by Amy Ephron
When people talk about past lives,
I realize, if it’s true,
that my soul must have amnesia.
Or, my personal favorite:
the best dancers
fall down sometimes
(Like I said, they will probably never be printed anywhere else except this page and my Filofax.)
I like it that my Filofax has a calendar (a week on two pages) that I sometimes remember to write things on with a name, a time, and an address with a phone number scribbled under it. Sometimes I even remember to look at the calendar to see if I have an appointment. I want to redo the address pages (because of those dead people and a few others who I don’t speak to anymore and the ones I’ve neglected to input).
However, some of the scribbled names have me baffled. I have no idea who Josh Milbauer is or why I have his number. I’m not at all certain who Alix is and why I have his (or her) number. I do know who Eric Perrodin is: the mayor of Compton and a D.A. in Los Angeles and I do remember why I have his number, something do with those loose diamonds and losing my computer when we were burglarized. But I’m not quite sure where Mabel Mae’s Gourmet Food Room is or why I felt compelled to write it down (no number), or what entranced me about Frontier Soups, which apparently come in three varieties: fisherman’s stew, corn chowder, holiday cranberry soup. Maybe it has something to do with Mabel Mae’s Gourmet Food Room. I’m not sure. They’re not on the same page. It’s not just the outside of my Filofax that could use some cleaning up, the inside needs some work, too.
There are those dead people, some of whom died of natural causes at what seemed like it might have been a natural end. But then there are those other ones. My friend Joan who found our house for us, whose face I still see smiling at me and who I want to call every time we have a cause for celebration or a new disaster. My friend Lisa whose death, from a rare form of cancer, came on so quickly that none of us could catch our breath. All she wanted was a wig, which I had made for her with lightning speed. She never had a chance to wear it. I don’t know how to take Lisa out of my Filofax, that would make it too final, somehow. As if she were really gone. Maybe I didn’t want a new Filofax, after all. Maybe I want the memories it holds, like an old-fashioned journal. But the cover was getting a little funky.
I solved it myself. I went to the old-fashioned stationery store in Brentwood on San Vicente, practically the last of its breed. I’m a little worried about them. It’s always empty. The woman who owns it spends a lot of time on an ancient computer playing solitaire, just in case you didn’t notice that there wasn’t a lot going on. The young woman they recently hired made crooked Xerox copies for me the other day (I went to Staples to remake them because I didn’t want to make a scene). They did have a huge selection of Filofaxes and I bought a new one. And, while I was at it, a calendar for next year (quite unlike myself, two months in advance), and clean note paper for when I want to make notes, and new address pages. Now, I just have to talk my daughter Maia, who has perfect printing because I bought her (at this very same stationery store), a calligraphy book when she was five, into re-inputting the edited names and addresses by hand. Or else I’ll just take all the old pages, like changing out a loose-leaf binder, and carefully reinsert them into the new Filofax and life will seem a little newer but the same.
I am sad to report that the Brentwood Stationers closed their doors in the summer of 2010. They told me that one of the factors was that the landlord wanted to raise their rent. Four months later, it is vacant and there is a “For Lease” sign in the window.
Fourteen
Nicknames
When I first met him, his name was Pete, or at least that was what his family called him because his name was Mike and his father’s name was also Mike and it was too confusing. No one in New York knew his name was Pete because he’d already changed it back to Mike, Mike Donohue, his given name, which was initially the name he wrote under. But then George Swift Trow III (a name he’d come by honestly), Mike’s best friend, and one of the people who wrote the “Talk of the Town” column for the New Yorker at the time, 1973 or thereabouts, decided one night over cocktails that, in addition to going to Brooks Brothers and buying a suit and trading out the tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses for silver-wired frames, Mike should change his name to something that was so much classier and elegant and such a better pen name and go back to his original Irish family name, O’Donoghue, and lose the childlike Mike, as well, thereby changing his byline to Michael O’Donoghue, which he did the very next day. But not before I declared, over those same cocktails, that I would forever more call him “Ghue,” which is a weird joke and one you can only understand if you were having cocktails with us or grew up in Los Angeles (or London).
It was sort of like when Janie Hartmann’s stepfather, who owned a casino, gave her and her sister an oil well for Christmas the first year he was married to their mother. Janie and I immediately (and irrevocably) nicknamed him “Oil Well” (not to his face, of course, because he owned a casino). There were two syllables in the word O-il. As in “How’s O-il Well feeling today?” “Can you come over? O-il Well says I can’t go out tonight.” “O-il Well didn’t seem to be in a very good mood this morning.” Janie Hartmann’s stepfather didn’t look like he owned a casino. He was diminutive and dapper and always perfectly dressed, even when he showed up at the breakfast table in an elegant silk robe, reading the Wall Street Journal and picking up the phone every now and then to call his broker, all of which in retrospect had everything to do with owning a casino, including the bathrobe, but we didn’t realize it when we were 12.
