Once again she marveled at how easy we find it to board our emotions—in this case longing and fear. Emotions, she thought, are like tiny ships we sail away from the world on.
The feeling that day eventually passed, though, and she went inside to put on the kettle. Later, on the deck with her tea and in the pleasant afternoon, she became aware of a warm breeze getting stronger, of the poplars at the end of the property swaying, of the heat from the sun on her face. She watched a large honey bee flying between the swaying clematis; she watched the way a bank of clouds, grey on the undersides, hung patchily over the water. Then a group of dragonflies passed by, moving jerkily, in a zigzag manner, as if traveling along some erratic but invisible stairway. And she thought that the blue flash of their wings was both beautiful and hopeless.
NEW LAWS
AFAMOUS DEAD PERSON, a famous journalist dead person, Carol Something, dead fourteen years, made the headlines. She was going to die again. I couldn’t believe it. Here she was sixty-four or sixty-five and the news said she was going to die again. And on top of that she was pregnant.
We watched her on TV. She wore a green dressing gown, her trademark bouffant hair (red this time around), and she was sitting on a studio couch telling the male anchor all about it. Incredulous, I kept straining to hear the word “pregnant.” Not meaning to be un-liberal, but giving birth at sixty-five, giving birth while dead! Anyway, there she was, being interviewed, all set to track the process for the nation. Her story was she going to die a second time in childbirth.
On top of this, Carol Something had a message. “I want to help people understand fear,” she told the TV audience, and we watched a clip of her entering the place where fear usually resides—a large hospital. A camera crew followed her; care-workers and people in wheelchairs lined the hospital halls.
Fear? I gasped at the TV screen. I thought we did understand about fear. And now Carol S. is back to tell us that fear doesn’t end with death? That there’s no end to it at all? That at any moment the dead can return—we can return—and become hysterically fearful all over again?
I don’t think this should be allowed. One time around the track is enough. For anyone, famous or not. But then—how to stop the practice when it just might be another law of the universe I don’t know about.
I wish Carol Something had remained dead. The idea of a return visit is offensive. Wouldn’t she have rotted by now? Or, if cremated, wouldn’t her ashes be on someone’s mantlepiece or else romantically scattered? Even if she’d been freeze dried after her first death, is science advanced enough to reconstitute Carol S. like she was a package of survival food? Just add water and boil?
Personally, I’m not interested in another new law of the universe. My brain is full enough trying to get a grip on all the new laws from the last century—Relativity, jet propulsion, radio waves, Kraft Dinner. What I’m more interested in knowing is how many new laws one person can be expected to reasonably handle? I’d say about one—the fact of their own existence. After that, throw in the towel. Throw a party. Throw up.
Still, there was Carol Something on TV looking about seven months pregnant. After a couple of days on the Headline News the male anchor had been bumped and she’d taken over. (I’d always suspected those anchors were dead from the neck down but to actually have it proven like this?) Anyway Carol S. was interviewing two guests for the amusement of a studio audience—the Grim Reaper and William Burroughs. It was a talk show set-up with Carol at a desk, the guests side by side on a facing couch, and the audience laughing to cue cards.
The Grim Reaper—a skinny fellow dressed in a black cape and hood—skeleton face, scythe, the works—was upset about working conditions and a lack of down time. Apparently there’s no such thing as collective bargaining in the causing death business. Isn’t that interesting? Doesn’t that warrant some kind of investigative report? But the Grim Reaper was a ham as well as an activist and played the studio audience for sympathy and laughs.
Hey, I said to the TV screen, I fully sympathize. Cut back on your hours, take a break, give some of us a few more years. Carol S. was doing a fine job interviewing the Grim Reaper but she couldn’t re-nail William Burrough’s coffin. He just sat there slumped and miserable on the couch wearing a rumpled black suit and a tie and 1950s hat and refused to speak. He looked half-asleep. Or half-dead. Or somewhere in between like a ghost or a creepy spirit.
Finally, in this slow, hollow voice he said something about the planet being doomed, about it being destroyed by humanity. “It’s time to wise up to the true criminality of our times,” he drawled.
