.

Life, actually…

.

WHAT REMAINS IN RUSTY TINS AND CLAY POTS?

.

The book browser stands petite, just inches away from shelves of volumes jam-packed with words as yet unread.

.

She shades her eyes from the overhead light, the better to scan titles up close. Each book is carefully considered, based on clarity of print, boldness of design, brightness of jacket cover, heft in the unshading hand…and a dozen other factors both conscious and un-.

.

Here she smiles in place, delighted by the overwhelming possibilities before her.

.

She touches each spine, awaiting a cue from the author, a beckoning from the arrangement of words, a clue hidden behind a worn spine.

.

She removes a book that calls out to her, opening it to the first page first verse first line, “Wake! For the Sun, who scatter’d into flight The Stars before him from the Field of Night, Drives Night along with them from Heav’n, and strikes The Sultan’s Turret with a Shaft of Light.”

.

She blinks in wonder, re-reading this arrangement of words until they begin to make sense. Where would this book take me once I take this book? She muses, closing the book and placing it next to her heart, held snugly under an arm.

.

She will re-consider this potential purchase after going through a dozen additional selections.

.

One more first-chapter first-page first-line, “It was a quiet morning, the town covered over with darkness and at ease in bed. Summer gathered in the weather, the wind had the proper touch, the breathing of the world was long and warm and slow.”

.

What happens next in this story, she wonders, adding it to her growing stack.

.

Journeying homeward later, her new foundlings on the passenger seat next to her, she wonders about the magical array of words each book arranges. She wonders about the authors and who they once were—one, an eleventh-century poet, the other a twentieth-century optimal behaviorist, each spouting forth a unique and loving version of life on Earth.

.

Then, her thoughts go deeper: What good are words archived on a shelf if no-one reads them? Where will the words wind up? What happens to the archives? What endures?

.

If I don’t rescue and appreciate them, will they even matter?

.

She pats the front cover of the topmost book, anxious to get comfy in her favorite chair, spending an evening browsing lives once lived, lives that will be resuscitated as she savors them.

.

She thinks, is what remains all a matter of chance? Should we continue preserving the words regardless of their singular fates? Are we merely hoping that, if enough words are preserved, some of them will actually survive as incomplete scrolls hidden in clay pots and rusted cookie tins?

.

Tonight, for the first time ever in her young life, she will not only read…she will also begin writing down her thoughts and feelings.

.

Eventually, her writings may wind up in the hands of a browser or an archaeologist, depending upon fate and circumstance, depending upon the actions of lone booklovers who hope that sometime, somewhere, somewhen, others may find delight in similar rusty discoveries

.

© Jim Reed 2022 A.D.

.

.

Life, actually…

.

RECEPTIONIST UNDER GLASS

.

In the early afternoon chill of a winter day, I find myself wandering about the innards of a medical facility parking deck, attempting to locate safe passage to doctors’ offices.

.

The dreaded adventure always begins with trying to figure out the vague and inexplicable signage that smugly tells me how to navigate the various numbered and sub-lettered levels of the deck. Smug because only the letterer, the sign creator, understands this coded language. Ordinary mortals learn to ignore the signs and just amble about till something resembling a destination pathway reveals itself.

.

It is always advisable to allow an extra half-hour of ambling in order to make an appointment on time. On Time is important because if I’m tardy I may miss fruit cup. The schedule may have to be altered, thus inconveniencing me.

.

I take a deep breath to waylay the impending irritation that is close to rearing its mocking head.

.

OK. Be calm. Be of good cheer. Continue drifting about till somebody can offer directions in human language.

.

Enough about wending. Let’s cut to the Waiting Room experience, assuming I finally made it to the desired destination.

.

Within the gray walls of a large insulated-ceiling room, there sits a receptionist under glass. She is there as an exhibit symbolizing the dream of efficiency someone once had when this room was designed.

.

“Good morning,” I enounce through four layers of dark facial mask. She returns my greeting with designer-mask-muffled smile…well, her eyes crinkle a bit at the outer edges, making me assume she is smiling. I guess she could be cringing.

.

