There once was a girl named McPhee,
Her first name was Rita you see,
She spent all her time,
Writing words that would rhyme,
This is her life in poetry.
Rita McPhee was as cute as could be with wavy gold hair that stumbled and tumbled and curled and swirled. With the simplest of ease it danced on each breeze and the appearance it took was like that of a brook who’s meandering way got caught in the ray of a warm midday sun as it gurgled and run on a short little trek to the nape of her neck. The nose on her face sloped with a grace and stopped where it should, where it did the most good. And its job was for telling the things it was smelling and sometimes for stowing and sometimes for blowing. But usually it just sat right where it’s at, doing most nothin’, this cute little button and looking quite meek between each rosy cheek. Those looked to be chubby when her demeanor was bubbly, but her grin (which came simple) each shaved a deep dimple that was put there in place by the smile on her face. Her lips in a bend tilted up on both ends in an angelic wreath exposing her teeth and also the gape where a tooth had escaped and will likely not tarry thanks to some fairy who will trade it for cash and then flit in a dash and not tear a seam in her nocturnal dream. But for now it’s just there, open and bare, for all who can see where her tooth used to be, in that big precious grin just north of her chin. There was no way to hide the ears on each side that held her hair back and collected some wax. And in each tiny pierced lobe was a small shining globe of a sparkling vermillion that looked like a million. When you rounded her shoulders and traveled her arms, her hands were then next to extol her charms. Her small slender fingers were well devised for hugging dolls or making mud-pies, they could hold you with all their might or curl right up and be ready to fight. They pointed at things when awe struck with wonder or covered her face at the first sound of thunder. And when she walked with her dad and he held her hand all that showed from his grip was her small finger tips and she’d look up and smile with the love of a child and she most had to run with her two steps to his one. Her legs in those days were mostly for play running and skipping and hopscotch and flipping, doing the things that a little girl will, that is until she has a bad spill.
Ahh… but her eyes often drew sighs with a toxic allure of a stunning azure. They were quite the sight when they captured the light, a rich vibrant hue of a beach ocean blue with just a slight sprinkle of a devilish twinkle that reflected each beam with a hypnotic gleam that held you entranced from the very first glance. ‘Because the eyes we are told shows us the soul and this little girl’s showed us her world’s, unfettered and free as a child’s should be.
Then one bright summer day Rita had, to her dismay, got into trouble and was sent to her room. She cried as loud as she could to express her gloom. But her mother took no notice nor would she budge, so Rita stared out the window and worked on her grudge. She played with her dolls until they were a bore, Then she put them to bed and then opened her door. She yelled to her mom, ’Is my sentence was through?’ and her mother yelled back ’Don’t make me come up there to you!’ Rita shut her door and went back to her desk and then clunked her chair on the floor before coming to rest. She sat there and glowered wishing bad things to no end, wanting so badly to be out there with her friends.
But then as the world outside glistened she began to really notice and listen, The mailman’s cart had a squeaky front wheel and the paint on one house was beginning to peel; Becky Tonker’s laugh had a snort and Tillie Archer’s hair was cut quite short; not all trees are the same shade of green and a breeze makes them rustle and lean and the aroma that wafted could almost be tasted.
She didn’t know it but she was inspired. Something inside her had ignited a fire. The kind of inferno that can only be tapered with a No. 2 pencil and a blank piece of paper. So Rita stared out her window at the glorious sight and waited to think of something to write.
Then a bird landed outside on a limb and started to warble a tune on a whim. Its head bobbled ‘round as it whistled and tweeted. He then looked right at Rita but never retreated. The bird flittered and sang just as pleased as could be and then Rita composed her first poetry.
That, as they say, is all that it took, from that day on Rita was hooked. And she just couldn’t ration her new poetry passion. Each waking day was spent in this way, writing line after line of some poem or rhyme. Most people don’t know how their lives will go but Rita McPhee knew precisely. And it just clicked inside she would write till she died.
So practice she did, like no normal kid, honing and tweaking, her pencil lead squeaking on each piece of paper rounding it’s taper. She worked to refine each verse and line. And the words that she knew eventually grew adding in time to the words she could rhyme. And steady but slow her talent did grow, with errors and trials she tried different styles. Mixing and matching, the eraser head scratching, first rhyming two lines then maybe three moving her skills up a degree.
Then one year for Christmas, her big Uncle Harry, gave her a gift, a rhyme dictionary. If she got stuck at a word that gave her a fit, she’d look in this book and find words that rhyme with it. Her dad also gave her a good dictionary and with those two in hand she had her own library.
Little street…big block
Little stone…big rock
Big bush…little plant
Big dog…little ant
Little candles…big cake
Little boats…big lake
Big house…big car
Little light…little star
Little slips…little falls
Big world…little dolls
Big eyes…little nose
Big hands…little toes
Little hugs…little kisses
Big dreams…big wishes
Big sky…big tree
Little bug…little me
So this is how Rita’s life revolved and how her poetry evolved. The years would simply fade away, marked by the passing of each busy day. It seemed that her writing became more astute, a bit more refined, a bit more acute. At times with a flair that was quite debonair and at other times dour when her mood was sour.
I like to go out at night and look up at the twinkling light,
To gaze upon those wishing stars,
And think maybe there just might be,
People living out that far,
And perhaps some other kid is also doing what I did,
Staring at that starry sea,
The sky a litter with sparkling glitter,
And thinking about me.
But for all that she did she was still just a kid and she was reaching that age, that one certain stage, when she’s caught in between a child and a teen. Because her hormones were raging and her body was changing; it was hard to control her emotional roll.
Bunny slippers, bunny slippers,
With a cotton end.
Bunny slippers, bunny slippers,
With ears that bend.
Bunny slippers, bunny slippers,
With button eyes,
Bunny slippers, bunny slippers,
With whisker sides,
Bunny slippers, bunny slippers,
A real cool pink,
Bunny slippers, bunny slippers,
Feel like mink,
NO Chester! Bad Chester!
Let my bunnies be!
You chew and bite their little heads,
They’re ruined as can be!
You slobber till they’re soaking wet,
Then drag them ‘cross the floor!
And when I try to get them back,
We play tug-of-war!
But they didn’t stand a chance,
They couldn’t even fight!
You jumped and bounced and ran around,
And gave them puppy bites!
The floppy ears are barely on,
Hanging by a thread!
And all four button eyes are gone,
They’re both blind now instead!
Bunny slippers, bunny slippers,
In a flash,
Bunny slippers, bunny slippers,
In the trash.
She thought it was queer, the things she held dear just two years before were now completely ignored. Like the room full of toys was replaced by boys and the dolls, so it goes, made way for her clothes and she spent hours prone on her bed on the phone talking with passion about cute guys and fashion. Even her prose should have been going gung-ho but it took a back seat, a kind of retreat, as her priority list did an importunacy shift. And it slid down the line to somewhere ‘round nine.
Besides who can write when she just had a fight with some girl in her class who was being an ass. And calling her names and says she’s to blame for stealing her man, some jerk named Stan. But it simply can’t be because not even she could deal such a blow and do something that low. Besides, it’s all hype, because he wasn’t her type.
But in the end she took up her pen and the writing displayed her emotional melee. And one would have wept at the diary she kept. With tears un-refrained from some deep inner pain, then with tears sweet as honey because she wrote something funny. Whether cut to the quick or a comedy shtick, her work was quite moving and always improving.
All her friends in school thought she was cool because she had such a gift that gave her a lift and they used her enough, for homework and stuff, when the assignment activity needed creativity, it was Rita they called and her they’d applaud. Because there’s no mistaken’ how much she saved their bacon.
My daddy calls me Princess, and sometimes Curly Sue,
My mommy calls me Sweetheart, and sometimes Pumpkin too.
They both call me Sunshine, and sometimes ’Get Along’,
But when they use my full name, I know something’s wrong.
At school some call me Rita, and some just yell ’McPhee’,
Some guys always call me Bumps, ’cuz I’m going through puberty.
