Can You Blame Me

A tone poem

by Clarence R. Keller

Can you blame me for wanting to be with you?

Every pore of my body is filled with images of you.

I’m like a human YouTube channel.

Videos of you float around in my brain

just waiting for a flick of my memory mouse

To flash them on my sentient screen.

Can you blame me for wanting you?

You are the most beautiful woman in my life!

Whether dancing wildly at a party,

Or posing with models less beautiful than you…

Whether talking excitingly about your dreams…

Or creating one of your intensely soulful poems --

You are the perfect example of perfection!

In all aspects of your life, my darling,

I find you completely irresistible!

Can you blame me for wanting to be with you…

now and forever?

[dedicated to T.P.]

TO MY BELOVED

I need your love more than I have needed anything before,

I need your love more than food or drink,

And only “Yes” can quench my thirst for you,

For love has your scent, your feel, your body,

And your breasts are soft and your eyes are deep,

And God has made no other lips as sweet as yours.

Often I have watched your lips give birth to words.

Your tongue pushes them out into the air

Like baby chicks not yet used to their wings.

Your warmest words are those of love.

Regardless of what I hear, you speak of love.

And your mouth is cloyingly sweet--

Like the sugary inside of a ripe mango.

And the taste of your words is lovely.

I watch as you sleep in innocence…

Unaware that your nightgown slips open…

Revealing brown twins…browner nipples.

I silently watch…I am nervously engrossed

By the beauty of your body and what it promises.

You are an eloquent symphony filling my head.

Why am I watching you so closely?

Remembrance is the sole reason I dwell on you.

Sweetheart…I want to remember you forever--

Always like this, our lovemaking still covering

Your face and hair like a gossamer veil!

Today's Ungratefuls

Dear Punkus,

What’s wrong with today’s younger generation (and I include you in this group)? They don’t seem to realize that you get out of life what you put into it! They still expect to be treated as the dependent babies they once were. They asked for and took gifts from their parents without the need to say “please” or “thank you.”. But when they passed their teenage years, they had an obligation to recognize the help they received from others. Unfortunately, too many of today’s youth feel no compunction at ignoring these basic social niceties. Instead, they blame others for “abandoning” them in times of trouble or of not “loving” them—as my youngest son has a habit of saying to his parents!

Usually, however, it is the young who have abandoned their elders! In my case, Punkus, I have not abandoned you, as you so thoughtlessly charged! I am not the one who stopped writing letters or sending pictures. I am not the one who ignored, without appreciation, gifts freely given. I still don’t know whether you received any of my recent gifts. A simple acknowledgement that they arrived in your hands safely would cost you little , but would go a long way to ease my mind about your current well being.

Am I being unfair to blame you for a lack of social civility at a time when you are going through so much stress in your personal life? I don’t think so! If this is how you treat a former lover and one who is now trying to be a friend, I can’t imagine how badly you must treat others on the periphery of your life!

I am enclosing a SASE with a card which I trust you will complete and return.

Sincerely,

SEX ADVICE TO AN INMATE

Well, son, you’re about to be released from prison after five years. On a fucking “trumped up” charge you say. Never mind all that bullshit now. You can’t come out with that chip on your shoulder. You know what I’m saying? You’ll have a shit-load of real problems to deal with as soon as you hit these mean streets. Job, education, driver’s license--you know what I’m saying? Can’t help you much with those son, as right now I’m about as flat on my ass as a black man can get! You know what I’m saying? But your dad can help you with one big-ass problem you’re going to face as soon as you shed those prison duds. That’s how to deal with the women you’ll soon be meeting. Not those ho’s, skanks, and bitches who’ve been writing you while you were incarcerated. Fuck them uglies! You know what I’m saying? You’re going to meet real women! So, here’s some quick-start advice I’ve learned from playing the slut street game for years. You know what I’m saying? Most importantly, and let this sink into your ADHD brain, always treat a whore like a lady and a lady like a whore! There, in a fucking nutshell, is all you need to know about romance in the hood. You know what I’m saying? You already have skills to talk with most women out here. You’ve learned how to curse like a sailor while in jail. Big help in talking with these broads today. You know what I’m saying? What female is not turned on by hearing her main man in bed calling her a “slut” or a “dirty ho” or even a “fucking prostitute”! The thicker you lay on the curses, believe me, the more they’ll love you! You know what I’m saying? And don’t be afraid of getting rough with your old lady. I don’t mean creepy, sick stuff like punching or strangling, you know what I’m saying, but what woman doesn’t respond to an occasional slap on her ass, especially if you call it an “ass” in a low, growling tone of voice! Next, son, you have to become expert at what your pop calls the “big three” of lovemaking—sucking, biting, and tickling! Every part of a woman’s body is tasty, you know what I’m saying, so don’t be shy—dig right in! Seriously, bro, what woman, regardless of the size of her boobs, doesn’t enjoy her man squeezing and sucking on them—even if they’re fake! You know what I’m saying? Women, even church-going ones, don’t mind those nips and bites you plant on her earlobes, neck, and hard nipples! Especially just as she’s having an orgasm! You know what I’m saying? Tickling or tongue massaging those sensitive parts of your woman’s body will turn her into a helpless toy in your hands. Seriously, a good tickling session works better than dropping a date-rape drug in her drink! You know what I’m saying? Well, son, there you have it. I hope the fuck it works out for you. But in case it doesn’t, don’t say you got your advice from me! You know what I’m saying?

