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ROSE OF ATLANTA

by BUD TANT

February 14, 1990
Valentine's Day


Angelita,

It was 1973 and you were but a twinkle in my eye.

August in Atlanta is hot and sticky, even at 8:00 a.m. I crept out of the steamy confines of Phyllis' apartment on Drexel Avenue. Linda, Bobby and Phyllis were still sleeping. I guess life woke me up. Life wakes me up nearly every morning of my life. This day was no exception...

BLAM! The old screen door slammed shut as I breezed through it, on my way into The World. Looking for Life...

I skipped down the wooden steps and strolled across the barren dirt and weed yard until I reached the sidewalk. I remember the buzzing of the millions of crickets that morning. I remember dew on the grass and the heat waves dancing up from Drexel Avenue that morning. I'm sure I had a grin on my face and bounce in my step.

As I turned left I saw an old lady sitting on the wide front porch of the old Victorian house next door to Phyllis' side apartment. I smiled at her and waved a "good morning".

"Young man," she called. "Could you come here a second, please?" One of the wrinkles in the middle of her face had turned into an ancient smile. I lifted the latch on her cyclone fence gate and bounded up to the porch.

"I was wondering if you could help me move some furniture?" she asked uncertainly. "I'd be happy to pay you," she finished.

"Sure, ma'm, but you don't have to give me any money," I told her.

She was a smiling prune of a woman. Her eyes still held the Light of Life and she moved pretty good for a person of such undetermined, but advanced, age. I followed her as she opened the door leading into her house.

I had to adjust my eyes to see once we'd reached the dim, dusky interior of her house. So I stood for a moment, focusing. As my eyes began to see, my breath caught in my throat. The house was a veritable shrine. A shrine honoring Yesterday. The furniture was 1920's and heavy enough to make it through the Great Depression. Solid. Nothing flighty about the magnificent couch with the lion's claw feet and the sturdy armrests. Three equally majestic wingback chairs graced the corners of the room. Two Tiffany free-standing lamps guarded the furniture like royal sentinentals, each with a gaudy round shade adorned with tassels. On one dark, heavy end table beside the couch, another Tiffany lamp sat regally with a stained-glass shade casting a pale yellow light around the room.

It was still, Angelita. Even the dust refused to disturb the tranquillity of that room. Threadbare carpets covered the floor, and if you looked too closely you could see that these, too, could well have once graced the floor of any mansion in the world. And let's not forget the focal point of the room. The Reason. It was a fine dark mantel and it was carved into scroll designs on the corners.

Right in the middle of the mantel was a large oval picture frame containing a half-dozen photos. Old photos. Yellowed photos. I stood studying the photos. In the very center was the photo of a man. He stood on some anonymous dock with a filterless cigarette dangling defiantly from his lips; lips that were curled into the hint of a devilish smile. He had on a strapped t-shirt and his shoulders were the rounded mounds of power that comes from using them to make a living. Long bands of striated muscles ran the length of his arms and tattoos decorated his biceps. His hair was black and it was curly. He had his head cocked as if he were merely tolerating the photographer. His eyes were as dark as coal and they were laughing. He had crinkles around the corners of his eyes. Squinting at the sun, you say? I say the crinkles were caused by years of being amused by the world. He wore khaki pants and flat workmen's oxfords. A man afraid of nothing. A man in love with everything. It was right there in the yellowed photograph for anyone to see.

The smaller photos surrounding the large one were of the man and a young woman with hope in her eyes. Her face was pretty and her hair was done in the pincurls so popular in the old movies; straight out of "On the Waterfront". Straight out of Casablanca. Yesterday....

A voiced pierced the still air. "That's my Frank," the old woman said quietly. "Wasn't he something..." It wasn't a question, it was the verbal recording of fact. It didn't require an answer and it seemed somehow sacrilegious to disturb the mood, so I just nodded reverently.

"Oh, he was a man, that Frank! He's been gone since 1959. It doesn't seem possible that it's been nearly fifteen years," she said dreamily.

I stood there awkwardly, not knowing what to do or say. She sensed my discomfort and chirped, "Have a seat, young man; for goodness sake, have a seat."

I selected one of the satin wingback chairs and carefully sat down. My body was still now, but my eyes refused to sit still. The room was a museum of the past. Each chair had doilies covering the headrests and doilies rested on each arm. The couch had a centerpiece doily which must have been 36" wide. I was awed by my visit to Yesterday.

"I don't ordinarily drink, but then again I don't usually have such fine young visitors," she was bubbling, now. Her words poured from her mouth like an alpine stream running down the side of a mountain. "Would you like a glass of sherry? Sherry is all I have, I'm afraid."

"Yeah, sure. Maybe one glass," I said, not wanting to offend this nice old woman.

My eyes surveyed the heavy velvet drapes that guarded the room from the eyes of the sun. The drapes were a deep scarlet and were tied in the middle by silk tassels. The middle of each window had delicate lace curtains hiding the ecru window shades which were pulled down past the bottom of the sills.

On the wall above the couch was a set of plates. One had "Atlantic City" emblazoned on it in gold script. One said "San Francisco," and another commemorated the "Chicago World Fair."

