“Really?” Rachel will turn from the binoculars, surprised. My mother and I will show relief that my grandma is still in the dark. Not even the gossip mill, it seemed, wanted to touch this one. Probably since most of the mill had a hand in creating it.
“At this point, I’m just happy anyone’s willing to deal with him at all,” my grandma will continue. “He’s apparently threatening trouble in both card rooms. On top of that, he was a terrible distraction at the pool party. Participation was way down.” She’ll shake her head in shame. “They’re liable to throw us out of the building altogether.”
“They can’t do that,” my mother will assure her as she grabs another leaf and rotates me around. “Really, Estelle, we are not talking about anything more than a couple of bruised egos.”
“Oh no, more than that,” my grandma will reply. “How about all those leftover hotdogs and popsicles? They won’t keep ’til next year.” Waste of any kind never sat well with Estelle. She’ll shake her head in dismay, pop her hands on her hips, and declare, “I’m too disgusted to eat dinner.”
Still rubbing in the aloe, my mother will shake her head in sympathetic agreement. “I know what you mean. I’m disgusted, too.” From having overheard her conversation late last night with my father about his decision to give Gladys Greenberg a place in the kick-line, I knew she was referring to her own husband’s actions, not Estelle’s—but in this moment, she won’t elaborate. “Men are fools, Estelle, what else can I say.”
“You don’t have to tell me,” my grandma will answer as she stares into the Intracoastal and sighs. “If it wasn’t for Saturday Night Fever, I’d stay home altogether.” With that, she’ll leave the terrace and disappear into her bedroom.
“Not you,” my mother will say to me, helping me pull the shirt over my head. “You’re not a fool.”
“I know,” I’ll say. “You said men are fools and I’m not a man.”
Rachel will snicker.
With that, the camera will fade.
It will open again on a cleaned-up Estelle standing on a bigger, better balcony, Aunt BoBo’s balcony, the much revered wraparound terrace. As the audience takes in the change of scenery, the narrator will explain that on the sliding scale of status at Imperial Towers 100, a scale understood and appreciated by all residents, Aunt BoBo’s apartment was the crème de la crème.
A two-bedroom convertible with a wrap-around terrace was to the residents what a penthouse on the Park is to me. Something to aspire to. Something to dream about. Owners evoked curiosity and inspired reverence. When you understand this hierarchy, you can understand why, despite life-threatening smoke issues, Aunt BoBo’s was the only place for Christmas dinner to be served. The terrace was the first place Grandma Estelle would head. Only now do I see that in doing so, she was trying to escape, as she had much to escape from.
For starters, there was Slip.
Then, there was the stench. The smell of meatballs diluted somewhat the cigarette smell, as did the smell of Jean Nate, which all the grandmas wore. (And which, in my professional opinion, is underrated. If repackaged right, it could bring in a killing as a retro-fume.) If we were to package the smell of Aunt BoBo’s apartment—Eau D’Aunt Bo, we’d call it—we’d combine a note of Jean Nate, a few notes of sweet and sour meatballs, and a chord of Marlboro. Not appealing, but as I said, Christmas dinner never would have been served anywhere else.
I suppose Aunt BoBo’s balcony also offered an escape from Aunt BoBo and the adults in the kitchen, who were, when we arrived, involved in a debate about whether they had enough meatballs for everyone now that BoBo had gone and extended a last-minute invitation to a couple of other guests. The camera, following the commotion, will pan from the balcony to the kitchen.
The audience will take in Aunt Bobo’s apartment, as well as the chaos in it—the silhouettes of kids shooting paper airplanes over the balcony, hanging spoons from their noses, or coloring.
They’ll hear my Grandma B admonish my Aunt BoBo, “You know we only cooked for twenty-two.”
Eventually, they’ll see everyone—Grandma B, Aunt BoBo, my mother, and Aunt BoBo’s daughters—rotating around a pot, a silver trough, the kind they use in school cafeterias to feed the masses. They’ll be eyeballing the quantity to see if they can “make do.”
“Who’d you invite?” my mother will ask.
“You’ll know ’em when you see ’em,” Aunt BoBo will bark. “What difference does it make? They got nowhere to go for the holiday.”
