Short Shorts & Longer Tales

by John Muir

  **********

  A BORING LIFE

  “Oh look. The poor old spinny’s getting her thrills picking the weeds from the garden,” said one of the girls.

  The five others, also in their late teens and early twenties, made little effort at hiding their giggles behind their hands as they neared the elaborately gardened entry of the brick three-story 12 apartment block.

  With her back to the approaching group and gently raking the freshly turned soil, a slightly built old woman, grey hair tied tightly back and covered with an ageing straw hat, pretended not to hear the remark. She dropped her head and then raised it again to look at them as the girls walked past her and into the entry door.

  “I hope you all had a good day at work girls,” she said.

  Immediately they were through the double entry main door the girls began shrieking with laughter which remained unabated as they ran through the doorway of one of the two ground level apartments they rented between the six of them.

  All the girls had shifted into the apartments on the same day over a year ago and two months before Christmas. They went everywhere together.

  Maybe they were not aware that their ongoing conversation could be heard outside the apartment entryway through the security covered open lead-light windows. Then again maybe they were. To the old lady the conversation was the same as it had been so many times before.

  “But the old biddy never goes anywhere or does anything,” said one.

  “How does she get her groceries?” asked another.

  “I saw the internet grocer truck deliver stuff to her place one day when I threw a ‘sickie’.”

  “Gawd, you mean the old bag can use a computer.”

  “Maybe she’s into computer dating without the dating bit.”

  The laughter and giggling wafted loudly outside to the ears of the old lady who was now gently pruning back some of the shrubs and putting the cuttings into a small wheel-barrow.

  The sound of a two champagne corks popping and the clink of glasses drifted through the window as the girls had their nightly after work drink. It was this week’s supermarket special at $3.95 a bottle.

  “Look. None of us here have ever seen her have any visitors, let alone any man. I still reckon she’s just a dithering old school teacher and still a virgin.”

  “Maybe she’s a lesbian.”

  “You’re not listening Cheryll. I said there’ve been no visitors.”

  “Hey, perhaps she’s a retired Nun?”

  “Nah, if that was it then she’d still go to church on Sundays.”

  “If the boring old fart got a man to play around with then she could get a life.”

  They watched her through the narrow slits of the Venetian blinds as the old lady trimmed the last of the bushes by the letter boxes. Then putting the rake, hoe and secateurs onto the small wheelbarrow she wheeled the lot along the driveway at the side of the apartments where she would empty all the weeds and cuttings into a carefully prepared compost bin. It was so well disguised among the flower beds that the occupants of the back apartments could barely see it.

  The girls had become aware of the old lady and her gardening exploits soon after their arrival. Hers was the third apartment on the front ground level. All her windows and external doors were covered with strong easy sliding security screens, which could be left open at the occupant’s whim.

  Other tenants were rarely seen coming or going as they made their way down the stairwell into the underground car-park to drive in or out. The girls did not have a vehicle, but visiting overnight boyfriends would frequently use their parking spaces.

  From early on the girls nick-named her Miss Lardy-Dah, behind her back, because she spoke clearly and enunciated her words. Even then, they were not too careful or caring if she did hear. There was no name on her letterbox which was always padlocked, even though they had never seen any mail put into it. They presumed she got a discount on her rent for all the gardening work. A normal “mower man” still cut the lawns and did the garden and path edges, taking all that away.

  The block stood out from the other four in the street because of the neatness and expanse of the gardens. It seemed there was always something blossoming whatever the time of year.

  On weekends the girls were dressed up early to catch buses or trains to get to parties, dancing or drinks. Departing so early they frequently had to pass the old lady who would still be gardening late into the afternoon. She would look them up and down with a slight look of disapproval before smiling.

  “Have a safe and enjoyable night girls. But please do be careful.”

  In response the girls would giggle and pass by. They knew the old lady’s eyes watched as they disappeared down the road.

  On their first Christmas in the apartments they thought they would make a surprise visit and bring Christmas drinks. They were sure that if they shared their experiences of life the old lady might feel that she had lived some of it by verbal association. All six girls, wearing three inch high heels below their black stretch tight pants, short halter-neck tops revealing flattened stomachs, costume jewellery and half a years’ purchase of make-up misapplied to their faces, smelling of two dollar market stall perfume, they felt ready to impress the old lady. They took their bottles of bulk buy champagne with them and knocked on the old lady’s door two nights before Christmas Eve.

  She greeted them wearing some old fashioned type of blue coloured floral nightgown they later agreed was a caftan. The old lady’s clear bright blue eyes; slightly softened by age, showed surprise when they arrived. The girls noticed the make-up free clear clean face, and though showing the right amount of wrinkles for her age, it looked baby-skin soft.

  The girls had expected to be invited in to share in their ‘goodwill’ visit. The old lady plainly lived such a dull and boring life. Maybe she really was a retired school teacher? She was definitely a spinster.

  Their presumed confirmation of the old lady’s prudishness seemed proved when the old lady spotted the champagne and said.

  “Sorry girls, I don’t drink alcohol.”

