F I C T I O N   Last night at dinner my neighbor the eccentric producer, floundering and slightly off her rocker after the latest divorce, pitched us an idea for a reality television show. The concept, she explained, is a sort of This Old House meets Dr. Oz where Katie, who plans to write, direct and host the program, will visit celebrity homes and help the owners identify household problems, then elaborate on the pros and cons of DIY instead of calling a plumber, painter, or contractor.

She wants General Motors as a sponsor so that she can arrive at the site in a different car for every episode. “Yeah, they get subliminal advertising every time I drive up to the site.” She wants me to write a theme song “that makes everybody sing along, you know the way they did about seeing the U.S.A all over again.”

“My opening monologue will outline the problem and hint at some possible solutions. You know, like, ‘Today we’re on our way to the west side to meet Paula Tilson, an Albuquerque attorney whose ten-year old entertainment center is on the fritz.’ We’ll have some local color shots of the neighborhood and me pulling up into the driveway.

“Paula comes out to the car and we chat about her options. I don’t want to discourage her so we ad lib the pros and cons of the situation. She’s sentimental about the old gear but doesn’t really play her collection of vinyl anymore, so she’s open to the idea of a shopping trip.

“We drive to a few select retail locations and compare the current offerings in home entertainment with their associated price tags. The drama really builds when I reveal my recent discovery of a repair shop in Denver that restores vintage electronics. Here’s my favorite part: in the next segment we insert an interview with a specialist regarding the emotional aspects of change. There are some candid shots of Paula sitting alone in a dark room, looking out the window and weighing her options.

“That’s where the background music shifts to a minor key, Paula stands up and looks into the lens, she gets all teary- something for everybody, you know- and there’s a voice-over asking, ‘Will Paula take the plunge for new gear, or hold on to her memories and busted turntable? Stay tuned for the exciting conclusion of Fix It or Fuck It. And now this.”

Annonymous is just what it sound like. And we don’t mean the famous hacker.

F I C T I O N   Rosita’s fifteen-year old son says, “Mom, seriously, no one wears that color.” Rosita pushes her arms through the sleeves, trying not to show how nervous and shaky she is feeling. Her son, Jonathan, is tapping a pencil on his teeth and it takes all of her fortitude to not say something. His dad, Jerome Anthony Fudge, had the same habit. Click, click, click; pencil against teeth. What Rosita really wants to do is grab it from her son and throw it against the wall. Instead, she continues adjusting the fluorescent orange XXL hoodie. Why, she wonders, would they send her, 5’1″ and 120 pounds, an XXL?

Rosita met Jerome in high school, immediately got pregnant, then married, and now at age 32 is the single mother of a brainy teenager who is clueless about how she feels. Jerome stays in touch with Jonathan, sends him money, a new laptop every few years, and pays the tuition to the genius school his son attends. Two separate lives coexist and Jonathan navigates the middle without bringing in any crossover complications. Rosita dearly loves her son for that.

Being a traffic guard was not how a young Rosita de Jesus had imagined herself as a grown up. She was a fashionista in high school, making her own clothes and using all the style sense her grandmother and mother bestowed. Rosita planned on going to college in New York City and then along came Jerome. She doesn’t remember even caring that much about him but he was nice enough and seemed like an OK boyfriend. Everything changed when she found out she was pregnant. He was vague and afraid. It didn’t take very long for his family to intervene. The marriage lasted 2 years and 2 days and then Rosita and Jonathan were alone. The Fudge seniors paid for an apartment, pre-school for Jon, and most of what cost only money. Their friends suggested paying off Rosita but in fact they call her an “employee” and send regular paychecks; just as they do to their gardeners and staff.

Today Rosita knows the eye-catching orange sweatshirt might keep her, and a line of kids crossing Mulholland, from getting hit by a speeding Porsche. She feels bitterness eating away at her and resolves to be more positive. There is a teenage girl crossing with the younger kids, probably someone’s older sister, who looks at Rosita with pity. Rosita wants to say, “Be careful” but knows that won’t ever really be enough.

