Sort of Glad to be “Gone With The Wind”

More than just 979 pages, this 75th Anniversary issue is nearly two inches thick and weighs a few pounds!

By Edward M. Bury, APR, MA (aka The PRDude)

Let’s face it: A serious commitment is required to read a sizeable work of fact or fiction from cover to cover.  One could make the excuse that by page 173, you no longer have interest in the plot; or perhaps the author’s grasp of grammar and syntax fails to compel you to finish another chapter, or even turn the page.

A few days back, I — finally, finally! — finished reading Gone with the Wind, the 1936 novel by Margret Mitchell set in and around Atlanta, Georgia during this nation’s most challenging days in the mid-19th century and over the equally tumultuous the years that followed. 

The 75th Anniversary version I read, shown in the image above, is 979 pages long.  The book, which earned the Pulitzer Prize for fiction in in 1937 and a few years later was made into an Academy Award winning film, is shaped by history, driven by the exploits of its lead characters, often romantic despite the tragedies that took place, and unwavering in depiction of a grandiose way of living for a selected breed of American who technically owned other human beings. 

The author, born in 1900 and a native of Atlanta, tapped into family history in part to craft life and times of plantation heiress Scarlett O’Hara, her immediate family and friends, rogue Rhett Butler, and other Southerners who lived through the horrors of war and its aftermath.  As a first novel, Gone with the Wind, can be ranked among the greatest debut works of modern fiction and certainly one of the greatest American novels. 

And, did I mention, it’s really, really long. 

As a reader, I was captivated by the emerging story line of war, peace, and its aftermath, and the ever-evolving character development, especially the manner in which the clearly highly conceited Scarlett attempts to justify her often disgusting actions as being substantiated due to her pedigree and the plantation way of life.  From an historical perspective, I grew to comprehend that anyone who dwelled in parts of the nation outside the South were Yankees, and I gained a great deal of insight into the many misgivings of the post-war Reconstruction.

From a personal perspective, let me share two recollections that somewhat tie into the novel. Several years ago, I worked for a real estate association which had a broad national membership, including many members who hailed from Southern states.  Here’s what I recall:

1. In a conversation with a gentleman from Alabama, he noted that he was pleased to work with “a Yankee” on a committee. I pointed out that I am a lifelong Chicago Cubs fan; plus, my ancestors hailed from Poland and arrived here in the early 20th century.
2. While in Atlanta for a business trip, a lady who hailed from South Carolina and her husband gave me a short tour while driving to their home for dinner.  “And, there’s Stone Mountain, a monument to those who served in the War of Northern Aggression,” she said.  I just nodded.

From one perspective, based on the two examples above, some members of the Baby Boomer generation still held onto some of the way things were in the South before shots were fired at Fort Sumter. From another perspective, perhaps I interpreted too much by the recollections above. 

Back in 2018, in this space I shared thoughts on the impact of reading Moby Dick, certainly the longest novel (in terms of pages) I had ever read. Gone with the Wind well exceeded Herman Melville’s masterpiece in terms of length, and I found the prose and imagery to be spellbinding at times.

Starting and finishing a long work is an accomplishment, and I’m glad I read Mitchell’s novel.  And, I’m glad I can move onto another work.  Now, I guess I should view the movie. 

Travelogue from 1960 Offers Commentary on The State of the Union Today

By Edward M. Bury, APR, MA (aka The PRDude)

This paperback version of Steinbeck’s non-fiction work features a subdued but inspirational cover.

Now, one month and a few days into the administration of the 47th president of the United States, I felt compelled to offer thoughts on the direction our nation is headed. My initial plan was to pose a range of light-hearted — but poignant and relevant — questions for the president.

An example: If the proposed tariffs on imported goods from Mexico are enacted, and the price of avocados soar, what replacement toppings would you recommend the hipster/foodie crowd put onto toast?

