another small excerpt of writing~

 ....I dropped in at Mom's house.  "I’m starving. Did you eat anything yet?”   She poured herself a cup of coffee and replied, “I ate a bunch of that cabbage I made the other day and now I feel sick. Why--you want something?”   “Well, yeah, but not what you had!”   I made a sandwich in her kitchen as we  laughed about the soap operas that she's begun watching since her retirement.  A message came to me by e-mail.  Had I

finished the inspection response form yet?  The buyer
was waiting for it, as he would have to receive it, sign it
and scan it back to me so that I could then
forward it on to the seller and being a Friday and all, he politely worried that we may run out of time and then there’s the weekend.... I unenthusiastically
e-mailed a reply, “I’m heading straight back to the office now.”
  With a 3’x4’ painting in my backseat I drove down Esplanade Avenue toward the French Quarter, and I caught a glimpse of him walking along on the sidewalk. 
 I kept driving but my mind stopped right in its tracks.
   It was Dad alright, walking along with his old raggedy bag of precious items such as a change of socks, old newspapers, assorted coupons, perhaps a boiled egg? He was looking down as he walked and didn’t notice me. He looked a little more pathetic than usual, his small dark frame puttering along. I would have stopped to give him a ride, on his road to nowhere, if not for the guy in California waiting for my inspection response report. Dad must have been coming from the house that he inherited from Grandma Honey, where he lives at times, even though it is still gutted 5 years after Katrina. He probably was headed to his rented apartment on Coliseum St. which must be filled with debris by now as it’s been about 6 months that he’s been there. I had tried to convince him that rather than renting a new space to fill up with junk, why not use the money he had,  and restore his house back to a livable condition? 
   I was taken aback when he had called to inquire about the available rental.  I reluctantly approached  the listing agent, who was also my dignified colleague at Dorian Bennett.  “My dad wants to rent the apartment you have listed, but he's a bag-man, a hoarder, you know; somehow he manages to break the plumbing wherever he lives and he may bring home drunk women.” She calmly replied “Oh, that’s perfect because the owner is a slum lord.”

   As I drove along Esplanade Avenue, a street like many others in New Orleans which is at once elegant and dilapidated, I asked myself, “why does he live like that?” My thoughts paused as if waiting for an answer, but none came. Then arriving at the real estate office, I immediately e-mailed the question to my brother, Gary, as if by some stroke of cosmic intuition, in the middle of his work day, he would have an answer. But then again how could anyone explain what goes on in the human psyche? I turned myself over to the half finished task at hand, not wanting to become someone like Dad, being lost and nowhere, and of where I can easily visualize myself heading, completed the inspection response, asked Georgia to review it just to be on the safe side, scanned it over to California for signatures, received it back and sent it on to the seller’s agent, to await their response.

*This is part of a larger work that I keep editing and re-editing.  Any comments, suggestions or critiques are appreciated.   Yours Truly, Cheryl 

A tiny excerpt of my writing.....

 

It was around 10 A.M. when I climbed the stairs in the old French Quarter building. I ascended past the brightly colored signed Jazz Fest posters, some black and white photographs, also signed, feeling like I was running a little late for our weekly office meeting, but when I looked into the meeting room, no one was there. I walked across the hall to another room where my colleague, Michael, sat at his desk. “I thought I was late,” I said, plopping myself down into the soft chair next to him. “Hi honey,” he said slowly in his warm southern accent. “The meeting doesn’t start until 10, you know,” he said a little condescendingly. I glanced around for a clock. “Isn’t it 10?” “Well nobody’s here, are they?” he said, then quickly added, “Well…Ann’s here,” motioning toward a young blonde woman sitting across the room who I hadn’t even noticed. ~