THE five smokers were handcuffed and transported to a federal detention camp in Oregon, where they were held in pup tents for months. They were charged with conspiracy to obtain, and willful possession of, tobacco, and were convicted in minutes, and were sentenced to write twenty thousand words apiece on the topic “Personal Integrity” by a judge who had quit cigarettes when the price went to thirty-five cents and he could not justify the expense.
The author of the letters was soon reunited with her children, and one night, while crossing a busy intersection near their home in Chicago, she saved them from sure death by pulling them back from the path of a speeding car. Her husband, who had just been telling her she could stand to lose some weight, was killed instantly, however.
1984
VERONICA GENG
MY AND ED’S PEACE PROPOSALS
ED and I each have come up with a proposed plan for the cessation of hostilities between the Reagan administration and our household. Since our plans differ in certain minor respects (Ed taking a somewhat tougher line), we offer both versions, in the hope that they may at least stimulate the administration to consider negotiations toward ending the past six and a half years of drawn-out mutual aggression and mistrust. This is not a ploy or a farce on our part. We are even putting all our personal problems on the back burner while we press these initiatives. We now task the administration with showing how sincere it is by responding in a spirit of reconciliation and good faith.
MY PLAN ED’S PLAN
1. Immediate suspension of Elliott Abrams, who will then be reflagged as a Kuwaiti vessel.
1. Ed given a line-item veto on presidential rhetoric.
2. Unconditional withdrawal of the Bork nomination; Bork allowed to head a presidential commission on the colorization of film classics.
2. Immediate amnesty for Ed’s mother, a political prisoner of right-wing mailing lists.
3. Trade and assistance: As soon as the first two conditions are met, we will give support to the administration’s economic goals by ceasing our costly flow of Mailgrams to the White House, thus freeing funds for disbursement to more productive sectors of the economy and enabling us to stop accepting aid from Ed’s mother.
3. U.S. diplomatic relations with puppet regime of Pat Buchanan severed for an indefinite cooling-off period; in return, Ed will use all his influence to halt Latin-American incursions by Joan Didion.
4. National plebiscite on secular humanism, to be supervised by elected representatives from four regional productions of La Cage aux Folles.
4. Arms reduction: Ronald Reagan to enter into a one-on-one dialogue with Peter Ueberroth to achieve a 60-day suspension of Mike Scott of the Houston Astros for pitching defaced baseballs. This is just to give Ed an added incentive to abide by the remainder of the plan.
5. Timetable for routine Rorschach and Stanford-Binet testing of President Reagan.
5. Timetable for the election of someone else as president by the end of 1988.
1987
GEORGE W. S. TROW
YOU MISSED IT
YOU should have been there—it was great. How come you missed it? I’d get up earlier if I were you. I can’t believe you missed it. Maybe you have a discipline problem.
You got here slightly too late. A moment ago we had crab cakes. Marie cooked them up. Did you see the sunset when you came in? No? I can’t believe you didn’t see it. The sky was huge and dark; curved; with wisps of light, just the way you like it. After the sun finally went down, Marie and I sat on the porch and watched an electric, vital blue just over the western horizon. You hardly ever get to see a blue like that. Marie, me, Billy—did I tell you he was there?—watched it together. Billy took me by the legs and tumbled me over and over until I burst out laughing; then he took Marie and placed her on top of me, and I laughed and laughed until I thought I would burst; and then—get this—Billy piled on top and rolled over the two of us like a steamroller. We couldn’t stop laughing.
Are you comfortable? Can I get you something? Sure? Can I ask you a question? How come you weren’t there? Were you taking some kind of examination or something? So anyway, we got up. I don’t know if you’ve seen the way Marie looks in the new dress I bought her. It hangs on her so nicely. She stood up, and I watched the dress hang. I don’t know if we missed you or not. Later on we thought, “He missed us,” but that is different. Then the little boys and girls of the neighborhood came by. We wanted to remember to tell you about that. The oldest, the cute one who is called Shiloh, brought a lizard to Marie. That’s what made her think to cook up the crab cakes. When she brought out the steaming mess of crab cakes, she put her hands on her hips and let the steam make her perspire—little drops running down her neck and even onto her breasts. “I wouldn’t care to know anyone who isn’t here with us,” she said defiantly. You should have been there. But I’ve said that.
In my opinion, you’re the kind of guy who missed Hell Week, railroads sending clouds of steam into the station, singing just to hear the sound of your own voice, and operetta. How could you have done it? With all your potential? How could you have been so stupid and lazy? You weren’t here when we had the intelligent debate about Vietnam. You skipped; you missed the moment, and don’t pretend you didn’t.
