Kris T Parker's Open Salon Blog

The talent show

Wed, 11 Nov 2009 12:11:30 -0500

More of this month's National Write a Novel in a Month offering. Please note this is a very rough, first draft of a memoir that I'm kick starting by writing 50,000 words this month.

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“Yeah, I’ve been looking for you, too. Which act do ya wanna do?”

Dori and I had many talents. We practiced them whenever we got together. We tried doing most things while we did our synchronized cartwheels. Everything worked best when done with a cartwheel. We had perfected our cartwheels to include a one-handed variation, although we could never really get the hang of doing a no-handed version. That one always ended in tears, no matter which one of us tried to pull it off.

We had an hour to prepare our act for the camp performance. While other kids ran around trying to put together costumes and such, we settled in confidently knowing that we didn’t need external preparations. We had honed our talents through years of practice. It was just a matter of which act to use. Each was a sure winner. We were after all, Dori and Noree, The Amazing Dingoes, yaaa woooo.

It was very exciting to see the lights come on in the middle of the campground. The tall trees around the stage were lit up, blocking the stars above, but not our star-like qualities. We sat along the side, casually paying little attention to the singer on stage as our main focus was on the Camp Administrator Minnie. She was the one that would call out the Amazing Dingoes.

We suffered through boring hand clapping and flat singing until finally we were called up on the stage. We bounced up the three stairs and jumped from one end of the stage to the other calling out in our carny voices, “Thank you all. You will not be disappointed once you see this most amazing of acts. Get out your pens and paper and start writing home. You’ll be talking about this act for years. We are,” and here we paused, put our arms around each other, and said in unison, “Dori and Noree – the Amazing Dingoes.”

The crowd clapped their hands and although the light made it hard to see, I was sure that everyone was up on their feet, laughing and clapping.

Dori yelled out, “One, Two, ah Three” and we began in unison. “Shi-burb-lerly, bo-burp-erly, bo-burp-erly, ban-burp-ana, bo-burp-fana, fo furly, urp”

Minnie stomped on the stage as we inhaled to make the next series of burps. She grabbed each of us by the arm and started leading us off the stage. I yelled out, “but we didn’t even do the synchronized cartwheels yet.”

Dori protested, “this is only part of the act. Don’t you get it?” she pleaded. “We burp out the song WHILE we do cartwheels.”

“It’s amazing” I said softly with tears of anguish welling up in my eyes. “You have to let us go on with the show.” I pleaded to her on behalf of our fans, then appealed to her own ego, “we were just about to do your name” and we both started burping out “Min-erp,inie-erp, bo binnie, erp…” as she sped us off the stage as quickly as possible.

1968: Summer Camp

Tue, 10 Nov 2009 17:11:33 -0500

More of this month's National Write a Novel in a Month offering. Please note this is a very rough, first draft of a memoir that I'm kick starting by writing 50,000 words this month.

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The three of them were standing in the wide-open space of the horse yard with no one around them, looking like they thought they were in the middle of a Laundromat. “Sally, these are my cousins, Debbi, Dori and Karen.”

I held my hand out and pointed graciously at them the way that Sister MaryBeth taught me at my old school, St. John’s. Continuing with the formal introduction I pivoted and looked at Sally while saying, “Debbi, Dori and Karen, I’d like to introduce you to Sally. She and I met at camp last summer. She doesn’t go to camp, but actually lives out here.”

At that point they should have all shook hands and said something pleasant. My cousins went to public school and evidently so did Sally. They all looked at me instead of acknowledging each other.

Chicago Meet Up review

Mon, 9 Nov 2009 15:11:53 -0500

Chicago OSers came out to play on Saturday. A few of us got together to discuss life, writing and the pursuit of happiness this Saturday at Sally's Pancake House on the city's north side.

Sitting around the huge appetizer apple pancake were JimmyMac, who got things started by slicing into the pancake; NoisyNora who started gathering up the troops; Stim and his wife Linda who kept us intriqued with stories of oral histories; Polly Endicott who revealed her talent and interests in the flute: the Poet of Logan Square who remained a poet even up in Norwood Park; and yours truly hosting the event in my neighborhood.

