Glenn Keller

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• Empty
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• USDA

  

  US Department of Agriculture.  That’s what was printed on Food Stamps when they were actually physical paper currency.  Actually, the word “Food Stamp” did not appear, the proper name was “Food Coupon”.    I would know.  They are what kept food on the table in our little household after my mother was disabled.   But I know,  people use them to abuse them.  A few I suppose,  but mostly, they were, and are,  used to buy food.  Do you doubt that?

  Here I am as as a 12 year old boy. Now come along with me to Key Foods on Jamaica Avenue in Hollis, Queens.  Come to the register,  as I remove the multi-colored currency from my pocket and try to sneak it to the cashier who is annoyed.  She is annoyed because it changes her flow.  There are impatient people in line with actual money.  They are watching.  The bag boy is watching.   They are all watching as she carefully counts out my change in the currency of poverty and hands it back to me.  Look around to see if anyone from school has seen me, especially the girls. Grab the groceries with me and slink out of the store.

  Now take that experience,  multiply it by the lens of adolescence,  that same lens that thinks every slight is the end of the world.  Now tell me,  that people want to be on Food Stamps.

  One summer, during my college days I was starving.  I had no money.  I had no food.  I lived in a dorm which was probably a salvation but it was hard to find a job.  I was eligible for food stamps.  I lived on puffed rice cereal, usually without milk or sugar rather than take food stamps.  I knew, that hassle of trying to get them and the embarrassment of having to use them. No one wants that.  People take them because they are desperate.  Because they need to feed their children.  Because they are less fortunate.  So stop being selfish ,  and enjoy the fact that we live in a country where we can afford to help people less fortunate.

  Don’t get me started on how my mother was disabled in the first place.  That is another, angrier story.

  © Glenn R Keller 2020, All Rights Reserved

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  food, hunger, memoir

• The Underground

  You’ve probably not been in there but you’ve passed it many times. Under the Grand Hall of Union Station is an underground waiting room. It was the “immigrant waiting room” for those with the cheapest tickets.

  Later it became the “colored” waiting room, (just in case you thought official segregation stopped at the Mason Dixon line). There are tunnels that lead to it. One from the State House, another from near the slippery noodle. Ironic, because getting to the Noodle would get you to the underground railway that smuggled escaped slaves north.

  It’s a Saturday night and above is the hum and bustle of the great hall during the Station’s incarnation as an entertainment hub. I’m down here, walked down the stairs from Illinois street listening to a torch singer singing about about loss and regret, making dispassionate love to her audience.

  She could be singing about all the broken hopes and dreams of the ghosts that passed through this place. A tall wistful blonde in a long slinky red dress. I’m missing her point. I’m thinking I want to be her next heartbreak. But I’m not alone so I don’t even try. We just watch and enjoy the show.

  And I miss everything.

  © Glenn R Keller 2020, All Rights Reserved

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• Heartbeats

  He was young, 35 to be exact. He kept in good shape, all his vitals were at target and he’d just had a great yearly physical. And yet there it was right in front of him on this damned fitness gizmo he’d bought just for kicks.

  His resting was off the chart low and his workouts were what you’d expect. But for the last week his heart rate had spiked briefly every day to nearly 100. He was worried. He went online and typed a message to his doctor. A few hours later his doctor answered, “Those things are pretty unreliable, still, keep an eye on it. You’re probably doing something. Let me know if it continues.”

  He watched it over the weekend: nothing unusual, no spikes. He played golf on Sunday and it never went over 70. Well… must have been a fluke.

  Monday was a great day, worked out, chill day at work, and met some old buddies for some beer. Right before he turned in he checked the numbers on his watch. Damn! There it was again. 98 bpm sometime in the morning. What the hell.

  “I want you to come in. Let’s see if we can get to the bottom of this.” His doctor was on it and he left the office with a more precise, robust monitor connected by WiFi with his doctor’s office. They watched it for a week and sure enough every morning around 10:15 there was the spike. And all he was ever doing was sitting at his desk.

  They agreed to do a video visit while he sat in the normal office so his doctor could see him. They were chatting around 10:16 and there it went, right up again. “Wait! What are you looking at?” “I’m just looking out the window…uh oh”.

  The next day he was back with his doctor turning in the monitor. “Can I give you a piece of advice?” He sighed, he’d been kind of embarrassed now over the whole thing “you’re the doctor”. “If she sets your heart racing like that, go out there and walk with her”.

