Panni's and Pepi's Paris

Ana (Panni) Raab in a medical school class at The University of Paris School of Medicine, ca. 1937. She's in the second row from the top, scrunched in between a fellow who appears to be looking at her (or at someone in the row below?); and another fellow with whom she appears to be (quite?) chummy. Must have been one of her Romanian friends...

December 31: there are so many anniversaries attached to this date. Here's the story of the one that's most fit to print:

PANNI’S AND PEPI’S PARIS

BY GEORGINA MARRERO

For me, Paris is synonymous with the two most important persons in my life: my parents. Anna “Panni” Raab met Federico Efrain “Pepi” Marrero in a medical school class at the University of Paris’ Faculty of Medicine sometime in the mid-1930’s. At the time, people “group” dated, or so my mother told me, so I’m not quite sure when they began to formally date. By 1940, though, they knew each other well enough that my father either sent for or went to pick my mother up in the South of France, they traveled via Orleans to Lyon, and married in the mayor’s office there on December 31, 1940.

My parents’ stories about their years in Paris shaped me. Their stories about forty francs being the equivalent of one American dollar; about a paper cone’s full of French fries costing four to five francs (and that was dinner). About students gathering in the Luxembourg Gardens: I have pictures of them doing just so. About Henri Bergson giving lectures that were so packed that the best my mother could hope for was to strain to hear through the open door. About how he presented himself as a Jew before the Nazis when they occupied Paris.

Those were very difficult times. My mother defended her thesis eight days before the Occupation. And then she fled to Vichy France. As for my father: well, with a middle name like Efrain, his professor, Clovis Vincent, wanted to keep a close eye on him. It just so happened Vincent was a great French patriot, decorated during the First World War. So he ingeniously gathered all his residents together to serve at the Pitie Hospital under the auspices of his “Neurosurgical Wartime Service.”

One of the residents, a man named Rabinowitz, escaped at least several times from detention camps, and eventually made his way to Canada.

For the record, when Princess Diana was rushed to the Pitie and Salpetriere Hospitals after her fatal car crash, my mother’s comment was: “That’s the best place to treat head injuries.” No two ways about it: my mother would have known.

My mother’s strength may have ebbed and flowed, but her stories never wavered. After her death, I had the good fortune to speak with one of her best friends, a fashion designer named Kati Cohn, who filled in many gaps. According to Kati, the Hungarians went to France to study, she said, because they were “freer” there. They were not held back… just because they were Jewish.

Young, carefree, (perhaps?) in love – and she never studied, according to Kati. Panni joined Kati and her crowd at the cafes every afternoon. When did she study, we both mused out loud. She graduated, though, producing a thesis on Nietzsche and Psychiatry. And, oh, yes: she once cooked a veal steak on the back of an iron!

As for Pepi, he studied very hard, yet found time to play ball with his fellow Cuban classmates. He also cooked chicken and rice: hard for me to believe, later on. He had to wash his own clothes, and, at one point, had to do with very little money, for someone had stolen his stipend. I guess that’s when those French fries came in handy.

My father’s passion was neuropathology, so he hit pay dirt when a very eminent Spaniard fled to Paris during the Spanish Civil War. This man, Don Pio del Rio Hortega, guided my father’s thesis. My father dedicated it to him.

Did they have fun? They all had fun, according to Kati.

In the midst of all the storm clouds brewing, yes, they did.

They were young, carefree, and – perhaps – falling in love.

If the following is not an example of young love, then I don’t know what is: According to my mother, she once stumbled into Vincent’s operating room, tripping over wires, and whatnot. The Great Man – a big, hulking French peasant – turned, glowered, and asked Panni: “Mademoiselle, what are you doing here?”

“I’m searching for Monsieur Marrero,” my mother responded. She proudly continued, “He’s supposed to be operating.”

Monsieur Vincent tersely replied, “Go to the sub-basement. You’ll find Monsieur Marrero there.” Sure enough, my father was operating… on bedsores.

As a teenager, I went to Paris, where I spent time with my mother’s cousin and his wife, who’d been made to wear the Star of David during the Occupation. Their daughter’s married to a devout Roman Catholic.

A little later on that summer, my mother came to join me. I’d wanted to go running off to Scotland to do who knows what after finishing my language course in Tours. In a panic, my father had sent her over.