Sometimes they call me Nerdy, while grinning ear to ear,
And because I like to write, they also use ‘Shakespeare’.
No matter what they call me, what name they want to use,
They’re called “Terms of Endearment”, each one that they choose.
But one that’s never spoken, although heartfelt to the end,
If they were so inclined, they all could call me friend.
Just like it is with seasoned pros sometimes real life gets exposed and things that hurt her deep inside sometimes came out her working side. When she wrote it helped her cope, gave her pause, gave her hope. It helped her see from every view the problem that had gone askew.
My parents say that they love me…I know I love them too,
If one of them should ever go…I don’t know what I’d do.
A friend one day had come to play,
but a sadness filled her face.
Her folks had split they called it quits,
She had caused this disgrace.
We hugged and cried then we realized,
There was nothing we could say.
The love they had her mom and dad,
Had simply gone away.
Guilt had a name! Kiara’s to blame!
That thought went through her head.
It seemed so clear she sobbed through tears,
Her fault the love was dead.
When a parent leaves a child believes,
Somehow they made the mistake.
I let her cry while dabbing her eyes,
It hurt to watch her heart break.
My parents say that they love me…I know I love them too,
If one of them should ever go…I found out what I’d do.
Once in a while her little girl would emerge and a childish streak would somehow then splurge. It may be a piece that seemed rather witty or something perhaps just downright giddy, that devilish side from so long ago would take over the act and put on a show. It really felt good when that side came out, carefree and flowing like rain from a spout, no need for structure or stiff rigid rules just go with the feeling and see where it pools.
I have a cat,
it is quite fat,
her name is Misty Fog.
She won’t fetch sticks,
she won’t do tricks,
she isn’t like a dog.
You rub her fur,
and she will purr,
as gentle as a lamb.
But make her mad,
and you’ll be sad,
She will scratch your hand.
I won’t forget,
My sleeping pet,
Without a care not one.
There in a crouch,
On top the couch,
Sleeping in the sun.
She’ll lay with me,
To watch T.V.
And wait for me to start.
With gentle care,
I stroke her hair,
That lightens up her heart.
My cat is here,
She brings me cheer,
I’m as happy as a hog.
The way I feel,
Just makes me squeal,
I love my Misty Fog.
Can you guess what mannequins do when they close the malls?
Do you think they stay right there? Or do they roam the halls?
Do you suppose they go sit down and rest their aching feet?
Or perhaps they socialize and grab a bite to eat.
Maybe they like to change their clothes, you know, try on something new.
An evening gown or khaki pants or shorts in red or blue.
They could swing by the jewelry stand and grab some flashy gem.
Then go and wave at the mannequins who are waving back at them.
Could be they head to sporting goods and work out with some weights.
Or go up front and get some cards for a game of Crazy Eights.
Perhaps they have elections and vote themselves a mayor.
The big and strong and silent type who will lead them to nowhere.
When I’m walking through the store and I look up in their eyes,
A sudden chill runs down my spine because I realize.
That they know, that I know about their society.
And that little flash of light is them winking back at me.
Now it went undebated that a scholarship waited to some big fancy school that would give her the tools to perhaps earn a living from the talent she’d been given. So with a teary goodbye she put her car into drive and moved from her home to start life on her own. Rita couldn’t envision making her own decisions. Plus she thought leaving her past would give her freedom at last. But she found with disdain that the freedom she gained was quite often offset by her schedule and debt.
But it wasn’t all gloom in her tiny dorm room. In fact, when study was through she could find things to do and depending what day there was such an array. She could go to the pictures or do parties and mixers and museums were cool as were the sports things at school. And when class took its toll, a long leisurely stroll was preferred instead to empty her head.
But what she liked best, and to this she’ll attest, was on Saturday night at a place called ’The Kite’. A small dingy bar that wasn’t quite par nor trendy, I think, for most to party and drink. But for Rita McPhee it was perfect you see; because on Saturday night in its soft glowing light she would sit all alone in her own little zone. For on a stage not quite bare sat a mic and a chair and as the night would unfold, those who were bold, would sit for the crowd and then read aloud their poems and prose about their feelings and woes. And from time to time after glasses of wine her angst would be stripped and she’d make the short trip and face up to her fears and read to her peers about her own funny quirks in the lines of her works.
We are not like
the unmovable Oak
nor as soft as
the bending reed.
No…we are as
the leaves upon
the branches that
sway with the breeze.
Our lives begin
as pristine nubbins,
dots of life that
grow and unfold
and spread ourselves
until at last we
are big and strong
enough to bask
in the warmth
of the good times
or shiver and quake
in the wrath of what
is thrown against us.
But Nature always
wins this fight.
In time we change
our colors and
become brittle and weak.
Others who graced this
branch of life as we
finally succumbed and
floated to oblivious obscurity,
as we will too
someday all too soon
just leaves upon the ground.
But with each spoken sentence, she was wanting acceptance to show it wasn’t a waste what her heart had embraced.
But one thing was clear (even after the beer) was her writing technique had to be tweaked. It could have been age or a fad or a stage, but her musings had grown to a more somber tone. And Rita found it’s no crime if the lines don’t quite rhyme. It’s the flow of the words that makes your thoughts heard.
So her hands were all sweaty, her pen at the ready, noting thoughts that were floating around in her head before they went dead. The pace it was hectic, her adrenalin electric. Their talents laid bare as they sat in the chair reciting with ease what would buckle her knees; because though not a cynic she was her worst critic. But all doubt was removed when they showed they approved, sometimes they clapped and sometimes they snapped and her heart would zoom when she looked over the room and seen them all nodding and nudging and prodding their own senses reeling from what she was feeling.
The sun goes up…the sun goes down…another day…another night…another birth…another life…
gone to seed…gone to meet…a maker who so long ago…gave up trying…gave up hope…
on children who…placed all their trust…in just themselves…or plain dumb luck…a vicious cycle…
an endless trail…like chasing dreams…or chasing tails…the children looked…and saw despair…
why even try…why even care…disease of body…disease of mind…polluted thoughts…polluted skies…
a world at war…and at war within…our demons know …our every sin…they plague our thoughts…
and plague our deeds…choking lives…with choking greed…but deep inside…it has to start…
from deep inside…a beating heart…that need…that drive…that ceaseless urge…to fix…to clean…
to try and purge…the ills…the wrongs…the wasted breath…of useless lives…and wasted death…
but the Maker made…such wishful fools…He made us brains…He made us tools…He gave us thoughts…
and gave us schemes…He gave us hope…and gave us dreams…that may have been…His big idea…
it may have been…His master plan…to give us each …a choice with life…and then let us…
make a stand…perhaps He heard…our every prayer…He heard our every call…perhaps He still…
resides on Earth…deep within us all…
She loved Saturday night at this place called “The Kite”
My god it’s hot!
The quarter moon is a half closed eye suspended upon the heat of this sultry summer night.
It’s 1 A.M. and the fireflies have gone to bed but the moths still play tag beneath the light
And June bugs land upon the open window’s screen then fall then try again with renewed might
Thinking that perhaps within my darkened sanctuary is the breath of a promise of a brief respite
But I don’t think a million…billion beating insect wings could alleviate this humid retched plight!
My god it’s hot!
A streetlight shines through transfixed leaves casting a jigsaw montage upon my stark white wall.
The furniture melts to silhouettes in the blackness as the ticking clock slows to a ghastly crawl.
My eyes are like the moon, half a blink away from blessed sleep but the heat holds back their fall.
Miles away a dim lit flash is forever followed by the roll of thunder but too far to lift the pall,
For the promise of the rain’s sweet relief from this liquid heat will never reach our silent pleas at all.
My god it’s hot!
I’m lying naked bathed in sweat as tiny trails of salty dew trickle down and fall upon my bed.
I dare not move and cause the sweat to run between my breasts and down to pool like liquid lead
Within my navel until I’m forced to move causing it to spill, I will lie very still instead.
