RUBELLA

If she'd heard it once, she'd heard it a thousand times,

What an unusual name.

And, if she'd explained it once, she'd explained

it a thousand times, "My mother's name is Ruby

and my grandmother's name was Ella."

Rubella

Being thirty-eight, she'd come to

New York City to be an actress rather late in life. 

Her controlling mother had been furious

to learn that her daughter had quit her

stenographer job of 16 years to run

off and pursue her "dream."

"You're nothing but a foolish old maid - 

running off to chase some crazy notion 

that you can be a Broadway star.  

It's ridiculous and it's embarrassing.  

You mark my words - it will never happen.  

That city will chew you up and spit you out!  

If you have any sense at all, you'll  

immediately go and beg for your job back."

It took everything she had to hold her tongue as

her mother shamed and berated her.  Rubella understood

that most of her mother's hostility was borne out of

fear: fear for her own security, as she regularly  

helped her mother pay the rent; and, 

perhaps ... just perhaps, her mother  

might harbor a modicum of concern  

for her daughter's well-being.

Despite all the maternal doom and gloom,

she  would  go. 

She would pursue her dream - no matter how

foolish her mother thought it was.

But dreams don't always come true; at least not

right away.  She arrived in New York City 

in the spring of '56, and it was now 

transitioning from fall to winter, 1957.

It started off quite nicely.  Her second

day in town she happened to notice a note

pinned to a bulletin board at the YWCA: 

Quiet single woman looking for same

to share two bedroom apartment.

She called the number and before she knew

it, she was officially a New York resident.

Her plan was to support herself with 

the money she'd managed to save over her

16-year career as a stenographer.  But it wouldn't 

be long before she discovered just how quickly 

one's funds can be depleted when you're 

trying to survive in the "big city."

Every day there were auditions and

casting calls, and she was there 

for every one of them.  Although 

she regularly met with rejection, she 

persevered - bound and determined 

to work on the stage.

Ever the dutiful daughter; once a week she called 

her mother, who was also determined; determined 

to crush her daughter's ambitions of Broadway stardom.

"This is getting to be laughable, Rubella.  Ida Roster

came by yesterday and asked about you, and I was too  

ashamed to tell her what you've been up to.  So I told her 

you were visiting a sick friend out of town.  Look at what you're making me do!   Lord, forgive me; I've taken to lying to my friends."

Over time her mother's berating became

increasingly cruel and hysterical.  So much so, 

 that she began to dread even the thought of calling

her.  The stress of that, combined with the

fact that her funds were dwindling at an alarming

rate, caused her to realize that something had

to be done; she could not go on like this.

It was an overcast afternoon when she and

her roommate traversed the cluttered streets

of Midtown Manhattan as they made

their way to W. 44th St.

Dressed in her newly acquired costume, Rubella 

spotted an abandoned milk crate sitting on the 

sidewalk in front of the Shubert Theater.

"Here, I'm going to sit on this," she said as she 

placed the crate in the middle of the sidewalk.  

"Make sure you get some of the theater in the shot."

"I will, I will.  Now cross your legs and lean

forward a little.  That's it.  Perfect!"

Her roommate held the camera to her

face and snapped several photographs.

Once they'd finished, the milk crate was put back where 

they'd found it, and the two of them made their way back home.

A week would pass before Rubella had the 

developed pictures in her hands.  Removing 

them from the envelope, she carefully 

examined each shot until she found just 

the right one.  Once that was done, she 

pulled out some hotel stationery she'd managed to finagle from the 

doorman at the

Sherry-Netherland Hotel. 

On it she wrote:

Well, Ma, it finally happened. 

I landed a part in a Broadway production!

As you can see by the photograph,

I play an Arabian gypsy.  Isn't my

costume beautiful?  Now you can

show your friends and neighbors

what your daughter's "been up to."

My dream is coming true, Momma.

I'll write more later - I've got to rush

off to rehearsal.  Hope all's well with you.

Love, Rubella

P.S.  I've put a little something in here to help with the rent.