Who is this cranky, old cadaver anyway? Personally, I think that if the dead insist on returning they should at least offer the world a few laughs. Or, like Carol Something, ignite a national debate on the nature of fear. But William Burroughs? What’s the re-run value of him?
Then William Burroughs said, “As soon as this show’s over I’m giving birth to a naked .… ”
“Oh, no you don’t!” Carol S. interrupted, shrieking, “I’m the one giving birth around here.” And they got into this tussle, kind of an impromptu WWF match, skeleton bones flying everywhere.
The audience clapping.
THE DATA ENTRY CLERK
AND THE INFORMATION is constant. And all day long I tap in the numbers, the names, the precise answers to the precise questions, tapping like a blind woman with a red tipped cane, tapping in the codes, the sequences, feeding the screen, obeying the computer’s commands. And feeling behind me the patrolling form of Randy the Assistant Supervisor with his silent, thoughtful gaze, his arms clasped behind his back like visiting royalty, moving between the rows of Data Entry Clerks hunched before the glow and flicker of computer screens. And after sixty minutes of tapping a buzzer sounds and the forty-three female Data Entry Clerks leave their stations. And stretching sore necks and arms line up at Barbara’s, the Supervisor’s desk. Barbara of the long denim skirts and kind ways who has before her a craft show quality object of hand-made beauty, a wooden jellybean dispenser with a large wooden handle that dispenses oversized jellybeans one at a time to the weary, lined-up Data Entry Clerks—lime, cherry, licorice, lemon, cinnamon—one jellybean per sixty minute break. And Randy the Assistant Supervisor is lovely, tall and young, with his shaved head and his one gold earring and his buttocks encased in beige Trim Fit Dockers so that at night I dream I am loved by a winged man who thrusts into me on the sides of buildings, high up on the sides of buildings like copulating birds. And it’s Randy who knows my numbers, my sequences, my special codes. And it’s Randy entering me with his finely crafted sex and we are face to face against the building, his thick and ample wings keeping us aloft and my face turns to catch the wind from the high, wide outside. And then we’re laughing, free of the computer’s commands, jellybeans pouring like stars from our red stained mouths …
VISITATION AT BARB’S CAFÉ, LADYSMITH, BRITISH COLUMBIA
THE SKINNY GIRL WEARING GLASSES and sitting in the booth with her younger brother, her father and her father’s girlfriend said, “I’m allergic to everything. I’m allergic to grass. I’m allergic to bee stings and dust. I’ve even got asthma.” She was about eleven years old and had thin, pale hair.
“No way!” said the girlfriend, leaning across the table, grabbing one of the girl’s fries. “My sister was allergic to everything. You could hear her coughing way downstairs. She wet the bed, too.”
The father began punching his stomach and said, “I’m still a hundred and forty pounds. Look at my gut. Hardly any flab.” He was a small man, balding; his stomach hung over his jeans.
The girlfriend laughed. “In your dreams!” She was sitting beside him and looked to be a head taller. She shoved him in the shoulder.
“Hey!” the father said, laughing, and shoved her back. They both giggled. Then tussled with each other for a few moments. “Gordy!” The girlfriend said. “Gordeeee!”
The boy all the while had been sipping orange pop through a straw and glar
ing steadily at his father. Now he said, “You shouldn’t smoke. It’s bad for you.”
“I have to smoke,” the father said, tapping his cigarette in the ashtray. “It’s a requirement for my job.” The girlfriend laughed. The boy who was eight or nine shrugged his shoulders.
“Does your mother smoke?” the girlfriend asked.
“No,” said the boy.
“Only cigars,” said the girl.
“My uncle smoked cigars,” the girlfriend said. “Dirty, smelly things.” She pinched her nose with her fingers. “Pee-U.” Then she turned to the girl and said thoughtfully, “You should wear bangs. They’d suit you. Make your face look bigger. You know, like fuller.”
“I hate bangs,” the girl said. “Bangs suck.”