I drafted a few other potentially humorous questions, but came to the realization that it’s quite challenging to craft this kind of prose, especially when I believe the blitzkrieg rate of executive orders and appointments/firings now taking place across a broad scope of government will have potential cataclysmic outcomes for the democracy we now know. A post with a serious tone was needed; the crux of the message came unexpectedly.

A few days ago, a neighbor who I exchange books with dropped off a copy of John Steinbeck’s “Travels with Charley in Search of America,” a best-selling work published in 1962. I certainly knew about the story behind the author’s 1960 cross-country trek in a modified pick up truck accompanied by a French poodle. So, I began reading the work. I found Steinbeck’s writing — more introspective commentary on the state of the nation and the places and the people he encountered than purely travelogue — an engaging read.

Then, around halfway through the book, as the author was at the Continental Divide, he reflected on the purpose of his inland voyage and how he was “briefed, instructed, directed, and brain-washed by many of my friends.”

The paragraph continued: “One among them is a well-known and highly respected political reporter. He had been grassrooting with the presidential candidates, and when I saw him he was not happy, because he loves his country, and he felt a sickness in it. I might say further that he is a completely honest man.

“He said bitterly, ‘If anywhere in your travels you come on a man with guts, mark the place. I want to go to see him. I haven’t seen anything but cowardice and expediency. This used to be a nation of giants. Where have they gone? You can’t defend a nation with a board of directors. That takes men. Where are they?'”

From an historical perspective, Steinbeck took his trip in fall of 1960; that year pitted John F. Kennedy against Richard M. Nixon in the presidential election. I trust you know who won; and perhaps the outcome that November may have factored into the book.

Back to the excerpt above, I have no idea on the identity of the reporter referenced by Steinbeck. And, while “Travels with Charley” sold millions of copies, critics have cited that many of the episodes and conversations detailed during journey were fictional. Yes, he piloted and sometimes slept in a vehicle he named Rocinante, but he also spent many nights in lavish hotels with his wife, and Charley, of course.

Regardless of how one interprets the book, the short passage just presented resonated with me.

With seemingly daily headlines of mass layoffs of federal workers, projections of seizing foreign lands for monetary and political gains, assaults and threats against allies, leadership appointments of individuals with questionable experience and character to major federal departments, and other developments since January 20, I, too feel a “sickness.” I, too have witnessed “cowardice and expediency.” I, too look for the return of “a of nation of giants.”

And, I, too love my country.

Fiction Tied to Chilling Reality Rekindles Horrific Memory

Yes, these bad boys are based primarily on imagination and have never actually existed. Unless, of course, you happen to have visited Middle Earth.

By Edward M. Bury, APR, MA (aka The PRDude)

Those of us who write fiction — and with full disclosure I am a very minor participant in that community, at least for the moment –frequently must rely on experiences, memories, and research to structure the plot and develop the characters that result in prose and perhaps even poetry.

Of course, unbridled imagination can certainly provide the foundation for fictional works, especially if the story takes place “A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away,” or involves characters who are of the Orcs ancestry and inhabit Middle Earth.  You get the idea.

But fiction based on real life and times is primarily driven by facts and happenings that can be somewhat substantiated. In reading the Saul Bellow novel, The Dean’s December, I gained insight into life in one of the most repressive Soviet Bloc nations during the height of the Cold War. 

However, as the plot unfolded, I was shaken by how Bellow employed a truly horrific crime — one that I covered as a reporter 40-plus years ago — into the narrative.  I’ll explain shortly; first, some of what I learned by reading the novel, published in 1982. 

Set in Bucharest, Romania in around 1978, protagonist Albert Corde, a former Chicago-born and raised journalist and now a journalism professor and dean at a university, visits the nation with his wife, Minna.  Romanian born and internationally renowned in astronomy, Minna’s mother is gravely ill, and plans are being made for her burial. 

The cold and bleak December days in Bucharest provide a fitting backdrop for what life was like in this Eastern European capital city, where cartons of Kent cigarettes are used as bribes, windshield wipers are removed by drivers otherwise they are stolen, and conversations are hushed or held in a public park for fear of being overheard by the authorities.  Plum wine is the alcoholic beverage of choice, and a lack of regular heat keeps people wearing overcoats to stay warm in their cramped apartments. 