She licked the 3 cent stamp and carefully

applied it to the envelope which held the

letter, the photograph, and a twenty-dollar bill. 

A feeling of anxious melancholy swept over her as 

she pulled the gypsy costume out of her closet.  She laid 

it across the bed and walked over to her vanity, 

where she stared into the mirror for a lonely minute.  

There was only time for a few brief tears, as she didn't 

want to be late for her first night.

Running slightly behind, she exited her building in 

her costume and quickly dropped the letter to her 

mother in the mailbox across the street.  That task 

completed, she rushed down to the subway that 

would take her uptown for her big debut.

 

The subway was packed, and she couldn't help but notice 

the curious stares she was getting from the weary rush 

hour travelers.  How could she blame them - it's not 

everyday that one gets to share the subway 

with an Arabian gypsy. 

The dark of evening was falling as she 

stepped out onto West 57th Street and 

started walking the 5 blocks she needed to go.

Soon she could see the flashing neon sign in the distance: 

ARABIAN NIGHTS

As she reached the building, she stood for a 

moment and composed herself; then taking a deep breath, 

she pulled the massive front door open and walked into the building. 

As she entered she was immediately greeted by the manager.

"Well, hello Rubella - are you excited?"

"Yes, Mrs. Strausman, I am."

"Nervous?"

"A little."

"Well, that's to be expected.  Everyone's a little

anxious their first night on the floor by themselves. 

But, I must say, all the girls who helped train you

said how well you did, especially considering

the fact that you've never waited tables before. 

Follow me.  I'll show you which tables are yours."

As the manager lead her through the grand dining 

room of the renowned Arabian Nights restaurant,

she turned and asked, "So, Rubella, what did you 

do before this?"

She paused a moment, then proudly answered,

"I'm an actress ... a Broadway actress."

 

 

#vintagephotos #fiction

#fotofiction #ShortStories #Fictionwriting #NYCstories

Hobo

Henton Bardon was a lonely man of many sorrows.

Born twenty years before the dawn of the new century,

he'd seen amazing changes in his seventy seven years;

he'd also suffered many heartaches along the way.

He was born and raised on a 140 acre farm outside of Broken Bow,

Oklahoma.  It was a farm that he'd never left, having been born at

home in a back room - the same room he now slept in.  He was

brought into the world in that room and he figured

he'd leave this world in it as well.

Henton's sorrows included: watching friends die on the

battlefields of Europe during the Great War, and losing

both his parents to the Spanish flu in the fall of 1918. 

He'd outlived all four of his children: one dying of

whopping cough as an infant; two that contracted

Scarlet Fever and died within a week of each other,

and his youngest had gone down with his Navy

warship as it sank in the South Pacific.

His wife of 45 years, who'd been forced to stand by helplessly

as three of her children died of disease, found the death of her

youngest impossible to emotionally digest.  Inconsolable,

she took to her bed in the summer of '44 and within three

weeks she'd wasted away in her grief and anguish. 

Henton would later claim,

She died of a battered and badly broken heart.

Now completely alone, the only assuagement he

found for his loneliness was a dog named Hobo. 

It was six months after the death of his beloved wife, that, by

strange, random chance, he happened to stumble across an

injured puppy who lay crying in a ditch along side the road. 

Henton, assuming he'd been hit by a car, carried the pitiful

animal to the vet in Broken Bow. 

The doctor examined him and said he didn't think

the dog's injuries suggested that he'd been hit by a car. 

He felt that it was more likely that some local farmer

had tossed the unwanted creature out of his car.

"Happens all the time around here," he explained.

Horrified at the thought of such cruelty, Henton asked

the doctor if he thought he could survive his injuries. 

The veterinarian told him not to get his hopes up,

 but recommended he leave the animal with

him and he'd see what he could do.

After two weeks with the vet - defying all odds -

the scrappy little dog survived; suffering only

one hind leg left shorter than the other.

Henton would bring the little lame

boy home and call him Hobo.

