Category: Fictional Pieces

“She grabbed my trousers and angrily told me that there was no way she would let me go, that I just could not walk out and never come back. She had seduced me the night before – sure I had some feelings for her, but I was unprepared to end up in her arms and in her bed overnight after just a casual visit to say hello and to let her know how much I valued her friendship.

“It was a bitterly cold NYC winter morning – but I decided it was better to leave, even without my trousers. As I walked down that Manhattan street clad only in my bikini briefs and a three-quarter jacket, my body trembled in the single-digit temps with the cold wind howling and whipping against it. But I had long ago decided that I would rather lose my trousers than my heart to a vixen.

“The storm raged violently outside my window. Trees were swaying at 100 miles per hour, and car windows were being smashed in by sheer force of nature. The rain fell vehemently and angrily as I had never seen before. It was a nightmare. Schools and offices were closed. Bridges, tunnels, public transportation all came to a halt, and thousands were fleeing, reluctantly but hurriedly, finally heeding the mayor’s and governor’s edict to evacuate.

4:59 p.m. on a hot, sticky day, summer of 2006, temperature 98 degrees and climbing.

Train pulls in to Wall Street. One car appears to be empty and fully air-conditioned. A mad dash ensues as all those who sneaked out early from work make a frenzied leap for a nice, cool, empty seat.

Lo and behold – there lying comfortably on the floor in the middle of the car is a male dressed in several layers, including a dirty, worn-out sweater and an old beat up pair of dungarees overlaid with a denim jacket and a pair of tattered polka dot boxer shorts – yes, the shorts were hanging precipitously over the dungarees.

The scent was horrific – a mixture of a Cuban cigar gone bad and a public john filled to capacity. He kept muttering to himself, interspersing his statements with expletives: “Koch is no …. good. No, you’re not doing okay, Mr. Mayor,” “The Dodgers should move to the Bronx,” “Go to church all you bastards,” and “Marilyn Monroe for president” – and he didn’t mean for JFK.

We all held our breaths, exited the car with double the speed of entry, unsure whether the dated rants were more odorous and alarming than the stench on that humid, uncomfortable summer afternoon.

When we looked back into the car, a cop wearing gloves and a mask, was trying gently to remove the narcotics held tightly by the individual and to escort him under the watchful eye of an ACLU lawyer – both appeared as phantoms from nowhere.

Rumor has it that this guy is no degenerate or unfortunate soul who fell on hard times but rather a felon with a long record who doesn’t like company on his way home.

“I knew from day one that she wasn’t cut out for life on the farm.

“We had met in the city and had fallen in love instantly. She was drop-dead gorgeous and I was a loner looking for a woman to spice up my life. So a few weeks after a whirlwind romance, I proposed. She accepted and we honeymooned at the Marriott Marquis in the Big Apple.

“It was a crisp, cool autumn evening in the sleepy hamlet upstate. We had been introduced a few months earlier, and in the ensuing days grew fonder of each other. We went out out for drinks a few weeks before and just two days ago we took an evening stroll together along a quiet country road, holding hands and gazing upward to a starry evening.

“Now, as I watched from afar, leaning against the rickety fence in the barnyard, I saw her mount the black stallion effortlessly and saunter off for an evening ride. My eyes gazed intently and followed her every movement atop that beautiful animal whose glistening mane shone brightly, even as darkness encircled and the evening was drawing to a close.

Lunch Money

I remember in junior high when I’d wink at a girl and she’d spend her lunch money on me. Now she winks at me and I spend my paycheck on her.

Church Dance

My church holds a lovely dance once a month as part of our dance club events. Everyone gets dressed up in their Sunday best – men in tuxedos, ladies in flowing gowns, and we show up on a Sunday night in the old church barn. The Reverend and his wife lead us in some good old folksy square dancing. An old spinster member of our congregation acts as chaperone to ensure that dancing pairs keep a measurable distance of about 1.5 feet apart and that the only body contact is the occasional holding of hands.

We then take a break after a few dances and sit in opposite rows – men on one side and women on the other. The Reverend’s wife then serves us some nice homemade lemonade and freshly baked cookies.

After that repast, we then return to the floor and have a jolly time doing the Polka – in honor of the Central European founders of our church. After an hour or two the dance is over and the dance club chalks up another great event on its calendar.

Then under the supervision of our spinster deaconess, we men kneel and kiss the hands of our dancing belles and wish them a goodnight as we head home with wonderful memories of a great evening at our club!

Just Another Plain Man In The Big Apple

A plain man would be someone like me – he wears a mop head hairstyle, washed-out denim jeans year round, white T-shirt in the summer but goes out on a limb with a colored one in the winter. He walks around with a yellow notebook and Bic pen as if he’s on an important mission while he’s really just comparative shopping for the price of paper towels around his neighborhood.

He dresses plainly and speaks softly. When he approaches a woman he’s interested in at a party, his best line is, “Hey, haven’t I seen you before?” His wallet is usually empty except for car fare. At a ball game his only excitement is watching the mascots perform. In his entire lifetime, he’s gone on only one or two dates, he’s kissed a woman once on the cheek, eats peanut butter sandwiches daily, enjoys sitting on a park bench with his favorite parakeet, a Spider-Man comic book in his lap, and occasionally peering over his eyeglasses as a lovely woman passes by.

His whole demeanor spells plain, lacking enthusiasm or excitement, a man of modest attire and even more modest means. Any glance from a young female passerby is always to the older, grandfatherly, grey-haired, dapper gentleman strolling along beside him on a crowded street.

Rendezvous In The Park

I once was with a very attractive young woman, tightly holding hands as we caressed in Central Park one beautiful autumn evening a few years back. Suddenly, a pair of Polish women walked by muttering in their language, unaware that I was familiar with their dialect, “He ought to be ashamed, potbellied, goatee, toupee. Wonder where he got those red overalls and green shirt. And look at his yellow shoes. That cute chick must be loco to hang with that old geezer!”

As if that wasn’t bad enough, I later discovered that my lady friend also understood the dialect and I never heard from her again.

Pigeons, Go Away!

Pigeons have become a menace on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. I can’t even use a terrace because of them – so I’d say I prefer the good old days when they would just fly away at the sight of a human being. Some people follow a strange religion that demands that they feed the pigeons on the street each day. Now the pigeons never leave for the parks anymore. They settle on people’s terraces, use it as a bathroom, lunch room, and bedroom with their mates.

You try to clean your terrace, but they come back with siblings and friends to throw a party and it’s back to square one. I’ve actually given up and don’t use the terrace anymore.

Oh, for the good old days when they would see a human being and at least fly off a little. Now they actually laugh at me when I try to shoo them off the terrace. They even bring their friends to join in my humiliation and to do a song and a dance right in front of me.

“She lived north of the border. We met online. She told me she cared immensely and that she was gonna be my sister in God, and in life.

“I noticed that every time I turned around she would shower me with ‘I love you’’s. It seemed so natural for her, like second nature to utter those three little words…and to blow countless muahz’s my way.