Life, actually…

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THE SANDPAPER RAZOR MEETS THE BARBER CHAIR KID

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I’m riding the Theo A Kochs automatic barber chair, watching the barber foot-pump his metal and leather instrument higher so that he can get at my neck, the neck of eight-year-old me, back in the 1950s South. He has already draped my shoulders and torso in a checkered cloth to keep the hairs he’s about to trim from hiding under my clothes and making me all itchy.

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The barber is efficiently cutting away while continuing his running conversations with various customers who sit in a long row of chairs facing the Theo A Kochs chair. They talk of fishing and hunting and politics and street repair while thumbing through current issues of magazines like Argosy, Esquire, Field and Stream, Collier’s, Look, Life, Saturday Evening Post.

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The shop smells of old cologne and talcum and working man sweat and spittoons.

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I squirm impatiently while the barber plies his trade, his scissors and electric trimmer flashing in the sunbeams that cause the rotating storefront candy cane pole to cast its shadow across my shoes. I gaze at my shoes because I’m required to lower my head while lather is applied to my neck.

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Looking downward, I read and re-read the Theo A Kochs brand name embossed in nickel plated sheen between my feet. The freshly-stropped straight razor makes sandpaper sounds. I cringe, waiting for the barber’s hand to slip. It never does. But it might.

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What is that after-shave perfume the barber laves on my neck? What is the name of the talcum powder he dusts on my neck to ease the fresh-shave sting? Why is he shaving the neck of a pre-beard kid? I don’t understand the ritual of shave and talcum and fragrance and hair tonic, but I do know that I will not feel like I’ve really had a haircut unless I walk away smelling like something other than a real eight-year-old lad.

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The barber dramatically takes away the checkered cloth the way Dracula might swirl his cape.

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I take my feet off the Theo A Kochs brand. The shoeshine man swish-brooms the back of my shirt in an elegant gesture of manners and politeness. I walk past the rotating candy cane pole and onto the sunny streets of my Deep South village, a brand-new kid ready to face a brand-new afternoon.

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I don’t know whether the magazine-thumbing grownups ever tip the barber, though they do tip the shiner of shoes. Kids are not expected to tip, so I get to spend my extra dime across the street at Woolworth for the best bag of popcorn I will ever eat…until the next haircut

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© Jim Reed 2022 A.D.

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Life, actually…

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A DOZEN SWEETENED MOMENTS

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This morning is a morning of waiting.

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The cube-shaped room in which I wait is filled with wobbly tables, preacher-hardened chairs, a walled ever-blaring television set, a picture window overlooking a herd of automotive vehicles that seem to be dreading fates tiny and large.

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The cube room also sports a coffee maker ledge, real and artificial sweeteners, plastic stirrers, Styrofoam containers, textured paper napkins, a very large vending machine filled with all the things nobody should ever eat, all the things everybody eats anyhow.

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Oh, did I mention that the cube room is also peopled with people?

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I sit facing away from the television overlord. I can’t help but watch the waiting people, much more interesting and engaging than streamed ads and shouting interviewers.

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A slow-moving man and woman enter and search for suitable seating, their politeness and manners boldly contrasting with others in the room who are attention-locked by oblong plastic-and-metal-palmed devices.

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The device people glance blankly at me, quickly resume their internal journeys. The slow-moving couple settles in, each scanning the room for signs of life.

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An employee enters and heads for the coffee maker and says to all of us, “Anybody want a cup of coffee?” as in, “I’m willing to prepare a cup for you before I pour my own.”

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“Uh, I think that sounds good,” the woman says, a gentle smile and elegant Southern accent accompanying her voice. Her response to the question is not automatic and obligatory, but carefully considered, weighed and uttered.

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I feel comforted, hearing and seeing what we of old might call well-mannered graciousness.

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“There’s sugar and cream,” the employee notes.

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We all hear the gurgling, inhale the soothing fragrance of warming brew. And, despite aggressive messages issuing from the screen, despite impending verdicts that will eventually enter through the door, despite the dismissive attentions of lock stepped non-engagers, we share soft moments of pleasured sipping.