Still highly energetic, my mother marched me up and down the streets of Paris, pointing out this, that, everything. She took me to the oldest restaurant (Le Procope), and the cheapest (Le Bouillon Chartier), where a waiter taught me how to eat an artichoke.

A rebellious child of the times, all I did was fuss, fret, protest, and complain… all the way to the Folies Bergere. Even then, however, I sensed the enormous bond my mother had with her lifelong best friend and her Cuban husband, a bon vivant who’d married the peppy little Frenchwoman, never again giving a second thought to the medical career that had brought him to Paris in the first place, as it had my father.

After she passed away, I braved a cold, damp Paris holiday season to visit with our relatives. I also spent many wonderful hours with her best friend’s now widowed husband. He’d known Efrain for even more years than he’d known Anita. I returned once more, four months before 9/11, when I got to see him for the last time.

I’m bound to return to Paris, and to enjoy The City of Lights more and more in my own right. However, for me, this beautiful, carefree, romantic city will always be… Panni’s and Pepi’s Paris.

Copyright, 2005 by Georgina Marrero 992 words First-time worldwide serial rights

How did I mark today? Among other things, I saw "The (Aryan) Couple" for the fourth-fifth time. It (somewhat) juxtaposes "The Sound of Music"--if nothing else, both sets of protagonists end up in Switzerland: the former, from Hungary; and the latter, from Austria. Someday, someday: I--or, rather--Panni and Pepi--have a story of their own...

Caroline Carver; Kenny Doughty; and Martin Landau in "The Aryan Couple."

La Cama de Piedra

Y ahora pa' un poco de espanol:

LA LOQUITA DEL ZIG-ZAG: LA CAMA DE PIEDRA

POR NININA MAMEYEZ

Thum thum thum thum. QUE es eso, pienso. Entrando en la biblioteca, encuentro a papi tocando su tocadiscos. Él tiene muchos discos de nuestro país y de Nuestros Otros Países. Le encanta la guitarra. El thum thum viene de las guitarras.

AY, papi, estas tocando a tus guitarras. Si, nene. Escucha al Señor Mariachi. Esta cantando: “Guitarras, lloren guitar-ras.” QUE? Las guitarras no pueden llorar, papi!

Sí, hijita. Las guitarras lloran. Mira, escucha a esta otra canción: “De piedra ha de ser la cama/ de piedra las cabeceras...” Empiezo a mecerme: me gusta. Pero pienso, digo, QUE? Una cama de piedra? Y guitarras que lloran?

Tiene que ver, Ninina, con como te quiero a ti y a mami. OH. Y yo te quiero a ti y a mami. Y yo quiero tener una cama de piedra. Papi lo piensa, suspira. Que piensas de una guitarra llorona, en vez?

NO, papi, yo quiero a La Cama De Piedra! Pues, pídeselo a Santi Clos, ok? OK. Santi Clos llega; me trae una muñeca lindísima. Ay, que muñequita mas linda, dice La Linda. Umm... Umm... ¿Dónde ‘sta La Cama De Piedra? ¿DÓNDE ‘STA LA CAMA DE PIEDRA?

Corriendo a mi cuarto, me encaramo bocabajo sobre mi cama. Empiezo a sollozar, a llorar y llorar. Lloro como El Señor Mariachi. Lloro hasta mas que las guitarras. El único que me puede consolar es mi pollo rosado.

El primer día del Ano Nuevo, todos en la casa corren pa’qui y pa’lla. Que’sta pasando, papi? Don Bastón se fue de su palacio ayer por la noche, nene. Y ahora tenemos al Colonel Barbabudo en el poder. El amigo del Teniente Llantes De Saber? Papi suspira, sí. Pero – sonriéndose un poco – en varios días llegaran Los Reyes Magos, verdad?

OK, papi, ok. Dándole un besito, salgo a jugar en mi columpio. El próximo día, papi sale solo en su Olsmobil, sin El Chino. Vuelve a la casa, sonriéndose mas y más.

El Día De Los Reyes Magos, entro en la biblioteca. Veo a un paquete ENORME, con un lazo lindísimo. Ábrelo, nene. Es para ti.

Desbaratando al papel y al mono, me encuentro con un tocadiscos chiquito. Y encima del tocadiscos esta... LA CAMA DE PIEDRA! Corriendo a papi, lo aprieto y le doy un beso y un abrazo enorme. GRACIAS, papi, GRACIAS!

