Pivot Points

By T.R. Connolly

Pivot points occur when circumstances change the course of a life. The direction changes arise in all forms, like an individual getting back on track, discovering a new love, or finding the strength to overcome a challenge. They sometimes show us a depth in ourselves we were unaware of; some insight that allows us to move in a direction we had not thought possible or to avoid significant pitfalls. These pivots turn on people we love or lost, people who presented a situation in a light we had not seen before, people who are kind, loyal models for life. These pivots can also have an unseemly side; the friend or relative who will not go straight, presenting us with a test of remaining loyal and risking a similar end for ourselves or breaking from that threat.
Every writer writes from experiences, one cannot make up the stuff we read in short stories and novels today. Some part of every fictitious story is true. If the writer did not “see” the pivot they are reporting, they may have been a part of it.
In Pivot Points I know these people; the characteristics, behaviors, and language are familiar. I’ve been to the places these events occur, even though I may have changed the name of the corner store.
Most of the people I write about are strivers; individuals striving to get to a pivot point; striving to make a change in their life: the widow unable to let go, the woman seeking a way to break from the criminal she lives with, the young reporter discovers a stunning love, or the grandsons who try to invent a different narrative for their dying grandfather. When a homeless girl with frozen fingers begs for coins from a rich New York lawyer his life is transformed, and when an orphan on a beach in Recife, Brazil meets four other boys in a similar fix, a criminal empire is born.
Great pain causes great hope; hope that the pain can be overcome. Some of these characters overcome their pain, others do not. As a writer I rejoice with those characters that move forward and I take no pleasure in the failure of others. We see life every day; we live in this life every day. The characters in Pivot Points are us.

• Language: English
• Publisher: T.R. Connolly
• Release date: Jul 23, 2017
• ISBN: 9780986150593

T.R. Connolly

BECOMING AN AUTHOR:Most writers complete their careers before then turn 70. I'm a little different, I've got a lot of stories bottled up and they seem to want to come out now that I'm 71. You know what they say, 70 is the new 50. They could lower that a bit and I'd be comfortable. But seriously, this is not a bad age to begin writing. You learn a lot in 70 years and if you can put a sentence together you can probably get a good story told.After we curtailed the business, the stories started coming out. Why then? Probably because I had a fairly singular focus on making a living and supporting my family. "The Adored" is first book to get completed from that stream of stories; there are two more novels nearing completion and a book of short stories.PROFESSIONAL CAREERThomas R. Connolly was Managing Partner, Thundercloud Consulting Group and formerly an executive consultant in IBM's Higher Education Consulting Group. He aided organizations in aligning their business processes with their strategy. He is an employee relations expert with significant experience in HR re-engineering, policy and organization development, and employee/management communications. His article, "Transforming Human Resources", was the cover story of the June 1997 issue of Management Review.Mr. Connolly's prior IBM roles include Principal, Organization Change Competency, IBM Consulting Group. Mr. Connolly co-developed IBM's Organization Change methodology, developed IBM's worldwide Organization Change Competency team, taught the Competency team the methodology and mentored the team on assignments with clients. He also developed the Organization Change Intellectual Capital (IC)) team and built the initial IC data base. Previous to that assignment Mr. Connolly was Program Director, Human Resources Development, IBM corporate staff. He was project manager for IBM's human resource re=engineering efforts and was also responsible for the HR organization having the capabilities required by line management.Mr. Connolly attended Northeastern University, where he majored in management. He completed his master’s degree in Organization Development and Human Resources at Manhattanville College. From 1995 through 1997 Mr. Connolly served as president of the Human Resources Futures Association. He was a member of the management advisory committee for Binghamton University's School of Management.COMMUNITY INVOLVEMENT:-Mr. and Mrs. Connolly funded the high school education of 40 boys from Accra, Ghana-Mr Connolly created and taught a Management Development Program for the Chicago Urban League executive team.-Mr. and Mrs. Connolly endowed a scholarship program at Catherine Laboure School of Nursing, Dorchester, Ma. to support single working mothers seeking a career in nursing.

Book preview

When circumstances change the course of a life

PIVOT POINTS

SHORT STORIES

TR CONNOLLY

Including Goodbye, Frank with Gavin Connolly

Copyright © 2017 by TR Connolly

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. The names, places, characters, and incidents either are from the author’s imagination or are used factitiously.

