CRESTVILLE

  “Nothing could have been better there” an old and wrinkly grey haired woman said to her great, great grand-daughter. “It was beautiful and warm and…” the woman blabbed on about how much she loved Crestville, a little city filled with people of all shapes and sizes. This was twenty years ago, when life was normal. People lived for how long they lived and died when they died. This was all before Zesta. “Let me tell you a story”, and she began:

            Zesta was a pleasant sweet woman with beautiful eyes and young pink cheeks. Everyone loved Zesta, she was warm and kind, but there was an air of mystery around her.  She lived alone and sometimes didn’t come out for days, except on Sundays. She never brought anyone inside her home and her curtains were always closed.  Nobody knew what she was doing except whenever she came out she was always covered with powders and stained with liquid.

On a Sunday and seemingly perfect morning, Zesta entered the Crestville Nursing home as she did each week to visit her friends and bring them homemade cookies. As she walked in, she saw that they were crying. “Excuse me,” she said puzzled. She moved her body between all of the wheel chairs until she got to Howie. She lifted his bony chin and wiped the tears off his cheeks with her sleeves. “Oh Zesta”, Howie said, as he threw himself into her arms. The old man started again, “It all happened yesterday. We had just finished our naps. I went to go wake up Morris, and, I couldn’t get him up.” Howie took a break to cry in the crook of her arms. He started to talk through his tears but all he managed to get out was “He’s gone….”
            Zesta caressed the old man and deep down inside was crying for his loss.

“I’ll be back tomorrow, she whispered.  Zesta was always doing good deeds but the one she had planned went a little too far and changed many things.  That evening she went into her little lair and didn’t come out for a month. Everyone was worried sick about her. Was she eating? Was she sleeping? What was she doing? Those were questions asked all throughout the city. One blustery day in the dead of winter, Zesta came out of her lair.  She walked outside with two large bags in her hands. People were staring at her and whispering about her. She went straight to the nursing home. “Zesta, where have you been? How come you haven’t visited us for so long?” Zesta was quiet for a few minutes and finally said, “I’m sorry but I brought you guys something to make up for it, something I’ve been working on.  She put the two bags on the table and pulled out a little jar filled with shiny transparent pills

            And so it was required for everyone in Crestville to take a lifepill each morning. You would still grow older but never die. At first people thought it was the best invention ever and thanked her. Zesta became famous for inventing such a miracle. But some would say infamous. For years everyone was content. Their loved ones lived to see their grandchildren get married and have babies. The old people in the nursing home were no longer anxious and worried about dying. They were glad to live longer and enjoy life. But twenty years later Crestville was crowded with old people. They were over 100 years old and hurting. Their bones were aching and they were terribly ill. Their lives were long but not free from pain and illness. Howie, who had diabetes and couldn’t walk, sat down on his bed next to his wife Gloria on afternoon. He grabbed the jar of life pills which he had been using for twenty years and popped one in his mouth and handed one to Gloria. As he swallowed the little pill he thought to himself. Then he spoke. “Gloria, do you want to die?” Gloria thought long and hard about the question and finally she responded “Yes, Howie, yes I do.” What was the point of living?  Yet she wasn’t really certain. Howie needed to die. He needed to rest his bones and say goodbye to Crestville. “Listen up everyone,” Howie said to all his weak and miserable friends and he asked them the question he asked his wife. Twenty-four stiff heads nodded and muttered. Five months later Howie wrote a letter to Zesta.

Dear Zesta, I’ve been taking your pills and I must say I have had a great life up until now, but we all think its best for us to die and make room for the young people to enjoy their life like we did. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you this before but we haven’t been taking your pills for several months. We’ve played our role in this city. We thank you for more life but we need to say goodbye. Zesta, please understand that we love you, and that if it wasn’t for you and your pills we would have died when we still were still able. Now we are hurting and aching. We’ll miss you.   Love,  Howie and friends

            Zesta received the letter and was disappointed yet felt and understood their pain. She opened the door to the nursing home holding the letter. “I came in here today not only to say goodbye to you all, but to tell you that I have made a huge and amazing change here in Crestville. All I am saying is to think over your decision.”

The old people had thought about what Zesta had said but realized that it was their decision and Zesta couldn’t change their minds. They were being sagacious and knew what they were doing.

