Harp's Open Salon Blog

Paranoid

Mon, 4 Apr 2011 09:04:08 -0400

Incredulous! I could not believe that he had pulled up behind me with those lights flashing and spinning. I’d watched him climb awkwardly out of his car, and then he was leaning heavily against my open window. His mustache was in my face and level with my eyes.

Meanwhile, I could hear this cop telling the man sitting in the driver’s seat of my car, that he had rolled through a stop sign. He was asking him if he knew that he had rolled through a stop sign. The very familiar man was trying to comprehend what he was hearing, because he knew that he had stopped.

I knew that he had stopped!!!

Meanwhile I was staring at this bushy mustache, fully assaulted by the details of his close proximity. There have been times in my life when I was this close to my father’s mustache, but this was different. The mustache hairs were thick and wiry and some of them were literally pointing at me. There was also a bit of something there as well, among the hairs, although with the passage of time I’ve lost details. I do not recall if this looked like it might have been something left behind from his lunch-time sandwich, or if this was an errant bit of nasal matter from one of those narrow, unfamiliar nostrils that were also way too close to my face.

But I did stop! I had come to a full stop behind the truck in front of me. I had no choice, I had to stop. Not only had I stopped, but I had looked to my left and to my right and clearly saw the approaching squad car. I had disregarded him, because there was no reason to pay more attention to him than I otherwise would.

So why was this man in my face?

I do remember being surprised that the man in my car wasn’t doing a better job of talking himself out of the impending traffic ticket. The driver was quite familiar to me and I fully expected him to say something both intelligent and helpful on his own behalf, but this man just looked really confused. I found it easy to feel sorry for him.

I was full of empathy because I knew that he truly had come to a full stop behind the pick-up truck... who was already stopped at the stop sign. Unfortunately, when the truck continued left onto the roadway, the man had followed right behind him as well. He had not rolled to another full stop when he had replaced the truck at what was actually a highway intersection. He had, instead, simply made the turn as he did every day at this intersection so near his home. He did what everyone did at that particular intersection. If they are the first to the stop sign…they stop, but if they are the second or third or even fourth car to line up at the intersection, when the cars begin moving again they simply make the turn. They do not stop again when they pull even with the actual sign. They should, I know, but they don’t. He didn’t either… and perhaps had he realized exactly what the problem was at the time, he might have been a bit more articulate in explaining his actions.

Instead, he just looked confused and slow. So he got a ticket.

I will most likely present myself to the judge in an attempt to avoid the points and an expensive ticket, but I am even more concerned about the driver. I don’t know if he is merely being paranoid, but he sees squad cars everywhere these days.

Since being stopped that day, there seems to be a genuine conspiracy to try to catch him at something again. Those fiendish, white sheriff's cars are hidden behind bushes and trees and buildings as they search for him. There is a definite malevolence on the roads surrounding his immediate neighborhood, as they seem to be appearing in greater numbers than ever before.

It becomes even more frightening at night, when he is certain that he can see that damn mustache in the dim light of the squad car’s dash board. Somehow, he knows that the owner of that wiry mustache is just waiting to stop him again... waiting to stop and get up in his face again.

I still find it easy to feel sorry for him.

Night Moves of the Doubler: Where First She Gets Hers

Thu, 3 Feb 2011 08:02:58 -0500

The set-up for the evening was perfect. He still had her scent in his nose when he left the house that night.

He knew that she had been feeling randy. After all of these years they could read each other effortlessly. When he’d remarked that he might “take out the board tonight” she had let that thought settle in her mind for a while before she came and found him in what used to be his study. He’d been sitting at his desk, checking the Internet to see where it would be this evening. On Thursday nights it was typically at the old Sheraton off the Beltway, but he needed to check the notices. He’d found what he was looking for quickly enough.

As was her tendency when her nature was up, she didn’t say anything as she came into the room. He turned in his expensive Executive’s Chair and looked at her when he heard her enter. Funny… how they had developed such unspoken signals over time. He instantly knew her intent from the expression on her face and the fact that she said nothing. For any other purpose, her conversation would have begun steps before she even entered the room. The fact that she said nothing at all spoke volumes.

She also moved differently at times like this. When she was bringing an itch that she needed him to scratch for her, her gait took on a feline quality. Itwas like everything smoothed out and became more fluid and graceful. He wondered if she was aware of it. He had never been a cat person, so he found it ironic that he would perceive such cat-like qualities in her when she was in heat.

