I'm Here

Contents

Copyright Page

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Chapter 5

Chapter 10

Chapter 15

Chapter 20

Chapter 25

Chapter 30

About the Author

I’m Here

by

Joe Novara

All rights reserved

Copyright © August 27, 2018, Joe Novara

Cover Art Copyright © 2018, Charlotte Holley

Gypsy Shadow Publishing, LLC.

Lockhart, TX

www.gypsyshadow.com

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, file sharing, and email, without prior written permission from Gypsy Shadow Publishing, LLC.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

ISBN: 978-1-61950-337-3

Published in the United States of America

First eBook Edition: October 25, 2018

Acknowledgements

Thanks for all the help from my writing group: Cheryl Peck, Barb Vortman, Jim Taborn, Carol Lacey and Thom Jones. Also, the encouragement and support from Maris Soule, David Isaacson, Vi Murphy and my wife/editor Rosalie.

Chapter 1: Tre

Sal’s lip quivers as he chews his vegetable soup, like he might be ready to cry. He stabs at his mouth with his embossed napkin trying to staunch the overrun. Purging, he mumbles at the risk of dribbling more soup. My daughter and son-in-law want to throw out all my stuff. They kept telling me to purge. To basically dump my whole life on the curb.

Funny thing. We grew up in the same neighborhood. Lived across the street from each other for years and now we’re stuck in the same retirement home in a maze of endless, carpeted corridors with varnished handrails leading to elevator coves and the occasional outside door. As if we could get very far even if we left. It’s a prison basically. And they call it Shelden Ponds.

Turns out, Sal got sentenced because he took too much time trying to decide what to keep and what to throw out. So, by now they probably got a dumpster on the front lawn and are shoveling out his place, so they can sell it and pay for him to live in his cream-colored apartment. I feel sorry for the poor bastard.

Now, me, I ended up in here when my hip got shattered in a car accident. When they got ready to release me from the hospital I couldn’t just go back home where my bed and bathroom are upstairs, not to mention the titanium plates, rehab and a lingering infection.

So, my daughters, Carrie and Lisa, decided to ease their consciences by getting me into this place where I could navigate with an electric cart like some old lady in the supermarket. They don’t realize I still got game. And as soon as I get on my pins again, I’m outta here.

I mean, look past Sal, poking at his broccoli casserole… by the way, did you ever notice that these senior places all smell like overcooked broccoli? Where was I? Oh yeah. Look past Sal and you think of Lake Michigan with white caps. There’s a sea of white hair bobbing up and down all around me. I’m drowning in senility here. I’m not as old or as frail as these folks. I’m not in the target demographic for this place. They can’t sentence a juvenile to life. I’m only seventy-three, for crying out loud, surrounded by eighty-five-year-olds… mostly.

That lady at 2:00-high appears a little more my age. Now she’s eyeing me. You go ahead, sweetheart. Don’t let me stop you from staring. Do we know each other? She looks familiar. But then, if you’ve lived in this town for thirty years and taught at the university, a lot of people can look familiar.

She’s not turning away. In fact, she’s giving me a little smile. Damn. And now the woman next to her is following her gaze, checking me out. They whisper and giggle. Are we back in third grade lunchroom? Or maybe a better analogy—are the alpha mares scoping the new stud in the pasture? Dream on, doofus. The hallways aren’t wide enough to drive our carts side-by-side as we ride into the sunset. But that’s going to change. For me. Just wait.

Sal, who’re those women in the table off your left shoulder? He puts down his spoon and napkin, straightens his shoulders, hands bracing the table for a creaky turn. No, don’t look, I say.

He sighs, lifts his chin in the general direction. Them?

Yeah.

The ‘Yah-yahs,’ that’s what we call them.

We? There’s only like ten guys and two hundred women here.

And the five of us who aren’t married stick together. You make six.

Why doesn’t that excite me? One more newbie and we could be the Magnificent Seven. Until I get out of Dodge.

Why Yah-yahs? I ask.

How do I know? That’s who they are. They’re always together, on all the committees. Decorations. Flower shows. All that…

The woman with the dark eyes and eyebrows under a well-coiffed pewter helmet… I’ve come to fancy that look, lately… offers me a head bob. Why do I feel like I’m about to be vetted by the League of Women Voters?

Yeah, they’ll be scoping you out. Fresh meat. Ha! he barks, color rising in his cheeks along with an incipient grin. Reminds of the story of the new guy in the Catskills hotel… you heard this one?

I don’t know yet… go on.

This guy shows up at a hotel in the Catskills. A blue hair lady slides up next to him. ‘So, you’re new here,’ she goes. ‘Where’re you from?’ He goes, ‘Prison. Just got out.’ The lady says, ‘What were you in for?’ The guy says, ‘Murdered my wife.’ The lady goes, ‘So, you’re single.’

