“When I was fourteen, and still innocent, my family lived in a dangerously overheated apartment in Budapest, which had a great many balconies. I was bored, with nothing to do but wander aimlessly back and forth from one balcony to the next, and one afternoon when I was doing this I noticed a woman shooting baskets across the courtyard. She was wearing filmy black knee socks, boxer shorts, and a halter made of feathers, and she was tossing two-handed jumpers into a basket that had been attached to a marble column. I felt sure she knew she was being watched, but she gave no sign; instead, she tried more and more difficult shots: hooks, driving layups, double pumps, and even a behind-the-back slam dunk. Observing her gave me the most intense pleasure imaginable. ‘She must think I’m a scout,’ I murmured to myself.
“The next day, I went out on the balcony carrying a clipboard and binoculars and wearing a whistle around my neck. As if by magic, the woman appeared again, clothed this time in a sweatsuit of diaphanous gauze, and rewarded me with a display of shot-making worthy of the great Doctor J himself. These scenes continued every day for more than a week, and then one morning when I stepped out onto my balcony I saw that the basket had been torn down and the woman’s windows boarded up. My father had found out, you see. That evening, he sent me to my room for three years.”
“Oh, poor darling,” Mathilde said, covering Georg with kisses. “And you never saw the woman again?”
“Worse than that,” Georg said, blushing furiously. “The truth is, I can take no pleasure in the Knicks unless I watch them with my binoculars on the television set of the doorman in the lobby across the street.”
YVONNE, GISÈLE, THE BASQUE, AND THE CUBAN
It was a languid, febrile afternoon, and the Basque stirred with euphoria and anticipation. It seemed to him as he hurried along the Rue de Rivoli that all over Paris there were raised enclosures fenced with chicken wire, where people cavorted wantonly, and that every man he passed was carrying, like himself, a pair of sneaks and a dark wooden paddle suggestively perforated.
The Basque met Gisèle in the doorway of the English bookstore (she was wearing white fur warmups and a pair of extremely low-cut Adidas), and together they ascended the stairs that led to the rooftop. “My husband almost found us out,” Gisèle whispered to the Basque, trembling and pressing herself against him. “He asked where I was going dressed up like this, and I told him I was just popping out for some absinthe.”
“We will make it fast,” said the Basque. “Who are our opponents today?”
“There’s Yvonne, who was a friend of mine at school,” said Gisèle. “She has mastered many unusual strokes, and you will like her very much, I know. And then the Cuban. I have never met him, but it is said he possesses a top-spin backhand taught to him by André Gide himself.”
When Gisèle and the Basque came out on the roof, Yvonne and the Cuban were already on the court. They were dressed in identical silk kimonos, but the Cuban was also remarkable for his completely shaven head, which glistened in the Parisian sun. The Basque felt a sensual tremor of fear, a primitive dark anxiety. Quickly he said, “Alors, shall we warm up?”
They began rallying, and in the frenzy of their exertions the Basque soon forgot himself. His eyes grew brilliant, and his paddle threw off sparks whenever it nicked the wire. He lunged back and forth, attacking and retrieving, and even the caressing wind seemed to burn the heated flesh of his bare torso. He moved to the net, he moved to the baseline, and now he was climbing to the very top of the back fence to pick off a tricky lob. His fall, when it came, was greater than any he had ever known, because he had ventured so far into the game and had abandoned himself to it. He lay on the court for a moment, spent and shuddering, and then, half sobbing, half laughing, he called out to the Cuban, “All right—serve it up!”
Gisèle and the Basque won the first three sets, 6–2, 6–4, 6–3. Then they changed partners.
1978
ROY BLOUNT, JR.
NOTES FROM THE EDGE CONFERENCE
LEFEBVRE, opening remarks:
Don’t know all there is to know about edge. Do know: Misconceptions abound. Fixed? No. Plottable? No. Like line on map, where important things lie on either side? No.
“Sometimes my edge is a round edge.” Now tongue, now groove.
Edge, as in: Lip. Verge. Pungency. To sidle. Advantage. “Near bound of nerves’ end, inside of out.”
