Under Ware: Agent With The FBI

Shortly after 9/11, Under passed her special agent test. She'd been a computer analyst with the service since l995, her first job after graduation from the University of Southern California in Los Angeles. With a name like hers, she wanted to stay under the radar. The fact that she lived in Washington D.C. and traveled constantly was ideal. Pasadena, California, was no more than the place Under had been born. 

She was now known as U. Ware. Her twin, Arde, or Hard, as his UCLA frat brothers called him--had done the same thing in med school and now he was on staff at a prominent Midwestern medical school, Dr. A. Ware or AW.

"Say your name and be proud of it," their mother had said, when they begged to know why such names had been put on them. "Ware is an old British name, much like, Blood, my maiden name. Where do you think the term, Bluebood, comes from? I don't hear your cousins complaining about their name."

"Yeah, their first names are Jennifer, David, and Ashley," Arde said, a hardness  underscored his voice even when they were youngsters.  

The three cousins were slackers who hit the party scene first in Bali, then in Rio and finally in Hollywood. They partied away their incomes at the Troubadour, the Viper Room where they met Johnny Depp, and various other clubs that came and went. Under had ushered in the 21st century by going to bed at 8 PM and waking up at 7 AM, same as always. Arde spent that year in Japan, doing God knows what. He said he was studying Eastern medicine.

Last summer on July 4th, their mother hosted a big bash and collapsed at the buffet table, dying from a heart attack before the medics arrived. U and HW had to go home. 

"I've never seem her so beautiful," Under said, looking at her mother before the morticians prepared her for the funeral. "Peaceful and serene. Luminescent."

"The old gal's blood wasn't as terrific as she thought it was," Arde said. He took charge, made all the arrangements. Arde had fought to have an autopsy performed, Under refused. Her mother's beauty was all she had left. She sat with the open casket before the funeral.

"I'm so sorry for my disgraceful behavior," she said. A single tear slid from the edge of her eye. "I don't know why you did this to me, but I love you." She smoothed her black dress and sat quietly. "I'll start wearing mascara to make up for things," she said, looking straight forward.

"Let's get this over with," Arde said, then snapped the silk-lined casket closed. "Everybody's waiting. Did you contact our father?" 

She shook her head. "I ran a check on him. A year ago he was living in Romania with a woman named Irma Vagine. They have children and run a legitimate orphanage. Leave him alone, he has a life." 

"Don't you want to know your father?" Arde snarled at her in the same tone he used with their mother.  "We need to know what diseases he has, what we've inherited. He's the Ware. He abandoned us."

Under wept, bowing her head, covering her eyes with her hands. "I know who I am, Hard Ware. I'm Under Ware." She looked up at him, emotions in check, radiant in her truth. "I spend my days ferreting out people who change their names to serve some purpose, avoid some truth, or getting away from themselves and their families." She snorted and cleared her throat. "I'm a Blood-Ware, bright red and running strong."

"And you're so tough. FBI. You'll always be under some body's thumb," he said. "Let's get this over with."

They sat together. They gave the eulogy together. Under wept. Arde didn't. When the service was over, as they were leaving, a man tapped Under on the shoulder. When she turned around, she saw her own  pale face but with flashing dark eyes rimmed with double thick lashes. 

"I vant you to meet my vife, and zon's lit-tle shildren," he said. "They've ast to meet you for a longa time. Ve've saved money for 10 years. Come from Poland. Bad timing. " 

"Arde, I think this is our father," she said. "Look."  

"Ah, your uncle. Your fader feld offa curb in and vas hit by a truck," he said. "I'm Zilva Vare."

Arde just starred. Under gave Zilva a hug. The children giggled and his wife smiled.

More little Wares, Under thought smiling at them. I vonder vhat their names are?

And that's true. To some extent.

ESTABLISH: Parking Lot Outside The Salon, Sherman Oaks, CA

Tina left the salon in thin orange rubber flip flops. She'd forgotten to bring her own and wore really cool red peep-toe shoes which she had to carry back to the car. Her exquisite French-tip nails matched hand to foot. She was ready for her audition later in the afternoon. She knew it was a great role, made for her: A smart, sophisticated women with a mission before she succumbed to leukemia. 