Where IS TRISHA?

Where is Trisha?

[A FaceBook mystery]

1. Poooffff! And suddenly, like thin, white powder accidentally blown from a glass countertop, all traces of my ex-lover disappeared from FaceBook. Shall I call the media police and charge her with abandonment? Who's going to feed my addiction now?

2. THE PLOT THICKENS: Where is Trisha Wood? She's left no trace on FaceBook! Is she a victim? Or has she committed cybercide? Many California "missing persons" cases turn out to be homicides! Will C.W. be held as a "person of interest"? Exciting chapters to follow!

3. The clues of her disappearance (from FB) begin to mount. Her favorite pet, Trixie, a tiny, white Pekinese was found wandering its San Diego neighborhood bedraggled and missing its collar. Could Trixie lead us to the scene of the crime? Stay tuned!

4. Trixie led us to Trisha's empty apartment. Signs of an angry, hasty departure were everywhere. On the soiled, tiled floor were torn up model job rejection notices and ripped fashion design drawings. In a large, crystal ashtray we found remnants of an attempted burning of love letters. We bagged everything for clues. We listened to a three-days-old inquiring phone message from one of her sisters.

Luminol did not detect human blood—a good sign. But there was no sign of twenty-six year old Trisha and her daughter. Were they together? We had to find out—and soon!

5. "I'm driving to LA," were the last words Trisha spoke to anyone. That was three weeks ago. An APB is out for her red Corvette, a graduation gift from her doting father. Posters show Trisha and 5-year old daughter, Jane. Search teams cover a three-mile area. This is no longer a “missing persons” case. This is now a criminal case. Trisha mentioned in a letter "a ton of family harassment" over her choice of new lover, Perry. She was angry at her four sisters for their interference in her romance. What is Perry’s role in this disappearance? Is he with them in LA? Is he the last person to see Trisha? We rush to Perry’s last known address. Are we too late?

6. A sleepy-eyed Perry opened the door. We were surprised. He was a gray-haired, 52-year old! Is this the guy Trisha texted, “of course u know i love u but you have to cool it til this blows over."? A lie detector exam later cleared him. He had been dating her for only eight months. But he knew a lot about Trisha. The youngest of five beautiful sisters, she was the first to fall into a bad marriage, leaving her a young, single mother. In the beginning, Perry and Trisha had exchanged love poems--in French! One of hers ended, "Je suis juene et jolie...but if I were to fall in love...it would be to you! " What Perry told us next was a shocker!

7. What Perry told us threw our case wide open. He showed us Trisha's last MySpace entry: "I'm chatting with the hottest French dude in California!" Neither her sisters nor Perry recognized her reference. A new love interest? A potential employer? Did she drive to LA to meet this "French dude"? We had to find out...and quick! But before we could act on this new intriguing lead, Trisha's burned out auto was found!