I lie atop the drenched sheets, in humid misery, with my arms and legs as wide as they will spread
Waiting for that refreshing breeze from a little fan oscillating back and forth from toe to head.
My god it’s hot!
My eyes finally close but my senses are more astute, more aware as if fused together to work as one.
The incessant drone of a mosquito by my ear is amplified a thousand fold to a vicious running hum.
I can feel the moving sweat across my naked skin and trace within my mind the path that it has spun,
And tingle from the prickling hairs and goose bumps as cool air from the fan passes over on its run.
I’ll be like this through the night, half asleep, half awake, waiting, for the moon to ignite the rising sun.
At long last she got her degree in Liberal Arts and, of course, Poetry. The sheepskin that she held so dear would help find a good career. Perhaps an office with a skyline view and a six figure income thrown in too. Since Rita’s dreaming go all out, get a company car and lots of clout. But even though she had book smarts her collage choice of Liberal Arts brought about as much demand as a box of rocks at a fresh fruit stand.
The dreams she had turned to mist and reality then raised its fist and took a swing to make it scatter until nothing showed but useless tatter. Her east coast dreams had gone to rot it seemed no one had a spot for a girl with high ambitions but clueless by her own volition on how to make those visions real, to set her course on an even keel. The end of every interview was ‘Don’t call us, we’ll call you.’ She just could not figure why the employment pool had gone so dry. There was no way it could be she who always interviewed so badly. Maybe the boss that day was tired or they were just too picky on who they hired. But she decided that there was no point in wasting her degree in some fast food joint.
She was at wit’s end and battle scarred, living off Visa and Master Card. There was no sense in calling her parents of course. Especially since their nasty divorce. She’d starve to death if they had their druthers because each one would ask ‘Have you tried calling the other?’ She would always say yes and reluctantly they gave. But each time it got harder to hold back the wave to just tell them off and slam down the phone and write them both off and never go home. Of course came the day when she needed some dough and she called them both up and each one said ’No, money was tight and there was none they could spare, that they were terribly sorry and for her to take care’.
Rita was tired of the east coast, all dreary and damp, and thought it was time to move on and revamp. She thought that perhaps things might be best if she just packed up her car and headed out West. Sunshine, palm trees and movie stars, movers and shakers in great big cars. Palm Springs, L.A. or even Vegas maybe were all splendid choices for a single girl wild and free.
She maxed out her credit cards on cash advances, if anything came up she would just take her chances. Then she packed up her car one day late at night. Not wanting the landlord to add to her plight, she carted her things without making a sound on every trip upstairs and down. Finally she was done, there just was no more, and she left the key on the table and then shut the door. Then down to her car and a twist of the key and she was ready to find her destiny.
But it seems destiny isn’t so easily swayed it can’t be bought and it’s not displayed. She’d never know if it bit her ear then jumped in front of her and yelled ’Here I am dear!’. So Rita was pretty much driving blind hoping that good luck would watch her behind.
At first things went dandy, as well as could be, she had plenty to eat and great scenery. She was so enraptured with freedom and feeling so good that she didn’t notice the ticking from under the hood. Rita was taking her time to see all the sights stopping at each tourist trap and then spending the night. She had been through ten states, of that she could boast. Starting in Maine she then traveled the coast. She was ’Discovering America’ she justified and the miles slid by like a kid on a slide. At Pennsylvania she then headed west and its mountains would soon put her car to the test. The forested vista put on quite a show as her car ticked its way into Ohio. The noise from her hood was discernibly worse and the cash was now a bit lighter tucked in her purse. This was obviously something she didn’t need. ’Just a little bit farther,’ she heard herself plead. Dread was replacing that euphoric feeling as the ’check engine’ light began revealing that a serious problem was now on the way and a talented mechanic without much delay.
On highway 30 Rita crossed the state line. Now in Indiana she needed to find a town that was pretty decent in size (that would be her best bet she had surmised) to find a mechanic who could fix it okay, or at least rig it enough to get her out to L.A. How bad could it be this little ticking? Maybe a shot of WD-40 would keep it from sticking?
Rita decided she may as well plan on stayin’ as she drove through the town of New Haven. At every light as her car sat still she could see smoke coming out of the grill. Eventually that dark cloud poured out like rain as her poor beat up car limped into Fort Wayne. It finally stopped dead (Houston the clunker has landed) Rita was now officially stranded.
She remembered she’d seen some rinky-dink place that maybe could fix it cheaply posthaste. So she had it towed there and waited to see what exactly the verdict would be. The mechanic who checked it he hemmed and he hawed. You could tell from his face he didn’t like what he saw. He pulled all the dip sticks and took off the caps peering with interest at each hose and strap. He then grabbed his flashlight and leaned almost all in checking each gasket and each cotter pin. He then took a shop rag and wiped off his hands. Rita looked with dismay at her car on the stands.
“Well,” said the mechanic. “I’m afraid it’s bad news. There’s no oil in the engine and the pistons are fused, that threw out the rods and then cracked the block and there’s no water in the radiator, as if that’s a shock. There’s only two choices you have to face, either have this one rebuilt or have it replaced. I’m thinking either way with the labor it demands you’re easily looking at a couple of grand.”
Rita knew that would use up almost all of her cash and possibly even her emergency stash. Then she thought perhaps as a way to recover maybe it was time to apply to Discover. She asked the guy if he needed to know right away or if she could think about it for a couple of days.
He said, “I don’t care take as long as you want but I’m telling you this right up front. My price is gonna be about the best here in town, but you’re more than welcome to check around. And to show you I’m as fair as I say, there’s no charge for the stuff I did today.”
“Thanks,” Rita said. “I’ll keep that in mind and I’ll let you know what I finally decide.” As the door closed behind her it was as clear as the dawn, she couldn’t afford to have her car worked on. A cab came and took her to a motel down the street and she paid for the week then got something to eat.
At the end of the week Rita called up the shop and told the mechanic that a third choice had cropped. That some dealership was offering, to her chagrin, five thousand dollars for every trade-in. And given the choices of which one to try this deal was just too good to pass by. She said she was sorry and that she’d send a truck, then apologized again and wished him good luck. Of course with her bad credit she’d never be okay’ed and just needed her car as a cheap place to stay. She’d have it towed to some little used street and her trunk will be her closet and her bed the back seat.
She applied for some credit cards to no avail. It seemed her rating told the whole tale. And no institution wanted a crack at loaning out money they would never get back.
So that’s how she lived, out of her car, she’d clean up in restrooms in restaurants and bars. She cut herself back to one meal a day, that is only one for which she would pay. She would eat at the Mission or peruse grocery store trash and if really hungry she would do the ol ‘dine-and-dash’. Small washable items were done in restroom sinks, larger in Laundromats to get rid of the stink. She’d pay for the washer, but only one load she’d stuff it all in all it could hold. Then she’d watch every person like a bird on a wire to see if anyone left with still time on their dryer. Now changing the position of her car was a treat. She had to make it looked like it had been moved on the street. Long after dark with no one in sight she would get out and shove it with all of her might. She’d push it one way one space or two, then a couple days later to a spot that was new. Every night just before she ended her day, Rita would question how her life turned this way. Then she would cover up and then softly cry. It was ‘Rita McPhee’s Nightly Lullaby ’.
December was now just a few days away and she had to find a more livable place to stay. She would wake in the morning and then see her breath and lord knows she didn’t want to freeze to death. She decided to try calling her folks one more time. She could call each collect then it’s their dime. She tried her dad first, he was the best choice. She would use her daddy-please-little-girl-voice. The phone rang four times then a recording came on. The kind the phone company uses when you’ve dialed it wrong.
“I’m sorry,” it said. “This number is no longer in use. You may hang up and redial, if you so choose. Or you can call assistance to help in any way. Thank you for calling and have a nice day.”
Rita was feeling very rejected that dad’s phone had been disconnected. A lot of questions popped in her head; did he move away? Or was he dead? Did he switch carriers? Or go with a cell? Since she couldn’t be reached she couldn’t tell.
