WHERE'S THE BEEF?
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Nowadays, I find all sex and no plot a disappointing read. It wasn't like that when I first stumbled on to this site. At first, I found myself feverishly searching the hottest fantasies. Bottom line? I figured a story or two could help satisfy the needs in me and that would be that. I never intended to write anything. I actually shook when I joined--scared to death to belong to a site that had anything to do with sex, leave alone write four letter words I never spoke aloud.
Once I had read a bunch of V-9's lusty stories and had my fill, it occurred to me try my own hand at writing a fictional story. I had always loved to write, but except for school papers, newsletters, poetry and two so-so fictional stories, all I had ever written that made me any money, was for commercial purposes--advertisements and product brochures.
Before long, I soon developed a taste for the hot romantic genre. Funny really, as I'd never been one for reading any fiction as an adult.
Nevertheless, this site got me going down an unlikely path.
To paraphrase Robert Frost, "Two paths diverged in the wood, and I took the one for myself, least likely to be traveled."
Now that I look back, it's amazing I stayed on this erotic detour, not particularly liking fiction OR any kind of talk of about sex. My attitude had always been: those who can do it don't have to talk about it. But soon, that all changed.
Eventually, having little time to read and write, I figured my best bet for exploration and dollars invested, was to explore the New York Times Best Sellers List. It seemed like a logical place to explore. Besides, all the well known fictional editors said that if you are going to write fiction, you must read it. That was good enough for me. Soon I got serious about it and wanted to go beyond the confines of writing primarily the "juicy parts." I decided to learn how to develop plot and figure out,"Where's The Beef?"
Reflecting back, I think of that famous Burger King saying and my friend Molly from Boston, Massachusetts.
Forced by circumstances, she'd sit daily cup in hand, on a concrete stoop where her survival depended upon the charity and good will of Harvard and MIT students walking past her on their way to class.
Her having a stoop in Harvard Square was a good choice. It was safe and accessible to MBTA's transit system. What's more, it had generous affluent students eager to help the poor.
If you were broke and had to stay over night in Boston, it was the best place to be. Laying down a sleeping bag in nearly any store front on the side streets in Harvard Square after 11 P.M. would more than likely get you through the night undisturbed. If you got lucky, late night walkers might tuck a few bucks in your sleeping bag, while offering up a prayer for you at the same time thanking God they weren't you.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Molly was only a "daytime camper." She didn't have to stay overnight because she and her spouse, owned their own home. Her husband was a self-employed carpenter who'd recently had a stroke. Once released from the hospital, he needed her constant care. They'd put in for help, as gut wrenching as it was for them to do so, but because they had assets, it was not readily forthcoming. In the meantime, their mortgage had to be paid, and neither she or her husband was in any kind of shape to sleep in a doorway.
Due to her age. chronic back problems and not having worked outside her home in years, she couldn't find work. Having few marketable skills, coupled with the fact that fast food joints were not located near her home, any kind of regular employment for her was not immediate.
The only relief she got was from a neighbor who took pity on them and came into their home to care for her husband half days. Grateful for that she was, but still worried how long it could reasonably last. Without the help, she couldn't leave him to even come to the square to panhandle.
I got to know her over a two month period, from walking by her every few days and putting a dollar or two in her bucket. She'd say thanks and we'd exchange pleasantries--eventually it became a ritual intercepted by a laugh or two that brought sunshine into my both of our lives.
The kicker was, that during the course of our unlikely friendship, I developed chronic back pain and found myself unable to complete the distance non-stop from my dorm to class. She became my halfway point and invited me to share the stoop with her, to "sit a spell" as she put it.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
After pulling up stakes and moving a thousand miles away, there was no way in hell, that I was returning with my tail dragging between my legs before I had even gotten off to a good running start. I had to make my classes. Ironically, Molly made that possible.
It had been a miracle that the school of my choice, had even accepted me. But against all odds, they did and I shot out of the cannon a straight "A" student at a prestigious university in a special program tailored more for older adults than younger ones.
Despite my not too shabby accomplishments in the business world, I felt prouder of making it academically, than nearly anything I had done in years. Proud that I could do the work and proud I could conquer my fears of being in a big city with everything I'd always feared all around me.
