just sayin'

Breaking the Law With Edna Mae

"Why?" I asked.  "It's one small cardboard box!"

Protected by an exceptionally wide desk, she calmly explained, "It can't be done."

"I'm sorry,” she calmly added, "I understand this is an emotional time, but we'd be breaking state hygiene laws."  I blocked out her name, even though it stared me down from the nameplate on her desk, along with her title, "Family Facilitator".

I said nothing, but stood, twirling a small porcelain elephant between my fingers, waiting for her to calmly feel awkward enough to perhaps come up with something.  She did not.  "It isn't allowed."  That was her final calm statement.  She purposely spoke as if she were reading off an index card.  Lack of emotion was apparently a job requirement; an inability to even consider creative solutions was an extra trait that she lovingly brought to the position.

I miss checking on Mrs. Wilson every day.  It really wasn't a burden and I really did care about her.  I liked the fact that her house, the row house next to "mine", had that mustiness that brought back memories of aunts and grandmothers, and that she still owned things that she obtained using S&H Green Stamps. 

I'd often use my leftovers as an excuse to check on her.  She'd never refuse free food.  It was simple to lean over the back porch rail and knock on her kitchen window.  The random clicks and clacks of her lock collection would eventually start up and she'd stick her head out, often in her housecoat. The food offering was an excuse to ask her if she needed some milk or anything at the store. The next day, the bowl, plate, tray or dish would be cleaned, washed and sitting on the wooden porch rail for me, often guarded by a cat.  When I was little and my parents were still alive, Mrs. Wilson would often send me down to the corner store and give me a few pennies or maybe even a nickel for getting her some things.  Now, with my parents gone and the house now apparently mine, we'd long ago agreed to let me go to the store for her, gratis, even though we still had a decent little corner store, one of the last, and she could still walk down and back when she felt like it.

I should probably explain that I'm divorced, and single people are often quirky, I'm constantly told. Some believe that, without another around, single people start to believe their thoughts are normal, when they're often not.  Constant interaction with others apparently helps you to sort out strange thoughts.  I apparently do not have such filters, so at times I do and think things that are perhaps not quite appropriate.  I share this with you for later consideration.  At any rate, suffice it to say that my parents are gone, and I still live in the house I grew up in, fortunate to still live next to the same neighbor.

About once a week, I hear a knock on my kitchen window, when Mrs. Wilson taps out her own personal code.  Sometimes it's not to ask for anything, but just an excuse for some conversation, since she must be quirky as well, living alone.  Often it's just old people stuff.  A neighbor dog keeps pooping on her lawn - would I be a dear and ask them to please stop?  It's either dirty work, or a request for more milk and Corn Chex.  Of course, I rather enjoy harassing people with pooping dogs, so such requests are those I look forward to.  Taking her car to get inspected is a different matter - I resist it because she shouldn't be driving any more.  Fortunately, the battery is usually dead, because when I take it to be inspected I leave the radio turned on, so I know the car doesn't ever get used.  "Just in case" is her excuse, when I tell her it's time to get rid of it.

This week's knock met me with tears running down her wrinkled little face.  She pointed out to her rose bush and said "Just look, just look for me, will you?  Edna Mae's been lying under the rose bush and won't come when I call her.  Oh, dear . . ."

I walked out of my small back yard's rusty gate, and down the alleyway to her rusty gate, which creaked open.  There, under her bush that was covered with white puffs of roses, was Edna Mae.  Mrs. Wilson has the best roses I've ever seen, because she puts her coffee grounds out there every morning.  The grounds, however, didn't help Edna Mae.  Anticipating the worst, I didn't want to touch her, and I could see that her body was not moving at all; she wasn't breathing.  I don't know how old Edna Mae was, but she seems to have lived at least two normal cat lives. 

"It doesn't look like anything bad happened to her, Mrs. Wilson,” I said, as she stood on the porch, "It is just her time.  At least she decided that she wanted to spend her last moments under your roses.  This must have been her favorite place."

"Oh, Edna, dear Edna Mae" she cried.  But she quickly composed herself.  Mrs. Wilson had had many cats and we've seen them come and go.  She loved them but is very practical in matters of life and death, I've learned. 

"Could you take care of her for me . . . please?"  This would be the first time that it wasn't my father "taking care" of one of Mrs. Wilson's cats.  It would have to be me.  Fortunately, I was familiar with the drill, and in a few days I stopped off at the cemetery to collect Edna Mae's remains.  Mrs. Wilson always had her cats cremated - she never told me why. 

I'd seen Mrs. Wilson lose cats before, and had seen her grieve, and knew that she had them cremated, but never saw her quite affected like this before.  When I gave her the box, she pushed it back at me.

"I need you to do something else for me.  I'm sorry I always seem to be asking for favors, but this is special.  You've been such a good neighbor over the years; I do appreciate it.  I hope you understand that."  She looked down.

"And you've been a good neighbor too," I replied.  "I've been very lucky to have had you on the other side of the wall all of these years."

"Well, I'm glad you feel that way.  You know, I always loved my cats, but these past years, with Ed gone, it's just been me and Edna Mae.  She knew I needed a little extra love and was so good to me.  I know I'm not going to last forever, and I don't think curling up under the roses is going to be what people want me to do, but I need you to hold onto Edna Mae for me, and when I go, I want you to make sure she's with me.  It would mean so much."  She stared at me with her most serious game face.

"You're not going anywhere quite yet, Mrs. Wilson,” I said, wondering why people always say such things to old people.  We smiled at each other, both knowing the lack of value of the comment.

Now, I know that you've all heard the stories of an old couple where one spouse dies and the other a few days later.  I'd never heard it where it was a cat-person pair, but in this case she just seemed to know. Our gas man, who hops over fences and porches and only knocks on back doors, saw her through the window on the floor and called the Police.  How they got in I'm not sure, but the ambulance was just packing up when I arrived home.  She had passed away probably within an hour of when he reported seeing her body.  Her one daughter, in Baltimore, somehow managed to make all of the funeral arrangements over the phone.  I wondered if anyone would attend.  There really weren't many left who knew her except for a few neighbors as old as her, who still had their cats, but not their spouses.