The pebbles in the parking lot punctured, oh really, they wobbled beneath her feet as she tiptoed to her Acura not 25 feet away in the open air parking lot. It was pleasantly warm, the lot hardly half full, and a well-validated parking ticket assured her of free passage out of there. Still, why couldn't they clear the stupid pebbles? 

Her foot massage wouldn't last to the car at this rate. How could she maneuver in heels later in the afternoon at this rate? A big man leaned against the trunk of a big black Lincoln Navigator (gas guzzler) too closely parked beside her car door. He was sharing his cell phone conversation with the world.

"I paid. You know I paid. I'll pay the rest. Just give me a couple days.  I know I said..." he shouted, pacing left to right his free hand never moving an inch out of his black suit coat pocket. "You owe me," he shouted. Obviously, the person at the other end had some equally potent reply. He waved the phone around in a circle then back close to his ear and unexpectedly said in a most even tone, "I won't do it," and then  smacked the Blackberry again his sizable chest, grimacing with fury. 

She stopped, ready to click the car door open, but didn't. Pondering his 300 pound dark, swarthy frame, Tina easily imaged him as Mafia. Was there such a thing as Persian Mafia? Probably not, but maybe he was black Russian Mafia, and had died his hair and spent a lot of time in a tanning booth.  

She peered at him with her peripheral vision, blinking quickly as her placed a smile across her face allowing her mouth to fall sensuously open.  She licked her plumped up lips. Her job was to get him in the mood to care about her, forget that phone call. Tina shifted from foot to foot, her flowing garb suggested either a free spirit or more likely a wood nymph.

Tina rubbed her palms together warming them, as she always did before a performance. "Excuse me, please," she said as she titled her head slightly to one shoulder and looked  directly into his dark dark eyes. The click of her car remote gave away her intent. "I'm late for an audition, excuse me."  Tina forgot about the pebbles now,  her back straight and chin lifted, she stepped lightly past him, not touching as she opened the car door. "Thank you," she offered.

"Sure, sure," he said. "I wish my wife was so agreeable. She always wants more, more." 

And he thinks I care, passed through Tina's mind. "I'm sure she's a beautiful woman," came out of Tina's mouth. "Wants to make a beautiful life for you. That costs money." Tina's heart beat so fast, she felt a panic attack coming on. "Good luck," she said. Why did I have to say that, pounded between her ears. 

Backing the car out took a 5 point turn in her current state of flux. She peeked at him through the rear-view mirror and waved. He leaned wearily against that big black car, unmoved, head hanging down. Tina put her well-manicured foot on the accelerator, the back tires threw gravel as she pulled forward, toward the window of the parking attendant booth. 

"I'm ready for the audition  after that, "she said out loud. Shifting in her seat, she sat shoulders back to stop shaking. "People think show business is all fun and games. It's work and preparation. I could have said it better: I'm sure she's a beautiful woman, or, I'm sure she's a beautiful woman." Tina rolled her eyes, handed the attendant the ticket and pulled out onto the street.

And that's true. To some extent.

Rita and Sarah : Song Writers In The Making

[It's a known fact that everybody in Los Angeles thinks they are an actor, singer, dancer, writer---or all of them and more. There are those parents who flock here with their kids apparently hoping the aura of sensational success floats in all the sunshine, or the negative ions off the ocean {and the surf?}  will stimulate brains cells to expose assets. When it doesn't work out they go back to Ohio, Iowa, Utah, where they had come from. {Those magazines at the grocery check-out miss the point}. It's really all about the process, and, maybe a bead's worth of the other.]

Red-haired and skinny Rita, at the age of nine knows that she is going to grow up and be a singer. She and her best friend, curly-locked Sarah with the rosy cheeks and straight white teeth, make up songs while they groom their ponies about half a mile upslope from the beach in Malibu. So far, their best one is called "Dripping Wet Misty." Misty being Rita's pony. Sarah's pony being Silver. They sing in rounds or verses, Rita the soprano, Sarah the alto, usually in harmony. 

Rita's dad accompanies them on guitar whenever he's available and in the mood. Rita's mom watchs when she's not building her horse stabling business. She smiles at them offering tips while she eats arugula which she picks from their garden. [mom also drinks green tea, and serves only organic fruits, vegetables and juices. No white sugar or flour, or red meat, ever. Maybe success comes in liquids?]