That first night, Henton made up a pallet on the floor in the

front room. As he turned out the light for the night, Hobo was

curled up, fast asleep.  But sometime after midnight, he was awakened by a strange sound. Turning on the lamp next to the bed, he discovered his new dog staring up at him, whimpering.  

Understanding that he might be nervous his first night in a

strange place, Henton dragged the dog's pallet into his room

and placed it at the foot of his bed.  Hobo immediately

crawled on it and the problem was solved.

The following night, in the midst of a raging thunderstorm, he

was once again awakened by Hobo whimpering next to his bed.   Realizing that the animal was probably

frightened of the thunder, he debated doing something he would've never dreamed of doing before. He looked into the sad eyes of the pitiful creature and allowed his emotions to override his sensibilities.

Patting the side of the bed he invited him up,

"Come on, boy."

The following day the pallet was removed - never to return.

It didn't take long before the two became inseparable.

Undeterred by his deformity, Hobo spent his days

galloping lopsidedly along side his benefactor and riding 

"shotgun" in the truck whenever they drove into town.

As the months passed, a bond was forged

unlike any the man had ever known.  Two orphans,

of sorts, thrown together by chance, fate, or just dumb luck.

One rescued from a ditch of abandonment;

the other, from the lonely depths of despair.

When summer came, with its oppressive heat and humidity,

Henton always knew where he could find his pup;

lying in the shade of a huge elm tree that stood

on a gentle slope behind the house.

The next twelve years would pass without a single

day spent apart, and then it came - that inevitable day. 

It was a Thursday morning.  Usually when Henton arose

at 5 a.m. Hobo jumped out of bed with him,

but not this morning.  He didn't think too much

of it, figuring the dog was just extra tired, so he went

on about his morning routine.  But, after a couple of hours,

he began to worry.  As he walked down the hall, he called his name,

but Hobo didn't come running as he normally did.  

Entering the bedroom, he found Hobo lying on the bed -

softly sighing with every breath.

Henton walked over and sat on the edge of the bed. As he 

rubbed the dog's head he asked, "What's wrong, buddy?"

Hobo looked up athis friend with sad eyes that 

suggested that he knew his time was short.

Henton immediately picked him up, 

put him in the truck, and off they went to town.

The vet said he'd need to draw blood in order to accurately

diagnosis the problem; the results of the blood work

would take a couple of days.  He'd call when they came in.

With that, Henton scooped up his ailing boy 

and brought him back home.

As evening fell, Henton changed out of his work clothes

and climbed into bed next to Hobo.  Just after midnight

he awoke to the sound of his dog softly crying in pain. He reached over and gently stroked his his fur until the crying stopped, then both fell back asleep.  

When the old man awoke at five a.m., he tried to rouse his boy, but got no response. Sometime during the night his sweet Hobo had been taken from him. 

Overwhelmed by grief, he pulled the lifeless body 

of his beloved friend close and wept.

Later that morning Henton decided that the perfect spot to

bury his friend would be underneath the the large elm tree behind the house.  It had been under its outstretched branches that Hobo had sheltered from the summer heat, and it was from that vantage point that he'd surveyed the vast expanse of land that made up his world.

As he drank his coffee, the old man pondered his new,

lonely reality; then suddenly it dawned on him.

Wait a minute!

Excited - he walked across the kitchen and grabbed

the phone book.  Once he found what he was looking for,

he picked up the phone and dialed the number.

"Hello, George?  This is Henton Bardon - say, are working today?  You are?  Well, that's great.  Would it be o.k. if I came down straight away?  Thank you, sir; I'll see you in a bit."

Grabbing a blanket, he walked into the bedroom, wrapped

Hobo up in it - carried him out to the truck, and off they

went; bumping down the rutty dirt road that lead to town.

As he came to the far end of Main Street he made

a left turn.  About three blocks down he saw the big 

red sign and pulled into the gravel parking lot.

"Here we are, boy."

Walking around to the passenger side, he lifted Hobo's lifeless body out of the truck and headed for the door.

As he walked in, George Browne called out,

"Morning, Henton.  What you got there?"

"Well George, I've got a very special job for you."

And he was soon to be alone no more ...

