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

by Ron Padgett

  I remember a long brown leather strap. Beat-up magazines. And kids who cried. (And then got suckers.)

  I remember the bright red hair tonic that looked more like something to drink, and a white strip of tissue paper being wrapped tightly around my neck.

  I remember watching my hair fall and accumulate.

  I remember being afraid that the barber might slip and cut my ear.

  I remember that once he did.

  I remember at the end of a haircut getting my neck dusted off with a soft brush full of nice smelling powder. And getting swirled around to look in the mirror and how big, afterwards, my ears were.

  I remember the very ornate chrome foot rest. And the old Negro shoeshine man.

  I remember having an itchy back all the way home.

  I remember a tower on top of a building in Tulsa that changed colors every few minutes. But only green and yellow and white.

  I remember miniature hats in miniature hat boxes in a men’s hat store window. You got one free when you bought someone a gift certificate for a hat.

  I remember balloon sleeves. And no sleeves.

  I remember “bouffants” and “beehives.” (Hairdos.)

  I remember when “beehives” really got out of hand.

  I remember school desk carvings and running my ballpoint pen back and forth in them.

  I remember noisy candy wrappers when you don’t want to make any noise.

  I remember when those short-sleeved knitted shirts with long tails (to wear “out”) with little embroidered alligators on the pockets were popular.

  I remember plain camel hair coats that rich girls in high school wore.

  I remember “socialite corner” (2nd floor) where only kids who belonged to social clubs met and chatted before school and in between classes.

  I remember that to be in a social club you either had to live on the South side of town (I lived on the North) or else you had to be good looking (I wasn’t) and usually both.

  I remember that popular boys always had their blue jeans worn down just the right amount.

  I remember madras plaid shirts and sports coats and how they had to be washed a few times before they had the right look.

  I remember “French kissing” and figuring out that it must have something to do with the tongue since there isn’t anything else in the mouth except teeth.

  I remember that shaking or holding hands with a girl while you scratched her palm with your middle finger was somehow “dirty.” (Often done as a joke and the girl would turn red and scream.)

  I remember in Boston a Puerto Rican boy who worked behind a glass counter in a cafeteria and his arms up to his rolled up sleeves: thick and gold and hairless.

  I remember early sexual experiences and rubbery knees. I’m sure sex is much better now but I do miss rubbery knees.

  I remember the first time I got jerked off (never did discover it for myself). I didn’t know what she was trying to do and so I just laid there like a zombie not helping one bit.

  I remember her wanting me to put my finger in her cunt and so I did but I had no idea (or no inspiration) as to what to “do” with it once it was there except to move it around a bit.

  I remember feeling very outside the experience (watching myself) and feeling very silly with my finger in this wet hole. I think she finally gave up and made herself come because I remember a lot of hard kissing while I could feel her squirming around a lot down there.

  I remember, on the verge of coming, thinking that that meant I had to go pee, so I excused myself to go to the bathroom and that spoiled everything.

  I remember being very proud of myself the next morning, nevertheless.

  I remember Nehru jackets.

  I remember when turtle necks were big, talk about what restaurants would let you in and what ones wouldn’t.

  I remember the first time I ate beefsteak tartare eating lots of crackers and butter with it.

  I remember linen dresses from behind after having sat through a sermon. Or a bridge party.

  I remember The Millionaire on T.V. and how you never got to see his face.

  I remember “Two hairs past a freckle” when someone asks you what time it is and you don’t have a watch.

  I remember when I was very young a hand-wringer washing machine in our basement and visions of what it could do to your hand if it got caught in it.

  I remember pink underwear sometimes when something red faded in the wash.

  I remember sometimes blue underwear.

  I remember lint all over blue jeans when you forgot and left a Kleenex in your pocket.

  I remember “panty raids.”

  I remember “Which twin has the Toni!”

  I remember “Does she or doesn’t she?”

  I remember “There’s No Business Like Show Business” (the song) and how it always got to me.

  I remember folding paper into cootie catchers. And airplanes that just went down.

  I remember picture card machines at the fair of movie stars and pin-up girls and cowboys.

  I remember thinking that if you didn’t return stamp approvals you’d really get in trouble.

  I remember at junior high school dances mostly just girls dancing with girls.

  I remember “Silly Putty” in a plastic egg.

  I remember silent moments in church when my stomach would decide to growl.

  I remember daydreams of living in the past and having the advantage (and sometimes the disadvantage) of knowing what was going to happen before it happened.

  I remember always breaking my glasses and being told that next time I’d have to buy new ones myself out of my allowance (25¢ a week) but I never did.

  I remember “Monopoly” and “Clue.”

  I remember the little silver candlestick (Clue) and not knowing what a conservatory was.

  I remember getting all dressed up to go buy clothes.

  I remember when twins dressed alike.

  I remember mother and daughter dresses.

  I remember father and son dinners.

  I remember the Lone Ranger and Tonto.

  I remember:

  >“High-ho Silver in the air

  >Tonto lost his underwear

  >Tonto, Tonto he no care

  >Lone Ranger buy him ’nother pair.”