“As if this is even a holiday,” my Grandma B will respond. “They got nowhere to go,” she’ll mimic Aunt BoBo and shake her head, mystified at the lack of logic.
By this time, I was among the crowd of kids balancing spoons on their noses. Like ours, the walls of Aunt BoBo’s dining room were mirrored, and Marcy, our two cousins, and I were lined up in front of them seeing who could hang the spoons the longest. Because I had the biggest nose, I wrongly assumed I’d be a winner.
From where I sat, I could see the reflections of the commotion in the kitchen and of my father talking to my grandfather in these two pale blue bucket chairs that could swivel like a tilt-a-whirl if given the proper running start. I liked to think of them as the death seats, since BoBo’s husband, Morry, had been sitting in one of them a few years earlier when he’d had a heart attack and died.
Through the mirrors, I watched my Grandma Estelle come in from the terrace and my father give his seat to her. Grandma Estelle must have noticed me staring in her direction, because she waved and told me to come see her as soon as the spoon dropped off my nose. “There’s something I want to talk to you about,” she said.
I saw my father, now sitting on the arm of my grandma’s chair, give her a warning look and shake his head. The shake wasn’t long enough to interrupt his conversation with my grandfather, but it was long enough to spike my curiosity. I dumped my spoon and headed for the death seats.
“How’s my Davy Baby?” Estelle began all of her conversations with me this way. The question was rhetorical. “Listen to me,” she continued, patting her lap so I’d sit on it, “I’ve been doing so much driving lately that it’s a wonder my fingers aren’t stuck to the steering wheel. And I’m not the greatest driver on the road, but I’m getting there. So how would you like it if tomorrow”—she paused to look up at my father, who didn’t notice or pretended not to, and then continued, in a whisper—“how about if tomorrow you came with us for the driving lesson and I’ll buy you shoes just like mine?” Her feet kicked up a little, as if clarification as to the aforementioned shoes was necessary. Estelle laughed and I punched my fists into the air. We both nodded our heads. The conspiracy was solidified.
“Pardon me,” my father said. His arms were crossed in front of his chest, so I knew bad news was to follow. “I don’t think I like what I think I just heard.”
I’m sure I whined something along the lines of, “But Dad. . . .” However, I was stopped by my grandma’s hand, which came to rest atop my head.
“Allen,” she said. “This is my one and only grandson, and if I feel like buying him some fancy gyms, then fancy gyms it will be.” In my ear, she whispered not to worry. “I’m old,” she told me, “but I’m still his mother.”
“I don’t care about the shoes. You can buy him shoes for every day of the week.”
At this point, the movie camera will have to home in on the various facial expressions around the room. On the face of the father, a look of concern. On that of Grandma Estelle, a look of confusion. On Slip’s face, amusement and relief to, for once, not be a party to a conflict. On mine, total delight at the promise of Adidas. All of this facial gesturing will occur as the father continues with his lines.
“You know you have no business taking Davy in the car with you.”
My grandma will shrug. “You let him get in the car with him.” With her head, she’ll motion in Slip’s direction.
“Hey,” Slip will say. “Leave me out of this.” He’ll wink at me and my si
sters, who by now will have caught wind of the conversation and the hope of Adidas for all. They, along with everyone else (save Aunt BoBo and Grandma B, who will still be bickering in the kitchen), will now listen.
“He’s had his license for fifty years at least,” my father will say.
My grandma will fight back using her favorite, the rhyming put-down. “License schmiscence,” she’ll laugh and dab her eyes. “Whoever gave him a license either never rode in a car with him or needs to have his head examined.”
“I’ve been driving longer than that,” my grandfather will pipe in. “I’ve had a license for fifty years, but I was driving for ten good years before then.”
“And I’ve been driving for three days now and we’re equally as good.” Estelle will laugh again. So will everyone else.
Aunt BoBo will enter the room carrying a bottle of Mogen David and offer wine. “What’s so funny?” she’ll ask.
No one will bother to fill her in, only to point out that Mogen David is a funny thing to serve on Christmas. Her mood will blacken even more. “You know what. Don’t explain. I don’t feel like laughing anyhow.”
