Andante, Fresco, Ciao! (Part One of a rather long short story. . . .)

 Andante, Fresco, Ciao!       
(A Story in 13 Parts, or                                                          6,500+ words!)

                                                                                 

And the sunlight clasps the earth

And the moonbeams kiss the sea:

What are all these kissings worth

If thou kiss not me?

                      -Percy Bysshe Shelley

It’s the winter of 1963 and I’m all shrink-wrapped up.

Chocolate brown and black enshroud nearly my entire being in dark wraparound skirts, slim woolen “sheath” dresses, short, teasing tunics, tight black turtlenecks, long black tights, snug black leather heels, charcoal eyeliner, cocoa eye shadow, deep amber lipstick and an esoteric major in English and Drama.

A few errant Christmas trees still appear at the curb, tiny strands of tinsel clinging to the branches of a wintry new year. Dark novels nurture the melancholy sensibility; I’m enraptured with words like “ye.”

`Beauty is truth, truth beauty,’- that is all

 Ye know on earth and all ye need to know.

Poignant tales help pass time on the subway, in the back of snorting city buses, under the covers with a flashlight in the early hours of freezing Bronx mornings- paperbacks with shadowy covers that bespeak intense, dour tales of destitution and dolor. A radiator sputters as Thomas Hardy reveals the obscure, unspeakable tragedies of Jude and Tess. 

For comic relief I peruse Conrad, and Anna Karenina is my role model. I picture a brilliantly lit nineteenth century Russian ball teeming with dissipated, bejeweled aristocrats, chandeliers and gleaming floors from whence to make an entrance in one of those low shouldered evening gowns of rich black velvet designed to drive dashing rakes like Vronsky mad with desire. I’m also constructing an imaginary, existential diary of a young life somewhat along the lines of “Notes from the Underground” and I’m inexplicably fond of the prefix “be” in front of certain words to intensify meaning and sound vaguely literary: bestir, bemoan, belie, bedeck, behoove, besmirch, beguile. . . .

To make matters worse, I’ve more or less given myself over entirely to the enchantment of La Belle Dame Sans Merci, longing piteously, as it were, for the world of sedge, mead and the elusive faery child.

Thin, pale and haunted in a “bohemian” sort of way, my mind is not at rest. Everyone I know is dreaming of getting away, bedeviled and besieged as we all are with restlessness and rebellion. You could say there’s an entire generation betaken with thoughts of flying off to Europe, joining a kibbutz, heading out west, living on a commune, signing up for the Peace Corps, be-ing there. The violet, chilly winters of New York are especially biting through the tilted canyons of the borough, with temperatures in the pre-teens.

 Everything is slower, and takes time. You patiently dial a rotary phone for climate conditions at Weather 6-1212 to get something like wild guessing at the other end in those artless days before computers. The entirety of New York City is still 212, even to the furthest, most remote corners of Staten Island with fewer telephone numbers, fewer connections.  

Carla Thomas, little known gospel singer epitomizes the soulful crossover from gospel to R & B and I and others already have been shamelessl humming along to the naked, teenage sensuality emanating from the likes of Gee Whiz, look at his eyes/ Gee whiz, how they hypnotize. . . . It is still prior to the imminent ascendancy of the peppy Motown beat, Diana Ross and the Supremes and eventually Sly and the Family Stone. 

There’s all kinds of abundance everywhere, jobs, jobs, jobs and you don’t have to attend college to prosper. Manhattan rentals are plentiful and cheap, studios of exposed brick walls in five story walk-ups, brownstones with scruffy, wildflower gardens, modern cookie cutter nests in flimsy, white towers manned by smarmy doormen and the illusion of cache- and all so very boring seeming. The notion of a black president is non-existent, pure sci-fi. In any event it’s a moot point. For starters, there are no blacks, just Negroes, no Hispanics or Latinos, only Puerto Ricans, Asians are “Orientals.”  

A historical tsunami is covertly moving the earth’s tectonic plates and meteors are crashing silently above our heads, but the infrasonic pulses are tucked so far below any level of human hearing the racket can be detected only by certain animals of peculiar sensitivity, such as cats and the occasional elephant herd. . . .
                                     (to be cont'd on 9/23)

Labor Day Weekend. . . Already???

Wishing all of you the best on the unofficial last weekend of summer-  
New story next week!

Life as a Movie

Every life needs a soundtrack,

I thought.

Charlotte Bronte:

Haydn's concertante

for oboe and bassoon

Allegro and Andante

with a spare meal at noon

Profusion of foreplay

from sad, obelisk strings

Short-lived, yet hopeful 

climax soft sings

in B-Flat

and that's that.

Jane Austen:

Don Giovanni

or The Marriage of Figaro

Teasing melody

Romance and Rondo

vestal maidens

in the thrill and thrall

of gentrified satyrs

at the country ball

in Edenic fervor

with astute observer

Me:

Mahalia, Percy Sledge,

Mingus and why wait? 

Sinatra, Ray,

& Bonnie Raitt.

Leo

Our good friend Leo died unexpectedly at home on the last day of July. His wife Helene, one of my bestest besties, died nine months earlier and I am still missing her so very much.

 Apparently his heart gave out unexpectedly. Yes, Helene and Leo were “elderly” but also strong, brave, smart, vulnerable, feeling, interesting and interested- they were funny, caring loyal friends and individuals, and death is never easy. This is the way the world ends, this is the way the world ends. . . . and of course it always sucks,  whenever, however, and it does not seem poetic or illuminating.  I think I am speaking in the anger stage, but it alternates. 

Eloquence has forsaken me, so let me speak plainly. Can even a marriage of 54 years have worked out all the kinks when the time comes? Has the life of any single individual managed to come to terms with the way it was lived? Can you succeed at this even If you've had a nice, long run and were not terribly sick, aside from the inevitable baddies of old age?

I wrote down some of my thoughts about this remarkable, talented and accomplished friend and mentor in a more formal, memorialized style, something to be shared with relatives and friends, students, former coworkers, and perhaps to be posted along with other tributes that surely will arrive from these friends and relatives who knew Leo and will write into the newspaper to share thoughts about his legacy.