She was wearing that old shapeless gray sweater that she loved to wear around the house most days. It was hanging low off of her shoulders, showing off the low cut black slip she word underneath. Her legs and feet were bare. She rarely wore shoes indoors which only contributed to the cat analogy in his mind.

The "fly-on-the-wall" would have thought they’d choreographed their movements. He looked back at the dual, Flatron monitors on his desk as she approached. When she could reach him, she extended her hand to caress his neck as she walked around his right side. As she did he slid the thickly padded leather chair back from the desk to make room for her. He looked into her eyes as she sat in his lap assuming the cuddle they’d found and perfected so long ago. He could feel the curves of her body beneath the sheer black slip as she adjusted her ass cheeks to find her place in his lap. He gently moved her hair off of his face as her head fit perfectly in the crook of his neck. His face showed only a small half smile now as he held her tight with his left arm. That left arm pulled her close and provided the reassurance that she needed.

He allowed the chair to tip back as she swung her legs up and over the right armrest. The chair groaned in protest from the added weight but they seemed confident in its ability to support them yet again this evening. His practiced right hand then pulled her right leg in closer to him and reached in between her thighs. Beneath the slip that had risen higher up over her thighs, he found that she’d already removed her panties before coming into the room. She was also already wet with anticipation. He could smell her familiar aroma deep in his nose. Her whole body shivered as he cupped her mound and just held her for a bit.

He never quite remembered if she ever kissed his neck and face when they embraced in this fashion... or just buried her face under his ear. When she came to him like this it was simply clear to them both that she needed hers. He, however, would be able to register the pleasure etched across her face by simply feeling her face pressed hard against him and listening to her sounds as he gently probed and stroked her. She would routinely tease him later about his scratchy beard stubble, as was always the case at the end of the day, but he had convinced himself that she actually preferred it like that.

Of the two of them, he was the romantic. When he needed his, he preferred to take her to bed with his night music playing and sensual muted lighting. She seemed to need no such preamble. She would find her place in his arms here at his desk or on their couch… even once when he was sitting on the toilet reading. He’d actually feared they might break the toilet seat.

He knew to allow her time to reach her peak on such evenings. There was no hurry. It was still early enough for him, and she knew that once he took the board out, that she would not see him again before she retired this night. She never knew when he would find his way home on such nights, so she had come to get hers first.

On this evening, she had trembled and writhed in the grip of two noisy orgasms before she had finally relaxed across his thighs. She had taught his fingers the subtleties of her own inner folds and ridges... to the extent that he could play her like a musical instrument. When her breathing subsided and he could feel her smile against his neck… and he could hear the happy sounds that he automatically listened for... he gently eased his hand from within her. Often times, in working toward her climax she merely needed deeply embedded fingers, curved just so to thrust against.

This night she’d gripped three fingers in her slick embrace.

Still without exchanging any actual words, she squirmed around enough to reach down between them to find him hard and erect... still fully clothed. When she found him and squeezed, she leaned back just enough to see his face. He smiled fully now, with a barely perceptible shake of his head. He did not want to go any further than this when he was taking the board out. He did not want to lose his focus. She knew this, but she always asked anyway just to be sure. Had he indicated differently she would have happily swung around to ease him inside of her, or slid down to the floor and taken him in her mouth. As sated as she was right then, she would have given him anything… but she knew he was already where he wanted to be.

Thirty minutes later, he had showered, shaved and dressed in fresh clothes. He wore jeans under an old, well worn navy blazer missing some buttons and a white shirt this evening. It was one of his favorite shirts. It wasn’t a dress shirt. The collar is too small and it's frayed and you would never put a tie on such a shirt. But it was a long sleeve shirt with ivory buttons that he’d found in the Caymans many years ago and loved it instantly. He’d always been on the lookout for another just like it.. with perhaps just a little more room in the middle.

His board was now leaning against the bedroom door, closed and latched. The handle was so worn from use that the inner wire was exposed and clearly visible. It actually hurt his fingers at times to carry it, but that was of no real concern. The exterior surface was battered and scuffed from too many long nights and too many years of use. It was a functional board for playing the game. Closed, the old case measured almost 21 inches wide by 16 inches deep, but when opened to its full 32 inch surface with racks, you quickly realized that it offered lots of room to maneuver.