She clickety-clacks her keyboard and confirms my appointment, asks for a cashless co-pay, then directs me to sign in at a terminal resting atop a waist-high kiosk nearby.

.

“I’ve no idea how to use that,” I mutter. The receptionist under glass no doubt expects this utterance from a patient of a certain age, and is eager to assist. This gives me the opportunity to see that she has an entire self outside of her gilded cage.

.

She shows me how to insert my driver’s license into a slot right-side-up. It disappears and I have the strange notion that this is a shredding device. But the card pops back up, unscathed.

.

Later, as I observe another patient operating the kiosk, I realize my shredder fantasy may not be fantasy after all. His credit card disappears and won’t return. The receptionist again exits her display case and works to retrieve the card. She fiddles with the machine and later admits that she should receive extra pay as an IT specialist. We share chuckles.

.

Waiting is what one does in Waiting Rooms. While I await my fate, I wonder whether I should order a Big Mac at the kiosk screen.

.

Don’t give up on me. A brain has to do something to fill time while waiting for the attentions of a doctor. Lusting after a Big Mac is as good as anything else an imagination could imagine. Don’t you think?

.

Other elderly patients wrestle with the kiosks and either laugh or curse at the pretend logic of the system. “I hate these damn things,” one man gruffs.

.

No time to hate this afternoon, I decide. Just observe the comedy and appreciate the honest reactions of the participants.

.

Eventually, an emotionless employee shoves open the magic doctor door and loudly announces my name. I’m supposed to understand that her closed captions might read, “Good afternoon. Are you Mister Reed? Hi, my name is Sandra. I’m here to escort you to the doctor’s exam room. Just follow me.” Of course, none of that gets said. She just yells my name and prisses down the hall expecting me to tag along.

.

It’s all comic. It’s all very human. It’s all just another few moments in the lives of those present who must obey the procedural system of just another medical facility resting near just another parking labyrinth

.

© Jim Reed 2022 A.D.

 .

.

Life, actually…

.

ONE WAY DOWN, THATAWAY

.

Horace and I are free-falling down an elevator shaft, much to my horror, much to his delight.

.

The time is many years ago when this Deep South town still has living elevator operators on duty in each tall building. Horace is the uniformed elevator man at the controls. I am the hapless businessman who makes the mistake of stepping aboard, wearing suit and tie and carrying briefcase.

.

Horace and I are alone in the elevator, so for the moment he is in total charge of me and my smug universe. At least for the next fifteen stories down.

.

Horace’s ritual is clear to me only later, when I’m trying to calm down, when I am counting my lucky stars.

.

Earlier, the upward ride from first to fifteenth is smooth and gentle, as there are other passengers present. But right now, with no-one else aboard, Horace has a chance to play his game, the only game in which he for a few seconds has total control of his life. And mine.

.

Horace nods a polite, obligatory nod and grasps the handled wheel as he closes the clanging doors.

.

Staring expressionless straight ahead, he spins the wheel to what I can only assume is full throttle position, and the elevator begins its joy-ride drop.

.

I back up against the wall and clutch my briefcase, gasp deeply and glance in panic at Horace, who is elegantly expressionless and artfully oblivious to my plight.

.

The elevator descends as if in free fall, my stomach ascends as if compensating for the fall, I suddenly decide that this is definitely a structured game. I must play my part.

.

Pretending to ignore my internal churnings, my last rites recitations, my roller coaster fears, I, too, become stoic and expressionless, lest Horace reduce me to a whimpering mass.

.

Just before the feeling of certain death and transfiguration, the elevator magically screeches to a halt at the first floor. I try experiencing breathing again. I straighten my tie, hold my head up as if nothing unusual has occurred. Horace opens the doors and I wobble through them to the lobby, just as he says in his most gentlemanly and polite voice, “Watch your step.”

.

And so I shall, so I shall.

.

One thing I learn from this experience is that exercise is good for me. You know, at my tender age, walking down fifteen flights next time is probably going to be the right thing to do.

.

Assuming I ever enter this particular building again

.

© Jim Reed 2022 A.D.

Hear this story as a podcast on youtube:

https://youtu.be/q53a9ThhZjk

.