Thum thum thum thum. “De piedra ha de ser la cama...” canta El Señor Mariachi. “De piedra LAS cabeceras...” canto yo. Empiezo a mecerme: me gusta. Pero todavía no sé por que la cama es de piedra. Ni por que las guitarras lloran.

FELIZ NAVIDAD Y UN PROSPERO ANO NUEVO A TODOS MIS AMIGOS!

PARA EPI Y PANNI. SIEMPRE.

Balthasar's Bounty

In The City Beautiful: across the street; and several back yards over, lies...

BALTHASAR’S BOUNTY

BY GEORGINA MARRERO

“With the genuine essence of a real palace

in every square foot.” – With apologies to

Leopold, Duke of Albany (Kate and Leopold).

Up until several months ago, I thought my North Gables neighborhood had made a pact with itself to remain just so: several blocks of relatively small, primarily Mission-style cottages dating from The City Beautiful’s origins in the twenties, interspersed with some Art Deco-inspired edifices from the thirties and forties, and the occasional fifties ranch. A Mediterranean oasis in the midst of a glass-and-concrete desert, shirking its swampland roots. However, little did I suspect I was dwelling in the backyard of such baronial splendor.

In his Alabama drawl, my across-the-street neighbor was the first to bring this phenomenon to my attention. Commenting on how almost any new construction in the area is bursting the seams of otherwise proportional lots, we agreed that setting Krome Avenue as Dade County’s boundary is definitely not working to our advantage. Just like our oppressive summertime heat, palaces need space in which to expand. Preferably, marshland… especially if they come equipped with a Bentley.

A Bentley? Indeed? Not forgetting our conversation, I eventually wandered onto the next street over. The house on the corner was splendid enough, what with its ornate grillwork. However, as it was not the house directly behind my neighbor’s, I kept going. And then I beheld it: a mini-sultanate. Your Royal Highness of Oman – or Brunei – move over, please.

A multi-tiered, multi-arched, Corinthian-columned confection stood in front of me. Two layers of these columns flank an impressive wooden door. Furthermore, decorative sconces in the shape of fauns holding lanterns aloft grace both of its sides. Ornate pillars, urns, and flowerpots scattered about double as concrete bodyguards. Etched-glass windowpanes afford insiders an outside view (but not necessarily the other way around). Ali Baba – or Al Capone – could not possibly feel more at home.

More columnar facades – and a frieze – on the second story serve as the pedestal for a turret with stained-glass windows. Up on the roof, Spanish tiles valiantly attempt to hold their own against miniature flying buttresses. And a mini-campanile – something we peons also possess atop our Old Spanish bungalows – struggles to fit in. I deserve to have a real carillon, it almost plaintively cries out.

A curlicued fence, periodically interrupted by more of the same ornate pillars, ends in a (relatively) tiny grillwork gate flanked by – again – those pillars. An even more ornate plaque that depicts a nymph (or goddess) playing with a cherub – Venus with Cupid, perhaps? – graces the pillar on the left. On the right-hand pillar, guardian angels protectively embrace this palace’s street number. As if any mere mortal would dare lay claim to this celestial (triple) lot.

The Victor Emmanuel Monument in Rome has met its match, I thought to myself. However, where was the Bentley?

Several weeks later, I could not resist another peek. This time, a silver Bentley was proudly parked right in front of that Moorish dream (or nightmare?) of an entryway.

Aha, I have the right house, after all!

But that wasn’t all. Christmas was right around the corner. Larger-than-life calls for… what? To my astonishment (or lack thereof), an exceedingly large Victorian Santa in his sleigh – with presents stacked floor to ceiling, of course – and a SECOND Santa, standing several feet away (with yet more presents), now dominated the left side of the driveway. The more luxurious sleigh retained its squatter’s rights in front of the entryway. And, on the right side of the driveway, a complete Nativity scene – with just the right number of donkeys, camels, and sheep – had taken over the pavement.

Driving by this spectacle at night, it was – as I could have guessed – all lit up. Lights everywhere: on the Santas, on the animals, on the Holy Family, on the Three Wise Men. All over the front of the house, including all the palm trees. I could not resist returning every few days (and/or nights). On the Feast of the Epiphany, I believe I beheld the owner gazing upon her treasures. The next day, I drove by again, only to find the entourage gone. The palace – and the Bentley – once again reigns supreme… presumably, until next December.