My mother will volunteer to bring Aunt BoBo up to speed, and while she does, my sisters will ask for Adidas, too, and Slip will suggest to my father that we all get into the car together. “Let Estelle show us what she’s got.” He’ll chuckle and stir the ice cubes in his drink with his index finger.
The idea will get lots of verbal support from us kids.
“So we can all get killed?” my father will answer.
Slip’s head will bob up and down. “At least we’ll all go down together.”
“Terrific.” My father’s head will shake from side to side, the shake of one who knows he is fighting a losing battle.
“So it was,” the narrator will say, “that from the death seats the death ride was born.”
“Behind my back,” my mother will protest as soon as she realizes what has transpired.
But her time on the floor will be limited since, as the movie script will direct: Just then the front door to Aunt BoBo’s apartment swings wide open and a poinsettia appears. It is large and red, just like the lips of its bearer, Lucille Garlovsky, and the poncho of Gladys Greenberg, who is following behind.
CHAPTER 14:
Sex and Subtext
CHRISTMAS DINNER AT AUNT BOBO’S, CONTINUED “Merry Christmas.” Lucille’s arrival will be more conspicuous than our own. She’ll shove over the enormous homemade challah that’s sitting in the middle of the dining room table and set the plant down instead. “Doesn’t that look festive?” she’ll exclaim.
As the centerpiece is discussed, I will digest a fully clothed Lucille. The black satin scarf in her mass of black hair, the gold earrings like hula hoops, the heels as high as the Empire State Building, the pants as tight as paint.
In the movie, as soon as Lucille and Gladys Greenberg make their entrance, everyone will begin to speak. The audience will hear chatter rather than conversations, because I don’t think anyone held a genuine conversation. I remember my mother saying to Grandma B, “Please tell me you didn’t know they were the guests.”
Grandma B will look up at her as if English is a foreign language and without a word, go into the kitchen. You can’t count that as a conversation.
Nor can you count my Grandma Estelle’s comment to my father and me, “I think Santa Claus forgot to use the chimney.” She was referring to Gladys Greenberg, who was clad in a white pantsuit beneath her red poncho and who spoke to no one in particular when she said, “There are so many children here. I didn’t realize.”
The camera will pan across the many non-conversations and come to rest on Slip, the only quiet one in the bunch. Moviegoers will have to decide for themselves what to make of his silence. Did his pause stem from his hatred of Gladys Greenberg or, as Laurel would claim, his love of Lucille Garlovsky?
The implication of a character’s actions is called subtext, Laurel told us in the class on Point of View, the last class I attended. Subtext is what a character doesn’t say or do, and these omissions can tell an audience as much about the character as what he actually says or does. “Real people usually don’t say exactly what they are thinking,” Laurel explained. “Sometimes, they say the opposite. Or they communicate with silence or body language, tone of voice, even sarcasm.” Aside from too much backstory, lack of subtext is the number one sign of a novice script, she informed us. “Good writers,” she said, “are good with subtext.”
As an aside, let me say that Laurel must be a genius as far as writers go, because she let more than three weeks pass after our trip to the bridge without speaking a word to me. In that time, she came and went from Los Angeles. I came and went from Chicago. I played basketball. I worked. I counseled Janet of the 3 Woos on reimaging her restaurant. All the while, or at least most of the while, I thought about Laurel. I talked about her with Marcy, who advised me to “honor my heartbreak by laying low.” She also apologized for contributing to my pain, since taking Laurel’s class was her idea in the first place.
I only called Laurel once. I hung up after a single ring, but she would have known from Caller ID that I’d called. She made a couple of attempts, feeble ones, to inquire into my well-being. In yoga class, she asked Marcy how I was doing and if she knew whether I was going to come back to class. At the bakery, she asked Estie if I was still writing.
