by Lucy Ellmann
‘Can you believe staying with a man after he beat you up?!’ she asked her companion.
‘I don’t care,’ said the other woman, lifting a huge blue plastic basket of washing. ‘Even if I had a baby coming, I’d leave him.’ So saying, she marched into an ante-room. The other woman began to eye me in her absence.
‘Terrible! Always out for themselves! And only after one thing.’
I mustered a polite smile.
‘You ever been married, darling?’
‘No.’
‘Keep it that way. You American?’
‘Yeah.’(You can’t keep that hidden for long.)
‘What do you think of that guy?’
‘Who?’
‘That Reagan.’
‘Oh. I hate him.’
‘Just as bad as her, what’s her name?’
‘Thatcher?’
‘Yeah,’ she said, and then paused. ‘No good with children.’
‘Who?’
‘Men!’
Turtles have been toothless for more
than 150,000,000 years.
THE POCKET GOPHER, of the
Mississippi Basin, has soft brown fur
and is very mole-like in his life and
habits.
I drove up Finchley Road, turned off on Parsifal, drove along Agamemnon Ave, Clytemnestra Terrace and Ajax Road, and turned right on Leda. Suddenly aware of an upsurge of resentment – a dim sense that my present vehicular directionlessness did not tally with the fact that I had paid most of our rent for the past few months – I turned off Fortune Green, and with the customary feeling of abdominal constriction (‘a shudder in the loins …’), parked on Ulysses Road: I was home. As I applied my ill-fitting key to the front door, I could already hear Irving conducting one of his loud, meandering telephone conversations in the hallway.
‘Oh yes, can’t complain. What? I said, MUSTN’T GRUMBLE. Yes. What about you? You are? The window-cleaner came today. Tramp, tramp, tramp through my kitchen. WINDOW-CLEANER: TRAMP, TRAMP, TRAMP. What? Oh, to get water, I suppose. There was a good programme on telly today, about Jersey. JERSEY. Yes. Oh, all right then, Leo. Some good TV tonight. Talk to you next week then. All right. All right then, bye.’
I managed to clamber into the house and up the stairs with my two rubbish-bags full of washing and two carrier-bags full of shopping before Irving could hang up, thus sparing myself a similar tête-à-tête, and no doubt disappointing Irving. After dragging the bags to their respective destinations, I knocked on the door of the front room. Jeremy was sitting in an armchair with a dictionary by his side, directing his every neutrino towards the completion of The Times crossword. Little circles of anagram letters embellished the bottom margin. He looked up briefly.
‘I’m back,’ I informed him.
‘So I see,’ said he.
‘Do you want a cup of coffee?’ I asked.
‘Ooh, yes please.’ He took my hand briefly to betoken gratitude, and then resumed his concentration on the puzzle in his lap.
After making tea for myself and coffee for Jeremy, I unloaded all the shopping. One of my chief pleasures in life was dealing with store-bought food – all so virginally packaged yet bursting to be opened. I lined up a regiment of Jeremy’s favorite yoghurts on the only shelf in the £7 fridge I’d bought at a Hampstead garage sale: its previous owners were heading for an even higher altitude (perhaps Muswell Hill). I snapped up a few of their least snazzy possessions.
I peeled open the one yoghurt I’d bought for myself, and tried it with my finger. Champagne Rhubarb. To go with my yoghurt and my tea, I located the long stiff phallus of Fig Bars and extracted two, or maybe three. I hid these behind my yoghurt while I delicately re-aligned the plastic shrink-wrap around the remaining Fig Bars, sealed the wound with the Supa-Dupa Glue I’d just bought for this purpose, and placed the deceptive packet on the top shelf along with the other biscuits and crisps I’d gotten for Jeremy (whose skinniness is one of the miracles of this world). I felt pretty confident that he was unlikely to interfere with the Fig Bars, as long as I kept him well supplied with cheese balls.
49. Eat only natural foods. Avoid flesh
meats of all sorts as these are unnatural foods.
Use Protose, Nuttolene and nuts
instead.
