Chuckerman Makes a Movie

by Francie Arenson Dickman

  “I’m not letting go of the Caddy because my grandfather asked me not to. I can do all the downward dogs in the world, and that won’t change.”

  “He left it to you years ago. When you had no job, no money, and no idea what you were going to do. He gave you a set of wheels to help you along in life. And now, you’re along. Well along. I actually think Slip would be horrified if he knew you went to meet Bailey Pierce for dinner in his old piece of junk.”

  “I took a limo, I didn’t drive,” I said. I also might have mentioned that she would have known I hadn’t driven had she come with me, but I didn’t want to open the door for more prongs to be added to her plan. “Besides, I think he would have been proud to see where his car ended up.”

  “I think he would have been proud to see where you ended up,” she replied. “See? You can’t separate yourself from the car.”

  She tried again to explain how yoga would do this. Something about anchoring the mind on bodily sensations to open the consciousness door. The first two prongs, finishing my movie and shopping for new a car, seemed like a walk in the park compared to the yoga.

  “Sit with it for a week,” she told me as I led her into my apartment.

  I told her I would as I began to remove the scarf, the skirt, and every other piece of her outfit. Finally, she stopped talking about her prongs.

  “I knew I was better in bed than the rabbi,” I told her again.

  “Let’s see how you do on the yoga mat,” she replied.

  “Do we have sex in the yoga class?”

  “It’s actually a series of classes,” she said. She’d already signed me up. Ten sessions. She’d negotiated a deal with Tatia, the owner of the studio. She paused to use her tongue to play with my ear, then added, “And I bought you your own mat.”

  She was naked on my bed. Her long, newly straightened hair covered my body. At this point, I would have agreed to one hundred sessions of yoga for this one round in the sack. Call me weak. Or stupid. Or male. I was back at the Rodeo. I couldn’t say no. Still, the entire time we rocked and rolled, I couldn’t shake the thought that yoga was the second class I’d been enrolled in on a complimentary basis in the name of self-reform. Was this a sign of personal failure? Or should I feel honored to have two women—one of whose breasts now stared me in the face—who cared about me enough to pull strings for my betterment?

  I should add that I entertained this mental debate without a hitch in my performance in bed, which was a sign of mental strength if there ever was one. The ability to have first-class sex while simultaneously self-analyzing your strength of character seemed to me, if nothing else, a sure sign that I, of all people, did not need to waste my time with yoga. Not only could I be in the moment, I could be in two moments at once.

  I didn’t mention this to Laurel. Not then—I wasn’t going to ruin a banner night. Instead, I’d do what she asked. I’d sit with it. I’d attend Laurel’s next class. I’d attend a yoga class. I’d do whatever else Laurel wanted me to do. I’d go shopping for a car. I had no problem looking at cars. I’d write my movie, which I’d planned on doing anyway. And as luck would have it, I’d be writing about my Cadillac—which I’d be keeping. I mean, what’s the point of giving something away and then writing about it to magically bring it back when you can just hang on to the thing in the first place?

  THE MORNING AFTER SATURDAY NIGHT FEVER

  CRACK OF DAWN. INT. SITTING ROOM OF APARTMENT 1812

  “When I woke up the next morning, Grandma Estelle was gone,” the narrator will say.

  How’s that kind of line to move your audience to the edge of their seats? Nonetheless, it’s accurate. My eyes opened and I realized that no one had summoned us out of bed. When I ambled into the living room/dining room area, I saw my father and Slip both slumped in their chairs. My father’s arms were crossed. His head hung. Slip spun an ashtray with his ring finger. They both looked up when I entered, but neither spoke. Instead, they stared for a moment and returned their heads to their original positions. The atmosphere felt like when brother Frankie quit the priesthood.

  This was one scene in Saturday Night Fever that I’d been permitted to view, as it was relatively clean and familiar. The look of disappointment in a parent’s eye was certainly nothing we’d never seen before.

  Anyhow, back to my movie. When I get no verbal greeting in the dining room that morning, I’ll creep back to our sleeping area.

