Where Do Nails Come From? a re-post

I had a lot of fun writing this years ago, in response to a picture prompt.

It all began that night at the Workbench -- yeah, I know, the regulars are a bunch of tools but, hey, it's handy, man.

Me and some of the other fellas were drinking Rusty Nails -- it'd been that kind of a week and I was ready to get hammered.

Nine-Inch Nails was playing and the pounding beat was really getting to me when all of a sudden Brad says, 'Hey, hey, hey, look at that hot-dipped, galvanized little number. How'd you like to nail that one?"

And I see her over there, all shiny-slim and sharp-looking.  She's with a couple of tacky losers, you know, the kind they always say has a terrific personality, but this one, well, she can ride in my nail belt any time!

Me, I'm a big galoot, tough as nails, and I stand out in this crowd of common nails. I can see she's looking me over, but playing it cool, you know what I'm sayin'?

 So I sort of meander on over to where she is and offer her a coffin-nail. We stand there smoking for a while, just kind of getting to know one another. I ask does she come here for the music and she says yeah, I hit the nail on the head -- it sure wasn't for the company.

Turns out her name's Penny and she's got a boyfriend named Spike but I know this Spike --thinks he's a big stud when he's nothing but a common framing nail --I could chew him up and spit out carpet tacks.

One thing leads to another and I ask can I drive her home. She wants to know am I hitting on her but than she says yeah and ditches the girlfriends and once we're at her place, it doesn't take long for us to get to the point, if you know what I mean. 

++++++++++

I didn't see her again - months went by  and one night I'm on the computer, checking out exotic fasteners and then watching a video called 'Nailin' Palin.' when I get a call.

It's the hot number from the bar. She has to remind me and then-- well, not to put too fine a point on it, she tells me I'm a daddy --  says there's all these little nails and they're crowding her out of the house and she wants me to do something.

I think I'll go get hammered.

Waltz Me to the End of Time--repost

That? That piece of sheet music came from Miss Annie's house. After she passed away back in '65, the property went to a nephew who lived in Alabama. He came and  spent a few days going through her things, packing up what he wanted -- there was the prettiest little writing desk -- and then he had some dealer come in and take away the rest of it so they could put the house on the market. 

 The nephew was named Charles, if I remember right, and he was real nice.  I asked if I could have that music to remember her by and he told me I was welcome to it. He let me take some of her books too. He said he'd never known his aunt and had been surprised to get the lawyer's letter saying he'd inherited her property. He asked me all kinds of questions about Miss Annie and I told him what I could.

Miss Annie was  the sweetest old lady you ever saw and when I was growing up I loved to go visit her. We would sit in the parlor and have what she called cambric tea --  mostly warm milk with a little tea to color it -- and fresh-baked ginger cookies and sometimes  she would play her old-fashioned music box for me. How I loved to hear that funny, faraway sound . . .  


Oh, at first she seemed older than the hills to me -- though I don't believe she was much over seventy when she passed. She was white-haired and stooped over and wrinkled up like one of those apple dolls they used to make. But her eyes were bright and when I'd been around her a bit, it always seemed as if  there was a girl my age hiding inside that old body. 

Miss Annie had the merriest laugh . . . like silver bells ringing.  And I could see from the photograph of her on the mantlepiece that she'd been a beauty when she was young -- tall and willowy with light hair done up in one of those pompadours they wore back then.  There was a photograph of a handsome young man in an old fashioned uniform there too and she kept the two kind of turned to face each other. 

When I asked her who he was, she told me that his name was Darby C. Bell  and that he was the love of her life. . .  they had been engaged when he went off to fight in World War I -- and he had died in France.

I didn't know what to say...I think I was afraid she might start crying. But she seemed not to mind talking about him and she showed me her engagement ring  -- a round amethyst circled with pearls. She said her fingers had grown so knobbly with arthritis that she couldn't get it on anymore so she wore it on a chain around her neck and inside her dress. 'Next to my heart,' she said.

  

When I went home that evening, I asked my mother why Miss Annie had never married.  Mama smiled.  'You're not the first to wonder. According to your grandma, Annie could have had her pick of fellas after her fiance died. But she was independent -- Darby had that house built before he went off to war and his will left it to her along with enough money that she didn't have to marry. 

