Cotton...the fabric of our life

When the breeze catches it just so, gently sending a ruffle across it's surface, I have to think that humble cotton has never been put to such a noble use as it has in the making of the light blue sundress now sitting one table away.

On Seeing A Young Girl In Spring

Soft hair blowing,
flowing. Golden.
Golden glowing,
blowing without a care.

Catching sunlight.
Bouncing, warm bright,
shining back just right.
Gleaming fire. Young, light hair.

No soft touch for me,
no careless brush
given light, and free.
So long since a breast seen bare.

Too far the years,
and with the years,
too many tears.
Love left, none to spare.

And, yet, young hair blowing,
softly glowing,
gently flowing,
Moves old heart to care.

It must be the song

Maybe it's just getting late. Or maybe the song did it. Maybe both. It doesn't really matter the vehicle, I'm back there now anyway, so I might as well just deal with it.

At four in the morning, the streets are always quiet. You can almost feel the people sleeping around you. Rolling through neighborhoods this late - or early I suppose - there aren't even many nightowls up. If they are, the light sneaking around their drawn blinds marks them as sure as neon signs.

Music on the radio at this hour always takes on extra depth, like it has a free pass to your soul. Steven Tyler, of Aerosmith fame, doesn't want to miss a thing and neither do I - not now, not then either. It's funny what a song will do to you once it's associated in your memory. When it becomes more than just a song you sort of like and becomes a time, a place, a person.

It had already been a long night when my last page was sent. An afternoon of trying to put a dent in the messages in my box and the emails on my computer and then a night of waiting for results of local high school games and quickly trying to cram it all together into a nice, tidy package of four sports pages - two color, two black and white - destined to end up being trucked off in a heap to a recycling center somewhere to begin the process of becoming a sports section again. It's a disposable world and I was doing my part to give people something to dispose of.

I tried to be nonchalant as I offered to stay and watch down the paper that night. I think there was some weary surprise but Tim who already had the odious task had other things to work on while he waited so he just said thanks anyway.

Trying to kill time, I started roughing out the next day's pages. Then I got up and bought a Mt. Dew and a Mr. Pibb from the soda machine in the break room.

I put them both in a drawer of my desk. The Dew I would drink anyway, but the only reason I would buy a Mr. Pibb was because I knew that's what she liked. I didn't want it staring at me while I waited though. If she didn't stop in, it would be taunting me - thus the drawer.

Every time I heard the door from the press room open, I had to will myself to not jump up to see if it was her. It never was. Finally, as I was beginning to doubt that she would show, the side door opened and she walked in. Even in sweats, she made my heart skip.

She slumped into the chair at the desk next to mine.

"Hey," she said.

"Hey. Just wake up?"

"Yeah, I went to sleep for a couple of hours."

"Aren't you the lucky girl."

"Yeah right," she said. "Tell me why we're doing this again?"

"I think you were trying to come up with sneaky way to spend some time alone with me..."

"Riiight...No I don't think that's it," she said laughing. I loved her laugh.

She was at least awake now. I opened my drawer and pulled out the Mr. Pibb and gave it to her.

"Thanks."

"No problem."

"No candy?" she asked with her bottom lip out.

"Didn't know what you would want," I said.

"Peanut M&Ms..."

"No, I'm not buying you Peanut M&Ms."

"Please..."

"Nope."

"You know you're going to buy them anyway..."

She was right. I would have bought the whole damn machine out at that moment. I was just glad Josh and Pat weren't there to watch me melt in her hand like this. Tim was there, but he was over talking to the Tommy at the press room window.

She had some stuff to do before we went out delivering, so we went over to the circulation office in the other building for a few minutes and then out to the loading area at the back of the building.

I heard the presses start picking up speed. That meant the run was nearly dialed in and readable copies would be rolling off the press and out to the packaging department. There was only a short window of opportunity to catch any glaring errors at this point and no one wanted to be the one to stop the presses, but the reading had to be done. Tim already had a copy and was checking it. I glanced through the headlines, starting with the Sports section of course. All was fine, so we had a paper sent to bed.

The end for the editorial department was the beginning for packaging and circulation though.

She was covering some downed routes - ones that had no carriers - and I had told her I would help out. That's why I was standing out back waiting for bundles of newspapers to come off the rollers from the strapper. The nice thing about doing routes with her was that she had no problem pulling rank and getting our bundles first. Since all the carriers were under her supervision, they didn't put up too much of a fuss - at least while we were there. They wouldn't have said much to me anyway, most were too intimidated to talk to me anyway since I worked 'upstairs.' Not many editors came down to the packaging department - even fewer came down to help out.