  “Something’s really wrong,” I will announce to my sisters, confused more than scared. You’d think I would have seen death written all over this scenario, but I pictured such a disaster to involve screaming, sirens, and wailing cries. I’d seen enough grandparents wheeled out of the Rascal House by paramedics to have a clear image of death in my mind, and this didn’t fit the bill.

  Marcy, however, was never as astute an observer as I. “Did Grandma have a heart attack?” she’ll ask, throwing off her covers and scooting herself over to my pullout.

  Rachel will lift her head from her pillow. “No, stupid. There are no paramedics.” She’ll look at me. “Where’s Mom?”

  I will shrug. “She’s not in the bathroom.” The bathroom was where Paula could be found every morning in Miami, taking a vacation from the vacation, as she liked to put it. She’d peel the towel from her hair. She’d smoke a cig. She’d put on mascara.

  “There she is,” Marcy will scream. Leaning over the back of my bed, she’ll point out the window to the terrace.

  Rachel and I will race to my bed and line ourselves up next to Marcy. We’ll all stare out the window. The terrace, where the winds were a consistent gale force, was the last place my mother went, especially in the morning, with her towel just removed and her hair perfectly set in place. But on that day, the towel still sat on her head, which hung over the balcony. A cigarette dangled from her lips.

  We’ll knock on the window. My mother’s enormous head will lift. She’ll smile, stick her cigarette in the ashtray, and head toward the door. We’ll cross into the living room in time to see the wind blow her inside and slam the door behind her.

  “Well?” my father will ask. His arms will still be crossed. He will have hardly moved.

  My mother will shake her head no.

  “What’s going on?” Rachel will ask. “Why were you looking over the balcony? Where’s Grandma? Did someone fall?” Clearly, the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge scene had made an impact on the few who’d seen it.

  Again, my mother’s head will shake side to side. Her hands will go to her hips as she says, “There’ve been no accidents.”

  Slip will push his chair away from the table and mumble, “Not yet, anyway.”

  And now the news will break. My mother will blurt it out while my father is immersed in self-blame: “Your grandmother stole the car.”

  The actress who plays my mother will have to deliver this line seriously, in deference to the direness of the situation. My grandmother had, for all practical purposes, run away using a vehicle that she was neither licensed nor able to drive. However, the actor’s face will have to reflect irony so the audience understands that my mother is fighting laughter. Her tongue will press hard into the space between her front teeth as she offers further detail. “She took your grandfather’s Cadillac. We’re not sure where she went. Her note didn’t say.”

  At this point, the scene could go in two directions. We could continue on in Apartment 1812 with the chaos that broke out among us kids, pebbling questions at my parents like the press corps, the bickering that went on between my parents as to the course of action that should be pursued in the search and rescue of Estelle, and the pacing and head-shaking of Slip, who’d never been so silent, so shaken.

  Or, we could leave the apartment and take the audience to the streets. We’ll go to Collins Avenue, the southbound lanes, and slowly zoom in on the pale yellow Cadillac, the one going far beneath the speed limit with its tires clinging to the dividing lines like a security blanket, with its windows open and music (the ’77 chart-toppe
r “Baby Come Back”) playing—but not loudly, because behind the wheel sat Estelle, and she needed to concentrate in order to stay on the road. Fortunately, at seven in the morning, the road was quiet and the skies were sunny. Estelle didn’t have to deal with the distractions of other drivers or of Mother Nature. It was just her, the Caddy, and the open road.

  Of course, we didn’t know where Estelle was, which is why I think that cutting back and forth between the Cadillac and Apartment 1812 is the way to go. The audience—unlike the Melmans—will be able to see that Estelle is, at least for the moment, alive and well. In fact, she is better than well. She is like a geriatric Thelma or Louise, enjoying the fresh air and the freedom and looking forward to eating chopped herring at the Bagel Bar. Her first meal alone and in peace and quiet, she’ll tell her waitress, that she can remember.