We laughed, we traded stories, we had such a wonderful time that I didn't even think about the camera that I forgot at home. Of course, we all probably had cameras on our phones, but we didn't even think of taking a single shot. Instead, it was all about our writing, the comaraderie of being on OS, and the passions that keep us all going on this crazy Merry-Go-Round called life.

It was wonderful catching up with each other. We thought we were sneaking in a last meet up before the howling winds of winter hit us, but it was a delightful nearly 70-degree day with more wonderful weather ahead of us. There were a few suggestions for our next Chicago meet up, so we'll see who picks up the task and gets it organized.

I had a great time. Thanks for coming out to play!

1968: Fighting with Debbi

Fri, 6 Nov 2009 23:11:50 -0500

More of this month's National Write a Novel in a Month offering.

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Dori and I walked down the stairs together, arm around shoulder and legs together as if we shared a third leg. We got to the stair with the fish outline ripped out of the black stair mat and we both jumped so as not to touch “the fish stair.” Caryn walked down the stairs behind us and jumped the stair too, with no one noticing.

Once we got out to Odgen Avenue, we saw that Debbi was already across the island in the middle of the street and was running in front of a south-bound bus. Dori screamed “Run, Debbi, faster.” Caryn gasped audibly behind me and then we relaxed when we saw the bus pass with Debbi still running on the sidewalk beyond it. “Debbi, you scared me,” Dori yelled to the wind.

Dori took Caryn’s hand as we looked cautiously before making our own way across four lanes of traffic.

We met up with Debbi in LaRoc’s on the corner of Grand and Ogden Avenues. Debbi already placed an order for an extra large frozen custard. “I was gonna buy sodas,” I said as I looked at the cash clenched in my hand.

“Don’t worry, hon.” Gus, the owner smiled at me from across the counter. “Pay me the difference when you can. Joey, look at these little ladies. Who are you, doll? You with that curly red hair. You’re going to be a heart breaker. How old are ya?”

“Debbi. I’m Debbi. I’m 13.”

“You already broke my heart, doll.” Joey held his hand across his chest and winked at Debbi. He nodded at Dori then, “How ‘bout you?”

Dori stood rimrod straight like her towhead hair over her pale face and enunciated perfectly, “My name is Dori and I’m 12-years old. I’m Noreen’s cousin and these are my sisters.”

“I’m next in age.” I said excitedly.

“Yeah, be we already know you.” Gus looked from me to Caryn. “And you’re Noreen’s little cousin, huh?”

Caryn ran behind Dori.

“No name?”

Caryn poked her head from behind Dori and shook her head for a response.

“Well Joey, we got us here one of each, a redhead, a towhead, brunette, and a dishwater blonde.”

“My hair’s not dishwater.”

“Who said that?” Gus looked at Joey, with a mock of a smile on his face.

“The little one, with no name.”

“Honey, you have beautiful hair. That’s just the color of it. Now, will you tell me your name?”

“Caryn.”

“Caryn, do you want a vanilla or chocolate cone?”

“Chocolate.”

“Joey, Caryn wants a chocolate cone. Can you get it for her?”

“Thanks Gus,” I plopped down my cash and added my order to Dori’s.

LaRoc’s was a fixture in our neighborhood, a hotdog joint that was lit up all night long. Originally three brothers owned it, but Gus bought out the other two and was the only owner that I ever knew at the place. It stood like a beacon, the only building on a full city corner with plenty of parking for the trucks that could have begun their ride down Route 66 at that point. I often imagined that this, in fact, was the point where Route 66 began, on Ogden Avenue in Chicago – straight aways to Cal-I-for-nia. Probably not, but LaRoc’s sure did bring in a lot of truckers. In another few years it would be my first job, if you don’t count making mimeograph copies for the nuns in the rectory.

