A Conversation Among Mirrors

Hundreds of years after Snow White's Step-Mother misused the power of Mirrors, the Mirrors decided to take a stand. Rather than give advice, they chose to listen. What they learned about womankind out-shined the perversions and hate-filled life of the old Queen. Their satisfaction rested in the fact that she died wizened and alone.

***

In a dressing room far, far away from the Old Country...

“OMG, these lights are bright. Hey Harry, you awake?”

“Yeah, yeah. Keep your shirt on. And it's Harriet! You know I hate being called Harry.” 

“Well, Harry fits.” 

“How? We're mirrors you moron.”

“Rude! I know we're mirrors. Have you forgotten my name's Suzette?”

“Shush, someone's coming.”

***

The dressing room door creaks. In walks an old woman, her arms full of unbecoming brassieres. Placing her pocketbook on the floor, she hangs each item on a hook and sits. 

“Boy I'm tired,” she declares. 

The old woman peers into Suzette and takes a long, hard look. “When did I grow so old,” she wonders. She stares ahead recalling a young woman with smooth, fair skin, bright eyes, long black hair, shapely legs, and a trim waist that once captivated many an admirer. But the only admirer she ever had eyes for was Johnny, her sweet, sweet man.

They used to hold hands, walking and talking for hours, planning their future. The Second World War was in it's final days; Johnny had reached the age to enlist. He wanted to help fight the evils of this world. Germany, the Pacific...no one knew, but Johnny couldn't leave without a promise from his girl. Getting down on one knee, he proposed under the cherry tree outside Mama's kitchen window. The aroma of freshly baked apple pies floated in the air, her little brother, Mikey, sneaked a peek from beneath the curtain while Mama was doing her best not to eavesdrop. But, we didn't care; we were in love. And I said, “Yes.”

The clock ticked. Soon there was nothing left but hours, then minutes, and finally seconds. The walk to the train station was the hardest. Embracing one last time, tears fell. Resting her head upon Johnny's chest, she breathed deeply, gulping his scent, in hopes it would infuse with her own. “I won't forget this moment. Ever,” she says. “I'll hold on to it until you come back.” They kissed. The conductor called, “All aboard,” and Johnny stepped onto the train, unwilling to let go of her hand. But as the train moved forward, their grip slipped. Waving uncontrollably, each sent silent prayers towards heaven. “I'll wait for you,” she cried, and she did. 

Eighteen months later, Johnny stepped off the train, and into her arms, but he was a changed man. Death and destruction will do that to a person, but her prayers were answered. “Thank you God. Thank you for keeping my Johnny safe,” she thought. “You've come back to me, my darling, and with God's help we'll work through the pain, together,” and they did.

After 58 years of marriage, the old woman was lonely but not alone. Laying her dear, sweet Johnny to rest in the cemetery across the street, she filled her days tending the English garden he started planting on their 12th wedding anniversary, and enjoying their two cats, Big Tom and Aggie. She remembers when Big Tom first came to the house. Johnny had caught him rummaging through the garbage looking for food. Emaciated and near death, Johnny couldn't stand to see another living creature suffer, so he invited him in--no questions asked. That was 15 years ago. It was on one of Big Tom's wanderings that he found Aggie, brought her home, and stopped roaming. “I guess it was love at first sight; kind of like Johnny and me.” 

The rest of her days were filled with reading, sitting next to Johnny's grave watching the sun set, and chatting up a storm. It didn't matter that Johnny never answered. All she wanted was to hold onto that moment and the memories helped: Johnny's dazzling smile, dimples that popped each time he laughed, kisses that made her swoon, hazel eyes that turned green when he made love, long muscular legs, broad chest, tender touch, his loving words. 

“Have I told you today that I love you,” he'd ask. 

“I think so.” 

“Well, I do. You're my anchor, my soul-mate. Don't ever forget that.” 

She wouldn't live forever. Death would come soon enough. But in the meanwhile, her remaining days were spent enjoying her son John, his wife Mary, and her very modern granddaughter, Milly. 

Shaking free from recollections, the old woman peered down at her breasts and laughed. “Why am I working so hard to bind like Brunhilde. It's not like Johnny’s here to enjoy them. I'm 75 years old for God's sake. I don't think anyone cares if I sag.” With the determination of a 20 year old, the old woman pushed herself up off the chair, grabbed her purse, looked up towards heaven and said, “Johnny Boy, your girls going bra-less.”

***

“Wow, Harry. Did you see her face? Such spunk and determination.”

“Actually, all I saw was the back of her head and the gray hairs that screamed dye me.”

“Ugh. You're hopeless!”

“No I'm not. But really, if the chair was placed on the adjacent wall, we could both see.”