'It was a puzzle to everyone as the years went by -- your grandma said all the neighbors thought at first Annie was mourning Darby and after a spell, she' d have enough of loneliness and say yes to one of the men that was after her.  But the funny thing was that she never seemed really to mourn, not really. She was always as bright and cheerful as she is now. And every night  in summer, when the windows were open,  they'd hear the sound of that music box. . .

'I guess some folks mourn differently than others,' Mama said and sent me to wash my hands and set the table.

After supper that night,  I recalled that I'd left one of my school books at Miss Annie's.  Mama and Daddy and  Tommy were watching Hogan's Heros when I slipped out of the house into the chill November air.  I hurried across the road and up to Miss Annie's porch where a lamp still burned in the window. I just hoped she wasn't getting ready for bed. 

I was about to knock on the door when I heard the faint sound of the music box and Miss Annie's silvery laugh. Puzzled, I stepped to the window and looked through a slit in the Venetian blind.

I could hear the music more clearly now -- a lilting waltz -- and suddenly Miss Annie came into view --  twirling slowly about the parlor floor. Her right arm was stretched out to the side and her left was bent up as if her hand rested on the shoulder of an invisible partner.

It was so silly . . . and so heartbreaking -- this bent over old woman waltzing with an imaginary partner.  Somewhere between tears and laughter, I watched . . .

And as Miss Annie circled in front of the lamp at the window, I could see her shadow on the opposite wall . . . 

Straight and willowy and graceful, Miss Annie's shadow waltzed in the arms of  the shadow of a tall young man. And the music played on and on . . .

 

My St. Christopher

 

When I was in high school, it became fashionable among my acquaintances to wear a St. Christopher medal. Not just any religious medal—no Sacred Hearts or BVMs—that was for the Roman Catholics which I and my closest friends were not. No, we were a mixed bag of protestants, from Episcopalian to Baptist, but we all had come to feel the need of a little supernatural protection. Some had little gold crosses, and one of my Methodist friends wore, on a thin gold chain around her neck, a tiny cube of wood from her church’s altar. 

Now, in the summer of 1958, suddenly we all wanted something more exotic. For years we’d been told by our mothers that the “Latin” girls with their pierced ears, ankle bracelets, and gold religious medals were tacky—if not downright trashy. So why were we skulking into the bookstore  attached to Tampa’s Sacred Heart Catholic Church in search of papist fetishes? God knows.

There were four of us, none of whom had ever set foot in a Catholic church. But, like junkies looking for a connection, we had somehow ascertained that through this dingy doorway on the side of the huge church there were St. Christophers for sale. Once inside, we realized that there were lots of other things as well—luridly colored pictures of Jesus opening his chest like a garment to reveal his technicolor heart, vials of cloudy holy water, photos of the Pope (suitably framed,) and a wealth of rosaries in every material from wood to plastic to mother-of-pearl.

“What do they do with these?” whispered Jobeth. “I’ve never seen anyone wearing one.”

“They use them to pray to Mary.” Liz whispered back. Hers was the voice of authority; as an Episcopalian, she was almost a Roman Catholic and presumably knew about these things.

The dowdy lady behind the cash register sent a sharp look toward our indecisive bunch as we leaned over the showcase where the rosaries and medals were displayed.

“Can I help you girls with something?”

“No, ma’am,” came the automatic reply, “we’re just looking.”

Then Anne pointed. “Actually, I was wondering how much this St. Christopher costs.”

We all held our breath; could the woman tell we weren’t Catholics? Would she ring a bell and would some burly nun appear from nowhere and toss us out? Or would she ask us questions in Latin or tell us to recite a Hail Mary?

She did none of these things, just sighed and came over to pull out a tray with a selection of little gold medals and chains. We each picked out very small, very discreet images of the saint; mine was smaller than my little fingernail and was, as the lady pointed out, meant to be worn as a charm on a watch. She eyed my bare wrists and I shrugged.