The Library of America published version I read of The Dean’s December contained detailed notes on phrases and works referenced in the novel (reading Bellow can be challenging, certainly not the kind of fiction a James Patterson fan would enjoy), along with a chronology of the author’s life. He did spend time in Bucharest when the nation was ruled by Romanian President Nicolae Ceausescu, who was tried and later executed by firing squad in 1989 along with his wife after trying to flee the country.

Back to The Dean’s December. As noted, Mr. Corde was a Chicago journalist; toward the end of the work, he reflects on an interview with a public defender representing Spofford Mitchell, a fictional man charged with a gruesome murder. As noted on page 904: “The victim was a young suburban housewife, the mother of two small children. She had just parked in a lot near the Loop when Mitchell approached and forced her at gunpoint into his own car.”

Before reading much further, I ascertained that Bellow structured this element of work from a truly horrific kidnapping, rape and murder that took place in Chicago in 1978.  Read about it from this Murderpedia post.  (Perhaps, like you, I was not familiar with this online repository.)

As noted above, I covered this gruesome story while a reporter at the City News Bureau of Chicago, a place I’ve written about in this space, most recently during a reunion in 2019. If memory serves me correctly, I covered pre-trial motions involving the defendant before his trial in 1980.  The outright cruelty and callousness of the man convicted shocked the city, and the story was big news throughout the trial. 

(On a somewhat related note, another character in the work, Mr. Corde’s Chicago buddy renowned columnist Dewey Spangler, also began his journalism career at City News.)

With the plot in The Dean’s December shifting from Bucharest to Mr. Corde’s memories and thoughts of his life in Chicago, I could identify other instances where Bellow reflected on the city where he spent much of his childhood in the Humboldt Park neighborhood and years at the University of Chicago.  Other Bellow novels and short stories also incorporate many aspects of the city, its people, its thoroughfares and its culture.

As identified in the passage from The Dean’s December, Bellow also was very much aware of many of the unsavory and truly dark sides of Chicago. The crime depicted in the novel certainly contributed to the plot and development of Mr. Corde; but to this reader, it brought back a memory I had hoped would never return.

 

Is Public Relations Ever Represented in Fiction?

By Edward M. Bury, APR, MA (aka The PRDude)

Think bout it.

Many, many professions have been the subject of fiction — in print, on the screen and on radio — with some professions like detectives (and perhaps superheroes, I guess) having genres all to themselves.

What would you add to the above to give it a “public relations” element?Image courtesy of Slideshare.net.

But what about the public relations profession? Can you identify a short story, novel or film where the protagonist worked for a PR agency, corporate entity or non-profit? Or a work of fiction where the practice of public relations was significant to the plot?

A google search led to this list on Wikipedia, which references six novels that have some public relations component.  At least I think they do. For the record I am familiar with the author of one work cited and know Thank You For Not Smoking was made into a film.

Granted, working in public relations may not be as exciting or conducive to dramatic episodes as other communications profession like advertising or journalism. However, one can assuredly conclude that public relations is a lot more exciting than the accounting profession, yet not ranking in the kind of excitement that permeates a hospital emergency room.

Back in 2018, I proposed a TV series based on the profession and encouraged an icon of the medium to take on the project. Still no response.

Which brings me to the focus of this post: A personal contribution to what I hope will inspire future creative works.

In my studies toward completing my Master’s of Arts degree this spring, I wrote a short story set in Chicago (what would you expect?) that addresses the professional conflict faced by a public relations executive. And, from a more literary perspective, there’s another conflict borne by the unnamed protagonist.

Here’s a link to the story, “Where Went the Beggar Lady.” It’s only 2,145 words, so a quick read.

Would welcome commentary on both: The prospect of the profession captured in fiction, and of course, my fiction.