Maybe mom could set her at ease and then take some pity on her financial pleas. It isn’t like she were asking for ten grand or more, she could get by with maybe five grand or four. So Rita dialed the number and on the fourth ring she heard the voice of her mother on her answering machine.
“Sorry I’m gone, I’m as sad as can be and I’ll cry the whole time I’m in Hawaii. The sand and the surf will be no fun at all now that I know I missed your call. But please leave your number, leave it please do, and I’ll call you back when my vacation is through. That is unless I’m overcome with such grief that I must buy a house overlooking the reef and pine for your voice and the message you left as I sway in my hammock emotionally bereft.”
Rita then heard a beep but went totally dumb. Her jaw had dropped open and her feelings were numb. Her mom’s in Hawaii and her dad’s MIA. She couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Her dad is no help and her mom has gone wild, now she wished she wasn’t an only child. That’s when it struck her, she’d hit rock bottom. No money. No home. And troubles, man, she got em. It’s then she decided she’d had enough and to break this chain she had to get tough.
So Rita cleaned herself up and then looked for a job. And she finally got hired at Fred’s Meat-Ka-Bob. Nothing to fancy just waiting on tables and at this point in time she was willing and able. So now her days were taken with earning the bacon. For six days a week she stood on her feet for minimal pay she wasted away taking orders and tips and sometimes some lip from an unruly diner, a cry baby whiner who’d loudly bitch and then crab to get out of the tab. Her feet would get blisters and her arms would get sore from walking all day and then scrubbing the floor. Then it was back to her car for some well-deserved rest but the cold was now putting her health to the test.
She was making friends now perhaps one would agree to maybe take in a homeless roomie? But that would be way too embarrassing to even ask and she didn’t think any of the friendships were up to the task. Then one night after work, at Miner and Trent, was a sign at a house that said apartment for rent. It was nothing fancy just a two room affair and the price fit her pay so she didn’t care. The living area and kitchen were one open room and with a futon pulled out…voila…a bedroom. The two window view was a sight to behold, the neighbor’s old roof and some telephone poles. With a stove and a fridge and plumbing and heat Rita admitted this place was real sweet. There wasn’t a thing that this place lacked, it even had a place for her car in the back. She decided to take it and with a slight sheepish grin asked her new landlords when she could move in. That’s up to her they said, it was ready to go, it was just freshly painted and scrubbed head to toe. So Rita went to her car and grabbed all that she could. Tonight she would sleep in that warmth where she stood. Tomorrow she’d have her car towed to her parking space then she could unpack at her own leisurely pace.
She furnished her place just a bit at a time, she’d learned how to pinch those pennies and dimes. She didn’t want to fall into that same helpless pit now that she had managed to climb out of it. So she bought at the flea markets and the Goodwill and the Salvation Army also offered good deals. And on warm summer weekends she went without fail to see what treasures awaited at garage sales.
Rita finally had her phone line installed and her mother was the first one she called. Her mother was sorry that she wasn’t there and that she really did love her and that she cared but to keep shelling out money hand over fist wasn’t helping her to grow but just to exist. And her mom and dad decided if they really wanted to help they would cut off the money and make her think for herself. Rita told her about the hell she’d been through, the living in her car and the trash eating too. Rita stopped in her story because it became so profound that because of their actions her life did turn around. And when it finally happened that push-came-to-shove what they gave to her was nothing short of tough love. Rita had to forgive them because they did what they could and she had to admit the results felt pretty good. She could go anywhere with her head held high and had no problems looking anyone straight in the eye. Then she got her dad’s new number and said she’d give him a call just to give him a hard time, maybe fake a good bawl. Then she told her mom that she loved her so much and that she would call her more often to just keep in touch.
As time drifted by she carved out a space and made a fine home in this nice quite place. Rita never quibbled about how her money was made. She had a roof over her head and her few bills were paid. Her evenings were quiet and very serene, first dinner then TV was her normal routine. Once in a while a friend would stop by to partake in some coffee and gossip and pie. But usually it was just her all by herself, like a knick-knack collecting dust on a shelf.
The writing she swore she always would do was now crammed in a closet hidden from view. Out-of-sight-out-of-mind how the old saying goes and she didn’t want that to add to her woes. After all it was a hobby, a way to pass time, this writing of poems…this writing of rhymes. Just another reminder laid out and bare about how all in her life was going nowhere. And like unneeded things it just slipped away and faded and faded with each passing day until it was buried under things much more pressing like whether to use Ranch or Poppy Seed dressing.
Now don’t misconstrue the way that she felt. She was merely playing the hand she was dealt. And she wasn’t that unhappy living alone in this town that she landed and now she called home. And she vowed to complete that trip to the coast, perhaps in a year, two at the most. Her car was now fixed and raring to go, just throw her stuff in the trunk and then hit the road. High-tide-and-green-grass was seen in her vista but for now on her sofa she just couldn’t resist a short little break on her way to fame living this life that was so tranquil and tame. Sometimes the door to one’s dreams is so solidly shut that one doesn’t notice their life’s in a rut. And that’s what happened to Rita McPhee as she sat like a zombie watching TV.
However one day fate took hold of that door and swung it wide open in a greeting card store. Rita had gone there with a friend that she knew to help pick a card for a teenage nephew. But card after card that they had on display just didn’t quite capture what she had to say. Then she’d return it disgusted again to the rack and take out another to see what it’d lack.
“These things are awful,” she hissed as she rants. “There either too childish or I wanna get in his pants! Don’t they have something that’s just in-between from an aunt to a nephew that isn’t obscene?”
Rita replied, “I could help you out. To do better than these I have no doubt. I have been known to write a poem or two. Just give me some info and I’ll write one for you.” The card Rita was reading was eased back in the slot, she wasn’t sure if she could really do it or not. That’s not to say she’s never wrote one before, writing such things to her was a bore. But her family and friends almost always expected to read some homemade verse that she had erected. No, the problem now was the time that’s gone by. Maybe the well that she drew from was dry. Perhaps the ’Muse’ that she had got up and left leaving her uninspired and bereft. After all it was Rita who pushed her away and showed no concern if she left or she stayed.
“Really? You’d help me?” her friend asked with a twinkle. “Cause these really stink.” and her nose did a wrinkle. “I can’t believe you’d do this for me! Imagine how surprised my sister will be! She says I don’t have the talent God gave a fly. Just wait till I serve up some nice ’humble pie’. You know, maybe I’ll make that slice a big double.” Then she looked at Rita and asked, “Do you think you’ll have trouble?”
“Let me rephrase that,” Rita then said. “If I can’t do it, I don’t want to be dead. I’ll give it a try that’s all I can say, but you may end up buying a card anyway.”
“That’s okay,” her friend said now a little deflated. “No matter what you get done I will still be elated.”
That night at home she shook with dread when she picked up her pencil and sharpened the lead. Her hands were all sticky and sweaty and icky. It seemed that she was almost duty bound. She didn’t want to let her friend down. She said she would try so she couldn’t just bail, so she took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. She thought herself ready, she felt quite composed, the proofs-in-the-pudding the old saying goes.
You are now seventeen,
My dearest Eugene,
I know this sounds sappy,
And boy is it crappy
She thought she’d write something unique and clever and she stared at the page for what seemed like forever. No big rolls of thunder, no bright lightning flashes helped give her the vision to fill in the dashes. Perhaps a different approach would do the trick to get the old juices flowing creative and quick.
Hey there my home- slice,
What’s the shanizzle?
It’s your birthday dawg,
WHAT THE HELL IS THIS DRIVEL!!!!!
If you use the phrase ‘home slice’ in whatever you do, it’s safe to assume that your writing is screwed. So that well she’d been using was now dry as a bone and that muse who would help her had packed up and flown.
“Follow your feelings,” she muttered. “Think and then write. Your brain is the switch but your heart is the light. If you write from the inside and show that you’re caring, you’ll write something you’re proud of, something worth sharing.
As your Aunt I can tell you,
I’ve known all along,
You would grow to be someone,
Handsome and strong.