(Mutterings.)
Registration packets: Should have been plenty. Ppl. who took more than one should return same.
.
Armentout, “Edges and Hedges: Things That Get in the Way”:
Ppl. say, “I want to live out there close to the edge. But I don’t want to look funny.”
Cf. Gary Busey. Look at him first time: “Damn, no way that man can be a star.” But: “Sure, the man looks funny at first—anybody they thought of to play Buddy Holly had to look a little funny right off. But next thing you know, hey, he’s out there.” Beyond a star. Where it is. Raising hell in the social notes. “Jumping into people’s sets, man.”
.
Hully, Perl, Tibbett Panel, “Getting Words in Edgewise”:
“Outfit” self for E.? (Figurative goose down, asbestos.) Whole industry growing up. But is to gear for it to be not out close to it? Or to . . . temper it? Perhaps.
Out on E. for its own sake, or should we wait until propelled there by just cause? Hard question. Finally unanswerable.
Diff. ppl. higher/lower threshold of E.?
“I mean, I’ll start a sentence sometimes and halfway have to stop—skreek!—not on the edge anymore. But the first half . . .”
“Would you be interested in approaching the edge again, possibly in a more definitive manner?”
“Well . . .”
“Or a less definitive one?”
“Ah!”
Diff. cultures, diff. E.s. Navaho: Whole notion of edge as maze. (Maize?)
.
Out on E., as compared to “hip”:
Rohle: “Yeah, but whoever heard of ‘The Razor’s Hip’?”
Many ppl. hip. Well, to be fair, not many—not untold numbers. More aren’t.
Basic point of hip: Certain people know you know what. “You know, it’s a social thing.”
Hip: Pick up on yet unassimilated Black English. “Come on over to the crib and we’ll . . .” “This johnson.” Call everything a “johnson.”
For some ppl., hip not enough.
.
Van Roud II, on Loss of E.:
“Suddenly this sinking sensation. Put a foot out one way, and . . . solid ground.
“Put it out the other way, and . . . solid ground.
“I was in some kind of Kansas of the mind—Sunday afternoon of the soul. I said, ‘Whoa, get back.’ I was upset.”
.
Stapenink, “Lines: Toward a Definition”:
Where does closeness to E. begin? Is there fine line separating area within which one may be said to be out close to E. from area within which one may be said to be cut off from E.? In that case: Does E. have an e.?
That line past which being close to E. begins. Greater value in being on that line? On edge of that line?
E. an absolute, or gradations? Sort of close to E. Really really close to E. Marginally barely close to E. Nearly close to E.
(Grumblings.)
.
During mixer, overheard:
“My friend and I were talking. I’m saying like who is your best rock star and who is your best this star and that star and it hits us, all our best ones like live out near the edge. And we’re talking you know and I go, ‘That’s why you like me. I’m out near the edge.’
“And he goes like he’s not believing me, he goes, ‘Yeah?’
“I go, ‘Yeah.’
“ ‘So what’s it look like over there?’ he goes.
“I go, ‘You put your toes out over it and look out and down and you feel something pressing up evenly on each one of your toes, toe toe toe toe toe, and you see somebody
looking out and up at you.’ Because—
“And I don’t know what hit him, he goes like ‘Yeah! Oh, yeah! Oh yeah, Lori! Sure, Lori!’ and goes out and rents this motel room somewhere and tears it up.”
.
“Seeing the Humor of It”—Dr. Ardis Wickwire:
“How you like yr. edge?” “Which first, chicken or edge?” “Big butter and edge man.”
Ha.
.
Grosjean, Three types not near edge:
(1) Don’t know where edge is, never will. Don’t even know what direction it’s in. (Voice: “That’s cool.”)
(2) Grew up along the edge, or had one or more parents who were out close to it or named them something like Guava, and now want to spend their adult lives getting far from edges as possible. Beer on table, some art on walls that don’t mess over their relaxation, nobody after them with knife. (Voice: “That’s cool.”)