A “Novel” Approach to This Post

By Edward M. Bury, APR (aka The PRDude)

Poetry. Drama. Short stories. Non-fiction works.

As I humbly learned, writing a novel can prove fleeting at times. Image courtesy of Academic Help.

All these forms of the written word challenge the writer of literature, commentary and criticism. But it’s the novel — that extended extended genre of fiction — that truly provides the examination and demonstration of the writer’s skill, dedication, drive and passion.

It’s with first-hand experience that I make this assertion.

Last week, I completed the “Novel Writing Workshop” course, another educational step toward earning a master’s degree in English.  Completing the course, however, did not equate to completing my novel.

Ah, the sound and connotation of those words, “my novel.” Yes, I am underway with an extended work of fiction, and I plan to complete a draft by August.

Hold me to that.

In my class, I was one of six fledgling novelists. Some already had works published, others were well into stories that spanned genres (a young woman growing up in a foreign brothel, a surreal account of spirits interacting with people), topics (detective tales, a search for a missing child) and continents (from North America to Asia.)  Me, I created a protagonist who to my knowledge has not been used before: A building engineer. From Chicago, as you’d expect.

More on my story soon.

Every class I’ve taken these past six semesters has culminated in gaining knowledge and understanding of the written word. And, all have improved my cognitive skills.

To summarize, here’s what I learned over the past 14 weeks:

• First Person.  Writing in first person is harder than anticipated. I launched my work taking the narrator’s point of view, but the instructor and classmates wholeheartedly suggested I move to the third person omniscient. I did, and it really made a difference in the narrative.
• Accepting Criticism.  At first I was somewhat stunned by critical comments, leading to defensive replies: “What do you mean there’s not enough conflict? Why do you find the dialogue too dense at times? So, what the heck does understanding temporal distance and free-indirect discourse have to do with writing a novel?” Every writer receives criticism; I learned to accept feedback and move on.
• Map Out the Complete Storyline.  Before class started in early September, I drafted a two-page synopsis of sorts, but I really didn’t craft a solid plot or a conclusion. That led to a roadblock, one I’ve since overcome.
• Point of View Characters. There can only be so many “POV” characters in a work for it to be intriguing and make sense. I learned to restrict this perspective to my protagonist and the guy who’s the villain.
• Trust Your Instincts.  In light of the aforementioned, it will be my name below the title of the work. When the manuscript is completed, the results will be based on what I think is right.

And now, a sample. Here’s the first paragraph of the work:

“For Myron Jezmanski, here’s how it goes when everything is right, when nothing unexpected gets in the way, when he can count on the day being like the day before, and the day before that, and there’s no crap or nonsense that he has to deal with and he can close his eyes and just be thankful for what he’s built, what he has, and what he’s earned. First, the dog is still asleep when he awakes at 5:30 a.m., which means Myron doesn’t have to let him in the yard until he’s had a shower, coffee – one-half teaspoon of sugar only — and a bowl of Cheerios with fruit – dried fruit in the wintertime, fresh fruit when it’s in season. Hell, if he’s going to pay $4.99 for a pint of strawberries in January. If they’re out of Cheerios, he will eat his wife’s granola, even though he really doesn’t see the big deal in granola.”

What do you gain from these 157 words about my protagonist? Stay tuned for more.

By the way, the title of my novel is “The Way It’s Supposed to Be.”

 

 

Snapdragons in November, Part IV

What’s a sure sign of spring?  The start of the baseball season.

Today is opening day for Major League Baseball and my beloved Chicago Cubs are already taking it on the chin in Atlanta.   As any baseball fan knows, the Cubs have had their share of public relations nightmares, due in large part to a century and a year drought in winning the World Series.  Ah, but maybe this year.

Regardless, despite the absence of winning the big one, inept play on the field, boneheaded front office decisions and some purported curse caused by a goat, the Cubs remain one of the best brands in all sports.  Sold out crowds at Wrigley Field and lucrative TV contracts attest to that.   Hey, I’d take a public relations job with the Cubs, if for the sake of getting into the ballpark to see a game now and then.