I have watched you evolve,
From toddler to teen,
From photos and gatherings,
And calls in between.
I’ve heard tales of the boo-boos,
When things went amiss,
And the pangs of that first crush,
With that first awkward kiss.
It’s amazing to see just,
How fast you’ve grown,
And I couldn’t be prouder,
If you were my own.
Happy Birthday
Rita read it a few times and a grin crossed her lips and then she remembered that quaint little quip ‘like riding a bike’, that’s what it was and back on that bicycle felt good because, she’d forgotten that peace that poetry gave her and she was glad that her friend showed her this favor. The lamp to old memories had just been relit if only for a brief little bit
And she looked in the closet and there in the back was all of her notebooks in neat little stacks. The flood of emotion that swept her along took her to places that had long since been gone. She picked up a book and thumbed through the pages and was suddenly whisked back to long ago ages of pig-tails and ice cream and her cat Misty Fog; of boyfriends and girlfriends and her high school song, staring at stars on those warm summer nights and strolls through the quad beneath halogen lights. She laughed and she cried, she giggled and sighed. And each word she wrote chocked at her throat because there was no great resistance to each locked reminiscence. And her brain would display just what happened that day that made it so profound to have to write it all down.
Suddenly her mind snapped her back to the present. Looking for ghosts is just time badly spent.
“It’s over and done,” she finally said. “It’s gone and it’s buried and better left dead. What’s most important is what I’ve written right there and she probably won’t like it. But I really don’t care. I never should have said that I’d do what I did. She should have just went and bought a card for that kid. Oh well, it’s finished, I’ll see what she says. If it’s bad she can toss it and buy one instead.”
She closed the last notebook and put it back on the pile. Her memories were sated, at least for a while.
The next day at work when she saw her friend Rita gave her the poem scared to wits end. Her friend looked at the paper that was written not typed to see if her bragging was worth all the hype. Her friend read it once and spoke not a word. She then read it again and nothing was heard. Rita was sure her friend was displeased. It wasn’t Browning but nor was it sleaze. Rita watched her a third time, her heart filled with dread.
“This is just perfect,” her friend finally said. “This is exactly what I was looking for. And none of them said this when we went to the store. I can’t believe that you’re working here. You’ve got a talent, that’s obviously clear. But I have to admit that I’m glad that you are otherwise my nephew would be getting some crappy store card.”
Rita then exhaled a sigh of relief. All of that worry was just wasted grief. She could now put it behind her and relax once again and slip back in that rut she thought was her friend. But we know how it things go in these oddball cases, before she knew it she was off to the races.
The co-workers read it and they oohed and ahhed, everyone thought she had done quite a job. They started asking and sometimes they pleaded for that special occasion when a unique verse was needed. Their requests soon expanded to people they knew for some wedding or funeral or let’s-make-up cue. It got to the point she was writing all night for people she’d never met in her life. And it occurred to her during a quick writing spree that she was doing all of this rhyming for free and there had to be some way, no matter how brash, to turn all of this poetry into some nice extra cash.
Rita made a few inquiries, all by email, stating she had some poetry for sale. She didn’t really think she would get a reply. It was remote they would give her a try. Then lo and behold someone did answer back. They wanted some samples to see if her knack fit in with the genre of their unique style (what they wanted was to put her writing on trial).
So she went through magazines looking at photos, making up all kinds of different scenarios. Then writing verses she thought would reveal the deep seeded emotion that person would feel. Sometimes what she wrote went out into space but her eraser would fix it without leaving a trace. She wrote what she felt it’s as simple as that and if it’s not what they want then it looks like splat and life would go on just as it has, no loss…no gain and all of that jazz. But she sent them a few, a quick little sample, and told them this was just an example and there could be plenty more, she wrote every day and if they were happy with these they could talk about pay.
Then she realized she’d put the cart before the horse. These efforts had to meet their approval of course.
THUMP dump…….THUMP dump…….THUMP dump…….
Sssshhh……….do you hear that? Do you?
Can you feel it? The way that I do?
Can you tell what it might be?
Maybe it’s you but it could be me.
THUMP dump…….THUMP dump…….Thump dump…….
Sssshhh……….listen again! Hear it?
How about that time? It won’t quit!
What about now? Again and again!
Will it stop? When’d it begin?
THUMP dump…….THUMP dump…….THUMP dump…….
Sssshhh……….Do you know what it is?
It isn’t hard to miss.
It’s my heart that you hear!
That’s how it beats when you’re near!
First one week had passed then a couple of more. Then one month had turned into three and then four. It had gotten to the point where she simply forgot if she had sent any writings to those guys or not. Of course she knows she really did, that was simple fact. Now it was the waiting game as to when they answered back. Rita didn’t like this game it made her life a mess. Her glass-half-empty attitude made her second guess. She shied away from dreaming now so much had gone awry and she did not fantasize because that was just a lie. No, she kept both feet on the ground and just kept on keeping on. And her career at Fred’s Meat-ka-bob was safe and creeping on.
I’ve often laid in bed at night,
Alone and wide awake,
Wondering where my life would go,
What path that it would take.
Lives are molded by the choices,
That we make every day.
No matter if they’re good or bad,
They lead us on our way.
I’ve lived my life in such a way,
My path has crossed with yours,
And also by some quirk of fate,
Your trail has gone this course.
Now at night when I lay in bed,
I scarcely make a peep,
Cause I don’t want to wake you up,
I love to watch you sleep.
I can’t believe the luck I’ve had,
This feeling that I know,
But this I’m sure without a doubt,
Is that I love you so.
Who could believe it would take them this long to decide if her style was right or was wrong.
I hate you…it’s true
And it’s plain to see
I hate you…I do
Cause you’re better than me.
You’re prettier…You’re smarter
You’re sweeter…You’re tarter
You’re taller…You’re thinner
You’re luckier…A winner.
I hate you…no doubt
And I’ve had it to here
I hate you…I shout
Let me make it clear.
Oh never mind…I’m just blowing off steam. It’s just jealously rearing its ugly head. On second thought, it isn’t really jealously…it’s…I don’t know…more like envy actually…yeah…that’s it…envy. I’m envious of the fact that no matter what happens, you always land on your feet…your buttered side faces up…you come out smelling like a rose…a rose that’s never missed a ray of sunshine or a single drop of rain…as a matter of fact…it’s like the torrential downpour that fills my life is actually feeding you…you stinking rose…
I hate you…so bad
And I will till the end
Of course, I say it with love
Cause you’re still my best friend.
Then one day she was shaken right down to her socks. There was the letter in her mail box from the greeting card company who wanted to know if they could have samples so long ago.
Dear Ms. McPhee, (their letter began)
We were just hoping if we possibly can expect more from you, it was very impressing and we found it unique and extremely refreshing.
We don’t have a staff, that’s is to say, we get most of our verses the very same way that we got you to send us some things then we send you a check without any strings. For ten cents a word we’re buying the rights for all of the feelings that you can write. We know it doesn’t sound like a lot but with diligence and focus you can build quite a pot.
No, the staff we employ is strictly for art. To create a vision from the words you impart. Something we hope that will dazzle the eye while your words will make them want to laugh or to cry.
So we’re hoping you’ll soon get back to us with lots of new verses we can purchase. But until then, we know it’s not plenty but please enjoy your check for $44.20.
Gratefully yours,
With deepest regards
Kenneth J. Whitman
Imperial Cards
At first she was angry, a big waste of time! All of that work and each word earned a dime! She couldn’t believe they could be that cheap and that Kenneth J. Whitman, man what a creep! And a big whopping check for $44.20, she can finally retire to that place in the country! The more that she read it the more that she fumed. It got to the point she was totally consumed. Then her rage turned to hate and then to despise. They made her feel so gullibly unwise.
So she took a deep breath and let it out slow, no sense in making an artery blow. Then she looked at the check and felt kind of glad, after all, it was $44.20 more than she had. To write what she did was no big distress, it took a couple of hours…maybe less. If she wrote some each night, you know really trying, she could make quite a bit, there’s no denying. So she thought what the heck, she’ll give it a shot. If they like them they’ll buy them. If they don’t, well, so what.
