Lost, that’s how I started life. Lost wax, that is. Liquefied and poured into a mold that my molten presence melted away. I’m a gold wedding band, circa 1974, a hippie design with flowers around my circumference. Continue reading “Lost Wax”
As I walked a back alley of Ghost Town, an ominous purple fog hung in the air, and with each step it swirled like a brew in a witch’s cauldron. Eerie green lamplights flickered devilishly, casting a sick pallor on my skin. From the corner of my eye, I saw something lurking, something in tattered clothes with a hideous half-missing face, like the victim of a flesh-eating bacteria.
I sipped my coffee and thought back to my own Italian lover. His name was . . . Olivetti. God, I’ll never forget his compact, solid body, his muscular carriage arm, and his platen—oh, his platen—firm as a new saddle. Even now I can hear the sweet ting of his return bell. We spent countless nights drinking strong black coffee and writing impassioned thesis proposals. But, I must confess, Olivetti wasn’t my first. There have been other—typewriters.
“So I can write,” I say.
“You know I don’t like it when the door is closed,” he says.
Steve and I became best friends through our work-study jobs in the Theater Department at Cal State Long Beach. Each morning he’d greet me with a bear hug that could pass for a spinal adjustment. “Have you ever thought of becoming a chiropractor?” I’d ask, listening to my vertebrae pop. But I didn’t mind because no one else was ever that glad to see me.
My first love was a dark, handsome American. His name was Hershey—Hershey Bar. No mere childhood crush, chocolate and I still enjoy a long-term relationship, only now with more refined Swiss varieties.