Going to Hell

I haven't been writing much. Lazy and distracted.

On Black Friday, I worked for Macy's. My assignment: operate the frieght elevator. I got pretty excited about that, because other assignments for the eight person crew involved being out on the floor with customers. Yikes. The job was fun, but hardly a full eight hour job, so I occupied my time with hanging empty clothes hangers (a whole wall of them), sweeping the floor, breaking down boxes and smashing them in the compactor and running packages to "Will Call". At the end of the day I folded sweaters in the Men's Department and helped a gentleman decide on the proper size of a black leather jacket for himself. Oh, my MBA!!

The experience of running the elevator brought a story to mind. Here it is. I hope you enjoy it.

Going to Hell by Valerie Perez, Author of the Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin.

With high school behind me and no concrete plans ahead, I applied for a job at the old Brennan Hotel on South Broadway, the last kosher hotel in Saratoga Springs. Raised Baptist, I knew little about Jewish laws and traditions other than the two kids who vied for valedictorian in my graduating class were Jewish and they generally missed a day or two from school in September for something called Yom Kippur. My official title was bellhop, an unusual career selection for a young woman even if it was the summer of 1972. My duties included the operations of a vertical transport system.

The museum piece elevator traveled between three floors and the basement, where, “You have no need to go,” the equally ancient hotel owner informed me on my first day. Operations were simple. After closing the door and rusty accordion gate across the threshold I engaged the handle on a small pedestal to the left of the entrance. The handle served as the throttle, but required an operator to be sufficiently skilled to compensate for Newton’s Laws of gravity and motion. Going up with several passengers required more energy and the elevator’s glide diminished. Coming down, just the opposite.

To achieve the proper flush position, I assessed the weight of my load, and estimated the power needed to come as close to the floor as possible without jogging the car into place. Before opening the door, I directed the passengers to watch their step.

“Whatever you do, don’t bounce the guests,” the owner advised. He occasional rode the elevator, testing my skills and critiquing the three inch step I usually left. “Our guests are old. They can’t see the step.” He said shaking his head at the rookie operator.

One of the seasonal hotel guests, Mrs. Shapiro usually sat on the front porch in the evenings to watch traffic parade down Broadway. She’d ask me to fetch a cup of tea with cream. For this and a few extra errands I ran for her, she tipped me a quarter at the end of each week.

The first time she asked, I headed into the kitchen through the swinging double doors. There a cook, who looked like a stewed prune confronted the intruder. She wielded a metal ladle like an independent appendage. “Mrs. Shapiro would like some tea with cream.” I sprouted as I ducked to avoid the flying spoon.

“You shouldn’t be here.” The old woman scolded. She added “And always enter on the right, never the left.” Puzzled, I articulated my best high school graduate, “Huh?”

“The door. The door. Going out, a waiter carrying a large tray of dishes uses the left side. You entered the kitchen on the left. And look through the window. Otherwise, boom.” She cracked the metal spoon against one of the sink basins. I jumped. She pointed to a stool with her spoon and instructed, “Sit. I will prepare the Shapiro woman’s tea.”

The late evening sun streamed through the back stoop door and glistened on the pots that hung from the overhead racks. I wandered into a place I knew nothing about—a kosher kitchen. Stacks and stacks of dishes lined the opposite walls. There was more kitchenware there than found at a Williams-Sonoma store.

No matter what time of day or night I went into the kitchen for Mrs. Shapiro tea and cream, I ran to the cook and sat on my stool while she prepared it. And at the end of every week, Mrs. Shapiro gave me a quarter.

But one night the cook wasn’t there. I prepared the tea. When I came out of the swinging double doors into the dining hall, the owner swooped down on me like a hawk on a field mouse, snatched the tray and asked, “Where did you get the dishes?” Before I answered, he disappeared into the kitchen. Dazed I stood in the middle of the empty hall watching the doors slowly rock back and forth on their hinges.

The elevator bell summoned me back to duty.

I motored to a perfect landing on the third floor. Mr. Shapiro, teetered on the heels of his wing tips, a wrinkled little man with three wisps of hair glued to his Charlie Brown head with a few too many shakes from the Vitalis bottle.

“Your wife is waiting for her tea on the porch,” I informed him with a smile.

He stepped into the elevator. “Do you like the boys?” he asked. As I snapped the gate shut he groped for my breasts. Catching me off guard, he managed a good squeeze before I swiped away his hand. “Have you ever been kissed?” He lunged forward swimming in the stale smell of alcohol. I bucked the elevator down to the second floor and he tumbled to the back wall.

“Keep your hands off me.” I growled, startled by my own deep voice. He was a freaking old man. Older than my father. Hell, he looked older than my grandfather.

I ran the elevator into the basement. Shit. I opened the door anyway and let Mr. Shapiro stumble into the dungeon. The humid smell of stale earth that hadn’t seen day light since 1848 drifted into the cab. Mr. Shapiro froze in the dim shaft of light from the elevator.