At last, we had all paid for our medals and, filled with relief, were heading for the door and the secular sidewalk beyond when she called out, “Take them next door to the rectory and one of the priests’ll bless them for you.”

We stood there motionless, four Lot’s wives tuned to salt. Had we acquired these little treasures under false pretenses; did she really think we were Catholics? Finally Jobeth, driven by some obscure Presbyterian sense of honor, quavered, “Ma’am, we don’t go to this church.”

“That doesn’t matter.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Just run around next door and Father Andrew or Father Torres will bless your medals.”

Once outside, we found ourselves plagued with theological and other questions. Should we go next door? As Episcopalians, Methodists, etc. did we think the priest’s blessing would do any good? Or, more specifically, do us any good. And would we have to pay? Did you tip a priest or make a thank offering or what? How involved did you have to get?

My personal vote was for non-involvement. My last brush with a strange religion had been the month before when I went with a group of friends to a Baptist revival as the featured entertainment of a slumber party. Not one of the raucous tent revivals, alas, it was very middle-class and mind-numbingly dull. After the stately wooden pews of St. John’s Episcopal, I thought the red plush individual seats more suited to a theater than a church. More comfortable, sure, but physical comfort had never been a part of Episcopal services. No lounging around for us: we stood and sat and knelt.

Another surprise was that instead of an altar and a cross, there was a plain wooden shelf with a large green houseplant of some sort, just enough off-center to catch my attention and bother me all evening.

When at last the point was reached that we were all invited to come forward and give ourselves to Jesus, I was deeply surprised to see my friends jump up, one after another, and head for the front. It didn’t help that most of them had to squeeze past me to get to the aisle and salvation, and so I had to keep squinching my long legs to the side. Of course, it would have been easier for me to stand and let them by, but I was afraid it would look like I’d heard the call and changed my mind.

So, having escaped the Baptists, I was wary of the Romans. But we stood in a knot on the sidewalk, casting sideways glances at the dark brown pain of the rectory’s front door. After several indecisive minutes, Anne tossed her head. “Well, I think if we’ve got the medals, we might as well get them blessed. It couldn’t hurt. Y’all do what you want; I’m going in there.”

Of course, we couldn’t let her go in there alone, so up the steps and in the door we all trooped. Inside was a dark, linoleum-floored hallway with a door opening to the right into a large, shabbily furnished sitting room. Standing there, chatting and smoking cigarettes, were two priests in long dark garments. We were speechless; what do you say to a priest if you’re not a Catholic? Eventually the younger of the two asked, with some amusement, “What can I do for you girls?”

“The lady at the store said you’d bless our St. Christophers,” one of us gasped.

Sixty-three years have passed but I still see him--mysterious, darkly handsome, smiling as he quickly mumbles something and, with his hand still holding the cigarette, makes the sign of the cross over my St. Christopher.

I wore that little medal on a thin chain around my neck for two years till I lost it in the Gulf of Mexico during Beach Week after graduation. It protected me while I had it and forever after, if I was at the beach—any beach—I would look down to see if it might be tumbling there in the foam at my feet, like a tiny golden shell.

All of the pictures are from the internet. This essay (or whatever it is) was written thirty-some years ago (I've updated it a bit.) In going through a bunch of old papers yesterday, I came across quite a few bits of writing that I decided to move from legal pads and typescript to my computer.  Fair warning: I will probably be sharing more. . .

A Lucky Son of a Bitch

So many folks are sharing mini concerts etc. to help pass the time during social distancing, I thought I'd share a short short story . . . it was on my blog years ago but here it is again,

"Oh, come on with me, Travis, honey. It'll be fun and maybe we'll get to be on TV."

Loreen reached over and trailed a suggestive hand down his chest. "Travis, honey, pleease . . . . I'll say thank you real good when we get home . . . You know . . ."

Travis considered, watching the throng of people pouring into the Civic Center. The big sign on the marquee said "Antiques Road Show ~ Last Day!" 

He sighed deeply. If he just stayed in the pickup in the parking lot, she wouldn't say nothing but like as not she'd cut him off for a week or more.

"Okay, I'll do 'er but it's a waste of time. I'll tell you now, Sugar, that stupid doll ain't gone be worth more than a couple of bucks. Fact."