(3) Don’t believe there even is an edge. So-called “Round-Earthers.” (Voice: “All right!”)
.
Overheard conversation of electricians outside conf. rm.:
“Christ, my mom is dying and getting this S.S.I. Supplemental Security Income. You can only have fifteen hundred in the bank, so we took the rest of it out for her, put it in the house, and Christ the money come pouring in. For my mom, fine, but Christ how about all these guys who won’t work. There’s a limit. There’s a limit. It’s the middle-income guy—fifteen, eighteen, twenty thou, and you and me are paying for it. Christ my mom is dying and getting this S.S.I. . . .”
(Poss. paper for next year: “Middle-Edge Spread”?)
.
Crits. of conf.:
(1) Missed most fundamental point.
(2) What those splotches up on Vu-Graph?
a.Finger smudges
b.Insect matter
c.Eyesight
d.Weren’t any
(3) Same old crowd running.
(4) Ppl. screaming in ppl.’s ears.
(5) Should have been more registration packets. And more in them.
(6) Not out close to E.
.
LeFebvre, closing:
Always “same old crowd running things,” because when something has to be done you find out pretty quickly there are only a few people you can call on.
Cutting/leading E. dichotomy? “So fine, can only be palped by surprise.”
(Boos.)
Banquet, installation new officers 8:30 in Ballroom C. (Thing of throwing food: “Just obnoxious.”)
Proposals for new award categories must be in Sept. 1.
1979
IAN FRAZIER
LGA-ORD
Then, Beckett decided to become a commercial pilot . . .
“I think the next little bit of excitement is flying,” he wrote to McGreevy. “I hope I am not too old to take it up seriously nor too stupid about machines to qualify as a commercial pilot.”
—“Samuel Beckett,” by Deirdre Bair.
GRAY bleak final afternoon ladies and gentlemen this is your captain your cap welcoming you aboard the continuation of Flyways flight 185 from nothingness to New York’s Laguardia non non non non non non nonstop to Chicago’s Ohare and on from there in the passing of gray afternoons to empty bleak eternal nothingness again with the Carey bus the credit-card machine the Friskem metal detector the boarding pass the in-flight magazine all returned to tiny bits of grit blowing across the steppe for ever
(Pause)
Cruising along nicely now.
(Pause)
Yes cruising along very nicely indeed if I do say so myself.
(Long pause)
Twenty-two thousand feet.
(Pause)
Extinguish the light extinguish the light I have extinguished the No Smoking light so you are free to move about the cabin have a good cry hang yourselves get an erection who knows however we do ask that while you’re in your seats you keep your belts lightly fastened in case we encounter any choppy air or the end we’ve prayed for past time remembering our flying time from New York to Chicago is two hours and fifteen minutes the time of the dark journey of our existence is not revealed, you cry no you pray for a flight attendant you pray for a flight attendant a flight attendant comes now cry with reading material if you care to purchase a cocktail
(Pause)
A cocktail?
(Pause)
If you care to purchase a piece of carrot, a stinking turnip, a bit of grit our flight attendants will be along to see that you know how to move out of this airplane fast and use seat lower back cushion for flotation those of you on the right side of the aircraft ought to be able to see New York’s Finger Lakes region that’s Lake Canandaigua closest to us those of you on the left side of the aircraft will only see the vastness of eternal emptiness without end
(Pause)
(Long pause)
(Very long pause)
(Long pause of about an hour)
We’re beginning our descent we’re finished nearly finished soon we will be finished we’re beginning our descent our long descent ahh descending beautifully to Chicago’s Ohare Airport ORD ORD ORD ORD seat backs and tray tables in their full upright position for landing for ending flight attendants prepare for ending it is ending the flight is ending please check the seat pocket in front of you to see if you have all your belongings with you remain seated and motionless until the ending until the finish until the aircraft has come to a complete stop at the gate until the end
(Pause)
When we deplane I’ll weep for happiness.
