"Pauline" by Sid Bolotin

Well, well! This blog isn't going to be a solo operation! Sid Bolotin has graciously submitted "Pauline," a short story which also appeared in the March 2010 issue of Cascade Lakes News & Views. (I liked the "O'Henry" style ending.) Enjoy!

PAULINE

Sid Bolotin


Walking along the corridor toward the kitchen to get another breakfast tray, I passed room 101 and heard the patient calling, “Hello, hello, is anyone there?”

I pushed open the door, knocked to announce my presence, and approached the bed.

The woman lay quietly, snow-white hair elegantly coiffed, her body neatly enfolded by the bed-linens, and her arms lay on either side of her tiny body as if one of the aides had just finished arranging her.

The card above the bed gave her name as Pauline, and her year of birth as 1910.

“Pauline,” I asked, “do you need something? A nurse?”

“Oh, I don’t need anything,” she smiled, “I just want to chat for a bit. Will you sit with me?”

“Of course I will. I’m a volunteer here at hospice,” I said as I pulled a chair close to the bed.

“Hold my hand,” she whispered.

I took her thin, graceful hand in mine, marveling at the delicate network of veins that lay just below her translucent skin.

As Pauline closed her eyes and gently began to speak of her childhood in Russia. I was taken aback by her lucidness. My experience had been that patients of her age in the Care Center were either heavily sedated or severely agitated making coherent conversation impossible.

So, I sat entranced as she softly described her life as if she was reading from some inner teleprompter that was passing across her mind’s eye. She described how she left her beloved Ukraine at the urging of her sisters, her arrival in America, and finding the love of her life…a man who emigrated from a town close to hers near Kiev.

Thinking that she had dozed off I rose to leave, whereupon she fairly shouted, “Not yet! There’s more to tell!”

Although I had more breakfasts to deliver and patients to feed, I sat back down as she continued her recitation. It was as if her life was passing before her, and she needed some sort of closure of some unfinished business.

The room was warm, and I drifted in and out of wakefulness, hearing only pieces of her history.
A marriage, a child’s birth, death of her true love, family interactions as she raised her child alone, lovers taken, her son’s family, and her descent into old age. As she spoke, she had a gentle, peaceful smile, and even reached across to pat my hand that still clasped hers.

Suddenly I realized that Pauline had stopped speaking, and I almost bolted out of the chair.

“Pauline,” I called gently, thinking she had fallen asleep. Getting no response, I watched carefully for any signs of breathing as I’d been taught to do. Seeing none, I gently released her hand, placed it beside her as it was when I had first entered, and rose to get the a nurse to verify my conclusion.

Then it hit me…Pauline was my mother’s name, and if she had not died 26-years ago, she’d be 100 also. Her story was much like the patient’s. No wonder I had sensed a familiarity as Pauline spoke!

When I told the nurse about Pauline, she incredulously insisted, “Can’t be! The patient in 101 did pass. But she died last night. The family is on their way.”

The Boca Nosher

Continuing with some of the short stories I wrote a few years back, here is "The Boca Nosher." Hope you enjoy it. Remember, this blog is available to all of you who might like to publish their short stories, essays, poetry, etc. online. Just E-mail your submissions to me at riart1@aol.com and I will include them.

The Boca Nosher

Jack Lippman


“See that guy over there? The one noshing on the crabmeat spread on crackers. That’s the fifth one I saw him take!”

“Yeah, Lou,” the older Costco employee replied. “I’ve been watching him too. He took a couple of the Hotpockets samples, too. Aren’t they awful? Come to think of it, I‘ve seen him in here a couple of times this week stuffing himself with our giveaway samples.”

“You’re right, I’ve seen him too. Look, look at him now! He has one of those baked ham chunks on a toothpick in his hand, and he’s grabbing another. He’s even shoving one into a baggie and slipping into his pocket for later.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen him do that before too. Probably taking it home for supper”!
No longer smiling, the older man, obviously the possessor of some authority, removed a small camera from his shirt pocket and snapped a picture of the man they had been observing, who was by now sipping his fourth two ounce cup of Ocean Spray melon flavored cranberry juice and strolling over to the woman distributing Sara Lee miniature cherry filled strudel.

“It looks like he is about to leave the food section. I’d like to ask someone from security to follow him. Will you handle it for me, Lou”?