Mostly he’d needed a large board to allow for the luxurious checkers that comfortably fit his hand, which even today still looked rich. Only upon close examination could you see the fine scratches and blemishes on the thick circular disks. The set had cost less than two hundred dollars when it was new, but he’d customized it with upgraded accessories that made it special. He still loved the brown-cream marbleized checkers with matching clear dice and the thick stitched leather shakers.

But most of all he loved his doubling cube. It was clearly his weapon of choice these days.

He had searched long and hard before finding an oversized, cream colored doubling cube that matched his set and his aggressive style of play. He’d learned early on that most players think the game is a matter of luck and if you happen to roll better dice, you will get around the board faster and win. First of all that was not necessarily true... but even if it was, that was not his game.

When he had first learned to play back in New York City, the game had become quite popular among the young party people his age. It was not uncommon to go out to night clubs and find young men and women, dressed-to-impress of course, playing backgammon in the lounge as a way of meeting new people. So he quickly learned the game, adapting to the tempo and the style of the game. Played well, this is a fast paced game with higly recommended opening moves and immediately recognizable positions -- depending upon the dice at each turn. It was even a fun spectator sport, (unlike chess which he actually played well) but watching someone else playing was like watching paint dry.

Most often he played with a friend named Earl, and they played frequently enough that they both became quite good at it. They observed tournament rules, playing a series of games where each game was worth a single point, and the first to reach a predetermined number of points would win. This is where the doubling cube came in. At the beginning of each game, the doubling cube is placed in the middle of the board, or on The Bar... and is not controlled by either player. When you feel like you have an advantage, you can choose -- before you roll the dice -- to offer a double. You now stand as the doubler. Your opponent can turn down the offer, and immediately concede that game, or one point, by doing so. (I win... but that's not the real fun.)

If your opponent accepts the offer, however, the value of the game doubles (e.g. from 1 to 2, from 2 to 4, from 4 to 8, etc.) and the game now continues, and your opponent now holds the cube. That means that he, or she, is now the only person who can make the next offer of a double in that game. The value of the game from that point forward is reflected by the number “2” on the doubling cube sitting securely on the side of the current owner. The numbers on the six-sided cube are 2, 4, 8, 16, 32 and 64, but there is technically no limit to how many times the value of the game can double. (Now... the game is hot. There is nothing better than having him accept a hard double... only to bring the board crashing down on him.)

The real education began when they felt cocky enough to visit the Backgammon Parlors on 14^th Street in Manhattan. That is where they had to get spanked a few times to learn the real game and the power of the doubling cube as a strategic weapon. They continued to play tournament rules in the parlors, but they also now played for money. There was no way to discern the casual player from the guy that made his living off the doubling cube until you found yourself several hundred dollars in the hole to a scruffy old man with bad teeth and a very cheap board. You just couldn't see them coming. These were professional hustlers with backgammon boards. (He knew he was their equal... even if the early lessons were costly.)

When you are playing for money with people who know what they are doing, it becomes a multi-dimensional experience. The unpredictability of the dice becomes almost irrelevant because you are constantly shifting strategies and placement within a single game. You learn in time, that there are just as many factors at play in backgammon as there are in poker. Timing is everything in doubling, since there are times when you want the cube accepted and times when you deliberately use it to close down the game. How you play your checkers and how you offer the cube conveys confidence or fear. Unfortunately, sometimes the illusion of “fear” was only a lure to get his opponents to accept a very bad double. (Yeah... at times like that he was steamin'.)

As he left the house this night on his way to the old Sheraton, the set-up for the night was perfect. He still had her scent in his nose when he left the house that night. When the economy had tanked and the work all but dried up, they had stumbled around blindly for a while like many others. They had gone from his comfortable six figure income to almost nothing. She went back to work. When he finally looked for a job, he discovered that he was actually older than he felt and he was competing with much younger people for the same jobs. But these were jobs he really didn’t want to do anyway.

So he’d fallen back on some all but forgotten skills. They didn’t see him coming.

His once elegant board, now looks like an old and very cheap backgammon set. He takes care to dress like one of the out-of-work “baby boomers,” down on his luck and just out looking for something to do… which in a way is exactly what he is. (Gotta look the part baby.) (Come get the poor fool who wandered in off the street. He don't know what he's doin'. Look at him carrying that big board like he knows what to do with it.) (Yeah.... steamin'.)

