MAJI MOMENTS: ONE

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
An amazing woman has had countless jobs,careers and positions.
What's left?
Well, eventually, the Medal of Freedom . . .hunh?

Submitted: March 14, 2016

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Submitted: March 14, 2016

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MAJI MOMENTS

A Short Story

Nicholas Cochran

Chapter One

 

 

Between the rising and falling curtains of her memory, Marjorie Buckham was rigorously working her little grey cells into a knicker-twisted state.

The area surrounding her grey cells—namely her skull and her ears—were becoming frightfully annoying, thought Maji, while waves of head pain and severe ringings claimed some other particular sites under her dome.

Damn; why does the bloody memory have to be the item that fails the most when you get past fifty?

She knew that she was kidding herself in a very puerile manner. Maji was only fifty-one. She was still unstooping from her five eleven chassis and had retained—for the most part—the full lips; the cute straight nose; her swan-like neck; and her spectacular breasts.

Her golden hair was still without any grey; her legs were still slim and free from even a hint of cellulite and her waist was slim and firm.

However, the fact that Marjorie Buckham had any remains of her former glamour, defied nature.

You see, Marjorie—Maji—(she hated the Margie handle and the relentless allusions to “My Little Margie”) had both undertaken and survived an astounding array of professions; careers; crafts; appointments; challenges and adventures, spanning more than three decades.

There were times—usually after two a.m., following the nightly pee—when she was assaulted by deep doubts that she had done—truly, and in fact done—all those ‘remarkable things.’

To tease herself back to sleep, Maji would pretend that she had multiple personalities—ten or more—who had undertaken those dozens of travels and assignments to the far reaches of the seven continents and their seven seas.

She would quietly drift off to another eight hours of sleep while constructing new adventures for whichever personality was up to bat the next extremely early a.m.

An inestimable gift from her mother and father was their early-morning gene. Despite the fact that Maji loved staying up late—even into the early morning hours—dancing or singing, drinking or swimming, loving or lusting—Maji neveronce failed to rise before six a.m.

This gene was, like so many others, a two-edged sword. One side provided Maji with extremely long days in which to accomplish excellent work.

The other side meant shaking up slumbering bed partners or just leaving them there while she quietly departed, after leaving a loving note; or words of farewell.

Now, at this critical moment, Maji was desperately laboring to juice up her inner hard drive to pop out the name of a guy she had met in Tokyo some thirty years before. 

He wasn’t Japanese; or even Asian, but that was as far as she had progressed in her up-to-the-moment futility.

She could see him with her inner eye as though he would appear to her in a perfect hologram within the next five seconds: thirty-eight; middle height; just the beginnings of grey in his hair; very expensive but stylish glasses; medium build of some hundred and fifty pounds, and a solid sterling silver ring on his right pinky. All she lacked was a name.

He had asked her to dance at the regular afternoon tea dance held at the Peninsula Hotel. These daily affairs had been rather fun as far as Maji could remember.

Despite the fact that Frank Lloyd Wright’s building presented a dour blockish appearance form the outside, the interior areas of the hotel were luxurious. The band that usually played the Peninsula at the afternoon dances was both knowledgeable and extremely competent.

Most afternoons could be summed up by saying that: “A good time was had by all.”

On that particularly memorable occasion, Mr. Whateverhisnameis asked Marjorie to dance. This Mr._____Blank was a marvelous dancer, thought Marjorie, herself a graduate of Mrs. Van Valkenburg’s School of Delightful Dancing.

Marjorie had celebrated her birthday in Tokyo only a few days before her encounter with Mr. NoName.

Marjorie was traveling around Japan with a group from her high school.

One of Marjorie’s schoolmates had a relative who was the brother of the American Ambassador to Japan.

The extraordinarily good-natured Ambassador had insisted that she be allowed to host Maji’s birthday. Maji had immediately accepted the Ambassador’s gracious invitation and Maji called home to tell her parents about her good fortune.

The Embassy staff arranged the entire celebration and several guests from the Tokyo smart set had been invited along with Marjorie’s travel group. She was now eighteen. It had been a champion party despite the serving of only Welch’s Grape Juice to the high schoolers; no booze.

 

Mr. Whoever had invited Maji to dine with him. Maji accepted his gallant invitation and somewhere between the tempura soba and the sake, she managed to miss her bus to the airport.

Nevertheless, Mr. Blank had been so understanding about the idiocies of his high-school-senior-of-eighteen dinner guest, that he completely overlooked Maji’s lapse of imperfect memory and ordered more sake.

The plane carrying the Summer Travel Club from her high school in Des Moines could be seen through her small bathroom window as it lifted into the  hazy Asiatic sky.

However, not to worry, because Mr. Blank had been quick to apologize to her for thinking only of himself and forgetting to remind her.

He insisted that she accompany him on his private jet back to America the following morning. 

