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

by Ron Padgett

  May 29th . . . my 18th birthday. And now she is dead . . . how I hate May . . . and all that it stands for . . .

  When Marge and I were little kids we used to take naps together. Then one day we moved to the other side of town and I never saw her again until my first year of high school. We were in the same home room. It was love at second sight.

  Love is a funny thing. It means many different things to many different people. Love means only one thing to me. It means Marge. And now she is dead. Dead as a blue evening in May.

  Death is a fucked up system. It hits you on the head like a hammer and what can you do about it? Nothing. It’s a fucked up system. It’s stupid and ignorant. It hurts. I’m never going to love anybody the way I loved Marge.

  High school flew by. Time does that. It just flies by. Especially the good years. I look back on those good years, those love years, and I wonder—where did they go to? Gone. And there we were, in our black gowns, graduating. We laughed a lot. We felt good. We felt cheated too. We felt empty inside. We felt wonderful. We felt empty inside together. Like one big empty person divided by two. We felt everything, altogether, all at once. Marge and I were very much in love. It was great.

  Marge and I folded our graduation gowns and returned them to Room 308. I will always remember that number: 308. There are many things that I have forgotten, and there are many things that I will learn to forget, but I will never forget that number: 308. It’s funny how some things, little things, just don’t go away.

  We said goodbye to a lot of people, in our caps. For 5 dollars you could keep your cap, as a souvenir, I guess. I didn’t really want to keep mine, but Marge wanted to keep hers, so I decided to keep mine too. We wore them home on the bus together. We had no books to carry.

  Marge died that evening on the front porch. In the white swing. In my arms. In love. “Cherry-poison,” they said. In my arms. “Wake up, Marge,” I said. But she wouldn’t wake up. “Dead,” they said.

  I will never forget that evening of May 29th: my 18th birthday. The screen door opened to let us know that someone was coming. Mom entered the porch, our world, like a saint. She handed us a bowl of cherries, freshly washed, black-red, shiny and inviting. She paused. “It’s a beautiful evening,” she said. Then she went back inside. The screen door closed quietly behind her.

  And when we were alone again, Marge’s mouth began to move, nibblingly, as she reached for a cherry. I experienced a quivering sensation of pure ecstasy as she placed it between her lips. I wanted desperately for her to hold back, to prolong the sudden joy for as long as humanly possible. “I love you,” we said. But the next moment it happened, explosively, as Marge began munching, and before my eyes a million beautiful stars burst revealing a Shangri-La of unexcelled bliss. Marge swallowed the cherry. Night fell. And so did Marge, right into my arms, dead. Dead as a black evening in May . . .

  Johnny

  When Johnny Pain was born it didn’t seem possible that he could survive for more than a few hours. His tiny body had no legs. And his torso had no abdominal region. He was no more than one third of a baby, a veritable human fraction. The year was 1942. The place was Cleveland, Ohio. And today, believe it or not, our Johnny is an expert typist, acrobat, and entertainer. He is a good draftsman, an orchestra leader, and composer. He is a juggler, a tight-rope walker, and magician, and most unbelievable of all a remarkable dancer. Partners are his only problem.

  Johnny went to school like other boys of his age, except that he walked on his hands. He graduated from high school at the age of twelve. He played baseball, tag, and hide-and-seek. He is an expert swimmer and diver. He is a noted authority on the Qurungua Indians who live in the forests of eastern Bolivia. (They are born with a strange natural constriction in their throats which, combined with defective vocal chords, makes it impossible for them to utter a single word.) He is an ardent collector of tablecloths, seashells, and fox carvings. He is an excellent pool table player.

  Lack of a complete body hasn’t handicapped Johnny’s health. He has never known a day of illness (with the exception of occasional nose bleeds). His disposition is remarkably sunny, reflecting a complete enjoyment of life. He is an excellent swimmer and diver.

  Nancy

  It was coffee time “in” Middleville. And Nancy was certainly in the middle. Once upon a time she sure hated coffee. “Never did like it.”

