The Last Time I Saw Harry

The first time I saw Harry he was scampering over the fence into my backyard wearing nothing but a thin towel with the word “guest” stitched on it in flowery red script.

I was lying on my weathered but still comfortable lawn chair reading the latest Joseph Wambaugh in the warmth of a summer’s afternoon when a commotion from the house next door…Walt and Joy’s house…caught my attention. There was the sound of hushed murmuring and skulking feet and then Harry…lean and tanned and looking fearful and amused at the same time…scaled the fence and crouched low near to the rosebushes.

“Can I help you?” I asked, curious as to how he would explain his actions.

Harry, quite unperturbed by my presence, shook his head amiably. “No, I’m good, my friend,” he said in a stage whisper, “I’m just waiting for my clothes.”

And, on cue, jeans and a t-shirt and sneakers and socks and underwear came soaring gracelessly over the fence. “Call me,” a voice…Joy’s voice…whispered from the other side of the fence just before the sound of scrambling footsteps and the abrupt slamming of a backdoor could be heard.

Harry, chuckling and humming, gathered up his clothes and looked over at me. “I suppose you’re wondering what this is all about…”

Walt was a long haul trucker…a ruddy, mostly-affable brute of a man who spent long stretches of time out on the road…and Joy…well, Joy was not the kind of woman who could deal with being alone for long stretches of time. Joy was not very discreet so seeing strange men sneaking into and out of her house from time to time while Walt was away was no surprise to any of her neighbors.

“Walt’s coming home earlier than she expected,” I said knowingly, closing my book and sitting up.

Harry smiled brightly, impressed by my calm, casual grasp of the situation. “Just so, my friend, just so,” he said, “good thing he called her when he hit the city limits…”

“He does that to give her time to clear out any…unexpected visitors…” I replied. “Walt’s not as dumb as Joy thinks he is.”

Harry walked closer to me carrying his clothes. “That’s awfully sporting of him…I’ve seen his photo and he’s a big bruiser and I doubt that I would want to have him find me in his bed with his wife,” he said, glancing back over his shoulder ever so warily. “I’m Harry, by the way,” he said extending his hand, “pleased to meet you.”

I shook his hand. “Gregory,” I said, introducing myself, “and it’s…interesting…to meet you.”

“Look, Greg,” Harry said with a twinkle in his eye, “I don’t suppose you would let a new friend use your bathroom, would you? Ol’ Walt’s call came while me and his missus were…well, we were already pretty sweaty and I didn’t get a chance to shower off.”

I stifled the urge to chuckle. I could see where this guy’s rouge’s charm would have appealed to Joy. “Sure, why not?” I said going with the surreal flow of the situation. I heard the distinctive growl of Walt’s semi rumbling up the avenue and, in the next moment, I glanced up to see Joy, wearing nothing but a silk robe, looking down at us from her upstairs guest room.

“That would be Walt, I’m guessing,” Harry said, his face slightly clouded over.

I nodded. “Guess you’d better get inside…the sight of you wearing nothing but his guest towel is likely to upset the balance of the strange little game those two play…and likely to introduce you to a whole new world of hurt.”

Harry laughed and slapped me on the shoulder as I led him into the backdoor of my house. “Your concern for a new friend’s welfare is commendable, my son,” he said, “you’re one in a million.”

Harry showered and dressed while I made some coffee. He came into the kitchen and handed me Joy’s guest towel. “Would you be a pal and see that Joy gets this back at some discreet moment?” he asked with a rakish, conspiratorial wink.

I took the towel and tossed it next to the door to my laundry room. “Sure,” I said. “Coffee?”

“That would be lovely, Greg,” he said sitting across the kitchen table from me.

We drank coffee while Harry, never at a loss for words it seemed, spun wild…and, I presumed, mostly untrue…tales of his adventures all over the world; I was charmed by his hubris and engaged by his colorful gift for gab. After a couple of hours, Harry said that he had places to go and people to see and so he thanked me for my assistance and hospitality and disappeared into the evening.

I slipped the towel back to Joy a couple of days later while Walt was out playing poker with some of his friends; Joy was quite undisturbed by the fact that I had become part of one of her extramarital dramas.

