...tengo ganas de...

4th September 2010

Post with 3 notes

most recent addition to the writings library; on assignment, “write a one-page story about your favorite childhood memory”:

The orange of the shag carpet was reflecting off her glasses.  Mind you, these were not glasses for sharpening of vision, like those she usually wore; rather, they were shaded.  But of course, a crook must not reveal her face. Nor should she show her build, her true hair color, even her style.  She must remain a mystery…

      “The stealing robber canNOT wear high heels.”

      “But I want to wear them. They’re my favorites.”

      “What robber climbs walls in high heels? None. That’s which one. C’mon, try on these boots.”

      It smelled like pine needles and musk and Liz Claiborne red triangles as I changed my shawl.  I ran out to the bedroom and examined myself in the vanity mirror: now I looked like I was old enough to be looted by the stealing robber, even if the robber was half my size. 

      “Ok.”

      “Ok.”

      “Ready?”

      “Yeah, but who’s gonna tell ‘em that the show’s starting?”

      “I will. Hold on.” I ran and grabbed the terrycloth robe hanging on the bathroom door and thrust my arms into the holes.  Holding the robe together over my costume, I walked out to the stage.  “Lady and gentleman, here it is.  ‘The Stealing Robber.’ By Bryn and Kari Laux.”

      She clad in black and grey in clothes thrice her size, me clad in the same ratty sky blue robe, we pulled out a rocking chair, a table, another table, a few pieces of jewelry, some knickknacks, a vase.  After arranging these, she left the stage and I removed the robe, tossed it, and sat in the rocking chair reading a book the size of the MNO encyclopedia.

      Peruse, flip. Peruse, flip.  This was, obviously, how people read. Peruse, flip.  Peruse “aah!!! Aaaaaaaaah!”

      “Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!”

      A slamming like a shutting door. Then, “it’s gone. It’s all gone! Oh, woe is me, my most valued possessions, my life! Oh!”  Then, I faint.

      Suddenly it’s the next night.  Somehow, I have gotten over the fact that I was robbed, and am sitting reading the same book, only without all the jewelry on the tables.  I am assuredly wearing the same clothes.  Reading, peacefully, until “aaaaaaah!!!!!!!!!”

      “Aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh!!”

      “What do you want from me? I’m just a poor old woman of 132 years old! I just want to read and have money for food.”

      “What?” The stealing robber seemed to be curious about my plight. And possibly felt remorse?

      “Please, leave me alone. And return my mother’s jewels.”

      “Oh, ma’am, I am so sorry! I truly am! Here.” For some reason, the stealing robber had kept all the previous night’s spoils with her and decided to return them to the old woman. Just like that.

      “Oh thank you. Thank you!”

      And the two became friends, and lived happily ever after

(My sister and I performed this play on the landing of the stairs every single time we went to our grandmother’s cabin in Lake Tahoe. We went there at least twice a year. The script was never good, and it never changed, much.  There was a lot of dress up and a lot of screaming in terror from whoever was playing the old lady who we thought was at least 100.  Who played what varied.  What was said was totally inconsequential.  And our parents watched and applauded EVERY TIME.  Obviously, we were geniuses.)