  © Glenn R Keller 2020, All Rights Reserved

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  exercise, Health, Romance

• The Flag

  “Kessler does not raise flags.  Kessler burns flags!!!!!”  And so that was that.  There would be no flag-raising today, and the flag pole stood unadorned all day.  No one batted an eyelash.  Such was life at Camp Da-Ro, a summer camp, populated by about 400 Jewish campers and counselors…and me.

  Before you get all up in your righteous flag respecting, My Country Tis of Thee rage keep in mind this was 1970.  These counselors, like Kessler, were faced with the draft and possibly going to fight in a war.  A stupid war, an insane war.  Kessler was a big intimating guy from Brooklyn and if you didn’t like what he had to say, he’d just as soon bust you in the mouth.

  And so there was no flag that day.  But the next day there was, and the day after and so on until the end of the summer.  We were only 13 years old in our cabin, and so we did not quite get the significance, but the other counselors did.

  Kessler had said his piece, and overseas young boys continued dying and civilians continued to be caught in the crossfire.  And we rode horses, and we water-skied, and we had color wars, and we launched panty raids.  I got a little teasing for being the only non-Jewish camper, but they mostly didn’t care.  I remember the other campers being whip-smart and the adults being kind.  The camp is closed now but if you visit the Hudson River Valley around Germantown the grounds are still there, undeveloped.  It’s a lovely spot.  And that was a wonderful summer spent with kind souls living in the midst of a crazy world.

  © Glenn R Keller 2020, All Rights Reserved

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  memoir, patriotism, summer camp, tolerance, Vietnam, Youth

• The Big Whiff

  I saw it coming before he did. It was just too obvious…too many beers, too much PBR apparel. I saw the blonde heading to the table between us and it was like the script was already written.

  She seemed nice, at least she was patient you’d have to say.  His radar went off like a sailor in port on payday. He said something to her, admittedly it was kind of funny, I thought so and she did too, at least she laughed. A brief moment of triumph before the inevitable crash and burn.

  That the PBR shirt and her Bogner apres ski clothes weren’t gonna mix well was apparent to everyone in the bar…well almost everyone.  He was in that beer fueled optimistic state that all guys experience. Unfortunately, there’s a delicate equilibrium of alcohol and stupidity and when one gets out of balance high comedy ensues. But for some reason she wasn’t shooting him down. That reason soon became apparent when three girlfriends arrived…she wanted to keep the quarry alive until the big guns showed up.

  Now the women are giggling and taking potshots at the guy…he doubles down and orders another beer. I wanna tell the guy to stop, to preserve his dignity, but he’s beyond helping. I scope the women in the group, all of them attractive…the redhead especially so.

  I lose interest and go back to my book. The bar was clearing out, you could feel it as the bodies left and the temperature dropped imperceptibly. The women were gone except the redhead, I could see her out of the corner of my eye. Then she got up to leave and I turned for a last look…and then I noticed her hand was trailing behind her, it was attached to another hand…that hand belonged to PBR guy.

  © Glenn R Keller 2020, All Rights Reserved

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  Fiction, PBR, Relationships

• Prince Charmin

  Reluctantly he grabbed the last 12 pack of toilet paper in the store. He lived alone and didn’t need much but he was down to half a roll and even for a single guy that was cutting it close. He didn’t need 12 but there was nothing else to be had.

  Then he noticed the pretty blonde staring forlornly at the empty shelf and knew he’d be giving up his treasure. “Are you out?” She nodded and he turned over the package, “here, I’ve got plenty” he lied, “ you take this”. She protested but he insisted and then she said “I’d hug you but social distance and all…”. He laughed “just my luck”. She smiled and thanked him again and he went to look for a slice of pizza.

  He finished checking out and headed to the car working out in his head how he could make the half roll last, and then he saw her again. She’d been waiting for him, and was holding 3 rolls of toilet paper she’d broken out of the package. “Take these…I don’t need 12 of them”. Grateful, he thanked her, and headed home, he was a little upset with himself for not talking to her more but then he didn’t want to turn kind gestures into awkwardness.

  He kept thinking about her…she was cute, and kind. Those were two pretty good starting points. A few days later he was getting ready to use one of the rolls and be noticed a dark smudge, he unrolled it a little and there it was, writing as clear as day: “here’s my number, call me and tell me where you are right this minute.” And so he did, and then he knew she was funny too, and that’s all he needed to know.

  © Glenn R Keller 2020, All Rights Reserved

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  Coronavirus, Covid, Fiction, Romance, toilet paper

• Hitchhiking

  I’d never hitched a ride before in my life. It was the summer of 1976, a different world but not so different really. I had a job selling books and my territory was upstate western New York. Now New York is my home state but the western part of the state has more in common with Indiana than with the East Coast.

