The Beverwyck Review

Stories and Poems from the Writers' Critique Group of First Reformed Church, Schenectady, New York

Month: April 2023

J is for Jubilation

April 29, 2023 / / 1 Comment

 

By James Gonda.

Soon after the election, the new Prime Minister summoned me to 10 Downing Street. We needed to discuss my role in his government, and I was pining for a prestigious job. My top choice was Foreign Minister. But I would serve wherever my political acumen would most benefit the citizenry. In 31 years of public service, my philosophy has always been country first, party second.

The PM welcomed me with open arms like we were old chums. “Jolly good of you to make the trip in,” he said with a smile. We exchanged pleasantries, I conveyed my congratulations, and he sent for tea. Then he motioned for me to follow him into his office.

“I know you’re busy, so we’ll get right to it,” he said from behind his desk. “I have a special job for you, Wally, a new ministry, my own invention.”

“Oh?”

“And you should know, I shared this idea with the missus. She said if anyone was willing to try new things, to forge a new path, then that person was y-o-u.”

I cracked a little smile. “You’ve piqued my interest, Mr. Prime Minister.”

“Brilliant!” he exclaimed. “We’re off to a good start.”

The tea arrived on a cart. I can forgo refreshments, I thought.

“Thank you, Trevor,” the PM said to the butler. “I’ll take it from here.” He sprang up, and with flawless execution filled two cups with Darjeeling and served.

“Splendid tea, don’t you think?” he said, back behind his desk.

“Yes, delightful,” I said.

“So, the job, right,” he finally came back to. “Your title will be Jubilation Minister.”

I didn’t say anything at first. “Jubilation Minister?” I questioned. “What in bloody hell is that?”

“It’s an opportunity,” he said. “Let me pose a question: what is the opposite of jubilation? Despair, right? And don’t you think we’ve had our share of despair? Of course, we have! So, it’s time to do something about it, and that something is to put jubilation on the national agenda.”

“Are you pranking me?” I asked. “Reaching for a little fun on a Tuesday afternoon?”

“The latest World Happiness Report is out,” he said. “Out of 135 countries, the UK ranks nineteenth for the bliss of its populace. Not terrible, but I‘m convinced we can do better. You’re the man to take us there, akin to Moses leading his people to the Promised Land.”

His words stunned me. “Mister Prime Minister, I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

“Precisely! And therein lies the beauty of this post. You can do it YOUR way without interference from me or anyone else.”

His confidential secretary appeared. “Sir,” she said, “You have a call from the States. It’s the President . . . .”

And so concluded my sit-down with the new head of government. And like it or not, I was the UK’s first Jubilation Minister; to refuse the job would hinder my career. I wanted to lock myself in the lavatory and weep. I pondered this ridiculous post and decided it was to relegate me to a ministry without teeth. I had never felt more nauseated.

That night dejected and disappointed, I told my wife everything. She had the audacity to agree with the Prime Minister.

“It’s a marvelous idea,” she said. “If he wants you to be Jubilation Minister, then take the job by the balls. Make it your mission to improve the lives of ordinary people.”

“You’re being naïve,” I said. “This is not about ordinary people. It’s about pacifying Wally Graves.”

“You’re being cynical,” she shot back. “And very selfish. I’ve read the Happiness Report, it was in the Times. The PM is right, we can do better.”

“You’re missing the point: my political career is crumbling into the North Sea.”

“Then while you’re in the drink feeling sorry for yourself, start swimming for Oslo.”

“Oslo?”

“The Happiness Report ranked Norway number one.  Perhaps a visit will shed some light on what makes them so content.”

“Bullocks!” I yelled. I stormed off and sequestered myself in my study.

The next morning, I woke up in the recliner. I had fallen asleep while watching the telly, which was still on. And whose mug was on the screen? My very own! It was a file photo taken about ten years ago; I was being touted as the new Jubilation Minister. Bad news travels fast, I thought. Then there was a quick take to the PM articulating the purpose of the ministry. He added my “love of country and political savvy” made me the best candidate for the post.

“God save the King,” I mumbled.

They cut to a reporter standing under an umbrella in front of my boyhood home. It was raining cats and dogs. He made the trip to Grimsby to interview my 85-year-old mum.

