Healing through story

Tag: Mannequin Monday (Page 2 of 9)

Mannequin Monday – First Words

We kick off another week. Our bare mannequin is draped with the story of a parrot’s first words. A New York parrot. Yes, language!

What I’m Writing

Today I’m sharing a fun story. I hope it gives you a smile as you start your week.

A Parrot’s First Words

Bob Gillen

I’ve heard longtime residents tell the story of a parrot that rode the NYC subway system. Rode back and forth, only on the elevated lines. Never underground. The bird was first spotted at the Howard Beach station in Queens, near the  transfer point to JFK airport. 

New Yorkers with a long memory recall a man who rode the train with his parrot sitting on his left shoulder. Mostly rode south to Rockaway Beach. Got off at Beach 116th Street and walked the boardwalk. The man spent hours sitting on a bench watching the older men play handball. Men with deep tans on their legs and arms, milk white torsos if a shirt lifted in the breeze. 

One New Yorker, a man who rented a beach bungalow every summer, told me that the bird liked lemon ice. His owner let it eat from his cone. The bird’s owner always wore khakis and a Hawaiian shirt, sometimes with birds on it, sometimes flowers. A tan porkpie hat sat on the back of his head.

The handball players would yell to him, Hey, where’s my margherita? The man smiled, the bird ignored them. 

Credit: NY Daily News

Someone claimed to have once spotted the man and bird riding north from Rockaway on the A train, then transferring back to the Lefferts Blvd. station. The two got off near the public library. The man was seen a few hours later riding back towards Rockaway with a handful of books. No one recalls hearing where the man lived.

The subway bird sported a beautiful array of colors. A largely red head and chest, with blue and green plumage. A big bird. Almost the size of a child’s head. One day, in late summer, a few days before Labor Day, the bird rode the train alone. His owner was never seen again. The bird rode the train to the last stop in Rockaway, flew about for a few minutes, and perched in the returning train.

A proud, cocky bird, he knew his place and would yield to no one. He preferred the ledge between two opposing seat backs, and no one would sit near him. Everyone said him. I have no idea how you tell a parrot’s sex. One know-it-all was quoted saying he was a Macaw, and both male and female were colored similarly. The bird would occasionally poop on the seat back. Once a guy sat down in it. He never knew. At least not till he got home.

In all of his travels back and forth the bird never spoke. Not even a squawk or a screech. On days when the train was pretty empty, no women and kids around, there was always a guy who tried to teach the bird to curse. He cocked his head but remained mute. Not a word.

One day a subway conductor spotted the bird riding between the rail cars. He perched on a platform and let the breezes rush through his feathers.

Funny how the bird never had a name. No one ever christened him with an identity. Always just the bird or the parrot.

No one knew how or what he ate. People would offer him a piece of a donut or a snack bar, but he never touched them. And he never, ever let anyone hold him. He perched only on the train seats.

One day in late fall Animal Control showed up with a big net. Someone must have thought the bird would not survive the coming winter. They went home empty handed. The net man waited till the doors closed on the car to move against the bird. But a passenger opened the door at the end of the car and the bird flew out and lit on a handrail. 

The bird got to be well known. A reporter from The New York Times, one of those guys like Meyer Berger who hunted down all the quirky stuff in the city, wrote up the bird in a story. Photo and all. Lots of people called the paper, said he was their bird. No one showed up to actually claim him.

One day in racing season the parrot was sitting on the northbound train as it pulled into the Aqueduct station around the time the race track closed. Men and women dragged themselves on the train after losing at the track. Threw torn-up betting stubs on the car floor. The bird was annoyed at the crowd. Not much space for him to perch. 

Anyway, one guy who looked especially despondent sat where the bird liked to perch. The bird even fluttered his feathers but the guy paid no attention.

After tearing up his last betting stub, the guy looked up. He let a thin smile cross his lips. “Dinner,” he said aloud. “Can’t afford anything else tonight.” He reached for the bird.

Credit: Pinterest

The bird flew off a few feet. The guy got up to reach for him again. The bird flew around him and perched on the seat where the guy had been.

