Month: November 2022 (Page 1 of 2)

The Queen of the Mist

November 27, 2022 / The Beverwyck Review / 2 Comments

By James Gonda.

Bettie Oliver went over the falls in a barrel because she needed money. Her husband and his paycheck had perished in the Spanish-American war. To survive, she had to scrimp every penny. Oh, Bettie had a job—she was an itinerant music teacher. Her latest stop was Owatonna, Minnesota; her chosen instrument was the cello. But a widow living on a teacher’s salary in 1901 was a tough row to hoe, and Bettie had tired of the hardscrabble life.

Our Bettie was 29 years old. She was smart and handsome with chestnut brown hair and root-beer eyes. She contrived the barrel stunt while perusing the newspaper. The Pan-American Expo was in full swing in Buffalo, New York, sixteen miles south of Niagara Falls. Thousands of people were flocking to the Electric City. The organizers had also billed the falls as a spectacular sideshow that one MUST see. When President McKinley came to the Expo two months earlier, even he went to experience the “. . . the grandeur and majesty of the falls.”

Bettie read about daredevils performing exploits at the falls. The most audacious was the tightrope walker. He made the precarious trip over the roaring waters, one careful foot in front of the other. The article did not mention anyone going over the falls. But oh, what an attraction that would be! Then Bettie had a lightbulb moment. Imagine if she dropped over the falls in a barrel and survived. Why, fame and fortune would cascade over her like the falls themselves. Her bank account would rival the till at the local saloon, replete with paper money.

Bettie launched her plan immediately. She hopped a train to Niagara Falls and found lodging in a cheap boarding house. She retained a manager to promote the event. She branded herself as QUEEN of the MIST. She looked to two celebrities for inspiration, Harry Houdini, and Nellie Bly. Houdini was the great escape artist of the day. Bly was the reporter who had circumnavigated the globe in less than 80 days. After her return, the world traveler embarked on a lecture tour and raked in the cash. Bettie dreamed of doing the same.

Bettie went to work designing the barrel. It was a modified pickle barrel, five feet high and three feet in diameter. Bettie showed her rendering to a few barrel makers. Most scoffed and waved her off—they wanted nothing to do with her over-the-falls stunt. They claimed a public suicide would “taint” their business.

But Bettie persisted and found a manufacturer willing to make her sketch a reality. Kentucky Oak, as hard as steel, was the chosen material. Iron fittings bound the pieces together. There was cushioning inside and over-the-shoulder straps to hold Bettie in place. Carpenters drilled two air holes into the lid and then plugged them with corks. To right the barrel in the water, they encased a heavy anvil in its bottom. Once completed, the barrel weighed 160 pounds. Bettie herself painted it black and stenciled BETTIE OLIVER ~ QUEEN of the MIST on its side.

Bettie tested the barrel before her performance; she sent it over the falls with her cat inside. The barrel held up under the crushing water and the feline survived with only a small cut on its head. The rumor was the kitty went into the barrel a marmalade tabby and came out snow white, head to tail. The terror of the experience had altered its color.

The day finally arrived for Bettie’s big show. It was also her birthday—the big three-o. A mass of onlookers had gathered along the riverside. Meanwhile, Bettie and her crew were upriver from the Horseshoe Falls on the Canadian side. The outside temperature was 45 degrees and cloudy—a typical October day. Bettie waved to the crowd and then squeezed into the oversized barrel. A handler attached the lid and then pumped in compressed air with a bicycle pump. He yelled into a hole and asked if she were ready. He put his ear to the hole and then smiled. He turned to the crowd and gave a thumbs up. They erupted into applause. He stuffed corks into the holes and the Queen of the Mist was set adrift.

Before too long the barrel bobbed its way down the Niagara River. It moved at a rapid pace. As it reached the precipice of the falls, it disappeared into the mist. Then it dropped 158 feet to the rocky bottom. The crowd kept their eyes on the water, waiting for the big black barrel to reappear at any moment.

After 20 minutes or so, there was no sign of the barrel. Onlookers peered up and down the waterway and saw nothing. Her handlers gazed at one another, flummoxed. Where was their star? She should have reemerged by now. What could they do? 60 minutes passed, then 90, then several more hours. The Queen of the Mist had morphed into The Queen of the Missing.