  I remember pulling out the long stringy things from the center of honeysuckle blossoms and sucking up the drop of honey that comes out with them.

  I remember a bust of Benjamin Franklin on a cover of The Saturday Evening Post once every year.

  I remember “a ham” every year for Christmas from the company my father worked for.

  I remember bright colored bubble bath balls. And bathtub “rings.”

  I remember clear plastic high heels with no straps in back.

  I remember clear plastic purses that looked like lunch boxes with a scarf hanging out of them.

  I remember a pink hairnet my mother had with larger than usual openings.

  I remember neckties that were already tied with elastic to go around your neck.

  I remember “Mother’s Day” and wearing a red rose to church in my lapel. (You wore a white rose if your mother was dead. And a yellow rose if your mother was a step-mother.)

  I remember “bunny hops.” “Picture hats.” And toilet paper and chicken wire floats.

  I remember my mother telling stories about funny things I’d do and how the stories got funnier each time they were told.

  I remember daydreams of finding out I have only a certain amount of time to live (“cancer” usually) and trying to figure out how to best spend what time I had left.

  I remember driving through the Ozarks and chenille bedspreads with peacocks on them hanging outside on clotheslines for sale.

  I remember in souvenir shops miniature wishing wells of highly shellacked orangey colored wood. And miniature out-houses too.

  I remember wondering why out-house doors have a sliver of a moon cut out of them.

  I reme
mber, sitting out in the out-house, wondering why it never got filled up.

  I remember, sitting out in the out-house, visions of what it would be like to fall in.

  I remember solid red when you close your eyes to the sun.

  I remember big “Boy’s Town” stamps.

  I remember alligator purses.

  I remember, when babies fall down, “oopsy-daisy.”

  I remember, with a limp wrist, shaking your hand back and forth real fast until it feels like jelly.

  I remember trying to get the last of cat food from a can.

  I remember when a piece of hair stands up straight after a night of sleeping on it wrong.

  I remember before green dishwashing liquid.

  I remember a free shoehorn with new shoes.

  I remember never using shoehorns.

  I remember not finding pumpkin pie very visually appealing.

  I remember the pale green tint of Coca-Cola bottles.

  I remember not really trusting mince meat pie. (What was “in” it.) And dressing too.

  I remember the way cranberry sauce slides out of the can, and then plops.

  I remember cold turkey sandwiches.

  I remember trying to pull a Band-aid off with one quick yank.

  I remember fancy little bathroom towels not for using.

  I remember two years of cheating in Spanish class by lightly penciling in the translations of words.

  I remember No. 2 yellow pencils with pink erasers.

  I remember some teachers that would let you get up to use the pencil sharpener without having to ask.

  I remember the rotating system of seating where, every Monday, you moved up a seat.

  I remember in wood-working class making a magazine rack.

  I remember “droodles.” (Visual jokes composed of a few simple lines.) The idea being “What is it?” (A tomato sandwich.) (Two elephants not on speaking terms.) (Etc.)

  I remember learning to dive in swimming class, because I had to, but I never dove again.

  I remember wondering why your head didn’t get full of water through your ears and nose.

  I remember stories about parents throwing their babies into the water, and just by instinct they learn to swim.

  I remember, finally, learning to float. But I never did really believe it was the water that was holding me up. I suppose I somehow thought I was doing it through sheer willpower. (Mind over matter, so to speak.) At any rate, I never did give any credit to the water.

  I remember peeing underwater in my bathing suit once, and how sexy and warm it felt.

  I remember stories about how people did it all the time in public swimming pools. (Which I rarely got to go to because of the possibility of catching polio.)

  I remember the indescribable smell of a certain dime store downtown, with wooden floors. Great banana cake. And my favorite 25¢ photo machine. My favorite because it once got stuck, and continued making pictures of me for what seemed like hours, until a nearby clerk became suspicious and called the manager over to turn the thing off.

  I remember little white fingernail spots.

  I remember biting on a little piece of flesh inside my mouth until a very sweet sort of pain came.

  I remember Noble and Fern (my mother’s brother and his wife) and that she never stopped talking (“a blue streak”) and that he never said a word. They had two kids, Dale and Gale. Dale was so plain that, actually, I’m not sure if I remember him or not. But I do remember Gale. She was very cute, and bubbly, and totally obnoxious. She took piano lessons and singing lessons and dancing lessons. They lived in California and traveled around a lot, by car, never stopping in restaurants for food. (They traveled with food.) They’d come visit us about once every three years with a slide projector and recent (three years’ worth of “recent”) travel slides. And, in a plastic coathanger bag, a fancy costume for Gale, who did her “number” almost immediately upon arrival. These visits were nothing to look forward to. But, after three or four days they would leave, with lots of sandwiches, and, “You’ve really got to come and see us in California!”

