Hysteria. . . Part Three: Irvine and Two Conditioners

Are you plugged in yet?

Surfer muzak puts that extra spring in your step in the 6:00 a.m lobby of a Marriott in Southern California.

Bright eyed and leary biz types with strangely alert a.m. buzz already dot the café chairs in their wrinkle free shirts; such garments are made of unnamed chemicals that keep the material fresh and ready for just about anything. Starbucks Grande Latte Extra Watery sits on several tables along with the ubiquitous laptops. These are white collar indentured servants with many years ahead of them on the rack- and that only if they’re lucky enough not be axed in the next downsizing.  Large buses outside wait to transport them to some gigantic, mind numbing gathering as they gulp their morning rations.

Across the road the huge, slightly terrifying Taco Bell sign hovers over all, though not especially comfortingly. During the day it’s not that noticeable; at night it sits large and bright, forlorn on the horizon, and if you happen to be staying at the hotel it also serves to tell you when to exit the freeway. The sign makes you glad you do not work at any of the corporate headquarters in this or any other world. It beckons not with the green light at the end of of Daisy's dock, but with rather a garish sort of pink, like the polluted air around certain urban centers.

As if all that weren’t enough, on my first morning after a jet lagged sleep, I discovered to my horror that instead of bringing my very favorite, sample size magical shampoo and conditioner- (that which would have saved me from the merciless and cruelly hard hotel water with no pressure that thus prevents effective rinsing)- I had instead managed to pack two conditioners. In other words, no shampoo, just two (now useless) goddamn conditioners. Like a bad dream I suddenly saw it all in a flash. Hard Water. No water pressure. Hair bedlam. No real inclination to get to a CVS in my PJs before showering, not that they would stock this salon grade life saving potion anyway. And even if I were willing to swallow my pride and drive over there coffee-less, clothes rumpled from the night before, so as not to waste even one of my precious, fresh outfits stashed in the burgeoning carry on, I’d still be forced to settle on some inferior product, possibly a store brand. . . . 

The sun already is blazing unusually hot as I peel open the tiny cream cheese packet in pill box size that came with my frozen bagel. A brochure on a nearby table blaring “Welcome to the Center of Orange County is all about the man & woe-man made “community” of Irvine, a thing I repeatedly want to call Irving because it sounds so much more human.  As I toy with the “bagel” on my paper plate, I go over the list of all the startling advantages the place purportedly has to offer, and then I transliterate the whole thing into reality (see parentheses):

“Irvine was master-planned. . . .”

(think Stepford village, on steroids baby, like you can't believe)

“A leading business center with more than 100 corporations”

(Actually, they own it, they are it, and it is they)

“Family oriented. . . multicultural. . . celebrates diversity”

(In three trips I’ve seen exactly one black person)

“Beautifully manicured office parks”

(office parks???)

“Recognized as America’s safest city”

(This definitely scares me)

I gaze out the window and muse that yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of the dazed, I shall fear no evil, master planning or otherwise. . . .  Then I finally accept the breakfast situation, smear the tiny dollop of cream cheese allotment onto my “bagel” and take a swig of the Grande Watery.

Skoll. L'Chaim. Down the hatch. Here's looking at you, Irvine.

Hysteria. . . .Part Two: Up, Up & Away!

Three hours into our flight the skies were looking no friendlier than an hour or so after dawn when we shimmied our way through the soon to be compressed cabin air to find our seats: a couple of amazingly tiny, uncomfortable and ergonomically nightmarish stools with hard backs that pitched dangerously forward if you dared to move, even slightly. My travel companion agreed to sit in the middle and act as “therapist.”

The dry, noisy air sucked the very life out of me halfway to our destination and prompted more than a few really-have-to-pee emergencies. This rather difficult, brave journey as you may know entails standing tentatively on one foot or the other while tripping over yourself as you carefully move down a measly small, single aisle, bumping into seated, jutting elbows, hopping your way to the back of the cabin.

