The regular ladies attending Nora’s writing workshop immediately suspected no-good from Sandy McCaffery. Mid-fifties, she wore a bright pink Mexican style top with jeans and clogs and a deep red lipstick. Her grey/blonde hair hung in a braid down her back. Nora thought she looked quite cool, comfortable in her own skin.
“Where’d you get that top?” said Rosalind, eyeing her closely.
“I just picked it up somewhere-a thrift store,” responded Sandy.
“Aren’t you worried about bugs?”
“Bugs?”
“Bed bugs. In the thrift clothes?”
Nora jumped in. “Tonight let’s just do a completely free write. No prompts, just write whatever you want.”
Sandy straightened up in her chair and poised a pen above her notebook.
“Sandy needs a debrief on my Civil War saga,” Cheryl added.
Nora set the timer, smoothed her skirt under her notebook, took a breath.
A half hour later, Sandy shared first.
“Thanks for that,” Nora said. She surveyed the group, all in different states of brow-wiping and lip-biting, recovering from hearing the in-depth description of Sandy’s husband -clearly a fictional version of him – Jack’s – sexual prowess. She’d described him emerging from a thicket, sporting his ample size in the private parts department. Sandy’s also thinly veiled fictional self, Sally, gave as good as she got. After reading Sandy sat cool and unruffled, took a sip of coffee and nibbled a shortbread square. Nora searched through her mental index for words that would ignite positive feedback.
“Okay, everyone, what stayed with you? What will you remember?” Her lips trembled as she asked the second question.
“Well HE certainly sounds better than my Rudy,” Lois cleared her throat and began a flower doodle.
“Is this what you call soft porn?” Cheryl asked, eyebrows furrowed, mouth in a slight frown.
Rosalind stared off into space, a vague smile hanging on her lips.
The next week, Sandy arrived in a cloud of floral perfume, wearing a long purple dress with the same clogs from the week before. Nora offered music as the prompt, playing a La Boheme aria. During the twenty minutes of writing, Nora considered writing about sex, but just like everything else in her life, felt too stifled to do so. It had been so long since she’d even kissed a man. She decided to write something boring about a woman who sings arias while folding her laundry.
Sandy, obviously, didn’t struggle with writing sex, once again describing Jack and Sally- shipwrecked on a desert island – his seething, reckless command of her, the waves surging onto the beach, the ocean wind blowing Sally’s hair from her upturned face. It all ramped up in intensity, just like the aria.
Instead of her usual rehashing of one of her ex-husband stories, Lois wrote about longing for sex now that she was single. She conjured a character gazing out a window, imagining herself with different passing men or women. Lois’ black mascara ran a little as she read. Rosalind made a paper airplane out of a page from her notebook. Cheryl wrote about the Civil War. When Nora arrived to her apartment that night she re-subscribed to a dating app.
The next week, Sandy arrived with a lemon bundt cake on a green Depression era glass plate. In a picnic basket, she packed cloth napkins, plates and forks from home, and a glass mason jar with fresh daisies. Nora shoved the package of grocery store cookies into her backpack and reached for a plate.
“This is great,” Rosalind said, eyes half closed, mouth full. “Boy, I remember when Nora used to make us stuff like-” she said.
Sandy interrupted to ask if her husband, John, could join the group.
“Uh, yeah!” Rosalind shouted, a little too quickly.
“I hope he knows it’s kind of always been a women’s group, although not by choice!” Nora said.
“Oh, he’ll love it.”
“I bet,” Cheryl said.
John matched his wife in colorful clothing style, sporting a dress shirt and jacket, a purple handkerchief poking from his pocket.
Cheryl grimaced as she struggled to open the container of brown sugar Nora was using as a scented writing prompt.
“What is-MMM!” Lois said before passing it on.
Rosalind’s eyes darted to Sandy and John.
Sandy inhaled, glimmering like a ball of dough rolled in sugar.
John shared first, a piece about his sweet tooth, how he longed for sweets, craved them, often ordered the chocolate lava cake at restaurants, how his tongue had to catch the dripping chocolate running down his chin. Nora noted the groups’ mouths hanging in different levels of openness. The positive feedback came slowly, but mostly everyone agreed John wrote vividly with exquisite details.
“Okay, who’s next?” Nora said absently, unable to focus.
It didn’t matter what John wrote, it always sounded sexual. He sat calmly beside Sandy as week after week she read about Jack mounting and thrusting and climaxing (sometimes in disguise) with Sally, over and over and over. John listened, nodding and smiling as though Sandy was simply reading their Christmas card list. His right leg crossed over his left, his foot wagged, revealing dark socks with sexy little golf clubs all over them.
John brought Cheryl an article about Gettysburg. He gave Lois perspective on her former lovers. He even said he’d help Nora get more participants for the group. “I know a lot of creative people,” he said. Nora pictured him and Sandy hosting salons, their living room full of people reading poetry and singing. Naked, of course.
Three weeks into Sandy and John, Nora entered at the last minute, breathlessly, and sat in her usual chair as the seats encircling her filled up, everyone chatting. What was that she heard? Joy?
“Hi everybody! It’s so, so nice to hear you all talking!”
“What’s the prompt for tonight, Nora dear?” John asked.
“I hadn’t-I didn’t-How about love? How about we write about love?”
She expected some of the usual grumbles from Cheryl or Rosalind but the room grew quiet as pens moved purposefully across paper.
When they were finished, Cheryl announced she didn’t feel like writing about the Civil War and wrote instead about her parents’ first meeting. “It’s still historical,” she said. Lois wrote about a divorced woman who learns what true love is through volunteering. Rosalind wrote about her car, whom she called Tootsie, the first writing she ever completed or shared in the group. And Sandy wrote her usual romp with Jack and Sally.
When they came to John, he said, somewhat sheepishly, “I have to say the thing I love, other than Sandy, is gardening.”
Calm settled in Nora’s chest. Sandy’s mouth formed a gentle smile for her husband, her head tilted slightly to the right as he began reading.
John spoke with a deep-voiced sincerity about his long, hard, unstoppable- in – growth zucchini, cucumbers, and carrots. Again and again, he planted his seeds, his long hoe extending, reaching back and forth, back and forth. Nora’s neck and shoulders rose with each word, each pause. She could feel the excitement, the hilarity in the room rising and rising. They had all been so well behaved for so long. As John continued describing his vegetables, one-by-one, Lois, Cheryl, and Rosalind stood and left the room, almost running out the door as they exited. By the time John finished, only Sandy and Nora remained to comment.
“Thanks for that, John. I felt like I was in the garden with you.” Nora pushed each word out of her mouth, holding back her own laughter. She noticed Sandy’s hand slip under the table and John’s face brim with satisfaction.
A few awkward moments of silence passed, and the women returned, their eyes watery and red. Nora imagined them congregated in the ladies’ room, expelling torrents of withheld laughter, falling over, drunk with long-restrained expression. She loved the idea of all of them transformed, no longer lost and lonely, stuck in their revolving narratives. She imagined them popping, like daffodils in spring. becoming real friends, knowing each other. She envisioned them telling this story, then another, each week writing something new.
Little Old Lady Comedy 