*** 

The same creaking sound accompanied the next visitor. This time the woman was in her mid-fifties. Nicely shaped--not too tall, and not too short. Average build with pretty cinnamon hair--a boy cut with long bangs, big brown eyes, and a swan neck. This woman had a couple of peasant shirts with long skirts. Bright splashes of color: purples, blues, pinks, another with browns, russets, and yellows. There was no hesitation to undressing. She kicked off her clogs and yanked her jeans down one hip at a time. 

“Boy, look at those thighs. Not what they once were, but then again, you aren’t 25 are you kiddo. At least the dimples have lessened. I guess we can thank that new diet.” For the first time in a long time, she liked what she saw.

Pulling up the stripped skirt, she stops and shakes her head. “Designers just don't get it. The strips need to go vertical or at least diagonal. These hips just can't stand it.”

Stepping out of the skirt, she tosses it aside. The next one is a pretty paisley design made up of small earth tone swirls. Crossing her arms, she grabs the bottom of her tee and pulls it up and over her head, replacing it with a crème colored lace poets shirt. Her eyes are drawn to the scar that falls at her décolletage. 

“Raz is right. Scars are like tattoos; they just tell a different story.” 

She was lucky; her story had a miraculous ending. Stage 3 cancer when it was first discovered, but closer to 4 by the time doctors diagnosed her with B-cell Lymphoma, three months later. With a fist size mass attached to her heart and lung and with an oxygen level of 30% the prognosis wasn't good. But, God wasn't finished with her. He had other plans. Six months of chemotherapy, two months of radiation, and she was cancer free. Three years later, the doctors removed the port. The problem was they weren't concerned about how large a scar was left. 

Cocking her head, she stares at her reflection and outlines the exposed scare with her middle finger, flipping it off. It's been over five years now, and the skin is all but healed except for the varying shades of pink. It's the skin beneath that will never heal, a hollow space where muscle was cut away to house the port. “It's okay,” she thinks, her chin rising in defiance. “It's my war wound, and reminder that I'm still part of this world.” 

Pulling the shirt over her head, she takes a good long look and turns around in a circle catching a glimpse in both mirrors. “Ooh, I like this one. Now, I just need a nice pair of sandals.” She quickly undresses, and puts her jeans and tee back on, leaving the unwanted items behind as she walks out the door.

***

“Hey Harry” calls Suzette. “You awake over there?”

“For the umpteenth time, it's Harriet.” If she possessed a head, it would have been shaking. “Why bother,” she mumbles. “Of course I'm awake. How can I be asleep when you're bellowing?”

“Oh stop. Don't you agree, she's a breath of fresh air?”

“Yes, I do, and it was very nice of her to turn a 360. I got to see her from every angle. You know what Suzette? I really enjoy being a reflection.”

“Me too. I wonder who'’ll come in next? I hope it's a mama with a little baby or two. They're so cute. We can spoil them with funny faces and send them home with no regrets.”

“Wonderful idea,” says Harry as the familiar creaking sound echoes again.

Go Get Your God On

"Go get your god on,"said Maggie a little terse.

"Wow, that's rude," returning fire. "The problem with you is that you're not getting your way."  

"I'm just saying you've been in a bad mood all week.  Nasty too."

I do a quick flashback...traffic circle debacle with a blue haired woman too short to see over the steering wheel, another problem with the brand new freezer, OCD mumblings, but that's typical, and the really, really big one that made my hackles rise up like angel wings--mine were more of the demonic nature--the appointment with HR at the local college to finalize a substitute Library Assistant application.

Head of HR (Bad Wig because her wig was askew) is late by 10 minutes.  When she arrives after having attended a retirement party (information I learned by listening to the wagging tongues of office staff), Bad Wig tries to take care of another, but her secretary who has the foyer door open announces her 3:00--Me--is here.

"What time is it," she whispers.  My voice springs to action. "It's 3:10."

I answer without even thinking while thumbing through Modern Woman magazine.  Yes, for those who know me, this is an unusual response. I might think it, but I'm way too polite to say it out loud. I was given the title "Just too nice" at my last job. 

For some reason, I just couldn't control  myself.  I guess it's because I was having second thoughts. Did I want to waste my time with an on-call, substitute position that paid $10 an hour with a constraint of no more than 25 hours a month, about $190 once taxes are taken out.   And on top of that, I was expected to submit official transcripts from all college and post graduate schools attended including schools I transferred credits from.  That's crazy.  Besides, it's a small fortune;  I moved around a lot.  The job isn't even a real job listing, it's paid from a slush fund.

Having worked in various positions since 1978,  being on time is a sign of professionalism.  If I'm to be on time, so should Bad Wig.  I expected at least an apology and maybe an explanation, but nothing followed.  If one had been given, I'm sure things would have turned out differently.

