GO PLAY IN TRAFFIC: a writer's life

By Michelle A. Gabow

Go Play In Traffic (A Writer’s Life), is a tale of writing, loss, friendship and telepathy during the COVID Pandemic. Reba, a 74-year-old lesbian, finds herself in a state of limbo after a year of writer’s block, the beginning of retirement, and the break-up of a long-term relationship. A surprise connection with Fred, an African grey parrot, is a call to life that sets in motion a path of the unexpected. In this state of grief and magic, Reba creates stories exploring the fantastical in the everyday.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Sep 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9781665749206

Michelle A. Gabow

Michelle A. Gabow is an author and playwright. Eight of her plays and a short video have been produced in Boston. Roxbury Repertory Theatre honored her as playwright laureate. Gabow is also author of God is a Dog (lost and found in Paris), a book of linked, short stories and Not All There (a novel). She lives in Jamaica Plain, Massachusetts, a dynamic neighborhood in Boston with her cat, Lucy; her dog, Charlie, and her love, Michelle Baxter.

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Copyright © 2022 Michelle A. Gabow.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Archway Publishing

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Bloomington, IN 47403

www.archwaypublishing.com

844-669-3957

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

ISBN: 978-1-6657-4799-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-4798-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-4920-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023916146

Archway Publishing rev. date: 09/25/2023

CONTENTS

Polly Wants a Cracker

I Read the News Today—Oh Boy

The Bridge

In Sync

Cindy Sherman

Addiction

Seeing Is Believing

Another Day under Fascism

Stillness in the Middle of a Storm

Go Play in Traffic (Part 1)

Go Play in Traffic (Part 2)

Here Today …

Remnants of the Storm

22 Beats

To Sharon (Cox) Howell, poet, mentor, philosopher, community activist, pragmatic mystic, teacher and friend, whose passion to cause mischief, disrupt and love this world has no boundaries.

Every story I create creates me.

I write to create myself.

—Octavia E. Butler

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Polly Wants a Cracker

1

Sarah

I need a cup of coffee—black.

Lady, you’re in Petco, a voice reproaches.

She smiles that crazy-looking, all-knowing smile, which hustlers and the homeless have after they hit you up for a buck. Although he appears to ignore her half smile, which is somewhere between sweet and maddening, he can no longer ignore her. After all, who demands a cup of coffee in a pet store?

Sarah is sick to death of being invisible.

She grabs a basket and slowly walks down an aisle. Her desire to walk is as strong as her need to escape the downpour. Her drenched jeans make squishy sounds at each step. She tries to shake it off like a duck. After all, she is in a pet store. But of course, nothing happens. Squish. She shakes again, using her entire body, and bursts into raucous, inappropriate laughter. There are times she really appreciates her internal ongoing wit, even if no other human being has ever witnessed it. Maybe invisibility has become her armor. Oh, that’s fucking crazy. Who in their right mind wants to be invisible?

Then again, all she has to do is take a look at her conversation this morning.

Supervisor: I am impressed. You are a half an hour early for the receptionist job.

Sarah: Well, we aim to please at Take a Temp.

Supervisor: I’m so glad they sent someone new without me even asking. Says a lot for your agency. The temp yesterday was an hour late.

Sarah: That’s disgusting, and totally against Take a Temp policy.

Supervisor: (bubbling over with gratitude) Wonderful. So glad that you take your job and this agency to heart! We need more workers like you. Let’s get you started.

A huge grin lit up the supervisor’s sullen face. Sarah had made her day, for sure.

The conversation plays over and over in Sarah’s mind, like some old black-and-white film. A perfectly innocuous conversation—except for one small detail. She was also, in fact, yesterday’s rude, inconsiderate temp. A smirk parts her lips as she runs her fingers and eyes over the bright assortment of cans of cat food.

So many choices—Purina, Friskies, Tiki Cat, Weruva, Royal Canin, Proplan, Applaws … Sarah bows and giggles. Suddenly she feels a pair of eyes searing through her. She glares at the clerk who is playing with his phone. Petco is empty.

