Disquiet, Please!

by David Remnick

  Dear Optimist:

  Uh, because I am holding my pen in that hand? And if I drop the pen I will not be able to bend to retrieve it, because my torso is totally encrusted in bronze? And the pigeons will, like, run away with the pen? Hey, I’ve got an idea. Why don’t you suggest I kill myself? With fast-acting suicide pills, after first calling me “negative” and “pigheaded”?

  Dear Loves Parks:

  Is that you, Small-Penis? I thought the handwriting was similar! Were you faking it just now when you said you were taking those pills? And you’re not really encrusted in bronze at all, are you?

  Dear Optimist:

  That’s right, genius, I am not dead and not encrusted in bronze and am not giving up and in fact am going to go and try to get Judy on the phone right now. If she’ll just listen to me, then I know she’ll—

  Dear Optimist:

  I am a man trapped in a turkey’s body. I have dim memories of my life as a human. But then I look down, and there are my wattles! Sometimes when it rains I find myself gazing up at the sky, mouth open, gullet slowly filling with rain. I’m really starting to feel bad about myself. Can you help?

  Chagrined Gobbler

  A Farm Near Albany

  Dear Gobbler:

  Of course I can help! Come to my house for some private counseling! Does Christmas work for you? Wait for me at the “waiting spot,” a tree stump with an axe leaning against it! And do you happen to know a human trapped in a pig’s body? I can also counsel him! Until then, I suggest eating as much as you can, preferably some high-quality corn! And keep your chin up, or your wattles up, or whatever!

  Dear Optimist:

  I was buried alive during the Eighteenth Century when I experienced a fit of narcolepsy and my family mistook my deep sleep for Death. In the two hundred and fifty-six years since, trapped in my moldering Body by the terrifying circumstances of my departure from this Life, my Soul has longed for freedom. And yet everyone who once would have prayed for me has long since gone on to Eternity, and I, desperately lonely, am haunted by the scuffing feet of dog-walkers and the skittering of leaves in Autumn, doomed to exist in this semi-death forever, in a perpetual state of mild Terror, until Time itself shall end and our Creator returns to redeem us all. Any thoughts about this?

  Longing for the Sweet Peace of True

  Death

  Plymouth, Mass.

  Dear Longing:

  Do you mind some “tough love”? Did they even have that in your time? Have you honestly tried your best to get out of this situation? Have you, for example, clawed frantically at the lid of your coffin for sixty or seventy years, after which have you tried literally digging your way to the surface even though your mouth was filling with dirt and you were nearly overcome with a terrible feeling of claustrophobia? Or have you just been lying there feeling sorry for yourself all this—

  Dear Optimist:

  No, no, I think you misunderstand my situation. I can’t move. My mind is active, I can fear and regret and dream, but I can’t move at all. I guess I thought when I said “dead” I assumed you’d understand that this meant—

  Dear Longing:

  No sense trying to blame me! I am not the bonehead who went through life with undiagnosed narcolepsy! I didn’t mistake your sleep for death! I wasn’t even alive in the eighteen-hundreds or whenever! You know what? Just lie there awhile and think about what you really want!

  Dear Optimist:

  I started out life as an angel, then, through a misunderstanding, became a “fallen angel,” and am now Lucifer, Master of Evil. Although I know I should be grateful—I love working for myself, and I’m one of the two most powerful beings in the universe—I sometimes feel a certain absence, as if there’s some essential quality I’m lacking. I’ve heard people, as I make my rounds, speak of something called “goodness.” Usually when I hear someone use this word I get frustrated and immediately tempt them into doing something horrific—but lately, somehow, this isn’t enough. Thoughts?

  Satan

  Hell

  Dear Satan:

  Clearly you are lonely! Here’s what I recommend: Go visit Longing for the Sweet Peace of True Death, in his grave, in Plymouth, Massachusetts. He is lonely! You are lonely! A real win-win! Just reside with him there in his coffin awhile! I think he’ll love it! Or maybe not! Maybe it will kind of scare him, to have Satan suddenly arrive in his cramped little coffin! Oh, I doubt it! Whatever! It’s all good!

  Dear Optimist:

  I am feeling so great! I have totally internalized all the wonderful things you’ve taught over the years, via your column! I am just so excited!

  Thrilled to Be Alive, Never Felt Better

  Chicago, Ill.

  Dear Thrilled:

  Super! Did you have a question?

  Dear Optimist:

  No, not really!