Soon people started dying, everyday. They died with a smile on their face. They didn’t think of it as dying but thought of it as giving other people a turn to live and love in Crestville. Howie was not crying like he had for Morris. He was happy for his friends’ death and knew they were happy wherever they were.  One lonely day after his good friend    Seymour passed away, Howie cleaned up his room and went to sleep. Who knows what happened to him that morning. It’s a mystery.

She finished her story and put her arm around her great, great grand-daughter who was crying. “Sophie, they made their choice. I made mine. They were happy. Don’t you want that for them? “But Great Grandma Gloria, why didn’t you stop taking the pills with Great Grandpa Howie?” “…Because, my dear, then I would never have gotten to know you.”    Fall 2008

 

 A Dialogue Between Midsummer Nights Dream’s Hermia, Theseus and Puck; Catcher in The Rye’s Holden Caufield; and George from Of Mice and Men

 Theseus: Stand forth Holden. It is thou my daughter Hermia has chosen to wed.

Holden: Sorry I’m not in the mood. Enough said.

Theseus: Thou thou must never break a young woman’s heart

George: Don’t listen to him Holden, Hermia aint nothing but a tart

Puck: Lips be shut. Wed the woman or a spell will be casted on you

Holden: am I supposed to believe this. Is it true?

Holden: I’m out of here! Thou speaks words of bullshit.

Puck:  Take her young hand now or your life you must forfeit.

Theseus: One musn’t mock me or I will be mad. It isn’t pleasant hearing these words coming from a young lad.

George: Atta boy Holden you’ve been through enough.  Show this woman that you are bold and tough.

Theseus: oh Holden anything you want we’ll give. Anything so that you two together can live.

Hermia: (wiping the tears on her eyes) Nonsense, nonsense I’ve heard too much. We musnt bribe the boy, he really doesn’t have the perfect touch.    Spring 2009

 

    Anecdote written for sixth grade English class:

For One Night Only

It was one of those unforgettable nights. You know that feeling when you are going to be the star of the evening and you get that head spinning, heart swelling feeling?  Imagine having your own drawings up in a gallery for people to see. I know not all kids have a passion for art like I do, but imagine anything you’re proud of being displayed on gallery walls.

My parents own a contemporary art gallery. They are art dealers. I enjoy going to their openings, meeting the artists and eavesdropping on my parents’ conversations. I also find all the beautiful artwork interesting. I often go to their gallery on a Saturday and hang out in their office.

            From the time when I was very small, until now, I couldn’t stop doodling and drawing. It’s like an addiction. You can’t control it! With any marker I could get in my hands, I would draw. I would draw even on places you wouldn’t imagine: on my sneakers, on faces in magazines, on napkins, on my homework, and even on my walls. (shhh don’t tell my parents).  My parents started to buy me sketch books and art supplies. 

When I was eight, I took an art class and was getting quite good. In 2003, my family and I talked about my having my own art exhibition.  So, in June, for one night only, I had an art exhibition in a gallery (professional artists’ shows last for a month). It was a great experience for me especially because my second grade year was sometimes difficult. For some, school was a piece of cake. They could eat it up so fast and understand everything, but for me well… it took me a while to push the cake down my throat. I struggled, but what I had that nobody else had was my drawing skills. I drew like no other second grader could.  This exhibit was a great opportunity to show what I could accomplish.  My parents put all my artwork on the walls. Some were framed, some just pinned up. There were several pieces all from different years and done in different materials. At 6:00 pm the guests started to arrive.

            Shyness always rushes through me when I am the center of attention. I was always that way. I was the only kid in my building who didn’t say hi back to the doorman, but that day I was a new turtle, growing out of its old shell and receiving a new one. I felt so proud because all my friends and family were congratulating me. My friends were  running around the gallery, eating the food that was provided. They were dragging me around and asking me questions like “When did you make it?” “How did you do it?” “Can you help me draw”. I felt like a real artist.

            My second grade teacher, JAS was there.  I really enjoyed that because even though she knew I was a good artist, she hadn’t seen all of my work. I was eager to show her some of my most thoughtful and detailed drawings and paintings, the ones I was most proud of, not just the drawings I had made during free choice using crappy Crayola Crayons.

From that day on in 2003 to now in 2008 I still draw.  Then I discovered I like to write. I started writing stories as often as I doodled. These experiences lead to a literary website that I have called www.charlottehatesmath.com. I might not be able to have a gallery show every year but I have a place where I can express myself.    Fall 2007