Bad Wig invited me into her office, but the handle wouldn't turn. The door was locked; her keys were comfortably resting on the desk laughing.  After borrowing the secretary's keys, we entered her office and sat down.  Prior to arriving, I filled out the appropriate application, submitted it on-line and brought two forms of ID as requested by Bad Wig during our previous phone conversation.   The process began but was a sure fire failure. 

"What position are you applying for," she asked.

"I'm applying for a substitute position at the library"

"What's the title? Every job has a title."

"I don't know. I'm just doing what I was told.  It's a substitute position paid out of a slush fund."

"Well how did you hear about it?"

"I was asked by the Administrative Assistant to apply."

"Well we've got to know what the title is, so we can move on,  I'll have to call her."

"Do what ever you have to do. I don't have any idea because it's not listed on the job page.  Remember you had to send me a special application because there was no listing."

Bad Wig called the Administrative Assistant getting the information.

"So you are applying for the Li-bary Assistant."

Cring.  Li-bary.  Really. Head of HR and she can't pronounce "library" correctly. My brain screamed.  Seventeen years of teaching English and correcting other peoples' children's' pronunciation inflamed the situation.  This was no angelic reaction; it was more of the demonic kind".  Strike one.

"Yes, that is correct. Li-brer-e Assistant." I replied stressing the phonetic spelling.  By stressing the double "r" in library, Bad Wig"s feathers appeared ruffled.  I almost told her not to worry about the application and that I had changed my mind, but for some crazy reason, I was enjoying making her squirm. For once, I was in a position where I didn't need a job, where I didn't have to cow-tow to another human being who thought they had power over me or considered themselves smarter, because I had the power.  This was fun, so I continued.

Bad Wig pulled out a stack of forms plus a sexual harassment booklet.

"Do I have to take a sexual harassment class," I asked.  "And what's all this paperwork?

"Every one has to take a sexual harassment class eventually on-line," says Bad Wig.  "But you're only going to have to read this booklet and answer the questions.  Then of course there's the paperwork--information sheet, tax forms, etc."

I picked up the stack of papers and started perusing them.

"Is there a problem," Bad Wig asked.

"No.  But I don't ever sign anything until I know exactly what it is that I'm signing."

"Well everyone who works here has to fill these out," she said haughtily.  "This one has your name and social security information which I scan and put into your file.  The rest will also be scanned."

"What do you do with the forms that have my social security number after you scan them into my file," I ask.  Not an obtuse question.  Quite the contrary, I consider this an important question, one you can't be too careful about these days since there is so much identity theft.

Bad Wig's body language grew more tense.  Her feathers were ruffled.  Again. After pursing an answer to my question for the third time, she said--her voice an octave higher than before--"They get locked up with the other 460 some odd files."

Strike two.

"I understand you will do a criminal background check, but what about a drug check.  Do I need to get one of those too?"

"You won't be handling any bodily fluids," Bad Wig says. "That's done in another department on campus."

Of course she was talking about the nursing school, but I'm dumbfounded at the level of stupidity.  Absolutely, positively floored.  "I realize that,' I reply, "but will you be doing a drug screening?"

"Why, do I have too," asked Bad Wig, thinking I walked into a trap.

Peering down my nose and wearing that 'you've got to be kidding me' look, I grinned and said, "Apparently not."

She lost her cool and preceded with a lecture.  Blah,blah, blah.  "Everyone who works at the college must act professionally" ( Do you really want to go there--late for an appointment, no apology, a wig askew, plus chipped, peeling, or non-existent toe nail polish.  Yes, I notice almost everything.) "and treat each other nice.  You will be working as a li-bary assistant..." (There was that word again. I smiled more broadly)..."and you will be dealing with the public and handling delicate situations."  (You mean I'll be checking books in and out, shelving, and teaching students how to use the card catalog. Right. Very delicate stuff).

Strike three.  You're out!

I left her office, if you can believe it, laughing and amazed by stupid people.  The experience was exasperating yet I had fun yanking her chain.  I wasn't rude or obnoxious.   For once, I was in control of the situation, and it produced a sense of joy.  Yes, I will grant there are some of you who read this and think I'm a tad perverse but non-the-less, it was a joy-filled moment.   Empowered, I allowed myself to be me: strong, smart, sarcastic, and even a little outlandish.  I don't act this way often, so it's safe to say I'll remember this act of rebellion as a momentous occasion when I grabbed hold of joy with abandonment.

This takes me back to the beginning ..."Go get your god on."  Today's Sunday, so I did; I went to church and asked god to forgive me for giving Bad Wig such a hard time, but at the same moment, I thanked him for showing me that joy comes in mysterious ways.