So I guess it must be only in the book where he talks about The Combine as a Central Metaphor, although I have to say, it’s a little hard to imagine Chief Broom all of a sudden talking like an English teacher! But I will take your word for it because no, I did not read the book, and yes, I know you said we couldn’t just rent the movie, but Mr. Manderino I am a single mother with a four-year-old daughter and a full-time job and I am very sorry but I don’t always have time to sit down and read an entire book, and if the movie is based on the book and if that same movie just happened to win five Academy Awards for that year, including Best Picture, then, with all due respect, I really do not see the problem.
Have you ever seen it? I’m sure you probably have, probably more than once, if you were honest. But in case you haven’t, it stars Jack Nicholson as the ever-rambunctious roustabout Randle McMurphy, forever trying to get the other patients to lighten up and enjoy life, and ending up as a vegetable, a cruel and unusual fate for one so full of fun and mischief, but I guess the message is, that’s what happens to the individual in modern society nowadays who dares to be free, free at last, thank God almighty, free at last.
In conclusion, let me just say I am very disappointed in you, Mr. Manderino. You come on like Mister Laidback, Mister Nice Guy, in your jeans and your loose-fitting sweaters, talking like you just got back from Woodstock, then you stab us in the back with your Combine as a Central Metaphor. I honestly thought you were on our side.
Also, by the way, just thought you should know. If I flunk this class? I will lose my financial aid. And if that happens? I will have to drop out of school. And if that happens? I will be stuck forever at Bonanza and my four-year-old daughter will be doomed to a cheap, crappy, discount existence.
“Mommy, why do I have to wear clothes from Goodwill? Why can’t I ever have anything nice?”
“Hush, little one, don’t cry. It’s because of The Combine as a Central Metaphor.”
GANDHI
I lived for a while in the basement of a middle-aged couple from Bombay. I liked it down there. The walls and floor were cool cement, I had a corduroy couch that opened into a bed, a little black and white TV, some carpet samples for throw rugs, and everything had the smell of sandalwood incense clinging to it.
The husband’s name was Ruki: tall, bald, brown as an acorn and very amiable. I didn’t care much for his tiny wife, though. Maha had a red dot in the middle of her forehead and a sharp ugly voice. I could hear her up there:
“Ruki, how many times must I tell you?”
“Ruki, I am losing my patience!”
“Ruki, bring me a glass of water!”
“Ruki!”
He often came downstairs, heavily, and sat with me on the couch. Sometimes we watched television. Or he would talk. One evening he told me if you climbed the Himalayas high enough, here and there you would find solitary blissful men sitting cross-legged in the snow wearing nothing but a loin cloth.
“With little spinning wheels?”
“Are you making fun?”
“I’m sorry. Not at all.”
“You’re thinking of Gandhi perhaps?”
I told him I’d seen the movie when it came out last year. “With what’s his name … British actor … excellent …”
“I met him once.”
“No kidding? I think he won an Oscar for it. What’s his name again?”
“Not your actor. Gandhi himself. I was very small, of course, a mere infant. What a kind face he had.”
“Ruki!” Maha called down.
“Yes, my cherished one!” He stood. “Excuse me please,” he said, and began heading up the stairs. But then he suddenly turned back and said he’d forgotten to ask: “How does one go about applying for the Peace Corps?”
“The Peace Corps?”
“Yes please.”
“Well … I’m not real sure. Any particular country?” “Ruki! I am waiting!” “No particular country.”
As part of my rent agreement, I was allowed to use a shelf in their refrigerator up there, which was all I needed for my beer, bread and baloney. I remember one Saturday afternoon I came up for a beer as Maha was sweeping the kitchen floor and Ruki was out mowing the lawn. “Ruki has left some of his tea,” she said. “You may finish it.” She was standing near the sink, holding out the cup, smiling benevolently. “Otherwise I will throw it down the drain.”
I laughed. I couldn’t help it.
“Have I said something amusing?”
“Yes,” I told her, yanking a can of beer from its plastic noose.
“Please explain.”
I walked over, took the cup from her hand, dumped the tea into the sink and gave her back the cup.
She stood there studying me, her head to one side. “You are very dynamic,” she observed.
“What can I say?” I popped open my beer and headed downstairs to watch the rest of the Cubs game.
When his Peace Corps application arrived, Ruki came downstairs with it, excited. But not only was he rather old for a volunteer, he lacked any useful skills. And yet he felt certain there must be something he could do, somewhere in the world, preferably in a supervisory capacity. “For example, I could oversee the construction of a bridge across a narrow but very treacherous river.”
I pointed out he had no training or experience as an engineer.
He admitted this was true, but said he could nevertheless very easily imagine himself inspiring a group of young volunteers to build a bridge which would not only span a river but would also span religious, racial and cultural differences as well. “For, as you know, we are all brothers,” he said.
“I suppose.”
He looked through the application. “They ask here for a personal reference. Would you be so kind?”
I told him I’d be glad to write something.
“I am in your debt. May I ask—I am curious—what will you say?”
“Well …”
“Please be candid.”
“I’ll say Ruki is a good man.”
“You are very kind.”
