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Apples of Gold
Radio Script for
“The Kitchen Table”
Hello, I’m
(traditional country music plays in the background)
Jimmy lit a cigarette.
Old country western played on the radio above the sink.
He ran his finger along the latest burned spot on the table. The last cigarette of the day often ended up as a burn spot on the table.
He set the lighter on top of the pack and slid them over by the dirty gold ashtray. He reached for the small stack of mail.
“Resident. Resident. Bill. Bill. Hmm, what do we have here?”
It was a personal letter, hand addressed to James Donahue.
The only people who called him James were his mother and his sister. His mother died two years ago, and he hadn’t seen his sister since the funeral.
He tapped the envelope on the table, put the cigarette in his mouth, and held the envelope up to the light. He squinted and tilted his head as the smoke curled into his eyes. He saw that the letter was away from the end of the envelope, making it safe to tear the end off, which he did with precision.
And he never tore the stamp. Somewhere in childhood he heard that tearing a stamp was like letting the flag touch the ground. He knew better now, but he still just never tore the stamp.
How many dumb things like that do we pick up in childhood? He remembered Ronnie Cochran in 3rd grade telling him that peanut butter was made only from that little tiny piece at the top of the peanut. He never believed it, but he never forgot it.
His dad told him once . . . nope. Not gonna think any warm thoughts about Dad.
He took a deep drag on the cigarette, exhaled through his nose, and unfolded the letter.
“Dear James.” Not “Hi James,” or “Hello James,” or even, “Hey James.” Just “Dear James,” about like a thank you note to Grandma that you were forced to write. “Dear Grandma, thanks for the cool Elvis ring. I hate Elvis and I never wear rings, but thanks.”
“I was thinking about you today while I was doing laundry. Remember when we used to have to help Mom wring out the clothes with the wringer, and your hand got caught? I cried and cried because I thought they were going to have to cut off your hand like Uncle Mack.”
He looked down at his right hand, holding the cigarette. “If thy right hand offend thee, cut it off and cast it from thee.”
Where did that come from? Not a good thought, but maybe he would have been better off if he would have lost his hand as a child. Think of all the things he would not have done if he didn’t have the hand to do it with. The places that hand had been.
He lowered his eyes involuntarily as shame darkened his mind.
He tapped the ash off the cigarette.
A steel guitar pined on the radio.
What was he going to do? He didn’t want to spend the rest of his life this way, working second shift, getting home at
He refocused on the letter.
“James, I’m worried about you. You never call or stop by, and I know it’s a two-way street, but I get so busy with the kids. I know that’s lame, but it is true.”
Why did he stop going over there? He knew he was welcome, but it was like he just didn’t belong. It was too clean, too bright, too innocent. It was better (he looked up at his bare fluorescent light and hated it), yes it was better, but it wasn’t him. This stained red and white table, this chair with the plastic seat, these dirty ceiling tiles – this was him.
And he disgusted himself.
“So anyway, dear brother, as I did the laundry and thought about you I thought, ‘Why not have him over for dinner after church?’ And then I thought that you might like our church. You don’t have to wear a suit or anything.”
His first feeling was to reject the offer out of hand. But then he realized that he was just tired of that; tired of the same old not doing anything.
He scanned the letter, more of the same, more of the same, Love, Linda. He slid it neatly back into the envelope.
And for the first time in a long time he felt something like God, like maybe God was in there somewhere.
And he felt unworthy, so unworthy.
And he felt . . . loved.
So loved.
He reached over and, through blurry eyes, crushed out his cigarette.
He folded his strong, yellowed hands.
And he let go.
Comments?
E-mail me: dougapple@wave94.com.
May God bless you today! With Apples of Gold…I’m
© 2009 The Arrow’s Tip
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(Proverbs 25:11 – “A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold in settings of silver.”)
Why “The Arrow’s Tip”? Each morning, after diligently seeking the Lord, I write Apples of Gold. Then before I release it to the public I pray one final prayer, “Lord, send forth your arrows.” I envision App
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