A massive search ensued involving scores of people and hundreds of hours. The Army sent a Search & Rescue team. They found nothing to show that Bettie Oliver had ever been near the falls. Who was her next of kin?

The indigenous peoples who lived in the area called the falls the God of Thunder. They venerated the falls and approached the roaring waters with caution and respect. For them, the falls was not a tourist attraction or a place for silly stunts. The falls was their cathedral.

Some believe the God of Thunder swallowed Bettie as an atonement for the sins of the Europeans. Others maintained she was a sacrifice, to appease the God of Thunder and remain in his (or her) favor. Either way, Bettie and her pickle barrel were gone without a trace. No one could offer a more plausible explanation for her disappearance.

Henceforth, no man or woman dared to challenge the falls for many, many years. The God of Thunder loomed too large and too supreme.

Sometimes the Magic Works

November 25, 2022 / The Beverwyck Review / 0 Comments

By Rudy Petersen.

Fenwell slouched at his writing desk, muttering to himself that it had not been a productive afternoon. For hours, he had pondered what to write about for his Creative Writing class, but had not come up with any, as in not any, ideas. Frustrated, he had gone out for a walk while the day was sunny and bright, hoping fresh air would spark an idea. Then the weather turned cold and rainy. Lacking an umbrella or even a jacket, he had hurried back to his studio.

Still grumpy and distracted, he sat twiddling a pen above his pad of paper. Fenwell always wrote everything out long-hand first because a glowing blank computer screen intimidated him, making him feel that the machine became impatient with nothing to do. He knew it was an odd notion, but it bugged him.

He tried to recall why he had kept the pen that he happened to be holding. He had bunches of pens of all types and qualities, some dumped loose in the desk drawer and others clustered in an old coffee mug on one corner of the desk within easy reach. This pen was a cheap thing; nothing special about it. There was printing on the barrel: Harry’s Pawn Shop: Top Prices Paid and an address and phone number. He had gone there, planning to pawn his grandfather’s pocket watch to score a few extra dollars for pizza and beer. But the pawnbroker would not offer much for the watch, so Fenwell kept it and picked up the pen as he left the shop.

Now, as he sat there brooding, he noticed that something was not quite right with the window in front of his desk. It had developed a peculiar cloudy, milky, cast. Not giving it much thought, he assumed it was dirty and needed to be washed.

He was still trying to come up with a story idea when he suddenly understood what was different about the window. Not actually the window; rather it was the view outside. It no longer was of his back yard, with its bare concrete patio, lopsided old lawn swing, and rusty barbecue grill. The view shimmered and drifted. It became a seaside scene, complete with a white sandy beach. People were lying on blankets, swimming in the surf, playing volleyball. It was a bright sunny day, not like the cold and rainy one he had just been out walking in. How come? How could this happen? Was he day-dreaming? He lived in Peoria, Illinois, nowhere near any ocean.

He opened the door and stepped outside. Yep, it was cold and rainy! Back at the desk, he saw that the seaside view had morphed into a valley with a blue lake surrounded by fields of colorful wildflowers. There wasn’t a cloud visible anywhere. Three young guys, two girls, and a large, frolicking black hound were hiking on a trail that led toward a tall mountain. One of the girls turned toward him and waved. By reflex, he waved back. She made a come-on-and-join-us gesture and smiled. He dropped the pen onto the writing pad and hurried to the door again. Nope, still his same old street out there and it was still cold and raining and there are no mountains in Illinois. What the heck was happening?

Puzzled, he strolled back to his desk and sat down again. Without thinking about it, he picked up the pen and resumed twiddling it between his fingers. He glanced out of the window once more. The view was now a city plaza in what looked like a foreign place. He wondered if it might be in Spain, even though he had never been in Spain. People were coming from every direction into the plaza or walking away out of it. They were dressed in what looked like light-weight summery clothes and they stopped now and again to chat with one another. He saw a sidewalk cafe and a bookstore and a restaurant with foreign-looking writing on its awning.

He didn’t want to, but he found himself again standing in the doorway, peeping through a gap of only two inches. Yep, cold, and rainy. This was getting more than a little weird.