The stink of Supa-Dupa Glue filled the kitchen as I started on the supper. Still timid of inner organs, I overcooked the Chicken Livers with Guinness and Bacon and Onions that Jeremy had taught me to make. I called him to supper. He didn’t hear me. I went to get him. He had just lit a cigarette. He started to shuffle books and papers around, and gathered coffee cups into intimate groups. He drew my attention to a mildly amusing article in The Times. Having first apologized for the fact that it was early Schoenberg, he turned off the record-player, and then the gas-fire. He went to the loo. From there, he proceeded to the bathroom, where he scrubbed his fingernails and squirted contact lens solution on each contact lens before re-inserting it.
When he reached the dining-room, he looked at his plate of overcooked Chicken Livers with Guinness and Bacon and Onions, and went out again. Returning with a glass of water, he picked up the plate and said, ‘Do you mind if I watch the Cricket Highlights?’
By the time it had occurred to me to say, ‘I thought you didn’t like cricket highlights,’ he had reached the bedroom. There, he turned on the light, pulled the curtains, lit the gas-fire, switched on the TV, shut the door, took off his shoes, lay down on the bed, and lit a cigarette. I was relieved he’d gone – food tended to stick in my throat when he was around. I ate as fast as I could, just in case the highlights were too chiaroscuro for him.
‘I have been a victim of constipation
for thirty years. Recently I became
acquainted with Battle Creek products
and began using them as per instructions
from the demonstrator. I have used the
Complete Battle Creek Diet System, using
Bran, Agar, Paramels or Mineral
Oil, and Battle Creek cereal foods with
liberal doses of Lacto-Dextrin, Meltose,
and Fig Bromose. Now I have two or
three thorough eliminations every day
and feel much encouraged.’
The gentleman is one of the greatest
producers of movie films in the world
and his duties are most exacting. His
enthusiasm for biologic living is
unbounded.
I pumiced my feet with some ferocity in the bathtub and headed for bed. The room was very hot, and Jeremy was asleep. When I sat down on the bed, he got up groggily, turned off the TV, said, ‘Must get on, pull my finger out [an expression he knew I disliked, for its connotations of sexual withdrawal],’ and left the room. I put his half-eaten supper outside the door, turned the gas-fire off and the TV back on, and got into bed. There was a black-and-white movie just starting, about three wives who each receive a letter from the same friend saying she’s running off with one of their husbands that day, but no one knows which husband has been selected. Each woman’s marriage is then investigated for flaws. I fell asleep before finding out which marriage deserved perpetuation, or which husband skidaddled – if any.
Reason not the Need
Why the Blues?
A book for neurasthenics, nervous
dyspeptics, bilious, despondent folks. Shows
them the way out of their miseries. Easy to
read, practical, interesting. Illustrated 339
pages. Price $2.25
Champaign-Urbana 1970
When I had perused a good quarter of my mother’s telephone directory, Franny decided that what I needed was a new love interest. We were sitting in the kitchen when the nun was out and a casserole-bearing neighbor had just left.
‘You know Kate has a brother at school in Eighth Grade?’ Franny asked me. Kate was her best friend.
‘What does he look like?’ I asked.
‘Lon
g red hair and glasses.’
‘Oh, yeah, I know him.’
‘What do you think of him?’
‘I think he’s a really beautiful boy. Why?’
‘He told Kate he thinks you’re pretty.’
From then on, Franny and Kate worked hard on getting me and Chris together: Franny told Kate I liked him and Kate told Chris. She told him to talk to me, but instead we were careful to avoid each other. The next weekend, I was leafing through the phone-book when the telephone rang. Franny ran into the room and picked it up. After a short, muffled conversation, she hung up and said, ‘Suzy, Chris is coming over.’
I rushed around, brushing my teeth and putting ribbons in my hair. By the time I got out of the bathroom, Kate and Chris had arrived. They were all standing in Mommy’s study. I walked in as casually as I could. Franny and Kate instantly departed for Franny’s room.
‘How are you?’ I asked Chris.
‘Fine. How are you?’ he answered.
‘Fine. Do you have Mrs C. for Math?’ (I was pretty sure that he did.)