Wouldn’t Caspar, Melchior, and Balthasar feel more at home on the other side of Krome Avenue? Their animals would, that’s for sure. But I guess the Bentley wouldn’t.

Copyright, 2004 by Georgina Marrero 730 words All Rights Reserved

HappyHolidays to my friends and former neighbors in South Florida!

Teeter - Totter...

"Sex and the City: A 'Vogue' Idea (#4.17)" (2002)

[in the Vogue accessories closet]
Carrie Bradshaw: [shrieks as she picks up a pair of shoes] Do you know what these are? Manolo Blahnik Mary Janes! I thought these were an urban shoe myth! -- from IMDB Website

"Teeter - Totter..." is probably what I consider to have been my "breakthrough" piece. As the only time I ever posted it before was on a website I possibly might never be able to recuperate, let's just consider that I'm treading in virgin territory here. Sigh.

TEETER – TOTTER…

BY GEORGINA MARRERO

In life, sometimes, you end up – albeit briefly – wearing someone else’s shoes, both figuratively… and literally. Someone through whom, perhaps, you vicariously wish you could live your life – or, at least, an episode in your life… or, rather, their life. The interesting thing, though, is that this event is actually happening in your life, so, in effect, you are actually living out a part of your life. Am I making sense here?

Carrie Bradshaw. “Sex and the City.” True to my form -- that is, “after the fact,” I finally discovered the show four years after its inception. No matter: I was hooked. I quickly realized that I empathized with Carrie. I may not have long, curly blonde hair, nor a shoe fetish. Nonetheless, I do obsess about relationships, I can be funny, and I do write.

Slavishly following fashion has never been my style, especially when it comes to footwear. On the contrary: Chinese slipper Mary Jane equivalents, loafers, sneakers, sandals with non-existent heels – and a few medium heeled, yet sensible, pumps: a compendium, here, of my adult life below the ankle wardrobe. Fiercely and stubbornly resistant – memories of unbecoming, ghastly orthopedic lace-up booties still send shudders up and down my spine – my childhood flat feet problem continues to haunt me. AARP membership is around the corner. Arthritis is beginning to rear its ugly head. Casual observers, aestheticians, and shoe vendors alike feel I am a podiatrist’s dream/nightmare come true.

Why all this obstinacy when it comes to my feet? False pride, perhaps. There is something about the idea of entrusting one’s feet over into the care of someone else that both repulses and terrifies me. After all, Carrie’s good friend, Charlotte, reacted as such when a foot fetishist-turned-shoe salesman tried to have his way with her feet. Perhaps her motto became: “Shoe boutique shoppers, beware.”

Boutique department stores, however, have Choos – and Louboutins – and Weitzmans – of a different color. As Neiman Marcus was having its First Call sale, I had to – at the very least – strut through the store, indulge some whim or the other, and proudly swing my Neiman’s bag back and forth for all to see. If not down Fifth Avenue, then, at least, all the way back to the parking lot.

A shoe fetish I may not have – but a handbag one, I do. As the “sheep” mentality to which even I succumb had prodded me to indulge in the most practical Prada I could find several weeks earlier, no purse – either sensible or frivolous – enticed me. The sale was too good, however, to think of walking out empty-handed. Before I could regain control, my flat, thong-clad feet had made their way to the shoe department.

Carrie Bradshaw and Manolo Blahniks are synonymous with each other. Neiman’s is known for its selection of Manolos. The sale racks were stocked with a handsome selection of the lovely footwear for which my New York loving, intrepid, cigarette-smoking, articulate, neurotic alter ego is known. As with men, are all the good ones always taken? Are we compelled to not only wear the shoes, but also wear the same size? (It’s not that complicated, really – 7 ½ Medium is probably among the most standard of shoe sizes for women.) Even on sale, each pair cost more than three hundred dollars. Just as well. A decent pair of black shoes, however, would come in handy.

The kind, patient, very down-to-earth (for Neiman’s), knowledgeable salesperson also happened to be the manager of the department. Upon informing him of my elusive quest for “torture-free” footwear, he brought out a few very appropriate pairs for my perusal… including a pair of “ballerina” Manolo Blahniks! Black, flat, butter-soft, pointed, yet roomy. A done deal, Ms. Carrie Bradshaw Wannabe: who says you cannot live out a fantasy, albeit a non-existent heeled version of one?

