My Dad Was in the Cold War - Scene 2

Scene 2

Parents bedroom. Dad is half-dressed, and appears mildly hurried or late or both. He wears briefs, maybe red; no shirt and blue socks, a gold chain sits around his neck. He moves around the room, getting clothes and grooming products in order. He glances at himself in the mirror each time he passes a mirror. Actions may include--brushing/smoothing his hair, with one eye closed, and trying on and off shirts. Yellow shag carpets the floor, non-descript dresser with various nick-knacks (a vase, money jar, an ashtray) is the only & a relatively large mirror. (though could be alluded to—perhaps audience is mirror) P some faint music plays—maybe Harry Belafonte, which dad occasionally sings with in a most committed manner

Dad yells

--Joyce! Where’s my .. mother fucker….? (begins to sing) But I’ve been from Maine to Mexico, oh I’m sad to say I’m on my. Joyce, where the fuck.. looks at self in mirror---begins to smooth hair. Puts on shirt takes it off.

I enter.

Because my dad was so often naked, or lightly clothed, I never really studied, his body, his curves, his skin, his shape. And being that I was seven, my interest was not in male body (and certainly not my dad's), but the Barbie body.

Yet this time, somehow was different. Maybe it was the beginning or the end of my aesthetic innocence, the end of a Switzerland lead life where neutrality reigned and bodies were bodies regardless if they were bruised, bend, broken….

Dad starts putting on pants. Sings

And I left a little girl in ‘Kingston town. Hello darlin’..mmh.. is your father good lookin'?

---what are those holes .. in your stomach…bullets? (awestruck) Bullet holes?

Maybe I just seen an episode of Emergency or Batman-ZAP, BAM, POW

---We’re you shot?

Dad takes a drag of cigarette

---That’s right, shot, sugar..

Where was I? Was it when I stayed late at Brownies? Or when Papa had to pick me up from Gymnastics? Maybe it was the day I had to stay after school because I couldn’t do long division:
---Jessica carry the one, carry the one.
--- I can’t carry …I can’t do it. I don't believe in it.
Maybe it someone at Turnstyle shot him? He was always making a scene.

Dad accosts a cashier.

---So.. you learn how to run that cash register in school? Slow class? Because let me tell you – maybe it’s just that you’re a retard, you know what they do to retards in China..? -Kill them -bang!

---Three times. Bang. Bang. Bang.

--Was it the army?

Dad continues to get dressed

---Were you in a war?

Yeah.. yeah.
---What war?
Cold War, Jess.
--You were in the cold war?
You betcha.
--Against who?
The Soviets, Russians
--But aren’t we Russians?
We’re Russians Jews—which makes us Jews not Russians
Don't’ trust the Soviets, the Germans, Niggers, Spics –any of them.
--Gentiles?
No. for sure not them.

--------------------
During the time I dated the only German and black boy in high school, and according to my mother caused my grandmother’s heart attack (not the Echrich Bologna she passed off as kosher) I was in the state-mandated US history class. Somehow I was not in the Advanced Place class and was supremely annoyed and frustrated at my geographically challenged classmates

A boy next me—raising hand-I can’t find the state of Los Angeles on the map.
Are you fucking kidding me?
A girl – You think the slaves know they were from Africa?

A lot of people my age were vaccinated with thalidomide before they realized it caused permanent birth defects.

We were studying the US in the 1950’s .. McCarthyisim, Korean War, Soviets.
The Cold War.
Here was my chance to show these illiterate mainstreamed mutants what an AP’er was, I raised my hand.

---Mrs., Kelly, yeah.. um.. My dad (dramatic pause here) was in the Cold War. He was shot, too. Three times. Three times, in the stomach (point to my own stomach).

Silence.

--You’re dad was in the cold war?

I cautiously smile. I am the shit.
--Yes

---The .. VERBAL war .. between the United States and the Soviet Union?

---Verbal.. war?

That mother fucker..

---Verbal war?

A boy next me— raises hand
--- So, did people get colds or were they just cold?

My Dad Was in the Cold War - Scene 1

My Dad Was in the Cold War
A Memory Play in ____Scenes
Scene 1

(Room without artificial light, streaks of daylight trying to break thru closed shades. Facing opposite of the window, is a crib. It’s littered with dolls and stuffed animals. There is a non-descript dresser on the north side of the room and a small black rocking chair)
My earliest life memory, that is memory not influenced by a snapshot or catalyzed by a family story, but memory of my own knowing, being took place when I was around 2 years old, maybe 2 1/2. I’m in my crib and I’m standing. It’s morning. Soon, I hear the shower water turn on. I know what the water turning means, and am overcome with excitement and anticipation. I pace the crib. Some time later, my dad, showered and dressed enters my room. (Father enters room, he is striking, with dark black hair, blown dry smooth, dark olive like skin, hallow eyes. He wears a crisp white shirt, bold tie circa early 1970’s, and carries a briefcase. He is energy. Electricity) My dad leans into my crib and begins singing,

Hi Ho
Hi Ho
It’s off to work I go

As he sings, I begin marching in my crib,

La, La, La, La, La, La
Hi Ho Hi Ho Hi Ho Hi ho

He kisses me goodbye, and leaves my room, (father exits, child has stopped marching; watches door).