Rita sent poems each week without fail and their reply always came monthly by mail. Some they sent back she knew were rejects and those were attached to a letter and check.
Then about six months later she stopped at the store for a few personal items and then out the door. But then curiosity stopped her awhile and lead her to the greeting card aisle. There a smile stretched her face quite big and bold, for there were some cards with poems she sold. And while she was standing there, lost in her pride, a woman came in and stood by her side. The woman’s eyes glanced at all the neat stacks then she picked one of Rita’s off from the rack. She read the verse and she started to grin. Then she reached for an envelope to put the card in.
“This is just perfect,” she said to McPhee. “Finally someone who thinks just like me.”
This wasn’t a relative or the friend-of-a-friend but a stranger who loved what she did in the end. And that woman’s respect of an anonymous bard meant more than any check from Imperial Cards.
Rita stepped back in kind of a stumble, a little less cocky, a little more humble. Then she paid for her things and then went out the door and between Rita and the sun, it was she who glowed more.
A new routine now filled her life slinging hash by day and writing by night. The extra cash came in handy that’s true. She got a new place, this one with a view. She upgraded her couch and a few other things but most hit the bank for when times were lean. Who was to say when this gravy train stopped or when this helium filled balloon ride would pop? If nothing came out because her brain was just spent she wanted enough in the bank to at least pay the rent. Rita remembered those really bad days and vowed she would never again live that way. So she socked it away all that she could now that the times were sunshine and good.
Her life once again became tranquilly serene until one day when reading a magazine. She spotted an ad in very fine print (in fact it was so small she started to squint). “CASH FOR YOUR LYRICS”…is how the ad started. That caught her eye and they feverishly darted back and forth reading each little line taking in each little dot, dash and sign. “Music companies need lyricists in the worst way and if yours are selected they’re willing to pay. There’s much to be had in the song writing game, aside from the glitter and glamour and fame. To hear your words sung by some “Hotshot” singer, definitely rattles you, man it’s a zinger! We’ll pay you top dollar and you still get the credit. And once you’re established you can almost bet that it will open up all kinds of doors to meeting the artists and royalties galore. And if Lady Luck calls you one of her family, you could one day be on stage holding a Grammy!”
Rita mulled all this over a bit, she figured she could write a hit. After all what’s the big trick, it’s merely a poem disguised by music. It couldn’t be that hard of a chore, look at all the songs in each record store. Written by people who were just like her, only a little more lucky that was for sure. But still all of those songs came from somewhere and without writers like her their shelves would be bare.
Rita grabbed a jewel case and put on the CD, slipped on her headphones and listened intently. She pulled out the booklet from inside the case then zoned out the music till she fully embraced the lyrical lines of each written word and it was completely in focus and all that she heard. It didn’t take long for her to discover that they didn’t much vary from one to another. First came a verse and then came a chorus, then came a verse, then a chorus, then a bridge, then a chorus, throw in some solos then a slow fade, repeat as needed until an album is made. The poetry part of the song was a snap but the thing for her that caused the most flap was something so foreign it filled her with dread, she found she had to have some kind of tune in her head. And what seemed to happen with each line she wrote could be sung to the tune of ‘Row, row, your boat’. At least that’s the song that played in her brain from each chorus line to every refrain. But she rationalized that someone who is good with a tune could take those bad lyrics and just make them swoon, make them flirty and lilty and float on a breeze like a soft butterfly or some blown puffy seeds. And if worse comes to worse they could send them all back and tell her she needs to “lay off the crack”.
Suddenly a thought made Rita disturbed. She had no control over who sang her words. She knew what music she liked to hear and the ideas she had fit that genre sphere. But what if her thoughts were bought by some band who played some type of music she couldn’t stand. Some heavy metal group that always screamed at a decibel level that was way too extreme. Or heaven forbid some old country twang would be the way her songs would be sang. They could be translated to an opera tune sung by a tenor aided by a bassoon. Another way to use them, Rita thought she would fear, would be to bolster some has-been’s sagging career. But the worst thing that could possibly be would get buried somewhere on the CD. Like being listed as song number eight and not get the chance to get out of the gate. Getting no play at any radio station or a video made shot on location. Just some so-so song used as a filler, now to Rita that would be almost a killer. But being selected is no great disgrace, however, who remembers who took second place. Maybe they can tell her who bought her songs and then let her know what albums they’re on. Still just the same she would give it her best. To give it her all was always her quest.
One simple fact that Rita couldn’t let go, from listening to songs on her radio, was that some lyrics she heard were really quite awful and to continue to play them should be unlawful. But the drive of the music or the way they were sung is what made them hits to the old or the young. Sometimes the lyrics told a great story and the music would subtly add to its glory. And then there were times they had no content at all but the incredible music would carry the ball. And the songs that were silly, well what can you say, there was no plausible reason they would go all the way. So whether serious as can be or crazy-mad-hatter as far as lyrics were concerned it just didn’t matter. The sound of the beat or the vocalization determined a bust or a music sensation.
But unlike the greeting cards she wasn’t scared because this time she just didn’t care. The money was steady from Fred’s Meat-ka-bob and the pay was quite good from the greeting card job. She was quite content with the path she was on and she could walk it until it was gone. And that ad had created a fork in that road, the one she had so serenely strolled, but no matter what happened, whether good or bad, she couldn’t lose what she already had. So this little venture was just a diversion to showcase her talents on some new excursion. Rita figured she’d at least take the chance, after all life’s a party and she’d come to dance.
SILENTLY SUFFERING
(verse)
My emotions are prisoners I keep deep inside/
They’re never exposed because of my foolish pride/
The pain that I feel cause my heart’s broke in two/
Is an anguish unseen from anyone’s view/
I slip from the bed in the dead of the night/
Because I know I’m about to lose at this fight.
(chorus)
I fold alone, cry alone,
Emotionally die alone,
Each tear is quietly buffering.
I hurt alone, grieve alone,
Emotionally live alone,
I am just silently suffering.
(verse)
My body convulses in horrible shudders/
My breath comes in hitches with airless stutters/
The crocodile tears roll down my face/
And my hands cover my eyes in a loveless embrace/
And while my whole world is crashing around/
The grief that I’m showing still won’t make a sound.
(repeat chorus)
(bridge)
At last it’s all spent…I just had to vent/
The last tear has dripped to the floor.
Now I’m drained instead…so I slip back in bed/
Until the next night I’ll do it once more.
(chorus)
(repeat chorus…fade out)
Rita wasn’t real sure how this idea played. It seemed a bit fuzzy on how the money was made. The lyrics sent to some P.O. box, would they send them along or just throw in some box? Would they pay her up front for what she’d expect or wait till they’re bought by some record exec.? If they sold them for thousands that would be shrewd but if they paid her ten cents a word she would get screwed. Still she kept the rights to the lyrical part and maybe soon after the royalties would start. And if her lyrics were good and had great appeal maybe someday she could broker her own deal.
Just like the cards some time had elapsed without hearing a word if she failed or she passed. And then like the cards from out of the blue a letter arrived from a person who represented a party that showed interest in some of the lyrics she’d written.
Enclosed with the letter was a legal contract with numbers included for personal contact. The letter suggested she have it checked out by her own legal counsel if she had any doubt. The verbiage was legalize clean cut and dried with highlighted lines with exes beside. Some signatures here and some initials there would then seal the deal legal and fair. But Rita was cautious she had to be sure, a signature here could affect her whole future.
In her mind she debated and gave it much thought should she sign it or not as she teetered distraught. As she read it again, emotionally torn, the pages now looking weathered and worn, in came a regular, a girl named Segal, who worked around the corner as a paralegal. She glanced it over and said it looked up to snuff but she said that some lawyers could be pretty tough. He offered to take it and perhaps have it read by one of the lawyers where she worked instead. When she brought it back she said it looked normal, your typical agreement, legal and formal. She handed it back and wished Rita good luck. So with signing the papers a deal would be struck.