“Mrs. Graves, what are your thoughts on your son as Jubilation Minister?” the newsman asked. They were in her kitchen.

“You’re sopping wet,” she said. “I’ll put the kettle on for tea.”

“Please, wait!” he pleaded, clutching her forearm. “We’re broadcasting live.”

“Oh, dear,” she said. Then she looked into the camera. “Wally, it’s me, your mum. Well done on your new job. Chin up, roll up your sleeves, and remember: country first, party second. I always knew you’d do great things.”

Her words filled me with, well, jubilation.

Now that’s power! I thought.

Fine Art – “Abaya Bay”

April 26, 2023 / / 4 Comments


By Elaine Thuener.

Elaine spent three years with her family in Saudi Arabia on a job assignment. They lived in the Eastern Province. As an artist, Elaine endeavored to capture outdoor scenes from photos she had taken. The pics allowed her to freeze the light and action to capture the scene’s essence on canvas. Saudi Arabia is a hot, arid place; it’s also humid in the summer and sand and dust fly around. These conditions made painting outdoors very difficult. 

God Save the Queens

April 22, 2023 / / 3 Comments

By James Gonda.

The show was a feast for the eyes and ears.

Their costumes shone and sparkled, a kaleidoscope of metallic colors and reptilian textures. Their voices replicated showtunes in deep soprano with a slight edge. Then after the singers had crooned for an hour, the impresario appeared. He promised the performers would return after a short intermission. A well-deserved break, I thought. 

The house lights came up. We had arrived late under the cover of darkness, and this was our first glimpse of the audience. Men and women, old and young, all appeared as pleased with the show as we were. Yet something was off. Dolores and I noticed that men clung to other men and women held hands with other women. We gazed at one another and wondered what we had wandered into. After 37 years of marriage, we knew each other’s thoughts. Who were these people? Were we safe? Should we leave? Was there a weird vibe? She checked the program and made a startling discovery: we were at a drag queen show.

I took her hand and whispered, “It’ll be alright” because I thought she needed those words. I didn’t know if it would be alright or not. I put on a brave face and resolved to make the best of the evening. It was our anniversary, after all.

The phrase drag queen played in my mind and I began to seethe. Men dressed as women men dressed as women . . . . Everything the Y chromosome conditioned me to know started to bubble to the surface. I knew real men dressed in trousers and sport coats and didn’t plaster makeup on their faces. I knew real men wore their hair short. I knew real men seldom betrayed their emotions and displayed scars as badges of honor. I knew real men enjoyed sports and gambled and drank. I knew real men told off-color jokes and took their coffee black. I knew real men spoke in littles, a little here and a little there. I knew real men had a need to fix things even when the broken item was beyond repair. I knew real men collected shot glasses and oil cans and calendars with women on heavy machinery. I knew real men moved things, hauled things, and built things. They also took things apart only to find out how they worked. I knew that deep within my primal self these inclinations lived and thrived. They made me long for a swim in a pool of testosterone, to howl at the moon, and to become king of the hill. Yes, oh yes, I knew all these things, and they felt so very, very, right.

I turned to Dolores. “Having a good time?” I asked.

“You look agitated,” she said. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m conflicted,” I said.

“Me too,” she said. “I can’t decide which dress I like best!”

“You’re OK with this?” I asked.

“It’s fabulous!” She beamed. “At first, it took me by surprise, yet you can’t deny these people have real talent. And they’re doing what they love. Thank you darling for bringing me here.” She leaned in and kissed me.

Dolores was right. These people could entertain and took great pride in their work. In high school, I did some acting. Big blocks of time and effort and sacrifice went into our little productions. So, I knew these queens didn’t wake up this morning and decided to put on a show. What we were seeing took years of preparation, practice, and rehearsals. Plus, the added expense of make-up, dresses, and shoes. I admired their commitment to their craft, such as it was.