The father winced. “Be nice,” he said, glancing around at the other diners, an elderly couple eating grilled cheese sandwiches, a young woman feeding a baby in a highchair. It was a small café, only five booths. The owner took orders at the counter; his wife cooked out back.
“Gordy,” the girlfriend said. “Order me some coffee? Pleeez?”
“You have to get it yourself,” the girl said. “They don’t wait on you here.”
“Roger,” the father said to the boy. “Get Kristy-Ann some coffee.”
“Why?’
“Because ‘Y’s not a ‘Z’. Because I said so.”
“I don’t have any money.”
“For Pete’s sake,” the father said, reaching into his jeans pocket. He threw some change on the table.
The boy struggled out of the booth, grabbing the coins.
“Does your Mom own her own house or only rent?” the girlfriend asked.
“I dunno,” said the girl.
“I got my first paycheck on Friday,” the girlfriend said. “All the tax they took off. It was terrible.”
“Do waitresses make much money?” The girl asked this while scraping mayonnaise off her burger.
“Not yet. But after a year I’ll be making good money.”
They ate their meals for a while in silence. Then the boy returned with the coffee and another orange pop for himself.
“Thank you, Sweetie,” the girlfriend said and blew the boy a kiss.
“Here’s something,” said the father, leaning forward. “Did you know that chocolate milk comes out of brown cows?”
The boy smirked. The girl said, “That’s stupid.”
“I think that’s really cute,” the girlfriend said. “I think your Dad’s a hoot.”
‘Yeah, be nice to your old man,” said the father. “Maybe I’ll buy you a couple of skateboards for Christmas.”
“Don’t believe him,” said the girl.
“What kind?” said the boy.
LANNY DOES NOT EXIST
I SAID TO LANNY, the current live-in father, “The parents are mobilizing. I’ve been asked to join the fight.”
Lanny shrugged. He was lying on the sofa watching TV, drinking Chamomile tea, trying to stay calm. He said, “Look at this, it’s makeover day on the talks: Moms who dress like hookers, formerly fat daughters who’ve lost weight and party all weekend.”
I looked at the screen: a close-up of a thirteen-year-old nymphomaniac dressed in leather and chains, “So?” the girl was saying, “So? I had my first sex last year. With a stranger off the street. He was thirty-five. Like, I don’t see anything wrong with that.” Her mother beside her bawled. Someone in the audience yelled, “You’re sick!” and the girl smirked. She was heavily made-up, skinny, titless. She leaned forward in her chair and scowled at the audience. “You have a problem with that?” she asked. “I don’t have a problem. What’s the big deal? I’m doing what I want. I’m happy. Everyone should do what makes them happy, right? If you have a problem with that you’re the one who’s sick.”
The talk show host said, “What do you think audience? A case of fulfillment? A case of dead-end street? Think about it. We’ll be right back.”
“So what’s the kid’s makeover going to be?” I asked Lanny, “Sunday school best? Anne of Green Gables?”
“Watch and see,” Lanny said, repeating the words he lives by.
What he’s always saying: “Watch and see—that’s all we can do anymore.”
“Look Lanny, watch and see ME.” I stood in front of the TV screen. Mild irritation crossing his face. “What I want to talk about is THE PARENTS. I’ve been asked to join the fight but I’m not sure it’s the right fight. Know what I mean?”
Lanny sighed. “What’s the fight about? Twenty-five words or less.”
“Saxophones. They want to ban saxophones in the schools on the grounds that they’re too difficult to play. And violins, pianos, clarinets for the same reason. They’re saying musical instruction has become elitist; only a few kids can master these instruments. What they want is a common denominator—a standard, a bottom line. So everyone can be included in a community of musical expression. So the musically challenged—the tone deaf, the ones without rhythm—won’t be left out, suffer ridicule, feel bad. What they want, Lanny, is a decree: only drums, tambourines, symbols, washboards, crude flutes allowed. Only the basic heart beating rhythm allowed.”
“That’s more than twenty-five words.”
“There are hundreds of parents, Lanny. They’re forming committees, signing petitions. Planning to storm the School Board Office. They’re really heated up about this issue; they figure it’s all come down to this.”