But, for you loyal readers, enough talk of the Cubs.  Here’s the fourth and final installment in my work of fiction, “Snapdragons in November.” Thanks to all who’ve read it; I’d welcome any comments.

The door opened and he could smell the cleansing rain for a moment. A couple, mid-twenties, somewhat reserved and looking slightly rumpled in their torn dark denims and faded leather jackets, took seats to his right. They studied the food menu – burgers, sandwiches and wings, mainly — for what was a long time and scanned the chalkboard that listed the dozens of beers available. He tried to listen to their conversation and heard the guy offer thoughts as why the pale ale was a better choice than the kolsch. The girl, almost pretty in a gaunt way, listened intently.  For some reason, he liked these two. They probably are artists, or want to be artists, but have to work at some crap retail job to afford a one-bedroom flat in one of the buildings that line this once working-class neighborhood on the upswing.  They had conviction, even in ordering a beer and food from a bar menu.

He wanted to talk to them, and find out more about their lives and what brought them together and to Wellington’s on that early Sunday evening in late fall.  He wondered: What will their conversation be about a year, five years from now? Will they find a common bond built upon something so everyday like what kind of beer to drink?  He sort of envied them. Together, life was unfolding and could take any direction they pursued.

Finishing his fifth Metropolitan, he gestured to Sam for a check. “Hey good lookin’. What’s the damage today?” he asked. “It’s time I started dinner. Otherwise I might get to like this place and stay here all night.”

“Don’t wear out your welcome,” she said. “You could walk out of here for sixteen.”

“I always knew you were a cheap date,” he said, leaving a $20 bill and some singles on the bar. “When’s your swan song shift?”

“Oh, you mean when’s my last shift here?”
“Uh huh.”

“Next Sunday.”

“Well, I’ll plan on being here and plan on being thirsty.”

“It’ll be a little emotional, you know?  I’ve been in Chicago for four years, and I’ve been here three years. Tried to make it work here, but I’ve got to put down new roots where I think they’ll have a better chance to grow. Sometimes, you gotta take that first new step.”

“And, I’m ready to step out and navigate my way home. Goodbye for now, California girl. You ain’t seen the last of me,” he said, pushing open the heavy door.

Damn the rain, he thought, walking at a deliberate pace home. Like the old lady said, it washes the bad crap away.  So what if he got wet.  So what if he stayed at Wellington’s longer than he planned.  So what if dinner would be ready a little later.  So what.

He knew she was not home when he unlocked the back door.  The lights were off and the shades were not drawn. The house was dark inside save for the yellow glow from the street lights. It looked warm, welcoming.  And there, on the kitchen counter, were the snapdragons.  She neatly pruned away the nearly dead leaves and blossoms to create a small beautiful monument to the end of a long, long season.  Little bursts of color in a vase against the black counter top.

There was no note, but he knew where she went, off to buy her milk and probably lots more stuff they didn’t need.  Her unpredictable spirit.  That’s part of what defined her, part of what made him fall in love those seemingly simple years and years ago.  There was goodness in her soul, and perhaps he was too inflexible to recognize this.  Perhaps he had better reap whatever good things – big and small – he could gather.

Keeping his wet jacket on, he went back outside in the rain to wait for her to return. He would inspect every car that drove up their street, toward the home they built together, and hope the next car would be her’s. He would rush to help her carry the groceries they didn’t need. He didn’t care how long he had to stand in the rain.

The End

Snapdragons in November, Part II

Hello:

I see this effort to promote my fiction as “public relations for myself.” The story continues:

She was petite and frail, but still had purpose and determination in her grey eyes. Baby, a friendly, matted little grey mutt with a consistent limp, was Catherine’s companion. Her children would visit, she said, only because they had to. Baby filled the void in a life that once was filled with people who counted on her. They were alike, woman and dog.  Better times had passed, yet they accepted each day for what it delivered, and did so with quiet dignity.  He couldn’t fathom what would happen if one of them were no longer around.

