Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice read aloud.

Come visit with me on Nerd Girls Romantics and Time Travelers blog.

I also write the Searching For Sincerity blog with my husband, Jonathan.

 

The Last Age of the Redhead

 

      I heard it on the news this morning. Redheads are becoming extinct – and fast –in less than 100 years They reported it on a Sunday Morning network news show. Who’s even awake at that hour on a Sunday? It’s quite possible I was the lone redhead viewing at the time the devastating report was aired. The lone redhead. That phrase resonates with me

      As a child, the hardest thing about having red hair was not so much being the only one, as that it went with being funny looking. There were the orange locks, the pale, freckled skin, and bright blue eyes, framed by pale blond lashes that were all but invisible to the naked eye. Add to that a big nose, braces, and the fact that I was painfully skinny and it was not a look that put me on the fast track to popularity. 

      Jr. high school was a misery. This was the early seventies, when the look was tan and sleek, with long, straight, blond hair. To make it worse, I lived in Southern California, home of the perpetually bronzed. And so I tried to embrace the look, but the hip-hugger jeans hung un-alluringly from my shapeless body, my skin only reddened and freckled in the sun, and my wavy red hair refused to take on the swingy lengths of Marcia Brady’s.

      And yet, as often happens, once I reached adulthood, the ugly duckling grew into a swan. My wavy red hair, like a russet waterfall down my back, became a true asset. I was cute; I was attractive. Boys finally liked me! And once I was on a roll, I never looked back. But all those years of being different, and quirky looking built my character, like my mom always said it would.

Being a redhead is a state of mind anyway, a deep sense of knowing that we are different, and yes, even endangered. We may not survive evolution. We are fiery, passionate, and a little mystical, but can we be preserved? I don’t think so. But I’m thankful that my hair has been the tool with which to build my character. Let’s hope that that part of being a redhead will never become extinct.

 

An American Immigrant in New York City

      I was an outsider in Los Angeles, the land of my birth. I should have been born and raised on the East Coast – my complexion and temperament are much more suited to it. In L.A. I felt like a misplaced immigrant from another country. I was never the blond, tanned, athletic type that one associates with Southern California. I was a skinny red-headed kid with freckles and I burned. When I was 13, my family moved to Tucson, and I felt even more out of place there, with the relentless sun, parched air, and Rodeo Days celebrations. 

 

      When I was 18, I visited New York City for the first time for just one day with a touring educational group, and the moment I set foot on the city’s moist sidewalks, air misty on a damp May morning, every pore in my body breathed: I’m home. Our tour bus let my friends and I off in front of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and as I gazed at the stately old building with its great, imposing steps I was amazed. Nothing in the South West is old, nothing has steps; everything is flat and low to the ground. We went inside and looked at impressionist paintings, taking in a Monet exhibit. There was nothing of such a cultural nature in Tucson – I didn’t even know Monet existed before that day. 

      Once finished there, we took a bus along 5th Avenue to Greenwich Village. The ride itself was a marvel as the bus trundled down that famous street that had only existed for me in the movies. There were hoards of people bustling along the avenue in raincoats and hats. I’d never seen anything like it. Nobody walks in the South West, and nobody ever wears a raincoat.

      When we got to the Village, I discovered what appeared to be an artists’ haven. Though I didn’t actually see any artists, I could certainly see why they’d hang out there in the quaint little bistros, hip record stores, dark cafes, and vintage clothing shops. It reeked of bohemia. This is what I was at my core; I knew it, though I’d never realized it before.

      Finally, we met up with the rest of our group in Times Square to see A Chorus Line. Walking down those legendary streets, I breathed in City, my heart beat City; I wanted to live in a City – this city. Even the New Yorkers seemed to agree. Walking along, my hair curling into ringlets from the dampness, strangers gave me appreciative glances.  I felt attractive in New York City. I didn’t have to be blond and tan. For the first time in my life I fit in. 
After the show, we got back on the bus and I didn’t return to the city for two years.  When I did come back to go to college, I knew I was finally coming home. I was returning, not to the land of my birth, but the land of my rebirth. 

      The United States is such an enormous country, that as one travels from east to west, or north to south, one encounters people and places that are so different from each other it seems impossible that they can all be part of the same country. But this allows us unending freedom to search until we find just the place where we feel most at home. New York is my home now, and though I know I’m an immigrant here, I’m happy for the warm welcome.

