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

by Ron Padgett

  I remember the elephant stampede in Elephant Walk.

  I remember Elizabeth Taylor in tons of white chiffon in—also in Elephant Walk, I think it was.

  I remember that Rock Hudson “is still waiting for the right girl to come along.”

  I remember, in art movies, two nuns walking by.

  I remember pretty women all dressed up in black on witness stands (white hankie in hand) with their legs crossed.

  I remember that Lana Turner wore brown (ugh) to one of her weddings.

  I remember in very scary movies, and in very sad movies, having to keep reminding myself that “it’s only a movie.”

  I remember mean prison wardens.

  I remember once hearing about something called “Smell-A-Rama”: a movie with associated smells piped into the theater.

  I remember the “casting couch.”

  I remember Marilyn Monroe in fuchsia satin, as reflected in many mirrors.

  I remember the rumor that the reason Marilyn Monroe and Joe DiMaggio split up was because Marilyn couldn’t get turned on without another girl in bed with them, and Joe got fed up with this.

  I remember the Marilyn Monroe-John Kennedy affair rumor.

  I remember the Gomer Pyle-Rock Hudson affair rumor.

  I remember a very tall girl who always had to show her I.D. card to get in for the “under 12” rate.

  I remember blonde furniture.

  I remember 21-inch television screens!

  I remember George and Gracie, and Harry von Zell.

  I remember (z - z - z) “The Kingston Trio.”

  I remember when “atheist” was a scary word.

  I remember little suits, on little boys, with no lapels.

  I remember dining room table leaves.

  I remember a brief period of “bad breath” concern: the product of a health class at school.

  I remember that “most bad breath is caused by germs.”

  I remember that germs are everywhere!

  I remember trying to visualize germs (physically) as they crawl around all over everything.

  I remember that my vision of germs pretty much resembled normal insects, only much smaller, of course.

  I remember sneezing into my hand, out in public, and then the problem of what to “do” with it.

  I remember a piece of soft pink cloth with zigzag edges, to clean new glasses with.

  I remember walking down the street, trying not to step on cracks.

  I remember “If you step on a crack, you break your mother’s back.”

  I remember a somehow slightly strange Christian Science Reading Room.

  I remember once, when I was very young, seeing my great-grandmother just before she died. (But my abstract memory of this only allows me to say “prune.”)

  I remember hide-and-seek, and peeking while counting to a hundred.

  I remember finding the thought of being an albino somehow more mysterious than just “no color pigment.”

  I remember gardenia petal brown spots.

  I remember corsages with pipe cleaners bent into hearts. With puffs of nets. And long pins with a pearl on the end to pin them on with.

  I remember (out loud) the problems of “pin” and “pen.”

  I remember that pinning a corsage onto a girl was always made into a joke. (Snicker-snicker.)

  I remember when father seemed too formal, and daddy was out of the question, and dad seemed too fake-casual. But, seeming the lesser of three evils, I chose fake-casual.

  I remember closely examining the opening in the head of my cock once, and how it reminded me of a goldfish’s mouth.

  I remember goldfish tanks in dime stores. And nylon nets to catch them with.

  I remember ceramic castles. Mermaids. Japanese bridges. And round glass bowls of varying sizes.

  I remember big black goldfish, and little white paper cartons to carry them home in.

  I remember the rumor that Mae West keeps her youthful appearance by washing her face in male cum.

  I remember wondering if female cum is called “cum” too.

  I remember wondering about the shit (?) (ugh) in fucking up the butt.

  I remember ping-pong ball dents.

  I remember rayon slip-over shirts with knitted bands at the waist.

  I remember bathroom doors that don’t lock, and trying to pee fast.

  I remember, when you’ve done a real stinker, hoping there won’t be someone waiting to rush in right after you.

  I remember the disappointments of picking up a developed roll of film at the drugstore.

  I remember jumping beans, and how disappointing they were. (Lazy.) A few flip-flops, and that was that.

  I remember egg salad sandwiches “on white” and large cherry Cokes, at drugstore counters.

  I remember drugstore counter stools with no backs, and swirling around and around on them.

  I remember when the floor seemed a long way down.

  I remember when going to an analyst meant (to me) that you were real sick.

  I remember magazine pictures of very handsome male models with perfect faces and, with an almost physical pang, wondering what it would be like to look like that. (Heaven!)

  I remember those sexy little ads in the back of Esquire magazine of skimpy bathing suits and underwear with enormous baskets.

  I remember, with a new Polaroid and self-timer, having an outlandishly narcissistic photo fling with myself which (I’m proud to say) soon got pretty boring.

  I remember “one iota” and “to coin a phrase.”

  I remember two-dollar bills. And silver dollars.

  I remember cartoons about retrieving lost money from street gratings with chewing gum tied to the end of a piece of string.

  I remember “Double Bubble” gum comics, and licking off the sweet “powder.”

  I remember a “Clove” chewing gum period. And a “Juicy-fruit” chewing gum period. And then (high school) a period when “Dentyne” somehow seemed a sophisticated choice.

  I remember that “Dentyne” is the chewing gum most recommended by dentists.