For my beautiful bride, Kathleen

The confidence to create

Knowing that you have my back

When what I’m up to is beyond anything I’ve ever tried

Before, gives me the freedom to roam

Explore, dream, invent and create

Knowing you’ll help me find my way back

From the caverns of my imagination as I’m about to get fried

To the place you have created – our home

Acknowledgements:

Thank you my reading group. You made so many great suggestions to help me improve these stories. There were a couple you did not like, and upon rereading them neither did I. They say an author dies when a reader is born. Thank you for not letting me die – just yet.

Thanks Gerri Allegrino, Maureen Connolly, Alice Dunlap-Kraft, Barbara Geraghty, and Denise Harkins

Thanks also to the Darien Writer’s Group. You gave me the original encouragement to get going. Your own stories are magnificent.

Contents

Pivot Points

Short Stories

Anger on a Night Run - Chicago

The Brazilian Picasso - Recife, Brazil

Rock Star - Buffalo

The Writer - Stamford, Ct.

Goodbye Frank – by Gavin & TR Connolly Boston

Gloves New York

Annie - Greenwich, Ct

Birth of the Beast - Recife, Brazil

The Bridge - Cambridge

Time’s Up - Stamford, Ct

The Descent of St. Joseph - St. Joseph, Missouri

The Washer Woman of San Blas - Coamo, Puerto Rico

Pivot Points

Pivot points occur when circumstances change the course of a life. The direction changes arise in all forms, like an individual getting back on track, discovering a new love, or finding the strength to overcome a challenge. They sometimes show us a depth in ourselves we were unaware of; some insight that allows us to move in a direction we had not thought possible or to avoid significant pitfalls. These pivots turn on people we love or lost, people who presented a situation in a light we had not seen before, people who are kind, loyal models for life. These pivots can also have an unseemly side; the friend or relative who will not go straight, presenting us with a test of remaining loyal and risking a similar end for ourselves or breaking from that threat.

Every writer writes from experiences, one cannot make up the stuff we read in short stories and novels today. Some part of every fictitious story is true. If the writer did not see the pivot they are reporting, they may have been a part of it.

In Pivot Points I know these people; the characteristics, behaviors, and language are familiar. I’ve been to the places these events occur, even though I may have changed the name of the corner store.

Most of the people I write about are strivers; individuals striving to get to a pivot point; striving to make a change in their life: the widow unable to let go, the woman seeking a way to break from the criminal she lives with, the young reporter discovers a stunning love, or the grandsons who try to invent a different narrative for their dying grandfather. When a homeless girl with frozen fingers begs for coins from a rich New York lawyer his life is transformed, and when an orphan on a beach in Recife, Brazil meets four other boys in a similar fix, a criminal empire is born.

Great pain causes great hope; hope that the pain can be overcome. Some of these characters overcome their pain, others do not. As a writer I rejoice with those characters that move forward and I take no pleasure in the failure of others. We see life every day; we live in this life every day. The characters in Pivot Points are us.

Short Stories

Anger on a Night Run

It was Chicago cold as he stretched his hamstrings to loosen up for his nightly run. He hated running at night. It was dark and in the winter in Chicago the wind pressed the cold to his bones. He received none of the psychic enrichment that he got running in daylight; no distraction by landscape and architecture from the pain of the first few miles. An hour later he would wonder how a gun, a car with three teens and he could collide so violently.

Dick Abel glanced at his watch in the moonlight. Several years ago this signified he would try to accomplish the run in a certain time. More recently the time of a five mile run lost significance. He bounded off at an easy gait thinking that his life had lost significance. He had his third argument with his wife in as many nights.

Is it my fault, he thought, that it takes me longer to get back and forth to the new office? I didn’t move my job, the company did. Can I help it if I can’t run in the morning anymore? I’ve got to stay in shape and the only time to do it is about nine at night.

But Dick, his wife Jeanine pleaded, We never have anytime together. You’re gone before I’m up and when you come home I hold dinner for you late, even though the kids are climbing the wall with hunger.

Listen, it’s not my fault I’ve got to eat, it’s not my fault the company moves the office another thirty miles away to beat the price of space, he ranted. Do you think I like getting up at five thirty just to get to work on time?

Dick, Jeanine Abel said, I know that, all I’m saying is I want to see the man I married. The kids have been driving me crazy lately, not just at dinner but they have to ask me for everything because you’re not here. She paused; beginning to cry, but saw his doesn’t-anybody-understand-me look and became angry.