Then a new notion struck. He rushed to the desk but didn’t sit down. Instead, he held the pen at arm’s length and waved it with care and precision, like a conductor’s baton, in front of the window. The view blurred, then changed to a carnival midway; to a night-time baseball game under the lights; to a desert with a camel caravan led by Bedouins; to an Arctic icebreaker crunching through thick ice; to a steaming African jungle; to….

He held the pen still. The views from the window faded away. He twiddled it very fast. Scenes came and went with dizzying speed. He almost could not follow the changes. He moved it in short sweeps. The views moved in slow motion. He watched for another half hour and, after one final peek out at the rain, put the pen away in the desk drawer. He didn’t bother writing on his pad. He typed non-stop on the computer, trying to capture all the scenes the pen and the window had generated. Within two hours, he had fifteen stories saved in his file.

Feeling both happy and tired in about equal amounts, he grabbed his jacket and umbrella and yanked open the door. Marching down the street toward his favorite bar, he found himself whistling hiking tunes and beach tunes, and singing in a language that he was quite sure he didn’t speak. Maybe it was Spanish?

Two things he now knew. First, there would be no more writer’s block days for him, not as long as he had the marvelous pen and it continued to conjure magic scenes outside his inexplicable window. Second, he would never wash that window.

He hoped he had locked the studio — didn’t want anyone to steal that pen.

Two Thanksgiving Day Gentlemen

November 23, 2022 / The Beverwyck Review / 0 Comments

By O. Henry (1862-1910)

There is one day that is ours. There is one day when we Americans go back to the old home to eat biscuits and marvel how much nearer to the porch the old pump looks than it used to. Bless the day. President Roosevelt gives it to us. We hear some talk of the Puritans, but don’t remember who they were. Bet we can lick ’em, anyhow, if they try to land again. Plymouth Rocks? Well, that sounds more familiar.

And now for the story to prove that our traditions on this side of the ocean are becoming older at a faster pace than those of England, thanks to our git-up and enterprise.

Stuffy Pete took his seat on the third bench to the right as you entered Union Square from the east. Every Thanksgiving for nine years he had taken his seat there at 1 o’clock. For every time he had done so things had happened to him, things that swelled his waistcoat.

Pete was not hungry. He had come from a feast that had nearly depleted his powers of respiration and locomotion. His eyes were like two pale gooseberries imbedded in a swollen and gravy-smeared mask of putty. His breath came in short wheezes. Buttons that had been sewed upon his clothes by kind Salvation fingers a week before flew like popcorn. But the November breeze, carrying fine snowflakes, brought him only a grateful coolness. For Stuffy Pete was overcharged with the caloric produced by a super-bountiful dinner. It began with oysters and ended with plum pudding. It included all the roast turkey and baked potatoes and chicken salad and squash pie and ice cream in the world. Wherefore he sat, gorged, and gazed upon the world with after-dinner contempt.

The meal was a surprise. He was passing a red brick mansion near the beginning of Fifth avenue, in which lived two old ladies of an ancient family who possessed a reverence for traditions. One of their traditional habits was to station a servant at the postern gate with orders to admit the first hungry wayfarer that came along after the hour of noon. Stuffy Pete happened to pass on his way to the park, and the seneschals gathered him in and upheld the custom of the castle.

After Stuffy Pete had gazed straight before him for ten minutes, he desired a more varied field of vision. With tremendous effort he moved his head to the left. And then his eyes bulged from fear. His breath ceased. His short legs wriggled and rustled on the gravel. For the Old Gentleman was coming across Fourth avenue toward his bench.

Every Thanksgiving for nine years the Old Gentleman had come there and found Stuffy Pete. The Old Gentleman was trying to make a tradition. Every Thanksgiving for nine years he had found Stuffy there and had led him to a restaurant for a big dinner. The Old Gentleman was a staunch American patriot and considered himself a pioneer in American tradition. To become picturesque, we must keep on doing one thing for a long time without ever letting it get away from us. Something like collecting the weekly dimes in industrial insurance. .

The Old Gentleman moved, straight and stately, toward the Institution that he was rearing. He was thin and tall and sixty. He wore a black suit and old-fashioned glasses that won’t stay on your nose. His hair was whiter and thinner than it had been last year. He seemed to make more use of his big, knobby cane with the crooked handle.

