Relaunch

I remember my father typing on his old gunmetal grey Royal manual typewriter, his right pinkie finger splayed out to the right. Boy, could he could fly on that thing. He’d write letters, pages and pages, and send them to my sister and, after I moved out, to me. I always needed a dictionary in order to read them; he thought that was good for me I guess; he’d say, "You bored? Read the dictionary." He usually used that onionskin paper so he could keep the postage down.

As I sit here at my computer keyboard (I still have an old Royal sitting here next to me, just because. It was a gift to myself after I got fired from another of the stupid jobs I've had over the years); my right pinkie finger is splayed out—just like his. Genetics.

My mother had terrible arthritis and her knuckles were all disfigured. She’d hold her hands out and say, "Oh, honey, I hope your hands don’t end up like mine.” I have one finger—the ring finger on my right hand, right next to the outstretched pinkie, that has an enlarged knuckle. Just one. I figure it’s God’s way of reminding me how lucky I am that there’s only one! So, here I sit, with my mom’s ring finger, and my Dad’s pinkie. Odd.

And with these fingers, I jabber away at stories and memories and as the years pass, I am even more thankful to God to have a gift that I can carry with me wherever I go, one that can offer an income—mediocre or monumental, depending on how the wind blows and how the editors feel on the day they read what I send them.

Here’s a story I wrote many years ago, and for the life of me, I can’t see too many ways of changing or improving it. Maybe a word or two. I’d like to send it out into the universe today—for those who will read it and understand.

Hands pressed against the front window of Bonner’s Pharmacy, Mrs. Todd peered into dimness. Her stool for nearly forty years of lunches sat empty, its green vinyl peeling. A sun-faded sign hung on the door: Lunch Counter Open Today. The doors were locked; it had been two months now. Hers and all the other stools at the green speckled Formica counter were dusted with plaster that had fallen from the newly demolished ceiling, the counter half-buried beneath debris. They’d come here every day, she and Mrs. Blumberg, ate their scoops of tuna on lettuce, grilled ham on rye and drank tea from heavy white mugs, the edges roughened with age. They’d unsnap their black patent leather handbags and reach in for shiny gold compacts, put on fresh lipstick and leave cups ringed with red. For two months now, there had been no need for lipstick.

    “Fabulous!” came a sharp pitched voice from behind. “Oh, definitely, everyone will love the new crushed velvet booths! Can you imagine sitting on one of these horrid stools?” Mrs. Todd turned to see two men coming up the sidewalk, one with a roll of blueprints under his arm, the other a camera slung around his neck.

    “Ceiling fans will be installed next week and the marble and gold bar is on order from New York,” said the man with the camera. As they approached the pharmacy, Mrs. Todd stepped forward. “Excuse me, are you the gentlemen the new owners of Bonners?” The one with the blueprints nodded curtly. “When will you reopen? Will it be soon,” she asked, thinking of Mrs. Blumberg. They brushed hurriedly past, unlocked the door and as it swung shut behind them, one reached back and jerked down the sign. She backed up on to the sidewalk, watching them through the glass. They were moving about, snapping pictures, chatting and pointing. Marble and velvet? she thought, sadly shaking her head. She took one last longing look at the counter, heavy with plaster dust and imagined the sizzle of the grill, the tiny bell on the register and the gleam of the silver milkshake canisters as they spun around behind the counter.

“Two margaritas coming up” the bartender announced over the whir of a blender. Somewhere down Merwin Avenue, Mrs. Todd and Mrs. Blumberg sat alone in separate kitchens—leaving no lipstick rings.