A civilian has a close encounter with a world famous actress. Is it an act of fate or grace? 2,948 words. Illustration by John Mann.

I’d been lucky once before when I got the scholarship. The Hanover prepsters tagged me “Feather.” And they called the kid from Calcutta, “Dot.” As if they had a hard time telling us Indians apart. They had a lot of fun with us. It’s one of the things I liked about her. She was different. She could care less where I come from. Or what I do. And when I think back on how we met it seems like a chance encounter. Random. But lately I wonder if fate played a part.

It’s only 10 AM. I swap out the igniter in a tub at Ten Thousand Waves. The Japanese spa up on the hill. I usually keep some spares in the truck. So it’s a simple fix. And I finish my first job of the day. It’s slushy in the parking lot. When I see her she’s having trouble starting her car. A rented Cayenne, shiny and white, but caked with red road mix from the thawing and re-freezing in the wake of a brutal winter storm. It’s that storm. More chill than snow and ice. A hundred-year hard freeze that leaves a trail of burst pipes from Roswell to Taos. My bread and butter. I can make my year in those two weeks alone. She throws her hands in the air as if to say, “What’s the use of even trying?”

Of course, I’d seen that wild dark mane and those huge eyes staring out at me before on movie screens. Mostly foreign films. But here she is right in front of me. Spewing a stream of curses. En Espanol. So how can I not offer to help? It’s all so easy. I pop the shifter from Drive into Park, turn the key, and the Porsche fires right up. Anyone else in that situation would feel slightly embarrassed. But not her. You can tell she’s privileged like those Texas tourists who waltz into town for the summer. Expect to be waited on hand and foot. Only she’s Euro, not Anglo. When you make that kind of bank isn’t it all the same? She’s more relieved than anything. Asks if I would accept something in return. A tip?

I say no thanks. But if you got a few minutes to sit down over a cup of coffee, I’ll call us even.

Continue reading →

On what would have been Marilyn Monroe’s 91st birthday, an imagining of her most humble of childhoods. 3,038 words. Illustration by Thomas Warming.

Della noted, as she held six-month-old Norma Jean, that Sister Aimee had said it was very foolish to even hesitate to trust God. Sister Aimee spoke every sentence with a building rhythm. One, two, three, FOUR; one, two, three, FOUR. Certain words clanged like cymbals.

Della held Norma Jean loosely as if waiting for the baby to be scooped up by the great Aimee Semple McPherson. Della listened for twenty more minutes as Sister Aimee preached, her black Bible rolled up and held like a microphone as her long white sleeves trailed down to the stage, a heavenly cord of electricity with all its rhinestones, cascading to earth like stars from the sky.

“What’s more illustrative of our faith than to dedicate one of God’s little lambs? Bring your babies to the front and give back the gift, which has been so graciously given you. To keep them safe and let them truly grow in the light of God.”

Della raised Norma Jean above her head and passed her to Sister Aimee. From the back of the tent the baby appeared to levitate in her white baby gown up to the center of the stage.

“I baptize thee, beautiful baby, Norma Jean Baker. In the name of the Father, the son and the Holy Spirit.”

“Amen!”

Continue reading →

A World War II vet acts on his misgivings about a Hollywood fraud who’s beloved by all. 2,868 words. Illustration by Thomas Warming.

Bellflower, California — September 26, 1954

I take a sip of Lone Star and flip through the fan magazines. Here’s Hollywood movie star Del Hawk as the grizzled platoon leader at Guadalcanal. Here’s another of him leading a tank charge at the Battle of the Bulge. This one is of him parachuting into Normandy with the 101st Airborne. And that’s him again in the cockpit of a B-17 Flying Fortress raining bombs on the Third Reich.

I finish off my fifth beer of the night and set the bottle back on the scratched coffee table. Then I leaf through more of the fan mags. Del Hawk with Spencer Tracy and that ice skater Sonja Henie at the Racquet Club in Palm Springs. Del Hawk on Seabiscuit with Bing Crosby at Del Mar. And, dang if Del Hawk isn’t with that sultry dish Hedi Lamaar in this other photo. She’s wearing a black-and-white polka dot swimsuit by the pool at the Beverly Hills Hotel. And don’t they look all idly rich.

A a fly does a carrier landing on my nose before lifting off and circling overhead inside my home at the Friendly Gardens Trailer Court. I pick up my Colt .45 and take aim at Mr. Flyboy and squeeze off a round. The silence explodes. Brick-a-brat trembles. The tabby high-tails it. Drunk as a skunk, I lower the pistol and slouch into slumber, the TV station already signing off with an Indian-head test pattern. But before I doze off, I make a vow to meet the celluloid hero I’ve followed since I left the Army in 1945. Maybe, just maybe, I can get him to sign an autograph.

Now I’m staring at the girl again and thinking she’s kinda cute. Her name’s Pet. Least, that’s what they call her here in the court anyways. She’s about five-three. Maybe a hundred pounds if carrying a bowling ball. Red hair done in a pixie cut. And can she horse laugh when she’s real tickled! I know cause she laughs a lot when I tell her my stories of Texas outlaw country. She tells me she’s only eighteen and already an excommunicated Mormon. How’s them apples? She knows things about the world, that’s for sure. But she’s never stared into the eyes of an Uncle Sam drill sergeant or spilled Nazi blood.

Continue reading →

A famous actor and a young woman are seated together in first class. It’s going to be a bumpy ride. 2,664 words. Illustration by John Mann.

The only thing Richard hated more than planes was being talked to while on a plane. He’d forgotten his noise-cancelling headphones somewhere in the first class lounge in Atlanta, which was an ever disappearing dot on the horizon. His red-eye flight back to LAX had been delayed two hours, and even though his first-class seat reclined into a bed, he was still not happy.

“Sir,” asked a flight attendant, “do you mind if this girl sits here? There’s been an… incident at the back of the aircraft and she needs to… sit up here for the rest of the flight. It’s the only seat that’s empty.”

“Okay,” said Richard, thinking he wasn’t old enough to be called sir or mister.

“Thank you ever so much. She’s a big fan. Thank you, Mr. Mayfield.”

Richard grumbled a reply that was inaudible over the thrum of the jet engines, and the flight attendant left to do whatever flight attendants do when Richard couldn’t see them. The girl was really a young woman and looked about 21 and had blonde hair cut into loose waves that spilled over the tops of her shoulders like cascading honey. She held her chin a little higher than most anyone he’d seen that day and it stood out to him, along with a curious squint and pout combination that made her look almost like a child taking a test.

“Are you Richard Mayfield?” she asked.

“Yes. Yes, I am.” Richard knew what was coming.

Continue reading →