Michael O’Donoghue wrote for National Lampoon, which at the time had grown beyond cult/hip status, and its writers, Chris Guest, Henry Beard, Doug Kenney, Chris Cerf, George Trow, Michael O’Donoghue, and others were breaking ground for comedy, satire, and political commentary that would morph (with the inclusion of some of its writers) into Saturday Night Live and, later, Animal House, and ultimately pave the way for some of the things that Jon Stewart, Stephen Colbert, and Rachel Maddow do today. When Doug Kenney came up with the brilliant cover with an illustration of a dog with a gun to its head and the caption, “If You Don’t Buy This Magazine, We’ll Shoot This Dog,” it wasn’t just a joke, it was a statement about marketing and advertising and corporate America.
“Ghue” hadn’t gone to Harvard like the rest of them. But he had a dark, twisted, satirical talent that was unrivaled. He also had a soft side that hardly anyone ever saw besides me (and probably Cheryl Hardwick, the musical director of SNL, to whom he was married from the late ’80s until his untimely death in 1994), and all the waifs (i.e., everyone we knew) who we invited every year for Easter dinner (all of which I cooked: ham, turkey, and all the sides); Michael would insist on making his mother’s green lime Jell-O mold, which was disgusting but great and had pineapple in it and something like cottage cheese. At night, he would tell me the story of Mrs. Ypsilante and the Bears Downstairs (which was later privately published as “Bears”), my own personal bedtime story, which began:
Bears are gnawing on the carpets.
Bones are tumbling into tarpits.
I know, it doesn’t really sound like a bedtime story, but they were and they are sort of brilliant. But that was “Ghue.”
Years later, I bristle when one of the other Lampoon writers is quoted about O’Donoghue (and me) in one of the books written about the history of the National Lampoon saying, “They had such a s
trange relationship. They used to talk baby talk to each other. She used to call him ‘Goo.’” Really, is that what that was? I just thought I’d try to set the record straight. And then there’s that other story that’s too difficult to talk about.
It was a little volatile. There were breakups. There was that morning he went out for breakfast and didn’t return. We somehow reconciled two years later but by then there was probably too much anger, too many hurt feelings, for it to ever really work. Note to anyone who’s truly in love with anyone: think twice before you walk out the door on a fling. And not that I’m into revenge, but I’m happy to report that the person he ran off with is presently single and, for reasons that I’ll never understand, hates me way more than I hate her. Maybe she didn’t understand the “Ghue” thing either. Or that story that’s too difficult to talk about.
Years later, I bristle (that’s sort of an understatement), when one of the other Lampoon writers is quoted about O’Donoghue (and me) in one of the books written about the history of the National Lampoon saying, “She had an affair with ‘another writer’ who was one of Michael’s best friends.” Had an affair with another writer? Really, is that what that was? For the record, the night I spent with the “other writer” was not consensual. At one point, I honestly thought he was going to hurt me, and in that moment, I decided, gallows humor being a good thing, that I would forever more call the other writer “Bobby Skakel,” which is how I refer to him now. Not to his face, of course, because the night we spent was not consensual and, luckily for me, except for once, I’ve never been in a room with him again.
Afterwards “the writer” threatened me, said he’d tell terrible stories about me (which he went ahead and did anyway). O’Donoghue had a fistfight with him and shortly thereafter, the Lampoon sort of disassembled, which I’m sure caused someone to nickname me “Yoko” but that’s because I never told anyone the story except for Michael and, weirdly, George Plimpton, and probably George Trow because we told him everything, and a couple of other close friends.
The term “date rape” hadn’t been coined yet. And I was 18 at the time. And the other writer frightened me.
I ran into him 30 years later at a party in L.A. and, weirdly, George Plimpton was standing at my side. And “the writer” began to do the same thing he’d done in 1973, whispered to people across the room that he’d spent a night with me, that I’d given him really strong marijuana—a thing I’ve never been a fan of and which didn’t exist at the time and is a really interesting defense: It wasn’t my fault, she drugged me. Plimpton offered to take him out to the pool and deck him, but since George was 80 at the time, that didn’t seem like a very good idea. I left the party.
I told my friend Lisa the story the next day, the whole story, and she said something that resonates with me still. “Oh, wow,” she said, “I bet you’re not the only one. Guys who do things like that usually do it more than once.”
Two years later “the writer” published a book about how he’d found redemption through his conversations with a priest, how he’d given up alcohol and made amends (at least, I think that’s what it was about from all the “published” reports—I never read it), which prompted his daughter to say, somewhat publicly, “Really, is that what you’ve done? What about when you molested me when I was a kid?”
He went after her with the same force with which he went after me, claiming she was crazy and delusional and troubled, didn’t accuse her of giving him “incredibly strong marijuana” but then again, she was five at the time. I thought about going public then because for a minute it didn’t look like people were believing her. But then they did. And I stayed silent because I didn’t see the point. And the truth is, and I’m ashamed to admit this, he frightened me—even 30 years later when I ran into him at a party, well protected by friends.