  Dear Thrilled:

  Then what the heck! What is the name of this column? Is it “Make a Statement to the Optimist”? Is it “Come Up in Here and Act All Like Mr. Perfect”? Is it—

  Dear Optimist:

  No problem! I totally respect what you’re saying! Many apologies and I hope you have a great day! You know, actually, I am going to go sit quietly somewhere and think about what I’ve done, so that if I did in fact do something wrong I won’t, in the future, repeat my mistake!

  Thrilled

  Dear Thrilled:

  Jeez, what an asshole! Well, that’s about all the space we have, so—

  Dear Optimist:

  Damn it! Judy would not take my call. This is the worst day of my life.

  Small-Penis

  Dear Small-Penis:

  We are done here! The column is finished for the day! Do I come to your work and mess with you?!

  Dear Optimist:

  I don’t work! And thanks very much for rubbing that in. You know what? I’ve had it with you. I’m coming straight over to your house right now. Got it? How do you feel about that, smart guy?

  Small-Penis

  Dear Anyone:

  Please call the police! I am sure it will be fine! Oh, God, he’s here! He’s breaking down the door! Please call the police! Help! Help!

  Dear Optimist:

  How do you like that? How does that feel, Mr. Superior?

  Dear Everyone:

  Ouch! Ouch! Oh, God!

  Dear Everyone!

  It is finished. The Optimist is no more. We are, at last, free of his arrogance. And, Judy, if you’re out there: Size isn’t everything. And articulate isn’t everything, and tall isn’t everything, and also, sweetie, I just had my back waxed. Give me some hope! I await your letter, darling!

  Small-Penis, aka Steve

  Dear Small-Penis, aka Steve:

  Hi, Steve! How’s it going? I’ll be replacing the Optimist here at the column! Just call me the New Optimist! Super! Here’s what I recommend: Turn yourself in! There will be good food in jail, and time for contemplation, and, who knows, you may even, eventually, have a great spiritual revelation and pull your head out of your ass! Isn’t that better than living on the lam? Judy is not taking you back, no way, and I should know! Judy is staying with me forever!

  Thrilled to Be Alive, Never Felt Better, aka the New Optimist

  Dear Ralph, You Bastard!

  Is that really you? You scum, you wife-stealer! Look what you’ve reduced me to! I am now a murderer! I murdered the Optimist! My God, the look on his face—even at the end, he was trying so hard to smile pleasantly!

  Steve

  Dear Steve-o:

  Yup, you schmuck, it is me, Ralph! And guess what! I followed you over here! I am right outside! You’ll never harass poor Judy again! I have with me a letter I’ve written, which I will plant on your corpse, so all the world will believe that, after killing the Optimist, you did away with yourself in a bizarre murder-suicide! You are a fool and the Optimist was a fool! If one really wants to be an Optimist, there is only one way: Win! Always win! Be superior and never lose! Slaughter your enemies a
nd live on, so that you and only you are left to write the history books! Goodbye, Steve! Ralph rules! Here I come! Oh, you look so scared! There! I have done it! Steve is no more. I am going right home to make Optimistic love to the beautiful Judy! And from now on this column is mine! No more working at the oil-change place while trying to write my Sanskrit book on weekends!

  Thrilled, aka Ralph, aka the New Optimist

  Dear New Optimist:

  I recently left my husband of ten years for a new man. Although I feel I basically did the right thing (my ex was small-penised and hairy-backed and not very articulate), I have to admit I feel a little guilty. What do you suggest?

  Completely Happy, Almost

  Dear Almost Happy:

  Don’t worry about it! It’s all good! What I’d recommend is, as soon as your new man gets home from wherever he is right now, make love to him more ferociously than you’ve ever made love to anyone in your life! Show your adoration by doing things to him you never even contemplated doing with that boring loser Steve!

  Dear New Optimist:

  Okay! Will do! As a matter of fact, he just rang the bell! Gotta go!

  Completely Happy, All the Way

  P.S.: Say, how did you know my ex-husband’s name was Steve?

  Dear All the Way:

  Don’t be so negative! That’s what got you in trouble in the first place, Judy! You think too much! Just be quiet and do what I say! Follow my lead! Hail Optimism! Long live the New Optimist! Open the door, Judy, open the door, so we can begin our beautiful new life together! And don’t even think of back-talking me, Missy!

  Dear New Optimist:

  Okay! Super! Thanks for the advice! Come in, Ralph! God, you look flushed, and, honey, gosh, why are you holding that bludgeon?

