Schaffer, Jo Ann

Jo Ann Schaffer began reinventing herself in her early sixties. Prior to that, she was an executive assistant to CEOs as a corporate communications editor/manager in such diverse fields as banking, pension trust, international philanthropy, Japanese real estate development, and healthcare. After moving to /Bethlehem from Queens, NY, where she had spent most of her life, Jo Ann trained to be a Clinical Hypnotist. Upon retirement, she started her own company, Options Hypnosis. It was also during those early years in Bethlehem that she started to hone her skills as a writer of short fiction, and is a founding member of the Bethlehem Writers Group. She has traveled in six continents, but the UK holds a special place in her heart. Her other interests include reading, yoga, Buddhism, architecture, and technology. "Cold Turkey" appears in the anthology, Once Around the Sun: Sweet, Funny, and Strange Tales for All Seasons from the Bethlehem Writers Group, now available from Amazon, BN.com, and your local bookseller.

Cold Turkey

Jo Ann Schaffer

Featured, December 2013

Something kept poking at me as I lay cocooned in a mound of blankets and quilts. Moaning my annoyance, I burrowed deeper. There was no denying he deserved points for subtlety. Turkey doesn't winge or whine, doesn't bark a doggy S.O.S. when he needs to go outside. As I freed my head from the covers, he trotted around the bed and rested his muzzle next to my nose.

"You know, Turkey," I said as he padded toward the back door, "if I didn't have the inner resolve of a marshmallow, you'd be swapping homes with a cat!"

Unknotting myself from the covers, I quickly remembered why I had tossed a wool blanket atop the two comforters I'd added the night before. Every cell in my body scrambled to get its standard-issue heat shield. The image of Luke Skywalker suspended from the ceiling of an ice cave kept popping into my mind as I pulled on clothes as fast as I could.

It was while searching for a second pair of socks that I noticed the insistent rattle of the windows and the shrill whistle of the wind. Right, the dog's got ten seconds to do his business, or he's on his own. I did a fast-forward trot through the kitchen and yanked Turkey's leash off the hook in the mud room.

Twirling open the mud room blinds, I didn't like what I saw; there was something mean-spirited in the low-slung clouds brooding overhead. After barely a twist of the knob, a gust of Arctic wind blew open the door. My body became a mass of goose-bumps, I shouldered the door closed and unlocked the doggy hatch.

"Turkey," I commanded in my best alpha-dog voice, "door flap." His head turned toward where I was pointing, then swiveled back. "Oh don't be such a wuss," I said as I rehung the leash. "Think of it as training for the Iditarod. Picture it. The first black lab in the history of the race. I'm talking Guinness Book of World Records!"

He gave me a yeah, whatever look, and was out and in before I reached the coffee pot.

With a steaming cup in hand, I went into the living room and picked up the remote. Turkey's cupboard was now bare, so there was no getting out of a trip to the supermarket. The Saturday crowds would be a nightmare. But, I pondered, if the weather turns nasty, might I not avoid a check-out queue as long as the Great Wall of China?

The weatherman assured his isobar-challenged audience that, while thickening clouds might linger, there was little likelihood of precipitation. My eyes panned from the TV set to the black lab staring out the living room window at the nickel-sized flakes sashaying in the wind. I reached down to scratch his head. "Well, Turkey, if that's not snow, God's got one serious case of dandruff."

A wet nose pressed against cold glass was all the meteorological equipment Turkey needed to forecast his next move: a nice warm cushion by the radiator. Bowing to the sagacity of such an intelligent breed, I returned to my bedroom and re-inserted myself into the warmth of my quilt-strewn bed with a P.D. James mystery. How much worse could the weather get in two hours?

By mid-afternoon, I'd finished the book, and the weather seemed to be taking a breather. The snowfall had been light and fluffy, the kind you could brush easily off the car with your hand. Although a dusting of white coated the ground, the roads remained clear. I picked up the phone and called my friend, Dina. According to the station she'd listened to, the storm wouldn't hit our area before three a.m. Hoping she hadn't been tuned to the same channel I'd watched earlier, I told her I would pick up dinner, and we could spend the evening wallowing in our spinsterhood.

"Great!" Dina said. "I've just picked up a few bottles of ice wine, and what a perfect day for a tasting."

