Jeanne Holtzman

Updates

My only child is 22 and moving across the country next month. I am cleaning out the toy closet.

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I love flying so much I just had to take a Klonopin to print out my boarding pass.

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The medical assistant calls my name and I make myself stand. I follow, trying not to lag behind or to rush forward. I don't know my results yet, but she does. She doesn't chew gum or make small talk. She gives nothing away. I hate her.

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Knitting lace on slippery double-pointed needles without a lifeline is foolhardy, and has cost me hours of anguish.  And yet I persist. Is this what risk taking has come to in my old age?

CP

Jeanne Holtzman is an old hippie who is letting her freak flag fly once more.

Jeanne Holtzman

The Tango Man

The wall between their bedrooms doesn't block out Frank's relentless snores. Nettie rolls on her side and then her back, throws the covers off and then pulls them back on. She squashes a pillow over her head. Finally she gives up, sits up, and reaches under the bed for her box. Pushing her dusty sex toys aside, she eases out the postcard. Stiff, yellow tape barely holds together the two ripped halves.

In the black and white photo, a young, sexy couple, dressed in black, dance the tango on a stone plaza. A black hat awaits donations. With fingers tentative as a caress, she turns the card over, and reads the once familiar handwriting, "We wouldn't have put out the hat."

She and Jake had danced for joy. The jitterbug, not the tango, the floor wooden, the shoes matching: wingtips, hers with heels. The postmark is 40 years old, but still Nettie can feel Jake holding her close, then flinging her away, twirling and spinning, arms entangled, back to back, side to side, until he pulled her in and caught her in a dip. Later, they would lie entwined and drift off in a cloud of James Moody and marijuana, as if they had invented romance.

Now passion is a phantom limb, non-existent except for the pain.

Something always broke the spell. Jake would fling her out and let her go. Or reel her in and let her drop. And then woo her again, kisses and tears. Repeat and repeat and repeat.

Nettie replaces the card, the box. Frank’s snores, incessant as the sea, lull her to sleep.

CP

Jeanne Holtzman is an aging hippie, writer and women’s health care practitioner. Her work has appeared in Night Train, The Los Angeles Review, Dogzplot, Hobart, Foundling Review, flashquake, and others.

Jeanne Holtzman

Nothing Bad Happened

The week started out pretty okay. A bunch of planes flew over, but they didn’t drop any bombs so they weren’t a surprise attack by the Russians. No one got stuck in the elevator. I didn't even have any elevator nightmares. All the lights were on in the good stairway, and my mom got up and dressed every morning, so I didn’t have to ask my best friend Diana to walk me all the way home and up seven floors. She just walked me halfway.

By Saturday morning, nothing bad had happened. At 10:30 Diana called and wanted to go bike-riding. I knew I couldn’t get my bike down the stairs. My mom was still asleep. My dad was gone.

I tried to be quiet in the kitchen. I cleaned up last night’s dishes. The beer bottles made a huge clatter when I threw them all down the incinerator in the hallway.

Diana called again and asked when I was coming. I thought about asking her to walk over and bring my bike down the elevator. I said I would be there soon.

I made my mom a cup of black coffee, and knocked on her door. Knocked harder. Opened it a crack.

The room was dark, but I could see the shape of a big man next to my mom. My dad was small.

I closed the door. I called Diana. I asked her if we could go roller-skating instead.

CP

Jeanne Holtzman is an aging hippie, writer and women’s health care practitioner, not necessarily in that order. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in various print and online journals including Night Train, Dogzplot, The Legendary, Swink, The Iconoclast, flashquake, Salome and Hobart.