‘No.’
‘You’re lucky.’
Kate came back in and asked us if we’d like to go on a bike-hike with them.
‘Do you want to go?’ Chris asked me.
‘I guess so,’ I replied.
SWM, principled, open, liberal, politically as well as physically sound, distinguished bearing, cultured, articulate, literate, extensively traveled, compassionate, tender, attuned. Into self-hypnosis, mysticism, Tai Chi, I Ching, the Cabbala, extraterrestrial life-forms, reincarnation, Yin/Yang, the whole shebang. Well-turned-out, clean-cut, highly presentable, in fact a successful human being to the extent that self-actualization is ever completed. Own secluded sun-filled garden, gracious home. Ballroom dancer. SEEKS attractive, thrifty, loving lady, not over 20 lbs. overweight, with mind, job, and apartment of her own, strong sense of her own identity, autonomy, and self-sufficiency, and a serious commitment to own work and hobbies. Together in oneness to embark on actualizing the infinite potential, mystery, romance, awe, and poignant sweetness of life awaiting those who dare to reach for their shooting star. Come be my love and let us soar. Libbers, grouchers, whiners, and those who have all the answers, no. Photo.
I threw myself into my love affair with Chris. We would meet after school and walk around holding hands and periodically passionately embracing for tight-lipped kisses (we’d tried French kissing but decided against it). Despite all of Franny’s world-weary advice that I should play hard-to-get, I found myself quite incapable of working up convincing feminine wiles. Instead I told Chris that when I saw him coming up the hill from the Gym, I felt like I was melting. He was a bit embarrassed – too corny. But when I told him I loved him, he echoed the sentiment, as was proper.
He lay on top of me in Franny’s room once, where we had gone to listen to Laura Nyro records. Another time, we found a tiny chapel stuck on the end of a church near Melanie’s house. We sat in there cooling off, and then Chris felt my breasts for the first time. Daddy discovered us squirming around on the chaise-longue in the living-room one evening, with Lord of the Flies on TV, and told us to put the light on. He scowled at me for some time afterwards, and warned me uncomfortably about pregnancy.
Dear Suzy, do you think it’s right that we
should fuck? I mean we’re not all that old. I’m
not saying I don’t want to, but wouldn’t we
be breaking all the rules? aw, fuck the rules,
let’s do it anyway.
Kate advised Chris that we should try oral sex first, but we’d already decided to fuck, after our exams so as not to interfere too much with our studies (in case the earth moved and everything changed, changed utterly).
Dear Suzy, why don’t we ever get to talk
anymore? I never seem to get my homework
done in time to call, since your father doesn’t
like phone-calls after 11. hey, I dig you,
every itty-bitty, teensy-weensy, inbetweeny
thing about you. I love you like dogs like
parks, like meat likes salt, like rain likes
rivers, and I am going to fucking miss you
when you go.
My imminent departure added a tragic urgency to my romantic life. Our grieving father had accepted an Art History job at Oxford, to add exile to injury.
A few days before what was left of my family was due to leave the country, Chris and I took our bicycles and a condom to the overgrown underbrush of the local defunct loony-bin. I pulled down my jeans and lay before him on some pine needles. Chris stood above me and unzipped his jeans, showing me his penis for the first time. He tried to coax it into action, and said to me, ‘You’re beautiful.’ But his penis was not convinced – I flew to England a virgin.
Not Fran. She and her tall thin boyfriend of Viking descent had deflowered each other a number of times, while claiming to be at the movies.
First form a tall pointed bud with pink
Marzipan. Next make a narrow petal by
tapping a small roll of Marzipan on the
slab with the finger tip, care being taken
to keep the finger tip dry with powdered
starch. This petal is then fixed to the
bud. Repeat this with another petal.
Ulysses Road 1983
I was sick of artistic rebuffs. I went into the kitchen and made milky coffee and found the fancy cookies I’d bought for guests, and took both semi-forbidden delicacies back to my room. This was where I slept when things with Jeremy were particularly bad, and where he was always dumping my junk, like tennis rackets (if I’d had one) and socks and plastic bags and household additions he didn’t like. I sat down at my little desk, where the papers lay more or less as I’d left them three days before:
Many artists have used Chance and ready-mades in order to obscure their exact involvement with the work of art.
