Mood

MOOD
Created 2005/11/15

Milt came home from work one evening with great news.  The twelfth editor he had sent his article to had somehow found his cell number and called him to say they might be interested in it, if shortened a bit, for their special Holiday issue.  He couldn't wait to tell Cynthia.

He found her slumped in a kitchen chair, caressing her St. Christopher necklace, just looking at the stove.  She had taken out a can of pork 'n beans and it was sitting on the counter, unopened.  A pan was on the rear burner but the stove was off.

"The Gazette has asked for a few revisions to my 'Insects and the Cross' piece and may run it in their December issue," he boosted.

No response.

"They want me to cut it down to 2500 words.  Which will be no problem."

Again, no response.

He could see that she was in a far away place.  So he bent over next to her ear and asked, "What's for supper, Hon?"

Startled by his voice she came back to the kitchen.  "I'm sorry, I just don't have the strength to make supper."

Milt said, "Beans?  How about some hot dogs too?"

"Huh?  Oh, the can isn't open... I can't open it."

"The can opener broke?"

"Can opener?"

"Yeah, the electric can opener right here under the cabinet."  With that he scooped up the can and shoved it into the opener.  It buzzed a few seconds, the can rotated, and the lid popped off.

"Oh never mind.  Leave me alone.  I don't want to make supper."

"Well, I'd like to eat supper if you don't mind.  Get me a beer."

"Get it yourself."

"Hon, what's the matter?" as he dumped the beans into the pan.

"Just go away.  Leave me alone."  She got out of the chair and walked into the hall.

Milt adjusted the burner to low then followed her.

"Had a bad day, have you?" he called to her as she went into the bedroom.  She closed the door in his face as he came to the end of the hall.

"Aw Hon, what is it?"

From behind the door she said, "I asked you to leave me alone."

"Okay, okay, fine.  Having another of your moods?"

Silence.

Milt returned to the kitchen.  He found an iron skillet and put it on the second burner.  He opened a small can of sliced mushrooms and heated them up.  When they were sizzling, he cracked two eggs and dropped their contents into the pan.

The phone rang... it was a telemarketer.  He slammed it back into the cradle so hard he knocked the note pad to the floor.  The pad had the editor's name written on it.

When the eggs were solidified he flipped them over and turned off the heat to both burners.  He poured a snifter half full of screw-top Port and carried it and both pans over to the table.

He ate his supper alone.  He could hear gentle sobbing coming from the bedroom.
"Do I really need this?" he thought.  "Every time I think something really good has happened, she's distracted.  No appreciation, no support, no smile, no nothing!  I'm tired of celebrating with 'Taylor of New York.'"

He put the pans in the sink, then spoke loudly down the hall, "If you don't want to talk to me, I'm going out...  See you later."

Only silence.

He slammed the door on his way out.  "Women never make sense.  If she has a problem, why won't she tell me?  I ask...  But nothing..."

* * *

He drove to the J'ville Tavern about a mile away.  He was not a nightly customer, but the dozen or so inside all knew him.

"Hay Milt, what's up?  Been a while," said the proprietor, Jack.

"It's time to celebrate!  I sold a story," as he took a stool at the bar.

"Really, that's great... which one?"

"What'd yeah mean 'which one'?  I've only been working on one for the last six months."

"I was just trying to be polite.  Most 'real writers' do more than one at a time... don't they?"

"Well, maybe.  But I can't write as much as I'd like.  I do have a job yeah know."

"No, I didn't know.  What do you do?"

"I service the portable potties at the 'Big Dig.'"

"Oh.  I thought that was just your poor choice of after-shave."

Milt looked at Jack a little confused for a second, and then said, "Give me a Bud."

"Sure.  Coming right up...  Ah, it's on me.  Congratulations," as he slid a pilsner of Bud over to Milt.  It was an inch short of the brim.

"So you're a writer," Sandy said as she sat down on the stool next.  "I used to report for my high school newspaper."

"It's not the same.  I have to research and check everything.  You can't just pass on gossip."

"It wasn't gossip.  It was important.  We had real reporting responsibilities," she said.

"For a high school newspaper?  What was your biggest story?"

"There were quite a few...  Maybe the one where we found out they were going to eliminate 50 student parking spaces.  We let people know about it."

"Hah, so what."

"It became a big deal!  At least for the sophomores and juniors that would loose their parking spaces."

"Maybe, but most of the paper was probably 'who is going with who' and 'which TV show is best.'"

"It was not.  Well, not all of it.  Sure it was for high school students.  And they think about those things a lot.  But, what's so important about your piece?"

"I'm doing research that will have a real impact on a lot of people.  It's a report on the entomology of the Cross of Venetia.  Scientists have been studying a piece of wood that is believed to be the remains of the Cross used by Christ.  I collected 30 reports on it and re-interpreted the findings into a story.

"Every egg, larva carcass, turd and slime tract tells us about the insects encountered over the history of the wood.  They dated the residues and mapped the species to find out where the wood has been."

"Who cares?" Sandy said.

"A whole lot of Catholics.  The Cross spent a long time in Syria before going to Italy.  I think it's a fake."

"I'm a Catholic and I've never heard of the 'Cross of Venetia.'  Moreover, I wouldn't give two hoots about a piece of wood.  Why do you think it's important?"

"The church has made a big fuss over this 'artifact' for the last 600 years.  There is a whole brotherhood of monks, a chapel, and millions of dollars spent every year to preserve this thing.  Too bad it couldn't possibly be what they say it is."

"And you want to tell the world that the church is lying."

"Well, I think everybody should know the truth.  I hate to see a fraud go unchallenged.  And people give money for this thing."

"Milt, people give money to support their faith.  It's a personal thing.  How the church spends it, isn't really the most important part.  It's about faith, not economics."

"What?  Poor people give 10% of their means of existence to support the church.  And you say it doesn't matter how it's spent?"

"Obviously you don't know anything about faith.  Sure, we assume the church will use the contributions wisely.  But, to destroy a tradition because of an insect turd doesn't make sense."

"You must really be gullible.  I bet you voted for Bill Clinton too."

"You're an ass!" she said as she slid off the stool.

"Yeah, he's with the industry," Jack said while he wiped up from her glass.

Sandy walked away towards the pool table.

"Women... they don't make any sense," Milt said to Jack.  "My wife doesn't make sense either.  Or maybe it's all Catholics.

"Ah, how about another, only this time fill it."

"You complaining about a free beer?" Jack asked.  "Sandy was right."


Pages:      8
Words:  1338