One Last Lunch
Page 20
Luis graciously handles Dad’s special order of tuna salad—hold the guacamole—on top of an iceberg wedge with sliced tomatoes and rye bread with butter pats on the side. E&C’s tuna salad is prepared with chopped onion, celery, capers, housemade mayo, and a schmear of guacamole on lightly toasted seven-grain.
Our lunch today reminds me of the many meals Dad, Norris, my siblings, and I relished at our favorite restaurants over the many years. There was so much going on in our lives all the time. But no matter what upheaval or crisis we faced as a family, when we all went out to dinner—for sushi at Tanpopo, or Veal Parmigiana at Nicola, or grilled swordfish at Pepe’s, Dad was at his best. We all came alive in his presence; all was right with our world, and we could forget our troubles.
Dessert arrives. Pecan pie for Dad and Indian pudding for me. I take a big forkful of his pecan pie. It’s a little bit of heaven. Meanwhile, E&C’s Indian pudding takes me back to a week-long school trip I took with my classmates to a farm in Otis, Massachusetts, in the fall of my fourth-grade year—when we were learning all about Colonial times. We learned how to make Indian pudding, how to milk cows, how to weave on a loom, and how to write on the bark of pine trees. Now, the pudding, served with freshly whipped cream, is comfort food at its best. I am warm inside and full of nostalgia.
“Dad, speaking of the Hereafter, do you ever see Mom there?”
“Yes, I see her all the time. We get along famously!” he says, winking at me.
“I found an old diary of Mom’s, going back fifty-nine years ago. I want to read you an excerpt.”
“I’d love to hear it,” Dad says while chewing.
I pull from my bag a tablet of unlined paper, with the Woolworth’s logo on the cardboard cover. The corners of the pages are yellowed with age. I open the tablet where I bookmarked it with a Post-it note, and I read the following out loud to Dad:
Saturday night, November 19, 1960
Tonight, Norman took me and the girls out for a little spin in the Chevy. We drove up as far as the Palisades (about an hour north of the city); and then headed back down to our apartment on West 94th.
We had decided after all not to host a cocktail party tonight at our place. It would have been a big party and so unwieldy, right before Thanksgiving, and all.
I’m just glad we had a quiet evening instead.
It’s just what we needed.
Sunday morning, November 20, 1960.1
This morning, Norman and I were up before the girls. He and I were cuddling on the couch, having our coffee. We were talking about my painting class with Hans Hoffmann. And Norman was excited about getting started on his next book.
Suddenly, I put my finger to my lips. “Shhh! Listen, Darling!” I said to Norman.
He and I were quiet for a minute. Then we both faintly heard the sweet voices and laughter of our two little girls, playing together down the hall.
“Well, I guess the girls are awake! Let’s go see what they’re up to!” Norman said, smiling. This moment brings all the mellow sweetness of a leisurely Sunday morning.
Then we head to the kitchen to make banana pancakes on the griddle, with melted butter and Log Cabin maple syrup.
I finish reading the diary entry. I set down the tablet and look up at Dad. He has tears in his eyes.
Our empty dessert plates are cleared, and lunch is about over.
I don’t want this lunch with Dad to end.
I don’t want to say goodbye.
Dad takes care of the check with cash. We put on our coats and walk outside. It’s already after 4:00 p.m. It is that magical hour when shadows are purple and the autumn sunlight of a late afternoon turns everything golden.
Dad gives me his great big bear hug. I’m guessing that this is the last time I’ll be seeing him for a good long while.
“Ah, Bets, my Bets . . . I see in you the best of me and the best of your mother. I’m so proud of who you are.”
Dad hails a yellow cab and gets in.
I’m all choked up.
He rolls down his window and gives me that Bogie “Here’s lookin’ at you, kid” look.
The cab makes a left onto Seventh Avenue and heads south. Like something out of a 1960s Jetsons cartoon, the whole cab (with Dad and driver inside) lifts up several feet and hovers high above the street, then it suddenly accelerates upward and disappears into thin air.
Elizabeth Mailer has published nonfiction pieces in Provincetown Arts Magazine and the Mailer Review. She is currently writing a memoir about her relationship with her father. Also in progress: a darkly comic novel about a middle-aged woman’s sexual odyssey. Elizabeth holds a BA degree in English from Princeton University (1981). She lives in New York City with her husband, Frank; their daughter, Christina; and their cat, Shea.
1 In the wee hours of Sunday, November 20, 1960, my father stabbed my mother with a pen knife at a cocktail party they were hosting at their Upper West Side apartment. My version (in this piece) of events on that date represents my fantasy of how things might have been, had the incident never occurred.
— 31 —
“Mom, do you mind not picking a fight with this waitress? I know her. I come to this place a lot and she’s always been very nice.”
MERRILL MARKOE (DAUGHTER) AND RONNY MARKOE
Afternoon. Fade in on a mini-mall in the San Fernando Valley. In the middle of a line of identical nineties-style storefronts sits a very pedestrian-looking hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaurant, with a panoramic view of the large parking lot. Inside, the walls are decorated with dozens of inexpensively framed and signed head shots of occasionally recognizable B-level actors, like Tom Arnold. At an upholstered red vinyl booth on the left-hand side of the room sits a slightly agitated middle-aged woman named MERRILL, who has tidied herself up as much as she could, in a freshly ironed blouse and a new sports coat. She appears to be waiting for someone she wants to impress. There are no other customers.