Life is just surviving if you don’t take a chance. Then she picked up her pen and gave it a glance, then she signed every blank line “Rita McPhee” and stuck it in the mail for return delivery.
Then once again time passed just like glue. With her life in its pattern where nothing was new.
Finally, one evening when she got back home she noticed a light blinking on her cordless phone. Someone had left a voice-mail that day so she punched in her PIN and hit 3 to play.
“Good day, this is Glen Blatt calling Ms. Rita McPhee. I represent the firm of Sweet Licks, LLC. We’ve received all the papers and are anxious to go to get some of your lyrics on the radio. It’s hard to explain just how it’s done, some wheeling and dealing, some hard work and fun. A singer comes in and sits with a band for a little inventive impromptu jam. What finally comes out at the end of the day we hope will encompass what you tried to say. Please call me back. I don’t care if it’s late. The number is 555-3948.”
Then came a click and the line had gone dead. But instead of calling the number she hit replay instead. She found it hard to believe that it had come true and played it several more times before she was through. Rita picked up the receiver and punched in the digits, first one ring then two and she started to fidget. This was new ground for her that was quite clear, so she decided to wing it and play it by ear.
She was about to hang up, she figured that would be that, when someone picked up and said, “Hello, this is Blatt.”
“Hello, Mr. Blatt, this is Rita McPhee. I believe you tried to get in touch with me.”
“Ah, Ms. McPhee, thanks for calling me back. There are some people here on the verge of a panic attack. You know how it is with those “bean counting” guys, on pins and needles until you’ve dotted the “I”s. I’d like to schedule a meeting, a quick one-on-one, to get all of this paperwork over and done.
Perhaps I can book you on a flight coming here? Some say New York is quite pretty this time of year. Strictly first class so you don’t have to worry. And we’ll get this cleaned up and done in a hurry.”
Rita mulled it over then said, “I’ll have to decline. I’m not too terribly excited about flyin’.”
“I understand,” Glen replied. “I’ll catch a flight there and we’ll get this finalized all fair and square.”
A couple days later the phone rang again, it was Glen Blatt calling from the Holiday Inn. “Hello, Ms. McPhee, I just got into town, perhaps you can meet me and show me around? Over dinner we’ll talk business, so pick a good place to eat. And don’t worry about money, it’s strictly my treat.”
She said okay and then hopped in her car. He said he’d meet her down in the bar.
The rest of their day was pretty much on the go; from the Lakeside Rose Garden, to the courthouse frescoes; watching the Wizards practice by the Coliseum, to a walk in the past at the Lincoln Museum; from a whirlwind tour of the Franke Park Zoo, to the top of the bank for a city wide view; to Cindy’s Diner for a really quick bite, to the Botanical Garden for the butterfly sight; from Saint Mary’s Cathedral, to the Glenbrook Mall, to the Embassy Theater, they seen it all.
“Man what a day!” Glen said with a phew. “I had no idea there would be so much to do! I’m worn to a frazzle and I need a break. How about some dinner? Maybe something with steak?”
Rita thought of the perfect place for their meal a-la-snob and pulled up in front of Fred’s Meat-ka-bob.
“This is the fancy steak house?” Glen said with a smirk.
“No,” she replied. “but it is where I work.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I meant no disrespect. It’s just your choice for dinner left me perplexed. When given this offer most go to the extreme and its high-off-the-hog, if you know what I mean.”
She said, “I’m not that way, my needs are quite small and it’s fun working here I have a ball. My friends all work here and the food is quite savory. And if your deal is real good your meal could be free.”
“Wow! Do you know how to pressure a guy! I’m not sure if it’s great but I’ll give it a try. The deal is quite simple, here is the plan, we’ll sell the songs to whomever we can. In most of the cases, I’d have to say, a couple of grand is all we ask them to pay. We know that’s not much we’ve already been told but the reason we do it is really two fold. They’re easier to sell because they think they’re a steal and then we can up the percentage in the royalty deal.
Now you’re asking yourself ‘What’s my share of this dent?’ and I’m happy to say it’s twenty percent. I know that’s not much on a couple of grand and I’m sure a lot less than what you had planned. But if one song’s a hit, in my opinion, the royalties could easily pay you a million!”
Rita sat completely engrossed listening to what he had proposed. She looked at her friends behind the front counter, who were hiding their interest in their encounter. They grinned and nodded like bobble head trolls in the window of a car on a long bumpy road.
She turned to Glen and said, “First there’s some questions I’d like to ask.”
“Shoot,” Glen replied, “That’s why I’m here. It’s part of my task.”
“First, what were the papers that I signed before? The first batch the mailman brought to my door”
“They were basically a formal way to let us know that we had you’re permission to start up the show. And when we got them back…signed, we were floating on air. Then the legal department found some clerical errors. And one page was missing that made the deal void. I tell you, management was extremely annoyed. So to make sure no other problems appeared they wanted a meeting and I volunteered.”
“Second of all, and this isn’t slight, how do I know what I’m getting is right? I have no access to books on what money you made. So how can I tell how much I’m to be paid?”
“I’m from legal but what I am recounting, the money comes in and goes to accounting. You get 20% and 30 to the band, the 50% is ours and we keep on hand. With each check you get, be it royalty or sale, will come with a paper breaking it down in detail. What money came in and what money went out. Each little nuance is all figured out. Besides, we’d be out of business if we ran it a mess, because we too must answer to the IRS. And if you’re still worried that we might be crooks you can always hire someone to audit our books. To try and cheat you would be a very grave blunder, because you’re worth more to us than a one-hit-wonder.”
“Thirdly, what is the realization of my actual obligation? It’s hard to say it…you know what I mean. Do I have to crank out lyrics like I’m a machine?”
Glen started laughing, “No, we can’t control how you create. Whatever you send I’m sure would be great. You know if your writing is scheduled and framed after a while it all sounds the same. But your pay does reflect just how much you write, so you’d want to make sure it isn’t too slight. If you bet all your money that one song will chart I’m afraid you’ll be looking at one broken heart. Most songs are fillers, I’m sad to say, stuck on a disk and never get play. But you never know, when all’s said and done, just what little ditty will make number one.”
“This last question is more to put me at ease. Do you employ many others with similar dreams?”
“Yes,” Glen said. “We have quite a few. And each of them wishing and hoping like you. But if this makes you feel better and eases your mind, I happen to think that you’re one of a kind.”
Then Rita sternly said, “I think it’s unreal what some people will say to get a free meal!” And her face quickly changed to a deep dimpled grin and she asked if she could borrow his pen.
Suddenly some feeling just made her shudder.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
“No,” she muttered, “just some strange feeling that came like a wave. You know that saying ‘Someone stepped on my grave’?”
Then she took the pen and started to sign until finally she finished each dot and line. When done Glen took her hand for a deal sealing shake. “Trust me,” he said. “This is no mistake.” He then took out a business card and gave it a turn and said, “Give me a call if you have any concerns. And today was fun that is for sure but next time…New York, for a Big Apple tour. One more thing from this gourmet snob, I really liked those beef-ka-bobs.”
She shook his hand and said, “We’ll see how it goes. It’s like you said, ‘One never knows’.”
They got in her car and she took him back to his room. To catch an early flight she had assumed.
Then once again it was back to her rut. It was almost the same as the last time but…this time she had one more task on her list, even more poetry but now with a twist. She was stretching herself thinner and thinner. She didn’t know how much more she had in her. The diner by day then writing at night. It seemed like there was no end in sight. She took a deep breath and let it out slow. Then she realized that she needed a goal. She figured two songs a month and one card a day, of course the restaurant would still have to stay.
AIN’T ENOUGH
I close my eyes at night then you appear,
So real that it seems you are almost here.
A quick little cat nap to recharge my brain,
Gives me visions of you that drive me insane.
A short forty winks shows the lips I must say,
I know I’d love to kiss all night and day.