As his established benefactor approached Stuffy wheezed and shuddered like some woman’s over-fat pug when a street dog bristles up at him. “Good morning,” said the Old Gentleman. “I am glad to perceive that the vicissitudes of another year have spared you to move in health about the world. If you will come with me, my man, I will provide you with a dinner that should make your physical being accord with the mental.”

That is what the Old Gentleman said every Thanksgiving for nine years. The words themselves almost formed an Institution. Nothing could be compared with them except the Declaration of Independence. Always before they had been music in Stuffy’s ears. But now he looked up at the Old Gentleman’s face with tearful agony in his own. The fine snow almost sizzled when it fell upon his perspiring brow.

Stuffy had always wondered why the Old Gentleman spoke in sad tones. He did not know the Old Gentleman wished he had a son to succeed him. A son who would come there after he was gone. A son who would stand proud and strong before some later Stuffy and say, “In memory of my father.” Then it would be an Institution.

But the Old Gentleman had no relatives. He lived in rented rooms in one of the decayed old family brownstone mansions in one of the quiet streets east of the park. In the winter he raised fuchsias in a little conservatory the size of a steamer trunk. In the spring he walked in the Easter parade. In the summer he lived at a farmhouse in the New Jersey hills, and sat in a wicker armchair, speaking of a butterfly, the ornithoptera amphrisius, that he hoped to find some day. In the autumn he fed Stuffy a dinner. These were the Old Gentleman’s occupations.

Stuffy Pete looked up at him for a half minute, stewing and helpless in his own self-pity. The Old Gentleman’s eyes were bright with the giving-pleasure. His face was getting more lined each year. He had knotted his little black necktie into a jaunty a bow. His linen was beautiful and white. His gray mustache curled at the ends. And then Stuffy made a noise that sounded like peas bubbling in a pot. He intened to speak; as the Old Gentleman had heard the sounds nine times before, he construed them for Stuffy’s old formula of acceptance.

“Thankee, sir. I’ll go with ye, and much obliged. I’m very hungry, sir.”

The Old Gentleman led his annual protege to the restaurant where the feast had always occurred. The staff recognized the pair.

“Here comes de old guy,” said a waiter, “dat blows dat same bum to a meal every Thanksgiving.”

The Old Gentleman sat across the table glowing like a smoked pearl at his cornerstone of future ancient Tradition. The waiters heaped the table with holiday food, and Stuffy, with a sigh that was mistaken for hunger’s expression, raised knife and fork, and carved a crown of imperishable bay.

No more valiant hero ever fought his way through the ranks of an enemy. Turkey, chops, soups, vegetables, pies, disappeared before him as fast as they could be served. Gorged to the uttermost when he entered the restaurant, the smell of food had almost caused him to lose his honor as a gentleman. But he rallied like a true knight. He saw the look of beneficent happiness on the Old Gentleman’s face, happier than even the fuchsias had ever brought to it, and he had not the heart to see it wane.

In an hour Stuffy leaned back with a battle won. “Thankee kindly, sir,” he puffed like a leaky steam pipe, “thankee kindly for a hearty meal.” Then he arose with a groan and glazed eyes and started toward the kitchen. A waiter turned him about like a top and pointed him toward the door. The Old Gentleman counted out $1.30 in silver change, leaving three nickels for the waiter.

They parted as they did each year at the door, the Old Gentleman going south, Stuffy north.

Around the first corner Stuffy turned and stood for one minute. Then he seemed to puff out his rags as an owl puffs out his feathers and fell to the sidewalk like a sun-stricken horse.

When the ambulance came the young surgeon and the driver cursed under their breaths at his weight. There was no smell of whiskey to justify a transfer to the patrol wagon; Stuffy and his two dinners went to the hospital. There they stretched him on a bed and began to test him for strange diseases.

And lo! an hour later another ambulance brought the Old Gentleman. And they laid him on another bed and spoke of appendicitis, for he looked good for the bill.

But soon one of the young doctors met one of the young nurses whose eyes he liked and stopped to chat about the cases.