Since they were short, we rolled through the first two routes and were well into a third. It was nice. We were both tired, but I would have done almost anything to make it last even longer. We had been talking about traveling, and how much college she had left, and what she wanted to do after she was done.

It had been a long time since I had done routes with her like this and a lot had happened since the last time. We went through some up and down periods because of office politics and had made it past them back to where we were now. There was a lot said that night, and a lot left unsaid. I never did tell her how I felt about her - more then than ever - but I'm sure she already knew.

In the midst of our late night ramblings, Aerosmith came on the radio and from that moment it became something that takes me back.

The streets are quiet and I'm sitting next to her in her Suburban, a pile of rolled newspapers between us. I feel the same pang now that I felt then too. And I feel proud of her, proud of what she was trying to do with work and school then - and maybe even more proud now, since I know she's accomplished most of what she said she wanted to when we talked that night. But mostly I just miss her.

The Flowers

The scrape of a folding chair leg on the tile floor snaps me back. I was drifting as the auditorium slowly filled and conversations fell into a mass murmur. Now the room is nearly full. People are still standing in the aisles and around the edges, but many have already started taking their seats.
I try to avoid looking at the flowers next to the sound board by checking the levels again, but my nerves won't let me.
I look down at the board and start flipping through my notes.

Scene three --
Opening ... mic. 2 up to 10. Mic. 3 and 4 up to 8.
Fade down to 0
Solo... mic. 4 up to 10. Remote mic. 10.
Scene four --
Opening...

Two hands slap down next to my notebook and begin drumming out a bass line.
"So, who is she?"
I look up to see the electric grin of my best friend Eric. He nods at the flowers.
"Nancy," I say.
"Hmm ... The violin player?"
"Umm hmm."
"Hmmm ... You got her roses?"
"Yeah. I wrote a note too," I say, pointing at a small envelope.
Eric nods and looks at me.
A door opens at the front of the auditorium and the orchestra starts filing in. They walk, single file, to their spots at the side of the stage.
Nancy opens the music on her stand and flips through it as she sits down. Her dark brown hair falls over her shoulders and she pushes it back with one hand, still intent on her music.
"You gonna go out with her?"
"I don't know ... guess I'll find out tonight," I say, looking down at the roses.
"Oh..." says Eric, looking down too.
"I guess I've gotta ... you know..." I look back to the orchestra.
"Yeah."
"How much time do think we have?"
"Before it starts?"
"Yeah."
Eric looks around for a clock. There isn't one. The orchestra had been tuning. The lights blink once as the musicians finish.
"Not very long," says Eric.
I look across the room at Nancy. She's a million miles away.
"What if she doesn't..." I say, looking over at Eric.
"She will."
"But what if she doesn't?"
"She will."
I look at my friend. His confidence takes some of the edge off, but I'm still trapped in a mass of nerves. If only I had some of that confidence.
"Could you..."
"Yeah, no problem," he says, grabbing the flowers and note. "Asta."
I watch him weave up the center aisle, the flowers held high. Sweat forms on my palms and I can't make it stop. My stomach tightens as he makes his way along the front of the stage, smiling as he goes.
His lips are moving. It isn't hard to imagine the words.
"Excuse me. Excuse me. Special delivery. Coming through."
I feel the heat in my cheeks and I focus all my energy on not sinking into my chair when Eric finally makes it to the front of the orchestra. It's going to be a spectacle, I know it.
With a flourish, he stops in front of Nancy. People turn their heads to watch as she takes the flowers. My world condenses into the note she's about to open. A few lines on a small card are everything.
Time crawls as she slowly slides it out of the envelope.
What will she say?
The world nearly ticks to a stop. My stomach can't get any tighter as she opens it.
What will she say?
The house lights blink twice.
Her eyes move across the card and I'm afraid to breathe -- afraid to breathe until I know.
She looks up. I see her eyes follow Eric's pointing hand. He's grinning. The miles close and she smiles.
Finally, I breathe.
I don't need to see her nod and mouth, "Yes." Her smile already says it.

Scarlett

In August of '04 - in his room in Queens - my friend Josh wrote a pretty fucking cool story about a Kirsten Dunst daydream he had... If enough people beg him, he might repost it on his blog. It's totally worth reading.

