An Excerpt from "An Unusual Memoir"

by Ken Roy

In 1982, in Torrance California, every afternoon when leaving work I would pass by and admire a great looking Opel GT parked in front of a neighbor’s house. This car had a beautiful lacquered metallic shade of royal purple paint job, an absolutely exquisite eye catching color for any car.

What was my attraction? It was the absolute spitting image of a mini-corvette and the paint job made it truly irresistible. I was always awed by small sports cars and this was a honey. As fate would have it, one day I noticed a “For Sale” sign in its window. Now I really perked up. Maybe I could afford this beauty so I stopped and knocked on the front door of the house where it was parked.

The guy who answered the door was truly a sight. Well over six-feet tall and solidly built. In what seemed to be a bad attitude, he was unshaven with a bunch of tattoos and a short military haircut. No doubt, he was a pretty tough dude and I was having second thoughts about being there. Splitting real fast was not an option and seeing I was there I blurted out.

“That Opel for sale, Mister?”

“What’s the sign say?” he answered sarcastically.

“Yeh, pretty dumb question…sorry,” I meekly replied. “How’s it run?”

“Damn fine.

“How much?”

“$2500.” he snapped.

I said I was very interested and suggested we take it for a spin. Surprisingly, he agreed and away we went with me driving. Right away he started a conversation about how he hated to part with the car but needed the cash. He told me the paint job was done in a custom hotrod shop in North Hollywood and he paid dearly.

I was wondering if he was getting second thoughts on the price so I quickly changed the subject to how the car was peppy and fun to drive. We looped around a few blocks and roared down the 405 before returning to his house. By this time we had chatted about several things and much to my relief, it seemed he was not the psychotic nutcase I initially envisioned. When we pulled into his driveway he suggested I join him in his house for a beer while he retrieved the Opel’s paperwork.

It wasn’t long before my original suspicions of “nutcase” were aroused again. The house was a real eyesore. Early depression furnishings included a busted chair and half painted table. Numerous military artifacts and partially eaten food, the standard pizza and chicken pieces, scattered here and there. I even noticed a Nazi swastika on the wall that appeared to be splattered with some sort of foreign matter. In a minute or so he returned with the paperwork and handed me a beer. It was Old Milwaukee. This was a real downer, totally “panther” on my beer list, but I drank it quickly and kept my mouth shut. I wasn’t about to spring anything negative on this guy. When leaving, I noticed a military style camouflaged ambulance sitting in his back yard. This was curious to me so I asked about it. Surprisingly, he was eager to tell me that it was used in war games training. This got my attention real fast as the following exchange ensued.

“Thanks for the brew, by the way.” I stammered. “War Games? Where these games at?”

“Up in the Sierra high desert, preparing for a rescue operation in Laos-Cambodia.”

“You joshing me?” I gasped.

“Nope, a group of vets with Bo Gritz.”

Well, needless to say this development floored me. I was somewhat aware of who Bo Gritz was as he had hit the news big time in recent weeks (see footnote). What I knew about war games in the Sierra was pretty minimal but I was aware these things were going on. Previous business visits to China Lake (high desert), which is the site of the US Navy air weapons test development center, gave me a small view into this world.

Everyone I met there was very intelligent and fun loving, but a little too much military, redneck, and with a knack for mayhem that left me feeling uncomfortable. The “high desert” was a very different world than the one I lived in. I could only imagine what the Gritz games involved.

Several days later when my check cleared I went to pickup my “new” toy car. The conversation went something like this.

“Sure am going to miss this car.

“I’ll treat her like a baby,“ I said. He laughed…

“Maybe let you borrow it back someday,“ I laughed….

“By the way, how‘s it going with the Gritz games?”

“Things are smoothing out and we’ll be ready soon.”

“Best of luck with the operation,” I offered.

At that point I changed the conversation and was on my way out the door, when he turned and said to me.

“Hey, any chance you’re interested in getting involved with us?”

“No thanks,” I choked, being averse to my life ending in a Southeast Asian rice paddy; this caper had no appeal whatsoever. Often thought of this and wondered if I would take the adventure if offered again…. same answer, No thanks.

I quickly jumped in my new Opel and headed out.

I noticed that the ambulance was gone a few weeks later. I never did see him again, however, occasional POW/MIA news piqued my curiosity about the issue. There was never a raid into Laos or Cambodia to the best of my knowledge. On the other hand, Colonel Gritz made the news for several years.