8. Police list the following “Persons of Interest” in the FB missing case of Trisha Wood, 26, of San Diego, CA. A homicide victim?: Carlos Wood [estranged husband—divorce, child custody issues?]; Perry King [52-year-old current e-beau, passed a lie test, jealousy issues?]; “French Dude” [mysterious new love interest? Last to see Trisha alive?, APB issued!]; four older sisters [they think Perry “too old”, sibling rivalry?]. Awaiting new developments. Not yet a cold case.

PUNKUS EVERYWHERE

PUNKUS EVERYWHERE

My friends think I’m crazy. Especially when I talk about my first serious love—Punkus! Punkus disappeared from my life about twenty-five years ago, but I still bug my friends about her—about the memories I have of her—about my hope of meeting her again someday soon. I tell them I still see Punkus…not in a banal, ghostly way—but in a real, tangible way. I often see her, not as I remembered her, but as how she must have looked as she aged—always beautiful, always desirable, yet always unattainable.

“Look at that woman sitting at the table in the corner,” I would say. “Doesn’t she remind you of Punkus?”

“Not in the least, she’s too fat.”

“But the eyebrows, Sam, aren’t those the eyebrows of Punkus?”

“You’re crazy.”

And so it would go through the years. Piece by familiar piece…characteristics I would recognize of Punkus in other women. Sometimes I would open a magazine, as I did a few moments ago, and there would be Punkus’s eyes staring at me from the page. Or walking along a street, I would catch a snatch of conversation coming from Punkus’s lips—only to discover the speaker was a stranger.

“Why do you torture yourself so,” my friends ask. “The longer you don’t hear from her, the less chances there are that she’s disappeared from your life forever!”

“But that’s the whole point!” I argue. “ As long as I can find some glimmer of recognizable feature of Punkus—however insignificant…however diaphanous—she will always be near.”

And who’s to know. As long as Punkus is everywhere—she’ll never be nowhere!

OLGA THE TEMPTRESS

OLGA, THE TEMPTRESS

You would have figured that after three strikes I would have learned my lesson and stopped playing games with my latest heartthrob, Olga. She was known in the neighborhood as “Olga the Flirt.” My ex-girlfriend called her a “skanky ho”! But I was drawn to Olga like a honeybee is drawn to a yellow rose. Had I known Olga was keeping a scorecard on our affair, I would have been more careful. But I kept running off at the mouth about how much I loved her and what I was willing to do to make her happy, that before I knew what hit me, Olga had amassed ten charges against me and called it quits!

In a final message to me she accused me of being a “pubescent teen,” an “antagonistic jerk,” of being “less than tactful,” of offering her an “indecent proposal,” suggesting that she was a “gold digger,” of showing “animosity,” and ending up with the statement that she was liking me “less and less.”

Needless to say these charges were completely unfounded for just a few days prior she was charming me with compliments such as I had a “brilliant mind, an open heart, and words that touch my heart.” That same day she said, “Of course,” to accepting my offer of “unconditional love.” “I love you so much,” she whispered, “for always taking the time to think about me.” She recently described me as “witty, intelligent, and caring.” Tell me, how could I misinterpret such sentiments as, “you are so special to me,” and “I love you so much.” Are those the words of a flirt? I think not!

What am I to do now? Am I to believe the words she spoke last week or the words she spoke yesterday? Either way, my love for Olga is true, and I will continue to love and adore her. Until I know for sure, I won’t conclude this story with THE END.

ONLY IN FLORIDA: Punkus revealed

Only in Florida would a vacation hotel install a Jacuzzi on an outside balcony. And that’s where Punkus and I, for a few days of spring break, spent the evenings lolling in the warm swirling water, staring at the huge moon over our heads, and listening to the soothing sloshing of a nearby sea against warm sands. Like most of our days together, we spent long hours just relaxing in each other’s company. Unlike many dramatic stories I have written of our affair, most of our days and nights then were spent quietly in love. We had no wildly erotic scenes in that Jacuzzi. Just the two of us silently watching the moon move across a darkened sky. If anything, once in a while our toes would touch in a flirting move and once in a while, our lips would softly touch. If any words were spoken, it would be Punkus sighing, “I’m so happy!” That was her favorite expression, spoken at any time of the day, in any place, on any occasion. Not “I love you” but “I am so happy!”