----

People would describe him as electric. His brother, summer girls*, my papa (mother’s father), our dry cleaner, Fred who made house calls, and my childhood friend Debby’s mother, Barbara would repeatedly tell me what a looker, how charismatic, a stunner, my father was. I too was under his spell of electrons and neutrons. When he walked into a room, crowds would actually pause, women would coyly glance, and men would walk over to him, shake his hand sometimes hug him. I would lean on him, maybe hold his hand, people needed to know that he was mine; we were together. My dad was a celebrity and all he did was arrive.

Pick-ups, and entrances were his specialty. He could be hours (and often was) late picking me up at an airport where my 9 or 10 or 11 year old self was visiting him in one of his adopted towns of Houston or Honolulu. I could see him a hundred feet away, walking confidently, casually- in terminal, a smile cocked to one-side, occasionally glancing at anything (window, metal) that may pick up his reflection.
“DAD! DAD!” waving my arms. “Here! Over here!”
He would then stop, lower himself to my height, open his arms in a grandiose manner, and I would run and melt magnetically into them. There was no greater joy in my young life.

*summer girls- young girls from Wisconsin or Michigan who would come spend their summers taking care of primarily a Jewish family’s children. Sometimes they made the children drink beer, and eat all the food on their plate.

Life & Times of Uno the Cat, Life One

It was suggested I begin to pen a book or a collection. This is a beginning--I'm posting the first chapter. At this juncture I"m not sure if I"m going to switch narrative voices. The first chapter of Life One is from the voice of Uno.
----
The Life and Times of Uno the Cat

One word
Frees us of all the weight and pain of life:
That word is love. - Sophocles, Oedipus at Colonus

Life One: Uno at Colonus

Chapter 1

The other day, one of the siblings? The cousins, it’s hard to tell, told me I had a different Daddy than all of them. My Daddy, is the jagged eared, broken-legged, crusted-eye, scratched up, gray and white tabby, who occasionally hovers around the barn.
“He’s a scab,” one of the black matted long-haired kittens screeched.
"A walking parasite," said another one, a replica xerox of the first one
"Probably got Feline Leuk!!"roared the last one, an imitation of the the other two except with some green crap oozing from its nose.

Which of course, meant I had feline leuk. Anyone with an eight week life education (following a very safe and hearty nursing stage) like myself knows that there are silent cat killers like: distemper: feline leuk: and the new one, FIV, and then there are the in-your-face-so bitch you better-run and climb your ass off, find some redwood or spruce and claw your way up it, just make sure you know how to get down, or else you’ll die a very tragic, tire-tread on your back, brain splattered on concrete, kinda-death. Life happens, so better learn quick how to run and hide.

Sometimes you are born just to die, but I just don’t believe that to be my purpose, my prophecy. It’s possible I could be his offspring, one of his 150 bastards, or a bastard of his bastards, but I just don’t sense I have death sleeping in my bones, I only feel life, certainly 4 or 5 of them.

“Listen you flea bitten fags,” I yelp," maybe this is my first and only life, maybe I won’t live through the garbage day on Tuesday...”
I give a left paw THWACK to one of the matted mittens, who whimpers and retreats.
'Pussy’ I mumble under my breath.
“but I’m living now and that’s all that matters.” I dig my back claws into the ground sending mud and grime into their already filthy fur. Spraying says a lot more, but I don’t have that kinda equipment, I've been told. So..unjust.

I make my way to my current spot, which may be different tomorrow. It's strange, something just overcomes me and I must, must have a NEW spot; a new spot which usually is marked by another cat. This transfer of territory, I think it’s called destiny, is tricky at times. So far I have won every battle. I was able to destiny a 6 month'er's spot. It wasn't even that great, a top of a rusty ol' can, but I needed to show that I may be young but I gotta hook, ya know?

Now, this spot has style and safety. It is situated between the barn and the shed, out of the way of the beasts, and covered by a small shrub. On the other side, resting was treacherous, beasts drove in and out, broken bottles could cut your paw if you weren’t careful and the sun reflected off glass making sleeping at all it almost unbearable. But here in the spot, the world is quiet, breathable, and only mine.

I did two whisker rubs just to make sure everyone knows this spot is at least temporarily mine, and with relief lied down, and thought…those stupid matted mittens. Inbreds. This is what happens when the gene pool is too small, when it doesn’t diversify. You get matted messes who can barely climb, have upper respiratory issues, and spew hate. The grey tabby is my daddy?! Parents are irrelevant, any 8 weeker knows that. I mean once weaned what’s their use? Do they protect you from oncoming traffic? Bring you back a bird beak or leg? No. They are all too soon onto a new litter, and a new life. One day they protect you…next day they neglect you.

Through the brush, I could see the matted mittens jumping and.. playing! Playing? What are they 5 weekers? Fuckin’clueless…playing with a piece of string as if it’s an actual worm. Retards. With that kind of blind belief they are going to get themselves killed.