I decided to go into the house the evening she died, just to check on things.  There was always the chance that the daughter would arrive and find me there, but I was anticipating that I wouldn't see her thin, chiseled face until the day of the funeral, which I only knew about because it was in the paper (the funeral date, not the chiseled thing).  I'm not sure if Mrs. Wilson would have wanted to be cremated or not, but I don't think she was given the choice. 

I waited until dusk to take the key off the hook behind my kitchen curtain, which opened her front door.  We had each other's keys for many years.  I didn't know if anyone would have bothered to have turned off the fans, or the TV, or checked the range, so it seemed a legitimate thing to do.  For me it was a personal challenge of honesty.  I loved the Wilsons.  They were good people and wonderful neighbors, but I always had one tiny "thing" that I never forgave them for.  When I was 12 (1963), one night thick with summer, everyone was sitting out on their back porches or in their back yards, swatting skeeters, catching lightning bugs, and jawboning.  I loved to talk with Mr. Wilson; he always seemed to have a story for me.  Railroad men always do.  They also teach you words like jawboning.  The topic of my coin collection came up and he invited me over.  He took me into his dining room and opened the closet door.  Up on the top shelf was a coffee can that he took down.  Like many others, he would throw his change in something every night.  This particular Eight O'Clock can had been around for a long time, and as he started sorting through it, he pulled out an Indian head penny.  Even then, Indian head pennies were valuable and impossible to find.  Who knows how many were just sitting in this can, and how many other cans he had.  I tried my best to tell him how excited I was, hoping he'd offer me the can, or at least give me the chance to go through it, but he just put it back up on that damn shelf.  On rainy Saturday afternoons, I'd imagine how I could cut a hole in our dining room closet, which would lead me into their closet, so I could do an appropriate penny inventory, but my parents probably wouldn't have approved, so I wondered - now as an adult and alone in the house - would the can still be there?  And, could I just leave it alone? 

First I went through every room.  Mrs. Wilson had done a good job.  No fans or TV's were on, nothing on the stove.  She had even unplugged all of the digital clocks and radios.  The basement seemed quiet, although it was hard to walk past so many boxes without wondering what treasures each held.

I'll be honest.  I did open the dining room closet door.  No, I didn't think there would be any fans or radios running in there, but the can sat where I last saw it many years ago.  I'm not the coin collector I was when I was 12.  The can called me; but I can't steal from a friend, even a dead one.  I decided that I would tell her daughter about my "lifelong dream" and see if she would let me buy the change from her.  Hopefully she'd at least do that for me, in return for my looking in on her mother.  Otherwise, I'd have to return to the hole-in-the-closet plan.

I also have to be honest and tell you that I looked through most of the drawers in the house.  I'm not sure why, just curiosity - curiosity plus I just wanted some little thing that no one would miss, as a memento of her.  On her dresser, there were about 30 small porcelain elephants.  She showed them to me once and told me that they used to put small things like these in detergent boxes, or you'd get them as little prizes at the shore if you played skee-ball on the boardwalk for a while.  I took a small blue one and put it in my shirt pocket.  Then I took a second, smaller one, to keep the first company.  Probably her daughter will have the herd in the trash can in no time - the least I could do is save a few of them.

I'd been in the Wilson house enough times to know what was in every drawer and cabinet in the kitchen, so I skipped that room.  My last exploration was a return to the dining room, before heading out the back door.  The top drawer of the serving settee was designated as their junk drawer - occupied by pens that didn't work anymore, post-cards, stamps, screws from who knows what, and a few tools. My parents had their junk drawer in the same place.  I couldn't even think of what else would be in the drawers below. The second drawer housed cotton napkins and tablecloths.  (I guess I could have reasoned that one out.)  The bottom drawer, I predicted, might hold some curtains or perhaps dish towels.  Instead, it was filled with Mr. Wilson's white socks - the old tube socks with the colored stripes around the top.  My mother had a way of rolling up two socks in a pair, so I'd keep matching ones together.  It looked like a similar collection, although these ten sock balls were extremely well organized with a small ribbon around each one.

I stared at the socks for some time - an unusual place for them.  What if each was filled with more old change?  Is this where they were hiding it?  I picked up a sock.  It wasn't a sock inside a sock, but a sock partially filled with something, then somehow rolled and packaged into small round balls, almost, with a ribbon holding them together.  Whatever it was, it was lighter than a baseball, and a bit crunchy, so coins weren't involved.  I turned one over, and, hand-sewn across the bottom was a word - Samantha.

Each sock reported whose loving remains were within.  The drawer contained the history of the Wilson cats, each lovingly cremated and packaged, except for Edna Mae, who was waiting for my return, in the small cardboard box in my kitchen. 

I got to the cemetery a little early, by not being part of the funeral procession.  I beat the coffin so I beat everyone else to the grave.  Surveying the setup, I moved the first row of chairs about 12 inches closer to the opening of the grave.  I grouped the chairs into groups of three, with small aisles between them.  I then stepped on a lower rung of every other front row chair; Edna Mae and I put all of our weight on them, making the legs sink into the ground.  It rained the night before so that was easy.  One doesn't usually see the worker bees at burials, but they're never far away.  They usually get the grave dug and scaffolding completed at the last minute and are eager to return as soon as grieving ones leave, to fill in the hole and move on.  They were nearby, watching me as I rearranged the chairs, abusing every other one, and leaving a jacket on one. 

I left the gravesite and parked at the top of the hill just as the short procession pull onto the grounds, and up to the gravesite.  All of the pallbearers were funeral home employees because none of Mrs. Wilson's friends were strong enough to do such a job, except for me, and I was not asked to participate.  Probably her daughter didn't actually know my name.  I walked down the hill to join them.

The funeral and burial had more people there than I'd imagined - almost 10.  All of the neighbors who could walk and get a ride, who were her age, were there.  Her daughter showed up and, of course, the Facilitator with whom I'd previously spoken was there.  She nodded to me, acknowledging that she recognized my face but forgot who I was.