  Completely Happy, All the Way, Although

  Maybe Just a Little Bit Scared Now,

  aka Judy

  Dear Judy:

  There will be no problems whatsoever, Judy, if you simply acknowledge my absolute supremacy in a way that continually pleases me! And this is not a bludgeon! It is a bouquet of flowers! Right? Right, Judy? Well, that’s all the space we have! Not that I’m complaining! See you next time! Never doubt yourself, and, if you start feeling down, castigate yourself, and, if others try to put the slightest trace of doubt in your mind, rebuke them, and, should your rebuke not alter their speech, you may bring harm to them, even unto death, and, after they have died, feel free to arrange their rictus-stiffening mouths into happy hopeful smiles! And that’s an order! Believe me, you’ll be doing them a favor! Just kidding! You are special!

  The New Optimist

  2006

  TESTAMENTS AND DECLARATIONS

  DOROTHY PARKER

  THE DIARY OF A LADY

  DURING DAYS OF PANIC, FRENZY, AND WORLD CHANGE

  Monday. Breakfast tray about eleven; didn’t want it. The champagne at the Amorys’ last night was too revolting, but what can you do? You can’t stay until five o’clock on just nothing. They had those divine Hungarian musicians in the green coats, and Stewie Hunter took off one of his shoes and led them with it, and it couldn’t have been funnier. He is the wittiest number in the entire world; he couldn’t be more perfect. Ollie Martin brought me home and we both fell asleep in the car—too screaming. Miss Rose came about noon to do my nails, simply covered with the most divine gossip. The Morrises are going to separate any minute, and Freddie Warren definitely has ulcers, and Gertie Leonard simply won’t let Bill Crawford out of her sight even with Jack Leonard right there in the room, and it’s all true about Sheila Phillips and Babs Deering. It couldn’t have been more thrilling. Miss Rose is too marvelous; I really think that a lot of times people like that are a lot more intelligent than a lot of people. Didn’t notice until after she had gone that the damn fool had put that revolting tangerine-colored polish on my nails; couldn’t have been more furious. Started to read a book, but too nervous. Called up and found I could get two tickets for the opening of Run like a Rabbit to-night for forty-eight dollars. Told them they had the nerve of the world, but what can you do? Think Joe said he was dining out, so telephoned some divine numbers to get someone to go to the theatre with me, but they were all tied up. Finally got Ollie Martin. He couldn’t have more poise, and what do I care if he is one? Can’t decide whether to wear the green crêpe or the red wool. Every time I look at my fingernails, I could spit. Damn Miss Rose.

  Tuesday. Joe came barging in my room this morning at practically nine o’clock. Couldn’t have been more furious. Started to fight, but too dead. Know he said he wouldn’t be home to dinner. Absolutely cold all day; couldn’t move. Last night couldn’t have been more perfect. Ollie and I dined at Thirty-eight East, absolutely poisonous food, and not one living soul that you’d be seen dead with, and Run like a Rabbit was the world’s worst. Took Ollie up to the Barlows’ party and it couldn’t have been more attractive—couldn’t have been more people absolutely stinking. They had those Hungarians in the green coats, and Stewie Hunter was leading them with a fork—everybody simply died. He had yards of green toilet paper hung around his neck like a lei; he couldn’t have been in better form. Met a really new number, very tall, too marvelous, and one of those people that you can really talk to them. I told him sometimes I get so nauseated I could yip, and I felt I absolutely had to do something like write or paint. He said why didn’t I write or paint. Came home alone; Ollie passed out stiff. Called up the new number three times to-day to get him to come to dinner and go with me to the opening of Never Say Good Morning, but first he was out and then he was all tied up with his mother. Finally got Ollie Martin. Tried to read a book, but couldn’t sit still. Can’t decide whether to wear the red lace or the pink with the feathers. Feel too exhausted, but what can you do?