My little toy car was a true joy for a couple of years and I buzzed all over California in it. As time passed it needed work and I was thinking of moving back East where the winter weather would surely have killed it quickly. I reluctantly decided to sell it. The Opel GT saga had continued in a much-subdued fashion…until I put it up for sale and that’s another story.

Footnote: Bo Gritz is the quasi-famous and controversial Lt. Colonel Bo Gritz (retired) who was a highly decorated US Army veteran and a Special Forces commander in Vietnam. After retirement he became active in the search for POW/MIAs in Southeast Asia. He purportedly undertook several self-financed trips to SE Asia in this effort while living in Southern California. This got him seriously crossways with the Reagan administration and his efforts came to naught. (See Wikipedia, Bo Gritz)

The Fourth Thursday

by Beth Alexander Walsh

Delicate Bavarian china

presents less formal with

cardboard napkin rings

and turkey salt shakers

in a candle lit house that

is pressed and cleaned.

Charlie Brown runs

to kick off the holidays

but Lucy steals the ball,

and Snoopy flies

through Herald Square,

as we blanket the day

with Bell's Seasoning.

It is the same every year.

Comforting continuity,

gathering us once again

on this fourth Thursday.

Most are still here,

but some we miss,

and we taste their absence

in old favorite recipes.

Still there are others,

missing by choice.

We speak their names,

giving our best

with holiday cards;

acknowledging difficulties

a turkey won't fix.

Yet, our table unites

with too much food,

and our gratitude flows

as freely as the wine.

We toast ourselves and

laugh among the linens,

while saving room for

a slice of cheesecake.

Soon, we wash dishes

and hug our goodbye's.

Tomorrow, with leftovers,

we will digest the memory,

and plan the season ahead.

Act III

by Elizabeth Aharonian Moon

The Living Dead....HIS

Lately, he had been reading the obituaries, but he hadn't mentioned it to his wife. Actually, he wasn't reading the obituaries as much as he was looking at them. People were sick and people were dying and now they were dead and finally they got their picture in the newspaper. Often, the picture didn't match the dead person's age; in fact, often the picture seemed to have absolutely no connection to the deceased.

So who were these people, there in black and white? The photos showed them all smiling—broad, thin-lipped smiles--with very white, straight teeth, and eyeglasses sitting squarely on nice noses. He noticed the text of the obit was always the same...born, maybe in another state , lived many, many years in this particular town, had many beloved children and more beloved grandchildren and some even had beloved great-grand children, all living in a far off place, nowhere near the dear deceased relative.

The rest of the text and even the lay-out of the obit pages reminded him of his high school yearbook. But these were not classmates; instead they were black and white head shots of the dead, in alphabetical order. Certain details were always included: the age of the deceased (or the year he was born so the reader had to do the math); the cause of death and the valiant fight or courageous battle which preceded it; associations he belonged to, the offices he held— president of this, the treasurer of that—; sports he played, trophies won; causes he believed in; hobbies he pursued.

But it was the photos that puzzled him: the now dead people were not old, or worn out, or frail. They were not sad. In fact, they all appeared to be happy, at a party, or at the bow of a small ship. The women had coiffed hair-do's; the men didn't show whiskers or five-o'clock shadows. Occasionally, he saw a dead guy who might have on a baseball cap, or a football jersey, padded big at the shoulders. A lady might have earrings the length of her neck or a fancy necklace or pearls. They were all dead, dead standing up, playing football, or celebrating something. Why, they were having the time of their life!!

The man who had been reading the obits over his morning coffee began to worry. Would his wife put his picture in the newspaper when he was gone? What picture would she choose? Would there be time for her to consult with the far-away children? What if she just used one of his old passport pictures? He looked like a refugee in several of them, a convict in others. And in the latest one, taken just five years ago, he resembled an elderly terrorist with his droopy eyelids and heavy dark bags beneath them, his turkey neck, his crooked tie. What if she used that recent snapshot she had taken of him sitting in the Adirondack chair where he looked shrunken and tired and ---old.

He needed to take charge. He needed to find a picture that showed him having the time of his life. That's how he wanted to be remembered. Starting tomorrow, he'd go through the boxes and drawers and envelopes that haphazardly stored the photos, some of them stuck together, others faded, or dulled by the years and the dampness and dust of the cellar and attic. He'd pick one that showed him with hair, and full teeth, and good posture; he'd cut himself into a one and a half by one and a half shot, and whether he was having the time of his life or not, he'd appear that way to those who saw him and read his four inch by two inch biography, a life abridged and abbreviated to fit the required space.