1980
VERONICA GENG
LOVE TROUBLE IS MY BUSINESS
Francis X. Clines, in the Sunday Times . . . : “President Reagan resembled a bashful cowboy the other day when he was asked about the apparent collapse of the ‘Star Wars’ talks with the Soviet Union. . . . At his side, murmuring something through the fixed smile that seems required of American political spouses, Mrs. Reagan was overheard prompting him: ‘We’re doing everything we can.’ . . . Out there in . . . the President’s mountainside retreat, subjects such as the Soviet Union seem to haunt Mr. Reagan the way vows to read Proust dog other Americans at leisure.”
This may be the only time in history in which the words “Mr. Reagan” and “read Proust” will appear in the same sentence.
—Geoffrey Stokes in the Village Voice.
I GLANCED over at the dame sleeping next to me, and all of a sudden I wanted some other dame, the way you see Mr. Reagan on TV and all of a sudden get a yen to read Proust. Not that she wasn’t attractive, with rumpled blond curls and a complexion so transparent you could read Proust through it—that is, as long as her cute habit of claiming a tax deduction for salon facials didn’t turn up in a memo to Mr. Reagan from some I.R.S. stool pigeon. It was taking her a little more time to wake up than it would take Mr. Reagan’s horse to read Proust. After I’d showered and shaved and put on an old pair of pants that wouldn’t lead anybody to believe my tailor was unduly influenced by having read Proust, I went back over to the bed, where I wasn’t exactly planning to say my prayers—Mr. Reagan or no Mr. Reagan.
“Mr. . . . Reagan . . . ?” she whispered, fluttering her lashes, and I trusted the dazed quizzical act about as much as if she’d told me she could read Proust without moving her lips.
I slugged her a couple of times, and I’d have slugged her a couple of more times if something hadn’t told me I’d get a colder shoulder than a cult nut insisting you could read Proust as anagrams predicting the end of the world during the Administration of Mr. Reagan.
She chuckled insanely, like Mr. Reagan looped on something you wouldn’t want to drink while you read Proust. Then she touched me, with the practiced efficiency of a protocol officer steering some terribly junior diplomat through a receiving line to meet Mr. Reagan; funny, but I got the idea she wasn’t suggesting we curl up and read Proust. As her hand slid along my thigh, I noticed that she wore a ring with a diamond the size of the brain of a guy who read Proust
all the time, and if I’d been Mr. Reagan I’d have been dumb enough to buy her another one to go with it. But the distance between a private eye’s income and Mr. Reagan’s was a gaping chasm big enough to crawl into and read Proust.
I wondered if Mr. Reagan worked this hard for his dough, as I maneuvered her into the Kama Sutra position known as “Too Busy to Read Proust.”
I WOKE to the phone shrilling in my ear like the hot line warning Mr. Reagan that ten thousand Russian missiles hurtling over Western Europe weren’t R.S.V.P.ing for a let’s-get-together-once-a-week-and-read-Proust party. I let it ring, hoping the caller would decide to quit and go reread Proust, and wondering why dames always ran out on me without saying goodbye—why they didn’t stick around with loyal wifely fixed smiles the way they did for hotshots like Mr. Reagan. Then I found myself getting a little weepy at a sentimental popular tune that was drifting through the venetian blinds:
The connoisseur who’s read Proust does it,
Mr. Reagan with a boost does it,
Let’s do it, let’s fall in love.
Read Proust, where each duc and comte does it,
Mr. Reagan with a prompt does it,
Let’s do it, let’s fall in love.
I’ve read Proust wished that he had done it
Through a small aperture,
Has Leningrad done it?
Mr. Reagan’s not sure.
Some who read Proust say Odette did it,
Mr. Reagan with a safety net did it,
Let’s do it, let’s fall in love.
“Cherchez la femme,” I said to myself—a phrase I’d picked up on a case where the judge gave clemency to a homicidal maniac for having read Proust—and then I went out in the rain to a bookstore where I usually browsed for dames, and found one perusing Mr. Reagan’s latest autobiography. Just for fun, I looked over her shoulder and read:
Fierce Pajamas: An Anthology of Humor Writing from The New Yorker Page 6