Something (Almost) Seamless Capital Way Comes

Here's some more of my "line 'em up and spit 'em out type of writing" -- again, Miami-based (but now, DC-bound)--

--from a stream of vignettes titled, "Almost Seamless":

ALMOST SEAMLESS:  REFLECTIONS ON AN OTHERWISE TORN WEEK

BY GEORGINA MARRERO

            Oh, to be a seamstress:  a good one, at that, able to expertly execute a seamless stitch.  None of that rip out the stitch and begin from scratch business.  And yet that is precisely what I found myself doing, over and over, this past week.

            Writing, gaffes; ups, downs:  one and the same.  At least the first I do in private.  Keep my lips zippered:  my Albesia wood statue, “Silent Wisdom,” is staring down at me from the top of my old tall teak bookcase this very moment.  How can wisdom lie in a piece of silent wood seamlessly carved by someone who lives half a world away?  And yet I stare back, and, at some level, agree.

            Two rows down I find my other medicine:  wood pulp, this time, printed with many long, difficult words.  How can such expertly executed words stitch my soul back together?  And yet they do, at some level:  almost – but not quite –seamlessly.

            For the final stitching I invariably have to do for myself.  And here are some of the not quite seamless – hell, almost seamless – results.

THE ANOINTED

Do I really have to wait?  On a beautiful, cloudless Saturday, I found myself at the Douglas Gardens Jewish Home and Hospital Thrift Shop.  A friend of mine had found some of those ultra-expensive knits there at a fraction of the price.

            Take the Dolphin, the man with whom I spoke when I called for directions informed me.  Oh, no:  anything but the Dolphin, that claustrophobically criss-crosses the city at the worst possible point of intersection.  Once I was on it, I realized I could have taken LeJeune and saved myself precious moments of aggravation.

            Finding myself on 27^th Avenue, the same 27^th Avenue I know that criss-crosses my more familiar terrain of Eighth Street, and following it blindly, I soon found myself in the southernmost reaches of North Miami Beach.  It didn’t dawn on me, however, until I was about to squeeze into a parking spot.

            Squeeze was right, for the parking lot was full.  In frustration, and less than comfortable with my surroundings, I asked some ladies who were about to enter why the thrift shop is located there.  Because the Jewish Home and Hospital is located right behind the store, was their answer.  Oh.

            Soon I found myself browsing through rack after rack of dated, yet stylish, jackets, dresses, coats; even furs.  I even found a few size 2’s, but the sleeves were too short, and the length was too long.

            Almost everything appeared to date from the 1980’s:  huge shoulder pads; loads of sequins; brightly colored appliqués; snakeskin.  Fingering many of the items, the bulk of them appeared to be in pretty good shape.

            It was when I tried on several of the furs, with their stiffened pelts and unraveling linings, that it hit me:  these items are here because they belonged to little old Jewish ladies who are now either residing at the Home, or are since deceased.  I became very sad.

            There’d been no ultra-expensive knits available for a song, plus there was no dressing room in which to try out a sequined number or two.  So I quickly selected several purses with the ubiquitous snakeskin and a dressy evening bag that needs a good cleaning, and decided to check out the rest of the store.

            A little square topped butcher-block dinette set surrounded by four sprightly chairs reminded me of my own twenty-five-year-old tastes.  Lots of dark wood and some lacquered pieces brought my ex-husband’s grandmother to mind. 

            The bric-a-brac and silver were all over the place.  Whole sets of china; outdated appliances; mugs advertising some Jewish charity or the other:  you could outfit an entire home with what this store contains.  And many a family probably has, too.

 A ceramic Ferdinand with his cart briefly caught my attention.  But then I turned to the books.  Law books; almanacs; cookbooks; tons of Reader’s Digest Condensed Books; books having to do with Jewish lore; and Judith Krantz:  I saw at least two copies of Scruples Two.

Spotting Louis Auchincloss’ The Cat & The King, I grabbed it.  What a non-surprise:  Auchincloss had dedicated his book on Louis XIV to his cousin, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis.

Standing in line, I contemplated my soon-to-be purchases.   They amounted to less than thirty dollars.  I would have gladly paid up to triple for one of those knits.

But I’ll wait.  And, in the meantime, perhaps I made it a little bit easier for one of those old ladies.

Snakeskin and The Sun King:  I can think of worse coordinates.