He’s found a few different nearby networks of backgammon players who get together at different locations throughout the city and the surrounding areas to play. (He once drove for almost two hours to play.) They maintain a well designed web site to recognize the nightly tournament winners on a regular basis. The tournament winners win the pot for that evening and there is almost always a couple of hundred dollars in the pot.

But the real excitement is in the side games. Dollar a game, sometimes five, ten or twenty dollars a game. He no longer earns six figures... but he is not looking for work anymore.

**************************************************

I have reposted this short story from August 2009 that was first entitled the Day of the Doubler. I enjoyed living and writing this story, and only a few people ever read it the first time. Perhaps this time a few more people might share in my excitement. Perhaps this time I can continue the story.

Harp's Snowmageddon 2011

Tue, 1 Feb 2011 20:02:09 -0500

I was in the Bronx to attend to some stressful affairs. The snow storm extended my trip for an extra day after the airports closed up Wednesday afternoon. On Thursday morning, after about an hour spent freeing the car, we paid a couple of local kids to dig us out.

I know the Open Call was to simply share some snow pictures... but this is also an opportunity to give you a bit of a tour. I hope you enjoy it.

Looking out at the park across the street, the snow covered tree banches provided chilly silhouettes.

This is what I'd moved to Florida to avoid. Nostalgic to a degree... but entirely too cold.

I stayed with a friend during this brief trip... and he was sporting a four wheel drive vehicle so we were seriously up for the adventure. It was fun to revisit my childhood places though. For example, I spent long hours at this house on the right that is now up for sale.

It always felt like my extended family home. It was good to see that someone put some money into fixing it up ... even if the intent was merely to flip it on the resale market.

I like this picture. We are approaching the foot of the hill.

And arriving at the corner... this was the source of countless glorious sleigh rides as a child.

Perhaps fifteen minutes later, my friend needed to make a stop at the bank on Gun Hill Road. Immediately across from this corner...

I was confronted by "Anita Savage." (Nope that is not the driver.)

After concluding my day dream... we headed off for the airport, taking one more pass through the Valley. That's Co-Op City in the background... built on the ashes of Freedomland many, many years ago. I would tell you more about Freedomland, but that is a post for another day.

As we head straight down this long hill down into the Valley...

We pass by the house that I grew up in. Once again, someone has renovated it beautifully... even though you really can't see it from here. The white fence is all new as well. Those were thick green hedges that I had to trim as a child. This would have been much better.

The End

Aftermath ... The Life and Death of Anita Savage

Mon, 31 Jan 2011 22:01:14 -0500

It’s hard to imagine that I grew up here in the Bronx. I’m standing on Gun Hill Road, with slush from the passing cars on my trousers. It’s still quite cold, but I am hoping that LaGuardia will be open today. Yesterday they cancelled my flight.

Surveying the aftermath of the carnage here on Gun Hill Road, I probably shouldn’t be too hard on the airport. I’m looking at what appears to be a severely disabled garbage truck that has been plowed in just like so many cars I’ve seen this morning. (I can’t imagine how I ever saw this as normal.)

I wondered what happened to the driver.

Did he call for another Sanitation Salvage truck to pick him up? Did he call for a taxi? Neither scenario seemed very likely given the intensity of last night’s storm. Did he get out and walk up the street to the subway station? (I wonder if the New York City subway system fared better than LaGuardia Airport yesterday? As I recall, a little snow never stopped the trains when I was growing up here… but if you had to walk through a snow storm from the train station to your destination at the other end… it always seemed like the coldest place on earth. There was something about coming up out of the heated lower levels of New York and into a biting, icy wind that simply destroyed a positive outlook.)

I looked behind the abandoned truck, to see the tops of the Eastchester Projects about two blocks away. Perhaps the driver had deliberately chosen this spot to lose his battle with the storm. Perhaps this street was simply too attractive, knowing he had a friend in The Projects within walking distance who would gladly open his doors to him. (More likely, the friend would gladly open her doors to him. Given the prospect of driving for several hours through a cold and unforgiving winter storm… and conceding to the ferocity of the weather so that I could warm up in the arms of a willing female companion, I know what I would have done.)