The guy lunged for the bird. It flew down the car a few feet. Out of reach. But it left poop where the guy had been sitting.

“Damn bird. Now I can’t sit.”

The guy stepped closer to the bird, and in his frustration spat at the bird. He missed. Much to his later chagrin, his spit landed on the neck of an off-duty cop. An off-duty cop leaving the track after betting and losing a lot of money. 

Now, New York has a lot of laws. One is, you don’t spit in the subway. An unwritten law is, you don’t spit on a cop. Especially an off-duty cop who now has an incident to deal with. After losing at the track.

The cop turned. “You.” 

The guy glared at him.

“You spit on me?”

The guy said, “Maybe I did, mac. I was aiming at the bird.”

The cop swiped the spit off his neck with his left hand, wiped his hand on the guy’s shirt. 

“Fuck you, mac.” The guy shoved the cop. Not knowing, of course, that he shoved a cop. The cop spun the guy around, pushed him down against an empty seat. Empty because another man was smart enough to get out of the way.

“You just shoved a cop,” the cop said to the guy.

“Fuck you, mac,” the guy said again. Not smart.

“You’re under arrest,” the cop said.

The bird had been watching this action closely. He hopped down on the seat next to the guy. Got right up in his face.

The bird squawked. Then it said its first words.

 “Fuck you, mac!”

***

What I’m Reading

I’ve done a lot of reading on my three-week hiatus from the blog. Next week I’ll offer comments, after I organize my thoughts. I especially enjoyed re-reading The Old Man and the Sea and Hatchet.

More next week. Thanks as always for stopping by.

***

Find my stories on Amazon.

Mannequin Monday – Help me. Please!

Distance runner Maggie Murano spends her first night in rehab after knee surgery.

And quotes from a book I finished reading this week. Welcome back to Mannequin Monday. Draping the blank form with the beauty of words.

What I’m Writing

Another story bite, this one a first night in a rehab facility. Enjoy a moment with Maggie.

Help Me

Bob Gillen

“Help me, please….someone help me.” A man’s voice.  Loud. Wailing. 

Maggie Murano startled awake. Lying on her back in the lumpy bed, only a dim lamp lighting the room, she could barely twist to see the door. Her first night in a skilled nursing facility, rehabbing after knee surgery. Maggie was a distance runner. Mobile. Agile. Flexible. The surgeon told her she needed rehab for a week before she could go home. “I want you to get physical therapy. More than you can get from a home health agency.” She had fought him. Hard. Finally gave up and picked a facility near home. 

“Someone help me. Please.” 

The voice seemed to come from a room across the hall. 

Maggie felt pain from the surgery kicking in. She pressed the call button. Waited. And waited. 

Credit: Forbes

“Help me. Help me, please. I need to get up. Please help.”

No one responded to the voice. The staff must be busy with other patients, she thought.

Twenty minutes later no one had responded to her call button. And the man was still calling out, “Help me. Please, someone help me.”

“Shit, I’ll never get any sleep here. How is this therapy?” Maggie muttered aloud.

“He never stops.” A voice from the doorway.

Maggie turned as best she could. A woman in a wheelchair rolled into the room. She pointed a gnarled finger toward the hall.

“Every night. He does this every night. When his son is here wheeling him around in the daytime, he never says a word. As soon as it’s bedtime, he starts shouting.”

“Can’t they quiet him?” Maggie wondered why the woman was still up and roaming the halls.

“Nothing works. If they fuss over him, they’re neglecting other patients who need their attention.”

The woman wheeled closer to Maggie’s bed.

“Sorry, I didn’t introduce myself. Everyone here calls me grandma. Mostly because I know everybody’s business.”

“Hi. I’m Maggie.”

“Yes. I saw you come in this afternoon. I was too busy to say hello till now.”

Again the voice, “Someone help me. Please.”

Maggie nodded toward the hall. “What about meds? A sedative?”

“They say they can only give it for pain.”

“He’s a pain!” Maggie said.