"Let's hide and see how long it takes for someone to come looking for us," Rita said to Sarah late one summer afternoon. "We can tell them we got lost and so scared we didn't know what to do. When they find us, act real hot and tired. My mom will probably cry."

They giggled for the first hour leaning against tall stacks of hay bales half an acre from the barn. "Waiting For Discovery," took on a three octave, four-beat, imaginary dramatic Debbie Harry-ish back-up track. "Best Ever," Rita whispered in a quivering atonal ending, head snapping back, eyes snapping shut, arms snapping to a sharp line at her side. 

Sarah did the splits, in her jodpers and riding boots, dust swirled up her nose. "Vogue," she murmured, coughing slightly and touching her head to her thigh and holding the pose. It took a few moments, but then she sighed out the first complaint. "I'm hot and tired."

"I'm not." Beads of sweat said otherwise on Rita's forehead. Her back schlumped as she slid to the grown. More dust swirled. "Why haven't they come looking for us?" she asked.   

Neither of them noticed that their ponies had casually wandered and nibbled their way back to the arena.

"I'm ready to go home. I'm itchy," Sarah said, then sniffled. She slid her legs forward and sat upright. She sniffled again and rubbed her sleeve across her face.

"You sound like a puppy dog," Rita said. "Don't screw up your face like that. It will stay that way. You'll get wrinkles too."

Sarah peaked around the bales of hay, then stood up and waved her arms. Rita whistled.

The ponies trotted straight back to them. Each girl dusted herself off, collected reins and ambled back toward the barn.

Rita's mother was leaning against one of the pepper trees that surrounded the turn-out ring. "Did you ride out to the waterfall, was there much water today?" she asked. "We all decided not come after you, it's been such a lovely day. But. You shouldn't stay out so late. Understand. Any new songs?" she asked.

"Waiting To Be Discovered," Rita replied as she slouched off, reins in hand, the pony tagging along behind her.

"I added choreography, for the first time," Sarah added, sniffling again and frowning. "Hey, Rita, I thought we called it, "Waiting For Discovery?" 

"You don't need to wait for discovery. You live with it everyday," Rita's mother said as she picked hay from Sarah's hair. "Clean up the ponies and I'll hose you both down. You girls look hot and tired. Will you sing it for us, later?"  

And that's true. To some extent.

Pretty Polly

Hello. My name is Polly and I am very pretty.

Just say the word, pretty, and you'll know what I look like. I am arm candy and I like it that way. I'm naturally friendly and I've never met anyone who didn't like me. Well, they spent some time with me, anyway, so I assume they liked me. I'm definitely a BFF type.

I know what you're thinking. How can anyone take someone named, Polly, seriously? Well, for one thing, Nirvana has a song, "Polly" and so did the Kinks. Polly Bergen was a successful actress and singer a long time ago. And sadly, Polly Klaas was murdered.

Ooooohhh,  don't forget Aunt Polly in "Tom Sawyer."  And, the late great C.S. Lewis' main character in "The Magician's Nephew" is named, guess what, Polly Plummer. That's Plummer, not plumber.

Okay. I've heard it a thousand times. Polly wanna a cracker. Polly Wolly Doodle. Pollyanna. Polly Put the Teakettle On. It gets really tiresome. FYI: Polly is a Norwegian peanut snack brand. Bet you didn't know that.

We looked up the name, Polly, in Wikipedia today. It says that Polly is a nickname, for girls. I don't claim to be a rocket scientist, but did anyone really think it was a name for boys?

The name supposedly was derived from the name Molly. In 18th and 19th century New England it was a common nickname for Mary. I mean, if Molly is going to become Polly, then shouldn't Mary become Pary, not Polly? And to make matters worse, the two genetically engineered sheep were named Polly and Molly.

What is a poor bird like me to do? I'm so lucky to have gorgeous feathers, a sweet disposition, a delicate voice, and well-manicured claws.  I got Latin Love Affair Pink this week, just love it.

The Chronicles of Nadine

Nadine and a surfer buddy came to America 20 plus years ago from South Africa. They came to Los Angeles to be in show business, and to make a better life. Nadine's mom and dad waved good-bye then cried in their hankies for a very long time. 

Nadine and her friend got off the plane with a tourist's visa in one hand and a small suitcase in the other hand. They passed through customs and headed straight to Hollywood where they walked around enthralled and giddy, hoping to see a movie star, but didn't. Somebody generously offered their garage as a crash pad that first night. The first few months lost themselves to rose-colored glasses and youthful imaginings. When their Visas expired a Greek mother of two knowingly offered them her guest house, which was where her husband normally stayed but he was out of town for an indeterminate time.