The more I looked at the stranded, broken vehicle… the more it began to resemble some great mortally wounded beast. I envisioned coming back to Gun Hill Road in August to find the metal carcass of this once proud vehicle, still lying here alongside the street. It would be covered with road filth and stripped bare by local scavengers. Amazingly it would be up on huge blocks, with the tires long since stolen away. The glass and mirrors and all of the chrome would be gone, along with all engine parts and what might have been left of the hydraulic lift system. Inside, the seat cushions and radio would, of course, be used in someone’s apartment on the lower East Side.

The side panel would now read “Anita Savage” where some clever graffiti artist had blocked out several letters on the side of the truck that previously read “Sanitation Salvage.” (Had there ever actually been someone named Anita? Was she purely someone’s imagination, or was there another story to be told on top of the stories strewn within the remnants of the once green goliath?) In my day dream, I had already given the stricken truck the name, Anita Savage. The late Anita Savage.

I stared at the truck for long minutes as the cold wind tried to infiltrate my coat. Then a car drove by much faster than conditions warranted, waking me from my day dream.

Then I took a picture and called the airport for the third time that morning.

The World's Greatest Listener

Sun, 30 Jan 2011 18:01:18 -0500

I am the world’s greatest listener.

My ears have nothing to do with my skills. I use them for telephone conversations and as most excellent support for my glasses. The words that come out of the mouth will confuse me if I grant them too much importance, but I will admit that I pay close attention to the eyes, watching where they go and how they do it.

My full attention is a fleeting fickle thing, and not everyone can, or will, be the recipient of it. Nor can I predict what will capture my attention so thoroughly as to bring about the full scope of my power. Given the need professionally or personally, with intense concentration, I am able to intentionally command only a fraction of this power, but combined with eye contact, practiced body language and a few well-placed conversational add-ons... a fraction is all I need.

People do not listen to each other as a rule... so people have no real expectations of competence or metrics to ascertain levels of performance. Long accustomed to mediocrity, people are only too happy when they are able to complete their thoughts without interruption. Thrilled to achieve an actual two-way dialogue… they are overwhelmed when not forced to “hurry up” or “net it out.”

A fraction of my true “Power to Listen” puts me squarely ahead of the most attentive parent, miles ahead of the most acclaimed classroom teacher, somewhere akin to the spouse who is already in trouble, and a quantum leap beyond the would-be, first time lover… eager to discover the clues that may lead to sexual bliss.

On infrequent occasions, my true power to listen is fully unleashed. Once during a short one hour flight to Raleigh, North Carolina, an elderly woman who was traveling with a cat in the seat beside me… spoke to me. Unaccustomed to flying, bound for family members with a new-borne child, she spoke while I listened.

She spoke to me through unspoken fear and with memories painful and strong.

She spoke with an anticipation quite clear and with need that poured forth like a song.

She spoke in a small tiny trembling voice that made each precious word a rare treasure.

And her deep-set brown eyes were a little bit moist, yet they showed me a depth beyond measure.

I listened long after the talking had stopped as emotions played over her face.

Amidst dreams of grandchildren that she would adopt if allowed to assemble her case.

I could hear her reluctance to want this too much, her belief that her children need space

But so thick was her loneliness… so real to the touch, I could feel the pain she would erase.

I could not help but listen as we walked from the gate and two small children called out her name.

With my power I heard her assessing her fate ... feeling this was no time to complain.

As she faded from view in a tangle of legs and of arms and of children in bliss,

I reviewed what I’d learned while she’d shared her alarm, quite convinced that her life was amiss.

She really wanted to help her daughter-in-law with the new baby, and in so doing… they might make room for her and her broken heart. It was a heart long broken… out of loneliness and the feeling of no longer being needed. It was a heart beset by fear of the illness that she shared with no one.

I realize that she spoke to me of her illness -- with what she did not say. She spoke of it in between the words that she actually used. I had listened to her speak of what little time was remaining. I heard her speak of choices made that should not have been, but were. Had I just used a fraction of my power, I would only have heard an elderly traveler… eager to see the family she had not seen in years, and eager to meet the new grandchild she had only dreamed of.

A fraction of my power would have had me sitting beside another faceless stranger. But something in her had unleashed the full measure of my power, and I heard desperation and loneliness while facing the realization of her own mortality. I heard an overwhelming fear of rejection... in a pitched battle with a deep-rooted desire to share her final days with those she loved. I heard her ask the world what would happen to her cat once she was gone.

As I listened to her, I heard the cacophony of chaos as the final bricks and clutter of a woman’s life cascaded all around her. The things I heard broke my heart.

And I cursed this power of mine.