#vintagephotos #fiction

#fotofiction #ShortStories #Fictionwriting

Jimmy

Jimmy

Summer, 1952

Beeping monitors, tubes and needles: 

Jim Caswell was drifting in and out of consciousness,

occasionally detecting doctors and nurses speaking by

his bedside in hushed tones.  It had become abundantly

clear to him that he was in the process of dying.

He would spend his last days trapped within his mind; reviewing the events of his life and wrestling with his past.

His father had worked in the coal mines

of West Virginia; a violent, alcoholic man who

regularly beat his wife and children.

  Growing up he lived in constant fear of those nights when "Daddy" would come home drunk and full of rage. While he certainly hated being beaten by his father; he had been far more traumatized by watching his sweet mother being brutalized by this angry, sadistic man.

Little Jimmy shed no tears when his father died of black lung at 48, and he would suffer the rest of his life from the corrosive power of the hatred he felt for the man.

But now it was his turn to die ... alone, 

trapped in a hospital bed with his anxious thoughts.

His own family had been torn apart by his addiction to

alcohol - the only inheritance he'd received from his father. 

He couldn't blame his wife for leaving, but he was

deeply hurt that both his children refused to talk to him,

even as he faced the end of his life.  His two remaining siblings lived out of state and had their own families to tend to, but he did receive a phone call from his sister, Betty Jean, in Ohio. 

Unable to talk on the phone, the nurse took a message

that said his sister had written him, and he

should expect her letter any day.

The following Tuesday, around mid-morning, the nurse came into his room with the letter.  Despite the fact that he was unconscious, she thought she would still ask him if he wanted her to open it and read it to him, and she wasn't surprised when she got no response.  Having been a nurse for many years, she understood that patients

were often aware of what was going on around

them while unconscious, so she decided to

open it and read it to him.

Dearest Jimmy,

It breaks my heart that I can't be there with you, but there's just no way for me to do it.  I hate the thought of you being there by yourself - you know I'd come if I could. 

I've enclosed a picture I found when I went through Mama's things.  I believe it was taken by Aunt June that summer she came out after Daddy died.  Remember she had that Brownie camera?  I thought you might like to have it.  If you look on the back you'll see Mama wrote on it:

Jimmy,

Mama's little man

Summer, 1952

Weren't those happy days, Jimmy?  Lord, forgive me for thinking it, and worse yet for saying it; but life got so much better after Daddy died.  I know we didn't have much, but at least we didn't have to live in fear of those really bad nights anymore.  

 

I finally made peace with my feelings about Daddy.  I've come to understand that he was a very sick man, and I know it's hard, but I want you to find it in your heart to forgive him too.

Speaking of Aunt June.  That was the same summer she drove you and me all the way out to Wheeling to that tent revival - remember?  People were talking in tongues and all those men dancing around holding snakes, remember?  We didn't know what to make of all that.

But, I bring all this up to make a very important point.  If you recall, when all the tongue talking died down and the snakes got put away, that traveling evangelist preached a fiery sermon and then made an altar call.  Remember how you and me held hands and walked down that long aisle to the front?  That night we both said "yes" to Jesus, and despite all you and me have done or didn't do; no one can take that away from us.

Oh, Jimmy - just know I'm praying for you.  I'm asking God for a miracle; praying that the Lord heals you, but if that's not His plan, I want you to cling to Jesus.  Don't be afraid, sweet brother.

I love you.

Your sister,

Betty Jean

Once the nurse finished reading the letter she was surprised to hear a faint, whispered, "thank you," which assured her that she had done the right thing.  She told him that it had been an honor to read such a sweet letter, and before she left, she placed the photograph from his sister in his hand and closed his fingers tightly around it.  She told him that he could look at it later if he was feeling better.

The following morning, unafraid;

James Lawrence Caswell held firmly to

his faith and his photograph, as he took the

hand of Jesus, who carried him home to glory.

"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow

of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me ..."

#vintagephotos #fiction

#fotofiction #ShortStories #Fictionwriting

Ed and the Color T.V.

