The Collected Writings of Joe Brainard: Library of America Special Edition

by Ron Padgett

  I remember how boring newsreels were.

  I remember a boy named Henry who was said to have poured a mixture of orange pop and popcorn off the balcony of the “Ritz” movie theatre as he made gagging sounds.

  I remember trying to imagine certain people going to the bathroom.

  I remember someone telling me that if you farted on a lit match it would make a big blue flame.

  I remember wondering if girls fart too.

  I remember marbles.

  I remember having marbles more than I remember playing marbles.

  I remember playing hopscotch without ever really knowing the rules.

  I remember a plate that hung on the wall above the T.V. set that said, “God Bless Our Mortgaged Home.”

  I remember light green notebook paper. (Better for your eyes than white.)

  I remember the school cafeteria. Silverware clanking noises. Stacks of chipped brown trays. Little cartons of milk. And red Jell-o cut up into cubes.

  I remember that girls who worked in the school cafeteria had to wear hairnets.

  I remember fruit cocktail.

  I remember chicken noodle soup when you are sick.

  I remember when I was very young a department store where when you bought something the saleslady put your money in a tubular container that traveled through a series of pipes. Then the container returned with a “dong” and your change.

  I remember finding $21 in a black coin purse in a big department store in St. Louis. I reported having found it but since nobody reported losing it I got to keep it.

  I remember that a good way to catch a cold is to walk around barefooted. To not get enough sleep. And to go outside with wet hair.

  I remember “colored town.” (Tulsa.)

  I remember that “Negroes who drive around in big shiny Cadillacs usually live in broken-down shacks.”

  I remember when Negroes first started moving into white neighborhoods. How everyone got scared because if a Negro moved into your neighborhood the value of your property would go way down.

  I remember bubble gum. Blowing big bubbles. And trying to get bubble gum out of my hair.

  I remember eating dried airplane glue off my fingers. (Yum-yum.)

  I remember the smell (loved it) of fingernail polish.

  I remember black heels on new shoes that mark up floors.

  I remember the first time I heard water swishing around in my stomach (while running) and thinking that maybe I had a tumor.

  I remember thinking how awful it would be to be responsible for a fire that took lives. Or for a car wreck.

  I remember when I was very young a photograph in Life magazine of a man running down the street naked on fire.

  I remember my father trying to get splinters out of my fingers with a needle.

  I remember daydreams of living in an old bus, or an old railroad car, and how I would fix it up.

  I remember daydreams of having a pet monkey that would wear human clothes and we would go around everywhere together.

  I remember daydreams of inheriting lots of money from some relative I didn’t even know I had.

  I remember daydreams of being a big success in New York City. (Penthouse and all!)

  I remember living on the Lower East Side.

  I remember Second Avenue and strawberry shortcake at “Ratner’s.”

  I remember the St. Mark’s movie theatre (45¢ until six). The red popcorn machine. And lots of old men.

  I remember “the cat lady” who always wore black. And many pairs of nylons. One on top of the other on top of the other. She was called “the cat lady” because every night she went around feeding cats. Her hair was so matted I don’t think a comb could possibly have gone through it. All day long she roamed the streets doing what I am not sure. She was never without her shopping cart full of paper bags full of God only knows what. According to her there were other cat ladies who looked after cats in other Lower East Side areas. How organized all these ladies were I don’t know.

  I remember Ukrainian Easter eggs all year round.

  I remember thin flat sheets of apricot candy in delicatessen windows.

  I remember “Le Metro.” (A coffeehouse on Second Avenue that had poetry readings.) Paul Blackburn. And Diane di Prima sitting on top of a piano reading her poems.

  I remember how beautiful snow made the Lower East Side look. (So black and white.)

  I remember Klein’s at Christmas time.

  I remember “Folk City.” “Man Power.” And selling books at “The Strand.”

  I remember going grocery shopping with Pat Padgett (Pat Mitchell then) and slipping a steak into her coat pocket when she wasn’t looking.

  I remember going to a church on the Bowery where bums go to get work for a day and being sent to Brooklyn to clean up a small Jewish synagogue where the rabbi was so disgusting that after half a day’s work I just couldn’t stand anymore so I “disappeared.” (With no pay.)

  I remember Leadbelly records smaller than most records.

  I remember Delancey Street. The Brooklyn Bridge. Orchard Street. The Staten Island Ferry. And walking around the Wall Street area late at night. (No people.)

  I remember a very old man who lived next door to me on Avenue B. He is most surely dead by now.

  I remember that “no two snowflakes are exactly alike.”

  I remember felt jackets from Mexico with felt cut-outs of Mexicans taking siestas on the backs. And potted cactus plants on the pockets.

  I remember the 4th of July. Sparklers. And stories about how dangerous firecrackers are.

  I remember being allowed only sparklers. (And I remember only wanting sparklers.)

  I remember snow, making snow-creams, and never having much luck making snowmen.

  I remember making angel impressions in the snow by falling backwards and flapping my arms up and down and my legs back and forth.

  I remember hayrides and slumber parties.