“That nice old gentleman over there, now,” he said, “you wouldn’t think that was a case of almost starvation. Proud old family, I guess. He told me he hadn’t eaten for three days.”

Out There and Back Again

November 19, 2022 / The Beverwyck Review / 0 Comments

By Rudy Petersen.

Peering over Rudy’s shoulder early one Saturday morning, Kathy saw that he had again covered the library table with maps, brochures, and travel guides; this time for the Canadian Maritimes region. She wondered, “Are we going somewhere, dear?”

Rudy said, “Oh, hi, I didn’t realize you were up. I wanted to get some stuff together and surprise you with ideas for a new trip!”

Kathy said, “Sounds like fun. I’ll start some breakfast and we can talk.”

During breakfast, Rudy suggested they could make a road trip into Nova Scotia, New Brunswick, and Prince Edward Island and see what was new and different there, not having visited that region in years. Kathy encouraged him to pull some information together. Rudy returned to the library and worked with his references. Always the planner, he loved doing this.

Later, at lunch, he and Kathy reminisced about earlier trips, especially ones featuring bed and breakfast lodgings. Soon they were laughing, realizing how strange some of those places had been. If the new trip yielded more like those, it would be worth the time and money.

Kathy mentioned the place in Natchez, Mississippi, where the owners, a brother and sister dressed in complete and elaborate ante-bellum costumes, served a hot breakfast so large the table appeared to bend under the weight of the silver platters. The siblings were glad their recommendation, that Rudy and Kathy use the bedroom facing Cemetery Road because the Civil War cemetery on that side was no longer used and things would be quiet at night, had worked out.

Rudy remembered another place, also in Mississippi, a renovated pre-Civil War plantation. The main house had been converted to a restaurant and gift shop with the former slave cabins modernized into guest-lodging. When breakfast arrived via room service, Rudy and Kathy suffered a twinge of discomfort while a young black woman dressed in old-fashioned clothes and bearing a large platter on her head came in to serve them. It seemed like an echo from a bad historical era.

Next up, Kathy recalled the B & B in Tennessee, on a trip when they were traveling the Natchez Trace. The place they had planned on was out of business when they arrived, but Rudy got a recommendation from two deputy sheriffs on horseback (flanking a work-party of men in orange prison garb) while he and Kathy were puzzling about where to check next. The new place was exactly that: a brand-new place, not yet officially open, and still being painted. They would be the only guests if they wanted to stay the night. With an offer to use the kitchen to cook their own breakfast and intrigued (if a bit nervous) about a possible return visit from the gun-happy person who shot a hole in the plate-glass front door (and which the owners proposed leaving in place as a conversation topic), Rudy and Kathy enjoyed a peaceful night in a comfortable room.

That episode reminded Rudy of the place in rural Virginia in a Gothic-style house straight out of a Charles Adams cartoon. When Rudy and Kathy entered the lobby, the man behind the desk stood up and, without a word, disappeared out the back door. Surprised, but not deterred, Rudy tapped a silver bell on the desk and a silent woman soon appeared from an adjacent room. When Kathy commented about the man’s unusual behavior, the woman explained that he was her husband, and that he was shy — an interesting trait for a person in the B & B business! At the end of a long day, and despite the run-down condition of the house, Rudy and Kathy stayed the night and ignored various mysterious creaking noises. While loading the car in the morning, they came across the woman strolling in the yard and looking distracted. Rudy, making conversation, pointed to a herd of cows behind a rail fence and asked if they were hers. Turning ever so slowly, she studied the beasts for a full minute, turned back to Rudy and Kathy, and acknowledged that they were, indeed, hers.

Elsewhere in Virginia, Rudy and Kathy stayed one night in a large, rambling place run by two retired men; fashion-designers from New York City who had taken up raising Borzois (Russian Wolf Hounds). Two of these enormous dogs were sprawled and snoring on a pair of chaise lounges on the sunporch. The owners commented that the dozen or so in the kennel behind the house were more energetic; especially whenever a foolhardy woodchuck entered their space. The result was one grab, one aerial toss, one dead woodchuck! Rudy and Kathy chose to admire those creatures from a respectful distance.