The woman huffed. “At least you’re only here for rehab. Most of us are never going home.” 

Maggie tried to shift in the bed. Ended up wincing from pain. 

“I saw your call light on. You need meds. Let me find a nurse for you.”

“Can you close the door on your way out?”

“Sorry, honey. Rules are, door stays open if you’re alone in the room.” Grandma wheeled out into the hall.

“Help me. Please help me.”

Maggie let her head fall back on the thin pillow. I go home in a week. Grandma’s here till she dies.

***

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Mannequin Monday – Find Your Light

In this week’s story bite, Milo sits waiting for his voice to return. Knowing it will not.

And I offer comments on Daniel Silva’s new book The Cellist.

What I’m Writing

Here’s a story-bite sequel to a story titled Sawdust that I first posted on this blog in February 2020. Maurice and Milo are back to entertain you. Enjoy.

Find Your Light

Bob Gillen

“I’m bored.”

The words slipped out of Milo’s mouth in a whisper. He had not spoken for weeks. Not since the night Maurice died.

Again, “I’m bored.”

Milo sat upright on his stool, back against the wall. Sat next to the urn that held Maurice’s ashes. The ashes of his partner. The man he had worked so many clubs and venues with. Milo felt himself smile. Remembering the clubs, the gigs, the audiences. 

And again, Milo heard himself say, “I’m bored.”

What the hell? Maurice is dead. Cremated. Reduced to a jar full of ashes. Milo had no more words. Not without Maurice.

“Heaven ain’t what it’s cracked up to be, buddy.” Milo shuddered. Hard to do for a ventriloquist’s dummy. But shudder he did.

Without moving his eyes, Milo took in the room. Light from a tiny window high on a north wall fell on the urn. Find your light. Maurice’s stage mantra.

Maurice’s ex-wife Darla had dismissed Milo and the urn to a corner of Maurice’s office. The office so small Maurice’s feet hit the wall if he stretched in his chair. The place where they had run all their routines. The room where Maurice’s imagination ran wild. 

Milo’s eyes rolled back and forth. Nothing. No one there. 

“I’m talking to you, Milo.” 

Milo’s jaw clattered against his upper lip. Maurice? Is that you? You’re back?

“It’s me. Maurice. Your voice. I’m still here.”

This is not real.

“Yeah, it’s real. Weird, but real.”

Can we do another gig? 

“Not gonna happen. I don’t know how long I can talk to you. Through you.”

Milo felt his head nod.

“Nothing here but white light. No one around. No one to talk to. Not even harp music. Just light.”

Milo blinked. Did Maurice do that?

“It’s peaceful. I like that. No worries. No drunks in the audience to heckle us. No hassles traveling from one club to the next.”

How can I be talking?

“Milo, buddy, listen to me…I am so bored. You know me, I like to move, to talk. I love being on stage. Love performing. You and me, we did great together, didn’t we?”

It wasn’t my call.

You left me.

 “That night I died on stage…heart attack. I hated to leave you, but it wasn’t my call.”

I’m alone.

“And that bastard club manager, I know he pocketed the cash he owed us. It was a full house. We always packed them in.” He laughed. “I guess we cleared the room pretty quick that night, huh?”

My jaw feels stiff. Haven’t moved it in weeks.

“Like I said, where I’m at is okay, but it’s dull. All those words? Joy, peace, glory, eternal life…they’re not cutting it. I’m missing something.

Milo thought, I’m missing something…you.

“Wait a minute, buddy. Something happening here. The light is brighter. Still quiet, though…Wait! I see someone. A shape…I think it’s time. Milo, take care. Thanks for the good times. Catch you.”

Milo stared straight ahead, mouth closed, jaw rigid. How do I find my light now?

***

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Mannequin Monday – Reddy is Gone!

image of wooden hand

Our mannequin this week takes the form of a teacher enduring yet another back-to-school night with her fifth graders’ parents.

And I offer comments on two mysteries I read. Welcome back.