The next time I saw Harry he was sitting at the bar in a restaurant I liked chatting up a plump, buxom blonde. It was 6 months later and I was there on a blind date with Annabelle, a friend of my cousin Louise. I didn’t think that he had seen me but a few minutes after Annabelle and I were seated he came over to our table.

“Gregory!” he said boisterously. “It’s good to see you again, my friend!” Harry pulled up a chair between us and turned his attention on my date. “And in the company of such a stunning young lady,” he said with a bright smile in his voice. “Well done, lad, well done indeed.” Harry gallantly kissed Annabelle’s hand as I introduced them to each other and she looked at me both puzzled and charmed.

Harry leaned close to me. “I’m really trying to spend some…quality time…with that pretty young thing over there,” he said nodding towards the blonde at the bar, “but I’m a little short. I don’t suppose you could front me a hundred bucks…I’m good for it.”

I frowned and then shook my head and chuckled. I slipped him the money and he smiled brightly. “You are the salt of the earth, my friend,” he proclaimed as he stood up. “Hang on to this one, dear lady,” he said to Annabelle, “he’s a keeper.” And, with a bow, Harry hurried back to the plump blonde. A few moments later the two of them were heading out the door Harry favoring me with a jaunty wave as he exited the restaurant.

“What the hell was that?” Annabelle asked, still both puzzled and charmed by Harry.

“It’s a long story,” I said.

Eight days later, an envelope arrived in the mail containing two 50-dollar bills and a note that said “a wonderful time was had by all. Cheers, H.”

Over the course of the following year I received, at random intervals, strange and wonderful offerings from Harry: postcards from places both exotic and mundane, strange little curios (little figurines, colorful rocks, etc.), photos of women of all kinds (young and old and of various shapes, sizes, and races) with bawdy, but oddly respectful, recollections about the subjects scribbled on the back, and even a delicate pendant that he asked me to give to Joy with his best wishes (I did so the next time Walt went on the road and Joy smiled beatifically and kissed me on the cheek when she thanked me for bringing her Harry’s gift.) There was never a return address.

The last time I saw Harry began on the night he woke me up at 3 AM banging softly but insistently on my front door. When I opened the door Harry zipped in and quickly shut the door. He looked haggard…he had a scraggly beard and his clothes were disheveled…and the twinkle in his eyes was damped down. He glanced out of the front window as if making sure he hadn’t been followed.

“What’s wrong?” I said.

Harry looked at me and then shook his head. “You don’t want to know, Greg,” he said soberly. Then he glanced towards the stairs that led upstairs and frowned. “I’m not disturbing something here, am I?” he asked with genuine concern. “Is the lovely Annabelle sleeping upstairs?”

I was surprised that he remembered her. “No,” I said, “that didn’t work out.”

Harry nodded. “That’s a pity, you two looked like a good match.” He paused and then asked “Can I crash here tonight? I won’t be any trouble.”

It was all very perplexing but I nodded and said, “of course.”

Harry smiled weakly. “You’re a good man, Gregory.”

Harry spent the night in my guest room and in the morning I woke to the smell of coffee and toast and bacon. Harry was in the kitchen…freshly showered, shaved, and pressed and looking like I had remembered…cooking breakfast for us. “Good morning, my friend!” he exclaimed happily, the haunted look that had been in his eyes a few hours before replaced with that charming twinkle.

“Is everything okay?” I asked warily.

“No worries, Greg,” he said jauntily as he dished up plates of bacon and eggs for us, “made a few calls and everything’s jake again.”

I had no idea what he was talking about but somehow I knew that there was no chance of getting a straight answer out of him on the matter so I let it go. Harry regaled me with a new spate of tales…mostly true, I supposed now…of his latest adventures while we ate breakfast.

After breakfast, Harry thanked me for my hospitality and then, with an impish wink, asked me if Walt was on the road. “Excellent!” he said with gleeful gusto when I told him that Walt had left for a long, cross-state trip just a few days earlier. Harry shook my hand and then, quite suddenly, hugged me. “You’re one in a million, Gregory.”

I stood on my front stoop watching as Harry walked next door and knocked on the door. The last time I saw Harry he was winking at me as Joy’s arms and giggles encircled him and drew him through her front door.

I have no idea how long Harry stayed with Joy but I had the feeling that, when Walt arrived home a week or so later that he had long since moved on.