  One winter day Nancy went under the schoolyard to see what she could see. She saw nothing. Nancy definitely did not like the “setup.”

  Nancy sat up the long night crying often. She enjoyed it. That was the kind of girl Nancy was.

  Nancy wanted to be “that” kind of girl. I at “that” age didn’t know what I wanted to be. But I certainly didn’t want to be “that.” Nancy did.

  Nancy she had a grandmother with an Italian sense of the dramatic. She complained of “unjust interference.” Nancy and me we did too. The three of us definitely complained often of “unjust interference.” It was fun.

  It was fun to complain often of “unjust interference.” Thick smoke hung over the Dutch village of Maasland due to fire in a nearby chemical warehouse. And we complained very definitely of “unjust interference.”

  The woman prize-winner was delighted because she had always wanted to meet a monarch and her prize was a chance to meet the King of Sweden. Now, she didn’t want to anymore. We called it “unjust interference.”

  We Nancy and me went to free admission film programs about ancient Greece and the Mediterranean shores. Adventures in Telezonia. We were waiting for Arabia.

  In Arabia no one wins a Nobel Prize. This we liked, and considered “just interference.” In Arabia we are certain it was “cool.” There are no teenagers in Arabia. Arabia has no navy.

  In Arabia there are no interior designers, no Texas, no archeology, no suggested activities for children, no Christmas Eve, only Christmas Day, no New York Times critics. There are no French views and balanced systems in Arabia. Arabia is full of white horses. And other things.

  There is no “further recognition” in Arabia. Nancy and me we detest “further recognition.” And other things.

  Washington didn’t extend, or otherwise, warmest congratulations when grandmother died. Nancy and me we called it “unjust no-interference.” And now only us two were left.

  Nancy left home; where the “heart is.” Nancy said “you slob” because I wondered:

  p. Is there any certain way to prevent conception?

  b. Just how injurious is masturbation anyhow?

  e. Does dancing make the young man’s problem of sexual control more difficult?

  i. Will there be a flow of vital semen during intercourse always?

  Nancy say “You slob.”

  Nancy say “You-locker-room-Joe!”

  Nancy say “You Joe Palooka!”

  I say “You fuckin’ apartment building!”

  And that stop it all. Nancy she can’t tolerate obscenity.

  And she doesn’t believe in apartment buildings. My name is Joe.

  My name is Joe. And I know nobody cares or not if my name is Joe or isn’t. I am not “attractive.” I do not believe in pure dedication altho I do believe in a United Nations. I believe in it because it is a belief and I will never be proven “right” or “wrong.” Nancy doesn’t.

  I believe in believing in all things that are possible to believe in.

  “Hamilton is the only dryer that has been drying America’s clothes for 25 years” Nancy told me. It was at that point in my “lifetime” that I realized wholesale and/or retail. I call it “total cost one way or the other.” At this point Nancy personally was more involved with “plastic research.” Nancy’s mother (Mom) was involved in family foods, family fashions, and family furnishings. Nancy referred to her mother’s new interests as “rubberlike.” I referred to her mother’s new interests as “familylike.” Nancy referred to me as “plain,” “unsynthetic,” and too “polymerizing.” I referred to Nancy as “total cost.”

&nb
sp; The total cost of my new college suit was “drugstore money.” (Retail.)

  Nancy she decided not to go to college at all. She worried about the stone age tribes recently “found” in Papua. (“Where were they before they were found?”) Instead she became a barber shop secretary because there were none. Nancy detested “competition” and considered it totally “unjust.” And found being “forced out of a job” pleasant. I imagine Nancy still remains “pleasant.”

  I did not find college very pleasant. In fact I did not find college at all. And college did not find me.

  And to be honest, I didn’t even “look.”

  Nancy

  Nancy was always handing me jars that I couldn’t open. “Open this jar for me,” she would say. Then she would leave the room and I would twist and twist. The jar would never open. She would come back in a few minutes and without saying a word take the jar from my hand and with one simple twist open it. Then she would go on about her business until there was another jar to be opened. “Open this jar for me,” she would say. She didn’t do it on purpose. Not Nancy. I don’t know why she did it.