  I remember an algebra teacher who very generously passed me. His name was Mr. Byrd. I think he truly understood that algebra, for me, was totally out of the question, so he pretty much ignored me. (In a nice way.) He died the next year of cancer.

  I remember globes. Roll-down maps. And rubber-tipped wooden stick pointers.

  I remember pale green walls half way up. And lots of brownish framed prints.

  I remember, after school, a period of three or four minutes of lots of locker doors being slammed. And long corridor echoes.

  I remember arms hugging zipper notebooks piled with books that, when too loaded down, required some twisted body movements to avoid droppage.

  I remember that entering the classroom just as the bell rings is not the same as being in your seat when the bell rings.

  I remember big yellow mums, arranged with autumn leaves, in flower shop windows.

  I remember big yellow mum corsages, on brown beaver fur coats, at football games, in magazine pictures.

  I remember “Necco Wafers” the pastel colors of chalk.

  I remember the legs of a certain teacher when, every now and then, she revealed nylons rolled down to just below her knees.

  I remember a young blond bland psychology teacher with a face impossible to recall. (Big black glasses.) I remember trying to find him sexy, but it was hard.

  I remember senior class rings on chains around necks.

  I remember little pieces of colored ribbons pinned to blouses and sweaters that meant you were pledging to a social club.

  I remember the “fuck you” finger.

  I remember that “bastard” lost a lot of weight with me when I found out what it meant. I had expected something much worse.

  I remember fancy eyeglasses studded with rhinestones.

  I remember (on popular boys) plain loafers: the kind of “plain” you had to pay through the nose for.

&nbs
p; I remember Linda Berg. She confided in me once, though she wouldn’t “go very far,” she really dug having her breasts played with (which, to me, was going pretty far) and did I think it was wrong? (Help!)

  I remember a “white trash” boy with an enormously tall crew cut long after crew cuts were in.

  I remember pulling the elastic band of my underwear down behind my balls, which gives your whole sex an “up-lift,” which makes you look like you’ve got more down there than you really do.

  I remember the fear of—what if all of a sudden out in the middle of public somewhere you get a hard-on?

  I remember sex on too much grass and the total separation of my head from what’s going on down there.

  I remember when everything is going along just swell (“pant-pant”) and then all of a sudden neither one of you knows for sure what to “do” next. (Mutual hesitation.) That if not acted upon quickly can be a real, pardon the pun, “downer.”

  I remember, after a lot of necking, how untheatrical the act of getting undressed can sometimes be.

  I remember, in the heart of passion once, trying to get a guy’s turtle-neck sweater off. But it turned out not to be a turtle-neck sweater.

  I remember a sex fantasy sequence in my head of being forced to “perform” on the floor, under the stairs, of an apartment building I either lived in, or was visiting, I can’t remember which. Needless to say, the mad sex fiend criminal rapist was pretty cute to boot.

  I remember, with the one you love, familiar gestures that can drive you up the wall.

  I remember a small top drawer full of nylons, and my mother, in a rush, trying to find two that matched.

  I remember finding things in that drawer I wasn’t supposed to see, smothered in nylons.

  I remember the olive green velvet lining of my mother’s olive green “leather” jewelry box, with fold-out trays. When alone in the house, I loved going through it, examining each piece carefully, trying to pick out my favorites. And sometimes, trying on something, but mostly, I just liked to look.

  I remember learning very early in life the art of putting back everything exactly the way it was.

  I remember affectionate squeezes in public from my father. Usually of a joke-strangle sort. And not knowing how to respond. So I’d turn red, with a big grin on my face, and look down until it was all over with.

  I remember how difficult it is to let a “public” grin fall gracefully.

  I remember catching myself with an expression on my face that doesn’t relate to what’s going on anymore.

  I remember practicing flexing my jaw muscles, because I thought it looked sexy.

  I remember, when my eyebrows began to spread over my nose bridge, thinking it might make me look a bit more like Montgomery Clift. (A bit more?) Yes—I just remembered—I did have a period of secretly thinking I slightly resembled Montgomery Clift.

  I remember sitting in the back seat of a car once with a girl named Marilyn, and trying to get my arm behind her without its becoming too obvious a gesture. But it took me so long to be subtle, it became a very obvious gesture.

  I remember, then, some kissing. And finally getting up the courage to stick my tongue in her mouth, but (what next?) (Help!) and so it was just a lot of in and out, and in and out, which started feeling sort of creepy after a while, and I knew I was a flop.

  I remember a girl in Dayton, Ohio, who “taught” me what to do with your tongue, which, it turns out, is definitely what not to do with your tongue. You could really hurt somebody that way. (Strangulation.)

  I remember feeling sorry for black people, not because I thought they were persecuted, but because I thought they were ugly.

  I remember once when I was very young my mother putting metal clamps in her hair to make waves, and I said I wanted some too, so she put some in my hair too. And then, forgetting I had them on, I went outside to play. I don’t remember exactly what happened, but I do remember rushing back into the house, humiliated.

  I remember my mother picking up tiny specks of lint off things.

  I remember, at the end of the sofa, a group of four little pillows that had only one casual arrangement.