What I’m Writing

Back to school night. Always fraught with tension, even for an experienced teacher. I hope you enjoy this story bite.

The Hard Times of a Classroom Gerbil

Bob Gillen

Dear God, I dread this night. Ms. Caroline Stott gave her fifth grade classroom a final look. Back-to-school night. From behind her came a clattering noise. She turned. Reddy, the class gerbil, was flitting around in his cage. You dread it too, huh?  She reached in, placed Reddy in his transparent exercise ball, and let him roll about on the students’ worktable.

A bell rang. Parents flooded into the classroom and crammed themselves into the kids’ desks. “Welcome, everyone!” Ms. Stott left the classroom doors open as she began her presentation. Outside the room a few students played quietly. The kids whose parents could not find a babysitter. 

Ms. Stott handed a sign-in sheet to one parent. “Please pass this around.” 

One parent raised her hand.

“Yes?”

The woman pointed. “Why is that ball on the table behind you moving?”

Ms. Stott turned. 

Credit: Lessonpix

“Oh, that’s Reddy. He’s our class gerbil. I put him in that exercise ball to work off some energy.”

She picked up the ball and extended it to the woman. “Would you like to pass him around? Take a closer look?”

The mom peered through the clear plastic ball. The gerbil retreated from her close-up face.

“He’s kind of shy,” Ms. Stott said. “I got him last week. He’s still getting used to the students.”

The woman passed the ball to another parent. Ms. Stott continued with her presentation, talking about the curriculum and what she expected from the students.

Reddy and his exercise ball got passed to the back of the aisle. A dad put the ball down on the floor. He watched as the gerbil rolled the ball around, bumping the wall, bouncing off a couple of chair legs. 

Ms. Stott said, “Thank you for coming this evening. Why don’t you walk around and look at your children’s displays before you leave?”

The parents stood. One woman, who had been keying into her phone through the entire presentation, spied the ball rolling on the floor. She looked up, spotted two kids near the door outside, and kicked the exercise ball through the doorway in their direction. “They don’t call me soccer mom for nothing.”

After the parents had cleared out and moved on to another classroom, two students approached Ms. Stott. They handed the exercise ball to her. Ms. Stott gasped.

“We think he’s hurt,” one kid said. “He doesn’t look right.” 

Ms. Stott opened the ball and placed Reddy back in his cage. The gerbil limped across the cage and burrowed into his nest.

Reddy is gone!

The following morning Ms. Stott greeted her students as usual. The pair of students responsible for feeding Reddy today peered into his cage. “Ms. Stott, Reddy is gone!”

Ms. Stott attempted a smile. “Reddy had an accident last night.” 

One student pointed to another. “Derek, your mother killed him. She kicked him out the door. My father saw the whole thing.”

“That’s not true!” Derek burst into tears.

Ms. Stott said, “It was a misunderstanding, James. Your mom thought it was a soccer ball. She didn’t realize.” 

Score another one for back-to-school night.

***

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Mannequin Monday – From the Inside Out

I have a spirit that walks with me outdoors. This week’s mannequin takes on spirit form.

What I’m Writing

I’ve been experimenting with writing exercises and prompts this week. I am one week into a four-week program that uses prompts to kick start writing. It’s not journaling, as such. More like pulling up “raw material,” as they call it. Looking for themes to emerge over time. Anyway, here’s a prompted piece I did for the program. Enjoy. And thanks for stopping by every week.

From the Inside Out

Bob Gillen

Hey, good to see you today. Have I told you, I have a spirit that walks with me outdoors. On real walks, not the steps to the mailbox or the trash bin. She began walking with me a week ago. Oh, sorry, I should say they. She prefers the pronoun they/them. I can’t explain why. They did not elucidate.

As I said, I was walking down the street last week, set on going up into the park that overlooks our little town. Halfway down the street I became aware of someone alongside me. Keeping pace. Not hard to do. I am not an assertive walker. First I heard the footfalls. Heavy, thumpy. I looked to my side to see a woman in a long coat, a kind of steampunk outfit, oversize collar and lapels. Big boots on her feet. No cap. Hair in a long ponytail. Light brown. 

