Out of My Mind

by Andy Rooney

  The first car I bought and paid for with my own money was a 1942 Chrysler New Yorker. I bought it secondhand in Albany, right after being discharged from the Army in 1945. I had sold a book to MGM for $55,000 and was hired to write the screenplay. We bought the car for $2,500 and set out with all our possessions for California. The New Yorker, one of the last cars built before all carmakers suspended production during the war, had been owned by a funeral home and never driven more than 12 mph. The dark blue velvet upholstery was unruffled. It was a beauty.

  I am foolishly sentimental about a car. I don’t treat it like an inanimate object. I feel disloyal and sad when I turn one in. It’s as if I was leaving an old dog with the vet for the last time. I still feel a twinge of regret when I think of my 1980 Ford station wagon, which I pushed past I20,000 miles before abandoning it for the jeep.

  I was influenced to get rid of the station wagon by a remark made by a stranger when I was stopped for a light in New York. The car bore the evidence of its age in the scrapes and dents that pockmarked the body.

  The pedestrian looked up, recognized me and said, “Aw, come on, Andy. You can do better than that.” I traded the car within the month.

  It’ll be about a year before I actually buy a new car but that gives me time to anticipate the pleasure and think of ways to get a better price from the dealer.

  ANOTHER LOST WEEKEND

  I had a good feeling on my way home from work last Friday. There were a lot of satisfying little jobs to do around the house and we didn’t have any plans for the weekend that would keep me from doing them. Even if you have the money and don’t mind spending it, you can’t find anyone to do little jobs around the house. I’m not really handy, but I have a lot of tools and I’ll take on anything except plumbing or electricity.

  Saturday morning, we sat in the kitchen reading the newspaper over a third cup of coffee. If you’re looking for a way to delay getting at doing odd jobs Saturday morning, one good way is to make a list. Making a list is a job of its own and it delays actually going to work.

  “Don’t forget to put the air conditioner in the window in our bedroom,” Margie said. “I wish you’d turn the rug in the living room, too.”

  “I’m making my own list of things to do,” I said. Actually I didn’t “say”; I “snapped.”

  “Well, just don’t forget to get rid of that awful-looking mat by the front door. You said it was just for the winter and it’s May. I asked you to take that hook off the door, too. The one we hang the Christmas wreath from. It looks terrible.”

  “I’ll do it when I have the ladder out to get the leaves out of the gutter,” I said.

  The first item on my Things-To-Do-Today list was “Plates.”

  The new Connecticut license plates for my car came last week. The plates are a different color than the old ones and I don’t like the new color. I never like the new color of license plates as much as I liked the old color.

  With nine items on my TTDT list, I got up from the table and announced that mounting the new plates was my first priority.

  “Don’t waste your time on that,” Margie said. “You’ve got enough things to do without that. I’ll take your car to the gas station Monday. They have a mechanic who’ll do it.”

  “A mechanic?” I asked, incredulously. “To change my license plates? You’re kidding. It’s a ten-minute job.”

  I backed the car out of the garage so I’d have more room. Some stuff I needed on a shelf on the passenger side is hard to get at when the car is in there. Cars must have been narrower when they built our garage. Or maybe it was a mistake putting those shelves along the wall.

  The plates are attached to my car with inch-long metal screws with hex nut heads. Three of the screws came out with a few twists of a pair of pliers. The fourth was jammed. I sprayed the reluctant screw with WD40. Still no luck. Obviously I needed a set wrench. Or maybe WD4I.

  I judged the nut to be three eighths of an inch and went to the basement for a wrench. I had a half-inch, a five-eighths, a three-quarters and several larger ones but no three-eighths.

  Frustrated, I climbed in the car and drove to the gas station. The mechanic loosened the screw with his three-eighths-inch wrench. While he was at it, he secured the front and back license plates to the car. I said, “Buy ya a beer,” gave him $I0 for three minutes’work, and drove off.