Then Dolores pointed out a few bios of the performers. The blurb gave their name, hometown, and profession. One queen, billed as Lady Victoria, was an ironworker. He built skyscrapers with his bare hands and danced on girders thousands of feet in the air. Another queen, Miss Razzle Dazzle, was an electrician in a brewery. He maintained miles of copper wiring for lights, boilers, pumps, and computers. Still another queen, The Pink Explosion, owned a demolition business. He operated a tall crane with a wrecking ball and smashed buildings into smithereens. He created glorious heaps of rubble and dust. This was my dream job since childhood and envy as green as the greenest green consumed me. These guys were real men, yet they wore wigs and gowns and sang Broadway songs.

The impresario returned and asked the audience to find their seats; it was time to restart the show. With great fanfare, he introduced the next performer, The Emerald Mermaid. He sashayed onto the stage in a shower of enthusiastic applause, including from Dolores and me. He wore a leathery outfit that glistened over his short and stocky frame. According to the program, he was a firefighter. We thought he resembled a Komodo dragon. The lizard queen found his mark and belted out “Over the Rainbow.”

As more white hairs sprout on my head, I realize how much I don’t know about a myriad of things. From hybrid cars to the mechanics of our solar system to how to build a workable spreadsheet. Sometimes it’s embarrassing; other times I don’t care. Yet it’s a brave new world, a time and place that might be beyond my grasp. What I thought made a man a real man was no longer true and I’m gathering never was. How did we deceive ourselves?  

Down to the Crossroads

April 4, 2023 / / 3 Comments

By James Gonda.  

I wanted to see it for myself. My curiosity had gnawed at me, and I had never been to that part of the country. I asked my wife if she wanted to go and she said no. Traveling to Mississippi to see the Crossroads was not for her. I said we could ride our bikes to the site, for a more intimate experience, and she gave a hard NO. I did my best to change her mind. I described in vivid language Robert Johnson’s paranormal meeting at the Crossroads. “Imagine meeting the devil face-to-face and having a conversation, like Jesus did in the desert.” She thought I was over-selling the place.  

Robert Johnson’s story is mythological. He started as a mediocre guitar player in the Delta. He tried to make a name for himself in local juke joints. Then he disappeared for a summer. When he came back, he played the blues like no one’s business. This metamorphosis astonished everyone. “Isn’t this the kid who couldn’t play worth a damn?” There was only one explanation. He had met the devil at the Crossroads and traded his soul for unsurpassed musical talent. The devil held up his end of the bargain; Johnson achieved fame and recorded 29 songs. But he would soon die an agonizing death after drinking whiskey laced with rat poison. But that’s another story involving a jealous husband.

Since my wife rebuffed my offer to see the Crossroads, and I didn’t want to go alone, I recruited our son, Andrew. He was hip to the idea; no persuasion was necessary. We requested time off from our jobs, made travel arrangements, put our bikes on the rack, and hit the road. We took turns driving. It took us two days to get there from upstate New York.

It was early spring and Mississippi was not yet super-hot. On our first full day, it rained. The weather put the kibosh on our ride to the Crossroads. This was a blessing in disguise. It gave us a chance to rest from the drive and take in our surroundings.

Day 2 dawned with overcast skies. Then the clouds moved out and gave way to sunshine. We ate a light breakfast, saddled up, and were off.

The Crossroads are in Clarksdale, Mississippi, where Highways 61 and 49 meet. The site looked innocuous. Two roads come together in the country, as ordinary as white rice. We took pictures from different angles, including a father-and-son selfie. I was pleased with what we found. Extraordinary people have sprung from humble places. Lincoln was born in a log cabin; Elvis in a shotgun shack. So, it made sense that Johnson’s life changed at a common crossroads. 

After visiting the Crossroads, we set off to explore the Delta on our bikes. We visited antebellum houses and a Civil War battlefield. We struck up conversations with local people. We took over a hundred pictures. We finally peddled to a barbeque joint for an early dinner. We were starving and gorged on beef brisket, pork ribs, mashed potatoes, and coleslaw. Pabst Blue Ribbon was the only beer sold. We stayed a long time; a blues trio was performing, and they were fabulous. We must have looked pretty worn out because a local gentleman offered a ride to our hotel. He had a pickup, and our bikes could go in the back. We said yes and thank you. Southern hospitality was alive and well.

