Magazine Man by Annette Bacon

When I was six years old I remember watching my Dad go around the back of our house to a small brown shed, more like a small barn, on the side of our property.  I was cautioned not to go into this space as it might have a hitchhiker or a kidnapper in there waiting to grab someone.

One day, after my dad went to work and my mom left to go to the grocery store, I took our small kitchen stepladder to the shed and set it against the south window.  Looking in, th-4.jpegI saw old tires, a broken lawnmower, lots of papers and magazines on a wooden counter along with old tools and flashlights.  Since there was no stranger in there, I reasoned that I could go inside.  I slid the door open and went over to the bench, hopped up and that is when I saw the pile of colorful magazines in a box on the floor.

I jumped down and picked up several of them.  Turning the pages, I saw they were all pictures of naked women. I saw tall, short, blonde, and brunette women in various poses, some with fur coats and some with animals, like camels and horses.  I was shocked.  Since my dad was the only person who came out to the shed, he must know about this.  How could I ask him about the magazines, if I wasn’t allowed to go into this forbidden space?

Suddenly I remembered that mom would be returning from the store.  I carefully placed the magazines back on the pile in the box, picked up the stepladder, and hurried around the back of the house.  Imagine my surprise to hear my mom talking on the phone.  Her back was turned to me so I put the ladder down quietly and went out again.  I knew the berries in the raspberry patch were getting ripe, so I grabbed the container on the side of the garage and went to pick some.

I heard my mom calling me, so I went inside trying to be nonchalant and careful.  She hadn’t noticed that the ladder had been missing. “Hi Mom, I picked some berries for breakfast.” “Wonderful,” she answered.  My heart was racing as I made small talk with her as we ate together.

All morning I tried to think of someone I could talk to about the magazines, but I couldn’t think of a single soul whom I thought would keep my secret.  Then I thought of my grandmother.  Maybe she would be quiet, but I wasn’t sure.  And I couldn’t figure out why there were magazines of nude women who didn’t look anything like the women in my family or me.  I decided at the next chance that was possible, I would look in the box in the shed again, to see what else was in that box.  Since my parents usually slept later than I did on Sundays, I thought this would be a good opportunity to explore further.

In the meantime, I had cocoa with my grandmother on Saturday morning as usual.  I walked the four blocks to her house, thinking about my discovery and whether or not I should tell her.  After I made our cinnamon toast, I mentioned that I had done something that I had been told not to, but I could only tell her if she promised not to tell anyone.  She looked sternly at me and said she couldn’t do that if it involved my safety.  I said it didn’t and launched into the story of my adventure.  She thought for a minute before thsaying, “Lots of people keep old magazines.”  “But Gram,” I persisted, “Why were all the women naked?”  She said she didn’t know, but that my dad loved to read and was called “the magazine man” in our family. This was puzzling to me, but I was resolved to look again.

The next Sunday I woke up very early and snuck out to the shed, hoping to discover that my dad kept other things in the box like comics.  But when I reached up to slide the door open, it wouldn’t move. There was a padlock on it.

“Get Off the Bus” by Annette Bacon

“Get Off the Bus”  by Annette Bacon

Get Off the Bus

th-1I made the 146 bus after a quick run and put my Ventra card on the reader. It did not beep so I tried it several times. The driver said that I had an 85 cents negative balance. I apologized and said that I only had a ten and a twenty. She said I needed to get off the bus. I started to leave and this guy shouted, “Don’t, you do not have to get off the bus. I am calling the CTA.” “She can’t throw an elderly person off the bus due to lack of funds.” People were staring at us and I decided to get off. I ran across the street to my garage and took some quarters out of my car. I ran back to the bus stop as the other 146 bus had arrived. I put the quarters in the money holder. I looked up and saw the people from the first bus getting on. The bus driver said, “What’s happening?” “Thth-3e bus behind me is empty.”

The same guy that was yelling on the other bus said, “I’ll tell you what happened, the other bus driver threw this elderly woman off the bus and that is against the law, so I called the CTA. And there she is!” He was pointing right at me. I cringed again and tried to pretend I was reading. The same guy called a friend and said the whole story again so loud I could hardly stand it. He ended the phone call with,“And I told the CTA I want this bus driver relieved of her duties. She did not have her badge on either!” I panicked. Someone was getting fired due to me? The woman was probably a single mom with four kids. When we arrived at my stop on Michigan Avenue, I jumped off and ran into the Fourth Presbyterian Church sanctuary. I said a prayer for this woman and asked God not to let her get fired.

As I went up the stairs of the church, I could feel my blood pressure was up and I felt like I was flying. On the second floor I walked into Buchanan Chapel and tried to calm myself. I couldn’t decide if I should call the CTA and identify myself as the “elderly woman”. Then I could ask them not to fire her. The system was so huge I knew this would not make sense. They would think I was deranged. Meditation was the answer. Afterwards I took my “elderly woman” body up the elevator to my memoir writing class at the church’s Center for Life and Learning.