  I remember little cream jars in restaurants.

  I remember “statues.” (A game where someone swung you around and then let go and you froze in whatever position you landed.)

  I remember satin jackets from Japan with embroidered dragons and American flags on the backs.

  I remember when pink grapefruit was a big treat.

  I remember mackinaws.

  I remember roller skate keys.

  I remember “Coming Attractions.” Company picnics. Two-car garages. And picture windows.

  I remember potato sack races.

  I remember “Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me.”

  I remember green grass knee stains.

  I remember every year in school having to write an essay on thrift for some annual thrift essay contest, and never winning.

  I remember not understanding how a baby could come out of such a small hole. (Still don’t.)

  I remember jacks.

  I remember “onesies” and “twosies” and “threesies” and “baskets” and “pig pens” and “over the fences” and “around the worlds” and “pats” and “double pats.”

  I remember “7” and “14” and “13” and “21” and “69.”

  I remember daydreams of having supernatural powers and amazing people with my accurate predictions.

  I remember predicting an airplane crash but nobody would listen. (Daydream.)

  I remember raccoon tails hanging from car antennas.

  I remember sassafras tea, turnips, and persimmons.

  I remember looking for four-leaf clovers, but not for very long.

  I remember Lazy Susans.

  I remember continuing my return address on envelopes to include “The Earth” and “The Universe.”

  I remember Dole pineapple rings on a bed of lettuce with cottage cheese on top and sometimes a cherry on top of that.

  I remember “Korea.”

  I remember giant blackheads on little faces in tiny ads in the back of magazines.

  I remember fancy yo-
yos studded with rhinestones.

  I remember once when it was raining on one side of our fence but not on the other.

  I remember rainbows that didn’t live up to my expectations.

  I remember big puzzles on card tables that never got finished.

  I remember Oreo chocolate cookies and a big glass of milk.

  I remember vanilla pudding with vanilla wafers in it and sliced bananas on top.

  I remember angel food cake and wondering why the hole in the middle had to be there.

  I remember my mother’s sticking toothpicks into cakes to see if they were done or not.

  I remember borrowed punch bowls.

  I remember fantasies of totally losing my voice and hearing and being able to communicate only by writing notes back and forth. (It was fun!)

  I remember trying not to stare at people with hearing aids. (Or trying to look at them casually.)

  I remember braces (on teeth) and how, at a certain point in high school it was almost a status symbol.

  I remember being embarrassed to blow my nose in public.

  I remember not going to the bathroom in public places if I didn’t know where it was.

  I remember, when traveling, laying tissue paper over the toilet seat rim because “You never know.”

  I remember “number one” and “number two.”

  I remember examining my cock and balls very carefully once and finding them absolutely disgusting.

  I remember fantasies of my cock growing quite large just overnight. (A medical mystery!)

  I remember sexual fantasies of having “to perform” by force.

  I remember Coke bottle stories.

  I remember reading somewhere that the average cock is from six to eight inches when erect, and grabbing for the nearest ruler.

  I remember stories about nuns and candles and throwing babies into the basement furnace.

  I remember cheating at solitaire.

  I remember sometimes letting people win games.

  I remember crossing your fingers behind your back when you tell a lie.

  I remember thinking that comic books that weren’t funny shouldn’t be called “comic books.”

  I remember fantasies of making the back seat of a car “livable” with curtains, a fold-away kitchen, etc.

  I remember fantasies of growing up and adopting a child.

  I remember trying to imagine what I’d look like as an old man.

  I remember old women’s flesh-colored hose you can’t see through.

  I remember “no ankles” on some old ladies.

  I remember trying to imagine my grandfather naked. (Eck!)

  I remember having a crush on a cousin and my mother telling me that you can’t marry a cousin and, “But why can’t you marry a cousin?” and “Because it’s against the law,” and “But why is it against the law?” etc.

  I remember the rumor that if a black and a white person got married and had a baby it might turn out black and white spotted.

  I remember a boy who could curl up his lips (“nigger lips”) and hold them there.

  I remember white marshmallow powder on lips.

  I remember a very big boy named Teddy and what hairy legs his mother had. (Long black ones squashed flat under nylons.)

  I remember Dagwood and Blondie shorts before the feature started.

  I remember not allowing myself to start on the candy until the feature started.

  I remember big battle scenes and not understanding how they could be done without a lot of people getting hurt.

  I remember thinking those sandals and short skirts rather impractical for war.

  I remember how very black and white early “art” movies were.

  I remember bedroom scenes that focused mostly on the wallpaper.

  I remember Gina Lollobrigida’s very tiny waist in Trapeze.

  I remember bedroom scenes where the camera goes out the window and down to the ocean to the roar of crashing waves.

  I remember Jane Russell’s hair all pulled over to one side and flat as a rock on top.

  I remember that Rock Hudson and Charlie Chaplin and Lyndon Johnson have “giant cocks.”

  I remember rumors about what Marlon Brando had to do to get his first acting job.

  I remember the rumor that Marlon Brando liked Oriental women so much because he had a little cock.