And that was indeed the last I saw Harry though I have no doubt that he will turn up again and indeed I look forward to it…to the next time I see Harry.

* * * * *

More MKW Blogstuff: Neverending Rainbow

that boy

I remember that boy…he was a favorite of mine. That boy who lost himself in words and pictures and ideas…in comic books and Greek mythology, in the words of Dr. Seuss and Mark Twain and Robert Heinlein and Ralph Ellison, in images on the boob tube and the movie screen and in the halls of the Los Angeles County Museum of Art…that boy…that inquisitive, imaginative boy…he was a favorite of mine.

I remember that boy…he danced to his favorite 45’s and he danced out in the autumn rain late at night…he soared in the clouds and kept his feet on the ground…he fell in love gracelessly but earnestly and he had secret, improbable crushes on friends of his mother and others too old to take him seriously…he loved his mother and tried to understand his father and see all the good that he could in his brother...that boy…that odd, fanciful boy…I remember that boy very well.

Yeah, I remember that boy…he was often a best friend when he wanted to be a boyfriend…a dreamer when he wanted to be doer…he was often a shoulder to lean on when he wanted to be a heart that was longed for…he knew all the words to the theme from Gilligan’s Island and the real names of all of the members of the Legion of Super-Heroes and all of the lyrics to the long version of “American Pie”…that boy…that strange, mundane, amazing boy…yeah, he was a favorite of mine.

I remember that boy…that shy, arrogant, easygoing, stubborn, illogical, utterly practical boy…he was a favorite of mine…he is a favorite of mine still. That boy…hopefully I will never lose sight of that boy no matter how far back down the road he seems. Yes, that boy…that simple, complicated boy…he is, now and forever, a real favorite of mine.

* * * * *

More MKW Blogstuff: Neverending Rainbow

Remember Me (Eli's Song)

Remember me…when the moonlight dances languidly along the suburban avenues…when the Pacific wind blows in softly from the west and tickles the stoic fancies of the palms and the lemon trees.

Remember me…when the tears you cry take away your pain and the smiles you share are heartfelt and freely shared with a laconic, grey world…when your body wants to waltz even where there is no music and when your heart shudders like it did the first time you fell in love.

Remember me…when the sun turns the near horizon a dozen dazzling shades of gold and orange…when the night folds around you the way your mother’s arms did when you were young and there was no safer place in the whole wide world to be than in her strong, gentle, soothing arms.

Remember me…when the clouds paint fanciful pictures across warm azure skies…when the laughter of the children and the sighs of the young girls and the remembrances of the old men reveal themselves as music as heartbreakingly evocative as you could ever want or hope to be swept up into…when the tender kisses of gallant young men and the gentle embraces of beautiful old women soothe and keep you even in your darkest moments.

Remember me…as I am…as I wish to be…as you wish me to be. Remember me as I, my dear parents…my dear friends…my dear teachers…my dear lovers…my dear children…my dear world…will always remember and keep you.

Presidents' Day (or President's Day)

Susan loved Presidents’ Day (or President’s Day…she wasn’t really sure which one was correct.) She loved all of the hoopla…all of the pomp and circumstance. She loved the long moments of silence and reflection given to each and every President. She loved that thundering booms of the fireworks that would slash colorfully across the nighttime sky that evening. She loved gathering together with all of her loved ones for the Presidents’ Day (or President’s Day) feast of meat loaf, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, and cherry pie.

But most of all, Susan loved the parade. She always got up early to stake out a place right up front on the avenue for the gala Presidents’ Day (or President’s Day) Parade…Susan knew that everyone loved a parade but nobody, she thought just a bit proudly, could possibly love a parade…especially the unimaginably dazzling Presidents’ Day (or President’s Day) Parade.

The crowd had swollen to thousands of excited Americans waiting to hoop and holler as they celebrate the wit and wisdom of their elected leaders. At 8 AM sharp…the parade was ever a model of American efficiency…the Parade started with relatively-reasonable facsimiles of Uncle Sam, Lady Liberty, Benjamin Franklin, a Native American woman (Pocahontas?), and some black guy in overalls (John Henry?) leading the way.