Do Jews believe in Hell? I don’t know, but for a moment I thought that’s where I took him. He whirled on his wingtips, tripping back into the elevator. I let him fall. I thrust the lever forward and listened to the motors haul the elevator from the darken depths. I left nearly a foot ledge to the first floor when I opened the gate. “Watch your step,” I warned.

I never told anyone, fearing the repercussions for taking the elevator into the basement. Mrs. Shapiro’s weekly tips became a dollar, and whenever I went into the kitchen I cared less from where I got the dishes.


Bad, bad Karma. I've asked my Lord to forgive me for that one.

Giving Thanks for Many Blessings

I am thankful for many things this Thanksgiving Day.

Ten months in Florida, making new friends and reuniting with old.

Ten months of writing – discovering it comes naturally to some, and others have to work at it. Me? I struggle.

Ten months of swimming and running and kayaking and occasionally pumping up the tires on my bike and going out for a ride and a good lunch afterwards.

Ten months worshipping the Lord at First Christian Church of Tarpon Springs.

I’m thankful that I have a family that gets together for the Holidays, even if I can’t make it home for pumpkin pie and chipotle. Thanksgiving once was all about New Jersey and Grandparents. This year it is about New Jersey and Cousins.

I’m thankful for Dad’s health, his doctors and my brothers and sisters who provide support and love for each other.

I’m thankful for being debt free.

I’m thankful for God giving me to Phoenix and Diablo. That’s what I tell them all the time.

I’m thankful David keeps asking me to come back to Design Management, and for my $8.00 an hour part time job that nets me a buck fifty after I pay for gas and taxes and a latte.

I am thankful for my brains, my opportunities and my life, because I can go to Hawaii and consider buying a condo with left over change for the latte.

I’m thankful for all the blessings God has given me and my family.

Old Dream, New Look

Twenty years ago I had a dream. The images and the emotions I felt during that dream lingered long after I woke. They were too powerful to forget.

I had been flying. The plane was about to crash. It banked sharply to the right and then plummeted out of the sky. My stomach became light, as if I had been riding a Ferris Wheel. The momentum of “over the top” quickly replaced by the abrupt decent. A brief moment of weightlessness, vanished because on this ride there wasn’t any thrill. When I woke I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, surprised by my reaction to my own death. I hadn’t scared.

Instead anger gripped me harder than my clenched hands on the back of the seat in front of me. During the dream, I imagined my father. He would be deeply upset when told I had died. Knowing how hurt he would be made me mad.

Even though it was a dream, I always wondered why I reacted that way, unconcerned about my death, instead anticipating the grief my father would feel. I hated hurting him like that.

Last week, after learning the news about my father’s prostate cancer, I was shocked, angered and saddened by the news – the inevitability that my father, who is eighty-four, is going to die one day came too close, became too real. The emotions I experienced kept me awake. I thought of the dream.

However, I had a new perspective. Instead of thinking about my father’s reaction, I saw my Heavenly Father’s reaction to the news of my death. He would have been sad too for at the time I had not surrendered my life to Him. In this new interpretation, I didn’t want Him to be upset.

I smiled. For He won’t be.

I did a lot of praying last week and asked others to do the same for my Dad. A few days later, after more tests, I learned the good news that the cancer had not spread.

Veteran’s Day

Shake the hand of one who served and thank the veteran for serving.

Unbalanced

Out of sync all day. The day started too early. I didn’t run like usual. Instead a vacuumed up the cat hair. Will they ever stop shedding?

When I started writing, I pushed description, forced dialogue. It wasn’t working, so I put Diablo on the leash and took her for a walk. Cat on leash. Something ain’t right about that.

Sunny but cold. Too cold. Was it the drop in temperatures or was it me? Florida isn’t suppose to be this cold is it. I waited until 8:30 for an eight o’clock phone call.

“Coming down with a sore throat, too windy and cold to go kayaking. I’m going to go do laundry. Maybe in a couple of hours, after it warms up.”

Whimp. I could have gone to work this morning and made $20 bucks.

I went back to writing, looking for a motive and a dialogue to push the story ahead. Better?

By noon I felt like I had been writing forever. Let’s go swim a few laps. Heated pool, sunny. Every stroke exposed my arms to the cold. For crying out loud, what am I doing? Out after thirty laps. And getting out of the pool! Freezing. Now who is the whimp? (By the way it is 72 degrees.)

Its 2 pm. My schedule way off. Usually I’m heading home, fixing something to eat and watching Neal Cavuto on Fox at 4 PM, that is if I don’t fall asleep. Instead, I went to the chiropractor, slipped past the tree trimming crew who cornered me the other day in long discussions about my Jeep and kayak. Aren’t you guys suppose to be working?

The entire day was off. Sail club meeting at 7PM. Why am I thinking about joining? I might be here just another three months. Besides, this is the coldest time of year to be out in the Gulf learning about tacking, jibing and all that other nautical stuff I supposedly never learned when I sailed across the Pacific.