  Also, cutting back and forth between scenes will allow the audience to experience both of them in real time. They will take two rides at once before the camera settles back into Apartment 1812 and onto the light blue piece of paper resting on the kitchen table.

  My grandma wrote in script—sloppy but legible, and certainly identifiable. Without mistake, the note that will now come front and center is hers.

  “Dear Family,” it will read. “Going out for a time. Don’t wait for me for breakfast and don’t worry, I’m fine.” Her initials, E.F.M., will be at the bottom, followed by, “P.S. Tell Davy that today’s the day for shoes.”

  The kids will crowd around it, pushing each other for prime position, but nobody will dare to touch, as if to do so would taint the scene of the crime.

  “Nowhere in that note did she mention taking the car,” my father will holler in self-defense from his dining room chair.

  As the family studies the piece of paper, the narrator will explain that the note was first discovered by my father when he came into the kitchen for an early-morning glass of water. My grandma’s message didn’t set off immediate alarm because it didn’t mention going for a drive. So he’d finished his glass of water, used the washroom, and gotten dressed without a second thought.

  “I assumed Estelle had gone to take a walk around the deck,” my father will continue. “I was happy that she was feeling good.”

  “It’s not like Estelle has ever left a note before when she’s gone walking in the morning,” my mother will say. “So why would you assume? Especially after her episode last night.”

  Now my father will yell. “Damn it, Paula, you are only making me feel worse. Until you have something useful to say, why don’t you keep your mouth shut?” He’ll speak with his back to my mother, but my sisters and I, lined up beneath the doorway in our Miami Beach pajamas, will see his angry face. My folks bickered all of the time, but they rarely fought—not because they were both pacifists but because my father was remarkably skilled at In One Ear, Out the Other, which is an ability like raising a single eyebrow: you either have it or you don’t.

  Anyway, on this morning of high anxiety, my father clearly wasn’t himself. However, my mother still was hers. This made for some tense moments, which I, being the worrier I was, figured to mean the demise of my parents’ marriage. Laurel says that had I been more accustomed to intramarital fighting, I might have been able to let it go in one ear and out the other. But I’m not so sure. As I said, it’s something you either have or you don’t.

  Instead, I started to cry. The combination of a possible broken home and a lost grandma was too much to bear.

  When this happens, my mother will lead me into the bathroom where, from atop the closed toilet seat, I will watch her apply makeup and listen to her explain that all people fight, even though they love each other, and all people make mistakes.

  “When the going gets tough, the Melmans do not leave.” She’ll look at me through the mirror as I look at her reflection. Her cheeks will move in slow-motion circles as she rubs in her facial creams. “Well, maybe we leave temporarily,” she’ll add. “A trip to the bathroom, a ride in the car—just to clear our heads—but then we move on. We let water go under the bridge. Do you understand?” she’ll ask me as she trades her mascara wand for a cigarette from an ashtray on my lap.

  I’ll nod into the mirror, although who knows whether or not I understood. One may argue that, given my aversion thus far to marriage, I understood all too well.

  My mother will hand me Kleenex from the counter and tell me to blow my nose. “That said,” she’ll go on, shaking a finger at me, “and this is not to be repeated, your father’s mistakes were bigger than mine. He should have figured out that Estelle took the car, and he never should have started with her driving in the first place.”

  For the sake of their marriage, I will offer an admission. The camera will show me gripping the sides of the toilet seat as I announce, “The driving lessons were my idea, not Dad’s.”

  My mother will lift my chin with her mascara. “Look at me,” she’ll say. “I appreciate your desire to protect your father. It’s a noble thing to do.” She’ll smile and tap me on the head with the mascara. For a moment I’ll feel proud. After her next cigarette puff, however, she’ll add, “But you can’t save your father. His decision to teach Estelle to drive was plain old stupid. Let’s just thank God that Slip tried to pull his car around early this morning.”