The service at the burial site was short.  Tears were generated.  Old people quickly wilting in the summer heat were directed back to air-conditioned cars so they could get home for their overdue naps.  I walked up to the minister and daughter, who felt obligated to be the last to leave.  I introduced myself to her (again) and told her I'd see her back at the house, just to remind her that she really needed to actually set foot in it sometime, and now would be good.  She said, "That would be nice."  Perhaps I'd been a bit hard on her, but I'll reserve judgment until the coin can negotiation is completed.

Both she and the minister looked at the brown bag I was carrying.  It was the size and shape of a brown shopping bag, but it had cord handles attached to it.  If they had looked closely they would have known that such bags aren't used anymore.  She could not have known that her mother had bags like this in the kitchen.   They looked at it one last time, as if they thought I'd been carrying gifts for them in it, and they didn't want me to forget.  They were wrong.

Miss Darth Facilitator stood to the side, there in theory to ensure that everyone's wishes were attended to.  She looked relieved and quickly disappeared as the three of us, the last three, turned our backs to leave.  I escorted daughter and minister back to the car they arrived in, then turned and faced the grave and stared.  They seemed to feel, luckily, obligated to do so as well.  "Oh, it looks like someone left a suit jacket on a chair" she said.  "Oh, that's mine.  Thank you.  I'll retrieve it." I replied.  It was the flaw in my plan, since I did not sit in that chair, or sit at all.  Neither of them realized it.  I dismissed them both by shaking the reverend's hand, and again telling her I'd see her in a few minutes back at the homestead.  They were pulling away as I entered the small sea of chairs.  If anyone had been watching, they would have agreed, it was an unfortunate accident.  As I reached for my jacket that I had left on a front-row chair, my foot snagged another chair that was firmly planted in the ground.  I was flung forward, almost into the gaping hole.  I lay there for a moment, surveying the situation.  I picked myself up, brushed myself off, and slowly put on my jacket.  Probably no one had seen me fall, at least no worker rushed to my aid, but quirky people are nothing if not obsessive planners.  I picked my brown bag up off the edge of the grave, and folded it neatly into a flat little thing that I flipped into the hole.  At that, I quickly returned to my car in the expensive part of the cemetery - the part with a view.  (What a great idea.  Isn't it worth a few more dollars to make sure your loved ones will be buried up high on a hill where they have a great view?)

I heard the growl of the diesel motor as it started up on the earth mover.  The novice worker bees quickly broke down the "tent" and folded up the chairs.  In no time, the burly operator had the hole filled and packed.  Rest in peace/time for lunch.

I often think of the unique view I had at that moment - looking into the grave from grass level, feeling the cool air from the moist soil below - of that budget coffin with ten socks and a small box surrounding it.  It may have been one of my best works to date.  I only could have made it better by adding a personal touch - perhaps an eleventh sock (one of mine) with lasagna in it.  I'd like to think it was good karma that helped the daughter to decide to give me that can of coins, and to even kiss me on the cheek as she said goodbye, not to return for months.  When she returned, she didn't even notice the white rose bush in my yard.  I didn't know if Mrs. Wilson actually had a long-term plan for those socks, but since they were Mr. Wilson's, it was certainly appropriate that the whole family got together in the end.  I know that socks are woven cotton, and dead, embalmed people don't actually feel joy in being surrounded by ashes of dead animals, but in the presence of death we do things we don't normally do, and share dreams and wishes that we know are not real.  Socks and ashes won't let the Wilsons run through fields of flowers with their kittens at their feet in heaven, but even if the probability approaches zero, there's always someone who wins the lottery.  There's no rulebook for doing the right thing, even when all we're left to work with is footwear and a dash of symbolism, so we occasionally must be guided by obligations to good friends.

© 2013 John Allison

She Kept What She Thought Would Hurt the Most

A monologue, here performed by Kate Daly.
at Monologues and Madness in NYC

Family Meetings

I was an only child.  It was easy for my parents to talk with me whenever they wanted, but we would occasionally have "official" family meetings around the dining room table.  Every Fall we would have a snow meeting.  We would get the wooden bobble-headed fat-man savings bank off the dining room window sill (right above the radiator).  He would be the fourth member of the meeting.  We would each put a dollar into him.  This was a lot of money, but we were big time gamblers.  On each dollar, we would write our prediction for when Philadelphia would get its first snowfall (which we looked forward to).  I always picked my birthday, November 14, my mother would pick her birthday, December 13, and my father, a "summer baby", would usually pick my grandmother's birthday, December 14, or Christmas.  For those three days, we constantly watched the skies, hoping that any of the three of us would win.  If no snow fell by the end of the year, the contents would remain and be added to the winnings for the next Fall.

I recall two very important family meetings that we had when I was young (and many others, which I had to call, as my parents aged).  My mother became infatuated by the commercials on TV, and magazine ads for COOL cigarettes.  Those who smoked them apparently really enjoyed them, and had wonderful lives, although we had no idea what enjoying a cigarette meant, since neither of my parents smoked.  Dad and I were surprised when Mom called a meeting and set a saucer and an unopened pack of Cools on the table, along with a book of matches.  I couldn't imagine her actually buying cigarettes!  I was 10 at the time and it was 1961.  To our surprise, Mom invited Dad and I to join her in discovering the joys of smoking Cools.  We were each dealt our own cigarette, which we awkwardly lit up.  Just like on TV, we tried to look casual and wealthy as we inhaled, prepared to exhale that relaxing smoke.  We coughed, we choked, we ran for glasses of water; we almost died.  None of us ever touched a cigarette again.  (If you want to make sure your kids or grandkids never smoke, I highly recommend this approach.)