Sometimes I just zone out and stare into space,
And see your arms reach for me in a loving embrace.
My mind makes you so real I think I could scream,
Then I suddenly realize that it’s only a dream.
(Instrumental crescendo)
But sometimes a dream ain’t enough.
I’ve implored upon every star not just the first,
Because you are the one thing I want the worst.
And the hundreds of lady bugs I have set free,
I hoped would help guide you right here to me.
That puff on the eyelash on my finger tip,
Was sent with a desire for you on its trip.
With a single breath all the candles went out,
And the one that I wanted there was no doubt.
A silver dollar was used in hopes to dispel,
The chance of losing what I wanted from that wishing well.
(Instrumental crescendo)
But sometimes a wish ain’t enough.
Before each meal my hands are clasped for a plea,
Wishing that God would bring you to me.
Each Sunday at church when I bow to pray,
Your name passes my lips in what I have to say.
When I’m giving thanks and saying grace,
I always remind the Lord about you just in case.
If my life’s out of control and full of stress,
I’ll mention your name in a heavenly address.
Then at night as I kneel and I pray to God’s sake,
That you’ll be beside me when I awake.
(Instrumental crescendo)
But sometimes a prayer ain’t enough
One day in the mail Rita received a surprise. A letter and a check from those song lyric guys. It had been almost ten months to the day that the papers were signed and Glen flew away. It seemed a bunch were sold in a big package deal to some music company named Sounds Surreal. Apparently this outfit was really quite smitten by some of the songs whose lyrics she’d written. And they wanted to ensure that they got the rights, so they offered more money than they usually might. Rita looked at the check and it was almost five grand! It hit her at once, she could hardly stand! In her apartment house foyer in that tiny expanse, she started to do a kind of victory dance. After several turns and a hearty YIPPEE, she stopped and looked if any could see. Then she folded the check to put in her purse, but not before having one more look at it first. Then Rita sat on the steps to finish her reading. Apparently there was other things they were needing. They were hoping this wouldn’t cause too much of a snit but they were wanting to change some of the lyrics a bit. Just some small tweaking is all that they meant, to fit in better with their musical arrangement. It came with a form to sign if she said okay and a self-addressed envelope with postage prepaid. She wondered. If they changed her lyrics in any way because she signed this paper will she lose royalty pay?
Rita went up to her place to check her catch-all drawer to find the card Mr. Blatt had gave her before. She dialed the number and it rang one and then two then a man’s voice said, “This is Glen Blatt. How can I help you?”
Rita stammered, “Mr. Blatt, this is Rita McPhee, I’m sure you don’t remember me.”
“Are you kidding?” Glen replied. “I’d have to be insane to ever forget that day in Fort Wayne. The food was delicious and the tour was a ball. But I’m sure the past isn’t the reason you called. What’s on your mind and what can I do to dispel any matters that’s troubling you?”
Rita said, “I’m just a writer so I’m very naïve and that end of my words is your expertise. I received a letter today along with a check and ever since then I’ve been a wreck. Now I’m pretty nervous and it’s probably wrong but the letter says they want to change some of my songs. I know it sounds petty but is there any way this will affect my royalty pay? And with any change, no matter how slight, can they then say they helped co-write?”
“Not to worry,” said Glen with a lilt in his voice. “Sometimes the artist simply has no choice. The constraint of the words and the flow of the tune makes it next to impossible to try and croon. Some minor adjustments must therefore be made to have any hope that the song can be saved. But they get no credit for writing the song. All they want to do is hopefully help it along. As for the royalties you’ll get every dime. But as the artists, don’t worry, their share is sublime.
But trust me it could be a whole lot worse. All they want is to twiddle with a word or a verse. Sometimes the house band is really appalled because the buyer doesn’t like the music at all. Then the buyer merely takes the words on the page and the house band is paid the straight union wage.
But I must warn you, don’t plan any big shopping sprees. It could be a year, maybe two, for those big royalties. And that, I must stress, so you will be aware, is if that song climbs the charts and gets any air.
Is there any other issues that are giving you fits?”
“No,” replied Rita. “I think that’s it.”
“Wonderful,” countered Glen. “And congratulations, your future is now full of great expectations.”
“Wait!” exclaimed Rita. “Something popped in my head. It isn’t a question but an idea instead. You said sometimes the music’s refused. Is it then thrown away or is it reused? If you could send the music on a cassette or cd perhaps hearing it would maybe inspire me? You know, a song that is one of their own. Something they could release themselves if so prone. Who knows, in a future not quite so far, your company could be managing their own megastars.”
“That’s a cool idea.” Glen replied. “I’ll see what they say. It’s better than having it just waste away. Well, thanks for the call and we’ll talk again. Until then keep on turning them in.”
The line then went dead and Rita set the phone down. Could it really be true her life had just turned around?
Rita had stuck pretty much to her plan. But sometimes she felt what she wrote had turned bland. You can only call so much upon the things that inspire before the flames that ignite you start to expire. That’s what she thought as she stared out one night at the myriad of stars that glittered so bright. ’I love this town’ she thought. ’It’s become my home, but my writing will suffer if I don’t try to roam’. She was now in her thirties and settled in so but she wanted to finish that trip from so long ago. She decided to move west to the beach and the sea. She could still write from there just as easily and it shouldn’t be hard to find a regular job, like the one she was leaving at Fred’s Meat-ka-bob.
Rita sold most of her things, the rest gave away. She thought she’d start fresh once in LA. She closed her accounts and settled her scores then marked those things off on her list of chores. She took one final walk through her cold vacant place, swiping at memories and the tears on her face.
She said to herself, “Leaving now would be wise. Besides I still have one more set of tearful goodbyes.”
Rita pulled her packed car in front of Fred’s. This is the part that she had most dread. She put it in park and then walked to the door. When she looked inside they were all sullen and watching the floor. Rita mustered a smile and swung the door open then yelled at her friends, “Why is everyone mopin? Come wish me luck and give me a hug. And if you’re really lucky you can kiss my sweet mug. I don’t want to cry all the way to LA, so let’s make this happy, what do you say?”
So they came up to her one after another, squeezing her so hard she thought she would smother. They sucked up their snot and dabbed at their eyes trying their damnedest to try not to cry.
At last the final hug was given and the last kiss savored all this was done on legs as they quavered. She got in her car and let out a sigh. The toughest thing is always goodbye. She drove off and turned at the end of the block and put on a radio station with rock. She had Googled directions and places to stay. She was hoping for something cheap by the bay. No sense building up dreams to see them fall down. All she wanted right now was to get out of town.
Then a song started playing and she could have swore she had written those lyrics just two years before. Two long years had slowly slipped past but someone’s finally playing her lyrics at last. It wasn’t the tune that she had in mind. Her tune was a ballad and a bit more refined. This had a style like a big band swing, jazzy and snappy with plenty of zing. The drummer’s sticks tap danced on the cymbal high hats while a section of horns all shouted a blat! A snare drum and deep bass picked up the beat, there was no stopping the urge to start tapping your feet.
BECAUSE OF LOVE
(Chorus)
Because of love, I’ve got a spring in my step,
Because of love that great big sky’s so blue,
Because of love, I’ve got a lilt in my voice,
And this love is all because of you.
Because of love, I see the world more clearly,
Because of love it all seems so new,
Because of love, I feel so in tune with nature,
And this love is all because of you.
(Refrain)
See the birdie in the tree?
He is singing just for me.
When it is dark he’ll go away.
But he’ll be back some other day.
Because of love…love…love…because of love
(Chorus)
Because of love, I’ve got a new lease on life,
Because of love its rent is never due,
Because of love, I’m up on top of the world,
And this love is all because of you.
Because of love, I’m grateful for each breath,
Because of love my nerves are all a tingle too,
Because of love I know where my life is headed,
And this love is all because of you.
(Repeat refrain)
Because of love (because of you) because of love
(because of you) because of love…love…love…
Because of you!
A smile stretched her lips, yep she was finally a winner as she pulled up to the light at Falcon and Skinner.
