On Route 66Ruth Adler
[The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.]
I met Ruth Adler at a church dinner. I confess I was there more for the lobster than for Jesus.
I’m not sure why Ruth Adler was there.
She sat across from where I was sitting at one of those long wooden tables. I was busy fussing with the first of three lobsters I planned to eat that afternoon. I’ve never been good at solving the mystery of how to extract the meat of a lobster from its shell. It’s a comic event, I’m sure. I’m a firm believer in the concept that God provides, but when it comes to eating lobster, some power tools would serve me well. I don’t even bother with the claws. They are a whole mystery unto themselves.
Ruth Adler wasn’t eating lobster that day. She simply sat down and looked rather blankly at me from across the table. At first, I thought she might be a little touched, a little off the line that most of us think along.
She placed a plain white, legal-sized envelope in front of me on the wood table.
“Do you want to read the letter then?”
I had just found what I was sure was a seam in the shell of my lobster, and I was prodding it with one of those wooden picks that they give you at these church dinners. I even noticed a small crack developing along the side of my fiery crustacean. Still, I abandoned my efforts out of politeness, and looked up with my best expression of curiosity.
“Pardon me?”
“Do you want to read the letter then?”
I looked at the plain white envelope on the table. There was nothing written or typed on the outside, and I was certain it was empty.
“No,” I said in my most quiet, most comforting, most late-night FM radio announcer voice.
“Would you like me to read it to you then?”
“No, I don’t think so, but thanks anyway.”
“I imagined you would have wanted to.”
“I’m really just here for the cheap lobster. Nothing else, I’m afraid.”
I returned to the task at hand. The lobster shell had given way, and I was eagerly sloshing morsels of white flesh in a paper cup of melted butter.
“He died for you too, you know.”
I looked up again. Buttery spittle dripped down my beard. I now knew where all this was heading. This really was about Jesus and I suspected the envelope was for a donation above and beyond the cost of the lobsters. I looked into Ruth Adler’s eyes. They were a foggy shade of grey and speckled with amber flecks, each fleck seemingly a measure of some pain she had felt.
“Is this about Jesus, then?”
“Jesus?”
“Are you taking donations for the church?”
She snickered in an odd way.
“No. I just thought you might be ready to read the letter.”
“What letter?
“This one …”
“It’s an empty envelope.”
“It’s not empty. Look inside.”
My fingers dripped with butter. I looked at them, and then showed them to Ruth Adler.
“I’m not looking inside.”
“No?”
“No.”
“You’re afraid, aren’t you?”
“Of what?”
“Of what you’ll find.”
“No, not at all.”
“Then, here …” and with that, she pushed the plain white envelope across the table at me. “Go ahead, open it.”
“No, I’m eating.”
“That’s OK. Everyone reads while they eat.”
“My hands … a mess …”
“Go ahead.”
“No.”
“You don’t want to know, do you?”
“No.”
“Fine, I’ll leave you then.”
Ruth Adler stood up from her chair and began to walk away. She had left the envelope on the table.
“Wait,” I called after her. “You forgot your envelope.”
“It’s not a letter for me. It’s a letter for you.”
“I don’t want it.”
“I know. But it is yours. Not mine.”
“I don’t want it.”
“Leave it then. That’s your choice to make.”
“I will leave it. I swear I will.”
“Fine. It’s none of my concern now.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“You know why.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Well, open the envelope. Then you will know.”
In exasperation, I wiped my fingers on the front of my jeans, picked up the envelope, and turned it inside out.
“See?” I shouted with a laugh as I looked up. “There’s nothing inside.”
Ruth Adler was already gone.
[The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.]
I met Ruth Adler at a church dinner. I confess I was there more for the lobster than for Jesus.
I’m not sure why Ruth Adler was there.
She sat across from where I was sitting at one of those long wooden tables. I was busy fussing with the first of three lobsters I planned to eat that afternoon. I’ve never been good at solving the mystery of how to extract the meat of a lobster from its shell. It’s a comic event, I’m sure. I’m a firm believer in the concept that God provides, but when it comes to eating lobster, some power tools would serve me well. I don’t even bother with the claws. They are a whole mystery unto themselves.