Ed was dead set on buying a color television; 

his wife didn't share his enthusiasm.


Seven hundred dollars? Marlene thought,  

There's no way we can do this.


"I'm sorry, what was your name again?" the salesman babbled, "Ed, was it?  Yes, well, Ed; this model also features a deluxe record player, a high fidelity stereo tuner and two top-quality speakers. And just look at this handsome, walnut cabinet; it's truly a fine piece of furniture.  I'm sure the Misses would be proud to have this in her living room," he proclaimed as he grinned at Marlene.



"What do think, honey?" Ed asked.



"Well, it certainly is a beautiful cabinet, like the man said."


Just as she finished her sentence, the salesman chimed in, 

"See there, your wife thinks it's perfect, and we all know -

if wifey's happy - everyone's happy!"


Ignoring the cloying salesman, Marlene gave her 
husband that worried look that he knew all too well.


Ed turned to the salesman, "Could you please give us a minute?"


"Of course. You two talk it over; look around.  
I'll be right here if you have any questions."


Ed took Marlene by the arm and walked her over to the 
far side of the showroom.


"Honey, you seem distracted; is everything o.k.?"


She reached up and brushed a piece of lint off his suit jacket. 

"Not distracted, dear; concerned."


"Concerned?  About what?"


"About what?" she whispered emphatically, "I'm concerned 

about the $700 dollars they want for that television!"


"But, dear; it's not just a television, it's 

also a stereo and a record player."

She sighed deeply, knowing that there was little use in arguing.  "But, darling, that's almost a month's pay. We've got lots of other better uses for that money.  Remember, we need a playpen now 

that Joey's walking and Christmas is just around the corner. 

The black & white set we have works just fine."



"First of all, it's not a month's pay; with this new promotion

I'm making $750 a month.  Besides, this sales guy says

we can buy it on time."


"On time? Are you forgetting that we're already paying the washing machine on time?  Our mortgage is $95 a month and the car note is $35. I'm concerned that there could be some surprise expenses in the future - you just don't know.  I'm sorry, dear; I just think it's a bad idea to buy this television - at least right now."


"Oh, honey, we've got plenty of money.  Listen, just picture us sitting in front of that beautiful set, eating our dinner on those t.v. trays your Aunt Eunice gave us as a wedding gift.  Just sitting there together, with our t.v. trays, eating our dinner and watching Gunsmoke, 

or that doctor show you like ... what's the one, you know, 

with that handsome guy you're so crazy about - what's it called?"


"Dr. Kildare?"


"Yeah, yeah; Dr. Kildare.  Can't you just imagine it?  Sitting in the living room, eating dinner and watching Dr. Kildare."


"Honey, both those shows are in black & white;
a color t.v. wouldn't matter."

"Well, maybe, but not for long. I was reading in the T.V. Guide last week that all the networks are saying that they plan to switch the majority of their programming to color by the end of 1964.  That's only a year from now and my guess is; the cost of color sets will skyrocket once that happens.  See, we're gonna beat the rush and save a bunch of money if we buy now."


Suddenly Marlene exhaled deeply as she put her hand over her mouth and turned away.

"Honey, what's wrong?  Are you alright?"


She held up her hand to indicate that she 

needed a moment as she nodded, yes.


Concerned, Ed put his arm around her,

"Honey, is your stomach still bothering you?"

Once again she nodded, yes.



"This has been going on for a couple of days now. 

Maybe you should see the doctor."


Marlene took a couple of deep breaths and composed herself.


Turning to face her husband she announced, "I did see the doctor."


"What? When?"


"This morning. I came straight here

from Dr. Stevens' office."


"Honey, you didn't tell me you were going to the doctor. 

What did he say the problem was?"


"Well, it's not really a problem, I hope.

He told me that I'm expecting."


"Expecting??  You mean like pregnant?"


"Yes, very much like pregnant."


Ed stood in complete shock; staring at her with his mouth agape.

He wouldn't get his color t.v. for another six years.

#vintagephotos #fiction

#fotofiction #ShortStories #Fictionwriting