Wish I Had a Nickel…
Here’s a sad though unsurprising headline from foxnews.com: “Minneapolis eyeing outside police to help with violent crime, officer shortage: report.” Leave it to the left.
There were a couple of teasers on my FB feed yesterday. I refuse to get my hopes up. One had Biden being indicted by the Ukraine, which even the DNC would probably love, as it would be a sound excuse to give him the boot. The other stated that Wisconsin had more votes than voters. I have great esteem for the men who re-posted those items, but remind myself that I’ve been fooled by partisans myself. They’re probably baloney.
According to an article at nypost.com, Michigan State basketball coaching legend Tom Izzo has been racking his brain trying to figure out how he contracted Corona, since he followed the protocols of mask, etc.. He’s not the first and won’t be the last. The only surefire method is isolation, which very few human beings can manage.
This may have been the last hurrah of indian summer and it could easily have been dubbed Gorgeous Girls Day — wow! My thanks to all the folks who bought, donated and swapped books in English and Russian, especially the female MTA employee who selected a bunch that included Five Cents. Here’s some of what sold: Thriller: Stories To Keep You Up All Night, a collection featuring 32 writers, Season of the Machete by James Patterson, Digital Fortress by Dan Brown, Bone Box by Faye Kellerman, Princess Daisy by Judith Krantz, The Spoken Word Revolution: Slam, Hip Hop & the Poetry of a New Generation by Mark Eleveld, The Road to Wealth by Suze Orman, Everyday Resilience: A Practical Guide to Build Inner Strength and Weather Life’s Challenges by Gail Gazelle MD, and two translations of Nora Roberts thrillers in Russian.
Here’s an excerpt from Five Cents. Tom, a Vietnam vet, is on the last leg of his journey home to the Midwest, the city of Kazoo, which I based on my college town, Kalamazoo:
The plane was full. There were a number of students aboard. He recalled a friend describing the firm that flew into Kazoo as “ruptured duck airlines.” It was the type of plane one would expect John Wayne to pilot — wearing a parachute. Tom hoped the current script would have a happy ending. He was unable to focus on the stewardess’s safety instructions. He knew that air travel was safer than automobile traffic, but it still imparted a feeling of helplessness in him. At least a car was in one’s own hands. He hoped he wouldn’t be getting on an airplane again for a long time. All the traveling he wanted to do would have to wait. He was miffed he would think this way after thousands of miles without incident.
The craft sailed effortlessly through the night, but the grace of its flight did not put Tom at ease. The ground below was dark except for the light in the windows of houses, street lamps and vehicle headlights. He was unable to relax. The airline offered no distractions. Unable to envision himself in the life he was to undertake, he was certain the plane was going to crash. His gut contracted when he heard the landing gear emerge. He suffered a dizzy spell as his heartbeat accelerated. He now dreaded the moment he’d awaited so long. He experienced a feeling akin to what he’d suffered before each football game — false fatigue. He was not prepared for the emotional ordeal ahead. Things were happening too quickly.
He waited until all the other passengers had gone ahead. He took deep breaths to try to calm himself. His head was pounding, a jumble of appropriate phrases flying around in it. He was thinking so deeply he forgot the cold. He saw that a few hardy souls had come outside to greet their loved ones. There wasn’t enough light for him to be able to distinguish anyone specifically. When he reached the ground his line of sight was blocked by those ahead of him.
The crowd thinned rapidly, the people scurrying out of the frigid night and into the terminal. As he passed through the gate he caught sight of a woman standing alone beside a lamppost. Hatless, her long hair rested on the upturned collar of her coat. A leather handbag was slung across her shoulder. She had his letter jacket, brown and gold, draped over her left arm. It had taken him until his senior year to earn it. She was ringing her gloved hands, her pale face tense but more beautiful than ever, despite a year of worry.
She does love me, Tom thought, beside himself. He paused, legs leaden, heart pounding as ferociously as the fists of a madman trying to escape a padded cell. Kitty threw herself at him, weeping. As Tom embraced her, a sob burst from the depths of his soul. His duffel bag struck her back forcefully, but she was impervious to pain at the moment. Their tears mingled, words unnecessary. The odyssey was finished. He was back with his Penelope. Finally they grew limp, the torrent of emotion spent.
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