“To what?”
“Having one clear thing they can be sure about; if they win this fight they think they can relax, feel in control of their lives. I’ve been asked to form a cell, supply three pounds of coffee.”
“Put them on hold, Martha,” Lanny told me, “give them a number, tell them to wait in line. Do whatever. It’s just more roaring.”
Lanny folded his arms across his chest. “You mobilize with the parents if you want to,” he said, “but me, I’m staying put. I want passive. I want spectator. I’m worn out from reacting. To issues. To anything. One minute it’s the life cycle of the bluenose shark, the next, the Great American Fitness test. It’s all a lot of roaring. Inside. Outside. Headlines roar. Traffic roars. Everything’s become a factor in some fatal crash. I want mindless TV shows. A parade of nonsense. I want extremely mild titillation. I want to smirk at existence. That’s all I’m capable of. Snorting and smirking. You’ve heard about comfort food? What I want is comfort for my mind. Swaddling. Cotton batting. The edges dulled.”
Poor Lanny. In his brighter moments he calls himself “1929,” because he’s having his own “Big Crash.” Which is literally true the way he’s been crashed on the chesterfield for three weeks using up his sick leave. He likes the image, he says, of businessmen from the twenties hurling themselves through high-rise windows. Wearing well-cut black suits, Jazz playing in the background. For some reason he finds this image calming.
We pause, staring at another image, a bank commercial. Hundreds of kids run singing through a country field. Summer. Blue sky. A field of long grass, yellow flowers. When was the last time anyone saw a field like that? Do they still exist outside the cities? And why does viewing such a field make me feel like I’ve just received a Hallmark card?
The commercial over, Molly and Wally enter the room, on cue, like a TV sitcom. They’ve got their baseball hats on backwards, jeans and layered shirts are oversized; they look like sloppy midgets. My kids. They have a style all their own, a kid style; flick on any sitcom and you’ll see what I mean; sassy little bopping consumers full of kid jive—smart retorts, fast takes, loopy wisdom. Ten and twelve. Already remote; I view them as Phenomena. I’ve come to believe there’s two kinds of kids in the western world: commercial kids—wholesome, cute, friendly. And sitcom kids—sarcastic, mostly unfriendly, not the kind you can trust in the love department.
Molly and Wally are the sitcom variety. But I shouldn’t complain; I named them after the sitcoms of my youth.
They toss their packs on the coffee table and head for the
kitchen: Snack Time! One of the many Big Moments in their day. They’re after some bright exciting food stuff to eat while standing up and bopping to the upbeat sound track that’s always playing in their heads. Their commercial break. They don’t even look at Lanny whose gaze is fixed on the TV screen. To me they say, “Yo, Mom!” A pair of walk-ons. My kids—mine! Already they’re grooving. Is this fair? It took me decades to find grooving. Lanny says he grooved briefly in Grade Eleven when he dropped acid, and then a few years later during one of the many summers of love: “On the beach, man, and there was this eagle nest and this chick called Rita only we called her Rye-rita because her mind was so crunchy if you know what I mean … ”
Being a parent is like being a continually panic’d waiter: Is the service all right? Is there anything I can get you? Hovering. Bending. Wiping the floor with your brow.
“Yo, Wally and Molly,” I called through the kitchen door. I’m cool; I know the lingo, I’ve studied Anthropology. “Tell me, what’s your position on music lessons in the school?”
They looked at each other like they could not believe what they were hearing, incredulously, like who is this idiot and why is she asking such a dumb question?
“ Music class sucks,” Wally finally said, as if he’d given the matter serious consideration. He was expertly setting the microwave for his Pizza Pops—ping, ping, ping. “We thought you understood that.”
“Yeah,” Molly said, “music in school is so lame. Like only nerds and losers take Band.” And then suspiciously, “You’re not going to make us take Band are you? Not seriously. You know what kids in Band wear? White shirts and pants hiked up to their armpits.” She did her moron imitation: buck teeth, bug eyes.
Darwin Alone in the Universe Page 8