But I’m ahead of myself. Where was I? Well, after having such a wonderful time on the porch, we walked down Water Street. The lights were just beginning to come on. Suddenly we heard “The Gal from Joe’s”—the Ellington tune. It was Joe’s. An acre of pleasure spread out before our hungry eyes—room after room! Range-fed chicken, fish you can’t get anymore, delicious beers, and turkeys from Tidewater farms like “Acrewood,” “King’s Forty,” “Underlea,” “Scrivesden,” and “Rose Hall”—the last miraculously raised from its ashes. The best part was that jazz was being reborn in the back room. Maybe you heard about that—how suddenly a little white boy added a note to “A Night in Tunisia” at Joe’s in such a way that the audience was reduced to utter respectful silence, at which point black and white men and women, each one an expert in the development of bebop and other modern jazz idioms, clasped hands while tears streamed down their faces. You had to see it. Why didn’t you see it? Were you in detention or what?
Then Billy brought the novel out of its doldrums of postmodern irrelevancy. Somehow, with that wonderful natural spontaneity of his, he was able to capture what I was saying and cast it in novelistic terms. I was so enthralled with the rebirth of jazz that I must have communicated to him some quintessential American energy, which, together with his work in linguistics and his deep sympathy for Hispanics and women, came together to produce an American free-form prose that promises to enrich all our work. Whew. It took my breath away to hear it.
Then we walked out along the causeway. The little fisherfolk who go out in their boats just as they have for centuries raised a cheer: “Hurrah for the creators of a new American civilization!” they cried. The head man or person of the fisherfolk came out and explained that it is the custom—indeed, the stated purpose and goal—of the fisherfolk to be willing to die for the right to save the best fish for their sweethearts. Then in a very tender way they explained that we were their sweethearts, and they gave us all the fish. I erected an impromptu brazier, and Marie grilled them up. I gave Marie a little kiss, and Marie gave Billy a big hearty sloppy one, and we all three settled down to eat this corn tortilla of incomparable delicacy, which Marie had in her pocket.
Then we told stories about you. How you didn’t get a National Merit Scholarship. (Remember how easy they were to get?) And how you missed seeing the Tall Ships. I mean, everybody saw the Tall Ships. I know people who were sick beyond endurance with seeing the Tall Ships by accident—just running into the sight of them out a window or something—and apparently you never saw them once. And how about all those things you said you saw when we weren’t with you, like the Liberation of Paris, and the ’51 National League pennant race, and Elvis when he was under contract to Sam Phillips at Sun in Memphis?
Marie
said she likes you anyway. She told a long story about taking a bicycle trip with you in France and stopping in an out-of-the-way restaurant that looked just perfect and all they had was toast. “How do you make it?” you asked. The man said nothing. “How much is it?” you asked. By the way, the man turned out to be a great artist, and the sketches Marie bought that day are worth a small fortune now. I wonder why you had to ask that. You made the man so sad. Marie liked him right away and made friends, or so she says.
Could I borrow about one hundred dollars? Your parts are on order. We had some corned beef, but that guy over there got the last serving.
1988
GEORGE W. S. TROW
A MAN WHO CAN’T LOVE
(DEDICATED TO WOMEN WHO LOVE TOO MUCH)
TODAY, instead of going through the usual routine, which, frankly, none of you seem to be getting that well, I thought I’d focus on these failed candidates, point out why they flunked, have a good time with their flaws. Let’s look at what they did wrong.
1. CLAIRE
Claire is an attractive film reviewer in her early thirties. A stunning brunette, she’s been in and out of a dozen “relationships” but is now “available” again. When I met her, she had just been through a painful and extremely self-destructive relationship with “Fred.” “Fred,” a ravishing film editor in his late thirties, was married and insisted on meeting her in obscure resorts on holidays only. (His wife belonged to a violent religious group, quite beyond animal sacrifice, self-flagellation, etc., which did not permit outsiders to participate in their festive seasons.) Claire, who was, as I say, a wildly attractive film reviewer, the graduate of a topnotch Eastern school, the daughter of attractive, highly educated people (her father was provost of a major interdenominational religious restaurant; her mother, an attractive, well-educated woman in her mid-fifties, doled out anabolic steroids and had corrupted many of the nation’s finest athletes—in Canada, too), was beginning to wonder if she would ever have a happy, sustained relationship.
The answer is: Not with me she can’t. Claire is making one simple, basic error, like many other attractive film reviewers; however often she changes the externals of her situation, basically the underlying problem remains untouched. The fact is, I don’t date film reviewers. I date film critics. Claire came on with a clumsy “thumbs up, thumbs down” routine, which was, frankly, an embarrassment. One and a half stars for that one, Claire. I thought the plot was kind of contrived, and we’ve seen these characters before.
2. MARY
Mary is one of those women who can’t seem to get a handle on life. She just drifts from day to day, unable to concentrate on her real ambition, which is to torment her daughter. We’ll be hearing more about Mary later.
3. SUSAN
Susan cannot learn to classify men. In fact, she can’t tell one from another. The subway, where there are hundreds of men, is a particular problem for her. So let’s give it one more try for Susan. Sit down and listen. There are three kinds of men:
1. The Wheedler
At first he’s all attention. She can’t get enough of him, he can’t get enough of her (so she thinks), but all the time she’s putting garnishes on the dish of love, he’s getting ready to move out.
2. The Tomcat
She’s in heaven: she’s finally met “The One.” The trouble is just that—trouble. The reason he’s so crazy about her is that he’s crazy about every girl. He can’t get enough! He’s an absolute raving maniac! He’s ready to go again! He’s out the door! He’s back!