“Sure, consider it done.”

The next afternoon, the two of them reviewed the report from the surveillance team the security agency had assigned to the gentleman they had dubbed “the Boca Nosher.”

After leaving the Boca Raton Costco, he had driven to Delray Beach where he was seen to enter The Boys Farmers Market. Inside, he consumed several chunks of pineapple, four pieces of assorted melon, three paper cups of minestrone and five samples, on crackers, of their spinach dip. He was also noted to have shoved some of the fruit samples and crackers spread with spinach dip into baggies, apparently for later consumption. He then left the store, returned to his car, the report went on, where he was seen to make a phone call, and then re-entered the store repeating his entire nibbling process. This time he also sampled two small cups of a 2004 Australian merlot which was being offered in the wine section. He then drove north to Boynton Beach where the surveillance team lost him in BJ’s parking lot.

“Lou,” call the manager at BJs. See if they are having the same problem with this guy. You might even fax them the picture I took of him yesterday.”

A few minutes later, Lou entered his boss’s office with a smile on his face. “They know the guy, alright. In fact, yesterday, they phoned their regional office as to whether they could have him arrested. He was going back for his sixth sample of Dinty Moore Beef Stew, and the lady dishing it out called the manager. By the way, I faxed a copy of the picture you took to our Lantana store, and the manager up there just called me back. This guy is there at least three times a week, just like here, and in fact, he’s there right now, eating his third helping of a new pepperoni-gefilte fish-pizzette they’re featuring. Are we going to get that here, Boss”?

“Forget the pizette! Get on your cell, tell him to find some reason to hold the guy, and we’re going to drive up there right now. This guy’s noshing has got to be stopped. After all, there gotta be a limit”!

Later that afternoon, the two Costco managers, as well as one of the brothers who run The Boys and the manager of the Boynton BJ’s Food Department, were all assembled in the Lantana Costco’s training room. Seated at a table before them, sipping the Diet Pepsi with which they had provided him, was a middle-aged man wearing a blue golf shirt, khaki pants and sneakers. He had a smile on his face.

“Okay, Mister,” the Costco Manager from Boca started off, “What’s with you? All of our places, Costco, The Boys, BJ’s, we all offer food samples. People try them and maybe some of them buy the product. That’s what it’s all about! But none of us are running an ‘all-you-can-eat buffet.’ You just can’t go around taking unlimited quantities of whatever samples we’re offering. Get it? Either you change your behavior, or we’ll ban you from all of our places of business. Okay”?

“Nope, you can’t do that,” the smiling man replied. With that he pulled out his wallet and badge, identifying himself as an undercover food-handling inspector from the Palm Beach County Health Department.

“If you gentlemen will excuse me now,” he said as he got up from his chair, “I have to get over to Sam’s Club right away. I understand they’re offering sample mini Buffalo wings and cubes of imported Gouda cheese this afternoon.”

He waved back as he walked toward the door, “Bye now, and thanks for the Pepsi.”

Let's Start with "Sarge"!

From now on this blog will be cruising down a literary stream! Initially, I am going to periodically post some of the short stories I wrote for a writers group in the Cascade Lakes community (Boynton Beach, FL) a few years ago. Each of you is invited to submit their short stories, essays or poetry (e-mail them to me at riart1@aol.com)for inclusion in the blog which I hope will become a true potpourri of all levels ( good, bad or otherwise) of original writing. And now, although it's nowhere near Halloween, here's

Sarge

Jack Lippman

“Sarge, it’s the middle of fall already, and up north, we call weather like this the ‘dog days of summer.’ It’s August weather at the end of October! Boy, I’m hot and itchy.”

The lanky sergeant looked disdainfully at his companion on the wagon as it bumped its way, pulled by four tired mules, along the old military trail that ran down the east coast of Florida. It was 1903, five years after the Spanish-American War, but the government still felt the forts running up and down the Florida peninsula had to be maintained and supplied, to protect the country’s southern flank.

“Sarge,” the young soldier continued. “When are we going to get to Fort Lauderdale? I sure could use a real bed for a change instead of camping in the woods along here every night, with all of the bugs and snakes and things out there.”