"Ice wine?" I sniffed. "Sounds like a plot by an underground temperance league to bunt the alcohol content." During college, Dina had done a stint at bartending, graduating with a degree in chemistry and a wicked aptitude for the oenological arts. But much like pigeons and windshields, her offerings always hit the mark.

"Philistine!" she groaned. "Leaving the grapes on the vine to freeze concentrate's the grape's sugars and intensifies the flavor. Have a little faith."

Inserting a pregnant pause in the conversation, I waited.

"Yeeees." She sighed. "It does have a lower alcohol content."

"Yeah, well, when I stop at the Food Emporium, I'll ask which of their take-out entrees would be a suitable accompaniment."

"Sushi--or meatloaf--whatever." Neither of us was much use in the kitchen. We gladly made obeisance to the culinary talents of others, especially those who offered meals to go.

As I hung up the phone, I slapped a palm to my forehead and thought, remember to pick up dog food!

Hearing me rummaging through cabinets, a yawning Turkey walked into the kitchen and watched as I cranked open a can of tuna fish and dumped it into his bowl. Sniffing at the contents, he looked at me as if I'd lost my mind.

"Granted, it looks as though I've confused you with some other quadruped," I said, hugging his neck, "But I just want to be sure you don't keel over from hunger if I get home late."

Grabbing my purse and car keys, I raced out the door. "I promise I'll never run out of dog food again," I shouted as the door slammed shut behind me. I heard Turkey barking a familiar reply: I've heard thatbefore.

As they say, man makes plans, and God laughs.

Dina had been right about the ice wine, which we paired with a couple of tilapia fillets. I relaxed knowing there was a nice supply of dog food chilling in the car. When I finally looked at the clock, it was six, and the flakes were falling thick and fast. There were a good five inches on the ground when I got ready to leave Dina's apartment.

She'd offered her sofa for the night, but I was feeling guilty about my woeful performance that morning; I kept remembering those big, chocolate-drop eyes begging me not to send him outside. Why hadn't I splurged on that down-filled doggy vest? And that "you're kidding, right?" look as I spooned tuna fish into his dish. How deep a karmic hold could I dig?

To be honest, I'd never wanted a pet. It's a control thing; as soon as I let anyone or anything into my life, they start to take over, be it a houseplant, a pet, or a man. Turkey was a Thanksgiving Day surprise from another big mistake. Brad might have been the love of my life, except for the wife and two kids in New Jersey he'd forgotten to mention. But that's another story.

A thirteen-year-old Volkswagen Beetle, five inches of snow growing deeper every minute, an equation for disaster? Math was never my strong suit. It had occurred to me, when news of the approaching storm was first broadcast, that I really needed a snow brush and ice scraper. But with one thing and another, as they say at the Pentagon, I failed to achieve my objective. Fortunately, Dina had a spare.

As I turned on the ignition, the heater gave a low rattle and sent out a blast of cold air. My feet were soaked, but I knew that at least a modicum of warmth could be achieved by the time I pulled into my garage.

Waving to her standing in her doorway, I could see the furrowed lines on Dina's brow. She suddenly held up a hand for me to wait, and went back inside. As she came running over to the car with a paper bag in her hand, I rolled down the window.

"Here, you may need this before you get home," she said as she handed me a half-empty bottle of ice wine.

"Good idea, Dina. Thanks," I said, and slipped it under the seat.

"You know, Ernest Shackelton you're not."

"Look, it's only a few inches." I sighed. "And anyway, they must have plowed the main roads by now. I'll be fine." She reached in and squeezed my hand. She wasn't buying my bravado.

"Okay," my parent-self said to my quaking inner child, "we'll just take this nice and slow."

The wipers flicked flakes as fast as they could, but the condensation on the windshield had me squinting to see the road.

I was quite chuffed at making it three blocks to the main road without mishap. Beech Street was usually pretty busy, so I expected an easier time once I made the turn. From there, plows willing, it would be smooth sailing for the rest of the trip.

Then I noticed that the traffic light at Beech wasn't working; not a good sign. A handful of cars, all big SUVs, were crawling along. Knots looped over each other in my stomach as I saw how quickly the snow was deepening. Where were those benighted road crews?