Mary, above, was an amazing example of putting up with this. Mary’s case was extreme. Frankly, I’d never heard of anything quite like it. This is what she told me:
My husband admitted to me on our wedding night that he had “a secret ambition” and it was to populate an entire state. He said that he would be a “good husband” to me as long as I would “turn a blind eye” to the fact that he would be having thousands of children by other women. The code word for our deal was “Nebraska.” It got so I couldn’t bear to hear the name of any Midwestern state. Breakfast, lunchtime, dinner, it was always time to “go to Nebraska,” or “see the Cornhuskers,” or some similar term. Conventions and business trips were a strain for me—and apparently for him. And I’d be expected to nurse him back to health! But then he’d turn “sweet” and tell me I was the “only one,” and I’d believe him! I can’t believe what a fool I was! As soon as he had his strength again, he’d be back “in Omaha,” or “going to Grand Island.” It was a nightmare! It went on for over thirty years, and I believe that a high percentage of that state are his children. I have met some of his “other women”—how could I not meet them? There were hundreds, thousands of them—and they all swear by my husband, but to me it was a living daydream or unreality, and it’s still going on! I’m out of my mind to put up with it!
3. The No-Goodnik
Frankly, this guy’s just a heel. Don’t expect him to change—you change. You take the crucial creative steps toward self-involvement with yourself and other women like yourself who have come to terms with coming to understand that he’s not going to change, and realize that, unlike you, he’s condemned to the nightmare of constantly looking at and desiring women. You have to face the fact that he’s just no good. The fact is that if you deny it you just stay in the same patterns, which seem to change but don’t. If you catch yourself talking to one of these men—at a bar or cocktail lounge is where they are—tell him, I’m going to change, and have the satisfaction of watching him walk right into that same old pattern of watching and desiring women who are unable or unwilling to see that he won’t change. See that guy over there? Watch him. Think he’s going to change? Uh-uh. I’m glad I’m with a person who is able to watch that striking upscale brunette begin to go through the same patterns, participating in the delusion that he’s going to change. Can I buy you a drink while we wait?
1989
DAVID OWEN
HOW I’M DOING
IN the hope of establishing a more equitable framework by which the public can evaluate my effectiveness as a father, husband, friend, and worker, I am pleased to announce that the methodology heretofore used in measuring my performance is being revised. Beginning tomorrow, my reputation and compensation will no longer be based on yearlong, cumulative assessments of my attainments but will instead be derived from periodic samplings of defined duration, or “sweeps.”
From now on, ratings of my success as a parent will be based solely on perceptions of my conduct during the two weeks beginning March 7th (aka “spring vacation”), the two weeks beginning August 1st (aka “summer vacation”), the seven days ending December 25th, and my birthday. No longer will my ranking be affected by unsolicited anecdotal reports from minors concerning my alleged “cheapness,” “strictness,” and “loser” qualities, or by the contents of viewing diaries maintained by my dependents. Page views, click-throughs, and People Meter data concerning me will also be disregarded, except during the aforementioned periods. The opinions of my children will no longer be counted in evaluations of my sense of humor.
Public appraisals of my behavior at parties will henceforth not be drawn from overnight ratings provided by my wife; instead, my annual ranking will be based on a random sampling of my level of intoxication during the week following January 2nd. My official weight for the year will be my median weight during the four weeks beginning July 1st. All measures of my geniality, thoughtfulness, romantic disposition, and willingness to compromise will henceforth be calculated just three times per year: on September 15th (my wife’s birthday), August 26th (our anniversary), and February 14th. My high-school grades, SAT scores, college grades, and income history will no longer be available for inclusion in any of my ratings, and in fact they will be expunged from my personal database. Evaluations of my success as a stock-market investor will no longer include the performance of my portfolio during the month of October.
Beginning in 2001, my annual compensation will cease to consist o
f my total income over the twelve months of the fiscal year; instead, my yearly pay will be adjusted to equal not less than thirteen times my nominal gross earnings during the four weeks beginning February 1st, when the holiday season is over, my children are back in school, and my local golf course has not yet reopened for the spring. My critics may object that my output during February is not representative of my output during the rest of the year, especially when I am at the beach. However, I believe (and my auditors concur) that the work I do during periods of cold, miserable weather provides the best available indication of my actual abilities as a worker and therefore constitutes the only fair and objective basis for calculating my true contribution to the economy. Conversely, my federal income-tax liability will henceforth be based on an annualized computation of my total earnings between Memorial Day and Labor Day.
These changes are being made as a part of my ongoing effort to insure that public data concerning me and my personality are the very best available. This new protocol may be further modified by me at any time without advance notice, and, in any case, is not legally binding. In addition, all assessments of my performance are subject to later revision, as improved information becomes available. Specifically, my lifetime ratings in all categories may be posthumously adjusted, within thirty days of my death, to reflect the content of newspaper obituaries regarding me, should any such be published, and the things that people say about me at my funeral.
Disquiet, Please! Page 34