Wellness, Fromm, Fancy Feast. Her cat, if she had one, would prefer Fancy Feast. Sarah prefers Fancy Feast, for nothing if not the name. As she turns the corner, still sensing a pair of eyes burning into her, she is painfully aware of the weight of her basket. It is surprisingly filled to the brim with feasts of fancy. And as luck would have it, she is on the aisle of litter. Sarah grabs a bag of litter for the little kitten she may have one day and realizes the heaviness of this purchase. Both arms are stretched to their capacity as she slowly approaches the cashier.

Unexpectedly, her head turns to the right, and she is sidetracked. It’s the birds. Parakeets of all shapes, colors, and sizes. There are lovebirds, finches fluttering, singing, plucking their feathers, bobbing their heads to some unknown melody, and pooping. Sarah is mesmerized. Is their music really music? Do they like being in a cage? Are they happy? She has this urge to set them all free and tiptoes toward the cages. The clerk is instantly in front of her as if … Are you interested in a bird? he asks in a monotone.

No, she quickly answers. And she gathers up her cat food products.

The clerk saunters back to the cash register.

A voice, a bit scratchy but clear as day, pleads, Don’t go.

She is unable to move.

Still in place, Sarah warily asks the clerk, Can any of these birds talk?

Only the African grey.

What can he say?

The clerk mockingly asks the Grey, Polly wants a cracker?

The African grey repeats back, Polly wants a cracker.

Her response was a bit sarcastic, don’t you think? Sarah comments.

No.

That’s all she can say. Really?

Now annoyed, the clerk says, That’s it, lady.

Sarah finally breaks her stance and glances at the price tag. How come she is so cheap?

She’s been returned twice.

Why?

Maybe it was because she never spoke. Maybe some aggressive tendencies.

Do you usually do that kind of thing?

What?

Sell animals that have been returned.

No.

Is Polly male or female?

It’s uncertain. Not, as of yet, tested.

Sarah walks over to the African grey. Under her breath, she whispers, Maybe you don’t appreciate being called Polly?

And then she pronounces, I’ll take him.

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2

Sarah and Fred

F red has been living with Sarah for three whole days and not a peep. Each morning, she sings, Good morning, Fred, to familiarize him with his new name. She makes sure he has fresh water, pellets, seeds, and fruit. She lets him fly around the house, placing stands with perches for him to land. Newspaper lines all the spaces underneath. They are scattered around her one-bedroom Jamaica Plain apartment. His cage occupies almost the entire dining room, which can barely fit a table, let alone chairs. He sleeps there at night and during the day. He’s a relatively clean bird as far as parrots go, at least according to the four African grey parrot books she bought. But not a chirp, let alone a word. However, she constantly feels his eyes watching her every move. And it doesn’t take much of a detective to realize he was the one staring through her at Petco.

Her landline rings, and the answering machine picks up. A long wait, and the phone piercingly buzzes. A loud voice with a heavy Philly accent speaks. "Sarah, it’s your muther. Pick up. Sarah continues getting dressed for a new temp job. There will be several of these exact messages, accompanied by the long, whiny buzz when she returns from work. Sarah would like to say this is one of the few people who recognize her, but even for her mother, Florence, it is difficult. Each time she goes home to Philadelphia and knocks on Mom’s door in the elderly complex, Florence opens it with, Oh my God, Sarah. What did you do to your hair? (your make-up, your clothes, did you get taller, or shrink, or gain weight, or lose weight). I almost didn’t recognize you."

Sarah quickly slips on her old, navy pea coat and completely covers her mousy-gray hair with an oversized gray beret. She can’t believe it is sixty-eight degrees this morning on the very edge of February. Although she is standing in front of the mirror, she is not looking into it. She misses Fred already and doesn’t want to leave him all alone in the world.

Well, it’s better than Petco and that miserable asshole clerk, she emphatically proclaims. Fred is silent. It is! she insists. Fred does not move a muscle, let alone utter a sound. He’s kind of stubborn, which is always how Mom describes Sarah.