 My formal, spoken eulogy tells of Leo’s impressive successes and talents, his caring, vibrant and never dull personality, his many contributions to making the world a better place, his interest in life, family, music, literature, language, travel, the performing arts, ideas, politics and of course people.

My formal eulogy mentions his unswerving fealty to the daily print version of the New York Times in a speeding universe of smart phones and pixels, this habit prompting the creation each day of a permanent if somewhat mobile collage of large papers decorating his living room, along with the many books, the lively conversation and his beloved sheet music.

But carefully composed memorials never tell the whole story or even a significant part of the tale, and that includes the cleverly spoken remembrances too, or maybe especially the clever ones. It’s always “Rashomon” all over again when someone close passes away, with sudden, dramatic explorations into reasons, motives, meanings, family schtick, secrets, sadnesses and humorous memories for comic relief; there are questions, answers, viewpoints and vantage points from every angle in search of something resembling truth; there are analyses, observations on the purpose of life itself and philosophical surprises budding like wildflowers during the difficult process of acceptance. And often you do not know exactly what to do with all these unruly blooms and partial truths; they barely last when uprooted, and at some point you simply have to leave them there, in the field by the side of the road with the sun shining, nature prevailing and traffic moving.

I surely will miss Leo, he had the gift of gab. He knew how to be, to act, to contribute, how to live, speak, listen, and on many occasions how to imbue some meaning into our crazy, crazy world, this brief existence in which mortality holds its miserable, stupid little sword over our heads with unrelenting impassivity each and every day, daring you to live bravely and not to over think it, as he would say. 

And now I want to do more of that too. Take his advice. Not over think.  Live as if I meant it. More so each day.

 We always say things like this at these times don’t we? I say it anyway.

The supposed stages of grief often commingle, there’s no timetable  and it’s never linear; grieving cannot be categorized and neatly structured into a flowchart of emotions- there are too many thoughts and feelings flooding in all at once. It takes time. It all reminds.

In the end there still exist slews of memories but the feeling of loss remains.

That’s all.

Pymland and the Great Escape

Full disclosure: I’ve recently immersed myself, or rather dived in once again- wholeheartedly and shamelessly- to the novels of Barbara Pym, despite already having read the whole lot down to the last Pymful word some years ago. And so while the Ubiquitous Big Screens are instructing us that the citizens of our rebellious, electronic nation are now engaging in screaming, balloon encased orgies about presidential elections, I defer. Quietly and happily I am wallowing in the ironic coziness of English village life in the mother country a la Pym- all of it  just a bus ride from the bustle of London tea shops.

I suspect some others as well may not be faithfully hanging onto every image and syllable of the political spectacle either, but what are they reading?

Barbara Pym, revered in the 1950’s, rejected as too stodgy by publishers in the swingin’ sixties, rediscovered, resuscitated and restored to literary Valhalla in the seventies, and from then on anointed the undisputed queen of quaint English country life albeit with an early feminist, decidedly wicked twist- what a gal! Pym takes us to locales devoid of yahoo news but brimming with sharp, hilarious edges- places where they are short on suitable men, amply supplied with unmarried ladies, and long on irony. The subdued mayhem happens amid a nice cup of tea, the occasional attendance at evensong, and some truly splendid floral arrangements.

Aaaahhh, life is good.

It’s been going on for the better part of a year, this Pym obsession, in part to honor the memory of a friend recently lost who turned me on years ago to this delicious feast of rectors, unmarried ladies and and drafty vespers; and of course it also is a wonderful means of escape from the cruel, cruel world.

Coincidentally the last two novels in the oeuvre patiently awaiting their turn for re-perusal happened to be sitting in the perfect time slot time for providing a reading refuge from the two Big Party Political Conventions. You remember those, right? The giant, pixel flickering, bellowing spectacles of millions- i.e. dollars and people- each hogging up four consecutive evenings of hours and hours of crowd manipulation, hate, hope, fear of others, fear itself!, false promises and self aggrandizement? As it turns out, Orwell had it all wrong- it really does not take only two minutes a day of bombast to control the populace, but then again, we are long past that iconic date and there was no internet in ’84.

But I digress. Honestly, where else could you find therapy if not complete solace from the chaos of the madding crowd of prospective voters for a mere fifteen bucks of paperback? Or better yet, reading nirvana at absolutely no charge whatsoever as I already own the entire collection of novels! A meditation class at the local Y costs more for heaven's sake.

The people of Pym's stories are women no longer young yet bound contentedly and a tad philosophically to their routines and friendships. They are unattached and live in flats, neat little houses or drafty rectories and attend church often, sometimes or never, but we always know into which category of church going (or not) they fall; they work in libraries or offices or they don't work at all and have small but adequate private incomes. Alongside these are the interesting and often attractive clerical types, a few pompous clerical types, elderly bachelors, eligible bachelors, married men who wish they were bachelors, early middle aged gay men, youngish academics, the occasional self-absorbed, cunning vixen and a small suburban contingent adept at shaking up cocktails. There are gardens and a species known as "gentlewomen," some of whom have fallen down a peg or two in their standard of living as shown by the quality of their hats.

There is a minimum of intrigue, sharp satire and all is revealed through astute character observation, mostly tongue in cheek and quite hilarious. Yet the whole mess seems quite orderly and even bucolic at moments, amid overtones of subtle social mischief, not so subtle character machinations and Pym's deft style. Even the seasons are improved by the queen’s touch. In Pymland you know summer is giving way to autumn  not simply because the evenings are starting to darken sooner, but because “the days inexorably are drawing in.”

Wow! Who says or event thinks that anymore? Drawing in, like some velvet encased Edwardian parlor with mild social suspense and lord knows what other shocking faux pas in the offing. . . .

In truth, the plots have a minimum of narrative cliff hanging and defer to Pym’s many strange characters of lovable quirk to spill the beans- these same single men and excellent or not so perfect but often happy spinsters and spinster wannabes that people her landscape. Sensibly, almost shabbily dressed and sensibly, sensibly, seriously shoed, but quite comfortable in their eccentricities, the gals sometimes even would prefer making bramble jelly of an evening to enduring a boring cocktail party with the town’s eligible bachelors. There are abundant allusions to Austen with a modern, clever take, and yet Pym slices and dices with the softest of cake knives.

