Sunday, October 1, 2017

SMART COOKIES DON'T CRUMBLE

              She's very excited.  My ten yea-old granddaughter.  It's her first ever attempt at grabbing an office.  With her imposing poster(three feet long from chin to knees) that reads "I may be a Rookie but I'm one Smart Cookie".   She's in a field of fifth grade luminaries at a private school in Southeast Virginia.  They're 'running' on adrenaline, coined phrases, ambition, the competitive spirit and a blissfully blank platform.  But, they're awash with the good intentions of a frontiersman for theirs are footprints that will trod virgin paths of academia with hormone-infused, heartfelt slogans:"Council for council", Install Hall", and then there's our cookie.
       Is there precedent for this confidence?  (Or would that be putting the 'duh' in redundant?). The fruit of just her maternal family tree nourished legions of the needy, placed honorably among the more-than-capable, produced juice that was prized in the nursery and dried well into ensuing generations.  Its legacy was cherished and preserved, not in the awkward scrawl of the child but in the baroque style favored by legends.  One particular tree branch proved destined for immortality.  It crashed into self-sufficiency having acquired the wisdom and power to succeed at the foot of a global specialist.  I give you the Jackie-Fruit Cookie.  (Take it.)
       The Jackie-F was planted under a nom de plume.  (Patience, dear reader.  It's rough going to keep this 'mix' of metaphors straight.  But if we work together, we all learn.)  Christened, raised and educated as Bertha, she ultimately retained counsel reputed to be the best and charged it with her image-makeover.  The chocolate chip Bertha Cookie was deeply dunked, emerging a self-created 'Blue Chip' confection.  Forsaking her bridal New Jersey shores (the Palisades ne'er the wiser) the Jackie-F could be seen seated cozily behind the tinted glass partition of her Mysterious Blue limo - George at the wheel - nestled in the smooth, gray pile of satin velvet seatcovers, bound alternatively for Delmonico's, then Idlewild Airport, or the Office - of new female hirees, shared with the more stately, established 'lady', Liberty (Libby in the 'hood). By late, late evening, she was brownstoned in Brooklyn.
       It was a time for leveling the global playing field in business, in banking, in corporate-ladder land.  Jackie (in Prada) knew the mechanics, merchandising, 'money' of oil better than most. She had traveled extensively (and mostly in Greece, on yachts and in Prada) in her last position at Axon.  Nationally, she was feted at the Oil Industry's "Fleet Week'' in New York Harbor, as well as equally comfortable and poised at the Pentagon where defense contracts were served to minority bidders with regularity.  Jackie's four-inch Fendis clicked her to the winners' circle in DC, in glass-breaking steps at the finest Greek Galas, and, at last, to the pomp and ceremony of the launch of "L'Isle Petroleum", the first of its kind in the industry.  Twenty-Four/Seven was de rigueur for her.  "Top Gun" (Tom Cruise)' work sun to sun.  Jackie's work, never done.
       Only the Georges in her entourage knew of the many nights never going home, missing meals, and non scheduling of doctors' appointments and time with her family.  It was also given to George to fetch her Diet Cokes, her visiting family from airports, her realtor to present papers for signage on the newly-purchased townhouse in Georgetown.  George it was who also met her maiden aunts when they arrived to assume the care of her eight year-old daughter in Washington when she was summoned to "camp".
       You see, (don't you?). The Gulf War 'happened'.  Our jets needed fuel.  Jackie-F had several huge Department of Defense contracts.  They called for supply of "Jet-Six" for our fighter planes.  Prices, in deference to the war, were down across the board. Jackie-F noticed the government as to the price change.  At the dizzying three-month's end, she noticed no change in payment.  At war's end, the error had been compounded many times over.  She sought counsel.  They advised: Do nothing.
       She was stunned.  In disbelief she heard the words.  Comprehension would be a very late arrival.  Her stellar career!  Exhausted from her ascendance, she was thankfully numb when they told her how "Isle" would be divided, who'd been selected to assign foster care for her 'baby'.  There was legitimate help waiting in the wings to assume the care of her (illegitimate, it seemed) child while she was detained in the federal penitentiary. Was it fatigue?  "I can't feel my feet"      
      The picture painted by her attorneys guided her preparation.  There would be sports - tennis, surely and sailing, weather permitting.  Spas -'The Pamper Pad', she remembered them saying.  Dress would be very casual.  And she so missed her jeans, jellies and jet(bomber) jacket.  Best to wear her hair long for now.  She would leave her CDs with the aunts for little Josie. Skype? She presumed so.  But.  Her Erno Lazlo, just in case they don't carry. . .
       The big day did  not disappoint.  Six feet, one inch in height, Jackie-F's arrival would most likely be noticed.  So sad, parting with George.  (He'd become the Morgan Freeman of her conscience, explaining, embellishing, erecting "Enter, Jackie-F!", "Beat it, Bertha!".)  But. They insisted on a chopper.  It put her in mind of "Fleet Week".  She'd been lowered to the deck of a carrier!  Top Gun! Roger that.  Over and out.  Today, it would be to a dry, courtyard expanse, seated in something called a "double bucket swing".  Yes.  Don't drop your racquet.  Don't lose a jelly.  Be courteous to your 'bucket buddy'.  Enter and in. Roger this and that and happy and skipping. 
       Boy. Wow, that 'lady' must have had a really bad day.  Took all my stuff.  The others laughed.  No.  Please.  "I'd rather not bend. . ." Lines.  Lines.  This morning I believe they are serving. . .  "French toast, please. . No? No, No, No! Well, that's just too Goddamned bad! It's a law! You have to give me bread and water. A law!"
       She had always loved to clean.  Maggie - older sister - would cook and Bert would clean.  In Mars.  Thank God for dirt.  And for books.  She learned more about the law than any of her new friends.  She composed lovely, neat arguments and motions about the incompetence of lawyers at trial and in hearings.  And, in turn, she never had to worry about her safety - or comfort.  She began to pray more.  Remembering Latin verses or words straining to rhyme.  Never once did she doubt her intelligence.
       And there was so much to learn.  Just like a frontiersman, her jellies found new roads.  Every day a new challenge.  It reminded her of the way she felt in the sixties at Berkely.  Or in the Peace Corps.  Always giving, giving, giving.  Even back then. Thinking of her early days at Axon. . .  She hoped she could take Josie to the Greek Islands and that the numb feeling would go away in her feet.  And the dizzy spells.
       As with everything else, time would tell.  But Jackie-F knew - because she was a smart cookie - that things would end well.  She would be whole, intact, in control.  Because smart cookies don't crumble.  Wait.  Do I see crumbs? Do you?  (You look.  I'll be right here).  Holding things together. Not stirring.  Like a mouse on Christmas Eve.  In a smart, quiet house.  Sooner or
Later. . . . .
Lorane