  There was no reason to bother anyone with the information that I’d had to go to the gas station to get the license plate off. It was past noon by now, so I went out to the kitchen and made myself a tuna fish sandwich.

  I poured a Coke and took the sandwich into the living room and got watching Serena Williams and Jennifer Capriati. My eyelids started to droop so I turned off the sound on the TV set and took a little nap.

  I can do those odd jobs some other weekend.

  REUNION: TO GO OR NOT TO GO?

  Because I had never seen any of my college classmates’ wives in their nightgowns before, last weekend’s reunion was outstanding.

  The get-together was with about with thirty classmates in the pictureperfect little college town.

  Reunions are bittersweet and sometimes more bitter than sweet. This one was good. It is usually the most successful graduates who return and they are also the most interesting.

  I went to college for three years before being drafted into the Army. I was one year short of memories that most of the others shared. However, our son and grandson are both graduates of the same college and this gives me an added affinity with the school.

  Some of the people I enjoyed seeing are better friends because of past reunions than they were because of any association we had in college. Some of my friends in college were, for one reason or another—mostly one—sadly missing.

  The college, and particularly the part of it known as “the development office,” is alert to the potential of graduates as gift-givers and they are friendly and helpful. Because our class was one of the older of the returning groups, we were given priority consideration for accommodations at the Inn, which is owned by the university. The Inn is a three-story wooden hostelry with forty-six rooms that backstops one end of the town mall.

  On Saturday night, we had our class dinner at the Inn. The dinner was an improvement over the food the college had provided at an allclass lunch. (It occurred to me when I sat looking at the lunch that if you wanted to make a television show on bad cooking, our meal would have been a good example.)

  At about I0:30 P.M., we decided we’d had enough and went to our third-floor room. Shortly after we got to bed, we were abruptly awakened by the sound of an urgent alarm. I opened the hall door to determine the source and got back in bed with the raucous noise precluding sleep. Two minutes later, there was a loud banging on our door accompanied by a voice yelling, “Fire! Everyone out! Fire! Clear the building!”

  I pulled my pants on over my pajama bottoms, wishing I had brought pajamas the top of which wasn’t frayed where it buttoned down the front. I looked to see Margie starting out the door barefoot. I yelled over the alarm for her to put on shoes. She grabbed her shoes but continued down the hall barefoot. The three-story stairway looked formidable so, ignoring the small sign with red letters reading, “IN CASE OF FIRE DO NOT TAKE ELEVATOR!”, I pressed the button and we took the elevator. Long experience has taught me that the overwhelming number of alarms, relating to anything, are false.

  Outside the lobby door, there were several glass-topped tables and wrought iron chairs. Half a dozen people who had not yet gone to bed were still drinking and greeted the refugees from inside as if they were hosts.

  The fire engines arrived and the firemen, in boots and helmets, axes at the ready, stormed inside ready to extinguish the inferno.

  We sat down and watched as other guests poured out. Many of the women who’d arrived at the reunion determined to look their best, no longer did, although I was much impressed by the high-fashion silk, flowered dressing gown worn by the wife of one classmate. I couldn’t help noticing t
hat she looked better in her bedclothes than she had at dinner. Had there been no fire alarm, none of us would ever have seen the grandness of her nocturnal habiliment. Such a waste, I thought . . . and thank goodness for the false alarm that added so much to our reunion weekend.

  THE KASHMIR EXPERT

  Courses on how to write seldom produce any good writing because the students are so young they have no background or experience on which to base anything.

  When I read about the potential for nuclear war between India and Pakistan, I dismissed it as a subject to write about because I know so little about the issues. Then my eyes fell on the word “Kashmir.” I thought to myself, “Although I am uncertain about the difference between Cashmere and Kashmir, I can write about Kashmir. I’ve been to Kashmir.”

  When World War II ended in Europe in 1945, my editor sent me to China and India. It was assumed, after the Germans surrendered, that several million American soldiers in Europe would be shipped to India and China to invade Japan. My assignment was to write stories about what it would be like for American soldiers when they got to China and India.