I also very much remember a family meeting that we had after my third 5th grade report card came out (1962).  My mother brought it to the table.  My father brought our family dictionary.  My teacher had used a word that none of us has ever heard before.  My mother first read Mrs. Miller's comment.  "John is a bit flippant."  I suggested that it meant well groomed.  My father looked it up, and read the definition to us all.  Apparently my definition was incorrect.  A substantial discussion followed.  Looking back at my old report cards, I'm reminded that prior to that meeting, my mother always signed them.  (They always had to be signed and returned.)  After that meeting, my father always signed, and always wrote a note back to the teachers, adding up to quite a continued dialog in those years that followed.  While I may not have been the best student academically from that point on, I definitely took it more seriously, and treated the teachers with the respect they deserved.  They did, after all, have the ultimate power - their short notes could lead to family meetings, and I didn't want to be looking up any other new words around the dining room table ever again.

© 2012 John Allison

Epic

The Dark Knight, his helmet lying on the ground, scowled at The Wizard.  The Knight looked at The Wizard's outfit, and couldn't help but think it looked gay, even though he knew the thought was not one he should be having.  The Wizard reached his arm out just in time to catch one of two swords that fell from the sky.  The Dark Knight quickly picked up the other sword, when it hit the ground.  As he reached for his sword, he felt The Wizard's sharp sword cut through his bicep ("cut through like butter", whether butter was available or not).  Both men held up their swords.  The tips touched.  They tried to look into each other's eyes, a key move made impossible by The Wizard's shades.  As their swords touched, an epic battle of swordsmanship began.  Audio records reveal details of the battle:

Clang, clang, clang, clag, clang, ouch.  The Wizard's sword cut through the hot August Knight (and night) like a sword, or knife. Clang, clang, clang, clang, ouch, clang, clang, ouch, clang, clang, clang, clang, clang. Pant, pant, pant.  Clang, clang, clang, clang, clang, ouch.  Clang, clang, clang, clang, clang, clang.  As the duel continued, the sounds of pain grew.  Clang, clang, clang, ouch, clang, ouch, ouch. Clang, clang, clang, clang, ouch, clang, clang, ouch, ouch.  Clang, clang, clang, clang, clangedy clang.  Ouch, OUCH!

The Wizard hit the floor first, The Dark (K)night looked over him with The Wizard's sword firmly embedded in his sword hole.

Dead.  He had killed him.  The town cheered.  He didn't consider that the townsfolk were cheering because both were goners.

It was just another day in the future, in a time when knights and wizards once again roam the lands, and die on them too.

© 2012 John Allison

The Book of Love, Chapter 68

I'm sure Uncle Dave surprised Aunt Grace when he returned home from World War II, since he brought Lolly with him.  He picked her up in "the islands".  One might think that it would be impractical to be a "hula dancer" in Philadelphia, but she became, in fact, something of a local attraction.  The first time I was aware of her, I saw only her bare feet.  One day, Uncle Dave asked me if I wanted to meet Lolly, and if I'd like her to dance for me.  She did, often, for me as well as for many others. He was always generous with her.  He would flex his right arm muscles and she would dance.  She would shake and shimmy.  Even if he had no money, he could always share Lolly with people, and make them smile. My last memories of my Aunt Grace and Uncle Dave as a family are of them in their living room in their suburban Philadelphia home.  He is in his special lifting chair, and she is sitting on the sofa, always at one end, so she can hold his hand.  He was down to about 85 pounds, had Alzheimer’s and dozens of other problems, but she was grateful for every day.  After a string of heart attacks, his body forgot how to swallow, so he returned home for hospice care; they took him home to die.  With no tubes or other support, Aunt Grace watched him for eight days before he left her.  He was definitely a tough old sailor to the very end.

In my old age, I've just stopped approaching the casket at funerals.   Instead, I went right to Aunt Grace, held her hand for a while, and then walked around the funeral home. From the back of the room, I saw Uncle Dave's face sticking out above the bunting, and thought of him and Lolly.  As he grew older, Lolly sagged as he did, stopped dancing as he did, and accompanied him through every pain, to the end.  No one saw the tear on her face when he died, but I knew it was there.

David and Grace were the happiest couple I knew, and had just celebrated their 68th anniversary. It is easy to dismiss this accomplishment as what people did from their generation, but they weren't together for 68 years - they were happy for 68 years!  So from the back of the room I asked my Uncle Dave, "how do two people stay happily together for 68 years?"  I had to ask him now, since this was probably our last chance to chat.  

The family had hundreds of pictures around the funeral home for visitors. He pointed them out for me.  So as mourners mourned, I walked and studied.  I noticed that, for these high school sweethearts, most of the photos, taken over decades, were of them kissing.  A pessimist might suggest that they would always kiss for the camera, but there were too many kissing candids.  One of the oldest pictures was a kissy black-and-white of them on the beach in Atlantic City.  It was documented!  They never stopped kissing.  I also noticed that people in the photos seemed to always be touching.  I started over and it was clear - whenever Grace and Dave were together they touched, multiple times.  There she is sitting on his boney knees, with his two hands on her shoulders.  He touches her twice, but if you count butts and boney knees, it's four touches!  There were always at least two!  They couldn't just have their arms around each other waists; they'd also have to be holding hands.  In many pictures, they sat next to each other, often hand in hand (only one touch).   But as I looked more closely, it was amazing!  They were also resting their heads against each other. 

Touches and kisses.  It was just what they did.  They couldn't keep their hands/lips off of each other, and this kept them happy for 68 years.  I wonder if Aunt Grace wanted to be a tattoo as well, jealous of Lolly, just so they could always touch.  

I'd asked a simple question - how could two people stay in love for almost 70 years?  The answer was there, for those who wanted to know, explained over many years with miles of film.  I'm not sure it's the only way, but it was their way, and I'm glad he explained it all to me - about kisses and touching.  Lolly saw it all, and can confirm it, but for now she lays there beside him, resting silently, holding him close, two to a box, dreaming, as he was, of the day when they would dance together again. 

© 2012 John Allison

You're Still Talking (a short monologue)

Hi.  My name is John.  I'm an introvert.  You probably don't understand people like me, but I think I know you pretty well.  People light up when you enter the room.  You wish there were more days when you could go out and just dance the night away. You're like the majority of the population, but not like me.  You're an extrovert.