How could I ever forget that room? I know a monument when I see it and to have forgotten it that room would have been as much a sin as forgetting the giant Sequoias once a man has seen them. I'll not forget.

My trance was broken by the old woman bursting through the doorway holding two long-stemmed glasses filled with a pale yellow liquid. "Here we go....Oh, I don't even know you name," she apologized.

"Bud. My name's Bud," I said, taking the glass from her gnarled hand.

"My name is Rose, and I'm very pleased to meet you," she smiled.

You could tell she was enjoying herself. The years were beginning to fall away from her like a stripper shedding layers of clothing. It was a sight to behold. She sipped delicately from the glass of awful sherry. Her eyes began to brighten and she cast their beacons of light toward me.

"Bud," she tried the new name out. "You remind me of my Frank," she said quietly. "Not just that you look so much like him," she explained. "It's also the way you move, or maybe it's your eyes."

"Thank you," I said. "He looks like he was a helluva' man."

"Oh, he was a helluva' man, alright!" Her voice was coming to life. "He could drink any man under the table, dance all night and whip anybody fool enough to make a pass at me, then get up the next morning and load a freighter. Yes, Frank was a man..." Her voice trailed off and I could see that she had left me for Frank.

She told me about Frank's love for life and his strength. She spoke with the reverence of a True Believer discussing the Messiah. We drank cheap cooking sherry and I listened as she wove threads from the past into a cloak that covered that moment in time.

An hour passed and I remember being aware of the coolness of the room. It was as cool and dark as a cellar.

"I haven't always been old," she announced. She got up from her seat on the couch and floated (yeah, she did) across the room until she was standing before the monument called a mantel. Her twisted finger pointed to the lady curled inside Frank's muscular arms. "See? That's me," she stated proudly.

I got up from my chair and walked over to where she was standing. I put my arm around her sweatered shoulders and studied the photos she was pointing at. She was a looker, there could be no doubt. In one photo she was wearing a short-sleeved blouse and where the sleeves met flesh I could see the bottom of -- my God -- a tattoo!

I said, "Hey, you have a tattoo!"

She grinned self-consciously. "Tattoos," she corrected me.

She began unbuttoning the top sweater she was wearing. She struggled out of that one and proceeded to remove the next sweater. When that one was off all she had remaining was a flowered house dress of some cheap cotton. She pulled up one sleeve. A faded tattoo stared back at my amused eyes. It was a bouquet of roses with a ribbon bearing the name "Frank" running across it. Then she pulled up the other sleeve and showed me the remains of another tattoo. This one was a Roaring Twenties kewpie doll. The doll was dancing and beneath her dancing feet was the name "Rose." I was openly smiling, now.

"That's neat!" I exclaimed. "Were you a dancer?"

"Yes, I was a dancer, but not the kind of dancer they have these days," she said sternly. "Frank would never have allowed me to flop around on a stage like these girls do today. I worked in dance halls. It was a nickel a dance and I don't mind saying I did pretty good, too."

"I'll bet you did, Rose. I'll just bet you did," I said. I could feel he giddiness of the cheap sherry mixing with the absurdity of the moment. The combination of the two made my eyes laugh.

"You're out of sherry," she said, taking my glass and walking briskly back toward the kitchen. I followed like a puppy looking for mama's milk.

Her kitchen was Formica and aluminum. It was as out of place in that house as an electric toothbrush. We sat at the table and talked as we polished off the bottle of sherry.

When it was gone I said, "Well, I guess we should move that furniture now."

"Do you really think it needs moving?" she asked.

I looked into her slate gray eyes. "No, I can't imagine moving one piece of it," I said.

Well, maybe someday I'll figure out just what I want to do with it. Will you help me then?" she asked hopefully.

"Yeah, Rose. Any time. You just get it all figured out and I'll come back and move it for you," I said.

She walked me to the door. When I was standing beside the antique coat rack I turned and faced the little woman. Then I placed my hands on each side of her wizened face and kissed her gently on the cheek. I winked at her, "Tanks for the drink," I said as I breezed out the door.

I was going down the steps when she found her voice. "Come back now, ok?" she cried after me.

"I sure will," I promised as I crossed the yard and negotiated the metal gate.

I walked back next door. Linda, Phyllis and Bobby were up. Linda yawned and stretched her arms out to meet me. "Where were you, honey?"

"Oh, I was just helping the old lady next door move some furniture," I said. "Hey, did you know that old lady has tattoos..." I said as I began to relay to them my mystical meeting with Rose.

So, you see, Angelita, it's Valentine's Day and my thoughts just had to drift back to a love story. I left Atlanta soon after that day and I never walked back into the Time Machine of her sitting room. But now, every time I see an old woman bundled in multiple sweaters I ask myself, "Hmm...wonder if that old woman has any tattoos..."

I just want to tell you that every story has a moral. Open your eyes and you just might see other parts of life worth seeing. Don't be afraid to say "hello" to people whose paths you cross; old people, crippled people, homeless people. They're all people, too. Chew on that.

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