Afraid of being so white and blond on the streets, the first time I went to class I was so wrapped up in head gear and clothing, you would have thought I was from Saudi Arabia. My heart beat fast as people walked close to me. I'd shriek and recoil, anytime a body would bump up against mine on the crowded narrow streets. I had been mugged a few years before in Detroit, and had never had gotten over the fear of strangers coming at me--getting close to me--touching me.
Not only did I amaze myself, making it through every day, but relatives too. They weren't worried about me surviving my fear of strangers, but rather that academically, I could cut the mustard.
One of them sniffed and said, "Well, I guess that just proves they'll accept anybody nowadays." I took the sneer as a joke and aimed at the university. Actually, I had thought the same thing; what Grocho Marx had said about not wanting to belong to any club who'd accept him as a member.
Eventually I learned not to mention the school by name--that It was called, "dropping the 'H' Bomb." Beyond Harvard Square the mere mention of it, could cause a student more grief than any benefit gained. And as far as man bait, the same was true.
The key was to avoid the usual questions until you could no longer diplomatically worm around them. With your classmates, it didn't matter. Most of these bland creatures were too focused on getting where they were going to care or be impressed one way or another. Any extra time they had, rather than dating, was spent kissing up to single professors who held court at local clubs where they collected wild cards and aces to lay down on the table for some future play.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
I soon found that pride, not unlike in business, will keep you going when nothing else will. The long and short of it was, I was tired of educational snobs looking down their noses at me and decided to find out for myself if being college educated was as good as it was cracked up to be. I figured there had to be something to it. Funny, now I think of it, because all of my adult life I had a rather contemptuous attitude about college degrees. Most degreed people I knew--I could buy and sell--out think them too and with very little effort. I used to mumble to myself, "If you are so damn smart, why haven't you made any money? Why are you coming to me for a loan?"
So what, if I was a high school dropout? I had made my way in the world the hard way. I went without things others took for granted, to climb that so-called ladder of success. I knew I wasn't as smart as I got credit for, but I also knew I could compensate for it by being a hard worker and turning stuff no one else wanted into something of value others were willing to buy.
For fun, I sang at piano bars. My favorite requested song had long been "Second Hand Rose." I even had a four song rags to riches autobiographical act I'd do that began with the song and led into "Sam You Made The Pants To Long," followed by "The Party's Over," and ended with, "Hey, Look Me Over." It didn't make me famous but it was fun and won me a lot of friends and a few trophies in amateur nights.
Ironically, now that I'd taken the leap, I was stuck with walking back and forth to classes in order to earn credits I needed. I could have managed to hire someone to help me, but since I had mostly rich students around me, finding physical help was next to impossible.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Deciding my only option was to tough it out each day, Molly my homeless friend, became my halfway point to class, my resting spot where I could put down my book bag and body.
One day, towards the end of her begging days and my back problems, a preppy looking older student on his way to class walked by us and handed her a bag from a fast food place.
"Here you can have this," he said, "I haven't touched it, they packaged the meat and the bun separately for me. I only eat the meat."
Since many times I had gone on a no carbohydrate diet, I knew exactly where he was coming from. After he was out of hearing range, she laughed and turned to me and said, "Cheap sonofbitch!"
It stuck me funny, but I remember making myself bite my tongue. She didn't need me to tell her she should be grateful for whatever she got.
.
Molly's benefactor headed towards the campus gates. Judging from ex-athletes I had known like that and his jaunty step, their was no doubt in my mind, that he thought he'd done his part to help the homeless in Harvard Square, that he'd not only prevented waste but was being thoughtful too.
I understood it. Just another preoccupied business student, I thought. But in my heart I could sense this guy still had a long ways to go before he turned into a sensitive understanding business person that was safe to turn loose on the world. He had a lot to learn about human nature and that people did not "live by bread alone." I was sure I could teach him a thing or too.
The thought of it made my back pain disappear--endorphins being released no doubt. I wasn't going to fight it. I caught up with him by the main gates and tugged at the sleeve of his trench coat.
"Aren't you in one of my classes?" I asked.
From the look on his face and the glint in his eye, I knew immediately this young man had possibilities up the ying-yang. I hadn't realized how gorgeous he was.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
To Be Continued: Part 2
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Babe
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