One thing I’ll say about Michael O’Donoghue is: after the night I spent with “the writer,” he never mentioned it again. There was that fistfight, of course, but I never knew the details of what had occurred. I can imagine. But for us it was sort of like Voldemort, that totally brilliant thing that J. K. Rowling invented (because she knows something about nicknames, too): “He whose name shall never be spoken.” Until it is. And then you can somehow put it to rest.
Fifteen
Mistake Shopping
Sometimes it happens—you buy something that’s a mistake. Usually it’s on a quest—for a pair of “perfect black open-toed, sling-backed heels” (which should be easy) or “a beige silk camisole” to wear with the amazing black Chloe ’20s-style silk evening jacket with the bow on the back and no buttons, the lapels of which flap open softly at the top revealing just a slip of a beautiful beige silk lining that you’re trying to exactly match except you don’t have pants for it either. Or you need something to wear to a party Saturday night because nothing in your closet fits—and after trying on 29 things in four different stores, you buy something partly because you can’t bear the thought of going out again tomorrow.
Just to be clear, this is not the kind of shopping that you do because you’ve just seen an old Grace Kelly movie or The September Issue and you’re inspired and you simply have to add a couple of pieces (or more) to your wardrobe because it really is fun to dress up and, on a day-to-day level, you really have been running around in sweats a little more than is good for you or anyone else in the neighborhood. Not that you could look like Grace Kelly or Audrey Hepburn or Anna Wintour on a day-to-day level, but it would be good for you (and the economy) if you tried a little harder. When you’re inspired, it’s hard to make mistakes.
I have a sister who makes shopping mistakes somewhat regularly. But I think she sometimes does it because she has such a good eye for art and design, and often a piece of clothing will look so extraordinary on the rack that you kind of miss that it doesn’t look so great on you, or that out on the street, it might be more of a fashion statement than you intended to make. One royal-blue parachute-silk deconstructed dress comes to mind. It was the ’70s. And it truly was a work of art, but the truth is my sister was stick thin at the time and too tiny to pull it off. Curiously, it looked sort of great on me, though. So she gave it to me. One drop-waist white-and-black-striped cotton dress with little puffed sleeves also comes to mind. I think it was a Vera Wang or something. But when she got it home, she looked like a shy 15-year-old at a birthday party. Same thing, cause I’m three inches taller and my arms were a little plumper, it looked great on me, so I got that one, too. I started to think that she was doing it on purpose and it was secretly a way to give me clothes since, in the case of at least one of these dresses, I was definitely “between jobs.” This same sister also once bought a sort of orange-rust-metallic-colored car that looked great in the showroom but out on the street when the sun reflected on it . . . She didn’t think she could take it back and say, “Can I try this in another color?” (Or at least you couldn’t in those days.) So she had to drive it for three years. She also once bought an apartment and decided it was terrible and she couldn’t live in it. She put it back on the market and never moved in. I make no comment on this except that I admire anyone who realizes they’re about to do something that isn’t going to make them happy and so they make the decision not to do it. The apartment thing was a little drastic but it’s in the same school.
When Alan and I got engaged, we considered, for a brief moment, an engagement ring. I borrowed a number of engagement rings, sort of on consignment, antique diamonds from the ’20s, Victorian diamonds
inlaid with blue sapphires, a yellow canary diamond set in platinum—not at the same time. I would borrow a piece and wear it for a week or two to see if I liked it. And then we couldn’t bring ourselves to buy one—we have five kids, three of whom were in college at the time—and I never quite felt like I deserved it or that we could afford it. Or that anyone really needs a ring on their finger that’s worth at least half a year of tuition or more. I think the whole idea, as I’ve said before, that an engagement ring is supposed to cost one-fifth of your husband’s annual salary (a figure I’m sure was made up by the jewelry industry) is silly and unnecessary. I returned them all, and I apologize to all the antique jewelers who were kind enough to loan them to me. It was sort of fun to wear a different ring every week for three months though.
I once bought a couch, two couches actually, at a shop in Santa Monica. A perfectly plain white couch that looked perfect for a weekend beach house on Long Island. It was ridiculously inexpensive and the sofa was filled with down! I bought the floor sample. And I ordered an identical one. The “identical” one came and it wasn’t identical at all. It had big rounded arms. It was one and half times longer than the first one. And it was filled with foam. I was living in a tiny apartment and, in addition to being unbelievably uncomfortable and not what I’d purchased, it overtook the room. It was right after we’d been burglarized and, on the advice of the police, we were staying at a small apartment by the beach while we tried to figure out if there was more to the burglary than met the eye, if we’d been targeted in some way. I was a little stressed out. And the mistake couch (which wasn’t my mistake, it was theirs) and the mean Russian lady at Sofa U Love who refused to take the couch back became both a symbol and a perfect place to transfer all hostile emotion and temper tantrums about a life that seemed temporarily beyond my control. I make no apologies to the people at Sofa U Love as they did a similar thing to a friend of mine on a couch she purchased at their shop in Santa Barbara. After much screaming and crying on my part and calling the credit card company to cancel the charge, they finally were coerced into coming and picking it up and I didn’t buy another one.