The Emmas and Daphnes, Mildreds and Dulcies, the splendid dahlias and bursting chrysanthemums in their carefully tended gardens create a soothing bouquet tinged with all sorts of sly snorts and knowing smiles. Friday evening meetings of the history society at the rectory are a regular feature of village life, as are eligible vicars with doting, unmarried sisters, flirtatious anthropologists, seductive waiters and even the occasional irresistible military cad;  other harmless rakes reside in her English cottages as well, with mischievous subtexts looming under their suitable seeming élan. The ladies make tea, contrive solutions to nearly catastrophic social gaffs and take it all in with a wry flicker.

Who could ask for more?

Food acts as something of a bona fide character in the novels as her British cooks of legendary blandness insist on limping heroically toward a tasty and/or well done effect with their endless variety of casseroles. Often dinner may be “tinned” for a solitary snack, or a meal so sparse that even a boiled egg and some leftover wine suffices as the day’s repast for some of her solitary, excellent women; or, conversely, richly trifled chocolate and perhaps a sweet plate of creamed biscuits to be presented and consumed at an equally pungent and unusually spicy jumble sale at the vicarage.

And yes, she trifles with our sensibilities too, but in the most charming and delightful of ways, wrapping up her readers in a warm blanket of perceptive humor and gentle sarcasm about the perceived on goings of the sexes and their captive audience- the town denizens and busybodies who never miss a trick. Occasionally one of these observant watchers even can be made to expire, in her rocker for example on a chilly evening, a favorite kitty on the lap, proving that this is not entirely a fairy tale but also a clear lens on all our village-y life concerns about existence and mortality.

I know this paean to Pym may seem somewhat overstated, the average, informed anglophile reader having long ago succumbed to her siren song (or not) of tea cozies and a nice chicken dinner when guests are expected and you’re really not sure what to serve. And it’s not that I wish to write like her, nor ever could purport to aspire to (thus ending my phrases with prepositions as so often I am mis-inclined to do!). 

It’s simply that I think I would like to live as a character in one of her marvelous tales of angsty guffaws and reside therein forever in a mythical village of shepherd’s pie and equally savory soft intrigue. There will be no ubiquitous screening of Big Party Conventions either in view or earshot, and only birdies will be providing the background twitter. In such a charming if imperfect world of teapot tempests, smart quips and witty character revelations you will find me as you open the novel's pages, tending quite contentedly to my field of summer roses and chatting amiably with the neighbors. 

The Writing Exercise, Part Two

The writing instructor, Marvin, begins to speak, but as it turns out he really does not invoke or even vaguely resemble the figure in his concertedly impressive bio, the one in the course catalog with the nice photo and a row of books behind him. He’s actually a bit silly and quite shlumpy- I pictured a tall British poet with sculpted features and flaxen hair, not a pot bellied gnome with scruffy beard gone brillo gray in a wrinkled shirt. 

For the moment I have the insane urge to laugh, you know, really crack up until the tears come but force myself to control the impulse. The guy lisps too. This has got to be a sitcom about a lisping writing instructor who wildly mispronounces certain words and destroys whole sentences with great concentration.

Thally’s Thtory raithezz an interething quethion Marvin offers, as Sally of the floppy bangs thits there continuing to thulk in what she hopes is a vaguely literary pose.  Marvin as it turns out also has a kind of  vocabulary suggestive of the verbal part of the SAT and knows how to turn- or mangle- a phrase exquisitely, depending on contexth, and what’s more he is giving the victim of the vengeful hair cutting shears her full due. But if it continues like this much longer, I will be compelled to run screaming from the room.

The word of the day appears to be resonant. Does Floppy Bangs' story have resonance (or rethonance as it were)? He glances expectantly around the circle.

I hate the word resonance, I really do.

Resonant is not much better, and in fact may even be worse.

Why in the hell do words have to resonate????

Personally, I would much rather they evoke. . . but why split hairs? Am I simply being too judgmental, and not empathetic enough to the sad tale of the botched bangs???

The apathetic circle quickly stirs to life and sheets of paper begin to rustle as pens flick back and forth in nervous fingers.  A lady with lots of eye makeup and a little red cowboy bandana rakishly caressing her skinny neck says that although she understands Sally’s frustration about the bangs, the narrative voice simply is not childish enough. Then the neighbor to Bandana’s left in a loud, spangled, low cut t-shirt purchased at a street fair no doubt and platinum spikes with the roots showing says she understands Bandana’s problem with the story but feels the real weakness has to do with the description- or lack thereof- of the invasive shears. This last comment provokes murmurs of assent all around as the next "suggestion" creeps silently into the air awaiting its miserable little turn. Finally an elderly pixie in size zero entrenched on the other side of Floppy Bangs comes in for the kill: Do these bangs actually suggest castration or simply a haircut gone wrong? I have a problem with the ambiguity- it lacks punch.

I cannot bear to look at Floppy Bangs at this point and decide it really is time to leave. These people are out for blood! Do I really want them eviscerating my own pathetic little tale of woe? I think not. I picture strutting in with a bouffant or an afro of a story and leaving bald, bereft, crumpled like a discarded draft, and near tears. This will never do and soon I’m wriggling quietly out of the seat looking appropriately so very sorry as I make my writerly way out that goddamn door.

The Writing Exercise, Part One

The Writing Exercise

Describe a place, a building, a room; have it evoke a character

I arrive at the writing seminar about five or ten minutes into the session and stand undecided at the door. The room is airless, a windowless cubicle with a faulty ventilation system and maybe twelve women of varying ages sitting in a semi circle, plopped into those small plastic desk chairs with the uncomfortable skewed arms.

A reading already is in progress and the instructor enthusiastically though a bit insistently waves me in. Near the door, squeezed into one of the torturous seats not designed for adults or children, and leaning up quite close to the instructor, sits a woman in her early forties with strange little bangs flopping over her forehead- they are dark, shiny and clumped. She has what I see as a perfectly ordinary if slightly ecclesiastical little face, innocuous with a permanently annoyed expression.