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There must be fifty ways to view moments like this, most of them silent and barely noticed. But these are the moments I recall so vividly, later in the day.

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This Deep South village contains so much good will, if only I take the time to cherish it.

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I imagine that there are thousands of villages like this throughout the world, where other people recognize each other and for a brief span ignore the irrepressible need for conflict that jumps at us now and then.

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I hope I will experience a dozen moments of kindness today. I hope you will, too

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 © Jim Reed 2022 A.D.

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Life, actually…

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THINGS BETTER LEFT UNSEEN

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A puff of blue smoke appears from around the corner of a village structure.

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Like Native American signals of yore, this puff announces an upcoming event. An instant later, Bobby J. appears mid another cloud of smoke.

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He heads my way, his exhalations as powerful as his inhalations.

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Bobby J. is this moment’s Wyatt Earp. He struts along, cigarette in one hand, unholstered phone in the other, yelling into  his palm and sucking in as much of his portable stormcloud as possible.

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Bobby J. is primed for action, his close-shaved head and confused tuft of beard framed by a black tee-shirt emblazened with a Harley slogan. He lopes along, enclosed in an emotional tirade aimed at the phone, his angered breathing fiercely sucking in and spewing words and smoke.

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I stand in Bobby J.’s way on the cracked sidewalk, so I quickly move aside, pretending to be oblivious to his drama. I sweep leaves and butts toward the beckoning gutter.

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He chugs past me and turns the next corner. Burnt tobacco and echoed invectives dissipate.

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Did I want to witness this? Doesn’t matter, does it? Things happen and fade away.

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Bobby J. is his own story imprisoned within his own fate. But he is suddenly immortalized this instant, a living image embedded in this story.

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Will future readers recognize him by my description? Will his cameo appearance in front of the bookstore roll with life’s credits at the end of the show?

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Will Bobby J. ever realize how unique and special he is? Will those who love or hate him find anything remarkable about him? Will there ever be an accounting of the good he has done, the bad he has done, the kindnesses he dispensed, the bumbling-along image he projects?

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This is not for me to know. Whatever will be will be.

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All I know is that I did what any artist might do. I paid attention to him when there was no-one else around to feel his moment.

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There you have it. I guess this page is his gift unopened

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© Jim Reed 2022 A.D.

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Life, actually…

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 HIDE YOUR THINGS LOCK YOUR CAR TAKE YOUR KEYS

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 HIDE YOUR THINGS

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LOCK YOUR CAR

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TAKE YOUR KEYS

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There’s that metallic sign again. I see it now and then, here in this Deep South village. A reminder like a note your Mom once packed in your school-bound lunch. HIDE YOUR MILK MONEY. Love, Mom.

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I feel certain that those who dreamed up the slogan, got it approved through all the proper channels, had it manufactured, distributed and installed…I feel certain that they feel some pride in instructing us civilians to be cautious and mindful.

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So, obey your Mom and your police department.  HIDE YOUR THINGS LOCK YOUR CAR TAKE YOUR KEYS SECURE YOUR MILK MONEY.

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What else would police and moms have us do, assuming they had our attention for more than three seconds?

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CHAIN YOUR BIKE, PULL YOUR PANTS UP OVER YOUR REAR CLEAVAGE, HIDE YOUR NOSE BEHIND YOUR MASK, DON’T DO STUPID STUFF, etc.

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I ponder the notion that Mom’s hand-penciled note and the big village sign have the same intent. Just to help us appreciate this fact, another sign might read WE ARE CONCERNED ABOUT YOUR WELFARE, SO PAY ATTENTION.

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Or, more aggressively, DO AS WE TELL YOU OR THERE WILL BE HECK TO PAY.

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Shall I be grateful or fearful?

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I’ll have to think about that.

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Almost any kindly thought can be transmogrified, once processed by a string of people who don’t know the original intent. Almost any idea can become oblique or fuzzy once unfettered.

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So, I must remember:

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LOCK YOUR KEYS TAKE YOUR THINGS HIDE YOUR CAR

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Uh, did I get that right?