Sal laughs and laughs. Then he starts to cough. About the time I decide I should hand him my water, ‘pewter lady’ is standing next to me. No cane. No walker. Nice legs.

Sal must have sprung one of his groaners on you. Don’t encourage him. It’s bad for his COPD.

I see, is all I can think to say.

You’re new here. Welcome to The Ponds. I’m Marjorie. Marjorie Olson, with the welcoming committee.

Nice to meet you, Marjorie, I reply from my seat in the electric cart. I feel like I’m at the dentist as I look past her imposing bowsprit and up into her nostrils. Wait. They don’t do that anymore. Dentists all wear masks and rubber gloves. Well, what my dentist used to look like twenty years ago.

She’s waiting. Oh, my turn. I reach my hand out. Mike Trahan.

Recovering from his joke, Sal adds, Just call him Tre. That’s what we called him growing up.

Trahan. Might you be the Professor Trahan I had for creative writing at Western?

Ah, I said. That’s why you looked familiar to me. Could’ve been. Could’ve been, I respond, scrolling my memory bank, trying to morph the woman above me into a younger, dark haired coed.

"I was Marjorie Rawlings back then. You teased me about writing The Yearling."

Ah! Marjorie Kinnan Rawling. The author. I still couldn’t place her. Embarrassing isn’t it, the way a professional can make contact at one point in his life and it means so much to the client, student, patient… whatever. But eventually they’re just so many raindrops shrinking in a murky puddle.

That got me reading all her works. I even visited her home in Gainesville.

I nod.

And I’ve been writing ever since. Hobby writing, lately. But still. You got me started. She flashes a ‘thank you’ smile.

Oh man, here it comes—the request to ‘look over’ her stuff. ‘See if it’s any good.’ A lose-lose proposition. If she really is good, you’re feeling jealous or at least one-down. If she isn’t good, you’re telling a little girl her party dress is ugly.

I hold my breath.

For years, I did freelance technical writing. It was convenient since I could work from home. Lately, I’ve decided to try my hand at fiction. She beams like this should please me. I wonder if you would take a look at a piece or two.

I paste a smile.

Don’t worry. I’m not going to hand in an assignment to my old teacher.

I’m not that old.

No, you’re not, actually.

Nor are you, I say, waving a hand to include the entire dining area. We’re like grandkids at a 50th wedding anniversary.

I love her deep-throated laugh.

After a pause, she adds, I’ll tell you my reason for staying here if you tell me yours.

I’ll tell you my reason, Sal chimes in. My kids want to sell my place and I wouldn’t let them throw out my stuff. So, they stuck me here.

Marjorie and I exchange a glance. I say, I’d like to hear your reasons as long as it doesn’t involve an organ recital about every ache and pain we have.

Again, the infectious laugh.

No. But about my stories… I just want to give you an idea of the level of writing in our critique group. And, who knows, you might want to join us.

I didn’t see that coming. I nod my head agreeably.

So, what’s your room number, Dr. Trahan…

Tre, I interrupt. Reminds me of my kids when they met their grade school teachers at the country club as adults. Still couldn’t call them by their first name. Did it seem impolite? Too familiar? Early imprinting gone amuck?

Tre, Marjorie says, hunching her shoulders self-consciously.

302. But, everything’s still jumbled. Just moved in and all.

I understand. Glancing at my conveyance, she adds, I could give you a hand if you want?

I close my eyes—this is no Pygmalion moment, the sweet young coed at the feet of her Svengali, purring, ‘I’m yours. Mold me into a better me.’ I flash back to the early days—pre-sexual harassment and political correctness. Hormones flying faster than misplaced modifiers and split infinitives behind closed office doors. Sure wasn’t the same by the time I retired… open doors at all times, both feet on the floor. This is different. This is a mature woman, and she’s challenging me— ‘show me your stuff and let’s see how good you actually are and, by the way, how far I’ve come over the years since you bled red ink all over my stories.’ Okay, lady. You’re on. How about tomorrow after lunch? Make it 2:00. I decide not to add… after my nap. Well, morning PT sessions wring me out something fierce.

Look forward to it, she says, hand on my shoulder.

I watch Sal watching her walk away. She never came on to me like that. Maybe I shoulda been a perfessor instead of running a dry cleaner. Then I watch, too. I guess us guys are wired that way. I’m not interested. Not really. I mean, she’s attractive and all, but these days I’m like a dog that sees a car going by and has to chase it even if he’s not sure what he would do with it if he caught it.

Still, it’s fun to watch. You can tell a lot about a person by the way they walk. C’mon Tre, don’t start about ‘a person… they.’ Sometimes, I have to sit on the writing instructor in me and ignore number agreement issues. Where was I? It’s about their feet—high