His business in Tokyo had concluded with the signing of all the necessary documents along with his new Japanese partners, to import a car called a ‘Datsun’ and, more specifically, their new sports model called, simply, a 240 Z, a fact that Maji found amusing for some aberrant reason.  

She had realized early in her life that she had an abundant supply of those aberrant moments; and not all of them had been benign.

As far as Maji was concerned, Mr. Blank had ‘swept her off her feet.’

She paused as she recalled thinking about how goofy that expression had been to her, once she had given it any serious thought. All brooms, cross-over toes and bunions. She laughed again now as she had thirty-three years ago.

Once Mr. Blank had done his sweeping, he began his unbuttoning and unhooking—as well as his unfurling—before Maji was blessed with God’s only true gift to mankind.

In fact, God blessed her about seven times that night by Maji’s count, a figure that would draw gasps of repulsion and congratulation, depending on who was in her audience.

If nothing else (but there was a ton of else) Marjorie came away with seriously over-inflated expectations of the male gender.

The string of dashed hopes along the lust lines, stamped some serious disappointments upon both the corporeal and the inner areas of her being.

She had sincerely loved Mr. Jarvis of the Peace Corps and wanted to marry him.

 However, Jerome Jarvis had failed her too many times over too many dates in too many countries, while he indulged in what Maji termed ‘poverty porn.’

Jerome was obsessed with moribund or soon to die desperately poor people anywhere he could find them. Maji had begun by idolizing JJ because of his obvious concern for those with less in the world. However, she eventually understood that JJ always had to be in, around or stuck with, only people of this category; a life in even a ‘Second World’ country would be impossible for JJ.

Magi told him that one day and he agreed with her evaluation.

They spent their last night together making funeral arrangements for the latest ten to die and the upcoming thirty-four who would not make it through the month. Maji felt terrible.

However, once back in Cairo, and then Marseilles, she recovered her spirits and soldiered on.

Then there was Oscar, the pianist. She had believed that his extended sessions of dancing his fingers along the ivories would translate to Herculean sessions of hands et al, using Maji as his keyboard.

Plunk.

Apparently he drained most of his tank while fingering out arpeggios and slowly loped through the other areas of his life, including his love-making, with a lazy smile and a vague idea that life was a rather humdrum affair of modest blessings and only the ivories were worth an enthusiastic tickle

But Mr. Blank; oh how she had tried everything to find him again after he waved goodbye from the door of his jet. She had only his name, which, of course, she had forgotten—and a description.

Unfortunately, her recall of the finer points of Mr. Blank, shoved aside most of her recall about bits, other than the naughty ones.

Damn. Maji was now determined to stay up all night if necessary, to recapture M. Blank’s name from her personal dustbin of history.

 

Marjorie Buckham had tried almost every occupation listed on the Career Counselor’s list at school. 

First; she had marched off to Engineering School at the U, where she stood first in her class, which really pissed off the beer chugalugers as well as most of the male staff. But Maji was a knockout of a certain obvious-charms type. There they were, plus excellent legs and an extremely fine bum that cried out for a pinch.

Maji became so used to them—and so sore from them—that she began to wear some soft asbestos pads. These gave her tush extra ooomf and curves and the pinching increased but the bruising stopped.

But Maji was an idiot savant, it seemed, and she became quite bored with the plodding progression of the courses while they waited for the dim repeaters to catch up. After two years, Maji became aware that most of the courses she had taken could be transferred to pre-med. She switched and stood first in that class as well.

Turned out she was a double idiot savant.

As a result of her superior grasp of two professions, the profs began asking her if she had ever suffered a concussion; or any type of serious blow to her head.

Aside from the relentless banging of her head on a headboard while banging, she could think of none. 

Alas, Maji quickly tired of all the blood and guts of her first two years up to her elbows in colons and coccyges and decided that she had seen her last view of a foreign wazoo and an anonymous dong for at least a few years, social visits excluded.

Next came the law. School, not squad cars.

Maji took to the vineyards of the legal eagles like a shark to a surfer’s leg. She managed to translate her previous two years of courses into two years ofpre-law and immediately jumped into law school with an appetite for the buzz of courtroom drama and all-night tough bargaining sessions concerning compensation for concussed NFL players.

Alas, she was, yet again, or we should say simply : Now: she was a savant of the law despite any idiocies she carried into class—or exams—with her.

She just hated how easily she understood everything from Magna Carta to the Rule against Perpetuities. She loved Mrs. Palsgraf and thought Near a real dick. Brown was right and Justice Black was white.

Maji couldn’t stomach more than two years of the law, despite the fact that she thoroughly enjoyed all the debates as well as the granular niceties of the overwhelming number of technicalities. What next?

Maji had carefully looked around her handsome home and experienced a jolt of joy. Despite all her beginnings and her scores of endings, at thirty-one, she figured she was in the perfect position to undertake her most ambitious and challenging challenge.

But what the hell is it?

 

End of Chapter One


© Copyright 2017 Nicholas Cochran. All rights reserved.

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