Blond, blue-eyed, sweet and fun, Nadine found a job right away with a caterer. She worked long hours, was paid in cash, and glad of it. Her friend played guitar, got into the Hollywood scene of his dreams, and married an American woman for $2,000.00, payable over a five year period. He moved into his wife's home.

"I'm going to a place called North Carolina," he told Nadine. "I'm going to work on a movie about a horse and a girl. I'll be a camera operator." He looked back over his shoulder at her as he closed the door behind him. "Take care of yourself," he called back.

Nadine sat under the date tree in the backyard with the Greek woman who was not so much a friend as a comrade. "You have to get married," the Greek woman said. "I'll find someone, someone nice and inexpensive."

"$5,000.00, half down and half within two years. I need the money," the struggling actor said. "I've done this before. I know what to do. Give me your information and let's get started."

"Oh, sure," Nadine chirped, happy as she'd ever been. "It'll be fine." 

They were, happily, married for almost two years. Nadine now had a green card, a catering job in show business, filed her income taxes on time, and lived in the pool room at a friend's house where she enjoyed their children and their dog and their company. Her friend from home had worked his way up to film director, had several boyfriends, stayed married until his wife fell in love with someone she wanted to marry. They divorced. He kept her spacious apartment in West Hollywood which he soon sold for a house in the same area. 

Nadine called her parents everyday.  She visited them at least twice a year, spending lavishly when she was there.

"I have such a wonderful life in America," she told her mother. "I couldn't ask for more, really I couldn't." She gave her mother cashmere socks she'd purchased at a thrift store in Glendale, but they were just like new. "I pay taxes, pay for health insurance, and and still have enough money to save in a 401K for my retirement."

"Daddy, you made all this possible. If you hadn't put me in school in England, I'd never have known this kind of opportunity existed." Nadine hugged him close. "America is everything I'd imagined, and more," she said, as genuinely as her gift to him of a linen handkerchief embroidered with delicate white baskets of flowers and ribbons on two corners.

She worked hard for two decades, changing day jobs only twice, but working weekends with the catering service until they went out of business. She worked every holiday, for golden time, and saved her money faithfully for the next trip to South Africa. She never complained. She never got sick, but she did get very tired. 

"I'm a citizen, an American citizen," she shouted and actually jumped up and down after the Mayor of Los Angeles made his pronouncement. "Want to hear me recite the names of all the American presidents and vice presidents?" she'd ask any co-worker or client within earshot. She ate ice cream every night before bed that year to celebrate. She gained 20 pounds, one for each year she'd been here. 

Two years ago her mother passed away. "I have to go back South Africa," she told her boss. "I'll be there probably a month. It's up to me to take care of her things. My dad can't do it, he's not well." Straight-forwardly forthright, she spelled it out. "I know I only have two weeks vacation. I know I'll have to take the rest of the time without pay. I'll be back as soon as I can."

This year, thanks to a small inheritance from her mother and the failing housing market, Nadine purchased a one bedroom condominium on the third floor in a Los Angeles community she loves.  She got down on her hands and knees and scrubbed the toilet so that her friends, some not yet citizens, who had come to help her clean it up, would be comfortable in the bathroom. 

She quietly recited the last part of her Baptismal prayer. Will you strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being? Yes, I will, with God's help.  

We've got a problem, Houston

This is an actual email that came in Friday from someone who evacuated, then came home. I wouldn't want to be there, but I wonder if eating smaller portions, even if it isn't fresh food, might do some people good...What do you think?