“I’ll say … he’s an intelligent man.”
“I am blushing. Please continue.”
“Let’s see, he’s a very … a very …”
“Happy man?”
I looked at him. “Okay. Sure. I’ll say that.”
“You seem doubtful.”
“Not at all.”
“Perhaps you could mention my having once met Gandhi, do you suppose?”
“Well …”
“Mention how he took my little hand in his and said, ‘Ruki, listen to me. I am going to tell you something you must never forget.’”
“Ruki,” Maha called down, “come here please.”
He sighed, gathered up his papers.
“Well?” I asked. “What did Gandhi say?”
He sat there for a moment looking off, then shrugged. “It’s of no importance.”
“‘All through history,’” I quoted, “‘the way of truth has always won.’”
He looked at me. “Is that from your movie?”
“Well, yeah, but I’m sure he actually said it.”
“I touched his hand.”
“I know, Ruki. I know.”
“You know. What do you know? Nothing. Movies. That’s all you know. I touched his—”
“Ruki, I am waiting!”
“Yes!” he shouted angrily, and got up from the couch. “I am on my way!” He headed up the stairs. But then he stopped and hurried down again. “I am so sorry. Please forgive my words.”
They had hurt me—it surprised me how deeply—but I nodded, holding up my hand, and told him not to worry about it.
“You will write the letter?” he asked quietly.
“Yes,” I assured him.
“You are very kind.” He quickly headed up the stairs again.
APOCALYPSE NOW
American helicopter gunships come swarming over the little Vietnamese village, people in coolie hats—men, women and chil
dren—running for their lives, Wagner’s “The Flight of the Valkyries” blaring. It’s horrible and appalling, but thrilling too, with that music.
Afterwards, as Robert Duvall is striding around in a cavalry hat barking orders, my brother Mike hits the Pause button on the remote. “Right back,” he says, and hurries off, leaving Robert Duvall standing there with his hands on his hips.
This is the third time Mike has checked on Joey since the movie started. His wife Debbie is away, something with her job, so he’s a little nervous, Joey being only eight months old, and I understand, I don’t blame him, but I rented this to show him what I regard as one of the greatest war movies ever made, and all this stopping and starting is destroying the rhythm of it.
I reach over and grab the remote.
“You want anything?” he calls out from the kitchen.
“No, I’m good. Let’s go, amigo.”
He returns with a can of Coke. “You should see him now, he’s all curled up in the corner, his little fists like this.”
“Joe Palooka. Okay, ready?”
“Gimme that thing.”
“Here we go.” I hit Play.
Martin Sheen and his little crew are soon back in their patrol boat, resuming their journey down the river, deeper and deeper into the jungle, their mission to find and kill Colonel Kurtz, this decorated Green Beret who’s gone all the way down the river and around the bend, who, in fact, has gone quite completely insane.
Spooky, hypnotic music is playing.
I can feel Mike getting pulled in, feel his stillness at the other end of the couch, so I keep quiet, letting the movie speak for itself.
It’s night when the boat finally passes Do Lung Bridge, the last army outpost. Beyond it, Martin Sheen tells us, there was only Kurtz.
“Stop, okay?”
“Ah, Jesus.” I hit Pause.
“Sorry,” he says, hurrying off.
I take a drink from his Coke. On the screen there’s a view from the back of the boat, the brown churning wake, the lights of the bridge in the distance, the boat entering uncharted waters now, literally and of course metaphorically.
“He’s really sweating,” Mike says, returning. “The back of his hair’s all stuck to his neck. I took the blanket off him.”
“Babies tend to sweat quite a lot in their sleep,” I assure him.
“You making that up?”
“I think I read it somewhere. Ready?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“He’s fine, Mike.”
“Go ahead. I want to meet this Kurtz.”
“You will,” I tell him ominously, and hit Play.
“It’s Marlon Brando, right?”
“Shh.”
A heavy fog is on the river the following morning and as they move slowly through it, there’s suddenly an attack from the invisible shore—with spears and arrows, as if they’re not only passing deeper into the jungle but deeper into human history, towards some Primordial Origin. I consider hitting Pause to briefly explain this “heart-of-darkness” theme at work, from the Conrad novel, but I don’t want to break the spell.
They continue down the brown, meandering river.
He was close, says Martin Sheen. I couldn’t see him yet, but I could feel him. A slow, steady bass note begins thudding, like a beating heart, Mike and I sitting very quiet, very still …
Then Joey starts wailing.
Mike is up and gone without a word.
I hit Pause.
Apparently you can’t ever have it. You can’t ever have a perfect movie moment. It’s like a fucking law. You can’t have it. And why? Because there’s always something. Always.
Paused, Martin Sheen is standing at the front of the boat looking through binoculars. I know what he’s seeing. They’re approaching the Kurtz compound and he’s looking at dead naked bodies hanging from the trees, at piles of skulls along the shore, at huge stone idols. He’s soon going to meet squirrely Dennis Hopper, who will take him to Kurtz—massive, baldheaded Marlon Brando—and after Martin Sheen finally hacks him up with a machete, Brando will lie there staring straight up, whispering, The … horror. The … horror.