This new "better!" winged contraption that naively races through the clouds these days is astonishingly narrow. You realize this as you continue to wriggle your way to the bathroom, the wee plane rocking happily back and forth. Once you finally pry open the folding lavatory door, you are more or less flung into the WC rather rudely while trying hard not to fall down; in truth, if you even attempted this headlong maneuver- i.e. falling to the floor- you would wind up wedged in a rather awkward position between the bowl and the sink. There simply is no place to fall. Flinging your body randomly against walls however is totally allowed as you try not to miss by achieving just the right position.

Back in my seat I feel as if I am devoid of every drop of moisture that keeps the engine of my parched organs running smoothly. Can one continue to exist in this state for a period of time and actually still be classified as "alive?"

Halfway through I have my first panic attack. It’s relatively low level (real terror of course does not take hold until landing), and I successfully manage to desist running up and down the aisle naked and screaming, flailing my arms erratically and demanding to be let off the plane immediately. In fact, I am quite proud of having avoided the temptation to be escorted to the rear and tranquilized by the men in the little white jackets by acting like a lunatic.

Be all that as it may, I soon am convinced there is something very, very wrong with the ventilation system and the cabin pressure, which explains why suddenly I am gasping for air. The twenty-something in her hoodie who is tucked near the window thinking she will live forever without warning put up the window shade, sending a blast of sharp, unforgiving beams of blinding illumination right into the center of my pupils. For the most part, everyone plays dead, eyes closed either in sleep or shock.

O thank you so much. . . orange juice, yes. No, no ice. Thanks!

How the hell will this ridiculous, plastic cup with the sticky liquid swishing around like the seas during a tsunami not go flying all over my new shoes? The teenie, tiny cocktail napkin won't be of much help either with the cleanup. . . . 

And people actually do this for fun.

Only three more hours. . . .


(Next week part three: I arrive!!!)

Hysteria, Fear and Boredom: A Three Part Series on Travel

Part One: Getting out of the House

He-e-e-ey, Guh Mawnin!

The driver, a pleasant fellow, obviously feels pretty good about uttering these words- clearly he has done this before at odd hours.

Whassup the toll taker automatically mumbles back. His face is slack, his eyes semi-dead.

The whassup is not a question as the toll collector does not give a damn about what actually is “up” at 6:00 a.m. on a dark, chilly autumn morning while a stream of zombie driven vehicles jockey thru the moat leading to JFK; at this hour there is not even the threat of real light and the world sleeps.

In a weird way I totally understand the driver’s cheery if misplaced attempt to keep himself awake at dawn. But will he succeed. . . . I decide not to think on this further.

As usual we’ve booked one of the earlier flights to avoid getting stuck in the LA rush hour, a snaking thing of despair that goes on pretty much 24/7 but oddly offers a brief break between noon and 1:00 p.m. With the three hour time difference, by landing at 11:00 you have a small chance of making it to your destination without experiencing the lingering and deleterious effects of traffic nervous breakdown. . . .  It’s a tiny though strangely merciful window of time.

 

An 8:00 a.m. flight sounds so civilized when you first book! It does! At least it’s not the 7:00 a.m. you say to yourself smugly. The truth of course points to a 4:45 a.m. wake up call consisting of horrific high pitched bleeps coming from your beastly little phone. By the time you’re lugging your carry on and wheelie to security you’re ready to kill in a sleepy, dopey, somnambulist sort of way, while at the same time forced to prove you’re a normal citizen and not a terrorist by exuding extreme pleasantness and calm as you’re full-body x-rayed and patted down.

But all that is the easy part. The real horror of course has already occurred- that of getting out of the house (and no, it does not depend on how early or late you’ve packed, because between then and now there will have been at least several “emergencies”- think ingrown toenail for example, requiring painful encounter with the spurious science of podiatry the day before the trip- yes, the toenail that suddenly rules your every thought!). Then there’s the obligatory ritual of repacking, a ceremony that can take place the night before and stretch into the very morning you alight, if only as a symbolic gesture in which you banish then repatriate some stuff.