Well, time has rolled on and I finally have my hip-hop response to it. (For those of you who unfamiliar with the rap world, it's a pretty common thing to respond to other artist's works by addressing them in your own...don't you feel cool knowing that?) Um yeah...so, here it is:

"Anyway, it's not like you should talk," she said over her fork, a strand of Spaghetti a la Puttanesca dangling from the prongs. I never imagined that a loose strand of pasta could increase a beautiful girl's attractiveness, but there it was. I tucked the memory away, knowing that this small moment would remain cherished forever. "How many hours a week do you work?"

I just grinned at her.

"And besides, you don't get mobbed going to buy tampons..." she said.

"Um...maybe 'cause I don't buy tampons."

"Well, if you loved me..."

God, if she only knew. How could I not fall for her. I was still amazed that I somehow made it past the initial "hi."

"I'll buy you tampons if you stop waving your food at me."

"Huh...oh..."

The loose noodle had slipped further from her fork. She put it in her mouth and slurped it up making a pucker-lipped face at me.

"Okay Dad..." she said in her mock grownup voice. I felt her foot on my leg under the table at the same time she stuck her tongue out at me.

"Nice," I said. "There's next week's cover shot for the Enquirer... And since you were mean, maybe I won't tell you about that spaghetti sauce on your face."

"What?," she said quickly pulling the napkin off her lap. "Where?"

"Hmm..."

She rubbed the napkin down both sides of her mouth, her light-blue eyes darting quickly to her left as if to be sure no one was watching from the front of the restaurant. Looking down, she saw her napkin was still white and frowned. She dabbed around her mouth, this time catching her chin in the process, and glanced at the clean napkin.

"Where..." A quick glimmer of a blush lit her cheeks as she realized she'd been had.

I was saved from a flying napkin by the arrival of our white-shirted waiter.

"Ah...the bell," I said.

"How is everything?" the waiter asked.

"Great, thanks," I said, still relishing my little victory.

"Would you like some more wine?"

I glanced across the table and saw her nodding, "yes."

"There you have it..." I said to the waiter. "Two more please."

"Great," he said. "I'll go grab those for you."

"I think he's scared of you," I said, nodding at the back of our retreating waiter. "Notice how he never talks to you?"

"It''s better than when they only talk to me..."

"I guess you're right about that."

I still wasn't used to the whispers and the weird reactions, but I did my best to pretend it didn't bother me. That kind of attention was easier for her since she was used to it, but I knew the constant spotlight got to her sometimes.

"So, have you heard anything yet?" she asked, breaking the short silence.

"Huh? About what?"

"About your friend's story."

"Oh that..." I said. "Not yet."

"I can't believe she hasn't called him."

"Well..."

"C'mon. It's a great story," she said. "I just about died when I read the poem part. That was pretty awesome."

"Yeah, that part cracked me up too. That's why I figured she might like it. I don't know, maybe she'd get a kick out of it."

"I think she'll call him."

"That would be pretty cool."

"How did you get it to her?"

"You remember the guy who sent your agent my script?"

"The guy from William Morris?" she asked.

"Yeah..."

"Mmmm, not really. But go ahead."

"Well, anyway, he's a friend of my friend Eric so I got his number and asked if he could hold of Kirsten Dunst. He said that wasn't really his thing. So I told him I would just send it to him, let him read it and if he thought it would be cool, he could try and get it to her. I guess he liked it 'cause he gave it to one of the guys he works with and he gave it to her agent. There you have it."

"I think she'll call," she said.

"What makes you so sure?"

"I called..."

"True. I'm still pretty amazed about that."

"I'm glad I did," she said as she reaching for my hand.

"Me too.."

I pushed the rush of memories back, happy though they were. The phone call, the lunch down by the beach, the drive back from Redondo, thanking God I actually cleaned the place and did the dishes that had been stacked in the sink, the talk into the night over the bottle of Dynamite Cabernet I'd been saving for a special occasion...

I just wanted this moment right now though. Her smile, the little freckle on her cheek, her hand in mine across the table... These moments are short when we're out in public.

This one was no exception.

"Excuse me..."

I looked up to see a guy in jeans and an In-and-Out Burger tee shirt standing at the side of our table.

"Aren't you Scarlett Johansson?"

She smiled politely at him. I felt her hand pull out of mine.

"You're her aren't you?"

"Yes I am."

"Wow...I'm a huge fan. Can I get your autograph?"

"Sure," she said. I pulled a pen out of the pocket of my jacket that was draped over the chair behind me and handed it to her.

"Hey, can you take our picture together?" the fan said, handing me a cheap digital camera.

"Sure," I said...

testing

just checking....