  On the flight from France to New Delhi, the C-54 cargo plane stopped for fuel in Cairo. The pilot misjudged our distance from a telephone pole on the side of the runway and clipped off a few feet of our left wing. I was pleased with the accident because it made necessary a three-day stopover for repairs and provided me with a tourist-eye view of Cairo. I stayed at the Shepheard’s Hotel, with which I was familiar as the locale of some movie I saw as a child.

  When I arrived in New Delhi, it was 110 degrees. I was still wearing my wool uniform and all I wanted to do was lie down on the relatively cool, mosaic floor of the airport and die. I had no interest in India or my assignment. After I pulled myself together I jotted down some story ideas.

  American soldiers on leave in India often wangled their way on board one of the cargo flights to Kashmir, so I decided to write a story about where American soldiers in India went on leave. I was surprised but delighted to find The Vale (Valley) of Kashmir one of the garden spots of the universe. It is in a verdant bowl eighty miles long and twenty-five miles wide surrounded by majestic, snow-capped mountains. There is not a more spectacularly beautiful place on earth. The snow on the mountains releases some of its water as it melts under the hot sun during the day, and a thousand streams of water make their way down the rocky crevices to the town. Many of the streets are waterways, much like Venice, and people use small boats to get around.

  I found a barge-like boat with rooms for rent to visitors. The only other occupants were three British sergeants from New Delhi. We quickly became friends and on the second day I joined them on a horseback expedition into the mountains.

  I had never ridden a horse. Mine was a broad-backed, sure-footed animal thoroughly familiar with making his way up the icy slopes. We followed one of the streams, often crunching along on the frozen layer of ice covering the running water beneath it. The day was pleasantly warm and we took off our shirts. I soon realized it was going to be a long day. Eight hours later, we returned our horses to their owner and went to our boat. I could barely walk, crotch-bound from eight hours in the saddle and so sunburned that I could neither walk nor lie down comfortably.

  Several years after I left, Kashmir was divided between India and Pakistan and they’ve been fighting over the region ever since.

  This is all I know. It isn’t much, but at least I’ve actually been to Kashmir and, to that extent at least, if you haven’t been there, I know more about it than you do.

  MAN IS DOGS’ BEST FRIEND

  We had a guest at our summer home for the month of July. Spencer summers with us every year. Spencer is our daughter Emily’s great white English bulldog. Dogs are nicer than people. Why are so many dogs so good when so many people are so bad?

  It’s strange that there are so many distinctively different breeds of dogs too, each with its own personality. The ethnic differences between people of the various races do not begin to be as great as the differences, physically and mentally, between a bulldog and a chihuahua, or between a St. Bernard and a Shih Tzu.

  The American Kennel Club lists 150 different breeds among its membership. The ten most popular breeds are listed in order in 2004 as: the Labrador Retriever, Golden Retriever, German Shepherd, Beagle, Yorkshire Terrier, Dachshund, Boxer, Poodle, Shih Tzu, and No. 10, the Chihuahua.

  Labradors and Golden Retrievers certainly belong at the top of the list. Friendly and smart are the two most important attributes for a dog and you can’t stop a Lab or a Golden Retriever from being friendly.

  The surprises to me on that list are the Dachshund at No. 6, the Shih Tzu at No. 9, and the Chihuahua No. 10. I’ve never known any of those breeds but I suspect that one reason for their popularity is the convenience of their size. Chihuahuas don’t appeal to me at all and Shih Tzus are cute, but I like more in a dog than cute. I am offended that the English bulldog, the best of all possible dogs, doesn’t appear on the list until No. 14.

  Spencer is old now for a bulldog. He’s twelve. Emily never took him to an obedience school and, if she had, Spencer would have failed and probably been kicked out. He’s not deliberately disobedient. He just doesn’t care what you want him to do if he feels like doing something else. He’ll listen attentively when you tell him to do something and then do what he pleases.