As the front door opens, a bell rings, heralding the arrival of a woman in her sixties, sporting an imperious Bette Davis–level take-no-prisoners air of grandiosity. Her makeup, her dark lipstick, and her dark eyebrow pencil are perfect. Her short, fashionable strawberry-blond hair is freshly combed. She is dressed in a pair of beige stay-pressed slacks, a polyester print blouse with a bow, an expensive watch, and her signature large diamond engagement/wedding ring, which she unconsciously turns as she eyes this humble restaurant with displeasure.
Then she raises her eyebrows and waves when she sees her daughter MERRILL seated at a booth, signaling to her.
MERRILL rises, and the two women hug briefly before they both sit down.
MERRILL
MOM! It’s overwhelming to see you again. I can’t believe you made it all the way back here from the Great Beyond! You look so much better than you did the last time I saw you.
RONNY
On my deathbed? Talk about damning with faint praise.
MERRILL
What I meant was you look wonderful. Apparently death agrees with you.
RONNY
Well, that’s because they stop you in your tracks when you die. I’d always heard that they let you revert to your favorite age or era. Complete and total bullshit.
MERRILL
Can you believe it’s been twenty-five years since we saw each other last?
RONNY
Unfortunately, I can. I couldn’t help but notice how much older you look than when I saw you last. And you’ve put on some weight. Which is to be expected. It’s de rigeur as one gets older.
MERRILL
Can you believe you and I are almost the same age now? Wow. That’s weird.
RONNY
I’d have come back sooner but I never got the feeling you were particularly interested in a reunion. I’ve heard how you talk about me.
MERRILL
You can eavesdrop on me in the Great Beyond?
RONNY
Of course, though that’s not the word I would have chosen. Let’s just say that wh
en the curtains rustle in your house, it’s probably me being unable to stifle an exasperated sigh.
MERRILL
So I’m still pissing you off, even in the afterlife? I didn’t think it worked that way. I read somewhere that once you walk into the light, you’re engulfed in such an all-knowing wave of love and forgiveness, all petty concerns are utterly transformed.
RONNY
Whose religious garbage have you been reading?
A WAITRESS comes to the table with two glasses of water and a plate containing two small complimentary eggrolls.
WAITRESS
These are special spring rolls for you. Ready to order?
MERRILL
I think we need another minute.
RONNY
This is a very meager amount of eggrolls.
WAITRESS (not understanding)
Okay. I give you time.
The WAITRESS leaves.
MERRILL
Mom, do you mind not picking a fight with this waitress? I know her. I come to this place a lot, and she’s always been very nice.
RONNY
They bring out a ridiculously skimpy portion like this, but I’m the one causing a problem? Am I not entitled to my opinion?
MERRILL
Never mind. It’s fine. Let’s get back to our discussion. So it’s not true that after you die, you get a chance to review your life and gain unlimited perspective and insight that you can use when you choose to be reborn?
RONNY
There are those who do that. Frankly, it never interested me.
MERRILL
Hmm. Because gaining perspective was one of the things I wanted to talk to you about. How I understand you better now. How I’ve gotten past blaming you for all the . . .
RONNY
Come again?
MERRILL
I no longer blame you for all the fights that we . . .
RONNY
Oh, that’s rich. You’ve stopped BLAMING me? (long exasperated sigh) How stupid was I to believe that you summoned me back to offer an apology?
MERRILL
I kind of did. I mean, I was hoping to show you how much work I’ve done on myself. A lot of your behavior was incomprehensible to me when I was younger. Of course it didn’t help that you refused to ever explain yourself to me.
RONNY
Me EXPLAIN myself to you? I’m your mother. What in God’s name would you imagine I needed to explain?
WAITRESS (returns)
You ready to order now?
MERRILL
Okay! Mom? You know what you want?
RONNY (looks at menu)
You said this food was Chinese? I don’t see Chow Mein. Or Chop Suey.
MERRILL
Chinese food has evolved a little since you shuffled off your mortal coil. But I think you’ll like this new version. They’ve really added some unusual recipes.
RONNY (to WAITRESS, suspiciously)
This fish: Is it fresh? Or fresh frozen?
WAITRESS
Neither one. It’s mock fish.
MERRILL
The menu is vegan.
RONNY
Do you mean vegetarian? Which this most certainly is not because right here, under specials, it says Mongolian Beef.
WAITRESS
Its mock beef.
MERRILL
Let’s get that. Andy and I love it.
RONNY
That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Who would order such a thing?
MERRILL (to WAITRESS)
I think we need just a couple more minutes.
RONNY
Who is Andy?
MERRILL
The guy I’ve been with for seventeen years,
RONNY
“Been with.” As in “not married to”? So in other words, you are still making choices simply to spite me?
MERRILL
You know, sometimes I worry about that. . . . Mom, I’m just curious. When you decided to make this trip, what were you hoping I’d apologize for?