THE BUNGALOW OF ORPHANED DREAMS

This morning belongs to me.

The crystal-clear sunny sky and extremely chilly air are known only to me, just inside my head. Of course, I know that the morning belongs to everybody else, too. But I can only report what comes before me.

I drive west on First Avenue North and scan both sides of the road, as catch can. I scan as catch can while trying to keep my car in its assigned lane. But I can’t help being impressed by the gifts each roadside image provides.

For example, there’s a Victorian house feeling its age. It rests silently, the very picture of a bungalow of orphaned dreams. It rests silently, awaiting its fate. Its fate as a restoration. Its fate as a demolition. Its fate as a flip project. Its fate as a parking lot.

I drive on, trying to dis-remember that ignored home. I cannot ignore the fact that it is even older than I. I cannot ignore the fact that I, too, may be a fleshy container of orphaned dreams, lightly stirred with current life, shaken occasionally with intimations of mortality.

But what a beautiful house it still is. If I stop to stare, I can see evidence of a lovely, long life. I can imagine the joys and challenges to which this structure has been subjected for many decades. I can wonder about the lives that have come and gone over such a long period.

I drive past and onward to the morning’s westward destination. Now and then I look right and left for more signs of orphaned dreams

© Jim Reed 2022 A.D.

Life, actually…

.

LAST YEAR WAS THEN, THIS YEAR IS NOW

.

Don’t know about your situation, but here in the Deep South the year is starting off muggy and stormy and overcast and misty with occasional bursts of blue sky crisscrossing chalky marshmallow clouds.

.

Warm weather prevails, split wide with unpredictable days of cold and salt-shaker snow that seldom holds to the ground.

.

Today is much like most of the New Year days I’ve wrestled during an over-extended lifetime.

.

In other words, life is fairly normal Down Here. Toss in some illnesses and bruises and squabbles and internet skitishness and an epidemic of misinformed chatter…and what you have is still about as predictable as variant sunrise and slowmo thinking.

.

I traverse the day and, like that long-ago dude Diogenes, I scan the horizon for some honesty and goodwill and non-fakery.

.

Do I succeed? Yes I do—that’s because I have learned through infinite repetition of effort that I pretty much discover whatever I am looking for.

.

Blinders and purposeful denial get me what I need most of the time.

.

What have I noticed that will propel me through the New Year?

.

I LEARNED THAT getting a smile out of some people is like trying to tap dance on shag carpeting.

.

I LEARNED to avoid certain downer-type humans, the kind described by Harry Truman as about as helpful as a pitcher of warm spit. There is a place for such people, but that place is somewhere other than where I am, if I’m lucky.

.

I also get along by NOTICING the unnoticeable.

.

I NOTICE that the yellow Victorian house with the white picket fence rises   ’mid urban sprawl as if nothing around it has ever changed since 1906. That’s somehow comforting.

.

I NOTICE the wild-haired woman who bursts into my shop with bags and baggies swirling about her.

.

“You got a shirt?” she sputters, sans greeting and how-do-you-do’s.

.

“You got a scarf I could wrap around my head?”

.

She smells of talcum powder and confusion. She is frantic, her long black hair or wig becomes her halo. She is nervous and wants to scoop the contents of my ever-present basket of free lollipops into a bag.

.

I am almost speechless, but I do have to protect the bookstore and its necessary commerce. I limit what she can remove unpaid but allow her to take something with her.

.

As she rushes out of the shop, free candy and bandanna and bookmark in hand, she asks if she can have a free book. I shake my head and she disappears to the street, leaving behind momentary chaos and a heavy cloud of talcum.

.

I NOTICE a lone survivor outside the store…a small scraggly leafy plant peeking out from between concrete slabs.

.

As I pull closed the door, having waved away the powder, I again spot the everchanging weather…the clouds spin swiftly by, reflected in the large windows making up the storefronts across the avenue.

.

Now I recall something Alex Haley once advised, “Find the good, and praise it.”

.

Not a bad thought for the day. Alex Haley and Harry Truman and Diogenes accompany me back into the shop.

.

I get busy trying to make other peoples’ day a bit more liveable

.

© Jim Reed 2022 A.D.

.