  I remember that no one sat on the sofa (light beige) unless we had company.

  I remember (very vaguely) hearing my mother tell a story about an old lady across the street who died, and the people who moved in after her complaining because they could never quite get rid of “the smell.”

  I remember horrible visions of that island where lepers were sent.

  I remember “the green stuff” inside my first lobster.

  I remember (ugh) white nurse shoes.

  I remember trying to visualize “the travels” of shit, after you flush the toilet.

  I remember, when someone is standing next to you in a public latrine, how long it can seem before you get “started.”

  I remember Halloween and the annual problem of whether to wear a mask or to see. (Glasses.)

  I remember glasses on top of satin eye masks.

  I remember next-door neighbors who don’t keep up their lawns.

  I remember, the day after Halloween, talk about car door windows getting soaped, and of lawn furniture appearing on unfamiliar porches.

  I remember a girl who could bend her thumb all the way back. And a boy who could wiggle one ear at a time.

  I remember a lady almost talking my mother into a set of encyclopedias.

  I remember starting a set of supermarket encyclopedias, but three was as far as we got.

  I remember fantasies of someday reading a complete set of encyclopedias and knowing everything.

  I remember enormous dictionaries.

  I remember beautifully colored pastel floor plans of houses, on detective paperback backs.

  I remember (from lake life) mosquitoes.

  I remember mosquito spray. Mosquito bites. And mosquito bite medicine.

  I remember the little “thuds” of bugs bumping up against the screens at night.

  I remember, at night, heading out into the black to pee, and imagining all the things I might be just about to step on, or “in.”

  I remember cold mud between your toes, under warm brown water.

  I remember trying to put on a not quite dry bathing suit. (Ugh.)

  I remember, inside swimming trunks, white draw strings.

  I remember, in a very general way, lots of dark green and brown. And, perhaps, a red canoe.

  I remember, one summer way back, a new pair of red sandals. And I hated sandals.

  I remember red fingers from eating pistachio nuts.

  I remember black tongues from eating licorice.

  I remember little packages of colored sugar-like stuff, and just about every different color of tongues.

  I remember Katy Keene. And a pair of candy cane eyeglasses her little sister “Sis” had.

  I remember Randy, Katy’s rich blond beau with cars. And K. O., Katy’s poor boxer beau with curly hair and no cars.

  I remember secretly feeling that she would someday end up with K. O.

  I remember costume dolls with their skirts up in back in square boxes with cellophane “window” fronts.

  I remember what I remember most about restaurants when I was very young: french fries, straws, and toothpicks.

  I remember looking out of the windows, riding buses uptown, sudden fantasy flashes of everybody out there on the streets being naked.

  I remember sudden fantasy flashes of how many people all over the world are fucking “at this very moment.”

  I remember “rave review” fantasies. And sell-out shows.

  I remember poetry reading fantasies of having everyone in tears. (Good tears.)

  I remember fantasies of all of a sudden out of the blue announcing “An evening with Joe Brainard” at Carnegie Hall and surprising everybody that I can sing and dance too, but only for one performance. (Though I’m a smash hit and people want more.) But I say “no”: I give up stardom for art. And this one performance becomes
a legend. And people who missed it could shoot themselves. But I stick to my guns.

  I remember (ugh) hound drops.

  I remember with fried shrimps in restaurants, not enough tartar sauce.

  I remember “French Post Cards.”

  I remember little round paper clips to attach the price of greeting cards to the card with.

  I remember greeting cards with, somewhere on them, a real feather.

  I remember picnics.

  I remember black marshmallows, and inside, a flood of warm white.

  I remember that mustard and bottle openers were the traditional things to forget. But I don’t remember either ever being forgotten.

  I remember laying something across the napkins so they won’t blow away.

  I remember red plastic forks and green plastic forks.

  I remember wooden forks hard to handle a big potato salad lump with.

  I remember digging around in ice cold water for an orange soda pop.

  I remember Belmondo’s bare ass (a movie “first”) in a terrible “art” movie called, I think, Leda.

  I remember a lot of movie star nose job rumors.

  I remember the cherries on Marilyn Monroe’s dress playing paddle-ball in The Misfits.

  I remember in a musical movie about a fashion designer, a black velvet bat winged suit with a rhinestone cobweb on back.

  I remember slightly “sissy” pants on Italian boys in art movies.

  I remember Maria Schell’s very wet eyes in The Brothers Karamazov.

  I remember a lot of very rowdy goings-on in Seven Brides for Seven Brothers.

  I remember Jane Russell and a lot of muscle men doing a big number around the swimming pool of a luxury liner.

  I remember Esther Williams’ very large face.

  I remember being shown to my seat with a flashlight.

  I remember dancing boxes of popcorn and hot dogs singing, “Let’s all go out to the lobby, and get ourselves a treat!”

  I remember a fashion newsreel about live bug jewelry on a chain that crawled all over you.

  I remember finding myself in situations I all of a sudden feel (remember) I’ve been in before: a “repeat” life flash.

  I remember those times of not knowing if you feel really happy or really sad. (Wet eyes and a high heart.)

  I remember, in crowds—total isolation!

  I remember, at parties—naked!