The Executive
He sits in his Mercedes sedan, as always, impeccably dressed, but even he knows overdressed today is an understatement. It’s been five hours waiting in line for a police escort to his neighborhood. He is nothing if not a realist. The chances that the home he and his wife have been raising their three-year old fraternal twins, is still standing no less livable, are slim to none and that he knows is magical thinking. Like so many others he ponders the arc of his life and how his success not only in business but with family is predicated upon control. Disciplining the kids to delegating projects and then monitoring results, brings a kind of peace, calm. And here he sits, where and when control is no longer a possible descriptor. He laughs, well kind of laughs, to himself. All the metaphors and the Hallmark cards, the self- help guru advice, the politicians’ futile promises and clergy begging him to look to the heavens seem trite if not meaningless. Yes, the house was just a house and can be rebuilt or given his own unverbalized and his wife’s very verbal fears about living in the city no less the state, mean true relocation not only physically but emotionally and what about the twins and do they need to begin therapy right now.
The police managing the line approaches and tells him that he needs to come back tomorrow as there have been some flare ups.
No tears. He has already begun to plan to strategize, already imagining his new home not in the Palisades or even LA, but Orange County, closer to his office, less risk, a good compromise idea for his spouse. The call to his realtor goes straight into voicemail. No surprise.
He stops in front of the rental that his family now calls home and remembers the day the twins came home from the hospital. . .How he gently laid them down in their crib and watched them sleep for hours next to the handmade Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls his mother made for them. It was then the tears flowed. The Executive wondered if by some miracle the speechless dolls survived to give the twins and him hope.
The Wanderer
He was one of the hippies of the sixties and seventies who chose to not be of this world and remain emotionally in the weed haze of peace and love. A few months ago, he and a couple of friends set up lean-to living in a deserted area of the beach just far enough away from the seaside mansions of Malibu so the residents and police didn’t care. As the fires approached, he and his friends scattered, each with a worn backpack containing all of their worldly possessions. They vowed to hook up again somehow once this debacle settled down and life got back to normal. He headed south towards Santa Monica and the pier figuring he could find a spot and set up a temporary residence to wait it out. For him, it was just another foot-journey from one someplace to another. His thoughts for the first time in a long time ventured back to the days in the Palisades when he was a teenager and how out of place he felt. It had been twenty some years since he saw his parents for the last time. He wondered if they were still alive and was the house still standing that held memories of beatings and no real love. He sat in the sand and rolled the last of his marijuana stash into a skinny joint. Lighting up and inhaling he looked up and the smoke was beginning to fill the sky. The Wanderer then looked at the surf and wondered what life would be like today if his childhood dream of being a fireman had come true.
The Teacher
She stood on the curb facing what used to be Marquez Charter Elementary School. Taking a deep breath and dabbing both eyes with one of the lace handkerchiefs from a mother of one of her kindergarten students, she raised her phone to take a picture of the devastation. Her single objective was to find something, anything, that she could hold onto that would always remind her of a thirty- year career.
Moving from one burnt- out classroom to another using memory alone in some cases, she finally reached what she believed was her beloved classroom. No door, the simple remnant of the blackboard, and metal from the desks somehow still aligned. She closed her eyes and saw the little ones sitting there, some attentive some not. Although she tried not to have favorites, this year there was Patty. Blonde curly hair with the bluest of blue eyes and a smile that melted her. Smart as a whip and verbal. She wanted to be a dancer. The teacher wondered if she would ever see Patty again, maybe by chance at a ballet or tap- dancing recital or if she ever got to New York City, on Broadway. She walked towards the front of her classroom and what remained of her desk. She began lifting the shards of wood that comprised the desk with its six drawers and peeking out from under one blackened piece of wood she saw a corner of a book. She lifted the almost the almost intact, “The Little Engine that Could,” trying not to tear what was now a fragile cover and held it close to her chest. She found her treasure, a trigger for all of the memories of hundreds of Pattys. On the bus back to her apartment, clutching the book worth more than gold, The Teacher realized it was time to rconnect with her other family.
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Jess Nadelman writes short fiction and is a frequent Lightwood contributor. He lives in Colorado. Read more of Jess’s work here in Lightwood. Scroll to the Search button in insert his name.
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