Speaking of respectful distances, Rudy reminded Kathy of the place in rural Idaho where, having made no reservations in advance and running long on the day’s adventures, Rudy found an online listing for a B & B only a few miles away. He phoned for a room. The woman who answered asked if they had a reservation. No, they did not. Well, did they have references? No, they did not. After a brief pause, the woman said it was important that she only accept the right kind of people. She accepted Rudy’s warm assurances that he and Kathy were the right kind of people, and they spent the night there; in a locale specializing in the farming of mint — lots of — acres of — miles of — mint! Rudy and Kathy concluded that the “right kind of people” must be code for “white only” and went on their way.

After this series of recollections, Rudy commented that B & Bs were much more fun than standard motels, because one meets such interesting people in B & Bs. As he returned to the library to resume work, Kathy noticed that he was humming Willie Nelson’s famous lyric, “Just can’t wait to get on the road again . . . .”

Coppers

November 17, 2022 / The Beverwyck Review / 0 Comments

By James Gonda.

“I’m not dropping no pennies in there. It’s a scam.”
“It’s not a scam. Little League is legit. I’ve seen ‘em play.”
“Really? When?”
“Every Saturday. My nephew plays. Since his old man took off, I go for support.”
“That’s nice.”
“Well, Barry’s a good kid.”
“So you’re sayin’ Pennies for Little League is legit?”
“That’s what I’m sayin’.”
“And they got these containers all over town, filling up with pennies?”
“I guess so, yeah.”
“You know, that adds up.”
“That’s the idea.”
“Hey, we can do this! We can make up a charity, get some plastic jugs from our guy at Culligan, and put ‘em everywhere. We’ll rake in the loot!”
“But it’s only pennies.”
“It’s easy money. Think about it: no overhead, no territory, no competition.”
“There’s Little League.”
“Don’t be stupid. We won’t run the con here.”
“Yeah, okay, whatever you say. Fantasy time is over. Let’s get goin’.”
“What time is it?”
“Pay for your coffee, we’re late.”
“We’re not rookies. Why do we hafta to do roll call?”
“What planet are you from? All cops do roll call.”

Dinner Plan

November 16, 2022 / The Beverwyck Review / 1 Comment

By Kathy Petersen.

My husband is having his gallbladder out the day before Thanksgiving. Granddaughter is working, earning triple pay. Grandson is going to his divorced mother’s place. Son lives with a large python. I never go there anymore. Daughter is vacationing in Aruba.

I hate to cook.

Looks like takeout for Thanksgiving.

The Power of Yellow Pants

November 15, 2022 / The Beverwyck Review / 1 Comment

By Joyce Beland.

The first thing I must tell you is that I am a woman of a certain age. That is a nice way of saying I am no longer young. I am not even middle age, unless of course I manage to live well past one hundred. The second thing I must share is while I do not feel like an old person, some say I behave like one. I confess I’m conservative in my views and behavior. I don’t make waves or call attention to myself.

I worked for the same company for almost four decades. After that many years, I was looking forward to retirement. My plan was to travel and restart long-neglected hobbies. Unfortunately for me (and others) my boss embezzled and fled the country before that could happen. So, two months before calling it quits, I found out my 401K was gone. And other monetary compensation had disappeared. There would be no trip to Europe. I couldn’t even buy yarn to finish the sweaters and scarves I had started decades ago. To make matters worse I had exhausted my personal savings.

I needed to find another job, something I did not look forward to. The last time I went job hunting I was fresh out of school. I no longer had a resume or references. Plus, I knew by law they could not ask my age, but they’d know I was an older woman. Would they be willing to take a chance on me? Or would they prefer a younger person, someone who would start for less money?

I decided to swallow all my fears. What choice did I have? I had to eat, and bills were coming due. I went online, which was a new experience for me. I checked newspapers. I asked friends and acquaintances. I knocked on doors of local businesses. I even used several employment agencies.

I went on any job interview I could get. I arrived early. I was always well prepared and polite. I styled my hair. I wore a very little make-up and jewelry. My attire was either a navy-blue skirt and jacket or a black skirt and jacket with a white blouse. My shoes were pumps with a two-inch heel or less. I looked like any professional woman should look. I either heard nothing back or got the usual, “Thank you, we’re not interested” reply.