  I remember visiting once a very distant relative who had a son about my age (eight or so) who had been saving pennies all his life. It was one of those living rooms packed solid with large furniture, and to top it off, every inch of available space was full of giant jars full of pennies. Even on the floor, and even in the hallway, lined up against the walls, were giant jars full of pennies. Really, it was a very impressive sight. Quite a “haul” for a boy my own age. I was green. (I hope I’m not exaggerating but, no, I don’t think I am.) Really, it was almost holy: like a shrine. I remember his mother smugly saying that he (eight years old!) was saving it to send himself through college.

  I remember trying to save money, for a day or two, and quickly losing interest.

  I remember very tempting little ads in the backs of magazines for like say 25 dresses (“used” in very small print) for only one dollar!

  I remember in speech class each fall having to give a speech about “what I did this summer.” I remember usually saying that I swam a lot (a lie) and painted a lot (true) and did a lot of reading (not true) and that the summer went very fast (true). They always have, and they still do. Or so it seems once summer is over.

  I remember, on cold mornings, counting to ten before making myself jump out of bed.

  I remember daydreams of going with an absolutely knock-out girl, and impressing all my friends no end.

  I remember wondering how one would go about putting on a rubber gracefully, in the given situation.

  I remember (in a general sort of way) many nights in bed just holding myself through soft flannel pajamas.

  I remember cold sheets in the winter time.

  I remember when everything is covered with snow, out the window, first thing in the morning: a really clear surprise. It only snowed about twice a year in Tulsa and, as I remember now, usually during the night. So, I remember “snow” more than I remember “snowing.”

  I remember not understanding the necessity of shoveling the sidewalks. It always melted in a day or two anyway. And besides—“It’s only snow.”

  I remember thinking Brownie uniforms not very pretty: so brown and plain.

  I remember fantasies of everyone in my family dying in a car wreck, except me, and getting lots of sympathy and attention, and admiration for being so brave about it all.

  I remember fantasies of writing a very moving letter to the President of the United States about patriotism, and the President, very moved by my moving letter, distributes copies of it to the media (T.V., magazines, newspapers, etc.) and I become one very famous child.

  I remember daydreams of going through old trunks in attics, and finding fantastic things.

  I remember daydreams of being a very smart dresser.

  I remember white socks with a thin red and blue stripe at the top.

  I remember (visually) socks on the floor, tossed after a day of wear. They always look so comfortable there.

  I remember early fragments of daydreams of being a girl. Mostly I remember fabric. Satins and taffetas against flesh. I in particular remember yards and yards of royal blue taffeta (a very full evening dress, no doubt) all bunched up and rubbing between my thighs, by big hands. This period of fantasizing about being a girl wasn’t at all sexual in terms of “sex.” The kick I got didn’t come from being with a man, it came from feeling like a woman. (Girl.) These fantasies, all so much one to me now, were all very crunched up and fetus-like. “Close.” An orgy of fabric and flesh and friction (close-ups of details). But nothing much “happened.”

  I remember fantasies of being in jail, and very monk-like in my cell, hand-writing out a giant great novel.

  I remember (on the other hand) fantasies of being in jail, and of good raw sex. All very “black and white” somehow. Black bars, white tiles. White flesh, black hairs. The rubbery warm whites of cum, and the shiny cold blacks of leather and slate.

  I remembe
r (here’s a real let-down for you) fantasies of opening up an antique store, with only very selective objects, displayed sparsely in an “art gallery” sort of way.

  I remember fantasies of opening up an art gallery on the Lower East Side in a store front (I’d live in back) with one exposed wall (brick) and everything else white. Lots of potted plants. And paintings by, you guessed it, me.

  I remember building unusual houses in my head. One, very modern and “organic,” was inside a cave. Another was mostly glass. And they all had giant bathrooms with giant sunken tubs.

  I remember big square glass bricks with a “wavy” surface.

  I remember reading the big sex scene on the beach in Peyton Place.

  I remember sex outdoors playing a big part in my fantasies for a while after that. Usually on the beach. Except that with one art teacher I had it always in the woods.

  I remember a lot of fuss about The Catcher in the Rye.

  I remember sexy photos of Julie London on record covers.

  I remember the Liz-Eddie-Debbie scandal.

  I remember “Uranium.”

  I remember Kon Tiki.

  I remember talk about flying saucers, before I knew what they were, but never asking.

  I remember two-toned cars. Babysitting for 50¢ an hour. And “I Like Ike.”

  I remember Agnes Gooch.

  I remember on newsstands, Jet magazine. But never getting up the courage to thumb through a copy.

  I remember Dinah Shore’s energetic rendition of “See the U.S.A. in Your Chevrolet.” And then a big “smack!” And then lots of teeth. And then lots of eye sparkle.

  I remember Jimmy Durante disappearing among spotlighted circles into giant black space.

  I remember the small diamond heart necklace that Arlene Francis always wore on What’s My Line?

  I remember the “swoosh” of Loretta Young’s skirt as she entered the room each week.

  I remember sending some fashion design drawings to “Frederick’s of Hollywood” in hopes of being discovered as a child genius fashion designer, but—not a word.

  I remember the mostly unique to childhood problem of losing things through a hole in your pocket.

  I remember, out walking in the rain, people scurrying by with their faces all crunched up.

  I remember blue jeans blotched with bleach.