I went anyway. Reminded that sailors are sailors. Hesitated at joining, but like all guests I stood up and introduced myself and gave a brief synopsis about my sailing experiences. “Jumped on a 40 foot boat, no sailing experience, sailed 46 days across the Pacific…. Wrote a book about it. Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin. Buy it and read it if you want to know the rest of the story.” Chuckles around the room.

At the meeting, guess speaker Mark Epstein, Community Advisor for the Florida Suncoast Hospice. I picked through literature left in the back of the room. Phone ran. Too early for Dad, but that was the way my day was going. I was talking to someone, so I ignored it. A few minutes later I excused myself. Checked message. My aunt from Hawaii.

I called Dad first as it was almost 9 PM, reasoned if I called Aunt Clara, I’ll be on the phone when Dad calls at the usual time.

“Radiologist read bone scan and X-ray. Cancer has not spread beyond prostate.” I begin to cry with joy...unbalanced. New plan.

Options

Doctors don't give options. God does. He always has.

Tonight, before I go to bed I want you to know that your prayers have been greatly appreciated. They have meant so very much. I've got a story, but I'm afraid I couldn't do it justice at this late hour. Know this. He answers prayers and you never know when you might find yourself standing moments away from a miracle. Never quit, for the Lord doesn't.

Tomorrow.

Begin Here

Today is the day that begins the rest of your life. A simple statement that rings truer on some days more than others.

My father, accompanied by my older brother Mike and my two sisters, Robin and Jennifer, sat with Doctor Maddox to discuss the results of his bone scan. The test was done last week after a biopsy showed Dad had prostate cancer.

Cancer, that word that stabs fear into the hearts of those who have sat across the desk from their doctors dressed in white lab coats to present the diagnoses to their patients. We fear cancer more than God.

Dr. Maddox call Dad on Saturday while I was in New Hampshire making mwarmwars for Jerry and Jess. Aggressive. Could be in the bones. "It's news. What are you going to do?" Dad said.

2 PM. I was in the pool. Do one lap. Breathe. Four strokes and breath again. Do sixty more laps. He braced for the results; I held my breath. The cancer is found in the bones – pelvis and perhaps the ribs, but that could be a war wound or arthritis. Tomorrow an X-ray. Treatment: Nothing or hormones. Exhale.

I had twenty six cents and rock in my pocket when Robin told me the news. I watched the fiery sun fall into the Gulf and missed sailing.

Options. Options. We all want options. At eighty four, you don’t get too many. And doctors don’t make too many promises either.

Colts verses Patriots

The cooler weather brings the friskiness out in the felines. Diablo flew over my head the other night on her serpentine route to the lanai where an egret lurked beyond the screened enclosure. I believe I felt the brush of her soft underbelly against my nose, but I was too distracted by the claw marks left in my knee.

In church this morning before we set off for another week of clean Christian living, the pastor, offered up a prayer of victory for the Colts in today’s game against the also unbeaten Patriots. If I heard that prayer last weekend while in New England, someone would have died.

All in A Week

Noel hopefully ends the hurricane season in the Atlantic, but it is about to unleash a NorthEast’er on New England. Grab your trees. The leaves in Edgewood Cemetary, Hudson, NH were peaked last weekend. If they haven't fallen, there could be some serious uprooting.

Back in Tarpon Springs...our first fall weather. I noticed a pile of water oak acorns squished by car tires in the parking lot. Humidity dropped as the winds have been coming straight from the north all week. This was why Noel kept off the Florida’s East Coast and earlier out of the Gulf. Diablo went under cover and the hot water is back on in the shower. Blue sky, sunny, pleasant temps aren't the only thing that arrived on the north wind. Snow birds have returned, packing the shopping malls, roads, swimming pools and restaurants for the early bird specials. I ask myself, "Why not stay?"

Ah Florida: Flat, flat Florida. The land of retirement communities, mobile home parks, minimum wage jobs and a stupid property tax structure which the state is desperately trying to reform as the price of real estate drops further than the belly of a pregnant sow. (I was going to use the dog word, but decided that was too easy.) It’s why I’m not buying.

Yet, I have found a few good friends, writing buddies, a church.

While I am considering plans and checking out options for the upcoming year or two, at fifty three you would think I’d know life doesn’t always go as planned. What's that line? Life is what happens to you when you're making plans? Is that from the Beatles or the Stones?

Actually, that is okay. It is part of the fun, the adventure, the experience. I accept I am not in control. However, I have a powerful arsenal for adaptation and acceptance once I get past the shock, the anger, the fear and apathy.

There are still twenty seven more days to the hurricane season.

If this was too cryptic...wait.

By The Way

Malinda, Christy and I won the dance contest. And the unofficial two time winner of the Toss-the-Eyeball contest was none other than me. This can be clearly seen on the instant replay.