Punkus’s favorite activity was shopping—especially shopping for shoes. She had a passion for shoes—not buying them—but trying them on. Most of the time she wanted me along, I didn’t mind--just being with Punkus made me happy. I was even pleased when she asked my opinion of a pair she had tried on. She had lovely feet, and I had no problem giving my diplomatically, noncommittal judgment of her shoe choices! We once spent two hours in one Florida shoe outlet store without buying anything. But I didn’t mind! At the end of a long, shoe shopping spree we would arrive home with maybe one or two new purchases. And her predictable comment would always be, “I’m so happy!” Whether in a downtown bistro or a country bar, Punkus and I had the uncanny ability to carve out a “zone of quietude” for ourselves. The adjoining room could be filled with shouting revelers or ear-pounding music, but we always managed to find a booth where we could drink and, if not talk, at least absorb the atmosphere. Our favorite country restaurant and bar was a Caribbean-themed edifice, but we preferred sitting on an outside patio, away from the jangle of calypso beats, so we could sit, sip our umbrella-topped drinks, and talk. At the end of such “nights out” Punkus’s summary words were, “I’m so happy!”

PUNKUS IN HARLEM

PUNKUS IN HARLEM

You could say that Punkus and I grew up in the Bronx, New York although, as a matter of fact, I was born in Manhattan and she was born on the island of Jamaica.

Yet most of our early memories of each other concern Bronx locations. We first met when her mother and grandmother moved from Jamaica into a Union Avenue apartment where my best friend’s family lived. My family lived around the corner on 164th Street. I was a constant visitor to the Union Avenue home of my friend and since his mother was also from Jamaica, it was inevitable that the two families became acquainted. And it was inevitable, also, that I was introduced to Punkus’s family.

I was just 15 at the time, just entering DeWitt Clinton High School. Punkus was only ten years old so my interest in her at the time was like that of a little sister (I already had three younger sisters). But she soon became a special sister and she looked up to me as an older brother or even as a father figure, as her own father remained a divorced spouse in Jamaica. I took pleasure in showing her family familiar Bronx sites, which consisted mostly of the neighborhood soda fountains, movie theaters, beaches (mainly Orchard Beach), and of course the Bronx Zoo. Two of my favorite (black and white) photos of Punkus at this time I have lost, one of her dressed in a cowgirl outfit shooting a toy pistol I took at one of our park outings and the other of her dressed in Easter finery. The photos are gone but not my memories of those fleeting, youthful moments.

Those early outings with Punkus, although special to me, were not “dates” as we were always accompanied by either her mother, her grandmother or with my sisters. This platonic relationship lasted until the time I was drafted into the WW II Air Force at age eighteen—right out of high school. Punkus and I exchanged friendly letters during my four years of active service. When I returned home, the scenery in the Union Street area had remained pretty much as I had remembered. My best friend’s family (he had volunteered for the Marine Corps) still lived in the same apartment as did my family in their apartment around the corner. The only change I noticed was that Punkus had grown into a beautiful teen-ager!

Had Punkus lost the innocent, fun-loving qualities I found so appealing in years gone by, I probably would not have been romantically attracted to her. My wartime experiences with women had honed my ability to separate the flighty women from the serious ones. But as fortune would have it, I fell madly in love with my old friend. And she with me! So it was not long before we began going out on dates, this time solo! We revisited our old Bronx haunts—the theaters, the zoo, and the beach.

At some point in my return, I don’t know exactly when, I decided it was time to take Punkus on a date outside of the Bronx. And money-wise, the farthest I could take her out of the Bronx was across the river into Manhattan—specifically to Harlem. Which wasn’t an unlikely choice--at the time, Harlem was a hot-bed of exciting clubs. Punkus loved to dance, so we spent quite a number of hours in the Savoy Ballroom. I loved jazz, so we also were customers of places such as Small’s Paradise, Minton’s Playhouse, the Apollo theater, Well’s Chicken and Waffles for late morning breakfasts.

I wish I could end this story on a happy note, but you know what eventually happened to us. But wherever Punkus is today, I’m positive she remembers her visits to Harlem with me!

PHOTO ALBUMS LIE!

