by Ron Padgett
I remember how much I used to stutter.
I remember how much, in high school, I wanted to be handsome and popular.
I remember when, in high school, if you wore green and yellow on Thursday it meant that you were queer.
I remember when, in high school, I used to stuff a sock in my underwear.
I remember when I decided to be a minister. I don’t remember when I decided not to be.
I remember the first time I saw television. Lucille Ball was taking ballet lessons.
I remember the day John Kennedy was shot.
I remember that for my fifth birthday all I wanted was an off-one-shoulder black satin evening gown. I got it. And I wore it to my birthday party.
I remember a dream I had recently where John Ashbery said that my Mondrian period paintings were even better than Mondrian.
I remember a dream I have had often of being able to fly. (Without an airplane.)
I remember many dreams of finding gold and jewels.
I remember a little boy I used to take care of after school while his mother worked. I remember how much fun it was to punish him for being bad.
I remember a dream I used to have of a lot of a beautiful red and yellow and black snakes in bright green grass.
I remember St. Louis when I was very young. I remember the tattoo shop next to the bus station and the two big lions in front of the Museum of Art.
I remember an American history teacher who was always threatening to jump out of the window if we didn’t quiet down. (Second floor.)
I remember my first sexual experience in a subway. Some guy (I was afraid to look at him) got a hard-on and was rubbing it back and forth against my arm. I got very excited and when my stop came I hurried out and home where I tried to do an oil painting using my dick as a brush.
I remember the first time I really got drunk. I painted my hands and face green with Easter egg dye and spent the night in Pat Padgett’s bathtub. She was Pat Mitchell then.
I remember another early sexual experience. At the Museum of Modern Art. In the movie theater. I don’t remember the movie. First there was a knee pressed to mine. Then there was a hand on my knee. Then a hand on my crotch. Then a hand inside my pants. Inside my underwear. It was very exciting but I was afraid to look at him. He left before the movie was over and I thought he would be outside waiting for me by the print exhibition but I waited around and nobody showed any interest.
I remember when I lived in a storefront next door to a meat packing house on East Sixth Street. One very fat meat packer who always ate at the same diner on the corner that I ate at followed me home and asked if he could come in and see my paintings. Once inside he instantly unzipped his blood-stained white pants and pulled out an enormous dick. He asked me to touch it and I did. As repulsive as it all was, it was exciting too, and I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. But then I said I had to go out and he said, “Let’s get together,” and I said, “No,” but he was very insistent so I said, “Yes.” He was very fat and ugly and really very disgusting, so when the time came for our date I went out for a walk. But who should I run into on the street but him, all dressed up and spanking clean. I felt bad that I had to tell him that I had changed my mind. He offered me money but I said no.
I remember my parents’ bridge teacher. She was very fat and very butch (cropped hair) and she was a chain smoker. She prided herself on the fact that she didn’t have to carry matches around. She lit each new cigarette from the old one. She lived in a little house behind a restaurant and lived to be very old.
I remember playing “doctor” in the closet.
I remember painting “I HATE TED BERRIGAN” in big black letters all over my white wall.
I remember throwing my eyeglasses into the ocean off the Staten Island ferry one black night in a fit of drama and depression.
I remember once when I made scratches on my face with my fingernails so people would ask me what happened, and I would say a cat did it, and, of course, they would know that a cat did not do it.
I remember the linoleum floors of my Dayton, Ohio, room. A white puffy floral design on dark red.
I remember sack dresses.
I remember when a fish-tail dress I designed was published in “Katy Keene” comics.
I remember box suits.
I remember pill box hats.
I remember round cards.
I remember squaw dresses.
I remember big fat ties with fish on them.
I remember the first ballpoint pens. They skipped, and deposited little balls of ink that would accumulate on the point.
I remember rainbow pads.
I remember Aunt Cleora who lived in Hollywood. Every year for Christmas she sent my brother and me a joint present of one book.
I remember the day Frank O’Hara died. I tried to do a painting somehow especially for him. (Especially good.) And it turned out awful.
I remember canasta.
I remember “How Much Is That Doggie in the Window?”
I remember butter and sugar sandwiches.
I remember Pat Boone and “Love Letters in the Sand.”
I remember Teresa Brewer and “I Don’t Want No Ricochet Romance.”
I remember “The Tennessee Waltz.”
I remember “Sixteen Tons.”
I remember “The Thing.”
I remember The Hit Parade.
I remember Dorothy Collins.
I remember Dorothy Collins’ teeth.
I remember when I worked in an antique-junk shop and I sold everything cheaper than I was supposed to.
I remember when I lived in Boston reading all of Dostoevsky’s novels one right after the other.
I remember (Boston) panhandling on the street where all the art galleries were.
I remember collecting cigarette butts from the urns in front of The Museum of Fine Arts in Boston.
I remember planning to tear page 48 out of every book I read from the Boston Public Library, but soon losing interest.