They didn’t speak. Simply kept pace. I passed several neighbors who gave me the obligatory hello, how are you? The neighbors looked only at me, apparently not seeing my companion. My new companion never offered me a name. I will refer to them as my spirit from here on.

And spirit they are. No one else can see them. Even I cannot hear them. We don’t speak. I suppose that would be awkward, me walking along talking out loud to myself. Although most would no doubt assume I was on a mobile call.

I did not know I had a spirit.

No, we communicate by thought. I found myself on that first day wondering, who is this person only I can see? And a thought came, as in a reply. I am your spirit. I wondered further, I did not know I had a spirit. The answer, ah, now you do.

I have been out walking three times since that first encounter. Each time I had my shadow with me. I am convinced they have a sense of humor. The second day they dressed as Wonder Woman. Another day they looked like Doris Day. Yesterday they resembled Katharine Hepburn in The Philadelphia Story, slacks and top in flowing white, fluid movement.

They simply make their presence known, walk alongside, share thoughts, and fade away till next time.

I have to admit, this bit of magic is encouraging me to walk more. If nothing else, that’s a benefit. 

When I reflect on what’s happening, I get an inkling of awareness. Nothing more, as yet. You see, there is presently an emptiness in my life. A vast gap, needing to be filled. I have gone from a doer, a caregiver, someone needed by another, to a person with nothing to do. Nothing. Finding time, making time for tasks, for creative work, for relaxation, was always a challenge, but always possible.

Now, with no obstacles, only a wide expanse of time, I find myself frightened by the challenge. What to do? How to fill the hours? 

And, as by a miracle, along comes this spirit. My spirit. They do not offer answers, advice, admonitions. Nor ammunition. Nothing to chew on, to think about. They are simply a presence. A presence that fills in the emptiness just a bit. Takes the edge off the anxiety. Yesterday, for example, as we walked, I passed a woman pushing a man in one of those complex wheelchairs. I thought, that woman was me, in a way. A caregiver. And my spirit simply sighed, not any more. Not any more. No longer a caregiver. I take a breath, realizing I do not now have the burden of care. The fear of not being able to do it properly. Of failing.

Now my fear has come full face. I can now fail by doing nothing. I can fail by stagnation. I can fail without moving a muscle, or having a thought.

On my walks, on our walks, thoughts drift through my mind, I suspect prompted by my spirit companion. You’re okay. Stronger than you think. You are graced. Be gracious to yourself.

If I may use a medical metaphor, I suppose this situation is similar to a deep, open wound. You can’t stitch it closed till it begins to heal from the inside out. 

From the inside out.

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Mannequin Monday – Neither Immortal Nor Infertile

“The truth of things can only be expressed…in story, picture, film, dance, music.” Thomas Moore.

A summer intern hits a few speed bumps on her path to a business career. Our mannequin is dressed for success this week.

What I’m Writing

I’m sharing another story bite. Bits and pieces of memory in a fictional framework. Enjoy.

The Summer Intern

Bob Gillen

Isla Reid stood tall as she stepped into the human resources manager’s office for her summer intern orientation. In a navy pencil skirt, matching jacket, ivory blouse, she felt strong. The manager, Stephanie Lennon, gestured for Isla to sit. Lennon took her own chair across an expansive wood desk. Isla could not keep her eyes off the view from the office window. Mid afternoon, a stunning early summer day, twenty-three floors up in an office tower on Water Street at the tip of Manhattan Island, looking west over New York Harbor.

“You must be very important to have this awesome office,” Isla said.

“Hah,” Lennon said. “Your being impressed is exactly why I have this office. We are a prestigious financial services firm, and every job applicant sees me first…and this view. It’s all about the visuals.”

“Well, it’s really impressive.”

Lennon turned to look at the view. “Looks like we have a thunderstorm rolling in. I hope you brought an umbrella.”

Isla shrugged. “We don’t use them much in LA.” She thought, my outfit will get soaked.

