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Sitting Down
I've been writing personal essays more than poetry lately,words spilling out in prose rather than the semi-poetic trickle I'm used to.
Here's 1192 words in a piece called Sitting Down
Sitting Down
Who we sit next to or near is usually a matter of choice. We sit next to our wife,across from our friend,by our children.
Sometimes, our sitting is strictly by chance and an Adventure begins:There's a diner I enjoy that's also popular with law enforcement .The longest conversation I've ever had with a cop is “License and Registration,please” so I was a bit reluctant to interject when I overhead a policeman at the next table discussing a play his wife was taking him to see in Boston.
“It's called Avenue Q or something like that,” he told his fellow officer.
“I heard it has puppets in it,” I interjected.
“Christ, like Bert and Ernie,” he signed.
“I don't think so,” I smiled
He was probably my age with a thick head of curly salt and pepper hair and a matching bushy mustache . He noticed that I was eating the Veal Parmesan sandwich.
“ My wife won't let me eat veal. Says it's barbaric,”he complained.
“I have a sister-in-law like that,” I offered.”Whenever we go to a restaurant with her,I ask the waiter if their calves have been chained ,tortured,and kept in the dark because that makes the tastiest veal.”
He chuckled and went back to his eggplant. When I was leaving ,he thanked me for the heads-up on the puppets.
“Next time we're in here, the veal's on me,” he said.
Now,that'll make my day, officer,”I countered.
My Dad died last April. We were never close until the last couple of years when we would meet for lunch at a diner near his house. He would always try to sit in the same booth by the third window. We'd order cheeseburger clubs and he would give me one of his halves. We talked mostly sports sharing a passion for the Yankees,Celtics,and the New York football Giants. Sometimes, we dabbled in politics expressing our disappointment in Bush2.
“You have any regrets,” I asked Dad a couple of days before his 80th birthday.
“None,” he replied.
His answer stunned me at first. Here was a man who always put work before his family, barely knew his two sons or grandchildren,donated his retirement savings to Foxwoods, etc.,etc.,etc Hell ,I was 27 years younger and had a plethora of poor decisions,missed opportunities,and foiled ambitions.
“None,” I repeated.
“Nope,” he replied.
Driving back home, I rationalized that it was Dad's singlemindedness and utter belief in himself that made him a superb businessman and,at best, a lukewarm father.
Speaking of tunnel vision, I recently sat two rows up from my former boss at a concert. Many years my junior, we had parted company when he felt my contributions to our corporation did not fit his criteria or justify my salary. In a way , I admire his steadfastness to the company's objectives and mission...He sees the tunnel and drives on through ,knocking down or removing obstacles that impede his progress.
I too used to live to work. But after losing my younger brother then my Dad, I'm trying the work -to- live road...I see the tunnel ,but also the October leaves that are changing color on the side of the road,the squirrel that's been eviscerated by a harried driver, the toll booth where my change will not always be exact.
I have a five-year plan in mind that involves teaching college students English as a semi-famous humorist/poet. To this end, I took the first part of the MTEL (Massachusetts Tests for Educator Licenses) last weekend. Over 400 men and women waited outside in a steady rain for the doors to open at a local high-school;I was one of the oldest,certainly not the wisest,though I did bring a rain hat and left my cell-phone in the car as directed (unlike at least half the testees).
My assigned seat was in the far left corner of the last row in Room 19 right by a heating system that howled like a wounded wolf throughout the four-hour ordeal .The desk was designed sometime in the 19th century for dwarfs .As instructed, I placed my photo ID (driver's license) on the top-left corner of the desk and took out five sharpened Number 2 pencils. This left an area the size of a postage stamp to take the Test on.
Grumbling to myself, I didn't notice my nine-year-old son's third-grade teacher sit at the desk to my right.
“Hi ,Mr Fusco” she exclaimed though I 'm sure she meant 'What the hell are you doing hunched over in that torture device,old man!'
“I have a dream,” I mumbled.” I have a dream.”
The first part of the Test involved reading long passages of text then answering questions about the author's intent, tone,style,etc. One passage was a scientific account of the cause and effect of Hurricanes. I started to do what I normally do when reading anything scientific--skip through passages and start daydreaming about baseball-- till I caught myself ,clenched my fists, and concentrated.
The second part of the Test asked the testee to write an essay of at least 350 but no more than 500 words supporting or opposing ratings on Cd's and cassettes similar to the Motion-Picture code. It asked for examples to support your argument.
I tend to be a very brief person. I don't speak 500 words in a week never mind gather that quantity in one essay. In 352 words, I supported warnings on Cd and cassette covers,citing the time I let my six-year-old borrow a tape of Lil Bow Wow from his friend because I thought it was a story about a boy's love for his puppy.
When I finished the Test,I visited briefly with my chiropractor then returned home. There was a message from my son's teacher on the answering machine;I had left my driver's license on the torture device. I called back asking her to hold onto it till school on Monday. I planned to spend Sunday in bed anyway.
Twenty three years ago,I sat on a barstool after a typical ,pain-in-the-ass ,eleven hour day of managing a supermarket and began my nightly routine of drowning my melancholy with shots of Anisette chased by Coors Lights. A young woman who worked in my Bakery department walked into the bar with a group of friends and sat on the stool next to me. She was wearing a long green skirt with a slit on the side that I found incredibly sexy and believe me I'm no fashion-bug. We started to talk and six hours later we were still talking. We met at the bar a few more times till she told me she wouldn't meet me at the bar anymore so I gave up my stool,stopped drinking heavily, and wooed her...sort of.
We've been married for 22 years,blessed with six children and two grandchildren .She still looks great sitting down in green.
Submitted by bardofaisle9 on Friday, March 21, 2008 (14:46:46) (887 reads)
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Re: Sitting Down
(Score: 1 )
by rykmcintyre on Friday, March 21, 2008 (16:04:23) |
Joe, this is really nice. The kind of thing I really needed to read today, for more reasons that I can articulate.
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Re: Sitting Down
(Score: 1 )
by InonI on Wednesday, April 09, 2008 (23:36:56) |
this article was so touching. i know exactly what you mean. i met my best friend by sitting next to her on the school bus almost ten years ago. and when you think about it, people don't communicate as much anymore. they mostly bump into each other and mechanically apologize. but only if everyone could see sitting down this way...
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