The woman with the floppy bangs is reciting a story about someone she calls mummy, who once, when she, the reader/writer, was a young girl, gave her an awful, awful haircut, especially concerning the bangs. This now grown person whose hair fell once victim to such vengeful shears sits in her skewed chair wearing expensive jeans and a shirt that looks like it comes from Banana Republic possibly at full price, although she does not appear to be gainfully employed-  a situation which no doubt allows her time to write such anguished drivel. Her cheeks are sun color and there is a touch of red on her nose, which also makes me think she has a summer place somewhere, maybe in the Hamptons- a perfect retreat wherein to garner the right dash of inspiration. In addition, people from the South Bronx do not refer to their mothers as mummy. I decide to stick around at least for a short while just to see what happens. . . .

Falling, Part One

It’s obvious we are all so damn sick of the news. I can barely endure looking at a screen in fact for fear as to what catastrophe might pop up. 

But while many people occasionally now find themselves thinking about the horrible mischance of being caught up in a random terrorist act- even as they ride the bus, stand in a rumbling subway car, casually peruse a museum exhibit or shop a favorite department store sale- I have yet been harboring another kind of terrifying thought, an image that beseeches my sense of security daily with recurring doubts. It is the absolute terror of being knocked off my feet, not by something so wonderfully amazing that it fells me with awe, but literally. You see, several individuals already have dropped to the ground within inches of my toes and I have found this series of unhappy events to be increasingly unnerving. They say New Yorkers are tough, but like everyone else, we have our Achilles heel. In short, one does not wish to find oneself in an unsightly, awkward position flat on the pavement for the world to see, particularly in Gotham. 

The first woman to have performed this most unseemly falling action within sight- a happenstance that eventually would alter my view of the universe- seemed to have tumbled onto the floor of the Metropolitan Opera a short time before I found her. I was on my way to the ballet and she was reposing rather uncomfortably right outside of box number eleven.  My friend Garrett and I had just been escorted to the third tier left by the usher, and as soon as we stepped into the tiny hallway leading to the velvet chairs we discovered this rather unfortunate dose of virtual reality lying there in a small, cashmere heap.  I have to be honest-- my first reaction was annoyance. 

 A month before, I had endured waiting on line for forty-five minutes and then haggling politely with the box office for another quarter of an hour in order to get these seats. I considered the outcome of my tenacity a real coup; the tickets were under a hundred and I was pleasantly looking forward to a wonderful afternoon of Sleeping Beauty. The production had been written up as "extraordinary," the dancers "exceptional."  Both Garrett and I each had made doubly sure to get to Lincoln Center at least half an hour early, so as to avoid any possibility whatsoever of being shunted to the T-V lounge for the first act with the other tardy and chagrined deportees.

Having arrived with some time to spare, we passed the minutes before curtain in the usual way, sipping overpriced, watery coffee from styrofoam cups and complaining.  I whined about how frustrating it was to arrive five seconds late and find oneself exiled to Siberia until the first intermission just because they took themselves so, so seriously at the Met.  Garrett derided the thin swill passing itself off as authentic java. While we stood casually near the railing chatting and trying to look flawlessly cool, ballet-lovers and tourists of every kind and manner wafted through the lobby in various shades of black and charcoal, trying extremely hard not to show their cultural and social insecurities.  All was basically as it should be: clothing rustled, the women’s bathroom line was exceptionally long, children felt and looked important and the house was packed. The last thing I expected to find right before the show began was a reserved and dignified sixtiesh lady in a Chanel suit dumped on her side like a crumpled Lord & Taylor bag- and just as we were making our way to our seats. . . .

The Cold Lingers

The cold is so old

and ancient with rage-

Its victims quite random

from idiot to sage

No matter the season

without rhyme or reason

this virus of goon

can fell you in June!

It grabs by the throat,

you feel that weird tickle-

Doesn’t care whom it touches,

like I said, it’s plain fickle

Though you struggle and twitch

in your nostrils it sits-

This is only a sniffle

you proclaim, just a piffle!

But in no time at all

Your immune drops the ball-                     

With misery you’re down,

The nose like a clown

Miserable and red

like balloons in your head-

You’re sneezing & wheezing

And taken to bed.

You’ve entered its portal

And proved to be mortal

There is no escaping

The occasional partaking. . .

This cold is so old

I sound like a frog

Oh get me more tissues

And bring me some grog!

My Ammerrikka: Going Postal

There’s this post office in southern California that has long lines and two clerks, both women, one Hispanic, one white.

The Hispanic lady is most probably Mexican with roots in the area longer than most of the transplants. She has an edge of course like most postal workers that makes you think she can throw the evil eye at will, or snap at you at any moment; and if you really bug her, she also can reroute your package via the slow train to Kazakhstan. She would prefer not to do this so try not to bug her. Be nice. Underneath all that implied going postal threat however, she really seems rather nice. Down to earth. Competent, motherly, warm, overweight, middle aged, wise, indigenous. Thick, slightly wavy black hair in a pony tail, no makeup. No pretense, warm smile, nobody’s fool. If she didn’t hold the sovereign power of the U.S. mail over me, I might even like her. I was hoping to get her when my turn came, but that’s not how it worked out. I got the other lady instead.

Oh, the vagaries of the bureaucracy! Life is a crap shoot, is it not? Have you not had certain unfortunate, bad luck-of-the-draw experiences at your own supermarket or bank? Yes, as it turned out, I got the lady who thinks she is Veronica Lake- sultry, gamin screen legend of the 1940’s who played opposite Joel McCrea in Sullivan’s Travels, Preston Sturges' madcap, classic social satire of Ammerrikka during the height of the depression. Lake's slightly cocker spaniel hair became iconic for its "peek-a-boo" style: shoulder length blond tresses covering one eye and part of the face, a distinct come-hither look. Except that the postal Veronica Lake is not a gamin but elderly- early sixties- and the tresses though carefully coiffed are pure iron gray. She is thin like the star of old, wears lots of make up though neatly applied, rimless eyeglasses and sounds a bit like Billie Burke in The Wizard of Oz. 