  I remember giant discussions with Pat and Ron Padgett, and Ted Berrigan, after seeing La Dolce Vita about what all the symbolism meant.

  I remember the shadows of feet under the cracks of doors. And closeups of doorknobs turning.

  I remember getting irritated when someone would get out of bed and roam around the castle all alone late at night (just asking for trouble) instead of staying in his or her room where it’s safe.

  I remember hair not being messed up when it should be messed up.

  I remember when you do that motorboat-like thing with your lips how your nose starts tickling.

  I remember jungle plants that eat people.

  I remember candy cigarettes like chalk.

  I remember finding things in glove compartments I had looked for there before and not found.

  I remember screen doors that slam. And “You’re letting in the flies.”

  I remember bar stools and kitchen nooks and brass ivy planters.

  I remember tap dancing recitals.

  I remember Popsicle coupons. Ballerina paper dolls. And carnival glass piggy banks with no way to get the money out except by shaking it out upside down.

  I remember a tin clown bank that stuck his tongue out and a monkey bank that tipped his hat.

  I remember veils over hats over faces sprinkled with little fuzzy dots.

  I remember parliamentary procedure. Multiple choice questions. And paper curtains.

  I remember “Aspergum.” And muumuus. And making Easter baskets out of “Quaker” oatmeal boxes at school.

  I remember houseshoes that were just leather soles sewn to the bottoms of a pair of socks.

  I remember roly-poly bugs that curl up into a ball when you touch them.

  I remember those yellow bushes that are the first things to flower in the spring.

  I remember when I was very young telling an adult that I wanted to be a fireman or a cowboy when I grew up but I don’t remember really wanting to be either.

  I remember Jane and Dick and Sally and Spot and the nice policeman and “Run, run, run.”

  I remember in many classrooms a painting of George Washington unfinished at the bottom.

  I remember okra, hominy grits, liver, and spinach.

  I remember that carrots are good for your eyes and that beans make you fart.

  I remember that cats have nine lives.

  I remember “An apple a day keeps the doctor away.”

  I remember puffed rice shot from guns.

  I remember “Snap, crackle, and pop.”

  I remember an ashtray that looked like a house and when you put your cigarette down (through the door) the smoke came out of the chimney.

  I remember Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

  I remember a toothpick holder with a bird that picked up the toothpick with his beak for you when you did something (?) to his tail.

  I remember “just married” cartoons.

  I remember “stranded on an island in the middle of the ocean” cartoons.

  I remember high school yearbooks, signing high school yearbooks, and “Roses are red, violets are blue, God made me beautiful, what happened to you?”

  I remember in a high school yearbook a big group picture where one boy in the back row was giving the finger.

  I remember the same year in the same yearbook a picture of a track star running and if you looked real close you could see what looked like the tip of his penis sticking out from under his shorts.

  I remember “My Wild Irish Rose.”

  I remember how “Penny” in the Sunday comics was always talking on the telephone in unusual positions surrounded by
mountains of food.

  I remember that Penny’s father always had a pipe in his mouth.

  I remember the tobacco smell of my father’s breath.

  I remember my father’s collection of Zane Grey novels and one “dirty” book called Let’s Make Mary.

  I remember plaster of paris.

  I remember plaster of paris figurines you made in red rubber molds and then you painted them.

  I remember accent pillows. Bathroom decals. Argyle socks. Window valances. And tapioca pudding.

  I remember cold cream. “Tums for the tummy.” And Our Miss Brooks.

  I remember book ends. Arm chairs. And end tables.

  I remember Amos and Andy. Life with Father. And Francis the Talking Mule.

  I remember artist smocks. Liver-shaped palettes. And big black bows.

  I remember “Ma and Pa Kettle.” “Dishpan hands.” Linoleum. Cyclone fences. Shaggy dog stories. Stucco houses. Pen and pencil sets. Tinker Toys. Lincoln Logs. And red blue jeans for girls.

  I remember a pair of brown blue jeans I once had.

  I remember thinking how embarrassing it would be if your name was Hitler.

  I remember a miniature white Bible no bigger than a book of matches.

  I remember finding the story of Noah and his ark really just too far out.

  I remember “God Is Love Is Art Is Life.” I think I made that up in high school. Or else Ron Padgett did. At any rate I remember thinking it terribly profound.

  I remember queer bars.

  I remember leaning up against walls in queer bars.

  I remember standing up straight in queer bars.

  I remember suddenly being aware of “how” I am holding my cigarette in queer bars.

  I remember not liking myself for not picking up boys I probably could pick up because of the possibility of being rejected.

  I remember deciding at a certain point that I would cut through all the bullshit and just go up to boys I liked and say, “Do you want to go home with me?” and so I tried it. But it didn’t work. Except once. And he was drunk. The next morning he left a card behind with a picture of Jesus on it signed “with love, Jesus” on the back. He said he was a friend of Allen Ginsberg.

  I remember tight white pants. Certain ways of standing. Blond heads of hair. And spotted bleached blue jeans.

  I remember “baskets.”