Insert 3

April 12

One, two, three… One, two and a three… The five-piece band and a lone muted trumpet… Mellow notes drift through the air, catching the corners of ancient acoustics. The couples move slowly, gracefully around the floor… somewhat… at the Coliseum. The faded streamers twist in the evening breeze… And it’s one, two, three, one, two, and three… One, two, three… Dull sequins sparkle under the fade of passed years… And they’re in their twenties again… One two three, one two and three… 9:39 pm…

Green bottled cokes sit on the emptied tables… Lucky Strike butts line the ashtray… A lone Gerber daisy bent in the wine bottle… trails of colored wax… One, two, three… One, two, three… and a sliver of smoke ascends from the ashtray… A small black pocketbook rests on the table… its owner squeezing the light fantastic… A lace wrap Spanish shawl, made in South Korea, covers a chair… One, two, three…

And the couple sways to the waltz. One, two, three… one, two, three… Toes touching… knees bumping, occasionally… Around and around… the tilted dance floor… around… One, two, three… Memories of dance hall queens… Feather boas… silky lengths of trained gowns… whirling and waltzing, one, two, and three… one, two, three… One, two, three… They are young again… just after high school graduation… Smiling… lines radiating from upper lips… criss-crossing cheeks and eye corners… One, two, three… 9:42 pm…

A second couple bumps… into, in slow motion… No damage and exchanged smiles… The waltz step off, by two beats… The Hero and the Angel, at 9:43 pm…One, two, and three… Pink lamé and yellow polyester… Light blue serge pants… and their eyes follow the couple. The single spot bouncing from the twirling mirrored disco ball… with the muted trumpet warbling memories… One, two, three… The guitar player strumming the tune of the waltz… One, two and a three…

One… and the music stops… Silence and a light catch-up applause… The couple moves to their table. They sit. The lace Spanish shawl made in South Korea falls to the floor, unnoticed… A heavy breathing commingles in unison and echoes in the acoustic corners… The dancers breathe… and sit… A pacemaker beeps… The Hero and the Angel are at the red-Coke cooler by the front door… The Hero buys two green bottles from the redheaded youth… and gives him two quarters… A Connecticut one and a Florida one… They exchange grins… and at 9:46 the Hero wipes the bead of sweat from the line crossing the forehead…

At the table the couple lights their Lucky Strikes… A pacemaker beeps… Once…The partner places the Lucky Strike in the ashtray… An eye connects with the Angel at the entrance door… Eyes close… The Hero and the Angel exit… at 9:47 pm…

Insert 2

April 10

The Neurologist’s office sitting room is quiet and I am reading my book quietly. The pages turn, minute by minute, second by second as the countdown traps the President between the lines pitched in Times Roman. The silence is great. My mind conjures visions of the chase in the corridors of the Church and the gas jets spew the deadly torches as the women's struggle and scream against their bounds.

I pull out my cell phone… I use the stylus to set it to vibrate… and make sure the ringer is off… The green sign facing the front door announces “In consideration of others, please turn off your cell phone. Thank you.”

And the door to the waiting room opens… It’s 9:32 am…. A crisp Monday morning. The elderly couple shuffle in. The Hero and the Angel move to the front wall and find two seats and sit slowly. The Hero's arm and hand shake and jerks spasmodically. Michael J. Fox is now playing Alex Keaton. And the Hero sits with eyes closed, arm jerking. The Angel strokes the Hero’s shoulder… soothingly.

And the door opens. Tired eyes open, and the Hero turns to the left toward the door at 9:35 am…. and they walk in. The dolled-up Latina, Shirley Temple Black curls to shoulders, struts from the door to the chairs opposite the elderly couple. The tightest denim stretches the beach pants… and five and dime wedges squeak. Cell phones stuck to the Latina’s left ear. The Latina sits. And the Shadow sits.

“Allo, Papi… Allo, Papi… Hoppie burdday to Chou… Hoppie burdday to Chou… Hoppie burdday to Chou Papiiiieee… Hoppie Burdday to Chou… Chou hokay?” Off key, monotone, disgusting wail. And the Latina continues on the phone. The Shadow looks bored, and holds Latina’s hand. And the Shadow pats the role of fat, at the Latina’s mid-drift. The Hero and the Angel smile, across from the Latina and the Shadow.

And the door opens again. It's 9:42 a.m... And another couple walks in… cell phones stuck to each one's ear. A Hispanic cacophony resounds against the tile floor. The noise begins to crescendo. The cell phones symphony... Carlos Santana, no way, no soft beguine... totally off key. Two more lines added to the Hero’s and the Angel’s faces. The new couple sits beside me… Their voices rise. They try to hear themselves against the Latinas invigorated Burdday chant.

The Hero and the Angels squint. And I cannot read anymore, the President is lost in the tunnel beneath the stage and a chopper is whop, whop, whopping. All is lost to the Hispanic cell phone duel. At 9:45, the Latina is called. The Neurologist is ready to see her. At 9:47, the Hero and the Angel get up. The Latina doesn’t move… The cell phone rings… The door closes behind the Hero and the Angel… and her Shadow doesn’t move… The Receptionist calls again… And I close my book…

Insert 1

April 1

The old people sit on the bench. They had been sitting, on that same bench for thirty-eight minutes. Today is Friday. They sat there yesterday, Thursday… and Wednesday, and Tuesday… and Monday, as well.

I saw them as I passed. And I smiled. They smiled back. Time etched lines across their faces… lines from waiting. Deep recesses of age and maturity… Always, just the two of them, waiting on that same bench. I had seen them each day this week, always at the same time, always sitting side-by-side. Always watching, every time waiting… Maybe… Faint smiles across each face…. Deep in thought...

The couple just sat there, at times unaware of what was going on. They didn’t seem to be paying attention to the group of young teenagers throwing the football… running the length of the field. Stumbling, throwing, blocking, and laughing. The brouhaha doesn’t faze the couple… But they are spectators, of times once passed... and of the impromptu ball game. The Hero and the Angel are sitting, waiting, and watching.

And the ball is now placed at the forty-yard mark. The teenagers huddle at forty-one minutes. The teenagers break. The Hero’s eyes fix, and the young Redhead… he’s carrying the ball… from the forty to the forty-three, to the forty-four. And now, on the forty-seventh yard, two others tackle the Redhead and they all go down… a tumble of arms and legs… gangly and rolling…grunting.

The two tacklers get up. The Redhead lies on the forty-seventh yard at the forty-seventh minute. The Hero and the Angel rise from the bench. The young tacklers prod the Redhead. The youth doesn’t move. The Hero and the Angel are gone, their slow gait off in the distance. And I go home…