 

The Queen

 

      Queen Mermaid of Coney Island sits beside her king, bejeweled, bedecked and adored as the throngs amass to celebrate the day.

      I, the mermaid queen, swim alone through vast expanses of depth and cold, heat and light, awash in waste and wreckage.

      She sacrifices to save her Brooklyn land, but I have no recourse to save my Atlantic and Pacific, my Indian and Arctic, my Mediterranean…

      My minions, the silvery and silent, the undulating membranes, the many-legged and tentacled, the sharp, the profound, the joyous and the taciturn swim with me. 

      Then my brothers and sisters join us, scales flashing, hair seething with the ebb and flow of the tides and we see all.

      We head for warmer parts, for cleaner waters and we wish the monarch well. May she pray for us.

 

Assault on Coffee Den #103

      On a promising Wednesday morning, Chuck Fabrizzi was preparing Coffee Den # 103 for the onslaught of customers that would pour through the squeaky-clean glass doors about an hour after the crack of dawn. Meanwhile, the ultimate disruption of his morning routine was hurtling towards him on the F train. 
Chuck's minions scuttled about, filling napkin holders, stacking sugars, stocking cups and preparing the machines that would issue forth the steaming black liquid. His nameplate announced his title, Assistant Manager. He walked around the establishment inspecting tables. One young, attractive female worker finished wiping a tabletop and then deftly slipped out of his way before he could engage her in conversation. Another lost opportunity. He glanced at his watch, the minute hand snapped to 7:00 and he barked an order: “Open the doors!” The call went down the chain of command until the lowliest stepped forward and ceremoniously pushed the double doors outwards, locking them in place. 

 

      Several blocks away, a tall man dressed in white emerged from the F train station with his troupe of followers and began marching in the direction of Coffee Den #103. 
Back at the Den, rushed, sleepy, and harried professionals one by one stumbled in, their expressions blank, only one thought on their collective mind – caffeine. The baristas, for their part, did the dance they knew so well. Tall, (which meant small), Grande, (which inexplicably meant medium) and Venti, (well, enough said). Skim, foam, half-caff, macchiato, latte, double-shot – all the lingo that was mutually assumed by all, and any customer who professed ignorance of it, God help them. 

      The multitudes came and left, now happily drugged. Computer laptops were opened at tables and the world of the Coffee Den was at peace. Chuck gazed about and breathed a sigh of contentment. He lived for moments like these. Then, out of the corner of his eye, through the doorway, he caught a flash of white and red. There was singing and shouting. He quickly checked his mental calendar. No, Christmas was still several months off. The red and white was coming into focus. A tall man wielding a bullhorn, dressed in a white leisure suit with poufy, bleached blond hair was leading a choir, clad in red robes, straight towards Coffee Den #103. What on earth? They came closer. Some kind of celebration? Closer. Chuck now could see the man was a minister. He began to panic. What was happening? Before he could decide what to do, the group burst through the doors. The lively gospel tune they were singing had a message, something about little children picking coffee beans. 

      The preacher was imploring the customers, “Sisters and brothers, put down that expensive coffee you’re drinking – back away from the product and reflect with me for a moment. Who has picked those precious beans – those sacred beans that give you so much pleasure? It’s a farmer and his children, a farmer in Ethiopia or Columbia who is being paid pennies a day, whose children spend backbreaking hours in the fields rather than sitting in a classroom receiving an education. The high price you pay for your coffee is not going to those farmers! The Coffee Den has the choice to use fair trade products and they choose not to! They come into our communities, force the mom and pop coffee shops out of business – replace authentic experience with a fake bohemianism, and exploit coffee farmers with every sip you take!” 

      A pretty lady was handing out fliers with supporting information. Information that well, frankly, Chuck wasn’t aware of, nor did he care much about. Business was, after all, business.

      Suddenly the preacher hopped onto the counter; he was standing on the counter with his filthy shoes, thought Chuck. The man was working the crowd with a combination of humor and pathos. People were listening to him with wide eyes, some a little frightened, but many enjoying the spectacle and the music. They were taking the fliers from the pretty woman. This had to stop. 