One of my New Year's resolutions was to organize the thousands of loose pictures I have accumulated over the years into an album or two. Not a scanned, computerized, iPhoto album, but a hand-held, many-paged, store-bought, old-fashioned picture album! I thought it would be exciting, reliving those memories caught frozen in past times. Was I ever wrong! It turned out to be a tiresome, frustrating job trying to decide which photos to keep and which to leave out. Should I keep the ones where I look great but other people don't look so hot? No problem. I kept the ones that starred me! As the album began taking shape, organized as best I could into several thematic sections, a startling fact about albums hit me! Photo albums are liars! Just take a look at one! Everyone is smiling and happy! All the kids are as cute as can be! Everyone is frozen in time--ageless. No Dorian Grey age progression in the pictures regardless of how long one keeps them! As they were seen by the camera's eye at the moment of the flash--so they will remain on the album page, and in the case of departed ones (for whatever reason)--also in our mind's darkroom. Then I realized another reason why albums are lying! During happy occasions there is always a camera handy---at weddings, at birthday parties, on vacation trips---ready at a moment's notice to snap a happy face or a happy scene! But where is the camera when my wife and I are arguing, when she's throwing shoes at me, or breaking up the furniture! Nowhere! And where is the camera and where are the pictures of the kids when they are throwing a tantrum, or throwing up on their new clothes, or hitting their sister with a plastic, baseball bat, or biting her brother in a fit of anger! Nowhere! That's why I say photo albums lie! They don't picture the whole truth! LIARS!

LOVE LETTER TO PUNKUS

Dear Punkus--you with the unlikeliest sounding of romantic pet names--I know you told me when we parted those many, many years ago that you wanted never to see me again or to hear from me. But something extraordinary happened this morning that forces me to try to reach out to touch you again--wherever it may be that life has taken you since that awful day for which you swore to never forgive me! You left and my world stopped! You took away the sweetness and the fire to which I'd become accustomed! You went away and time stood still! You left me with delicious memories--and thoughts of you still creep into my dreams. You left and took with you those magic hands that brought such pleasure and you took away those pink lips whose taste still lingers on my tongue. Am I hoping too much to suddenly find you back in my life again--back in my welcoming arms--back in my aching heart? You want to know what happened this morning to so rekindle my desire for you? When I stepped outdoors this morning, I heard a mockingbird singing. And I swear he was repeating your name--"Punkus"..."Punkus"..."Punkus"!

THE LETTER

There's something sensual about a hand-written letter! A letter does not have the electronic feel of an email or the transitory nature of a texted message. A letter is even more personal than a disembodied voice coming from a cell phone. So you can imagine my excitement when I received a letter from Punkus. It was an excitement tinged with fear--for when Punkus and I parted over ten years ago, it was not on the best of terms, as you know. (She had accused me, rightly, of being unfaithful.) My fingers shook as I opened the envelope. Inside, folded twice, was a single, perfumed page impressed with green ink upon a pink unlined sheet--typically Punkus! (Her art background led her to use an old-fashioned, wooden pen with a gold nib that she dipped into a glass inkwell when she wrote using fanciful script characters!) "What could she have written?" I wondered. What was inside could be either hopeful or damaging! I cleared a space on my desk (I had been reading Gladwell's OUTLIERS) and placed the envelope and letter in front of me. I first examined the envelope for clues. It was stark white--not the pastel color a younger, more romantic Punkus would have chosen. Not a good sign! My name, delicately written in a familiar hand, sent shivers through me! It was as though Punkus was reaching out to stroke my face! I opened the letter and began reading, with difficulty at first for my eyes were tearing, but then with more focus as I began making sense of her words. This is what I read: "Shortly after leaving Orlando, I was in an horrific auto accident in Ogden, Utah. I was in a coma for six months while doctors worked to patch my broken body. When I awoke, all past memory of my life had been erased. For ten years, my mother and brother cared for me at our family home in Killeen, Texas. Gradually, the fog surrounding my pre-accident life cleared. Because you were once such an important stabilizing influence in my life, I decided to reach out to you--as the one person who would not judge me for the emotionally and physically damaged person I am today. As you may imagine, I've had considerable cosmetic reconstruction done--especially on my face--and, though inside I'm your same Punkus, I'm not the cute woman you fell so much in love with. I'll understand if you don't respond, but here is my address...." I reached for my pen and began scribbling! [TO BE CONTINUED]

PUNKUS: THE END

[Undated letter--never mailed]