We got back by nine o’clock or so. We fell asleep on our beds watching TV. After a few hours, I got cold and woke up. The clock said 11:33. That’s when I remembered: when Robert Johnson met the devil at the Crossroads, it was midnight. Should I go back? Heck, why not? I could jump in the car and be there by 12 pm. Should I invite Andrew? I decided to let him sleep. I covered him with a blanket and eased out.

At the Crossroads, I parked on the shoulder and climbed out. I looked up and down the highway and saw only darkness. It was a pleasant, clear night. A few armadillos scurried across the road. They were cute and prehistoric, at the same time. Then twelve o’clock came and went. I waited a few more minutes; by 12:15 am I decided the devil was not going to show. My bed at the Quality Inn was calling. I got back in the car, fastened the seat belt, and was about to turn the key when she tapped on the passenger side window. She was a black woman, young and beautiful. She wore a form-fitting, low-cut purple dress. I opened the window about halfway. She peered in and said, “Mister, can you carry me to town?” I thought it might be a trick. Were her friends nearby, ready to pounce? “Look,” she said, “I’m too tired to walk and my feet are killin’ me.” She reached down and took off her shoes and then showed them to me. They were purple pumps, the same color as her dress. Terrible footwear for walking on asphalt. “Hop in,” I said.

I asked where she wanted to go. “You from New York? What you doin’ here?” she said.  

“Taking in the sights,” I said.

“You came to the Crossroads to meet the devil?”

I confessed that I wanted to see it for myself. And about the devil, well, one never knows.

She turned towards me. “Honey, don’t you know the devil comes to a man in the form of a woman?” 

I snorted. “That’s not what they said in Sunday school.”

“You know, Mr. New York, you should take me to your hotel.”

I explained that wasn’t an option. Oh, she was tempting enough, and I considered her offer for a nanosecond. In a soft voice I said, “Thank you, no. I’ll run you home.” When we got to her place, she thanked me for the ride and said, “If you change your mind, you know where I stay.” 

The next morning, I debated whether to tell Andrew about my encounter. Would he feel left out? But he called my bluff. “How was your adventure last night?” he inquired at breakfast. I laughed and recounted everything. “Did you get her name?” he wanted to know. “Yeah. Hot-Chick-In-A-Purple-Dress,” I said. “She was the devil.”

“The devil? That’s serious.”

“Yeah.”

“So, the Crossroads lived up to the hype. Did you take her offer?

“No.”

“No?”

I shook my head. “The devil has ugly feet.”

Unhanging the Crepe

April 2, 2023 / / 2 Comments

By John Hargraves.

After driving nearly an hour, I arrived Saturday morning to start my twenty-four-hour shift. The Schoharie Valley was quiet, unlike the time when a small plane crashed. But that’s another story. My handoff was singing in Russian as he showered. This was back in the day when rural hospitals were happy to get anyone with a medical license for twenty bucks an hour.

Soft cries welled up from the family waiting area. In the empty ER she was lying on the gurney in the corner. Her breaths were shallow, and she was unconscious. Thin and emaciated, their matriarch was fading in God’s waiting room.

“What’s up?” I asked the triage nurse nodding toward the corner.

“She’s already admitted,” she said. “We’re waiting for the bed. He wrote the orders. DNR. Diagnosis CVA. The family’s been told. We’ve hung the crepe. She’s been unconscious since arrival. Otherwise, it’s a good morning. Go ahead and get coffee before we get busy.”

“Any labs back yet?”

“They should be back soon.”

I reviewed the ABCs: airway, breathing, circulation. All presently intact. It’s hard to do a localizing neuro exam on a comatose patient. 

“Give me an amp of D50.” 

“We know she’s not a diabetic.”

“Never hurts though.  It’s coma protocol .” 

I placed the needle of the syringe into the KVO line and emptied the ampule of glucose.

Elbow points against the sheets shimmered. The chest rose higher, and her head moved, startled. 

“Please get the family! And are those labs back yet?”

A soft hymn of tears entered the room, then quieted and erupted into a blissful chorus.

“Blood glucose was 29 milligram percent doctor.”

He peered in fresh and clean. I turned to him and spoke in English.

“Doctor, you’ll need to rewrite your orders.”

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