A Weird Turning Point

Weird Turning Point

Once upon a time, seems a long time ago, I was 30. It doesn’t seem so long ago, except when I think back to this particular important incident in my writing career, a really youthful moment in my behavior… a really lucky weird moment.

My teacher in this college writing class was petite, shy, and delightfully literary with fun stories about taking classes from Richard Hugo (as in Hugo House). Not too far into the quarter, she (and I don’t recall her name but will never forget her face)…she assigned a piece that was to be 500 words and no more but was to include a list of 17 words…all of them. This felt quite restrictive to me and I didn’t like the list, especially dust, flies, and linoleum. So I wrote the piece like I was stabbing the paper with my pen, or maybe attempting to press hard enough to go through several carbon sheets—which we used at that time. Internally muttering, Don’t fence me in, lady. (Which was amazing as I always LOVED writing exercises…but not this one.)

When I brought the piece in, I kind of pitched/slid it across her desk to her. (As a teacher, I know that response to exercises, and thinking of myself doing it, makes me grin—a kind of self-conscious lopsided grin.)

Later, as we were writing another exercise, tiny Miss Teacher came to my desk hardly needing to bend to bring her pretty little girl face closer to mine. “Could I…would it be okay if I submitted your story to the literary journal?” she whispered.

“Oh,” I said tucking my anger back into my face as quickly as possible. “Oh…sure…thanks.”

The next thing I heard about that was a phone call from the ruling heads at Chemeketa Community College who were pleased to get the piece and, if I wasn’t too busy, would I be the editor of the literary journal this year?

Wow, I sure would. And loved every second of it…not the first editorial position I’d held at a college periodical, but still—this was a literary journal.

After the journal was completed, I was called again. Would I…could I represent the journal with one other woman writer and read the piece on a local television channel?

So I did, completely agape at the odd turn of events based on a writing exercise I truly hated.

The outcome was humorous. Though the story is completely untrue, it sounds like it could happen and several neighbors who had seen me on the television show called and asked about it. This was a bit embarrassing for my husband as he had lived in our small town for all his life.

So that’s the story. The list that follows is the one I’ve used with students for many years now and is only one of two exercises I’ve directly borrowed from another teacher, rather than erecting by myself. Give it a try. I think you’ll enjoy it. This is a favorite among my students, who, unlike me at the time when I did it, can see its charms. Keep the story to 500 words or less and do use ALL the words. The story I wrote follows, and you’re welcome to use the bolded words in it for your piece. Feel free to send me your piece. Who knows? You might get published too!

17 Item Collage-Story: dust, a wine bottle, 3 beads, a gardenia, one boot, a moan, fog, a beard, 2 books, a piece of string, joy, a broken shelf, bread, a fly, a broken promise, a bridge, a bar of soap. (This is my altered list of words. The ones the teacher gave to me are bolded in the following story—the one I wrote that paid off so well...in spite of me!)

An Affair to Forget

A welfare office is a wonderful place! It’s where you go to find out that you don’t count at all. Crummy cheap furniture—prison gray and hospital green. “It’s good enough for them.” The poor—you and me.

I was glad I met you there among the squalor, humiliation, dust and flies. We were in our Welfare clothes: baggy, torn, faded jeans and nondescript tee-shirts. You don’t go to “the welfare” in anything better than that. If you do, they think you’ve got money. What do they want? You should eat your clothes?

There was a big cast on your leg. Gray and lumpy. I sat across from you. We were mesmerized by the surrounding misery, gazing at the floor. Children crying quietly, men with skin cancer talking in whispers to pregnant, scar-faced women. Terror and shame worn into their faces and voices; bodies, like the thin spots in the linoleum floor and couch cushions, worn down by countless shuffling feet and ragged jeans.

They called my name. I sprang up, still looking at the floor and tripped on your cast. Mumbling an apology, I hurried to the window. Three hours I’d been waiting. They handed me my check. I kept my head down, eyes down, voicing softly, “Thank you.”

The next name was yours. You rose with difficulty, stumbled. I caught you. Were they watching? Before you had your balance I almost let you go. What if they thought we were together? Would they stop your check or mine?

Outside I lit a cigarette and felt freer. Not free. When you came out I lit one for you. It’s hard to light a cigarette on crutches. You asked about the bus to Ballard. I live in Ballard. You looked pretty harmless with your lumpy cast and scratched up crutches. I said, “I’ll drive you.”

We didn’t say much or get along that well. But hell, who else was there? The car was moving but we were standing still. I showed you the house of a friend. You pointed out a store that sells your favorite beer—you can’t get it just anywhere. I took you down a back road to see the place I had my motorcycle accident. We talked about your fall. I suggested my doctor. We took each other down several such back roads. I could see we’d never give a damn about each other.

“You want a glass of wine?” Of course, you did. I helped you down the steps into my basement apartment. Like my income, it was low, but I’ve done my best with it. I think it’s nice. You didn’t say anything. I guess you didn’t notice.

I brought you a plastic glass of Chianti wine. You looked through my records, my books, my photo albums, my Chianti wine, me.

You asked for sex—of course—a man has to live with himself. I said no. I drove you home. You never thanked me.

I’m glad I met you at the welfare office. I’d hate to think it could have happened anywhere else.

By Wendy Pellegrini Adams (Ariele M. Huff)

All the characters are invented. This did NOT happen to me.

Published in Under the Sun (Chemeketa Community College literary journal 1980)

SHARING STORIES is a weekly column for and about the 50 plus crowd living in the Puget Sound region. Send your stories and photos to ariele@comcast.net. Tell local or personal stories; discuss concerns around aging and other issues; share solutions, good luck, and reasons to celebrate; poems are fine too. Pieces may be edited or excerpted. We reserve the right to select among pieces. Photos are always a plus and a one-sentence bio is requested (where you live, maybe age or career, retired status, etc.).

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