Retro Hollywood splendor, a steamy vapor that seeps through the San Andreus fault and envelops all the surrounding towns. 

Already I’m missing my gum cracking, not so cuddly black postal gal back in the Bronx- sassy, no bullshit- but my package will get there, and if it doesn’t, it won’t be her fault.

But back to the postal Veronica Lake, who considers the people on the line to constitute her rightful audience. It’s the first week of May and she addresses her audience: Mother’s Day already! Anyone know any good Mother’s Day jokes? Ha Ha. And she winks mischievously like a starlet of the forties while continuing to stamp parcels. The only thing that comes to mind in the way of jokes is that back where I come from, “mother” is half a word, but I desist. She likes to wink a lot in that knowing, playful way and yet I do not feel she is happy, or particularly nice.

When my turn comes she comments on the fact that I am sending a package to New York. Are you from New York? Just visiting? Tourist? Disney? Family? Wanna live here? Wanna go back? Too much crazy California stuff? Ha Hah. And she winks. The questions are fired off in succession one after another with no pausing for answers, not that I want to. What I really want is for her to shut up. I feel she is angry though she is smiling. Yet because I wish the package to reach its destination before the end of the following summer, I politely inquire if she is from California.

Bingo! Oh yes, four generations! We go waaay back! She’s ebullient, smug. She winks as she says this. As I make my way toward the door, hoping not to have incurred too much further wrath, she yells after me: Mayflower too!

Mayflower! Well I’ll be gosh darned. . . .

Turns out I asked the right question after all. She was able to do her schtick, pull rank, on me, clueless Noo Yawk child of immigrants that I am, and the indigenous Latina too, who has to work next to this person ‘till time immemorial, and whom the gods decreed would not be my postal clerk on that particular day.

Preston Sturges where are you when we need you??? You never would have ended it like this.

No Joy, Some Joy, Joy

No joy.
A military term meaning missing your target.
Found this out at the airport while tuning into a nearby conversation. Clearly this couple was in the early dating stage, striking casually elegant poses as they went.
This was his offering, his nugget of male wisdom, though he did not appear a military type, but more of a scruffy hipster, probably a hiker. She was blonde and hikerish too.

I was still recovering from my encounter with security- more horrible than ever and making me feel very insecure; baggage thrown askew, out of sight, heart racing with lost/stolen luggage anxiety as they patted, swatted and x-rayed one and all, shoeless-  the huddled masses some of whom will no doubt be missing their flights.
No joy there.

Needless to say I am an aisle person. The window guy arrived and suggested tentatively, might we not both have been assigned the same seat? But in the same breath, almost apologetically, he also says he will be happy to take the window and hopes they don't make him move. He flashes his ticket at me, which at quick glance appears to have my seat number, but he seems happy with the window arrangement; nonetheless he repeats he hopes they don't make him move. Maybe they double booked he says, but he does not look all that worried. He does worry about his gardener back in LA ,where we are headed, wonders if the plants were watered. He tells me he saw a great Broadway show last night and stayed up too late. He's a talker this guy, gay, somewhat rotund in the middle, bermuda shorts reminiscent of the fifties, playful. I may be forced to reveal my entire life story since that is how I usually react to talkers but am not in the mood this day. In truth, he's downright jolly.
Worried about moving yet not worried. Can't quite figure this out.

Sure enough, two ultra competent early thirties-somethings show up and then totally and competently tell Mr. Jolly that his seat just may indeed be one of theirs. He mumbles to me that he is sure he will have to move. Why him? Moments later the flight attendant arrives and whisks away all four of our boarding passes. I do not wish to move.

She returns a few agonizing minutes later but now there is some joy, at least, for me, as it is Mr. Jolly who will be evicted- apparently he belongs in another seat farther back, and not at all in a far, far better place. He leaves without a fuss. His "ticket"- the one he flashed- was for another flight, an earlier flight on another day long done and gone, but of course he knew that. Joy! I didn't have to move. How did he have the balls to try this, I wonder. A risk taker!

The jolly ticket swindler soon was replaced by the seat's rightful owner, a young and well-behaved alcoholic with truly impeccable manners. Two and a half hours into the flight it's only 11:30 a.m. and he's already onto his third Bloody Mary. Mid to late thirties, suit minus the jacket, white shirt and laptop, he surreptitiously sips away to placidity while trying to concentrate on a movie. Once or twice he politely excuses himself and wriggles out of the seat without even nudging my bad toe as he so politely makes his way to the bathroom. He's much too well behaved, but he's managed to attain a quiet if brief joy, at least on flights. 

In the meanwhile I've decided to watch someone else's movie on a screen in front of me and across the aisle- without the sound. The only actor I recognize is Robert De Niro, and he looks really old. Soundlessly the rest of the cast- mainly the women- seem to deliver a series of lengthy pouts, inter-dispersed with back of the head shots. The acting is insufferably bad. When the credits come on, the title appears:

Joy

Mid-Century Fashion Explosion- From "Raven Red"

In a South Bronx of the 1950’s, as in many towns throughout the country, teenagers were not usually perceived as “adolescents,” that is, humans in the process of becoming, with biologically defined mood swings positing understanding and/or sensitive counseling; rather, they often were simply regarded as lost, lazy and loutish annoyances, flaunting their young bodies and immature souls with a whiff of toughness, sex, and general wrongdoing. Competition among the teens themselves was also quite fierce. Consequently, there was a strict dress code for those wishing to survive this precarious stage of life without being victimized, horribly scrutinized, merely ostracized or worse, ignored, and it was was unyieldingly conformist.