The reasonable facsimiles were shaking hands with men, giving red, white, and blue candy to the kids, and kissing the women. Uncle Sam, who was coming down Susan’s side of the street, was going above and beyond the call of duty by drawing every pretty girl he could get his hands on into lingering embraces. Susan thought to take step back but the wildly cheering crowd behind her kept her front and center.

Sure enough, Uncle Sam seized her and hugged her tightly. Uncle Sam smelled of Scotch and cigarettes and Susan was sure that he was looking at her bosom when he slurred “God bless America”. Susan chose to believe that he his hands cupping her buttocks was an accidental thing. She also chose to believe that he had a firecracker in his front pocket.

The Native American woman (Sacagawea?) pulled Uncle Sam away and Susan took a deep breath and turned her attention to the Washington drill team…20 tall white men wearing white wigs and Revolutionary uniforms performing precision movements with their gleaming, razor-sharp axes…and the wonder of the day flooded back into her.

The grand parade went by her in a grand, celebratory, patriotic blur. Susan was still wondering how long it had taken to blow up the William Howard Taft balloon when, suddenly, the parade was over.

Susan sighed happily as the throng…many of whom had spontaneously starting humming “Hail to the Chief”…drifted away to go enjoy their private Presidents’ Day (or President’s Day) celebrations at their homes.

Susan hugged herself and smiled. “God bless America indeed,” she said as she headed home towards the feast her mother was cooking. She hoped the Presidents’ Day (or President’s Day) meat loaf wasn’t dry this year.

Mrs. Vickie

Mrs. Vickie felt like she was floating…on a cloud…no, like she was part of a billowing, lazy, majestic cloud tracking without a care across the summer sky. She was reluctant to open her eyes because she was enjoying the sensation far more than anything else she could remember. But open her eyes she did.

Everything was light…gold and white and silver…and music…soulful, ethereal, and magical. Mrs. Vickie felt herself being lifted up by a gentle but powerful hand.

“Hello, sister,” a voice…soulful, ethereal, magical…said. The woman was radiant and, for some reason, utterly familiar to Mrs. Vickie.

“Is this heaven?” Mrs. Vickie asked.

The radiant woman smiled impishly. “No, it’s Iowa.”

Mrs. Vickie frowned quizzically.

The radiant woman hugged Mrs. Vickie and chuckled. “I’m sorry…but that joke never gets old. That Kevin Costner is a genius.”

Mrs. Vickie smiled patiently. She felt light…free of all of the cares and worries and everything else that makes up a workaday life. “So, I’m…”

The radiant woman nodded. “Yep,” she said brightly, “it’s all smooth sailing from here.”

Mrs. Vickie glanced down. “What about my family…my friends…they need…”

The radiant woman put a hand on Mrs. Vickie’s shoulder. “They’re sad that you’re gone…but happy that you were there for as long as you were. You left a legacy of love and caring. You did a good job.”

Mrs. Vickie nodded, a new wave of contentment sweeping through her. “So, now what happens?”

The radiant woman put her arm around Mrs. Vickie’s shoulders and led her off towards a golden horizon. “You like pie?” she asked, “We’ve got some amazing bakers here…”

“Do I get wings?”

“We don’t do wings anymore…the feathers kept getting all over the place…”

Mrs. Vickie raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Oh, okay,” she said finally.

They walked into the light on the golden horizon. “You’re gonna love it here,” the radiant woman said.

“I already do,” Mrs. Vickie said, “I already do.”

- for Mrs. Vickie and for Eddie -

cherry vanilla

The massive bear looked down on me with no expression on his face. This, I was afraid, was not a good sign.

I looked up at the bear who loomed over me the way I, at 6’2, loomed over a fairly large percentage of people I met. This, I knew, was also not a good sign.

The bear, his face seemingly made up of nothing but thick black hair and foreboding black sunglasses, looked down on me…apparently sizing up the best way to wrench my head from my shoulders. The bear smelled of beer and cheap cigars and Old Spice…a wholly masculine mixture that didn’t make me feel any better about my chances of escaping the next few seconds without experiencing enormous amounts of pain.