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Oh, no

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© Jim Reed 2022 A.D.

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Life, actually…

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LOST MARBLES, WISE EGGS AND THOUGHTFUL PENNIES

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Today is not book-caretaking day at my little shop of wonders. Usually I spend time re-shelving and tidying up when I enter this cathedral of books.

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But now and then I open the big loudly-squeaking front door and begin my chores by checking on the supply of wondrous surprises and random wisdoms.

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This is not your stereotypical bookstore, you know.

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First off, I fetch a cylindrical key, the one that unlocks an old orange ironclad vending machine. Into this orange vending machine I insert a dozen freshly-packed plastic eggs. Each of these plastic eggs contains a number of surprises and oddities, the kind you don’t find just anywhere these days.

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Once arranged, the eggs are loaded and locked, awaiting curious customers and kids both overgrown and under-old.

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Shoppers who head straight for the big orange vending machine bring their quarters and try to imagine what they will come up with, once the metallic crank is turned.

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Today’s first vended egg contains: a set of black-dotted white dice, a pink-streaked seashell, one rose-colored self-adhesive monkey sticker, an old military-insignia pin, a Happy Camper sticker, one very large red marble…want me to go on? It is amazing how much joy one can pack into one small egg.

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Also within the egg are: a plastic leaf, a set of yellow Top-Value trading stamps from ages ago, a fortune-cookie-type strip of paper with one of my wisely witless thoughts (“Filling time is anything we do or do not do.”), and one small marble, a companion to the big one.

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Each egg is packed with different joys. You take your random pick.

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Cheap thrills, guaranteed to puzzle or entertain, for the down payment of two shiny quarters.

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A few feet away, a clear jar is filled with small wisdoms, hidden comforts, unexpected joys. These scraps of paper float about, covering over the very small plastic eggs you can obtain for a measly twenty-five cents each (just Two Bits, if you are old enough to know this slang term).

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Inside each egg in the big jar: two pennies, one small marble and one strip of paper with yet another of my wise, sometimes silly, original sayings.

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The idea is, The two pennies represent my two cents’ worth. The marble indicates that I have not lost them all, just yet. The strip of paper is evidence that even the most random of thoughts can be preserved and meaningful if you take the extra time…

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There are other surprises here and there throughout the Museum of Fond Memories and Reed Books, some easily findable, some secreted so that only the most observant will see them.

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This is a way of spreading my love for words and books and child-like fun. It’s my little world and I love it when you enter and “get” it by cruising around and remaining open to the concept of laughter and giggles, swirled and stirred among books and books and books.

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Hey, I’m just an elderly dude sharing my memories with those who need a break from the harshness that life can sometimes heap upon us.

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I mean you no harm

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© Jim Reed 2022 A.D.

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eToday is the the day that I head straight for the orange metal vending machines near the front door.

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Life, actually…

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WHAT REMAINS IN RUSTY TINS AND CLAY POTS?

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

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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-.

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

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

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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.”

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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.

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

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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.”

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

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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.

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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?

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

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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.

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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?

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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.

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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

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© Jim Reed 2022 A.D.

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Life, actually…

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RECEPTIONIST UNDER GLASS

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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.

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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.

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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.

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

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

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

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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.

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“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.

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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.

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“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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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?

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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.

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

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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.

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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

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© Jim Reed 2022 A.D.

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Life, actually…

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ONE WAY DOWN, THATAWAY

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

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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.

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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.

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

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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.

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

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.”

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And so I shall, so I shall.

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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.

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Assuming I ever enter this particular building again

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© Jim Reed 2022 A.D.

Hear this story as a podcast on youtube:

https://youtu.be/q53a9ThhZjk

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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…

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LAST YEAR WAS THEN, THIS YEAR IS NOW

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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.

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

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

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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.

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

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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.

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

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

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

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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.

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I also get along by NOTICING the unnoticeable.

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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.

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

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

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

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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.

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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.

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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.

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

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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.

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

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

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

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© Jim Reed 2022 A.D.

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