  The first time I saw Nancy she was eating a chicken salad sandwich at Joe’s, just around the corner from my father’s hardware store. I didn’t know what to do, she was just so beautiful. So I just stood there, looking. Bright red lips. White oval face. (Soft) big black eyes. They sparkled. And long black hair. (She washed it every day.) She was wearing a red dress. There was an empty stool right next to her, so I walked over and sat down. So close, it was impossible to look. I felt, though, that she was smaller than I had thought. She smelled good. I remember my body. It felt very body-like and big. It suddenly occurred to me that I was just a blob of something sitting on a stool. I sensed a small napkin gesture and her stool swiveled in my direction. Her eyes saw me somewhere below the face. She slid down, and walked out the door. “Gone,” I said to myself.

  From that day on I ate at Joe’s every day, and so did she. If possible I would sit next to her, and it seems to me that, if possible, she would sit next to me. It became a lot easier, sitting next to her. I found myself squirming a lot on purpose. And asking her to pass the salt a bit too often. Sometimes I would drop my napkin.

  “A chicken salad sandwich, please.” (Why had she ordered that again? This was the fifth day in a row she had ordered a chicken salad sandwich.) I smiled in her direction. She almost smiled back. I too ordered a chicken salad sandwich, in hopes that she would overhear my order. She was wearing a red dress.

  The following weeks were filled with a lot of imaginary meetings and a lot of jerking off. Sometimes in bed, but usually outside in the backyard, late at night. Where it’s dark and cool. I liked it out there best. I often wondered what it might do to the grass. I had visions of sudden dead areas. Or of sudden overnight growths. Giant patches of emerald green grass. Her body, as I imagined it, was all white and soft. It all just melted together. Like velvet. Solid velvet. Like solid foam rubber velvet. All that soft whiteness. I couldn’t believe it, it was so beautiful. I would rub my face all over her tummy, hard, and she would tingle with millions of little goose-bumps. She really liked that. And her breasts—I would cup each hand around each breast and squeeze just a little and all of their softness would come between my fingers and I couldn’t stand it it would be so good. Sometimes I’d come right then. Sometimes she had red fingernail polish on. Her little black triangle was very little and very black. Sometimes she would only let me put my fingers in it. But sometimes I got to do everything.

  Then one day it was Nancy who dropped her napkin. I jumped off my stool and scampered to her feet, and there it was, all white and crumpled with little red smears. A smile took over my face. I said, “Here’s your napkin.” (Why am I smiling like a goon?) “Thank you,” she said. Silence. I just stood there, smiling like a goon, and I knew that it was now or never. “Do you want to go to the movies tonight?” I said. She said “Yes.” I couldn’t believe it.

  We went to the movies that night and saw an ordinary cowboy movie, but Nancy said she liked it. (I soon discovered that Nancy liked all movies.) We talked a little. “I’m a secretary,” she said. I said “Do you like it?” and she said she did. I asked her why she was always ordering chicken salad sandwiches and she said that she liked them. I told her that my father owned a hardware store. I couldn’t tell if that impressed her or not. She was wearing a red dress.

  I soon discovered that Nancy was always wearing a red dress. Except now and then. Then Nancy would wear green or brown, or some other color. When Nancy wasn’t wearing red it didn’t really matter what color she was wearing. Whatever color it was it would somehow be somehow gray. Like Canada. Canada is the most nothing place to me there is. All I can think of when I think of Canada is those big white mints.

  We went to a lot of movies and ate a lot of pizza. It was her favorite food at the time: Pizza. After our first movie date she never ate another chicken salad sandwich. All she would say about it was that she just didn’t like them anymore. And then there were Mexicans: hot dogs with chili. And after we got married I lost track. I do remember one chicken pot pie period. Endless chicken pot pies. (Morton’s.)

  Sometimes we would neck in the movies, but she wouldn’t go very far. She said she was a Catholic, but she wasn’t. She was a Baptist. I was raised a Methodist but if you want to know the truth, I don’t even believe in God. I really don’t. I don’t know what I believe in. Actually, I do know, but I just don’t know how to say it. What I believe in is something very big. Something bigger than anything.