The word “denim” was not in use at the time, but dungarees were an essential item, preferably Lees, as they were believed less “faggoty,” than Wranglers. Dungaree jackets dominated the fashion scene for spring and fall, draping the thin shoulders of children along with “shiny” jackets for summer, wardrobe items that comprised the staples of any self-respecting street teen’s after-school and summer couture. These same dungarees (perhaps a nod to farmers who cleared dung in them) when worn by girls often had red embroidery patterns trailing down the side of each pant leg, possibly in a row of small, rosettes on connecting vines; the flowers were sewn onto the stiff cotton fabric right at the moment of purchase, on the spot as it were. What we now refer to as “jeans” met their crimson curleques of magic thread by way of a jet speed, electric needled Singer sewing machine that stood guard at the front of the “dry goods” store, awaiting the next assault on the material.

The dry goods store, a neighborhood fixture, was a small, cave-like enterprise, surprisingly well-lit but long and narrow, containing shelves up to the ceiling on both sides, piled thick, high and disorderly with sweatshirts, polo shirts, shorts and other staples of teen apparel; the proprietor wore one of those tiny, bristly mustaches that looked like an attachment for a vacuum cleaner, the small, plastic thing-a-ma-jig part that does blinds. In essence however he really was more of a one-man band than an appliance salesman and he kept the place in perfect tune- selling, buying, ringing up purchases on an imposing, noisy cash register with large, round keys; continually busy folding and refolding, tidying up the shop, sewing rosettes onto the sides of dungarees for impatient kids, he also kept the books along with a keen eye out for Kleptos.

The complete dungaree outfit, a vision in what we now call denim, though much, much sturdier and never pre-washed, from top to bottom included a matching jacket and was the real flash point of style. When eventually fitted to satisfaction and paid for in cash, the final touch or piece de resistance was the dry goods proprietor stitching the kid’s first name onto the back of the jacket in matching crimson thread, floridly scripted in oversized and cursive artistry. Sashaying down the block in her brand new uniform, the typical thirteen or fourteen year old never failed to be amazed when a guy of fourteen or fifteen or sixteen, with sideburns, a duck’s tale and/or pompadour, teasingly called out her name as she passed. How could he possibly have known? It always took the girl a few moments to get it, to remember that the name was plastered all over the back of the jacket, before tossing her head back like Lana Turner in The Postman Always Rings Twice and laughing seductively with just a slight hint of contempt as she disappeared around the nearest corner. Ah, what power to be young, female, and swathed in virgin, durable, navy blue Lees from head to toe!

The lighter “shiny” jacket of a flimsier material had a much shorter seasonal life and therefore less clout on the sidewalk, but was equally if not more visible from at least a quarter of a mile away, mainly because of its reflective quality almost remindful of something atomic; cut baseball style of cheap, stiff nylon, it had an unusually high, blistering, almost nuclear sheen. The jacket came in several shades of day glow popsicle, and may well have been a forerunner to the Summer of Love, hovering out there in the next decade with all that lavish tie dye. This rather radiant article of clothing also turned out to be extremely popular, though only for a very short while as it offered no warmth whatsoever. The look came in hot pink and a kind of stop sign orange, though fuchsia and a radioactive lime green showed up on street corners as well.

It definitely was not the kind of thing you'd want to be mucking up while diving under your desk for a shelter drill, but more fitting for dress down Fridays or weekends, after school was out.

The Seder, Part Two

Outside Baba's bedroom window a pink neon sign flashes the word "wine" like mad from the liquor store below, and the bed pillows are plump and silken, soft with feathers- Lila will tour this room later as she always does. For now though, the huge table in the front room is the main attraction, filled with rows of small, etched wine glasses sitting in tiny saucers. There's an ornate kiddish cup for the blessing, a silver chalice for the prophet, delicate china dinner plates, polished candlesticks and a dazzling, embossed white-on-white tablecloth. A clump of large, aggressive-looking, shiny leaves are sprouting from a gigantic rubber plant, and a cluster of loud, fast-talking husbands and wives, cousins and great aunts are firing off in a couple of languages- seemingly at the same time. The room is crowded and noisy. 

The six brothers when bunched together are like a bouquet of unruly, assertive weeds-  they also are opinionated, stubborn, funny and charming-  pranksters who flirt with Lila Mae and demand to know which of them is her favorite, labeling themselves and each other for this particular amusement as the "rich" uncle, the "smart" uncle, the handsomest, the luckiest, the stupidest and so on. The uncles are amateur sultans, some with second and possibly third "wives" stashed away in hidden corners around the city and lots of practice being clever and lovable. Their lone baby sister, still in her late teens, sits quietly at the end of the table, pale and and demure, at the ready to help Baba. 

Selma is temporarily diluted, elated to snatch a flicker of the limelight that has passed over some of the less dramatic or appealing- though infinitely more conniving- of the sisters-in-law, and for those few hours everyone is behaving. As the Passover story gets underway, soon after the "brucha," or prayer, there will be murmurs and surreptitious attempts at conversation and other forms of heresy at the far end of the table, mainly from the women, who are loudly shushed by Zada Jake, aka "the boss," who in turn is backed up by his youngest son, the insufferably toady Sol/Shlomo/Shloimele, immediately leading the other brothers to barely stifle their snickers.

The previously pristine table becomes a weird collage of crumbled matzoh, horse radish splotches and red wine stains with the errant stalk of green celery flung across for contrast. Later on in the reading there will be some gothic suspense when the uncles suddenly point the younger children's attention to the open front door, then vigorously shake the table from underneath to simulate Elijah’s ghost entering the house; during this flimsy distraction a couple of the more audacious of the brothers will drain the prophet’s brimming cup unseen in the annual attempt to frighten the daylights out of the kids.

When Baba finally serves up the fish after Zada's endless droning of every word of the Hagaddah at his customary breakneck speed, she leaves the head in tact, eye vacantly gazing back up at the Seder guests.  It is her personal revenge for having to cook for the sons' wives.  Zada keeps half a Pall Mall tucked rather rakishly behind his ear and maintains an observant, aqua stare; he is like a bald eagle, quietly biding his time, ever on the lookout, never to miss a trick. Baba has deeper blue eyes that shimmer (not infrequently with tears), high cheekbones, dark hair with streaks of gray that is pulled back in a tight bun, and leathery Florida skin from way too many unblocked winters; in addition, her voice is quite raspy from chronic bronchitis. She appears tortured but in actuality is kvelling - basking in the unmitigated, earned glory- while regarding her sextet of astonishing male progeny; she compulsively twists an already ravaged mulch of Kleenex in her hands to dab those cerulean eyeballs agleam with pride- she’s the victor, they’re the spoiled. 