Mike returns holding Joey, who’s quiet now. “Joe, look who’s here.”
I tell him hi and ask Mike, “So now what?”
“Go ahead,” he says, standing there jiggling him a little. “Hit it.”
“You’re not gonna put him back?”
“He’ll just start crying again.”
“What if we close the door and turn up the volume?”
“That’s … not a good idea.”
“There’s only about forty minutes left.”
“He’ll be quiet. Won’t you, Joe.”
His head against his father’s chest, Joey is looking at me out of one suspicious eye.
I get up from the couch. “Tell you what. Leave the tape in the machine. We’ll watch the rest some other night.” I grab my jacket from the chair. “Or go ahead and watch it yourself, I don’t care.”
“What’s the problem? He’ll be quiet. Look at him.”
“I can’t watch a movie with a baby in the room, okay? I’m sorry. I can’t do it. I won’t.”
“Joe, tell him.”
“Tell me what.”
“You’re being goofy.”
“Yeah, well, what can I say.” I walk up and bring my face close to Joey’s. “Nice seeing you, Joe. Always a treat.”
He gives a whimper and buries his face in his father’s golf shirt.
I look at Mike. “What the hell is that?”
“I don’t know,” Mike says, looking down at him. “Maybe he thinks you don’t like him.” He goes walking him around, Joey peering over his father’s shoulder, keeping an eye on me.
So now I feel like a real asshole.
“What’re you talking about?” I say, following them, addressing Joey. “Did I say I didn’t like you? Did I say that, Joe? Did I?”
Joey ducks back down.
“Joe,” Mike tells him, turning to me. “It’s your uncle John. He wants to talk. He wants to apologize.”
“I wouldn’t go that far. Here, lemme have him for a minute.”
“What for?”
“I’m not gonna hurt him. Jesus.”
“All right but if he starts screaming …”
“You’ll get him back, believe me.”
“Joe, wanna see Uncle John? Here, go see Uncle John. You’re okay,” he tells him, carefully handing him over, “you’re okay,” Joey looking too scared to cry out. I hold him by the armpits, face to face. He doesn’t squirm or kick, just hangs there staring at me, bug-eyed.
The … horror.
“Listen to me, Joe. Listen carefully. You are not in danger. Do you understand? I have no intention of—”
“Hold him,” Mike tells me.
“Right.” I bring him carefully against my chest, left arm under his diapered butt, right hand on the back of his sweaty little T-shirt. He still hasn’t screamed but he’s ready to, all clenched up, breathing fast and shallow. “Relax, will ya? I’m your uncle, for Christ sake.”
“Walk him around.”
I do so, patting him on the back, telling him not to be afraid, that I’m not a monster, we’ve all got our faults, our dark places, mentioning Colonel Kurtz from the movie he ruined, explaining there’s a bit of Kurtz in all of us, some of that same heart of darkness, which by the way, I tell him, was the book they used, Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad, written long before Vietnam of course, around nineteen hundred, nineteen-oh-five, somewhere in there—then suddenly Joey does this wonderful thing, he gives a gigantic yawn.
I look over at Mike. “See that?”
“I did,” he says, nodding, as pleased as me.
I walk Joey around some more, telling him how wonderful he is, what a wonderful little boy, while he actually falls asleep in my arms.
FIELD OF DREAMS
Kevin Costner keeps telling his wife and little girl all about Shoeless Joe Jackson, what a
great ballplayer he was, quoting batting statistics, quoting Babe Ruth who called him the greatest hitter he ever saw, and then when Shoeless Joe finally appears—his ghost or whatever—they’ve got him batting right-handed.
I whispered to Nan, “He was a left-handed batter.”
She nodded.
“He threw right-handed but he batted lefty.”
She patted my leg.
I sat back and folded my arms.
The movie was obviously intended to be very magical and moving and maybe it was—people were sniffling, including Nan at a couple places—and the ending was clearly designed to bring tears, Kevin Costner playing catch with his dead father, the music working away.
His father’s glove looked a lot like my dad’s.
He used to play catch with me and Mike in the alley, in the twilight, home from the butcher shop, still in his tie, tossing us pop-ups and grounders and a flutterball that didn’t really flutter, wearing this plump little old-time glove—no web, no lacing between the fingers—a Spalding, Dazzy Vance model. He’d had that glove since he was a kid, our age. He kept it oiled, up in his closet.
I took it to the park one day, just to see. You had to catch the ball right in the pocket, with two hands, no fancy stuff. I felt like one of those gritty old Tinkers-to-Evers-to-Chance type guys. But then I muffed an easy grounder and went back to my own glove, a Wilson, Eddie Matthews.
And that was the only one I came home with.
By the time I remembered and raced back, it was gone. I looked all over the ball field, twice, then all around the entire darkening park: the other ball diamond, the football field, the playground area.
It was gone.
I asked around the next day but no one knew anything: “Probably starlings,” was the general opinion. Ever since the previous summer’s starling crisis, they were blamed for anything missing, even things like bicycles.
“A little catch?” Dad offered one evening not long afterwards.
Mike and I glanced at each other. “Sure,” we said. “Okay.”
Crying at Movies Page 10