Hi Y'all
The power just came on.......whoopee!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I finally got in touch with *****. There's 10 feet of water and mud in the two condos. ***** is very sick, so things are really bad for them. Please keep them in your prayers. I am fine now that we have electricity again. The police rolled down the street a while ago, and told us that the ice and water was available at the city hall. FEMA wouldn't distribute it, just brought it to the main distribution center at Reliant Center and dumped it. They left it up to the local authorities to arrange for the trucks and personnel to take it to the "PODS" to be set up in the neighborhoods. The "POD" out here was backed up for 10 miles with people trying to get into it and had the road blocked with one trooper to handle the traffic in and out. Never mind that the only road to it was a two lane affair. People were spending 10.00 in gasoline to get there for the free ice and bottled water. The MRE meals are a joke. 5 cans of spaghettios, beef stew, etc, crackers, powdered milk, and juice. No one could survive on those because those sizes are for kids, and really not healthy. I miss my salads so much. Anyway, maybe in a couple of days we can get into Wal-mart and get some fresh food. There was hardly any bread, batteries were sold out, but they did set up some desks with power strips on them so you could charge your phones up. At least someone was thinking about us. Thanks for all of your concern and good word we really appreciate it. I hope we don't have to do this again. It was like listening to a tornado for 12 hours and when I heard the fence crack (big wooden planks) I thought we were going to end like Dorothy in "Oz". I wouldn't wish this on anyone. One couple I heard about went to stay with their children and a big tree in their yard crashed in the house right on top of their bed. They were very lucky. Take care.

Margaret: A Very Uptown Gal

Margaret has had a difficult week. Not because she works in the financial industry, not because she's losing clients left and right, not even because she's been too busy to shift her summer wardrobe to the back of the closet. 

She's been in a Midwestern city for a wedding. First the humidity bombed her blond stylish long-bob, and, on the same day ruined her white silk Dior blouse.

"Ring around the collar," she emailed her secretary. "For what I paid, it should have been good for at least 25 wearings. It's white! Oh, what am I going to do? There's not a single decent store here that could replace it." 

Her secretary did not email back. However, she did forward it to her co-workers who all got a good laugh.

"I guess Margaret's social skills will just have to pull her through," one woman  replied, laughter crackling between every word as she typed. "I wonder what she will do? Wouldn't it be fun to be a fly on her wall."

The day of the wedding Margaret stood in front of the full length mirror in her hotel suite, which by the way, had a brown floral polyester comforter, and matching drapes. "I'm 50 years old," she said to her husband as if he didn't know she was actually 60 years old, "and my chin has such bad acne that my make-up won't cover it. I've never had acne in my life!" Another untruth.

Her husband sat on the bed and tied the laces on his black Johnson and Murphy wing-tip dress shoes. "It's not so bad here. Be nice if we had a little rain storm."

"Don't say that, " she snapped. "I didn't bring a rain coat although that would cover up a multitude of sins." Bedraggled, that's how I look, she thought to herself. Be-draaagggle-d.

"I'm ready," he said, standing up and adjusting his navy suit jacket without even looking in the mirror. "We need to leave soon. I'll wait in the lobby downstairs." 

As the door slammed, Margaret jumped. Hotel doors always have to slam, she thought. Why?

Did Princess Diana's hotel doors slam? I'll bet they didn't.

Margaret flat-ironed her hair, section by section , just as she had done for the last howeverlong. Oh how I envy those women with cuts that fall into place no matter the weather. She imagined a thin statuesque blond striding through a crowd, head held high on a swan neck, every hair in place, grey eyeliner emphasizing individual false eyelashes attached more closely at the outer corner than the inner corner of the eye. Iridescent pale cheeks, raspberry lips, and a creamy smooth chin with just a hint of pink along the jawline.

Oh, a lace collar with the burnished long necklace, that chunky one, weighted with the pale jade whatever it is, doesn't matter. I'll look fabulous.  

Margaret grabbed her Blackberry, punched in her husband's number and waited while it rang and rang. God Lord, what is that man doing, doesn't he ever hear this thing? Ah..

"What?" he said, slightly slurring the word. "What?"

"Get my jewelry. Go to the concierge and have them bring it up to me, right now," she said.

"They don't have a concierge here," he said. "And your jewelry is in the suitcase. Just do something, we need to get there."

"Oh, of course, " she membled with her last ounce of breath.

She put the phone in her bag, the small cylindrical cream colored beaded one she'd already prepared to take. Margaret turned slowly, in slow motion actually, toward the suitcase open at the foot of the bed. She riffled through for pantyhose without even looking at the packaging or color. 

Sitting squarely on the side of the bed, she rolled one stocking leg and slide her foot in first up to the ankle, then she rolled the other stocking leg and slid her other foot in up to the ankle.  As she stood up to wiggle them upwards into place, she looked down at her feet. 

Margaret made an executive decision: It doesn't really matter what I wear here. No one will notice.