I was supposed to be writing a Ph.D. on collage – I’d decided to call it ‘The Withdrawal Method: the Absence of the Artist’s Touch in Collages and Ready-Mades.’ I sighed and shoved a large succulent scalloped Viennese Finger into my mouth. It was delicious – how was I going to stop eating them? I ate four more before deciding that they weren’t really all that good, and managed to throw the tiny corner of one I’d been holding at mouth level into the waste-basket. An airplane flew overhead and my desk-lamp dimmed curiously at the same time. I wondered when Jeremy would be getting home.
This study will trace the theme of the artist’s non-participation in the art-making process, through his/her use of borrowed materials, often merely stuck on to the canvas with glue. The spectator is left to await the artist’s return like a bewildered dog at a graveside: hence the claim that Art is Dead.
Ho hum. I decided to consult the TV guides. On one page an irritatingly good-looking woman was displayed inside a sweater which had apparently been doused in Woolite at some stage. But I was instantly rewarded for enduring the woman’s charms: the ad included a 20p coupon for Woolite! What other coupons had I been missing all these years? Sure enough, the next page had a good one for an inedible brand of jam – 30p off if you bought two jars. The thought struck me that the world might be my oyster if I just paid more attention.
Clarifying wine (collage) – It is necessary to clarify (coller) wine that is going to be bottled. The purpose of the collage is to give the wine its limpidity.
I put on my favorite radio program, which consisted of a Marriage Guidance counsellor who sat in a studio awaiting phone-calls from people worried about sexual, emotional, or marital problems. I lay down on the floor beside old pieces of Tippex.
Blitzschnelle Korrecktur von Tippfehlern.
And now we go to Ann. Are you there, Ann?
Oh, hello, Doctor!
Um, I’m not a doctor, actually. I’m here to discuss or talk through any sexual, emotional or marital problems you might have. How can we help you today, Ann?
Oh, thank you, Doctor. W
ell, what I’m ringing about, you see, is I live on my own with my little boy. He’s ever so good really, I mean, you know, he sees his father and that. We’re separated but you know, it’s amiable. He gives us money regular, no problem there.
I’m glad to hear it, Ann. Now, what was it you wished to speak to us about right now?
Oh. Well, we have a nice flat, it’s not big, you know, but it’s very nice. And my mum, she doesn’t live with us or anything, but she’s just round the corner, and she’s just got herself ever such a nice little puppy, and my son is ever so good with it, playing and the like.
Could you tell me how old he is, Ann?
The pup? Oh, he’s –
No, I meant your son, Ann.
Oh, my son! Oh, he’s five, yeah, five last March.
So what is it you’re ringing us about today, Ann?
Well, the thing is, you see, he’s such a good little boy, he really is, um, usually, but, um, you see, he um plays with himself sometimes. And I’m at the end of my tether, I don’t know what to do about it!
The whole family could self-destruct for all I cared. Male problems are so dull – always something to do with the penis, either active or inactive. Maybe female problems too. At any rate, I fell asleep without waiting to hear Brian’s answer, and didn’t wake up until a rousing ad for beds came on:
BEDS! BEDS! BEDS! COME ON DOWN. IF YOU NEED A NEW BED, YOU NEED US. ‘RELY-ON’! ‘SILENT NIGHT’! ‘REST EASY’! ‘WAVE CREST’! ‘TURTLE-DOVES’! ‘CUTYPIE’! ‘PRETTY-PLEASE’! ALL THE BEST NAMES, AT THE BEST PRICES! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
The voice trailed off in a mock snooze. I fingered the dusty carpet, half-alive.
And now we go to Jane. Jane, are you there? Are
you there, Jane?
Hello. Brian?
Yes, I’m here now, Jane. Sorry we had to cut you
off for the News. Now, what can we do for you?
I haven’t had sex with my husband for two years.
You haven’t had sex for two years. Ah. Could you