Walking out of LaRoc’s, we walked around the neighborhood licking our frozen custards. Walking east on Grand Avenue we past the Italian bakery that was closing up shop for the afternoon. I nodded to the owner as she removed some cookies from the window and cleaned the area. Turning to Dori, I asked, “So, why did your father beat your mother this time?”

“Shut up!” Debbi screamed in response.

“Was I talking to you?”

“Er, she walked into a door,” Dori answered like a robot.

“Huh?” I looked from Debbi’s red, angry face all scrunched in on itself to Dori’s calm look that mimicked her mother’s response to me.

“Come on, what really happened?” I looked at Debbi directly.

“Notta a fucking thing.”

“You want me to think that your mother is so stupid that she’d walk right into a door. And what. And rip open her wrist too? By accident?”

“Yeah!” Debbi threw the rest of her cone to the ground – splat.

“Like your father. Look at me, I’m walking in front of a car. Look at me on the ground while a tire rolls over my face. I’m too stupid to get uuppph.”

My cone was suspended in the air as my fist cracked into the side of Debbi’s head. The fight was on. We rolled across the sidewalk toward the traffic. Dori screamed at us to stop, but stood between us and the street to keep us from rolling into danger.

Our fights were always painful events. We could hear Dori screaming and Caryn whimpering as I punched and Debbi scratched at me like a mountain lion. We yelled, swore, ripped at each other’s emotional wounds and rolled back and forth on the sidewalk over melted custard cream and our own fears.

Tired out, we leaned into each other and cried. I cried for my father who I still missed terribly and Debbi cried because she was filled with the rage of both of her parents. We pushed off each other and got back to our feet. We were surrounded by four tossed cones with varying degrees of oozing custard melting out of them. We brushed ourselves off and continued walking. Although we couldn’t kill each other, we still had time to kill.

My mother is four years older than her sister, although she was more of a mother to her than my crazy grandmother Helen, ever was. My mother became the caregiver when they were seven and three years old. There was a fire and their house filled with smoke. The kids were home alone for some reason. My grandfather was at work, since it was during the day. My grandmother was out with her circus friends. Her best friend had a gig as a spinner. She would hold onto a bar by her teeth and spin above the circus tent.

1968: My aunt and cousins move in

Thu, 5 Nov 2009 13:11:52 -0500

More of this month's National Write a Novel in a Month offering.

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I got up to answer the knock on the door. Through the frosted glass, I could see that it was my Aunt Dorothy and my three cousins. I ran in response and flung the door open.

“Dori!” I shouted as she dropped the bag in her right hand and the stuffed pillowcase in her left. We grabbed each other and jumped together, out of the hallway and into the kitchen. As she yelled my name and I yelled hers, in our familiar yelp: “Noree” and “Dori” and “Noree” again.

Debbi stepped on Dori’s belongings and walked in to the room like a zombi with the weight of the world on her brain-dead mind. She mumbled something like, “move this shit so people can get in the house.” Debbi walked immediately to my bed and threw her crap on it.

My brother looked up from the sofa and yelled out “I’m not giving up my bed.” As my mother responded, “you don’t have to. They’re only staying for a couple of nights.” Nicky shook his head and mumbled, “it’s never just a couple of nights.”

Nicky walked past Dori and me, still in our excited hug, he walked past my aunt who had already dropped her own bags in the kitchen and was now stooped over picking up Dori’s stuff. Caryn stood in the hallway as if expecting an invitation from Nicky, instead he walked right past her and then ran down the stairs to the freedom of the neighborhood.

“Come in” my mother waved to her sister “I’ll make us a fresh pot of coffee.” Caryn followed her mother in response. My mother lit up a Salem, shook the match until the flame died and flipped it into the ashtray on the kitchen table as she walked to the electric coffee pot on the stove.

“Noreen,” she called out to me, “help your cousins put things away in your room.” Looking at her sister’s black eye and bandaged wrist she said, “sit down, Dorth. Relax.”