  The old lady thanked them for their thoughts and advised that she could not invite them in because she was going to spend the night in the company of old friends.

  Returning to their apartment, the girls kept a close eye on the old lady’s door through the peep-hole in their door. No visitors came or left the old woman’s apartment. The only sound issuing forth from the old lady’s flat was the same boring classical music interspersed with some 50’s and 60’s hits that they had heard before.

  After that Christmas the girls made no real attempt at disguising their contempt, openly giggling as they passed the old lady when she was in the garden. The old lady would look up and say “Hello,” or nod a greeting as they walked by.

  The over-dressed girls responded with giggles. They would see the old lady put her head down and nod negatively.

  Then, loud enough for the old lady to hear, someone would make a derogatory comment, typically such as:

  “That old, and still a virgin. What a shame.”

  “I wonder if she gets high on garden weed.”

  “Why doesn’t she get a life.”

  The old lady remembered the girls shifting in. She inwardly disapproved of their dress and make-up sense. She felt it was all far too promiscuous and would attract the wrong sort of attention from the wrong type of man. In her teens that type of dress sense was called ‘sluttish’. Though, that seemed to be the appearance that these girls wanted to portray; they looked easy pickings as though accepting all-comers. Seeing a stream of different young males leaving the flats many mornings seemed to soon confirm that.

  On the Christmas Eve, she was pleasantly surprised at their unexpected call. She noticed they were carrying copious alcohol, internally and externally, but she had already organized her night and was mere seconds away from beginning when the girls arrived. She noticed they seemed a little surprised at her rebuff but she was about to indulge herse
lf in the enjoyment of a gift to herself that had taken many years of research to gather, prepare and document. The registered parcel had arrived by courier only an hour before and now she wanted to enjoy the fruits of her labours.

  A small time film production house had converted all the old time 8 mm film and precious photos she had accumulated and collected from others, and arranged for it all to be put on DVD.

  She had bathed and just donned her favourite and well preserved 1960’s blue floral caftan to add to the ambience she wanted. The girls’ knock at her door was an untimely interruption in her preparation.

  As soon as they left she loaded the three stack CD player with her choice of classical pieces and favourites from the 50’s and 60’s, slotted the D.V.D. into the player, and sat deep into her comfortable lounge pulling a couple of soft cushions into her lap.

  She rolled herself a joint from her home grown marijuana and pressed the play button on the remote.

  Memories flooded back as she saw herself at 22 years old serving as a nurse in the Korean War. That was where she first discovered marijuana and where she got pregnant to a young officer who was then killed in action one month after their rushed wedding.

  Shipped home, pregnant and widowed, she felt bitter about the deal that life had dealt her. After her son was born, society in those days rejected her as an outcast. Those that readily accepted her were also the outcasts of society, the early bikie gangs. Some of those were Korean War veterans too. As a bikies mole, even with a ‘brat’ in tow, she was treated as an equal when she became partnered with the gang leader. She smiled with pride watching the jerky black and white movie clip of her precious young helmeted son, crammed between her and the gang leader on his Harley Davidson.

  Perhaps it was in her genetic make-up. Though way back then, she would never concede to herself or anyone that she was out of control and having a problem with alcohol. All the bikies drank and she could out-drink any, as she did, every day, even when the others were not drinking.

  At the start of the 60’s she got pregnant again, this time to the leader of the bikie gang. Marriage was not in his plans, but a future together with his unborn child and her were.

  That was before the brief gang war which saw him killed pushing her out of the line of fire. His death and the futility of the shooting saw the immediate end to gang hostilities. But this second tragedy was too much for her to stay in that environment.

  Hippie communes had sprouted all around the country with their alternate life styles, preaching love and tolerance. That became the refuge for herself, her first son, and the place her second son was born.

  Apart from the commune leaders, who used their seniority to bed the naïve young female members, she was older than the recent converts, yet at 30, younger than the spiritual leaders. Her nursing experience was frequently sought as she had mixed her formal teaching with alternate medicines and remedies.

  Though not a chemist she was able to mix the ingredients for some wonderful hallucinogenic potions. For herself, these self invented drugs mixed with her home brewed alcohol gave her senses that she felt beyond the range of mere mortals. That was when she could remember after another temporary state of oblivion.

  Wisely, she kept the recipes secret. Her knowledge of such arts established her as a wise sage as far as any group was concerned. She became a co-leader of a commune. Though the music was Joan Baez and Bob Dillon, another group called the Beatles had begun to earn acceptance with their later music.

  She had been fortunate to be in India studying under Ravi Shanka when the Beatles arrived for their ‘enlightenment’. Her smile broadened wider before she let out a sigh at the newsreel footage of a then youthful face of the Beatle she had slept with for three nights.

  Soon after that she had begun tripping on LSD and then caught the heroin bug. But the latter was not cheap.

  Even with a now well addled brain she still knew that stealing to finance her daily heroin craving was wrong. There were other ways a body could finance that expense.

  Her years of attracting unpaid and often unwanted sexual partners had gained her skills and ability few women could attain even with years of training. But she needed to dress well as an escort to accompany some very affluent and influential clientele. Her wardrobe soon overflowed, not by choice but by necessity to retain the premium paid for her escort services.