  When I was growing up, my mother did a favor for a woman who raised Pekingese. As a token of her thanks, the woman gave my mother the prize of a litter of Pekingese puppies. My mother was pleased with the gift but aghast at the breed. She couldn’t conceal her dislike for this two-pound Pekingese. The woman, who attended a lot of dog shows, asked Mother what she’d like instead. Mother chose an English bulldog. He came already named “Spike” at three months old, and Spike and I grew up together. In my mind, Spike is related to every bulldog I’ve ever seen. There are traces of him in Spencer.

  When our children were young, we bought a bulldog pup and named him “Gifford” after the football player. He became “Giffy” and part of our family—and part Spike, part Spencer.

  My relationship to dogs now is mostly to those I meet being walked by their owners in New York City. You can tell if a dog and its owner want to be spoken to and I respond to every wagging tail. The dogs are glad to see me even if they’ve never seen me before. Dogs are happy to be out for a walk; they love the whole world. What makes dogs so happy? Most get to eat only once a day, they’re cooped up and alone much of the time and have little or no sex life. It doesn’t matter. When they get to go for a walk they’re happy all over.

  I never pass a bulldog without stopping to talk. Owners are sometimes leery as I approach their dogs because they know a lot of people are afraid of so fierce looking an animal. It becomes instantly apparent that I know bulldogs and both the dog and the owner greet me warmly. When I’m driving along a street anywhere and see a bulldog, I pull to the curb and jump out of the car to talk to the dog. We’re always instant best friends. It’s like seeing Spike, Giffy and Spencer again.

  It would be a better world if people were as nice, uncomplaining and easy to get along with as dogs.

  YOU’VE PROBABLY HAD IT

  I’m on sick leave, but I’m not leaving.

  Until you’ve had some physical problem yourself, you’re usually unaware that almost everyone you know has had the same thing before you did. If they haven’t actually had it, their brother or their father or their best friend had it. Until I was diagnosed with carpal tunnel syndrome, I had heard of it but thought it was a rare disease. Alas, it turns out to be as common as the common cold. Everyone I tell has had it or knows someone who has.

  The tunnel is formed by eight bones at the base of the wrist and it carries the tendons that let the fingers move (I think). If the sheath that covers the tendon becomes irritated and swells, nothing works and everything hurts. Anyway, don’t get it if you can help it.

  This summer, during my so called “vacation,” I spent te
n hours a day, seven days a week, finishing a book called Common Nonsense. I forget who came up with the title but that’s it whether I like it or not. If it sells a lot of copies, I’ll get to like the title.

  Carpal tunnel syndrome is brought on my some repetitive action with your fingers and it was all that typing that brought on my problem. I’m about to have surgery on my right hand to correct it. If I could cross my fingers and hope everything comes out all right—which I can’t—I would.

  My doctor sent me to an orthopedist, who sent me to a hand specialist. Hand specialists don’t have a name for themselves like dermatologists, cardiologists, urologists or gynecologists. They’re special, though, because they don’t do anything else. I have some foot problems and you’d think this hand surgeon could look into that, but they don’t do feet.

  Once my right hand heals after the surgery, I’m going to have to have my left hand done. I don’t know how specialized these hand surgeons are. For all I know, I’ll have to find someone else who just does left hands.

  In anticipation of not being able to type for a few weeks, I bought something called Via Voice, made by IBM. Theoretically, you speak into a microphone and your voice comes out as words on the screen of your computer and you can print out the page.

  “You talk, it types” reads the slogan on the box. Simple enough, right?

  To test my new toy, I first read a fifteen-minute selection from Treasure Island that the manufacturer recommended as a way for the device to get familiar with the sound and inflections of my voice.

  It appears as if my voice is not the one IBM had in mind when it made this device. Here’s a sample. I was fooling around, ad-libbing, but this is what I said: “Each of us has more anniversaries than he or she has time to celebrate. Tonight marks my 24th year on 60 Minutes, or I may be wrong about that. It may be my 23rd year, or perhaps even my 26th year, but frankly I don’t give a damn.”