      “Stop!” cried Chuck. 

      But the minister just kept on preaching and now he was addressing Chuck personally with his message, begging him to confront his own company about the wrongs it was committing. Then he did the most unthinkable thing. He leapt behind the counter, scattering baristas from his path, and he LICKED the spigots of each coffee machine. Chuck whipped out his cell phone and dialed 911. This was insanity. Why was this happening at Coffee Den # 103, why not #104 on the next block over? The minister now approached the cash register dramatically, warily, like it was the representation of evil. 

      “This is all an act,” thought Chuck. “They’re going to rob us!”

      But the minister laid his hands on the machine as if it were a sick child and called out to heaven to exorcize the demons of greed and globalization. Chuck ran to him and shoved him aside. The good minister did not take offense. He looked beatifically into Chuck’s eyes and, laying a hand on his shoulder, blessed him too. Chuck froze. He had never been blessed before. He gazed into the minister’s blue eyes. This was a good man, Chuck could see, someone who had the courage of his convictions. Chuck had never really felt conviction for anything but his job. The minister was addressing that too, thanking Chuck for doing his job well, but asking him, begging him to consider the source of the black liquid that spewed from his machines every day. Chuck took a moment to consider. He felt torn. The music from the choir grew softer, chanting. He felt slightly lulled by the music. After all, there was no real harm done. He’d have to take apart the coffee machines and sterilize the spigots, and that would slow down business, but it had all been rather interesting. 

      The minister became meditative now, as the choir finished their song. The pretty lady was waving good-bye, handing out her fliers on the way. It had been an adventure. Then, red lights flashed, sirens screamed. A burst of blue as the police rushed in and caught the minister while the choir scattered. The lady was screaming at them but they ignored her; they were bent on him. They forced his hands behind his back and handcuffed him, dragging him out the door. The whole time he was smiling, calling out his message to those who would listen. The police threw him into their van amidst protests from his group. The van drove off. The lady and the choir members bravely exited with one final song, and the customers went back to sipping their coffees. The excitement over, the normal buzz returned, heightened, with chatter about what had just taken place. Chuck mentally assessed his defiled sanctuary. With a sigh of resignation he ordered his crew to dismantle the coffee machines, while he took personal charge of scouring down the counter. They worked until they had restored the Coffee Den to its former immaculate state. 
The day wore on. Chuck was distracted. His shift ended at 4:00, just before the evening rush of tired commuters came in, looking for their late day pick-me-up. The sun was low in the sky. This was when the cleanliness of the windows was really put to the test – when the light gleamed through, showing every smudge and speck. Chuck noted that they passed the test – his minions had done well. He went downstairs to his locker, took off his smock, grabbed his jacket and headed up and out onto the street. He walked by Coffee Den #104. Everything in order there. Two blocks later he was passing #105. He almost stopped in to ask the manager if they had had any disruption today, but he didn’t feel like discussing it. How could he explain what had happened, how could he muster the appropriate outrage? 

       Chuck reached the entrance to the F train at Broadway/Lafayette and descended into the station’s murky depths. He wondered if the incident would be on the news but he hadn’t seen any reporters there. A flash of red caught his eye, and he turned to look. A somewhat bedraggled young man stood nearby, slumped and tired looking. Over his arm was draped a red choir robe. The young man was humming a tune, lost in his own world. He must have sensed Chuck staring at him, because he looked up, and smiled a smile of uncertain recognition. Chuck hesitantly smiled back. 

      “You were at the Coffee Den this morning.” 

      “Oh yeah, were you there?” the young man asked. 

       “Yes…” 

       “What did you think?” He was an actor looking for a review. 

      “You guys were...” Chuck faltered, feeling at a loss to describe what he thought about the thing he had been a part of, "great," he said. "Really, really great."

      The young man's smile grew wide, “Thanks! You want a flier?” 

      “Sure,” Chuck replied with some surprise at his own answer. 

      The young man fished a folded paper out of his pocket and handed it to Chuck. 

      The F train pulled into the station.

       “Is this your train?” Chuck asked.

      “No, I take the V.” 

      “Well, see you later,” Chuck said, holding out his hand. The young man shook it. 

      Chuck stepped through the opening doors.  They slid closed and he took an open seat. He unfolded the flier and began to read.