Kim Kohler writes on the uncertainties of living in a liberal hot spot where everybody has an opinion, every opinion counts and nobody uses turn signals.

 

F I C T I O N   I ran into Albert Camus the other day. (it’s my fiction, I can meet up with anyone I want).

We were in front of Starbucks.

Quoi de neuf? I hailed.

“Should I kill myself, or have a cup of coffee?”

Jesus, you go dark all the time. Lighten up, I replied.

“To know oneself, one should assert oneself.”

Come on Al. It doesn’t have to be like that. Are you working on anything new?

“Idleness is fatal only to the mediocre.”

Oy, you’re killing me with these quotes. You’re like a one-liner factory. Just tell me if you’re working on a new book.

“Charm is a way of getting the answer ‘Yes’ without asking a clear question.”

See, this is why everyone thinks of you as an existentialist.

“We are all special cases.”

Enough! Are you seeing anyone?

“It is necessary to fall in love… if only to provide an alibi for all the random despair you are going to feel anyway.”

Can’t you ever be rational?

“Stupidity has a knack of getting its way.”

Totally! I have always admired the way you are in touch with your inner self.

“If something is going to happen to me, I want to be there.”

That’s what I’m talking about. And you know what you like.

“I may not have been sure about what really did interest me, but I was absolutely sure about what didn’t.”

That’s absurd. But then you’re absurd. Has anyone ever told you that?

“I draw from the Absurd three consequences: my revolt, my liberty, my passion.”

Right, right. Not like you’re some kind of fame whore or anything like that.

“To be famous, in fact, one has only to kill one’s landlady.”

Seriously? You’re going there?

“Fiction is the lie through which we tell the truth.”

Yeah, okay. Listen Al, it was great seeing you again. I know you’re still not speaking to Sartre but you know he thinks the world of you. Maybe it’s time you guys patched things up.

“Every man, and for stronger reasons, every artist, wants to be recognized. So do I.”

Okey dokey. Good seeing you again. You take it easy. Or take it any way you can get it.

Jay Harrison is a graphic designer and writer whose work can be seen at DesignConcept. He’s written a mystery novel, which therefore makes him a pre-published author.

F I C T I O N   The last thing Lili expects to do this sunny day is take a two mile walk. She is comfy sitting on the edge of her bed and staring at her precious feet. They are the feet that have earned her a place in one of the best homes in Lonely River, a village in the Hunan Province of China. But they are not likely to carry her far from home because she can barely balance on them and when she does stand for more than a few minutes they begin to cause pain that starts at her toes and slowly travels all the way up to her hips.

Her feet are little more than three inches long, having been bound and broken so perfectly by her mother when Lili was six years old that the soles, all bent and cured up on themselves, resemble a lotus flower. It is not because of her lustrous black hair or smooth skin, but because her feet are so beautiful in the eyes of men that Lili was married to one of the richest, most important men in the village. And because she continued to keep her feet bound — did not loosen the cloths that wrapped them tightly at night as some women did once they had secured a good marriage — that she has been married now for ten years. And not cast aside, either, when a concubine joined the family two years ago.

Lili lets her eyes move slowly around the room, her own bedroom, that she occupies on the nights her husband does not call her into his room. She sees the elegant wooden dresser with the silver handles on the doors, carved with what she always imagines are scenes from life in the imperial palace. The curtains on the windows are of the finest brocade, colored in vivid reds and yellows. Even the chamber pot is beautiful to her eye. It has been painted by a fine artist with scenes of children picnicking in the lush Chinese countryside.

And at the foot of the bed is her favorite item of all: a huge travel trunk, exquisitely carved also, with a clasp as big as Lili’s fist. Folded on the chest is a beautiful bed cover, embroidered by Lili herself. The symbols she sewed around the edges hold a secret. They are not just a pretty design. They are Nu Shu, the secret writing of the women of Hunan Province.

Excerpt from Lonely River Village

Norma Libman is a journalist and lecturer who has been collecting women’s stories for more than twenty years. You can read the first chapter of her award-winning book, Lonely River Village, at NormaLibman.com.