While he was at it , he decided he'd try his hand at the writing as well. He wanted the words to support what the photo conveyed. Why! It would be his autobiography, something he had never considered doing.. His had been a small life in a small world and he knew he didn't qualify for one of those three or four column death notices with big photos and bold headlines written by a professional obituary-writer. He knew he could manage a short piece with the pertinent details and maybe even a little flair. His wife could just add the brief specs and details of the date and place of his death (would his be a valiant, courageous ending?), the funeral arrangements, and where to send flowers or money. Using his own words, he would come alive (even though he was dead) in his own little short story in which he was indeed having the time of his life.

The Living Dead....HERS

Lately, at the end of the day, over her drink, while her husband snoozed, mouth open, in the nearby recliner, she read the obituaries, every word of those who had died in her vicinity and she examined their pictures, too. Mostly she looked at the women. They were certainly dead, but they looked so lively, so alive.

Sure, last week there had been a picture of a smiling woman with oxygen tubes clamped into her nostrils; another had barely any hair, yet she too was smiling, her scalp shining beneath little clumps of white fuzz. Neither of them looked sickly, though, no doubt, the oxygen and the baldness were evidence of long illnesses. These women, and others like them, had simply “died peacefully at home surrounded by family.” No mention of the nagging emphysema, the COPD, the lung cancer, the months of chemo, the months of radiation.

Mostly, the dead women she studied were pretty glamorous: hair permed and puffed and in place; chins not floppy at all, and necks that seemed to defy gravity. If there were heavy eye-lids and heavier bags, crow's feet or deep tracks in the forehead, eye glasses camouflaged them all. Often, the frames were old-fashioned-- big, plastic-- but all the better to do the hiding.

She sipped her drink, jingling the melting ice cubes now and then, careful not to announce the cocktail hour to her still-dozing husband. Today she was particularly curious about the jewelry and the outfits the living-dead wore. She, herself, didn't have much jewelry, or many fancy tops, but if she paid close attention, she could see “what worked and what didn't work” (an expression her adult daughter always used). Earrings: always earrings—hoops as round as a coaster, as round as a dime; dangles nearly to the shoulder; clunky clamp-ons shaped like pasta shells or bunches of spring flowers; wee pearly studs or diamonds. Rarely did the dead ones wear necklaces or if they did, it was often a cross or a string of graduated pearls which disappeared into a blouse or a sweater.

Once, she could not believe her late-afternoon eyes, a living -dead had on a drape, black, exactly the kind she had worn for her high school graduation picture. Perhaps she could find her yearbook, neatly cut out the picture, and wipe off the moldy spots. No, that wouldn't do. She was barely eighteen then, and now she was near eighty. No drapes. No choke -necklaces. And no bridal gown and head-piece which she had seen just yesterday on a recently deceased lady of eighty-two (who in her family had chosen that picture for the newspaper?) A blouse, a simple blouse or a Sunday dress would do-- something darkish, maybe a paisley.

By the last swallow of her drink, she had made a decision. Next week, she would sort through her jewelry drawer, decide on a couple—maybe three—pairs of earrings; she'd go through her closet, and the garment bag in the attic, select a decent dress and decide on a nice top; she'd make an appointment to have her hair cut and curled or maybe just cut and blown-dry, definitely a morning appointment on either Tuesday or Thursday when the senior discounts were offered. If she feigned a lunch date or a doctor's visit, she could go to CVS, and Rite-Aid, and even to Walgreen's in the shopping center, have passport pictures taken (two for $9.99, no coupon needed) at each of the drug stores, trying out the different earrings, slipping the blouse over the dress for a different effect. She'd be home by the cocktail hour, when, as her husband snored, she could lay out the pictures, all of them, and decide which one “would work”.

She would put the picture in an envelope in the drawer that held her will and her DNR, and label it clearly in her best printing:Put this picture in the paper. She wasn't concerned about words—all boiler-plate, really. Her family could write anything they wanted in the column beneath the picture. Sure, she'd be dead , very dead, black and white dead, but whoever saw her, all who read the obituaries to start their day or end it, would have to say, “My, doesn't she look put-together! Nothing old or out-dated about her!”

The Pile

by Law Hamilton

Fragments, written on a scrap of paper

Being saved for later

Added to the pile

Images from magazines

Torn out

Added to the pile

Newspaper articles

Never the time, to be read

Added to the pile

Mounting cold,

Needing warmth

Draws in the pile

One by one

Revisited a last time

And added to the fire.