Have you ever heard someone talk about their teenage daughter - the little chatterbox who will not shut up?  They're labeled cute but annoying.  Anyone ever tell you about the daughter who simply won't talk at all?  Parents are usually concerned about them.  But these are two ends of a very real spectrum of personalities.  You need to understand that neither needs medication . . . well, maybe all teenagers need medication . . . but not for this part of their personality.  Neither is trying to be unreasonable.  The quiet one is just as healthy as the yacky one; you just need to understand that when she's quiet, she's thinking, or in a thinking-like state.

I want to explain introverts to you, because we really are misunderstood and extroverts often don't quite know what to do with us.

When I walk into a room, actually, when I'm dragged into a room, it's a bit painful because I know what's going to happen next.  If you try to say something nice to me like "How are you doing?", I'll probably return with something that will kill the conversation like "Still alive", or maybe just growl.  Small talk - we just can't do it.  Sometimes we drown in discussions that are 100% content free.  You talk; you smile.  We wonder if, like the Road Runner, we can call the Acme Safe Company and have one dropped on you, just to make you stop.  We prefer to spend blocks of time alone and quiet.  We suffer through small talk, but can do just fine in front of a large group.  We do enjoy substantial conversations - we're not antisocial.  We're also not serious or shy, or rude or arrogant.  That's may be how we appear, but those labels are wrong.

I like being around people, but if I have to be social for an hour, I'm going to need a day of quiet to recover.  It's not because I'm depressed; being alone with my own thoughts is just what I do.

The most important difference to understand is that introverts think - we think before they speak; extroverts speak to think, it’s how they organize their thoughts.  That's why your meetings always last six hours.  You figure out who you are by interacting with other people - like puppy dogs.  Extroverts assume that people always like to have them around (like puppy dogs) - they can't imagine that anyone would want alone time.  I tried explaining this to an extrovert once, but they only listened for a few seconds then went back to jumping and yelping.

There have been some famous introverts in history.  Jean Paul Sartre is quoted as saying "Hell is other people at breakfast."  Get the idea?  The great Calvin Coolidge, introvert god, said, "Four fifths of all our troubles in this life would disappear if we would just sit down and keep still" - his polite way of saying "just stop talking!"

You need to understand the differences between us, because I'm not alone.  I've read that introverts make up about 25% of the population.  According to an Internet site, we're "a minority of the regular population but a majority of the gifted population".

We do have you to thank for cell phones - because you couldn't talk about nothing constantly with a phone only at your house, and hold down a job.  It's so much better now that you can talk to your friend about having your period while you're in the grocery store and I'm trying to pick out spaghetti sauce.  Thanks. Sometimes you invade our lives.  Of course that's nothing compared to your singing.  It was great to spend $250 to watch Springsteen lip sync to your singing.  Did you all get together before the show and decide to surround me, then sing your hearts out even though you didn't know the words?  When the crowd drowns out the performer, why are we there?  Wouldn't just having an iPod on stage be cheaper?

My mailman always shares neighbor mail with me, and some of it I return.  Catalogs I keep.  I got one the other day that sold a wooden sign to hang in your home - it must be the extroverts' credo - probably on the back of all of your drivers' licenses.  It was a celebrate life sort of decoration.  To me, it was instructions for creating hell at home.  DANCE, SING, LOVE, LIVE.  It said, "DANCE like no one is watching."  People, I don't want you to do it and I don't want to do it.  "SING like no one is listening."  Ditto.  "LOVE like you have never been hurt before."  I guess "LOVE like you're stupid" just didn't look right.  "LIVE like every day is your last."  If I did that I'd be arrested before the sun came up.  Too bad they ran out of wood before they could write, "SMOKE like this is the best dope you ever had!"  Are the people who write these things serious?

In my life I only know of one occasion where an introvert won an argument.  Hotel doorknob hangers now say,  "Do not disturb."  The first ones, written by an extrovert, said, "I'm Sleeping, but Hey, Come on In, Lets Party!"

If you're living with an introvert, I ask you to do a few things for me.  First, understand - it's not a choice but an orientation (yes, it's a phrase used by introverts too).  Second, when we're quiet, don't ask, "What's the matter?" And third, don't say anything else either.  I hope this helps.

© 2012 John Allison

Shamelessly stolen from the Internet:

Old/Bored/Trouble/Dead - a one act play

Characters

Janine, an appropriately dressed, socially inept, outcast-type of teenage girl.

Grandmother, old, weak and infirmed, sweet, and feisty, with a sparkle in her eye.

Janine's Mother, only on stage briefly.


Setting

  The play takes place in the Grandmother's bedroom.  Grandmother is either bed-ridden, or in a chair, possibly a wheelchair, with a bed and window nearby.


Summary

Most parents have probably had a conversation with a teenager - who just refused to appreciate parental assistance given through love - a conversation that involved the comment "I never asked you to do anything for me".  Finally, someone figured out how to respond - by dying.




(Lights up.   The three characters are in Grandmother's bedroom.  JANINE is looking out the window, her back turned to the other two and the audience.   MOTHER has a purse and keys in her hand.)

MOTHER:  I have to go to the drug store so I need you to watch over your grandmother, Janine.

JANINE:  (detached) Whatever.  She'll be fine.  I don't need to "watch" her.

MOTHER:  Well, "whatever" back at 'ya.  That's what I want you to do.  (cell phone rings)  Hello?  Oh, hi Sarah.  Look, I'm just out the door to get to the pharmacy when they open.  Here, say hello to Janine.

(MOTHER tries to hand the phone over to JANINE.)

JANINE: (hushed) No way!

(MOTHER tosses the phone to her daughter, who is forced to catch it, as the MOTHER exits stage left.)

MOTHER: (cheerfully)  Bye!

JANINE: (painfully, without expression) Hello Aunt Sarah.  Mom can't talk now she'll probably call you later (hangs up and puts the phone in her pocket).

GRANDMOTHER: (sweet, with just a touch of sarcasm)  Oh, how sweet.  You love your Aunt Sarah don't you?

JANINE: (short, not wanting to talk) She's OK. . . I don't know.