Disappointment overwhelmed me. On some days I was downright devastated. Continuous rejection mangled my self-esteem. It was also bad for my pocketbook. I knew I needed to do something.

Everyone should have a friend who will be completely honest, telling what does or doesn’t look good on her. In my case that is my Dee. Knowing I had another interview coming up soon and needed a job offer, I called her. Then on a Saturday we took off on our shopping adventure. The goal was to find something that would make me stand out, something bold, maybe with flowers. Of course, I still wanted it to be discreet. I completely trusted Dee to impart her best advice.

Our first stop was a boutique that we had never been to. We found a blouse that Dee said was “waiting for me.” Black and blue colors were there, so it would go with either of my suits. There was also a myriad of bright colors mixed in. It was something that I would not usually buy. I liked it well enough, but my conservative nature wanted to take over. I was so grateful that Dee was there. She insisted I try it on. I liked how I looked and purchased it. I was elated too it was on sale. This inspired me to keep shopping. Dee was thrilled—my usual routine was to buy one thing and then break for lunch.

We agreed we should try another store where we had never shopped. The practical side of me was also looking for SALE signs in the window. I finally found both. We told the salesclerk who pounced on us that we were “just looking.” We proceeded to rummage through the near empty racks. We were about to give up when I spotted them, a pair of yellow pants. Some magical force drew me to them. I didn’t own a single piece of yellow clothing. Dee looked at me as if I had lost my mind. “You aren’t serious?” she laughed.

“Let’s have some fun,” I said. Eyeing the price tag, I saw they were on sale for only five dollars. Plus, they were my size. “I’m going to try them on. See how they look.”

Going into the dressing room, I figured Dee and I would have a good laugh. We should take a picture to share with our friends. I put the yellow pants on, and they fit perfectly, as if made for me. I turned around, checking myself from every angle in the mirror. Dee, who had been more than a little skeptical, admitted I looked great. We both agreed that the pants would match with my new blouse. “Sold!” we said in unison.

Today I’m sitting in yet another office for an umpteenth interview. This time I’m wearing my colorful wardrobe. I also dug out a pair of stilettos that I hadn’t worn in years. Yes, my feet hurt, but I look stunning. I know I will get noticed this time. I am feeling very confident. I like the new me.

I’ll let you know when I start my new job.

Help Fund DC’s Bail

November 12, 2022 / The Beverwyck Review / 0 Comments

By James Gonda

DC decided to rob the Citizens Bank because it was the fastest way to get money. But he had no experience robbing banks and what he did know came from Hollywood. And he did not have the proper equipment. He did not have a car, or an accomplice with a car, or even a pair of running shoes. He did not own a gun of any sort, real or fake. For a disguise he found a Halloween mask in his closet. For a getaway “vehicle” he elected to use his bike, an old 10-speed. He gave the chain and gears a generous spray of WD-40.

DC thought he had everything worked out. But there was a lot he didn’t know. He didn’t know a backpack stuffed with cash would be too heavy on his bike, especially with a bum shoulder. He also neglected to keep track of the weather. He didn’t know a thunderstorm would creep in later that day. The cold rain stung his face and chilled him to the bone. The most intelligent thing he did was wear gloves to hide his fingerprints.

DC had been a roofer his whole working life, until he slipped from a two-story roof. He bounced off an awning and landed on a concrete patio. He broke his shoulder; it required two operations and a third very soon. His orthopedist was having a tough time putting him back together. DC called himself Humpty Dumpty. This mishap ended his roofing career.

His motive for stealing was noble—he needed money for Barry’s heart meds. DC was Barry’s guardian. The pills cost a small fortune and the insurance company denied the claim. Then DC maxed out his VISA card. So, bill collectors began to call—they were relentless. The calls always started friendly but turned ugly when they demanded payment. DC would explain he was not working. He was waiting on a court date for his disability case. He had already applied twice and was turned down both times. The next move was to file an appeal, which his attorney did, and then wait for a hearing. This took months—the line for court was the length of a football field.

The police apprehended DC in record time. He had struggled back to his trailer, and a nosey neighbor spotted him. After the arrest they took Barry away. So, with DC locked up the little guy needed a new home. The prospect of Barry living with strangers tormented DC. Number one, what if Barry’s new parents neglected or abused him, or both? He had seen such things on TV many times. Number two, if he lost Barry, even for a short time, how did he get him back? Was he gone forever? DC knew jail time was in his future, but he had to make sure that Barry would be OK. And he prayed that Barry would forgive him for what he did.