  We were a big crew divided into smaller crews and our little crew only had one car between us. Our territories were in various small towns and if we had to travel between them, well you held out your thumb. The first time we did it there were two of us and I was nervous. Soon though I was hitching all over the place. I hitched rides all over western New York, into Pennsylvania through Ohio and my longest trip from Indianapolis to Nashville Tennessee and back.

  Most people that picked you up enjoyed the company, felt sorry for you or were just nice. There were a few druggie types, two guys that I thought were in trouble with the law, one guy that was sleepy and had me drive his brand new Trans Am while he slept, and even the occasional pretty woman.

  There were many kindnesses but the one I remember most was the couple that picked me up late at night on State Road 9 in the middle of nowhere Indiana. It was after midnight and I just walked up the highway stopping occasionally when I came to a barn or an intersection with a light. I was walking in the pitch black when a Vette convertible pulled over and a guy told me to hop in. Both seats were occupied and I wondered where I’d sit, until the woman hopped out told me to sit and then sat on my lap. I told them how much I appreciated it, but they just told me there was no way they’d pass me. People sometimes make fun of the type of people that drive Corvettes…you’ll never hear that from me.

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• Escape Room

  Everyone was whooping and hollering and backslapping. Even those in the group that didn’t want to play were in the spirit. They had made the escape with 20 minutes to spare, but more importantly, they had crushed the time turned in by legal by nearly 10 minutes. Now it was time for dinner and some beers.

  Brad stood on a chair and got everyone’s attention, he was about to give the directions to the restaurant when Lisa asked “where’s Angela”?

  Everyone looked around and started arguing. Some swore they’d seen her in the room, others were just as sure that she’d never been in the room. What everyone agreed on was that she had been in the lobby with the rest of the group. The prevailing theory was that she’d gone to the restroom and missed the start of the game and rather than wait she’d gone ahead to the restaurant.

  Brad picked up his phone, and texted her “drinking at the bar already?”. Less than a minute later “I’m good. Had to leave. Gotta go. Bye.” “What the hell”, Lisa got out her own phone and called her. She listened for a minute and put the phone back in her purse. “Straight to voice mail”. The crew was getting restless. One of the guys spoke up “screw it, she’s got some drama, I’m thirsty, let’s go.” Everyone filed out.

  Outside, as they walked past the adjacent building, a homeless man jumped up from a grate he’d been sleeping on, “listen! do you hear that!”. The group sped up, the men putting themselves between him and the women. “Listen, listen please!” But they were moving away briskly now and he plopped down on the grate dejectedly. A few other people came by and he implored them to stop but they too walked away. Why do they think I’m crazy…I’m an alcoholic, not a nut case.

  Around midnight Kim came by. She was the beat cop for this area and always made a point to make sure her street people were okay. “How you doing Larry?” Larry ran over to her, “can you hear that?” She listened patiently and then said “I think you’ve been hearing voices again Larry”. She pulled a protein bar out of her pack and handed it to him, “try to get some sleep, the street cleaners will be through here early tomorrow”.

  Larry watched Kim walk away. He admired her, she treated all the street people just the same as if they were the mayor. But she thinks I’m crazy. Maybe I am. If I were would I know it? He took her advice and curled up under the moldy old sleeping bag. But then there it was again, fainter now “please help me…”, then silence. She’s right, must be I’m crazy. And then he was asleep.

  © Glenn R Keller 2020, All Rights Reserved

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  drama, Fiction, homeless

• Dad

  I liked the darkness.  The smell of sawdust from the game table.  Blue or magenta glowing lights back-lit a wall of liquor bottles.  Rough women and rougher men. No one wanted to talk to a kid. They had serious drinking to do and the world’s problems to solve. I had to entertain myself.  There was always a TV with a ballgame on if all else failed.

  On days with my father,  we went to the Worlds Fair.  We went to the beach.  We went to his job driving a city bus.  But the days always ended the same way;  sitting in a bar where he drank himself stupid before driving me home in that Chevy Bel Air station wagon.

  On bonus days,  where I was just being babysat,  I could stay at the home of some woman he was shacking up with.  Once,  staying at one of these places, I was bored and made some friends with the local kids.  Older, they encouraged me to throw a rock at some other boy.  I opened up his forehead.  Everyone split and I remember the kids mother complaining to my father.  The was the last time I saw my father and when I was a little boy I assumed it was because I had been bad and thrown a rock at a boy.

  I still have a hat that he bought me from the NY Worlds Fair.  He had my name embroidered on it.  He spelled it wrong.

  © Glenn R Keller 2020, All Rights Reserved

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  alcoholism, childhood, father, trauma