As I made a right turn, the Bug glided, graceful as an Olympic skater, to the opposite side of the road. An oncoming car was far enough away to avoid an accident, but my heart started flailing around inside my chest.

Why hadn't I brought Turkey with me? If we died together, at least I wouldn't have to worry about someone finding his starved carcass on the kitchen floor.

So much for the main roads, and the snow seemed to be thoroughly enjoying its free fall. My other option was the highway. Surely that would have been the plows' first priority. Hands clutching the steering wheel in a death grip, I crept another five blocs and made a left turn without incident. But as I raised my eyes from the roadway, my stomach lurched; it looked like Las Vegas night at the church hall. Half-a-dozen police and emergency vehicles, strobic lights flashing, were blocking the entrance ramp.

As I eased my foot onto the brake, my tires lost their grip, and I swerved to stop inches from the rather imposing figure of a policeman in a neon-striped jacket. In spite of the rising tide of panic washing over me, I managed to plaster a smile on my face as I lowered the window.

"Sorry, ma'am, there's a thirty-car pileup two exits down and the highway is closed."

"Closed!" I sputtered. "Oh my god, how awful." And yet, in an adjacent fold of my frontal lobe, I thought, nice eyes.

"It's not as bad as it sounds," he said, stepping back and shaking his head was he eyed my baby buggy ride. "More dented fenders and bumpers than anything serious, but damn lucky you stuck to the streets, or you'd have been joining the queue."

Pursing my lips, I blew out a gale-force wind of frustration. "What do I do now?" I moaned as my head slumped to the steering wheel.

"You feeding a mastiff?"

"Huh?"

He nodded at the industrial-size bag on the seat beside me. "That's one huge supply of dog food."

"Turkey."

"Excuse me?"

"Sorry, officer, that's the name of my back lab. Oh, God, oh, God," I groaned. "All I had to leave with him was a can of tuna fish."

He exploded with a laugh like a cannon shot.

"Man, I didn't see that one coming!" he said, wiping the tears from his eyes.

And a sense of humor. Maybe things weren't as dire as they looked.

"Where are you headed in that tin cup?" he said, leaning closer.

Stifling the whimper of helplessness rising in my gut, I straightened my back and looked him straight in the eyes. "There're just two-and-a-half miles between me and a starving dog, and I'll drive as far as I can, then walk the rest of the way if I have to.

He took a step back and looked at the surrounding roads, then at my micro car.

"Wait a moment. I'll be right back." He walked toward the group of vehicles, then abruptly turned back.

"By the way, my name's Frank," he said, extending his hand through the open window.

"Sandra. Nice to meet you Frank," I said, feeling the strength of his grip.

Instead of getting into one of the patrol cars, Frank opened the door of an SUV with a small plow in front. Maneuvering it in front of me, he waved his hand out the window for me to follow.

Hmm, I wonder if he likes ice wine, I thought as I eased my foot off the brake.

The

Top Ten . . .

Things I’ve Learned About Retirement

Jo Ann Schaffer

1. Even though I can sleep in, I haven't turned into a night person.

2. A certain amount of pressure is GOOD, otherwise everything would get done mañana.

3. You do spend more time reading books, but less than I thought I would.

4. Doing nothing is B-O-R-I-N-G.

5. Eating right and staying fit become a greater priority. So does drinking good wine!

6. I still can't wait to find out what's around the next bend in the road.

7. Nostalgia still doesn't interest me.

8. I now feel justified in doing the things I once thought irresponsible.

9. Sometimes you DO find out what you want to be when you grow up!

10. I thank God Almighty that I'm free at last!

Saffron Summer

by Jo Ann Schaffer

(Sept/Oct 2011)

The salon kicked into high gear with the arrival of summer, and it was late afternoon before the exhausted young stylist stepped outside for a quick smoke.

The crescendo of heat on his A/C-chilled body left him dazed. Resting his head against the wall, he lit a cigarette.

With the shops closing for the night, there were few people around. Content in his idleness, he gazed absently at the figure strolling towards him. Slowly, the cigarette slipped from his fingers. With a soft smile and joined hands raised to chin height, the Dalai Lama bowed, and continued down the street.

Saffron Summer won first place in the 2011 Flash Nonfiction contest at the "Write Stuff" conference of the Greater Lehigh Valley Writers Group.