by the man meant for her and would have to wait until her next lifetime for another chance at him. I quickly realized pursuing her was futile. Mary-Ellen, sturdy, built for speed, scared the hell out of me, and I’m certain it was because I believed that if a relationship began between us it would have lead to marriage, and I was not ready for that. She signed her bills ME and, once I noticed it, I began addressing her as such. Susan was into drugs but still beautiful at 20 or so. She seemed angry, even her handwriting, and she didn’t like it when I said so. Darlene, mature, classy, mid-thirties, was the hostess for a while. She mentioned her husband’s lovers, but when, after Christmas party, I asked her for a ride to the stop where I transferred to the Brooklyn-bound bus, she told me she didn’t fool around. One is never quite sure what lurks in the recesses of the mind, but I don’t think I was coming on to her. She was replaced by Marie, a great beauty. A struggling artist would have to give up his dreams to win a girl like that. Fortunately, she had a boyfriend, so our rapport never went beyond flirting. Barbara was also gorgeous, blue-eyed, keenly intelligent. She claimed to be married to a cop, but that didn’t stop her from asking me to have a drink one day. Stupidly, I said no, not realizing she may have claimed to be wed to deter staff from hitting on her. All these years later I still have reverence for the marriage vow, although it certainly isn’t out of the question that I would have given in to Darlene or Barbara had they pressed. Barbara doesn’t have anything to do with the rest of this account, but I feel compelled to mention her. She seemed special. Even if she weren’t married, at the time I doubt I would have felt worthy of such a prize. April was looking to replace the husband she’d divorced, which I realized when I took her to dinner. Michelle had awesome legs. Since the place was a revolving door in terms of staff, largely due to the temperamental manager/part-owner, I met many dynamite females. It was a privilege to work there despite that egomaniac.
Laural could have passed for 25, her figure that of a woman in full bloom, her hair and eyes dark. The most telling sign of her youth was in the wearing of her emotions on her sleeve, and how quickly they changed. She was open to the point of indiscretion, confiding thoughts to me she should have saved for her best friend, often within earshot of others. Trouble was, she had no girlfriends. She viewed other women as the enemy. She chuckled as she revealed this, as she would when she told me she hated children and would never have any. She was self conscious of these quirks only because, I surmised, she was leery of what others would think. She was constantly asking my opinion of her views. I said it was better not to have kids than to have them simply because it was expected. I also said her views might change in time and that that was okay.
Good start to November for the floating book shop. My thanks to Lynn, who bought A Death in Vienna by Daniel Silva, and to the gentleman who took home three cook books for diabetics; and to the woman who chose two hardcovers in Russian; and to the old-timer who selected two volumes of Chekhov in the mother tongue; and to Wolf, who purchased several CDs and books in Russian, and Killing the SS by Bill O’Reilly and Martin Dugard and a beautiful pictorial on Michelangelo, both of which my constant benefactress had just delivered; and to Mike, who donated tutorials on Spanish and French.
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