  Wednesday. The most terrible thing happened just this minute. Broke one of my fingernails right off short. Absolutely the most horrible thing I ever had happen to me in my life. Called up Miss Rose to come over and shape it for me, but she was out for the day. I do have the worst luck in the entire world. Now I’ll have to go around like this all day and all night, but what can you do? Damn Miss Rose. Last night too hectic. Never Say Good Morning too foul, never saw more poisonous clothes on the stage. Took Ollie up to the Ballards’ party; couldn’t have been better. They had those Hungarians in the green coats and Stewie Hunter was leading them with a freesia—too perfect. He had on Peggy Cooper’s ermine coat and Phyllis Minton’s silver turban; simply unbelievable. Asked simply sheaves of divine people to come here Friday night; got the address of those Hungarians in the green coats from Betty Ballard. She says just engage them until four, and then whoever gives them another three hundred dollars, they’ll stay till five. Couldn’t be cheaper. Started home with Ollie, but had to drop him at his house; he couldn’t have been sicker. Called up the new number to-day to get him to come to dinner and go to the opening of Everybody Up with me to-night, but he was tied up. Joe’s going to be out; he didn’t condescend to say where, of course. Started to read the papers, but nothing in them except that Mona Wheatley is in Reno charging intolerable cruelty. Called up Jim Wheatley to see if he had anything to do to-night, but he was tied up. Finally got Ollie Martin. Can’t decide whether to wear the white satin or the black chiffon or the yellow pebble crêpe. Simply wrecked to the core about my fingernail. Can’t bear it. Never knew anybody to have such unbelievable things happen to them.

  Thursday. Simply collapsing on my feet. Last night too marvelous. Everybody Up too divine, couldn’t be filthier, and the new number was there, too celestial, only he didn’t see me. He was with Florence Keeler in that loathsome gold Schiaparelli model of hers that every shopgirl has had since God knows. He must be out of his mind; she wouldn’t look at a man. Took Ollie to the Watsons’ party; couldn’t have been more thrilling. Everybody simply blind. They had those Hungarians in the green coats and Stewie Hunter was leading them with a lamp, and after the lamp got broken, he and Tommy Thomas did adagio dances—too wonderful. Somebo
dy told me Tommy’s doctor told him he had to absolutely get right out of town, he has the world’s worst stomach, but you’d never know it. Came home alone, couldn’t find Ollie anywhere. Miss Rose came at noon to shape my nail, couldn’t have been more fascinating. Sylvia Eaton can’t go out the door unless she’s had a hypodermic, and Doris Mason knows every single word about Douggie Mason and that girl up in Harlem, and Evelyn North won’t be induced to keep away from those three acrobats, and they don’t dare tell Stuyvie Raymond what he’s got the matter with him. Never knew anyone that had a more simply fascinating life than Miss Rose. Made her take that vile tangerine polish off my nails and put on dark red. Didn’t notice until after she had gone that it’s practically black in electric light; couldn’t be in a worse state. Damn Miss Rose. Joe left a note saying he was going to dine out, so telephoned the new number to get him to come to dinner and go with me to that new movie to-night, but he didn’t answer. Sent him three telegrams to absolutely surely come to-morrow night. Finally got Ollie Martin for to-night. Looked at the papers, but nothing in them except that the Harry Motts are throwing a tea with Hungarian music on Sunday. Think will ask the new number to go to it with me; they must have meant to invite me. Began to read a book, but too exhausted. Can’t decide whether to wear the new blue with the white jacket or save it till to-morrow night and wear the ivory moire. Simply heartsick every time I think of my nails. Couldn’t be wilder. Could kill Miss Rose, but what can you do?

  Friday. Absolutely sunk; couldn’t be worse. Last night too divine, movie simply deadly. Took Ollie to the Kingslands’ party, too unbelievable, everybody absolutely rolling. They had those Hungarians in the green coats, but Stewie Hunter wasn’t there. He’s got a complete nervous breakdown. Worried sick for fear he won’t be well by to-night; will absolutely never forgive him if he doesn’t come. Started home with Ollie, but dropped him at his house because he couldn’t stop crying. Joe left word with the butler he’s going to the country this afternoon for the week-end; of course he wouldn’t stoop to say what country. Called up streams of marvelous numbers to get someone to come dine and go with me to the opening of White Man’s Folly, and then go somewhere after to dance for a while; can’t bear to be the first one there at your own party. Everybody was tied up. Finally got Ollie Martin. Couldn’t feel more depressed; never should have gone anywhere near champagne and Scotch together. Started to read a book, but too restless. Called up Anne Lyman to ask about the new baby and couldn’t remember if it was a boy or girl—must get a secretary next week. Anne couldn’t have been more of a help; she said she didn’t know whether to name it Patricia or Gloria, so then of course I knew it was a girl right away. Suggested calling it Barbara; forgot she already had one. Absolutely walking the floor like a panther all day. Could spit about Stewie Hunter. Can’t face deciding whether to wear the blue with the white jacket or the purple with the beige roses. Every time I look at those revolting black nails, I want to absolutely yip. I really have the most horrible things happen to me of anybody in the entire world. Damn Miss Rose.