  The video tape flickered on through to the 70’s. The accumulated abuses of her body were showing on the film. The responsibility to her children though was never forgotten through all that. The oldest, approaching 20 years, had decided to join the military. Perhaps for him it was a sub-conscious desire to have stability and certainty in his life. The younger, approaching 16, though dragged from school to school through her transient lifestyle, was showing scholastic ability far beyond what she had achieved. Somehow through those years she had kept her children away from alcohol and drug usage; protected them from the abuses that went with it and showered them with the powerful love she knew she was capable of giving.

  In her mind befuddled state, she took little notice when the Army shipped her oldest son to Vietnam to serve in that conflict. It seems he had barely arrived in the ‘other world’ as he wrote about to her, when she heard of his death. ‘Killed in action against the enemy.’

  Only through a letter from another soldier in his platoon was she able to learn of the true circumstances of his death. Returning from patrol he had been shot inside the base by a drug hallucinating soldier with crazed images of being attacked by evil spirits.

  No other tonic, medicine, drug or alcohol association could have snapped her mind back to life quicker than that tragedy. Drugs had killed her son. Alcohol and drugs had robbed her of many of the memories that she had wanted to have about her children.

  The power of her mind showed she could discard those evils. One day at a time she fought through it. The body’s cravings screamed at her to give up fighting against the evils that had become her daily sustenance and routine. Always by her side with love and affection, her remaining son poured all his being into helping in her fight.

  That was only one source of her determination. Through this time she had joined the anti-war activists to become one of its most vociferous and active members. Her Korean service elevated her as a leading member of the cause.

  The Vietnam War ended soon after and the cause for which she had fought so hard for was over. But some of the friendships established remained. One, a returned ‘Viet-vet’ pilot from the early days of the war after the Gulf of Tonkin incident, proved to be special. The relationship between the ex-pilot and her surviving son grew to be as strong as any genuine father and son relationship. The ex-pilot knew nothing of her past and asked nothing about it.

  By the approach of the 80’s, now almost 50 years old, she had at last found the missing link in her family and a soul-mate. She was not even distraught at her surviving son’s decision to join the Air Force, obviously influenced by the hero worship the son had for the step-father he loved as much as he ever could love a real father.

  She was not unduly concerned because there was no conflict on the horizon; the ‘Cold War’ was over. The son was in no danger.

  As the 90’s began approaching she and her husband, both approaching 60 years old, glowed with pride as their ‘son’ had graduated with his wings as a fully fledged fighter pilot. The Air Force education system had done them all proud.

  While their son was on an overseas posting tragedy struck her life once more. An unexpected heart attack cut short the life of the only real adult love she had ever known. Her survival instincts of a ‘day at a time’, learned from life’s school of hard knocks, had managed to keep her from breaking her self imposed drink and drug ban.

  Then came August 1990. That was the Iraq and Kuwait war. For the first time she felt concern for the safety of her sole surviving son. To reinforce her fears, he was posted early to that conflict. Dread exceeded her pride as she saw nightly TV reports of the bo
mbing missions. Smart bombs or not, pilots were being killed.

  The daily letters she received from her son both cheered and frightened her. He told her about how proud he was of her, that she had overcome all the hardships that life had thrown at her. That her love was what had kept him going through his years of doubt. That his knowledge that she would never revert to the weaknesses she had before meant he could achieve what he had wanted without ever worrying about her future.

  Then the dreadful knock on the door, the Air Force uniform, the words seeming so vague and so clear at the same time. An accident during re-arming the plane caused an explosion while he was still in the cockpit. The Air Force regretted and so on.

  The following weeks of ‘a day at a time’ were once again sorely tested. Her garden allowed her to drift into a pleasant memory lane until she discovered the three small marijuana plants struggling among the other growth. She took them inside, replanted them under a grow-lux lamp and kept them to maturity reaching above her own height.

  Since then, from her annual crop, her iron will had limited her to one joint a day. She had not broken that promise to herself and felt she had not betrayed the faith her pilot son had in her.

  Now, past 70, she looked at these young girls with sadness. They knew nothing of life. Thick make-up, ‘come-on-to-me’ clothes and alcohol did not make a happy life.

  When they walked past her with immature giggles she would lower her head and nod with sadness at the stupidity of the memorable times they thought they were having.

  None were like the daughter she always wanted but never had. None displayed the caring or sensitivity of her sons who she both loved. With these immature girls, she knew she could never share the secrets of her experiences.

  So often she had considered getting a pet cat or dog as a companion and to share her love. But knowing the shorter lifespan of these pets she knew she could not bear the loss through death of even a loving pet. To this end and her feeling of guilt through not giving a lost pet a home, and in the absence of any known living relatives, her last will and testament instructed the transfer of her ownership of the 12 apartments to the Society for the Protection of Animals. The two million or so dollars worth of cash and shares she had invested elsewhere was to be donated for research into drug addiction.

  She suddenly felt deeply sad that her memories and experiences could not as easily be transferred by will and would die with her.