Obsessive, excessive – and delighted – I asked him about sandals. Sexy sandals. Not too many Manolos left in my/our size. No matter: the pair he and a coworker presented me with screamed out, “Carrie Bradshaw,” nonetheless. I beheld a beautiful pair of black Marc Jacobs sandals, made out of black leather and black suede – a thong model, if I recall correctly – with a black suede flower saucily perched at the tip of each shoe. Very sexy! As only one pair remained – in my/our size – it was drastically reduced, which made it even more appealing. I/we excitedly proceeded to try it on, in all of its three-inch-heeled glory.

Teeter – totter. This is the best way to describe what happened next. There I stood – sexy, three inches taller – but I could not move. My face registered a panoply of emotions: exhilaration, shock, total dismay, shame. Which is worse, shame, or pain? Tentatively inching forward in these exquisite instruments of torture, I remembered Carrie describing walking twenty – nay, forty-seven – blocks in Manhattan in one of her special numbers and stating, “These shoes pinch my feet.” Better to have my Carrie footwear “bubble” burst this way than to suffer with blistered feet… if I could even manage to take more than a few steps in the shoes, that is. Life from a flamingo’s point of view: teeter – totter.

Dejectedly, I stepped out of the shoes. Simultaneously, I breathed a sigh of relief. The “ballerina” slippers would have to do. Life was imitating art - by now owning a pair of Manolo Blahniks, our bond was further strengthened! (However, CB owns one hundred pairs to my now extensive collection of four/recently decimated to two: 12/19/07 postscript.) Carrie Bradshaw is not the protagonist here, though. This is my life. I write, I can be funny, and I do obsess about relationships. However, I do not smoke.

Copyright, 2003 by Georgina Marrero 943 words All Rights Reserved

Sling Backs

The perfect accompaniment to Swirl: these sexy, racy Sling Backs. Oh if only I could really, truly do more than stumble mere millimeters in them...

SLING BACKS

BY GEORGINA MARRERO

Brad and Jen had just split up when, one Friday afternoon, I found myself in Coconut Grove. As it was gray and threatening looking, I had my fuchsia Totes ready and waiting.

Pedro Almodovar’s La Mala Educacion had just made it to Cocowalk. After parking and grabbing a quick bite to eat, I’d breathlessly climbed the three flights of stairs to the theater.

I was not disappointed.

Emerging in between movies, I was greeted by a torrential downpour. On the eleven o’clock news that night, I heard it had all come down within twenty minutes. Indeed, during the twenty minutes when I rushed down the stairs for a gelato.

In Good Company, an entertaining romp, also managed to hold my attention. As I had slept well the previous night, I was wide-awake.

So awake, in fact, that I decided to spend more time in the area.

Proceeding in the general direction of Peacock Park, I was on the lookout for the Steve Madden Outlet, which I’d first discovered during the Herald Hunt several months earlier. Soon enough, I found it.

A wonderful assortment of flats: some in suede, and one memorable pair in leather flanked by patent leather that actually curled up when I tried it on; some ridiculously high-heeled pumps; and the store’s signature platform wedgies greeted me. Teeter-tottering, hanging on by the tips of my fingers, I struggled to retain my balance.

Would you like to sit down, a clean-cut, clear-eyed young salesperson sporting a chain with a small cross on it, asked me.

Stubbornly resistant, I said, no, thanks. The young man began to follow me around as I futilely tried on pair after pair, grimacing as I went. As he seemed nice, and kind, I began to speak with him.

I’m a writer, I said. I’m studying to be a teacher, he said. I used to be a teacher. Oh. What kind. I told him. What are you interested in? History. Oh.

When I mentioned I’d just seen La Mala Educacion, he said that was the next movie he wanted to see. He’d seen Maria Full of Grace. That’s what it’s like on the streets of Colombia, he said. I mentioned City of God: he’d seen it. What a brave soul. Serious movies. Heavy topics.

Deciding to lighten things up, I switched to the obvious: shoes. My feet. Did you notice my hammertoes? Yes. He seemed to know quite a bit about shoes. He seemed to know a great deal about a great many things.

Returning to writing, I told him, I want to write for your generation. OK, he responded, a little hesitantly, yet kindly.

Shoes. I can’t do shoes, but I can do purses. And bras. Woman things, you know. Girl things. These are the primary girl things, are they not? He agreed.