“Hello,” she said. “Baby, behave.”

“Oh, she’s fine,” he said, petting the dog as she rushed to greet him.
“Did you get your gutters cleaned?” she asked, having seen him negotiating the extension ladder earlier.

“No, I was just caulking a little around one of the windows. I’ll wait until next week before I take care of the gutters. There’s a few more leaves on that big tree on the corner. Some will find my gutters, I’m sure.”

“You’re always working.”
“Keeps me young,” he said, wanting to keep the conversation short.

“Oh, you’re young. You’re young. It’s no fun when you get to my age. Medicare. Waited 30 minutes and the doctor sees me for five minutes. It costs me nothing.  But Baby. Ten minutes at the vet costs me $120! With medicine.”

“Well, I’ll let you and Baby get on with your walk before it gets too dark. She looks like she wants some exercise.”

“She needs to do her business.  She hasn’t been doing her business.”

“Yeah, that’s gotta be tough. Well, I’ll let you continue. Goodbye girl.”

“Hey, do you think it’s going to rain tonight? I heard on the news that it was going to rain.”
“Uh, I don’t know. It is starting to get cloudy out to the west.”

“I think it’s going to rain. Rain is good, you know. Rain washes away all the bad stuff in the air. Everyplace. I like it when it rains.”

“Me too. Well, I’ve got to keep moving. Bye. Bye Baby. Don’t get caught in the rain.”

He turned and watched Catherine and the small, grey dog as they drifted away – measured step by step — in the fading, dying light of that gloriously dismal weekend afternoon.  They defined each other, he thought. They gave each other purpose.

At Wellingtons, the mood was relatively subdued, even with the blaring music by bands he never heard of. He looked for his seat: the seat by the window, and he felt relieved it was unoccupied. Wellingtons was built to be a tavern. It had permanence and it survived the slow, cruel bedlam that drove taverns, bakeries and shops in other parts of the city to surrender the character and idiosyncrasies that defined them. The bar, known as Hanka’s when they bought their modest two-flat a few years before prices soared, was housed in a stone corner building with an apartment above and a few in the back. The back bar was solid oak and featured ornate carved columns made by true craftsmen, Europeans who came here generations before for opportunity and to escape bad conditions, like his grandparents did.  The pride and permanence of their work was preserved for a new generation; but he wondered if the current patrons appreciated the role places like this played in the neighborhood.  At least the new owners, young guys who were smart enough to recognize and seize an opportunity, kept the heart of the place – the beautiful oak bar – intact.  Their changes were generally cosmetic. Across from the bar, a bank of Lava lights and wall of bad art replaced the faded, old metal signs promoting beer brands no longer brewed.

The modest room now was mostly populated by kids a few years beyond legal who escaped small town boredom or the sameness of their suburban split levels. Like him, they found little to like in the more antiseptic taverns and clubs further east, where pounding gentrification took a foothold years and years ago. He liked most of the kids, with their spiky, colored hair, piercings and skinny arms resplendent with blue and red tats. Sometimes he would try engaging them with an anecdote, sometimes he stared at himself in the mirror on the bar back, sometimes he stared out the window across the street at the flowering pear tree, ablaze in color for a few days in May, now stark against the darkening sky.

Gone were the regulars like Butch, Harry, Armando and Joey, tradesmen, bus drivers and retirees who rented the same bar stools day after day to escape for a few hours from the direction life took them.  They stopped coming because the room lost what brought them there in the first place. It evolved, but they refused to. He “inherited” Butch’s window stool because he felt he deserved it. And, it gave him the opportunity to witness the outside, its beauty and its ugliness, unfolding. Sliding into his perch, he flagged down Samantha.

Snapdragons in November, Part 1

Friends and followers:

My two jobs — seeking a new position in public relations and taking on project assignments — have prevented me from devoting a lot of time to the blog.  Only three posts in March (albeit some good ones).  I will return to the subject of this blog soon.