We’re more alike than you think, Sarah declares. She grabs her keys and is out the door.

As she runs down her hallway, she hears a faint demand coming from behind her apartment door, Don’t go.

Sarah desperately wants to circle back but considers her lateness and pushes on. She can’t afford to take off of work, now that she has another mouth to feed. Her whole fast walk to Green Street Station is consumed with Fred. Was that voice really his, or did she want it so badly it triggered her ever-present imagination? If it was Fred, did he want her close for fear of being left? Was he sad? Was he warning her about the job? Or was it a warning about something else? Will he know her when she returns? Is he beginning to love her? Question after question crowds her brain until nothing else can move in. Stop, just stop. And then, Stop, escapes into the world at large. A young couple in matching navy blue business suits turn their heads and giggle. A homeless dark-skinned man with a full white beard selling Spare Change News gently smiles. A baby begins to cry. An overwrought mother glares.

Sarah stops. She breathes slowly and deliberately. Across the street, Evergreen Café is open, and there are actually customers in the chairs outside, in the middle of winter. She stands still and imagines one of their homemade savory scones with a long cup of coffee. The image calms her. There is something about a good café, even a mediocre one. It’s that moment of timelessness. Though she is facing the café, she closes her eyes. It takes only a few seconds to envision a morning like this… Sarah sitting with a large French cup of coffee, slowly taking small bites of her mushroom scone, savoring each bite, chewing carefully while enjoying every single ingredient. As it flavors her mouth, she blots her lips, carefully folds her napkin and spreads it over her knees; each move has a delicacy, a beauty in it. She read somewhere that each time you blink, there is a new beginning. So cool.

As Sarah opens her eyes from her rather long blink and focuses, she sees a woman with an oversized fedora hat in Sarah’s imaginary seat, sipping from a large French cup. The image sends shock waves through her body. She knows this woman! It is beyond belief that Sarah would see her again, especially at Sarah’s table in the outdoor café.

Am I dreaming? Is this real?

She studies the woman at the café again and gingerly waves her hand. The woman is writing in her journal or on a tablet. So like her. Sarah takes a breath. Each time one blinks …

Her hands and arms become a wild bird taking flight. They are untamed and unencumbered. Lifting her body into the air, they are Fred’s wings, if he was truly free. Still no reaction. The woman slowly sips her coffee and finally turns to the right. She has a bewildered expression as she glances at Sarah. In fact, the entire outdoor café shares a mystified look. That would be enough for any sane person to immediately cease and walk away. But not Sarah. After all, they told each other life stories on that surprising train ride to New York.

This woman listened to Sarah’s invisible stories, really listened, and giggled at times but did not laugh at her. Finally, the woman said, I know invisible. I have been an invisible writer, and she reached her hand across the aisle.

Sarah refuses to let this woman or this insightful exchange go.

Suddenly, as if looking up at a theatre marquee, the women’s name appears in neon lights over the large brim of her fedora, surrounds her French oversized cup, slithers onto the café table, and dances around the edge, circling several times. More cartoonish than real. That’s how it is sometimes with Sarah’s memory. Names, memories, and scenes flash before her in neon.

Reba! she squeals at the top of her lungs while her hand flies madly in the air. How’s retirement?

Reba raises her large French coffee cup, salutes, smiles, and returns to her journal. The smile seems genuine, but Sarah knows that Reba used to be an actress before she was a playwright.

What do I do now? What the hell do I do now?

Sarah pivots and scurries to the station, which thank God is only across the street. She is in a state for the whole day at work, but of course not a soul notices, which is fine with her. She jogs all the way home from Green Street Station after work, rushes in her apartment, passes Fred, and dives into her bed.

Sarah falls into a dead sleep. When she awakens in the middle of the night, she notices two things. Her pillow is soaking wet, and only then does she realize that she has been weeping in her dreams. And Fred is on the bedroom perch instead of his