Lila Mae is ignorant of family politics and pleased that she will get to stay up late. Arriving at zada and baba's apartment after walking the few blocks west of Broadway, through the theater district, past the magic marquees and carnival costume shops, there are two long flights of steep stairs to climb, and then it begins. It is the same each year. While everyone is still gearing up for the big bacchanal and shouting to each other under a pungent though pleasing cloud of perfume and cigar smoke, Lila sneaks peeks at her nails from time to time. In the minutes before the meal starts and they all are instructing each other where and when to take their places (hers being next to zada, a singular honor in an all male hegemony), she begins silently exploring the small labyrinth of continuous rooms. A mahogany “secretary” with glass doors and little diamond shaped windows, a fold out desk secured by tiny lock and key with some enigmatic, small cubbies that never fail to beckon in the square office nook behind the dining room-  her first stop. The wall opposite has inset shelves, once meant to simulate a library when the brownstone was first built in the late nineteenth century. Now this bookcase is somewhat buckled and sagging- but it still supports a number of huge and heavy leather-bound books. These texts are in ancient Hebrew, sturdy volumes that reach to the very top of the twelve foot ceiling. 

Scattered on the desk are several tempting fountain pens that Lila would love to try out so that she can write something permanent and bold; alongside stands an old inkwell that seems both forbidden in its desire to stain your new clothes, and irresistible. An address book of mid-century technology is of particular interest because it pops open like a jack-in-the-box when you press a button. She continues wandering about for a while, checking out the formidable apidistra near one of the large windows facing the busy avenue, a serious, no-nonsense plant that always looks a bit like a troupe of lethal. striped and unforgiving dark green spears. Lastly she takes a peek- but only from the tip of these doorways- at the smaller, messier rooms way at the back of the house where the boys still living at home sleep, with their unmade beds and acrid smell of sweaty cigarettes. Her familiar rounds now completed, she is ready to rejoin the party. Had-gahd-yaaah, Had--gahd-yaaah. . . . At the end of the seder, after many hours, the uncles are drunkenly singsonging about some lost lambs.

The LA Plane People and the Pods

Air travel has become so expensive, constricting, conflicting, rule ridden, paranoid, orthopedically torturous, fraught with pre- TSA Line Anxiety (will my bags be thrown around again, bunged casually out of sight , as they wand me, scan me, pan me, raise my taxes, reduce my benefits, repress my free speech, try to rob or ban me?). It’s like life. One definitely needs distractions. And flying is not nearly as daunting as watching the news these days. I very much needed to get away from all the election craziness.

So what better distraction while waiting to be squeezed into a seat for half a dozen hours than zooming in on your fellow passengers who are lolling around the seating area waiting to board? This activity also distracts somewhat from the ubiquitous, giant cadre of inescapable screens now menacing everywhere in the airport and blasting the entire space with the latest election happenings and “results” in those chirpy, slightly hysterical media voices.  I was not counting on this noise when I bought my ticket to the west coast and planned to leave it all behind, already having endured acute attacks of news nausea. I needed to clear my head and not think about politics.

Which brings me to the LA Plane People; any resemblance to the Pod People of the classic sci-fi thriller is purely intentional.

The LA Plane People for the most part are amazingly fit, and to put it quite simply, ready! They are not just waiting to take a plane, they are going places! They are a cross section of absolutely nowhere in the population and not your average voting shlameel - meticulously turned out, there’s not a boxy Hillary pants suit among them! Not a one was even slightly overweight, talked with a Brooklyn accent nor was there a Kasich cowlick, a skewed tie or an ill fitting jacket to be seen.

At 7:00 a.m before daylight savings it’s only minutes after sunrise. This means anyone already in that chilly, lonely, vast American Airlines lounge somehow has managed to slip out of bed in the darkness possibly 3 or 4 hours earlier, haul themselves to the airport, get wanded, patted, swatted, blotted and stay awake through it all. Yet the LA Plane People did not look unhappy; nor did they seem annoyed or disheveled. Not a one was sweating like Rubio or cursing like Christie. I on the other hand, despite having managed to wash my hair before dawn, already was feeling ticked off, dazed, hopelessly frumpy. I felt the election and the country would not go well and could not dispel these horrible thoughts. Some neighbors and friends already had lost their minds, were heaping strange praise and had succumbed to the body snatchers. And so I continued to try and clear my mind of anything political and simply observe those around me.

The LA Plane People are a hardy and merciless bunch, with a rather vague, distant air almost reminiscent of well dressed aliens from a fifties sci fi movie, yet they have no wish to inhabit your mind, and certainly not your body, unless, that is, your body happens to be even more perfectly constructed, sculpted and renovated than theirs- very unlikely, and something more along the lines of our possible new First Lady if the shifty real estate developer with political ambitions gets his way (no, I say to myself, this will not happen! The Pods will not rule!!!). I’ve seen chins, noses, eyes, calves, tummy & tushy tucks while waiting to fly to LAX that no one ever was meant to be born with. Some are like museum statuary that arose from a half shell at the gym.

All in all, not a terribly cuddly bunch, but in a strange and admirable way evocative of regular humans, though not quite. The LA Plane People are not like New Yorkers or mid-westerners, or even their neighbors up north, those laid back San Francisco dreamers- ebullient, young, mainly under thirty (the required age for self deportation from that city on the bay)- but more hard edged and somewhat older yet striving to appear forever young. The energy is boundless, scary. If I didn’t know better or read the LA Times I would swear they were all voting for You-Know-Who as they do not appear to take prisoners. Two hours into the miserable flight while I waited desperately for someone to offer a drop of water or maybe some seltzer to soothe the parched throat and dehydrated body systems, they were still tapping intently away on their laptops, possibly reading scripts or contracts, maybe just shopping happily online.