GRANDMOTHER:  Honestly, when I was young we had some moody years, but today you kids set moody records.

JANINE: (still unable to look at her GRANDMOTHER) Yeah, well . . . I'll be in my room (starts to walk off, stage right).

GRANDMOTHER:  Oh, I don't think so.  You're not going to want to miss this.

(JANINE says nothing, stuck between leaving and not leaving.  She finally breaks down to scowl at GRANDMOTHER.)

GRANDMOTHER: (quietly and seriously)  I'm going to die, Dear.

JANINE:  Yeah, aren't we all. . . . What are you bugging me about?

GRANDMOTHER:  I'm shocked but, well, I just know.  It's like everything went from 6 cylinders down to 1.  That's an automobile analogy, Dear.  Like I'm powering down. That's a computer analogy, Dear. It's amazing that your body tells you, but it does.  Can you give me a civil goodbye, Janine?

JANINE: (panics, loudly)  Look!  You are not going to die!  OK?

GRANDMOTHER: (even calmer)  Well it has to happen sometime. I have diabetes, had a stroke, had breast cancer, I've lost feeling in my right leg.  I'd call that going downhill.  I'm not enjoying myself. (looks up at her grand-daughter) Just like you, Dear.  So dying is OK with me.

JANINE:  No!  No!  Not now!  Mom!?  Where's Mom?  I gotta call her.  (Pulls the phone out of her pocket and starts to call).  Oh rats, this is her phone.  Look, wait until she comes home, OK?

GRANDMOTHER:  It's you and me kid.

JANINE:  Don't do this to me!

GRANDMOTHER:  Well, that's a bit self-centered.  I'm the one dying!  Do you have A-D-D or something?

JANINE: (stamps her feet)  No!  No!  No!    Arrrggghhh.

GRANDMOTHER:  Could I get a couple of quiet, decent, loving last few moments here?  Is that asking too much?

JANINE:  Look, I'll be in my room.  You'll be fine.  Just hang on, Mom will be back soon.  (she tries to walk away, hoping to be dismissed, but pauses)  Got it?

GRANDMOTHER:  You won't make my last 60 seconds (cough, cough) good ones?

(JANINE stares at her GRANDMOTHER).

GRANDMOTHER:  (a bit irritated) After all I've done for you?  I've been good to you your whole life.  I never forgot a birthday, I've always been there for you.  I bought you your first bike, snuck out with you to get your ears pierced when you were 8 . . .

JANINE: (angrily)  I never asked you to do any of that.

GRANDMOTHER: (animated, almost brought back to life)  What?

(JANINE shakes her head, waves it off.)

GRANDMOTHER:  No, no, say it again.  It's perfect.  The perfect way to go.  I'll make a deal with you, Dear.  You don't have to make my last minute loving and caring, don't have to pretend to kiss old dead flesh, you just have to have an actual conversation with me about this one thing.  And it's something that came out of your very own self-centered pie hole!  OK?

(JANINE does not respond.)

GRANDMOTHER:  I know you can hear me, Dear, I can see you.

JANINE:  I . . . I don't want to talk.  I don't want to talk to anybody.  I want to be left alone.  You can't understand.

GRANDMOTHER:  (darkly) Be careful what you wish for, Dear.  When you're old, you will be able to go many days without talking to anyone.  I'm sure you'll find it . . . refreshing.  The rest of us would give anything for human contact.  (cheerily) But that's another story.  Why don't you take a few minutes off from under your personal dark cloud; let it go.  I won't tell anyone.  What happens with Grandma stays with Grandma.

JANINE:  That's Vegas.

GRANDMOTHER:  Same difference.

(JANINE growls in frustration, but does not leave.)

GRANDMOTHER:  Good, I'll take that as a yes.  So, I want you to be good and loving to me, now, because I've been good to you your whole life.  Your response is that you never asked me to do anything for you.  So is that answer designed to make me feel stupid for being nice, or do you think it's some magic phrase that makes obligations disappear?

JANINE: (frustrated, blurts out) You can't force someone to be obligated to you!

GRANDMOTHER:  Is expecting decency the same as forcing someone?  I don't see any force.  I still think I can take you, but I haven't even twisted your arm.  Yet.  But it's obviously there, so you're telling me that you feel forced.  That's interesting.  I really want to understand this.  I'm going to ask you a few questions and I promise they'll all be yes or no answers.  (clears her throat, and pretends to be reading from a list)  Question 1:  Have I been nice to you your whole young life?

JANINE:  I guess.

GRANDMOTHER:  I'm sorry, that wasn't an option.

JANINE: (sarcastically)  What is "yes", Alex?

GRANDMOTHER:  You are so clever at conversation.  I'm really sad you gave it up.
(back to "reading") Question 2:  Did the birthday cards from grandma make you happy?

JANINE:  Well sure, when I was little, I mean . . .

(GRANDMOTHER stares her down.)

JANINE:  What is yes?  I guess.

GRANDMOTHER:  Ever send the $5 back?  Ever keep a card?

JANINE:  Whoop-dee-doo.  Five whole freaking dollars.  No.

GRANDMOTHER:  Part 2?  Ever keep a card that I sent you?

(JANINE won't answer.)

GRANDMOTHER:  That's a yes.  So what, child, is the big freaking deal?  Doesn't "I never asked you to be nice to me" seem, as you kids would say, a pretty lame reason for not giving me a few moments of your warm attention?

JANINE:  Well, I never did ask.

GRANDMOTHER:  That fact has nothing to do with the price of eggs.  Children don't ask for someone else's love.  You couldn't have forced me to love you, Dear.  I didn't have any choice.  You were my very own granddaughter.  And you used to be so cute!  My loving you doesn't have to be judged as right or wrong, doesn't have to be debated.  It just is.  You just can't stand the fact that the appropriate emotion is happiness - you should be happy when someone loves you.  I know that, these days, you hate happiness.  But love is the best, kiddo - even when it's from someone old and wrinkled.  I'll tell you, it's better than nothing.  Some things aren't to be fought over, just . . . accepted.