“Shut up, soldier,” the obviously irritated sergeant replied. “We’re going to camp around here tonight, clean up the wagon, rest the mules and maybe get to Lauderdale tomorrow. Now shut your damn mouth and stop your bitching about everything. We might as well stop right now, so you can get started feeding them mules and tying down the cargo. Move it, soldier. And stop calling me ‘Sarge’! You call me Sergeant O’Toole, you hear, none of this ‘Sarge’ crap, any more.”

And as he pulled the wagon to a stop, Sergeant O’Toole raised his bullwhip, usually reserved for use with the mules, and flicked its lash out across the young soldier’s back, as he was dismounting. The soldier screamed with pain and turned to face the sergeant.

“You dumb bastard! Why did you do that? Get down from the wagon, Sarge, and fight like a man, if you are one.”

The infuriated sergeant raised the bullwhip again and sent it screaming through the air, wrapping its lash around the soldier’s arm and shoulder, throwing him to the ground.

“That’ll teach you to give me some respect, soldier,” he called out as he climbed down from the wagon. But he never saw the soldier rise, turn and aim his Springfield rifle directly at his stomach, which, as the fiery round of steel tore into it, spurt forth blood and innards in several directions simultaneously.

The mules bolted and tore off into the woods, dragging the wagon behind them. The soldier dug a shallow hole and buried the still warm body of Sergeant Timothy O’Toole in the sandy Florida soil, and hiked eastward, eventually reaching the ocean near the village of Boynton, where he found a job and settled down, quite correctly figuring the Army would never find him.

A century later, Sue and Sam Pincus were lying awake in bed in their Cascade Lakes home.

“Sam,” Sue asked. “Do you feel … I don’t know … sort of funny tonight? You know I’ve gotten up about three times already and looked through the house. I’ve been hearing, I think, noises. Almost as if we had a break-in and someone is in here with us, but everything is locked and the alarm didn’t go off. Sam, I swear something is wrong, but I don’t know what.”

Raising himself up on his elbows, he muttered, “Then, it’s not just me. I can’t sleep either. I can’t put my finger on it, but something weird is going on. Feel my hands, honey.”

“They’re ice cold,” she replied, “but mine are too. Let’s get up and see if we can find out what’s the matter. I’ll make some coffee.”

But they didn’t have time to get out of the bedroom. Bursting through the bedroom doorway, in filthy, dirt-covered rags, with disheveled hair flying in all directions, came a ponderous hulk, which because it had a head, arms and legs, appeared to be a man. And in its mid-section, a gaping wound, still spewing gore, dripped blood onto the rug. In his right hand was a bullwhip, which the creature was swinging around the room in whistling ellipses. And from his throat, there came a rasping moan.

“A hundred years, and Sergeant O'Toole ain’t dead yet, despite this hole in my guts … but at least I was at rest where that bastard buried me alive … until you put this damn house on top of where I lay. For years I crawled from my grave at night to get what to eat, and you covered it all with a concrete slab. Have you no respect for me? A hundred years, and Sergeant O’Toole ain’t dead yet!”

With that he snapped the whip again, its tongue curling painfully around Sam’s leg. The pain was excruciating.

Sam screamed, and sat up in bed. Sue screamed too, and grabbed her husband and held him, as the first rays of morning sun crept into the house.

“Hold me close, Sam, I’m frightened.”

“There’s no one here to be frightened of anymore, Sue. I must have had a nightmare,” he said.

“Come off of it, Sam,” Sue said. “Let me look at your leg, because I think we were both having the same nightmare. And you’re right. Whoever, or whatever was here is gone now. I can feel it.”

The red welt around Sam’s ankle was clearly visible.

“I must have tied my shoelaces too tightly yesterday,” he said. Let’s leave it at that, Sue. Okay”?

“Sam, all you ever wear are loafers! But all right, Sam, we’ll leave it at that.”

Two weeks later, the real estate agent told them they could get a great price for their house, looked at them curiously and suggested that they had better get the bloodstains off of the rug in the bedroom before she brought any prospective buyers around.

Things are changing, and without an election, and folks to read this blog, it seems to have grown pointless, other than repeatedly saying that "jobs are the answer" to our economy's ills and that ultimately, in some version, some kind of protectionism will be necessary. So I am going to delete the prior postings for the time being, recommending that you read the columns written by Paul Krugman in the New York Times. He is a wise man. The blog will be taking a new and highly creative direction very shortly. Watch for it.