Until then, I kindly ask that you accept — and read — the following original work of fiction.  I will “serialize” this in three or four installments.  Here’s the first.  It’s called “Snapdragons in November,” and it’s, well, fiction.  So I totally made this up.

Snapdragons in November

“What are you doing?” she shouted with measured defiance from the back porch.  “There’s nothing left. It’s all worthless stuff; they’re dead.  Just leave them in the ground and come inside.”

He didn’t turn to reply, as he would have in years past.  Why bother.  The back door slammed shut.  Very definitive.  Very expected.  He kept wasting time with what remained of his perennials, annuals and prairie grasses grown in the thin strips of earth between the fence designed to keep people out and the lawn no one walked on. Pulling and weeding brought satisfaction, especially when there was something left to save, something that still had a little value.

The second weekend of that November was mild, unlike most the other shorter-and-shorter days of autumn in Chicago. November days teased those who grasped for more and more days of shirtsleeve weather, often ushering in the damp, the raw, the waning afternoons of warmth and clear skies.  He relished these days and their maddening potential for temperature swings and schizophrenic precipitation.

Let them bask in their endless pursuit of summer and sun, he thought. That’s why we have jackets and hats and umbrellas.  Bring on the end of the growing season, when nature paints everything monochromatic – all dull browns and grays. Carpets of clouds make even shadows hard to notice, and the dead wet leaves look like they’ve surrendered without a fight.  No beauty to most; raw, silent and serene to him.  The months between harvest and planting gave time to savor and reflect.  There was too little of those ordinary welcomed pursuits when the world is made easy and accessible through a flat screen monitor.

A few perennials in the east flower bed had specks of color left.  Most still stood tall, as they did at their height in July, yet they were brittle and could be snapped in half without much effort.  The snapdragons he planted, they fought a better fight.  She would snip a few during the season, using a paring knife, not the garden shears he bought and hung in the neat row under the porch with the rest of his tools.  The little buds, pastels in purple, orange and yellow, would fill out the small vases she’d set on the toilet tank and on the night stand.  Now, in November, the snapdragons weren’t worthy.

Snapdragons don’t offer a bouquet.  But they give little bursts of color all the time, he maintained.

With shears in hand, he clipped the few remaining stems, making a neat angled cut in order to let the plant take in more water and live longer.  She had locked the back door, so he had to use his key to get in.

“I thought you were going to the bar,” she said as a sort of apology for locking him out.

“Soon,” he said.  “Soon.  Would you like to join me?”

“Will it be smoky in there,” she asked?

“Well,” he said, hoping she’d take the hint and not go, “Yeah, it’ll be smoky if there are people there who smoke.  Samantha will be behind the bar.  She smokes.  It’ll be smoky, yea.”

“You go,” she said.  “I’ve got things to sew.”

“I’ll be back in a while, maybe an hour and a half.  I bought some salmon at the store on Milwaukee Avenue.  We’ll have that, a salad and some roasted potatoes.  Is that okay?”
”Yes.  Fine.  What else did you get at your Milwaukee Avenue store?”

“You know.  Stuff for salads for the week, my ham and turkey for lunches.  The usual stuff I buy.”

“Did you get any milk?’
”No.  I thought you didn’t like their milk.”

“But we’re low on milk!”

“I’m leaving.  Here are some flowers to replace the old ones.  Do what you want with them.”

“Can you go to Whole Foods and get my organic milk?”

Yeah, right, he thought ignoring her question, closing the door. Get in a car and drive two miles at the busiest time of the day for fuckin’ milk.

The sidewalk was empty, save for litter and a few dead leaves, as he headed a block north toward Wellington’s Bar. The last rays of a football Sunday peaked between bare limbs from the honey locust and linden trees people planted in the ‘70s after the elm trees died. He felt alive and walked with purpose, even if the desired result was solace through beer among strangers. Then Catherine and Baby crept from the gangway next to the old house where they lived, for what had to be a long time.