I remember Bickford’s.
I remember the day Marilyn Monroe died.
I remember the first time I met Frank O’Hara. He was walking down Second Avenue. It was a cool early Spring evening but he was wearing only a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. And blue jeans. And moccasins. I remember that he seemed very sissy to me. Very theatrical. Decadent. I remember that I liked him instantly.
I remember a red car coat.
I remember going to the ballet with Edwin Denby in a red car coat.
I remember learning to play bridge so I could get to know Frank O’Hara better.
I remember playing bridge with Frank O’Hara. (Mostly talk.)
I remember my grade school art teacher, Mrs. Chick, who got so mad at a boy one day she dumped a bucket of water over his head.
I remember my collection of ceramic monkeys.
I remember my brother’s collection of ceramic horses.
I remember when I was a “Demolay.” I wish I could remember the secret handshake so I could reveal it to you.
I remember my grandfather who didn’t believe in doctors. He didn’t work because he had a tumor. He played cribbage all day. And wrote poems. He had very long ugly toe nails. I avoided looking at his feet as much as I could.
I remember Moley, the local freak and notorious queer. He had a very little head that grew out of his body like a mole. No one knew him, but everyone knew who he was. He was always “around.”
I remember liver.
I remember Bettina Beer. (A girl.) We used to go to dances together. I bet she was a dyke, though it never would have occurred to me at the time. She cussed a lot. And she drank and smoked with her mother’s approval. She didn’t have a father. She wore heavy blue eye shadow and she had white spots on her arms.
I remember riding in a bus downtown one day, in Tulsa, and a boy I knew slightly from school sat down beside me and started asking questions like “Do you like girls?” He was a real creep. When we
got downtown (where all the stores are) he kept following me around until finally he talked me into going with him to his bank where he said he had something to put in his safe-deposit box. I remember that I didn’t know what a safe-deposit box was. When we got to the bank a bank man gave him his box and led us into a booth with gold curtains. The boy opened up the box and pulled out a gun. He showed it to me and I tried to be impressed and then he put it back in the box and asked me if I would unzip my pants. I said no. I remember that my knees were shaking. After we left the bank I said that I had to go to Brown-Dunkin’s (Tulsa’s largest department store) and he said he had to go there too. To go to the bathroom. In the men’s room he tried something else (I forget exactly what) and I ran out the door and that was that. It is very strange that an eleven- or twelve-year-old boy would have a safe-deposit box. With a gun in it. He had an older sister who was known to be “loose.”
I remember Liberace.
I remember “Liberace loafers” with tassels.
I remember those bright-colored nylon seersucker shirts that you could see through.
I remember many first days of school. And that empty feeling.
I remember the clock from three to three-thirty.
I remember when girls wore cardigan sweaters backwards.
I remember when girls wore lots of can-can slips. It got so bad (so noisy) that the principal had to put a limit on how many could be worn. I believe the limit was three.
I remember thin gold chains with one little pearl hanging from them.
I remember mustard seed necklaces with a mustard seed inside a little glass ball.
I remember pony tails.
I remember when hoody boys wore their blue jeans so low that the principal had to put a limit on that too. I believe it was three inches below the navel.
I remember shirt collars turned up in back.
I remember Perry Como shirts. And Perry Como sweaters.
I remember duck-tails.
I remember Cherokee haircuts.
I remember no belts.
I remember many Sunday afternoon dinners of fried chicken or pot roast.
I remember my first oil painting. It was of a chartreuse green field of grass with a little Italian village far away.
I remember when I tried out to be a cheerleader and didn’t make it.
I remember many Septembers.
I remember one day in gym class when my name was called out I just couldn’t say “here.” I stuttered so badly that sometimes words just wouldn’t come out of my mouth at all. I had to run around the field many times.
I remember a rather horsy-looking girl who tried to seduce me on a New York City roof. Although I got it up, I really didn’t want to do anything, so I told her that I had a headache.
I remember one football player who wore very tight faded blue jeans, and the way he filled them.
I remember when I got drafted and had to go way downtown to take my physical. It was early in the morning. I had an egg for breakfast and I could feel it sitting there in my stomach. After roll call a man looked at me and ordered me to a different line than most of the boys were lined up at. (I had very long hair which was more unusual then than it is now.) The line I was sent to turned out to be the line to see the head doctor. (I was going to ask to see him anyway.) The doctor asked me if I was queer and I said yes. Then he asked me what homosexual experiences I had had and I said none. (It was the truth.) And he believed me. I didn’t even have to take my clothes off.
I remember a boy who told me a dirty pickle joke. It was the first clue I had as to what sex was all about.
I remember when my father would say “Keep your hands out from under the covers” as he said goodnight. But he said it in a nice way.
I remember when I thought that if you did anything bad, policemen would put you in jail.
I remember one very cold and black night on the beach alone with Frank O’Hara. He ran into the ocean naked and it scared me to death.
I remember lightning.