You think you have it bad. Try dealing with the three of them all day, cook dinner at six o’clock, do the dishes and get them ready for bed. Then just when I can take time to relax with you and have some adult companionship, off you go running. When you get back you’re exhausted. You get your book and spend the last half hour you’re awake in the bathroom. I get a goodnight and that’s it. How do you think I feel?

Who gives a damn how you feel. You’ve been on my back for the last month about this. What the hell do you think I do all day – play? I work my ass off and then I come home and have to take a bunch of crap from you. Screw off! He finished, pulled the sweatshirt hood onto his head and stormed out.

The constriction of the cold air passing through his nostrils and into his sinus cavity was biting. He switched to mouth breathing at one mile into his run. The street he turned onto at this point was dark, without street lights. On the right it was lined with trees that blocked out the northern moonlight. On the left it ran parallel to railroad tracks. He hoped a train would come along; he enjoyed the break in the monotony a one hundred and twenty car freight train provided.

Suddenly, a sharp, tearing sensation drove up from his ankle. He pulled up limp, in agony. Damn, he screamed, piercing the otherwise silent night air. Damn craters, he spit, reaching for his ankle and massaging it. It happened to him all the time along this stretch, the pot holes, which he was not able to pick up in the dark. He walked a bit, began a limp run and gradually ran through the pain that subsided to an irritation.

The lights of a car approaching from behind shone just up ahead; he glanced over his shoulder to see how far behind it was. He could not tell from the lights or from the engine noise. The hood over his head blocked out most sounds and blocked in the pulse throbbing in his ear. The car was twenty yards behind him now and at that moment he felt the pain in the ankle again. It gave on him and he swayed left into the path of the auto. He caught himself and pulled back to his right just as the car’s brakes screeched. As the white Camaro passed him a beer can flew out its window past his head. Following it out the window was half of a body. You stupid son-of-a-bitch, the teenager shouted. The car picked up speed and he could hear the laughter of a number of voices as it sped off.

He pulled off his right glove, reached his hand up under the sweatshirt and pulled the gun from its shoulder holster. Abel pointed it at the car that was now fifty yards in front of him. Too far, his mind screamed.

The car had been a high school graduation present to Mickey Andrews from his father. It was a used car but in the seven months he had been driving it he had received his share of cheap thrills from it, as he and his best friend Jimmy Riley expected to get with Evvy Cosgrove this night. The three had been drinking beer in the deserted train station parking lot since Mickey picked them up at seven in the evening and were headed to the forest preserve for fun with Evvy.

That jerk jogger, Evvy shrieked, looking out the rear window. He just gave you the finger Mickey."

Let’s go get him Mickey, Jimmy said, nodding his head as he leaned toward Mickey.

Naw, forget it, he’s just some jerk out running, Mickey said. Evvy, get me another beer.

Jimmy protested, You’re chicken, come on let’s go, I’ll punch him out myself.

Who you calling chicken, chicken head, Mickey spouted back angrily.

Yeah Mickey, Evvy said cutely as she handed him a beer, If you’re such a big man you wouldn’t let no jerky jogger give you the finger.

Shut the hell up. I’ll show you what I do to people who give me the finger, Mickey said accelerating into the dark night ahead.

Yeah, sure you will big man, Evvy teased, rolling back her blonde head in mocking laughter.

Evelyn Bryan was like that. She teased and mocked the boys to make them prove themselves to her. The beauty was there in body and face but it seemed to stop at the skin. She was hard and bitter for a girl only eighteen but she said she had a right to be bitter. Her mother died when she was eleven; when she was twelve her father molested her. Overcome by his shame he gave her up to live with his sister, Ann Bryan. Evvy hated her father for five years and would not use his name. She changed her name to Bryan, her aunt’s married name. It was only in the past year, when her father returned to the Chicago area, that she started to feel anything insider her again. He had changed. She saw him on Sunday afternoons and she saw the remorse on his face; heard it in his voice. He had grieved for six years and she could see it in him; she tried to tell him it was alright but she couldn’t. After what he did, maybe someday, but the hate was strong still.

The life she led with the five Bryan children was miserable. Her cousins did not accept her as their sister and treated her indifferently; fistfights were frequent with the three girls as well as with the two boys.

Evvy had moved into her own apartment with one of her high school friends two months before and took a job in an insurance office. There she was propositioned several times by one of the married agents. Damn, she thought, men, is