Oddly enough, the chill on my hand felt kind of good in the hot August sun but I didn’t dwell on that sensation long. I looked down at my hand holding the mostly empty ice cream cone and then let my eyes trace the river of cherry vanilla ice cream from my hand and down the denim-clad leg of the bear down to his dusty black boot. The swiftly-melting scoop of ice cream…and all pink and white and flecked with ruby-red bits of artificially colored fruit…was, needless to say, incongruous sitting on top of the well-worn black boot.

I looked back up. I started to ask the bear why he was wearing so many clothes on such a hot day but my more prudent angel stayed that question before it could escape.

“You gonna get that?” the bear finally spoke, his voice deep and, I thought, purposefully dispassionate.

I stood stock still for a second as I processed his question. “Oh yeah…sorry, man,” I stammered. I threw the mostly-empty cone aside (my prudent angel again coming to the fore and stopping me from tasting some of the soupy ice cream in the cone before I tossed it into the nearby trash can.)

I shoved my sticky hand into my back pocket and pulled out the handkerchief I always carried but rarely used. I stooped down and scraped as much of the scoop of cherry vanilla off his boot as I could.

I wondered if he wanted me to wipe off the river of ice cream on his leg but I decided that he probably did not.

I stood up hearing Don McLean singing “American Pie” in my head…this’ll be the day that I die…this’ll be the day that I die…

“Sorry,” I said in a small voice as my life flashed before my eyes, “didn’t mean to bump into you…” I had an impulse to flee but my legs refused to cooperate.

The bear looked down and all I could see was my terrified face reflected in his dark glasses. The bear nodded. “Shit happens, son,” he said softly, a slow Southern drawl coloring his voice. And then he turned and walked off…presumably to find a men’s room to clean the rest of the ice cream off his jeans.

I stood there…on the avenue in the hot August sun…motionless. Amazed to be alive, I wondered what I should do next. I shrugged and, as soon as my legs would work again, I turned around and headed back towards the ice cream stand. I was hoping that they hadn’t run out of cherry vanilla yet.

* * * * *
More MKW Blogstuff: Neverending Rainbow

April

The first time I fell in love, I was 10, a shy 5th grader attending Menlo Avenue Elementary in Southeast Los Angeles (not too very far from the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum.)

The object of my affection was named April…she was, in the golden-hued halls of memory, an amazing goddess with golden-brown skin and dark, twinkling, utterly beguiling eyes.

I was smitten at first sight.

As far as I know, she never knew I was alive.

I watched her talk with the other girls during recess and I imagined what it would be like if she would talk so easily with me. I listened to her give answers to Mr. Daniels’ questions in class and knew that no music could ever possibly sound as sweet as her voice.

I never, except in the feverish realms of wishful imagining, worked up the courage to speak to her.

And then she was gone.

She left, without warning, in the middle of the semester (I believe we were told something about her father…who apparently was in the military…being transferred elsewhere but I was in a fog at the time so I might be misremembering that part.)

That evening, I was sullen and uncommunicative unto the point where my mother demanded to know what was wrong with me. “April’s gone,” I said plaintively, a tear tracking slowly down my cheek.

My mother didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry…so she hugged me instead.

April looms in my heart…shy, unrequited, illogical first “love”…and the memory of her, however faulty or foolish, warms me still.

Happy Valentine’s Day, April…wherever you are.

* * * * *
Other MKW Blogstuff: Neverending Rainbow

a life (in 500 words or less)

My son likes baseball better than football and he dances like a girl…but then so does his mother so I guess it all balances out.

My oldest daughter thinks I’m strange but lovable…while my youngest daughter thinks I’m just strange…I guess that balances out as well.

My wife thinks her ass is too big…I think her big ass is sexy but I’ve learned better than to make that observation out loud.

My dog likes to wait until I’m comfortably settled in my recliner before he starts jumping around like he’s gonna whiz all over the carpet in the family room…I get up grumbling and open the back door and he stands in the middle of the patio smirking at me. Dogs do indeed have senses of humor.

My cat ignores me except when I’m putting food in her dish or I have the residue of Vicks VapoRub on my hand…my cat likes to lick Vicks VapoRub residue. I think she’s a strange creature and I’m sure that, on those odd occasions that she considers me at all, she thinks the same of me.