  I soon discovered that Nancy was hardly the cream of the crop to anyone else but me. My mother was horrified. “There’s just something about her I don’t like.” My father, I think, feared that she was “loose.” Becky, my sister, thought she was “tacky.” I have a little brother too, John. And a big brother, Jim. He used to be a commercial artist, but he gave that up to teach elementary art to underprivileged negroes in St. Louis. “I don’t care if you like her or not,” I said.

  I was born in Tulsa, Oklahoma in 1942. I don’t remember much about being young except for this old man who would come around every now and then and take my picture on his pony with a cowboy hat. I do remember school. I remember that for the first few years I liked it, and from then on I hated it. I remember this art teacher I had once who always wore brown. Brown tweeds and leather bracelets and bean beads and lots of copper pins and buckles. She had lots of keys hanging from her belt and I never could figure out where they all went to. One day she lost her temper and poured a bucket of water over a boy’s head (he was always goofing off) and I couldn’t believe it. Teachers just didn’t do that.

  When I started having erections I didn’t know what they were. I thought I was sick or something. Then one day at school this chubby boy told me a dirty joke, something about pickles, and I put two and two together. That was a relief. He had one of those big white faces with little brown dots.

  May Dye

  May Dye married and now her name is May Linger of Oneco, Florida but when I knew May Dye her name was May Dye of Tulsa, Oklahoma. She was 8 and I was 8 and we sure did do weird things and we knew we did weird things and that is the way we wanted to do things.

  In the summertime we figured that there were 293 ways of changing a dollar and that is what we did in the summertime and the drugstores and dimestores sure hated us and that is what we wanted them to do and that is what they did. We enjoyed it.

  May read, she knew how to read, that a bird’s feather was the strongest thing in nature for its size and weight and we tried it out and we decided that tho this might be true it wasn’t saying much because we found breaking bird feathers quite easy and extremely enjoyable and we enjoyed enjoyable things in the most enjoyable way you can imagine enjoyable things as being enjoyed. We enjoyed discovering and we discovered that heavy water = H2H2O used in atomic research cost $8,000 a pint and then we didn’t know what to do so we discovered that a $5 bill contained the names of 26 states on
the facade of Lincoln’s Memorial featured on this piece of currency and then we didn’t know what to do so we discovered that a Texas ten-gallon hat holds only ¾ of a gallon and then we didn’t know what to do so we discovered that pedwararbymthegadegaphedwarugain means “99” in the Welsh language and then we didn’t know what to do so we discovered that brides in the Marquesas Islands march to the altar on the backs of the male wedding guests and then we didn’t know what to do so we discovered that the fastest insect is the Australian dragonfly verified at 55 miles per hour. We discovered that a snail’s pace is about a mile in 3 weeks and we decided that this was slow and we decided that we hated snails. We discovered with pure joy that an ounce of oil can be spread in a film covering 8 acres. We discovered that we loved oil.

  It is interesting to note that Chinese ore is notoriously deficient in phosphorus. It is interesting to note that we found that most things look good and that we found that there is not much you can do with art but hang it up and look at it or play with it or something. We found that we relied very much upon each new day being a new day. We were poor because we didn’t have money but when we did “get” money we found that it didn’t matter at all that we didn’t have money before we got it. And if we lied and we did lie it was in order to make things easier and more enjoyable and we found lying extremely fun on certain days and that is why we did it and we knew we did it and we knew why we did it and that is why we did. May and I discovered that what one ought to do is what one wants to do and that is what we did. Especially on certain days we did that.

  When now that I think about it I don’t know what happened to the time but something did happen to the time and suddenly we were graduating from school and we thought this was very funny because we didn’t know what it meant at all and it wasn’t really what we wanted and it wasn’t really what we didn’t want either and we didn’t know exactly what to do but there we were doing it. And after graduating we discovered that we were school graduates and that is not what we had meant to be at all but we were and we didn’t know why we were. But we were. We were school graduates.