The LA Plane People have either made it big, often think about making it big, will never make it big or once knew someone who knew someone who made it big, but there is nothing small about them. Hair is big too, not literally, but you know, big. The leading GOP candidate has nothing on them. If I didn’t know better from the media, I would swear they are all republicans at heart, and maybe in reality. Even the LA based flight attendants have been touched by the stardust. Ours wears her own tresses in a style recently favored at the Oscars that must have taken her considerable care and time to effect, even though she is grossly underpaid- a severe center part augmented by a kind of weird flatness on the top of her head with a long pony tail at the back- an interesting combo of Jane Austen and prison matron with a smattering of Star Wars. The plane was aglitter with starlight!

The real high point came right before Boarding when I saw a passenger at the gate whose expensively cut bob was black on one side, platinum on the other, like one of Captain Kirk's alien "Lokai" people, or perhaps just a fantastical representation of a two faced politician. She steadily sipped her caf- through the lid- but in tiny, compulsive, staccato and focused little gulps in preparation for whatever event it was that she had to be ready. Maybe she just couldn’t decide who to vote for. Apparently anything is possible these days, even in a blue state.

And context is truly amazing. I now understand how people’s minds can be completely taken over. The intense LA aura created a tacit understanding between a gum cracking, street smart, slightly disheveled, out-of-shape and perennially weary reluctant flier from the east coast, and the tightly netted and fitted, caffeine-infused lady in perfect jeans and a crazy, two toned skull straight from a battle with the Starship Enterprise (who curiously gave the impression of being no nonsense rather than extremely silly). It was like getting caught up at a Trump rally, or “feeling the Bern” in a slightly drugged state. I was starting to see her hair style as normal. Does the setting influence point of view? Was there no escape from the bad political dreams that nightly haunted my sleep. . . .

For one mad moment I saw nothing culturally bizarre or weird about the general tenor or style of the black and white coiffure and began to accept it, to think it actually might catch on. Really. I admit, it was kind of early in the morning and I was fighting to stay awake, but the LA vibe was so convincing that this absurd hairdo seemed comfortable, even attractive. Given this way of thinking, what could be the effect of too much screen time on your ability to see the issues? Are viewpoints influenced by when, with whom, and where we are at any moment? Is a brightly colored orange comb-over embellished with a stream of adolescent taunts and threats of rioting really not that strange when associated with a president, and are we that malleable? Is everything theater, not just Hollywood? I comforted myself with the thought that while concentrating on the LA Plane People at least I had gained a brief reprieve from cable news. This surely means that I had not been entirely taken over and all I had to do was try to stay awake.  But what about the others. . . .

No metaphor here. Really. Just close your eyes and tap your heels. . . . There is nothing strange about our country these days. Really. The election soon will be over. Wait. . . did I really just say that??? I take it back! It must be jet lag. Whatever happens, do not close your eyes and please try your darmdest to stay awake.

Starbucks Series Part Two: The Outer Boroughs

Outerborough Starbucks

This Bronx Starbucks is a neighborhood joint, no other way to describe it. There are walk-able shops in the vicinity, a supermarket, shoe repair, hardware store, tax preparer, optometrists, pharmacists, lawyers, dentists and other real services. If need be, you could survive in the area without a car by just doing everything on foot. But it might also mean using iceberg lettuce in your salad on occasion.

Cooking at home however is not the only option. The neighborhood has a slew of restaurants, none of them great, but often this is just how it goes. At least four varieties of Asian in addition to Mexican, Spanish, Greek, Italian, Irish, real pizza, a couple of kosher eateries, diners, two soft serve yogurts, and a Jewish delicatessen- one of the last in the city. The pizza is pretty good.

And except for the Starbucks, they all deliver.

Minutes from the glamour and lure of “downtown”, which is how we refer to Manhattan from the Bronx, this outer borough Starbucks is having none of that. To begin with, although it sits on a sunny corner, the windows are always noticeably dirty, which doesn’t make the afternoon pick-me-up of a double shot of whipped grande mocha seem so very appealing. It is not trendy. And yet people go in.

Once inside, the smell of the signature, acrid brew tells you that the familiar, bitter caffeine of the brand lives here and decaf too. This is not the Upper West Side. The demographic is relaxed, no Manhattan Masters & Mistresses of the Universe. You don't feel like you're interviewing for a job when you order your coffee. Exceptionally weird characters are at a minimum. There usually is at least a little bit of a line and a bunch of students, retirees, a few baby carriages and one or two roaming toddlers doing their cute toddling thing and telling their mommies what they want to order, but clearly this is neighborhood all the way. After three the teachers come in.

Not a destination Starbucks, many of the customers are scruffy and shlump around in sneakers and old sweat pants. The barristas are just kids working after school. There is not a whole lot of cache or élan. It is not always sunny. Outside  a couple of benches might be taken up at a certain time of day by health aides and their charges, the aides screaming into their phones as seen through the large windows. Occasionally, like very rarely and usually in the summer, a couple of tourists will have made their way uptown to this most northern reach of the boroughs and are huddling close together at the window, intently poking at their GPS and wondering how they got there.

This is dangerously starting to sound like a somewhat suspect riff on “Our Town,” Bronx style, but please rest assured the neighborhood is really quite urban, very real and gritty, people tend to look gritty, urban and real, it's exceptionally diverse in population yet like Grovers Corners, friendly for the most part. There are smart phones and laptops everywhere, not enough free time, no one marries the boy next door, and subways, buses,highways and large public schools nearby. 

To the best of my knowledge I have never seen anyone produce a little gold rimmed compact to powder their nose then smooth their perfectly ironed blond hair in this particular Starbucks, though I am not saying this couldn’t happen- I’ve lived long enough to know anything is possible. Surprisingly though, dirty windows and smudged counters and all, the coffee is damned good! Once in a while there can be an aberration of course and you could wind up with some truly sad, tepid, watery swill, because as we all know, stuff happens.

So please keep this information to yourself- the place does not wish to be discovered. Then again, would anyone really want to venture up to this northern tip of the city to chance a lukewarm, thin cappuccino? Go Tell whomever you want. No problem.  It’s the Bronx.