My house is 50 years old and it sits in a pastel suburb of a dull gray city…there are rosebushes in the back garden and a “no solicitors” sign on the front door to ward off Jehovah’s Witnesses, teenage magazine subscription sales persons, and Girl Scouts with cookie order forms (Jehovah’s Witnesses, teenage magazine subscription sales persons, and Girl Scouts all apparently believe that my sign doesn’t pertain to them as they ring my doorbell anyway…I’m not sure when I’m ever going to get caught up on the Watchtower pamphlets, Sports Illustrated issues, and boxes of Thin Mints I’ve somehow accumulated…)

My car is 10 years old and has apparently decided to put my mechanic’s children through medical school.

My doctor says that I’m reasonably healthy for a man my age but that I should run more and eat less red meat (we both know that neither of those things is gonna happen but I think he’s obligated to put them on the table at least once a year.)

My job consists of moving papers from one side of the desk to the other (and sometimes back again)…I’m not really intellectually challenged but it pays enough to keep collection agents from having to know my number so I’m okay with that. My boss is, of course, an idiot…any monkey (including and especially me) could do his job better than him…but I don’t begrudge him (seems like a lot more B.S. for not that much more money…I don’t really think that’s a good trade off.)

I go bowling on Tuesday nights and play golf every other Saturday morning. I go to church every Sunday (except during the football season.)

I like Letterman better than Leno…beer better than white wine…rib-eyes better than boneless/skinless chicken breasts…and gardeners better than owning a lawn mower.

My name is Bob and that is my life. Thank you for your kind attention.

The Love You Save

As I edit my novel Soul Deep (the story of the 12th year of a Black boy living in Los Angeles in 1968 that is sorta but not really semi-autobiographical...any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental...that's my story and I'm sticking to it ) I am reminded of the times...so very long ago (when I was a Black boy living in Los Angeles)...when my brother, my cousins, and I provided ragged but heartfelt entertainment when our parents would get together for impromptu parties.

At one point we were the Temptations (lipsynching to "My Girl" and "Ball of Confusion" while putting on dance moves so smooth that Eddie Kendricks and David Ruffin would have turned a deep shade of green with envy if they ever saw us perform...in the fertile realm of childhood imagination and hubris we were fierce!) but come 1970 we gave that up and we became the Jackson 5.

My youngest cousin sang lead (he kinda looked like Michael Jackson...Michael Jackson in the pre-surgery, pre-wacko years) and my cousin Vernon, then and now the ladies' man, was Jermaine. Me, I was a Marlon...never singing lead but dancing so sweet that I inspired sighs and casually broke hearts (a legend in my own mind...)

Still makes me smile...stop the love you save may be your own/darlin' take it slow or someday you'll be all alone...even all these years later

* * * * *
More MKW blog stuff: Neverending Rainbow

Mike Willis' 115th Dream

It was a beautiful, very blue and very sunny, day and we…an eclectic group of people of varying ages…were being marched (three by three) down a winding country road. The landscape was quite lovely indeed, we all had very comfortable walking shoes on, and the men and women with the guns were seemingly very relaxed and relatively easygoing (maybe the fact that they had guns and we didn’t had something to with that…)

We were led into sprawling pens filled with weathered wooden picnic tables topped with large wicker baskets filled with fruit and cold bottles of water (each of which containing a thin slice of lemon.)

I took an especially juicy green pear after the companions who had marched by my side…a bright-eyed Japanese woman with long, straight black hair cascading down to the small of her back and a strapping, stoic young man of indeterminate ethnicity…had chosen a shiny Granny Smith apple and a bunch of ruby red grapes respectively.

Across the table from us, not eating any fruit but puffing on a fat, expertly rolled joint, was Leonardo DiCaprio bloviating about world peace (which seemed strange since we were prisoners of some kind…albeit with delicious fruit, cool sparkling water, comfortable walking shoes, and, for some it seemed, access to marijuana.)

Leo wouldn’t stop gassing on…and he wouldn’t pass the joint.

We decided he was a pompous, selfish bastard but we listened patiently just the same and smiled to ourselves because we knew that when DiCaprio did get the munchies all of the fruit would be gone. Apparently we took our victories where we could get them.

I woke up before I found out where we going to sleep (hopefully Leo would have shut up by the time the sun went down…)

(Thanks and apologies, Bob :-)

* * * * *

More MKW blog stuff: Neverending Rainbow