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    Michelangelo's Shoulder
    Michelangelo's Shoulder
    Michelangelo's Shoulder
    Ebook74 pages49 minutes

    Michelangelo's Shoulder

    By John Moncure Wetterau

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 15, 2013
    Michelangelo's Shoulder
    Author

    John Moncure Wetterau

    Born in Greenwich Village, New York City, but raised, mostly, by my grandparents in Woodstock, a small town in the Catskill mountains. Midway through sophomore year at Hamilton College, an inner voice said, "Get out!" It seemed crazy, but I knew it was the right thing to do. A fraternity brother told me I'd have no trouble finding work on the shrimp boats in Key West. A friend and I hitchhiked south. Near the New Jersey line we got a ride with another young guy, Pete. "Where you headed?" "Florida." "Me, too." He told us that he'd gotten up before dawn in a small Vermont town, thrown clothes and a baseball glove in the trunk, left a note on his girlfriend's porch, and taken off. We rocked on down the coast, listening to Brenda Lee, getting warmer each day. I left my friends near Miami and went on to Key West. When I got there, I walked to the harbor and asked for a job on the first boat I found that had anyone on board. The captain said, "Shrimp season's over, kid." I think he felt sorry for me. He pointed to a rusty shrimper across the water. "He might take you." I picked up my bag and ran around to the other jetty, arriving just as the boat began to pull away. A man on deck was doing something with a cable. He wore a sweatshirt and had a two-day growth. "I'm looking for work," I shouted over the engine. "You a winch man?" The winch occupied a large part of the deck, a complicated assembly of giant gears and levers. The strip of water below my feet widened. It was jump or forget it. I had a vision of winching the boat upside down in the Gulf. I shook my head and walked to the Southern Cross Hotel, a wooden building with white peeling paint and a sign declaring, The Southernmost Hotel in the United States. I wrote it down in a notebook and have been writing ever since. Along the way I served in the Air Force, earned a degree in computer science from the University of Hawaii, married twice, and raised children. The adventures, the loves and betrayals, the teachers, the lessons---they are in my stories and poems, where, like all writers, I have tried to make of my deeper bio something worthwhile.

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      Book preview

      Michelangelo's Shoulder - John Moncure Wetterau

      The Project Gutenberg eBook, Michelangelo's Shoulder, by John Moncure Wetterau

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net

      ** This is a COPYRIGHTED Project Gutenberg eBook, Details Below ** ** Please follow the copyright guidelines in this file. **

      Title: Michelangelo's Shoulder

      Author: John Moncure Wetterau

      Release Date: February 9, 2004 [eBook #11003]

      Language: English

      ***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MICHELANGELO'S SHOULDER***

      Copyright (c) 2003 by John Moncure Wetterau

      Michelangelo's Shoulder

      John Moncure Wetterau

      (c) copyright 2003 by John Moncure Wetterau.

      This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs-NonCommercial License. Essentially, anyone is free to copy, distribute, or perform this copyrighted work for non-commercial uses only, so long as the work is preserved verbatim and is attributed to the author. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd-nc/1.0/ or send a letter to:

      Creative Commons 559 Nathan Abbott Way Stanford, California 94305, USA.

      ISBN #: 0-9729587-3-8

      Published by:

      Fox Print Books

      137 Emery Street

      Portland, ME 04102

      foxprintbooks@earthlink.net 207.775.6860

      Some of these stories first appeared in Archipelago and The Paumanok

      Review. Cover drawing: Shan by Finn.

      for w.cat

      Michelangelo's Shoulder

      It dawned hot in Georgia. Don rubbed his head and blinked. He got out of bed and paused before a makeshift easel where a drawing, taped to a board, showed a woman sitting on a park bench. She was large, dressed in layers of multi-colored cotton. She reminded him of the Renoir woman in her plush living room, the dog sprawled at her feet, but she was smarter. The line across her eyebrows and tapering along her jaw was right. He'd left out a lot, but that didn't matter. If what was there was true enough, you knew the rest—like a Michelangelo shoulder emerging from stone.

      He went into the bathroom and splashed water on his face.

      After coffee and a piece of toast, he rolled the drawing and took it to the park where the woman fed pigeons every day. She wasn't there. She wasn't there the next day, either. The following day Don brought a loaf of bread, sat on her bench, and tossed white pellets into the air. Birds fought for each piece. He prepared the remaining bread and scattered it in one throw. There you go—something for everybody. She'll be back soon.

      A week later, she showed up. Don moved aside and asked, Where you been?

      Took sick.

      I've been feeding the pigeons.

      I was worrying. Thank you.

      I did a drawing of you. I wanted to name it, but—I didn't know your name.

      Ruby.

      Ruby, ah. I'm Don. You want to see it? I'll bring it tomorrow.

      Sure.

      O.K. How you feeling?

      Better, now.

      Good. He walked to his usual bench and sat down. The sun beat on the live oak trees and sage-green strings of Spanish moss while the birds made happy sounds in front of Ruby. She had lost weight, he thought, but it was hard to tell, the way she dressed. She was a beauty once. He remembered his bloodshot eyes in the bathroom mirror. None of us getting any younger. He would give her the drawing in the morning and take off. It was time to leave Savannah, past time. Head for Portland again. Look up Lorna.

      Lorna. The Art Students League. It seemed like last week that she was looking carefully into his eyes and shaking his hand, curious and unafraid, different from him in many ways, but similar in that. Painter's eyes, he thought, clear and unblinking. Couldn't tell how good she was, though—eyes are one thing; talent is another. And hard work is another.

      She lived in a studio behind her parents' house on a mountain road—what was it called?—the Glasco Turnpike. Her father, Lad Charles, was a painter, a friendly guy who wore bow ties and was well liked in town. Lorna was protected, highly educated, out of reach for Don Delahanty.

      He was blocky. She

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