580 words

                                         

AND THE CASTLE STILL ROCKS

            Heading up 27^th Avenue, I figured I’d catch I-95 at 79^th Street.  Right before the intersection, the sign for the highway pointed in one direction.  For some reason, I became confused.

            Crossing over, though, I saw a sign I hadn’t seen in many, many years:  Royal Castle.  Immediately thinking of the Royal Castle on Eighth Street, oh so many years ago, I figured, why not?

            So I pulled into the parking lot behind the smallish restaurant, and entered into a mid-sixties time warp I had not expected I’d encounter on this beautiful, cloudless Saturday.   

It didn’t bother me in the slightest that I had the lightest colored skin.  A young Latino couple:  a skinny Sean Penn look alike; his decidedly young wife with long, curly hair flowing behind her; and their two daughters, were patiently awaiting their hamburgers.  As were grizzled old laborers in their rumpled jeans and tan work boots.

            An elderly woman and several children were sitting at the counter.  I couldn’t help noticing that the counter seats were old, frayed.  The floor was clean enough, though.  And signs behind the counter advertised the specials in all their pictorial glory.

            Hamburgers, I want two hamburgers, I told the corpulent, but friendly clerk.  Just two?  You’ll be back here in a jiffy for more.  She smiled.  Oh, no.  I have high cholesterol.  She seemed to understand.

            Placing my order, I then realized I’d have to wait, for everything’s cooked to order:  no fast food, this.  As a matter of fact, there was a sign stating:  Sorry if you cannot wait.

            So I waited.  And waited.  Longer than I would have at even a Johnny Rockets, I daresay.  The Latin family was served.  The construction workers were served.  One had even sat down across from me at a booth to do the same thing as I:  to patiently wait.

            Finally the friendly clerk called me up, and handed me a basket with my two hamburgers, as well as the Diet Pepsi I had ordered.  Pushing four o’clock, I was ravenous.

            I decided to take my food outside to sit at one of the flagstone patio tables.  The sky was so blue, so brilliant:  a little warmth shining down on my face wouldn’t hurt me.

            And then I surrendered to the graceless beauty of an irregularly shaped Royal Castle hamburger, with its obviously hand-chopped corners.  Scalloped little bites, actually, with a dab of ketchup, mustard and two pickles on the underside of the burger.

            I bit into the first one.  It had been nonchalantly slapped onto the rectangular, freshly warmed bun:  who cared if it was sticking out at odd corners?  I didn’t.

            All I cared about was that I was stepping back in time, in all its grease-encrusted splendor.

            For a few, short, glorious minutes, I was seven, eight, or nine years old again.        

Except that this is one of the last two remaining Royal Castles in Miami, and it’s not on Eighth Street.  Except that I paid the $2.56 tab myself.  Except that I developed a major case of heartburn within an hour.

I don’t care.  For me, this Castle still rocks.

523 words

YOUR PURCHASE, PLEASE?

Handing the Marshall’s clerk the Buxton wallet, she looked at me.  Yes, this is what I’m buying.  Taking out my Fendi wallet, we both laughed.

25 words

And some stitches are so seamless you don’t even realize it at the time.

THE PENNY COLLECTOR (Circa, several months ago)

            A gringo stood behind me in the Express Lane at Publix.  He just had to be a gringo: with his white hair, rosy complexion, horn-rimmed glasses, crisp pink Ralph Lauren polo-pony embossed shirt, khakis, and tasseled penny loafers.

            Not being able to resist, I tested the waters:  Things have changed so much in Miami, haven’t they, I asked him in my best meaningfully pointed manner.

            Yes, yes they have, he responded.  He had an almost indistinguishable accent, but I was still sure he was a gringo.

            Telling him all about my background and how I’m a people observer, he quickly surprised me by his:  Latin American.  Oh.  A former banker, with ties to the diplomatic corps:  perhaps not such a big oh, after all. 

            I’m a people observer, too, he informed me.

            By this time, I was at the front of the line and was getting ready to pay.  Taking out bills and change from my (Fendi ;-) wallet, he stated:  “That’s very Cuban.”

            Very WHAT?  I was astonished.  With his fingers, he demonstrated how I’d flipped the dollars and change out in a certain way.  A Cuban way, obviously, according to this savvy, non-gringo world traveler.

            Yes, that’s the way I do it, I conceded.

            Darn, another Penny Collector had beaten me at my own game. 

           

215 words

I think I’m all stitched up…  for now.