Dear Punkus,

During those long and lonely years we were apart, I made two promises. One--I would not marry until I found you and made sure we two couldn't be wed. Two--that I would not die until I held you in my arms again. Unfortunately, I can only keep one of those promises! In your recent letter to me (the first one you wrote since coming out of your years-long coma) you mentioned how memories of our past love affair came tumbling out of your fog of forgetfulness like glittering diamonds dropping out of an upturned, velvet, jewel bag. "Treasured memories," you wrote! You recounted how our parents and teachers smiled at the two of us in elementary school as we moved, hand-in-hand, throughout the day...more like grown-up lovebirds, they said, than as brother and sister-like. I don't remember those early days, but I do remember our early teen-age days when we had eyes for each other only. Our love, it seemed, just wrapped around us as naturally as a warm, morning mist. Ours was not a red-hot, torrid affair. It came to us as a gentle understanding of each other's wants and needs. No lovers' spats--no petty jealousies. We just knew instinctively that we were destined to live our lives as one unbreakable union. The words "I love you" never crossed our lips in those early days. Words like that were unnecessary additions. You wrote about the one time I did say those words to you. It was during wartime. My two best buddies had volunteered for army service. I waited as long as I could before my conscience came to terms with willingly separating myself from you. A few days before I left for overseas duty, we had a final intimate moment. Again, it was something that came about naturally--without pressure...without drama--and it was beautiful! That was the night you heard me whisper those three, precious words. And now that I am a few days, a few hours maybe, from surrendering my life to this prostate cancer piercing my body, I want my attending nurses to testify that with my last gasps I was speaking your name..."Darling...darling Punkus!" [THE END?]

TRIBUTE TO A DOG

Jimmy. Yes, that was his name. (What does an eight-year old know about naming his first pet--a German shepard puppy?) Perhaps, in response to the teasing I was getting, I should have named him, more appropriately, "Prince," or "Scout," or "Rover." At the time, though, I thought "Jimmy" sounded more friendly--more like the companion a lonely boy such as myself needed. And for the following year, Jimmy was just that--a loved and lovable companion--a close friend, even!

Each morning we would awaken together, often sharing the same breakfast (although from different plates!), before venturing out for our pre-school stroll. His black, bright eyes and wagging tail seemed to reflect the same joy I felt at being together each early dawn. And then, when reluctantly I left for school, his usually sharply-pointed ears drooped slightly as I gave him my daily farewell hug. His body was warm and trembling at those moments as I snuggled my face into his shiny brown and black fur. Both of us, I felt, looked forward to the afternoon when I returned from school and we could spend the rest of the day together. And we went everywhere. Jimmy, with his oversized paws and black claws, trotted beside me to the playground where I solitarily shot marbles from a ring drawn in the dirt. At the stream, he sat patiently on his haunches, watching as I fished alone. He trekked with me through Brandywine Forest (Delaware) as I pretended to be tracking wild and dangerous game. For that special year, Jimmy was the perfect pal!

But all of this shared joy came to a sudden and tragic end! I returned from school one afternoon eagerly looking forward to another day of pleasure with Jimmy. But, as I approached the house, I did not hear Jimmy's welcoming yelps. Unusual silence was my only greeting. Silence, that is, until my mother, in words that, even today, are heavy with sorrow, "Jimmy is gone, son!" The words hurt like no other pain I have felt before or after. Even my mother's comforting embrace could not console my young grief nor stem my flood of hot tears. (Jimmy had a distemper fit while I was at school and was "put down" by the local A.S.PC.A.) Gone forever was my best friend. Perhaps the most sincere tribute I could offer to Jimmy is the knowledge that he has never been replaced with another pet!

MURDER MOST FOUL

My three brothers died young, untimely deaths. Roland Robert died at the age of thirty-two of diabetes lying in a New York hospital bed with an amputated leg and a thinning body ravaged by the disease. Another brother, Earl Saunders, was a teen-age, random victim of an assassin's rifle bullet fired from the rooftop of a 114th Street tenement in black Harlem.

This story, however, is about the murder of my unnamed, unborn, twin brother. My reply to my court-appointed psychiatrist, Dr. Hagman, when he asked, astounded, "You did what?" may shock you as much as it shocked him.

