Saturday, April 30, 2011

Drink To Me

Every obnoxious act is a cry for help.

Zig Ziglar
Hello Brazzaville, Congo
I climb the wooden steel reinforced steps of the school. My footsteps echo down the empty halls. I reach the third floor and enter the room. The dreaded Mrs. Thompson is waiting for me. There is no greeting from her but a nasty word or two of instructions. Mrs. Thompson is an overweight widow. At the door, as she is leaving, she gives me a smile and rebukes me for something I forgot to do yesterday. She likes to think she's my boss, but she isn't. We both work for the same man. We never see him. Mrs. Thompson and I try to pretend that we are friends, that we like each other, but we don't. She wears tennis shoes. One can't hear her going. Or coming.

After she leaves I take off my outer shirt and hang it up. I start the water going in the big sink, get the instant coffee down from the shelf, and the sugar. I put the kettle on and take down a mug, I take a spoon from the draining board, spoon some coffee and sugar into the mug.

The big sink is half full so I turn the water off and wait for the kettle to boil. I go to the window and look out. It's a dark late afternoon sky and it looks like rain.

When the kettle begins to whistle I listen to it for a few moments. It's the sound of quietly frenzied winds. Flutes and oboes calling out, crying in the night. I turn it off and pour the water into the mug.

The large pots are the first things to get cleaned. I thrust my arms elbow deep into the hot soapy water and start scrubbing. I turn the water on again and it cascades into the sink with a crash.

When all the pots are done I set them aside to dry and begin on the utensils. I hear them ring and jingle with each other as they get cleaned one by one and set aside. It has begun to rain, a soft rain but a drumming rain amplified by the metal roof and overhanging ledges outside the window.

The plates large and small are next. I pause, drink my coffee and listen to the percussion of the rain. I think about all the music that I love and want to share with people, so many uninterested people, so many musicless people, Mrs. Thompson. Why is she so unpleasant, so unhappy, I wonder.

After the plates, cups, saucers and mugs are clean I carefully start on the glasses. These are what she was objecting to. There were spots on them, she said. So I am extra careful to get them as clean as possible. When I finish them I take a goblet which is still wet and ran my fingers around the rim making that sweet ringing sound which seems to fill the room.

That is my music, not the percussion of the rain or the jingling of the forks and spoons. And not the crying out of the kettle. It is my music. And I am composing it on the rim of a drinking goblet. And tomorrow someone will drink from that goblet and my music will touch their lips. Maybe Mrs. Thompson's.

DB - The Vagabond
Never Give Up
Weekend Contest

In your opinion, when he is finished digging up President Obama's school records, what's the next conspiracy Donald Trump will find?

Winner gets the Vagabond Seal Of Approval.

Good luck


(This is not a contest)

NASA has planned to send a two man mission on an 18 month trip to the planet Mars. It would take 6 months for the astronauts to get there and after 6 months of exploration another 6 months to return.

Should they do it and why, and if not, why not?

6 answers so far

I eagerly await your answer.



pacifica62 said...

There is something about this entry that I find very appealing, db. The sights, the sounds, the smells, the descriptions, the bittersweet memories, the timing. the precision like order. Just the whole thing. I use every single one of my senses when I read this. Not just words written down, but carefully chosen words that are constructed in such a way as to build up to the next ones. Thoughts intertwined with reality. I really, really, like this and your way of writing it. Kudos.

Geo. said...

I know poetry when I see it. Bravo!