  Indeed, Slip—unable to find his keys—was the one who first realized my grandma had taken his car. I didn’t see Slip make this discovery, but the moviegoers will. At the start of the scene, before they see me wake up, they’ll see Slip, fully clothed and ready for another day of rabble-rousing, as he walks into the kitchen, rifles through drawers in search of his missing car key, stumbles upon the note on the kitchen table, puts two and two together, and storms down the hall to get my father out of the bathroom.

  The same bathroom that my mother and I will now be leaving. She’ll pull me up from the toilet and open the door, whispering as she does, “Let’s just hope your grandmother isn’t to Disney World by now.”

  Wherever Estelle was, by the time my mother and I emerged from the bathroom, a plan to retrieve her had been devised.

  When we reappear, my father will announce, “Slip is going to hit the road in the rental car to cover possible destinations—the mall, the beach, the Marco Polo.”

  (The Rascal House had been ruled out already, as a phone call and an announcement over its PA system had concluded that Estelle Melman was not on the premises. No one even considered the Bagel Bar, probably because it was just our backup place, and because it was far—way farther than we figured Estelle would dare to venture. Also, no one knew she liked the Bagel Bar that much.)

  My father will further explain that he and my mother will head to the lobby to see if anyone saw Estelle before she left and to ask Eileen for help. As building manager, Eileen had under her command a security guard whom she might be willing to deploy around the neighborhood. She was also the direct liaison to the police and paramedics. “Maybe,” my father will say, “she’ll be willing to send out a gratuitous word to keep an eye out for a brand-new yellow Caddy.”

  Yes indeed, the narrator will declare, divide and conquer was the name of the game on the morning Grandma Estelle went missing. The kids were assigned the task of staying in the apartment in case she returned. This job seemed easy enough. It was Slip’s job that, in my mother’s opinion, could prove difficult to do alone.

  “Wouldn’t it make more sense if I went with Slip to look while he drives?” She spoke extra nicely, these words being her first since coming out of the bathroom. I knew from her ultra saccharine tone (a tone that every woman, Laurel included, has in her arsenal) that she was going out of her way to demonstrate the water-under-the-bridge concept she’d explained to me in the bathroom.

  “Wouldn’t it be funny if Papa crashed into Grandma while he was looking for her?” Marcy offered.

  I laughed and added, “Yeah, what if Papa smashed up his own Cadillac?”

  My father, obviously feeling this scenario was more likely than fu
nny, assigned Rachel to go with Slip. Marcy and I would stay behind. My mother would go with my father because Eileen, like everyone else, liked my mother. We were given two minutes to put on clothes, and then the parties dispersed. The hands on the oven clock read 7:26.

  In the movie, we’ll fade from the oven clock to the clock on the wall of the Bagel Bar. The audience will see the teacup clock come into focus with the spoon and fork hands, and it will become clear to them that while we’ve been strategizing, Estelle has arrived safely at her destination. As the camera expands, they will also see that she’s ordered herself an onion bagel, chopped herring, a glass of orange juice, a cup of coffee, and the jelly donut my father never let her have.

  The audience will see Estelle engage her waitress (Flora from the Philippines, she’ll learn) in friendly small talk. They’ll hear Estelle explain, “You know, I’ve been eyeing the jelly donuts for five years at least, and now I’m going to see if they were worth the wait.”

  “I’m sure you won’t be disappointed,” Flora will say. “I’ve gained ten pounds in my year here.”

  “Well, here goes,” Estelle will announce. They’ll see her fingers with the pale peach nail polish pick up the knife, turn the plate this way and that, analyzing the best place to sink it into the donut, and finally make a perfect cut. They’ll see her offer half to Flora, who will shake her head no, smile, and walk away. They’ll see Estelle pull the plate closer, open the Miami Herald to the crossword puzzle, take a pen from her purse, move her coffee closer, spread the jelly that squirted out from the initial cut back atop the donut, and bite. A small bite, so the red jelly doesn’t mess up her white blouse. Then she’ll sip, she’ll chew, and she’ll fill in the crossword, feeling the warmth of the morning sun through the window, hearing the hustle and bustle of the morning breakfast rush, savoring every minute and every morsel.