Ruth Adler wasn’t eating lobster that day. She simply sat down and looked rather blankly at me from across the table. At first, I thought she might be a little touched, a little off the line that most of us think along.
She placed a plain white, legal-sized envelope in front of me on the wood table.
“Do you want to read the letter then?”
I had just found what I was sure was a seam in the shell of my lobster, and I was prodding it with one of those wooden picks that they give you at these church dinners. I even noticed a small crack developing along the side of my fiery crustacean. Still, I abandoned my efforts out of politeness, and looked up with my best expression of curiosity.
“Pardon me?”
“Do you want to read the letter then?”
I looked at the plain white envelope on the table. There was nothing written or typed on the outside, and I was certain it was empty.
“No,” I said in my most quiet, most comforting, most late-night FM radio announcer voice.
“Would you like me to read it to you then?”
“No, I don’t think so, but thanks anyway.”
“I imagined you would have wanted to.”
“I’m really just here for the cheap lobster. Nothing else, I’m afraid.”
I returned to the task at hand. The lobster shell had given way, and I was eagerly sloshing morsels of white flesh in a paper cup of melted butter.
“He died for you too, you know.”
I looked up again. Buttery spittle dripped down my beard. I now knew where all this was heading. This really was about Jesus and I suspected the envelope was for a donation above and beyond the cost of the lobsters. I looked into Ruth Adler’s eyes. They were a foggy shade of grey and speckled with amber flecks, each fleck seemingly a measure of some pain she had felt.
“Is this about Jesus, then?”
“Jesus?”
“Are you taking donations for the church?”
She snickered in an odd way.
“No. I just thought you might be ready to read the letter.”
“What letter?
“This one …”
“It’s an empty envelope.”
“It’s not empty. Look inside.”
My fingers dripped with butter. I looked at them, and then showed them to Ruth Adler.
“I’m not looking inside.”
“No?”
“No.”
“You’re afraid, aren’t you?”
“Of what?”
“Of what you’ll find.”
“No, not at all.”
“Then, here …” and with that, she pushed the plain white envelope across the table at me. “Go ahead, open it.”
“No, I’m eating.”
“That’s OK. Everyone reads while they eat.”
“My hands … a mess …”
“Go ahead.”
“No.”
“You don’t want to know, do you?”
“No.”
“Fine, I’ll leave you then.”
Ruth Adler stood up from her chair and began to walk away. She had left the envelope on the table.
“Wait,” I called after her. “You forgot your envelope.”
“It’s not a letter for me. It’s a letter for you.”
“I don’t want it.”
“I know. But it is yours. Not mine.”
“I don’t want it.”
“Leave it then. That’s your choice to make.”
“I will leave it. I swear I will.”
“Fine. It’s none of my concern now.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“You know why.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Well, open the envelope. Then you will know.”
In exasperation, I wiped my fingers on the front of my jeans, picked up the envelope, and turned it inside out.
“See?” I shouted with a laugh as I looked up. “There’s nothing inside.”
Ruth Adler was already gone.
The Back Story:
This was the second story in a collection of stories that I wrote about people whom I met or imagined I met along Route 66, that famous highway that runs from Chicago to Los Angeles.
This story evolved from an experience that I had written about in a notebook that I filled during a trip to New England, quite a ways from Route 66, I know, but the same "on the road" feeling runs underneath the storyline.
I really did go to a lobster dinner at a church on the Memorial Day weekend, and while there, I got caught up listening to a conversation between two women. One of the women had lost her son in Viet Nam, and she was telling the other woman how much her son loved seafood. It was a tender moment, and I probably shouldn’t have been eavesdropping, but a writer watches and listens to the stuff of life.
When looking back over my notes, I began thinking about how hard it must be to receive the news that someone whom you love so dearly is killed in a war. So for Memorial Day, I wanted to write something about how war isn’t just something that happens "over there" in a country like Viet Nam, but is also an up close and personal experience that leaves a scar on the whole of humanity and involves a guilt we all must share.
Ruth Adler became the messenger of that belief, and her envelope became her albatross, a symbol of the emptiness a mother must feel when her world is pulled from under her feet. That got all mixed up with the age-old cliché that "No news is good news," and the idea that, in certain situations, any news must be bad new, since receiving an envelope from the President with a letter inside commending the service and sacrifice of your son must be any mother’s ultimate nightmare. Oddly enough, there is not a hint of any of this in the story, and when I read the story over to make these notes, I wasn’t sure why. Perhaps, I was aiming for some more universal dilemma. Not sure.