RONNY
Ha. You’re joking. Where to begin? Should we start with that direct and purposeful attack on everything your father and I held dear: those shoes you wore to your high school graduation?
MERRILL
You can’t still be angry about those shoes! They were my regular school shoes that I wore every day. You couldn’t have traversed time and space to talk about my choice of shoes.
RONNY
So much for your claim of gaining perspective.
MERRILL
But isn’t it a little shortsighted and humorless for you to remain angry at a decision about footwear made by your sixteen-year-old kid? Who, by the way, had already gotten early acceptance into college?
RONNY
They looked disgusting with that pink taffeta dress I picked out for you to wear.
MERRILL
I hated that dress. Why was it was your job to pick out my clothes for MY graduation?
RONNY
That wasn’t YOUR graduation. That was OUR graduation. Who do you think paid for all those years of your schooling?
MERRILL
I can’t believe we’re still talking about this. I told you at the time I didn’t want to wear that dress because I spent all my high school years creating a very specific badass image. And then at the last minute, when the whole class is getting together to say goodbye, you try to force a makeover on me by demanding that I dress in pink taffeta? I know that’s not a mature decision, but I was a kid! Plus, why did it even matter? All anyone was going to see was the cap and gown.
RONNY
Those shoes were far from invisible. They were an embarrassment to me and to your father, who was in complete agreement with me.
MERRILL
So why are you still so upset? You won. You and Dad didn’t even show up. AND it was FIFTY YEARS AGO.
RONNY
I’d forgotten how impossible it is to talk to you. You never did give a good goddamn about anything I had to say.
MERRILL
That’s wrong, Mom. I still quote you regularly.
RONNY
I’ve heard those quotes you use, which I think you make up half the time. You think I don’t know you’re trying to make me sound ridiculous?
MERRILL
Those quotes are real. I know because I always ran into my room and wrote them down right after you said them.
RONNY
So say YOU.
MERRILL
You don’t remember when I let you read a script I wrote the night before I moved to LA to try to find work as a writer . . . and you looked me in the eye and said, “I don’t happen to care for it, but I pray I’m wrong”?
RONNY
Would you have wanted me to be less than honest?
MERRILL
Couldn’t “tactful” have been on the table as an option?
RONNY
I can’t imagine why you would repeat that comment since it only makes you look bad. I mean, if your own mother, who wants only the best for you, thinks your work isn’t up to snuff, how good can it be?
WAITRESS (returns to the table)
Now you ready to order?
MERRILL (to waitress)
We’ll split an order of mock Mongolian Beef. I think you’ll really like it, Mom. And I promise it won’t kill you. But if it does . . . you’re already dead! Win-win! Ha-ha! Get it?
RONNY
I fail to see the humor in that.
MERRILL
And also can you bring me a bottle of your Chinese beer? Mom, do you want anything to drink?
RONNY
What would they have that might possibly interest me?
WAITRESS
Okay, I’ll get your order.
RONNY
This is all really a moot point. My appetite is completely gone. I don’t know why I thought this would work out. I give up. Again.
RONNY pushes back her chair and rises. She picks up her purse and
heaves a final exasperated sigh.
RONNY
I certainly hope it gives you pleasure knowing you’ve been able to make me miserable even after my death.
And then POOF. RONNY disappears.
MERRILL sits quietly, chewing her lip for a beat. Then the WAITRESS reappears and places a steaming plate of mock Mongolian Beef on the table, along with a bottle of Chinese beer for MERRILL, who drinks it down in one long, continuous swallow as the lights fade down.
Merrill Markoe is a five-time Emmy Award–winning humorist and filmmaker who has also published nine books and written for a ton of publications. For more information, check her website at www.merrillmarkoe.com. Her most recent book is called The Indignities of Being a Woman and can be found on Audible.com.
— 32 —
“H. L. Mencken wrote, ‘A legend is a lie that has attained the dignity of age.’ H. L. Mencken was right.”
BOB BALABAN (ACQUAINTANCE) AND GROUCHO MARX
If I could take absolutely anyone to an imaginary lunch, it would have to be Groucho Marx. And I would take him to Lindy’s. No question. That is, if Groucho were still alive. And if Lindy’s still existed. The famous delicatessen opened in 1921 and closed on February 27, 2018. Groucho opened in 1890 and closed on August 19, 1977, five years after I last spoke to him.
Lindy’s was known for its artery-clogging cheesecake and mile-high pastrami sandwiches. But their most amazing specialty wasn’t on the menu, and they never ran out of it: a seemingly endless supply of insulting waiters. Their witty invective casually aimed at the givers of the occasional ungenerous tip or the slightest complaint about the cold coffee would have bankrupted any other restaurant quicker than a salmonella outbreak. Instead, it made Lindy’s one of the most popular places in town. It was the reason you went there in the first place.
Which is exactly why I wish I could have taken Groucho there. Groucho was the human equivalent of the restaurant. He never appeared to give a damn about anything or anybody. His repartee was as cutting and as effortless as the Lindy’s waiters’ retorts. And his lack of the need to be adored, or even liked, created the opposite effect in his many fans. It certainly did in me.