“You have an advantage over the other interns,” Lennon said. “They don’t start till next week.”

“My school got out early this year.”

“I’ll walk you through the basics of our orientation. You can get the details with the rest of the group next Monday.”

Isla nodded. She looked at the view again as Lennon interrupted to take a phone call. The view was already obscured by storm clouds that covered the western horizon.

Lennon completed her call. “Isla, you made a strong impression on your Zoom interview over spring break. I like your experience and your skill set. I’m going to assign you to the marketing department. More specifically, to the group that maintains the firm’s social media pages. The group manages our social media accounts and monitors what’s being posted about the firm online.”

“That sounds wonderful. As I told you, I do that for our college newspaper’s social media presence.”

Lennon held up a finger while she fielded another phone call. Isla glanced at the window. All of the western horizon was now black. She could no longer see the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge or Staten Island. Far below a yellow ferry plowed through the Harbor directly towards the storm.

That storm is huge.

Isla took her gaze away from the window. Lennon was staring at her.

“Are you okay?” Lennon asked.

“That storm is huge.”

Again Lennon turned to look. “Yes. It looks now like a line squall. We get them occasionally. A fast-moving rain storm. Over and gone in a few minutes…Is this your first trip to New York?”

Credit: SIGMA blog

“My first time outside California.”

“By end of summer you’ll be a veteran at this.”

The storm began to darken the sky around the building. Isla’s eyes grew wide at the force of the storm. She felt drops of sweat running down her back.

“Would you be more comfortable if we went to the break room for a few minutes?”

“Uh…I guess so…Yes.”

Lennon took Isla to a windowless room in the center of the floor.

“Coffee?”

“Yes, please,” Isla said.

The two took a table in the far corner of the room. In the distance Isla heard the deep rumble of thunder. She wrapped her fingers around the coffee cup.

“Isla, in our orientation session, there is something I tell every intern we take on.” She smiled. “We pride ourselves on providing a challenging as well as secure work environment for all our employees, and especially for our interns.”

“Okay.” More thunder rumbled, closer now.

“You may take this any way you wish…You young interns are neither immortal nor infertile.”

***

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Mannequin Monday – “Next!”

Popular TV personalities aren’t always what they seem. I share my story bite “Hold It Down” about an encounter gone awry.

And I write about two actual encounters I’ve had with celebrity. Thanks for stopping by. Enjoy!

What I’m Writing

Hold It Down

After two hours, Sam finally reached the head of the line for the book signing. A wildly popular TV chef, Railene Duncan, known for serving up tasty meals in a short time, sat at a table smiling at customers and signing book after book. Sam had rehearsed for hours on what he would say to her. Thanks for your great recipes. I’ve lost ten pounds and feel great. No. Don’t emphasize his weight. I love your show. The recipes are so easy to follow. Nah, just say thank you.

Credit: TaskRabbit.com

The woman who had stood in front of him for the whole two hours stepped up to the table, book held out for signing. Railene gave her a huge smile. Sam heard the woman say, “Can we take a picture together?” The chef nodded.

It will flash.

The woman immediately swung around to Sam, handed him a point and shoot camera, and said, “Please take our picture.” Sam hesitated. He didn’t use cameras, hated to take pictures. He held the camera up, looking for the shutter release. “Press here,” she said, pointing to a red button. “It will flash.” He framed the shot, pressed the button. Nothing happened. He tried again. Same result. Nothing.

Sam heard people muttering behind him. The woman rushed at Sam. “Hold the shutter release down after you focus.” Sam looked at the camera. The woman shrieked. “Hold it down!”

The TV chef stood, a snarl wiping away the smile that had been on her face. “Come on, keep it moving. People are waiting.”

The woman posed again with the chef. Both plastered on a smile. This time Sam held the shutter release down, the camera flashed. The woman grabbed the camera and dashed off without a thank you.

Railene yanked Sam’s copy of the book from his hand, signed it while she was still standing, and handed it to him without even looking at him. She sat, looked to the next person in line, a huge smile on her face. “Next.”

***

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