In an earlier version of the story, the narrator doesn’t open the envelope and leaves it on the table for someone else to find. For some reason, that didn’t sit well with me, so I had him open it. I’m not sure why. Maybe somehow sharing Ruth Adler’s heartache, even in the most obscure way, is better than refusing to know something besides one’s self-interest. You can only position yourself outside of that kind of grief for so long. Something like that.
Most of the story is dialogue, which I love to write, because it is such a flexible way of developing character and atmosphere.
This was the second story in a collection of stories that I wrote about people whom I met or imagined I met along Route 66, that famous highway that runs from Chicago to Los Angeles.
This story evolved from an experience that I had written about in a notebook that I filled during a trip to New England, quite a ways from Route 66, I know, but the same "on the road" feeling runs underneath the storyline.
I really did go to a lobster dinner at a church on the Memorial Day weekend, and while there, I got caught up listening to a conversation between two women. One of the women had lost her son in Viet Nam, and she was telling the other woman how much her son loved seafood. It was a tender moment, and I probably shouldn’t have been eavesdropping, but a writer watches and listens to the stuff of life.
When looking back over my notes, I began thinking about how hard it must be to receive the news that someone whom you love so dearly is killed in a war. So for Memorial Day, I wanted to write something about how war isn’t just something that happens "over there" in a country like Viet Nam, but is also an up close and personal experience that leaves a scar on the whole of humanity and involves a guilt we all must share.
Ruth Adler became the messenger of that belief, and her envelope became her albatross, a symbol of the emptiness a mother must feel when her world is pulled from under her feet. That got all mixed up with the age-old cliché that "No news is good news," and the idea that, in certain situations, any news must be bad new, since receiving an envelope from the President with a letter inside commending the service and sacrifice of your son must be any mother’s ultimate nightmare. Oddly enough, there is not a hint of any of this in the story, and when I read the story over to make these notes, I wasn’t sure why. Perhaps, I was aiming for some more universal dilemma. Not sure.
In an earlier version of the story, the narrator doesn’t open the envelope and leaves it on the table for someone else to find. For some reason, that didn’t sit well with me, so I had him open it. I’m not sure why. Maybe somehow sharing Ruth Adler’s heartache, even in the most obscure way, is better than refusing to know something besides one’s self-interest. You can only position yourself outside of that kind of grief for so long. Something like that.
Most of the story is dialogue, which I love to write, because it is such a flexible way of developing character and atmosphere.
Ok I'll admit I thought the last name was Adler. My dyslexia kicked in. Cool story :)
ReplyDeleteYes, her name is Adler ... no dyslexia on your part ... my fault completely, since I misspelled her name in the story text. I have changed it ... ;o}
DeleteAhhh was related to Adlers at one time :) lol good story :)
Deletegreat imagination !
ReplyDeleteit keeps attention and I want to read more !!!!
Haha ... sorry that's all there is to that story ... another tomorrow ...
DeleteFirst of all, the music video is very hard to watch. While the song is a favorite, the film is a reminder that we had no business fighting a war in Vietnam. It lasted 19 years, 5 months, 4 weeks and 1 day ... ending on April 30, 1975.
ReplyDeleteYour story is haunting. It makes me want to run after Ruth and ask her about the empty envelope. She needs to explain it so the readers can have closure.
Sorry, no closure ... ;o}
DeleteI think like the back story and pictures as much as I do the stories!
ReplyDeleteI have been to many church suppers some of which were fish fry(s) and oyster roasts, but never a lobster dinner!
I really feel for the mother ( and all mothers...)
Haha ... yes, the back story is like a second story ... ;o}
DeleteAnother very intriguing story. I hope you will take this as a compliment as it is meant to be one.... these last two stories have a sort of "twilight zone" feel to them, at least for me.
ReplyDeleteLooking forward to the next one.
In a way I kind of like that we do not know anymore of the story than what you have written. It kind of leaves it to the imagination. I like using mine :-)
I'm glad you like them ... and you're right, very much like the "twilight zone" ...
Delete