"I murdered my twin brother," I repeated, more slowly this time. "Even though I had killed my twin-that-might-have-been in a crime that until now no one has suspected of having been committed, my brother's presence has always been a constant, invisible, accusatory companion--ever since I had left my mother's womb twenty-three years ago." I was telling my story as quickly as I could for my twin, in dreams, had sworn revenge. "I knew early in my mother's pregnancy that I was sharing her body with an evil double. Being the stronger twin, I focused every ounce of energy I could muster within that womb to weaken and destroy my evil twin. I concentrated on blocking the flow of blood and nutrition to the tubes and connections leading to my other half. I was committing murder in utero! My twin died minutes before his birth. I was a murderer before I was even born! And recent, narrow escapes with my life convinces me that his evil still exists!" I lay back on Dr. Hagman's couch--confession was tiring me! Just then a sudden thunderstorm erupted and the doctor left me alone to check on open windows in other parts of his office. Minutes later a bolt of lightning hit the building. When my psychiatrist returned, he found me dead on his couch. "Death by electrocution," said the coroner. But he had no explanation for the scorched number on my right shoulder--666!

MY GREATEST SIN

We all have done hurt to wives, friends, or relatives and I am no exception! Most of the unkind things I have done have receded to a dark corner of my memory, not igniting concerns of conscience. One disgraceful act, however, returns to send waves of shame through me. It concerns my father. And he didn't deserve what I did to him one rainy New York day! My father and I were not really very close. And aside from a few lickings from his belt when I misbehaved, he wasn't abusive. But he remains on the fringes of my memory, as I imagine will be my fate with my children as they grow older and my physical presence fades into a hazy past! I see an old photo of my dad standing in a bathing suit at Atlantic City beach. I don't remember that trip, but I must have been there also. I also recall an outing with my dad where he taught me to skeet shoot at clay pigeons. Despite few fresh memories, I know my father loved me. Each Christmas he surprised me with great gifts--a new bicycle, a Flexible Flyer sled, and, one year, a large pool table! So what I did to my father, who had turned blind later in life, cannot be excused as teenager rebellion. I was reluctantly leading him to visit his friend when some argument flared up and I abruptly left him stranded alone in the rain on that city street! The memory of that shameful act, still haunts me. What makes it even more an unbearable sin is the fact that he died when I was in the service--old enough to realize the hurt I had done and old enough to ask his forgiveness. I regret I never had the chance to say to him, "I'm sorry, Dad, and I do love you!"

A CHRISTMAS TALE

"I don't believe in Santa Claus!" I brashly announced to my parents one Christmas Eve. Or as brashly as I could muster for a nine-year-old kid! (In those days--the 30's--kids maintained their innocence a long time!) "I don't believe there is a Santa Claus," I repeated, this time more daringly, "I think you guys buy my Christmas gifts!" At least that was what some of my older schoolmates had told me. And I had searched my house looking for a new, red bicycle I had earlier written Santa for (under the guidance of my parents). Nothing. Nada. So I knew I wasn't getting my wished-for present. "Of course there's a Santa Claus, son," said Mom, "so you'd better get to bed early tonight. If Santa finds you awake, he won't leave you anything!" I wanted to stay up past my bedtime for I saw no reason to fall asleep early on Christms Eve. After all, Santa, I had been convinced, was a fiction. I figured my parents probably wanted me asleep early so they could bring out the supposedly gifts that "Santa" had left. Nevertheless, I was sent to bed early with the caution, "Don't let Santa catch you awake!" But I strained to keep alert until late. Suddenly I heard a noise downstairs. Then I heard the sound of heavy footsteps climbing the stairs outside of my room. "Could this really be Santa?" Before the footsteps hit the final step, I was asleep! That was undoubtedly the fastest shut-eye in history. Yes, I did get my bike, but by next Christmas, I had joined the gang of realists spreading the news about who Santa really was! MERRY CHRISTMAS!