Hair. There’s also hair. And jeans. Those low-riders, where you can see everything when a girl bends over, right? Do you like that? He fudged a bit on this one.

Hey, what are guy things, I then asked him. Looking up, I noticed his neat, razor-short hair; his trim, almost invisible, beard. Hair’s a guy thing, yes? He agreed.

What else do guys care about? Jeans, he said, looking down at his own. Having their hems hit the shoes just so. Having them hang just so. What about the underpants hanging out of the jeans? I’m still into them, he sheepishly admitted. Whereupon he raised his T-shirt a bit, revealing the gray tops of his underpants.

It’s hard to break my teenage habits, he said. Thinking back on my own teenage habits, I fuzzily remember octagonal wire-rimmed glasses; long, curly hair. And jeans.

Jeans and hair: that’s what girls and guys have in common. We both agreed.

Saying goodbye, I didn’t feel as if I was leaving empty-handed. Sling backs: I’d purchased a pair of low-heeled, T-strap sandals covered with a fun, colorful print containing flowers, a pensive woman, and a thought bubble: “Ah. Ah. This is funny!” that somewhat qualify as sling backs during my last visit.

This time, a pensive young man managed to sling me back in time. Now to see if it’s true that Sling Blade’s ex is responsible for The Split.

Oh, what we care about.

Copyright, 2005 by Georgina Marrero 710 words All Rights Reserved

Training Wheels

A tried and true--yet, fresh--piece. Behold the debut of "Training Wheels":

TRAINING WHEELS

BY GEORGINA MARRERO

Why is it so difficult to be a modern-day woman? I think it’s because we begin at such a young age to try to become so. Take our obsession with bras, for example. Recently I bought a black French number, euphemistically named, Swirl. Its manufacturer tries even harder: its name is, Le Mystere.

The real mystery was that it had fit me, at least in the store’s dressing room. After donating several woefully worn out holdouts from who knows when to my local Goodwill, my black bra collection now consisted of Swirl; a fancier French model from the Chantelle line intended for “special” occasions; and a clingy animal print Roberto Cavalli with just enough black in it to “qualify.”

Planning to wear a mesh weave black top, I pulled Swirl out of the drawer. A nice fit, a pretty bra: good. Soon I found myself at my accustomed Friday afternoon spot: in front of a movie screen at Sunset Place in South Miami.

By the middle of the movie, Swirl’s under wire was cutting into me so deeply I could barely breathe. Pulling at the cups under the blessed cover of darkness, I felt something give. Some stitches appeared to have come undone, providing me with some relief.

Not enough. No sooner was the movie over, than I rushed to the restroom and removed the blasted thing. Should I, or shouldn’t I? I asked myself. Yes. Stuffing Swirl into my purse, I made a discreet dash to the local Chico’s. They were bound to have a cover-up of some kind.

An earth-toned jacket just to my liking awaited me. I’ll wear it out, I told the saleswomen. Telling them why, we began to discuss the merits of should we or shouldn’t we. Wear a bra, that is. The tall, reed-like saleswoman said she doesn’t wear one if she doesn’t have to. Her more womanish coworker, pointing down at herself, said she must. And I responded, well, in my mother’s generation women wore camisoles, and I’m built like my mother.

We then got on the topic of how much we want to show. I don’t stick out, said the more fleshed-out of the two. Oh, you’re like squash blossoms, I ventured. She demurred. And I, I contributed, have been compared to pencil erasers. We both giggled.

Little nine or ten year olds are already wearing training bras, I plaintively continued – there’s nothing there. They want to grow up as fast as they can, the well-built saleswoman said. When they were younger, they got rid of their training wheels as quickly as possible. And, she continued, they’ve replaced them with their training bras.

With their training bras? I never made it beyond my training wheels.

Before I left the mall, I tried Victoria’s Secret. Alas: long in the shoulder blades, pencil-pointed, round, neither A nor B, I found nothing. So what else is new?

However, on my way out of the parking lot, while pulling Swirl out of my purse in order to retrieve my wallet, I could not help noticing that the young parking attendant perked up for a second. Thank you, I said, as he handed me my change. You’re welcome, he drawled out for a split second longer than necessary.

Not chucking those little wheels didn’t hurt me in the long run, I guess.

Copyright, 2004 by Georgina Marrero 555 words All Rights Reserved