That got Loreen riled.  He had to hold back from laughing as she swole up all huffy and snapped out, "You think you know so much. You wanna make a bet?"

She didn't even wait for him to answer but plowed right ahead, the words just sputtering.

"How about this? If my doll's not worth more than fifty dollars, then I'll buy you that big screen TV you been carrying on about -- right out of my own savings. And I'll go you one better, Mr. Smart Ass; if she's worth more than fifty, I'll still buy you that TV. . . But, for every dollar over fifty that they say she's worth, that's one whole day that I get to pick what we watch."

"Deal," Travis said, grinning to himself. He'd been dreading the fight it was going to take to get that TV he wanted so bad. And here it was, falling into his lap.  Looked like this was his lucky day after all.

They climbed out of the pickup, Loreen carrying the big bag with her special treasure -- the Barbie Doll in its original box.

As they made their way to the entrance of the Civic Center, Travis stopped. "You go on ahead, babe; I gotta have a smoke first" and he headed over to the side where there was a convenient wall to lean on. 

Pulling out a Marlboro -- Loreen was after him to switch to those cheap generic cigarettes but she could kiss his ass -- he put it to his lips and clicked his Bic.

Piece of crap. Probably been through the wash one too many times. Travis slapped his pockets but it wasn't no good --no matches.

Then he saw it. Proof that he was still a lucky son of a bitch. Right there on the wall beside him was a box of matches. Hotel Something or other -- weird looking black-tipped matches but the first one fired right up and he sucked in the smoke greedily.

Five minutes later he was in the crowded hallway trying to figure out where Loreen might have gone. The place was like an anthill some kid had kicked -- people swarming every whichaway, each one carrying some kind of treasure.

"Through that door and to the right." It was a geeky-looking guy standing next to him with a couple of big scrapbook-looking things in his arms.

Travis frowned.

"That's where the philumeny experts are," the geek explained. "I couldn't help noticing your matchbox . . ."

He nodded toward Travis's hand which still held his lucky find. "I collect covers myself, but sometimes those foreign matchboxes bring amazing prices. Good luck with it!"

Luck . . . well, what the hell, thought Travis and went through the door and to the right.

It was another geeky guy he finally talked to and he was sorry that Loreen wasn't around because while he was in line, the TV cameras had started rolling.

Just like he'd seen watching the show at home, there was lots of fancy talk -- how long had he had the matchbox (he said a friend had given it to him,) any idea of its worth (he could be honest here and say none at all.)

"Well," said Geek number 2,  setting the matchbox on a black cloth and looking at it like it was some kind of big ass diamond, "it's a very special matchbox, even though it's not an antique. But the Trans-Canada Swapfest is coming up in May and there are several collectors who would be very interested in a Hotel Forum ~ Bratislava."

The Geek, who was wearing white gloves, for crissakes, very gently pulled open the box of matches and delicately spilled them onto the cloth. His finger quivered above the matches and his lips moved.

" . . .  twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine . . ."

His brow furrowed and he counted again.

The Geek sighed. "Unfortunately, collectors demand a complete box.  If all thirty matches had been here, I believe that, at auction, the box could have fetched two to three thousand dollars. As it is, however . . ." he shrugged. "Worthless  . . . just not your lucky day, I'm afraid."

 Above the sound of many voices, Travis could hear Loreen's shriek of delight all the way across the vast hall.

"Five thousand dollars! For my Barbie? Really?"

Five thousand. Minus fifty and that made four thousand, nine hundred and fifty days when she held the remote -- four thousand, nine hundred and fifty days of movies about women talking about their problems and handsome vampires talking about theirs. It meant hot and cold running Oprah and Martha . . . shows about fixing up a house and shows about kids and more shows about women, talking about their problems . . .

"Sir? Sir? . . . are you all right? "

The floor rose to meet him and the babble of voices grew farther and farther away. All the light in the room seemed to gather into a ball of fire which flared up briefly then diminished to a single pinprick which pulsed . . . and fluttered . . . and went out . . .

"Somebody call 911! . . . Sir? . . . Sir? . . ."