No class had been scheduled for the Tuesday after Labor Day. So the next one I might have gone to was the September 10th class, the second to last on the syllabus. I thought about going to it. I was cruising along with my movie and could have used the lecture on the Hallmarks of a Great Conflict. But I imagined walking into the classroom and having to face Candy, Judd, and the couples club. I imagined Candy and Judd rolling their eyes and laughing, subtext for, “You idiot, how did you blow it with our idol?” I imagined Don asking for his money back and Susan clucking her tongue and letting me know yet again that her daughter was no longer available since she was now dating a rabbi. I imagined myself screaming at her, “Your daughter and the teacher are sleeping with the same rabbi.” And from there, my fight with Laurel would pick up just where it had left off. Who knew what Laurel would say next? Maybe she’d say nothing and instead just show Page Six to the class as a handout, for those who hadn’t seen it already. So, I decided to stay away from any more classes of Drama for the First-Time Film Writer.
Unlike me, Slip, in my movie, will head straight for the drama. He’ll stop swiveling. He’ll take a swig of his drink and stare with a smile as the new arrivals enter the room and Aunt BoBo works her way to our end of it.
“Your lady friend is here,” she’ll say, chuckling, and give Slip’s chair a shove, spinning Slip slightly toward us.
“You better go back to your meatballs, Barbara, ’cause you stink at matchmaking.” Slip will poke Aunt BoBo on the shoulder. “I already got myself a wife.” He’ll wink at Estelle.
“By the skin of his teeth, he does,” Estelle will reply as Grandma B joins the group.
“You’re worked up over nothing,” my grandfather will tell Estelle. “If Gladys causes any more trouble, I’ll kick the shit out of her. Don’t you worry.”
“That’s exactly what I’m worried about,” Estelle will say. “A woman can only take so much.”
“You women can take a lot more than us men,” Slip will answer as he rises from his death seat. “I’m going to greet our guests.” He’ll wink and saunter away.
As he does, Aunt BoBo will explain to Estelle and my father how Gladys Greenberg and Lucille Garlovsky came to be at our dinner. According to BoBo, Gladys had asked her at the elevators that morning if she could come by at dinnertime because she had news from the Board that would interest the family. “I extended an invitation because I figured the news must be good. Who’d break bad news on a holiday, right?”
“For Christ’s sake. It’s not a holiday!” my Grandma B will holler. Aunt BoBo will turn her back to my Grandma B a
nd further explain. “Only after I invited Gladys to Christmas dinner did she tell me that she already had a date with Lucille Garlovsky. So what was I supposed to do? The last thing I’d ever want to do is cause trouble for Estelle. But I’d already extended the invitation. And if the news is good, it’ll be worth—”
“It’s okay, BoBo,” my father will cut in. “No one’s accusing you of anything. You’re not causing any trouble for Estelle. Right, Ma?”
“If your name isn’t Slip, you’re not causing me any trouble.”
BoBo will thank God and go to check her meatballs.
My father will sigh and look at Estelle.
Estelle will chuckle. “If only you guys had shoes like mine,” she’ll say, “I’d say we all make a run for it.” She will dab her eyes with the Kleenex tucked up her sleeve.
I remember laughing with her in agreement, although my head was spinning as I tried to figure out the status of everyone and everything. I would have loved to have made a run for it or at least gone back to dangling spoons. But I couldn’t shake the hunch that somehow the fates of both my grandparents and my Adidas were on the line.
If the director is any good, my audience will be as worked up as I was by this point. They might not maniacally bounce themselves up and down in their movie seats like I did in the open swivel chair, but at least they’ll feel the Davy character’s bewilderment and anxiety. What was the news that Gladys Greenberg had come to deliver, and how would it impact my acquisition of the shoes? And, more mysterious, why was someone as glorious as Lucille Garlovsky with someone as horrid as Gladys Greenberg? Subtext, I’m afraid, is often lost on a ten-year-old boy, and so even though I saw the sequence—Slip patting Lucille on the back and saying, “You forgot to bring your rope,” followed by Gladys giving the evil eye to Lucille and walking away while Lucille leaned a leather-clad leg against the wall and shot a hip out toward my grandfather—I didn’t think anything of it. Had I been older, maybe I would have seen what Laurel did, and I would have understood what Lucille Garlovsky was all about. Or maybe I just chose not to see it.
Chuckerman Makes a Movie Page 23