WHY I FEAR GROWING YOUNGER

Most guys my age fear growing older. Me, I fear growing younger! And I don't mean as in a second childhood kind of Alzheimer senility! I mean I'm actually aging backwards! I am unlike a lot of my buddies who slip unconcernedly into the dimming days of senior life. Nowhere is my claim of returning youthfulness more evident than on the tennis court where I play three times a week. Once I step on that green rectangle separated by a net, years of accumulated aches, pains, muscle sores, tendon strains,bone cracking, sore, flat feet, and all those other disabilities every athlete inherits just disappear! I begin playing as I did when I was at the height of my talent in my 40's. Once that first hard serve comes in my direction, an adrenalin-powered youth elixir pours through my body. If the serve is hit on a wide angle, my body, like an arrow, shoots towards the area where I must meet the ball, my rejuvenated feet churn like machinery under me, and my racket hand, no longer arthritic-stiff, stretches confidently out to meet the ball! And the ball, as if in slow motion, seems twice as normal, and my usually glaucoma-weakened eyes sees the ball clearly enough to read the brand name, and every hairy surface of the ball is visible to my heightened eyesight giving me enough time to pick out the exact spot on the ball I want to hit! My return bullets past a stunned net man and doesn't touch down until it reaches the farthest unreturnable spot on the court! Game...set...and match! "So," you ask, "why do you complain about growing younger when you can play the same soft lob, easy return, or slice-slice game that many of us are happy playing?" "I'm not complaining. I just know that there will come a point someday where I have pushed youth so far past human boundaries, that it will have no other path but to snap back hard against my real age! I do not look forward to that day! That's why I fear growing younger!"

TENNIS IN THE SNOW

"How can you play tennis in 30 degree weather?" my Florida friends ask. That's when I tell them about the times I've played in the Bronx, New York when snow was on the ground! [See photo in MY PHOTOS album] The only concession my tennis group at Pelham Bay Park made to winter was that we played only on weekends. We called ourselves, the Pelbay Polar Bears"! And we certainly looked like furry bears in our triple-layered playing outfits! We wore three shirts, three pants, three pair of socks, and thermal underwear covering our two pair of thick underwear! To top that off, we wore gloves and hats with ear muffs! We were prepared for whatever Old Man Winter threw at us. [New York had indoor courts, but in winter they were too expensive for us regular public park players.] So when we arrived at our courts after a snow storm, we would have to shovel a path to the courts and then scrape the snow from the one court we planned to use for the winter. Every winter the Parks Department removed the city nets. The first year we stretched a rope between the poles as a net. After that, we got smart and stole one city net to use for our winter play! Often we would have to chase off neighborhood kids who were using the courts for snow boarding or for playing ice hockey (in sneakers!). In 30 degree weather we had to keep our tennis balls warm. Once in a while they would suddenly become as hard as rocks! [Luckily, we had only two players over the years to suffer concussions from balls hitting them in the head.] So now when I'm asked about playing tennis in Florida in cold weather, I simply shrug my shoulders, smile warmly, and reply, "I've seen worse! I've seen worse!"

THREE RINGS FOR RAMONA

Warning! This is not a pretty story!

As the older brother of younger sisters, I met many of their girl friends. And I took full advantage of the opportunity! Mostly, the result was a casual, non-intimate relationship. There was one, however, that turned out to be an unholy affair! Her name was Ramona. It began innocently at first. Ramona asked my sister to ask me to give her a ring. I called and learned that she liked me a lot and wanted to go out with me. Since I was not then in a serious affair, and since Ramona was not bad to look at, I agreed. I began ringing her number frequently. She was my "friend with benefits." We went out on a lot of fun dates--we took moonlight cruises on the river, we rode amusement park attractions, we shared a table and a pizza at an "indie" movie theater, we ordered take-out fish fry and returned to my apartment for a meal, some scotch, and some late-night loving! One day, several months later, Ramona, who unsuccessfully had been pleading with me to marry her, pointed to a ring in a jewelry store. "I want you to buy me that," she said. We went inside and looked at many rings. Ramona insisted she wanted a diamond engagement ring. "But we're not engaged!" I protested. "Then we'll call it a friendship ring!" With that as a clear understanding, I bought the ring she wanted. After several more months of wearing the ring with no further commitment on my part, Ramona gave up, and was soon planning a wedding with a guy she didn't love. On her wedding day, I noticed my ring had been replaced on her ring finger with a gold wedding band. Since my sister was her maid-of-honor, there was no problem finding myself alone in a room with Ramona as she was about to dress for the ceremony. "For old times sake?" I asked. And, yes, we made love! Later that day, everyone commented on how radiant the bride looked in white!