I remember wild red poppies in Italy.
I remember selling blood every three months on Second Avenue.
I remember a boy I once made love with and after it was all over he asked me if I believed in God.
I remember when I thought that anything old was very valuable.
I remember Black Beauty.
I remember when I thought that Betty Grable was beautiful.
I remember when I thought that I was a great artist.
I remember when I wanted to be rich and famous. (And I still do!)
I remember when I had a job cleaning out an old man’s apartment who had died. Among his belongings was a very old photograph of a naked young boy pinned to an old pair of young boy’s underwear. For many years he was the choir director at church. He had no family or relatives.
I remember a boy who worked for an undertaker after school. He was a very good tap dancer. He invited me to spend the night with him one day. His mother was divorced and somewhat of a cheap blond in appearance. I remember that his mother caught us innocently wrestling out in the yard and she got very mad. She told him never to do that again. I realized that something was going on that I knew nothing about. We were ten or eleven years old. I was never invited back. Years later, in high school, he caused a big scandal when a love letter he had written to another boy was found. He then quit school and worked full time for the undertaker. One day I ran into him on the street and he started telling me about a big room with lots of beds where all the undertaker employees slept. He said that each bed had a little white tent in the morning. I excused myself and said goodbye. Several hours later I figured out what he had meant. Early morning erections.
I remember when I worked in a snack bar and how much I hated people who ordered malts.
I remember when I worked for a department store doing fashion drawings for newspaper ads.
I remember Frank O’Hara’s walk. Light and sassy. With a slight bounce and a slight twist. It was a beautiful walk. Confident. “I don’t care” and sometimes “I know you are looking.”
I remember four Alice Esty concerts.
I remember being Santa Claus in a school play.
I remember Beverly who had a very small cross tattooed on her arm.
I remember Miss Peabody, my grade school librarian.
I remember Miss Fly, my grade school science teacher.
I remember a very poor boy who had to wear his sister’s blouses to school.
I remember Easter suits.
I remember taffeta. And the way it sounded.
I remember my collection of Nova Scotia pamphlets and travel information.
I remember my collection of “Modess because . . . ” magazine ads.
I remember my father’s collection of arrow heads.
I remember a 1949 red Ford convertible we once had.
I remember The Power of Positive Thinking by Norman Vincent Peale.
I remember “four o’clocks.” (A flower that closes at four.)
I remember trying to visualize my mother and father actually fucking.
I remember a cartoon of a painter painting from a naked model (back view) and on his canvas was a picture of a Parker House roll.
I remember my grandfather who lived on a farm dunking his cornbread in his buttermilk. He didn’t like to talk.
I remember the outhouse and a Sears and Roebuck catalog to wipe off with.
I remember animal smells and very cold water on your face in the morning.
I remember how heavy the cornbread was.
I remember crêpe paper roses. Old calendars. And cow patties.
I remember when in grade school you gave a valentine to every person in your class in fear that someone might give you one that you didn’t have one for.
I remember when dark green walls were popular.
I remember driving through the Ozarks and all the gift shops we didn’t stop at.
I remember home-room mothers.
I remembe
r being a safety guard and wearing a white strap.
I remember “Hazel” in The Saturday Evening Post.
I remember ringworms. And name tags.
I remember always losing one glove.
I remember loafers with pennies in them.
I remember Dr. Pepper. And Royal Crown Cola.
I remember those brown fur pieces with little feet and little heads and little tails.
I remember “Suave” hair cream. (Pale peach.)
I remember house shoes, plaid flannel bath robes, and “Casper” the Friendly Ghost.
I remember pop beads.
I remember “come-as-you-are” parties. Everybody cheated.
I remember game rooms in basements.
I remember milkmen. Postmen. Guest towels. “Welcome” mats. And Avon ladies.
I remember driftwood lamps.
I remember reading once about a lady who choked to death eating a piece of steak.
I remember when fiberglass was going to solve everything.
I remember rubbing my hand under a restaurant table top and feeling all the gum.
I remember the chair I used to put my boogers behind.
I remember Pug and George and their only daughter Norma Jean who was very beautiful and died of cancer.
I remember Jim and Lucy. Jim sold insurance and Lucy taught school. Every time we saw them they gave us a handful of plastic billfold calendars advertising insurance.
I remember Saturday night baths and Sunday morning comics.
I remember bacon and lettuce and tomato sandwiches and iced tea in the summertime.
I remember potato salad.
I remember salt on watermelon.
I remember strapless net formals in pastel colors that came down to the ankles. And carnation corsages on little short jackets.
I remember Christmas carols. And car lots.
I remember bunk beds.
I remember rummage sales. Ice cream socials. White gravy. And Hopalong Cassidy.
I remember knitted “pants” on drinking glasses.
I remember bean bag ashtrays that would stay level on irregular surfaces.
I remember shower curtains with angel fish on them.
I remember Christmas card wastebaskets.