At the arraignment the judge set DC’s bail at $10,000. DC thought that was all the money in the world. The public defender asked the judge to release DC on his own recognizance. He made the case that the heist was DC’s first offense. And no injuries were reported. And he was not a flight risk (the police had impounded the bike). And he was Barry’s sole means of support—there was not a spouse or trusted neighbor to watch over him. The judge shook her head no. “Denied!” she said and banged the gavel.

The public defender explained to DC that he did not need the whole ten thousand for bail. A bail bond could be procured for $1,000, ten percent of that amount. DC said if he had $1,000, he would not have robbed the bank. The public defender suggested a GoFundMe account. DC had no idea what he was talking about—he did not own a computer. So, the public defender setup the account (with his girlfriend’s help). Donations have been trickling in.

DC always believed that he and Barry were a perfect match. He was riding his bike one afternoon and saw Barry’s picture in a sailor suit on a billboard. In bold lettering the caption said I NEED GREAT PARENTS—CALL TODAY. DC was smitten. He peddled back to his trailer and made an appointment to meet him. He was nervous—it would be their first date, so to speak. What if Barry did not like him? What if the adoption agency got a bad vibe? Should he dress up? Did it matter that he was a bachelor? DC reminded himself that he was a good person with a steady job. He’d make sure that Barry had good food, clean clothes, and a safe place to live.

When DC got to the adoption agency, an older couple interviewed him. They were serious people—they barely smiled and dispensed with any small talk. They gave DC the third degree like detectives. They took turns asking questions and recorded his answers. DC was never sure how he was doing. They also asked for references and written consent to run a background check. They spoke with DC for an hour or so. Then it was time to meet Barry—the woman excused herself and went to fetch him from the playroom. DC was a bundle of nerves but tried to look collected. The woman came back with Barry. He clung to her and seemed shy. “Barry, this is DC,” she said tenderly, and DC reached for him. Barry instantly swung into DC’s arms. He weighed almost nothing. DC beamed and kissed the top of Barry’s head. “My oh my, aren’t you a cute monkey?” he said.

The Boxy Car Rap

November 11, 2022 / The Beverwyck Review / 2 Comments

By Angela Marotta

Don’t look at me

like I came from Mars

just ‘cause I like

those boxy cars.

Keep your Porsche

and Cadillac,

gimme a Lexus

and I’ll give it back.

What makes my eyes

shine like stars?

Just lead me to

those boxy cars.

They’re the ones

I wanna see,

the Kia Soul

and Scion B.

Save the limos

for your movie stars,

as for me

I’ll stick to boxy cars.

The Flower Child Helmet

November 8, 2022 / The Beverwyck Review / 2 Comments

By Richard A. Rose

Much of the nation was in turmoil over the Vietnam war protests, the flower children, and the hippies. We lived on an Army base where you did your duty and served your country. It was spring of 1968.

My sister, at eleven years old, chose to challenge the status quo. She was the right age for her mini-protest and was lucky to have a mother who was an excellent artist. Sis got her hands on a U.S. Army helmet liner. With mom’s clandestine help, they sanded off the rough olive drab green and, in its place, spread a glossy white. Atop the helmet mom drew the flamboyant flowers common in the later 60s. Those bright colors with big petals transformed the helmet into something unique. My sister wore the helmet to a teen party on post and it was a big hit. But it didn’t go over well with our father. The impact of the psychedelic 60s on his children concerned him. After the party, the helmet sat up in my sister’s room, forgotten for a couple of years.

By the end of 1970, Dad’s ideas about the war were changing. His stalwart support of America was succumbing to skepticism, confusion, and disappointment. This was true for many in his generation. There was the Kent State shooting. The political loss of territory won by soldiers’ blood. The growing sense the military was failing, and it was OK to fail. These events took their toll. One day, dad took the flower child helmet and put it in his office. It came to symbolize his sense of change about the justification and conduct of the Vietnam War. It stayed in his office until he retired fifteen years later.