JANINE:  (staring off, speaks quietly)  Sorry.

GRANDMOTHER:  Wow!  More than I ever hoped for!  This is big.  So just tell me, tell me what happened here and you're dismissed.

JANINE:  Look, I said I'm sorry.  Drop it.

GRANDMOTHER:  Oh, no, no.  Just a summary of how you went from "I never asked" to "sorry".  Last assignment.  Please tell me what thoughts went through your head.

JANINE: (huffs and puffs)  OK, OK, well I guess I didn't, like, want to be bothered, and I don't like to be forced to do anything, OK?  I gotta be me.

GRANDMOTHER:  Sammy Davis Jr.

JANINE:  (incredulous that she's being interrupted when she's trying to talk)  What?  . . . And, well, it's true that I never asked you to be nice to me, but it's true that I guess I did appreciate it all when it was happening. (pause)  I'm not an idiot, you know - and I know how to be nice to people too.  I guess you sorta made me realize I, I sorta forgot or just didn't want to.  But I do want to (starting to cry, whispers)  I just don't want you to die.

(JANINE stands over her GRANDMOTHER, still not able to actually touch her, but close.  A teardrop falls on GRANDMOTHER's hand, who feels it and looks up at JANINE.)

GRANDMOTHER:  Well . . . you know the Bible says that a teardrop from a Phoenix can cause miracles.

JANINE:  That's Harry Potter, Grandma.

GRANDMOTHER:  Same difference.  And you're certainly a Phoenix, having risen out of your very own ashes as a human being, for me, for the moment.  And you know, the Sammy Davis Junior thing is good.  Do you know the song "I gotta be me"?  It says "I want to live, not merely survive.  And I won't give up this dream of life that keeps me alive.  I gotta be me."  That's all your missing dear.  It's really all so simple.

JANINE:  What am I missing, grandma.

GRANDMOTHER:  A dream, dear.  So work on that for me, will you?  Go to your room and work on your dream.  It's more fun than staring at the wall.  You're dismissed.

JANINE:  It's OK. I'll stay.

GRANDMOTHER:  No, really.  I'm doing OK.

JANINE:  No you're not, you're dying.

GRANDMOTHER:  I don't know.  Maybe not today.  Probably not.  Let me check.  No.  I don't think so.

JANINE: (stares at her)  What happened to "You won't make my last 60 seconds (cough, cough) good ones?"  Was I just scammed?

GRANDMOTHER:  Oh, my dear sweet child, I was bored.  (cheerily, wide eyed)  Don't you think the time went fast?  I think I hear you mother's car!

JANINE: (continues to stare at her GRANDMOTHER, walking around her, points at her as she speaks)  I promise grandma, I promise that some day I'm going to be just like you.  A difficult old lady.

GRANDMOTHER:  And when I do go, I'm going to make sure that your promise is my last thought, my last memory.  Thank you so much, Dear.  And remember one thing that your grandfather always used to say. When it comes to family, surrender.  Surrender.  But don't give yourself away.

JANINE:  (stares in disbelief)  Grandma, that was Cheap Trick.

GRANDMOTHER:  A nice bunch of young men, and talented too!  Remind me to tell you about them some day.

JANINE:  Text message me, grandma, OK?  (shakes her head, rolls her eyes as she exits stage left, and yells) Mom - you left your phone!

LIGHTS OUT

END OF PLAY

© 2012 John Allison

The Kiss of the Blue Lizard (A One-Act Play)

There are four characters who are always on stage.

The MOTHER is front, stage left, sitting in a chair when the play opens. 

The DAUGHTER (Sarah) is front, stage right, unlit when the play opens.  She is sitting on the floor, surrounded by prescription bottles, a cell phone, a piece of paper, and a can of beer.

Center stage is WHEELCHAIR GIRL, a young girl in a wheelchair. 

Behind her is a girl, in a hospital bed; BED DAUGHTER is sitting up, sleeping.  (It is important for the audience to know that BED DAUGHTER and DAUGHTER are the same character.  BED DAUGHTER is young (10 years old) and DAUGHTER is the same person, now 30 years old.)  Next to BED DAUGHTER's bed is a second bed, made up but unoccupied.

As the lights come up, each holds a purple stuffed lizard. 

Low light spots fall on the two young girls.  A spotlight then comes up on the mother.

MOTHER (to the audience, generally happy, slightly clueless):  I found a little blue stuffed lizard in the closet today - a twenty year old toy that we'd given my daughter.  Perhaps she lost track of it, because it's never been played with. It brought back all the feelings of a really good day that I'd almost forgotten (she looks back toward the bed).

MOTHER gets up and walks back and forth between her chair and the hospital bed, stopping briefly every time she passes the wheelchair, to glance at WHEELCHAIR GIRL.

MOTHER (cont.): My 10 year old, Sarah, was first on the surgery list of the day, to get her tonsils out (smiles at BED DAUGHTER).  My husband and I waited and waited until the doctor came from the operating room to report that she was in her bed and she was fine.  He took us in and I held her hand while he explained that she had a slight infection, which was common.  He was going to give her some penicillin, which he did while we were there, and a little something to make her sleep.  She quickly dozed off.  He said she'd sleep till morning.  They wanted her to heal and didn't want her to try to talk.  The doctor suggested that we should just let her sleep for the day.  Nurses would check in on her every hour and there was nothing we could do.  As we were walking out we asked the parents of the other girl in the room how she was doing.  We assumed she had her tonsils out too.  Unfortunately, she was a cancer patient, and it had spread through her little body quickly.  She was the prettiest blonde girl, and had only weeks left to live.  Her mother had 5 brothers and sisters, and all of the aunts and uncles and cousins from around the area were coming in to see our daughter's roommate.  It was one continuous line.  Even though Sarah was sleeping, I still called six times that day to see how she was.  I hated not going in but we did what we were told.  Her aunts, her uncles, even neighbors called me all day to ask how she was doing.  They all offered to visit, offered to do anything we wanted, but the doctor didn't want her to talk, and she'd just be sleeping anyway.

The next morning, we left early to go pick her up so we'd be there when she first opened her eyes.  Her father wanted to stop by our local department store.  He bought her the biggest stuffed bear he could carry.  Well, the biggest he thought he could carry!  He almost fell about a dozen times, getting up the Hospital steps.  When we entered the lobby, there was a girl sleeping in a wheelchair.  She had a new little stuffed thing in her lap.  It looked like a snake or lizard or something.  It was this! (holds up the stuffed lizard)  A nurse who was passing by confided in me that she had been checked out of her room because her parents were coming to pick her up, but they never came.  The nurses weren't surprised.  The lady who runs the gift shop gave her the little blue stuffed lizard thing, but she'd been sleeping and probably hadn't seen it yet.  So my husband took the lizard, gently woke her up, and introduced her to her new friend.  You should have seen how wide her eyes got.  That bear was bigger than she was.  Such a sweet smile.  Children (shakes her head) . . . they deserve better.

I guess we never explained  to Sarah why we'd given her a little purple stuffed lizard, but she was young, and kids like little stuffed animals.  I just remember how good I felt that day of her tonsillectomy.  It was special because my husband did something out of character that was so different for him, and he seemed more responsive to everyone ever since that day.  My family made us feel like . . . well, like family, the way they rallied around my daughter, calling me all day to ask how she was.  It was a good day.

Today I found her little toy.  I drove by her house and left it in the mailbox for her.  It should be a great surprise.  I hope she remembers it!  Maybe she'll give it to her son.  It's hard to believe we gave it to her when she was ten, and now she's thirty.   It was one of the best days of my life!

 The MOTHER shakes her head, smiling, and sighs.  She sits down.  Her spotlight goes out, and a weak spotlight focuses on the DAUGHTER.  The DAUGHTER sits on the floor and talks to the audience, her face largely lit by her cell phone, which she is staring into.  She is drinking a beer. 

DAUGHTER (agitated, angry, frustrated, animated):  It was the worst day of my life.  (Spills pills onto the floor)  So many pills.  Do I swallow them all at once or one at a time?  I'm such a loser - I don't even know how to kill myself.  Why don't they put instructions on these bottles?  (She throws the empty bottle into the audience.)  Lets see, I have a suicide note here (holds it up) - still blank.  That's typical.  And of course, I'm accompanied by my old friend from hell, the god dammed stupid stuffed whatever the fuck it is.

 

I was ten.  Can you remember what it's like to be ten?  I woke up probably a dozen times the day that I had my tonsils out, as the anesthesia wore off.  They were never there!  Never!  I'll bet they were thrilled to be able to take a day off from me.  (cheerily)  Maybe they went to a movie!  The girl in the next bed had company all day and night.  Five different families came in to visit her.  All five bought her teddy bears, and she felt so bad for me that she offered me one.  I didn't take it.  I don't work well with the pity thing.  All day, as I faded in and out of sleep, I got to hear loving families who cared about a little girl.  Me?  I was nothing.  I had nobody.

The next day, Mommy and Daddy came in just in time to pick me up - wouldn't want to get there early!  They brought this blue stuffed thing.  I was never sure what it was.  (sarcastically)  How thoughtful.  I remember leaving, seeing a dozen more of the damn purple lizards through the gift shop window.  They all waved to me, just so I'd know how special I was.  I also remember some ratty looking girl in the lobby - she had a great big stuffed bear!  I bet she had parents who loved her. 

I've thought about that day for the last 20 years of my life!  They just made it so clear that I meant nothing to them.  I was just a piece of crap.  I've gone back and forth.  Why weren't they there?  Why couldn't I deal with it?  Am I so needy?  One second I'm feeling abandoned, because I deserve to be, then I feel worthless.  Why shouldn't they blow me off?  They had a loser for a kid!  Then, just so I understood, they spent zero time getting me such a stupid little gift, and dragged me past the hospital gift shop just to make sure I understood.  They expected me to be excited over this stupid thing?  I wasn't, but I wouldn't let them see me cry.  By then my heart had been broken and had hardened.  It was so clear why they got this purple thing.  Crap for crap!  I can't tell you how many hours I've talked about this in therapy.  Still, if I go to a birthday party or something, and nobody talks to me, I find myself moving into my own personal isolation.  I feel like people shouldn't bother to talk to me.  Then I feel like I'm just a whiner.  My God, these people screwed me up.  Bastards. 

I can't imagine what she was thinking by putting this thing in my mailbox today - twenty years later.  Jesus!  Well, I'm done, Mom!  You win.  I can't take it any more.  Thirty years of worthlessness is enough.  When I'm gone I'm sure no one will care and you, Mom, you'll be so relieved.  Getting the purple thing back is a great way to celebrate the worst day of my life.  I guess I'll take these one at a time (takes another pill).  I'll dial Mommy and Daddy's number on my cell after I take the last pill.  (She opens her cell phone and its bright screen illuminates her.)  (cheerily) Maybe they'll hear my body when it hits the floor!  Why do people have kids, just to abuse them?  What sense does this make?

            (Spotlights come up on the two younger girls.  They briefly talk.)

BED DAUGHTER (to wheelchair girl):  Hey.

WHEELCHAIR GIRL (wearily):  Hey. What?

BED DAUGHTER:  Sometimes life just hurts so much.

WHEELCHAIR GIRL:  Yeah.  It does.

BED DAUGHTER:  So, how do we make it stop hurting?

WHEELCHAIR GIRL:  I don't know.  I think it's just what life is like.  (thinks)  Maybe you just gotta love every purple lizard you can get your hands on, you know?

The spotlights fade on them both.  The only light on the stage is now the Daughter's cell phone, which she holds close to her face.

DAUGHTER (sarcastically):  Whatever, Rainbow Bright.  I got a better idea.

 (DAUGHTER picks up a pill, puts the pill in her mouth, washing it down with some beer.  She reaches for the next, puts it in her mouth, then flips her phone closed, leaving us with)

LIGHTS OUT

END OF PLAY

© 2012 John Allison