Finally, there’s the securing of a taxi, either by attempting to hail one and hoping the guy is fully conscious at dawn, or calling for one- an experience with its own set of abuses and a process that frequently can be more daunting than being 38,000 feet aloft during turbulence while thinking about the last plane that went down.

The car service dispatcher- if you go that route- often sounds like an especially irritated member of a teenage street gang combined with a vague intimation of Mafioso retribution. I usually find this somewhat comforting however as the terrible, angry sounds the dispatcher emits in between telling you to hold on somehow assure me that the lucky, chosen driver actually will be there as grudgingly promised. And in truth this beats grappling with some call center in northern Wyoming where all they really want is to get their sticky fingers on your credit card; local service is cash and carry all the way!

Lastly, need I remind that “Uber” with that intimidating umlat over the u that nobody can pronounce quite correctly, and its demand- nay, command!-  that you text really does have a whiff of mind control. . . .

(Next week part two: Up, Up and Away!)

Stepping Over NYC: Colors of Fall

East side, west side, all around. . . there are so many colorful and curious images to step over on the storied sidewalks of New York! It’s especially resplendent in October.

First you have the many squarish metal covers that provide entrance down, down into the steep hearts of darkness that live below street level leading to the myriad storage cellars beneath the trendy and not so trendy shops; these sidewalk “doors” range in hue from shiny, corrugated, recently replaced light silver to dismal, overly stepped on bent, dirty charcoal of a heavier, bygone material;  but they all make the same hideous, ominous, clanging sound when one dares step on them directly, rather than scooting around in order to save a precious second or two. I can never decide whether to take the dare and chance being sucked into one of those doorways to Hades in mid air, or simply slip around and be safe, though this maneuver may risk my bumping rudely into strangers. Seconds do seem to count while racing along the sidewalks of a New York minute. Seeing how fast you can get on foot from one light to the next, while squinting in the clear October sun as you dodge cars, trucks and careening delivery bicycles, actually becomes a kind of quest, not just a matter of expediency. You start to enjoy it, a kind of guilty pleasure under a perfect blue sky.

As a kid I was especially fascinated by the subway grates and the thrill of standing on one of these as a train roared by underneath. This innocent joy was seconded only by the sparkling diamonds in the schist, or engaging in the concentrated act of cautiously stepping over the cracks while the leaves crunched underfoot.

But back to the present, and the more insidious, smaller stuff you scrupulously must avoid, utilizing fight or flight responses that most natives actually have encoded in their DNA by the time they reach toddler-hood: gum, once pink, now black (speaks for itself- forget about ever using those shoes again); dog doo (a time honored city tradition that maintains it will bring you luck- yeah, right. . . ); liquids of all sorts from even more dubious sources (the spilled orange smoothies being truly among the grossest). In short, it’s a mess out there.

Finally, there are the sidewalk sleepers and their piles of Dickensian rags straight from a mid-Victorian set, a motley riot of faded color jumbled together in a heap on a late autumn afternoon, under which a body lies crouched and which you can partially discern, still breathing; or in nicer weather, the sprawl of sunny sidewalk sunbathers in various stages of disheveled dress or undress on the littered beaches of Broadway.

A metaphor here, for sure, though I wish not explore. Just keep walking.

For Helene

If Helene and Leo did not arrive at our doorstep for one of our lunches at least fifteen minutes before the appointed hour, Gil and I would admonish her for being “late.” This became our communal shared joke because she was so punctual, so exact, and she did not disappoint. Moreover, nothing got by her.  I cannot imagine a world without Helene taking off her coat in my living room while handing me a book and inquiring if the new doorman actually learned our names yet as he seemed to have waved them on without ringing up. . . .

We met almost forty years ago as new English teachers at Bronx Science, two perfect alter egos awash in a sea of intellectual arrogance; for that first semester we both hid out in the teacher’s lounge talking books, philosophy, relationships, people, our own kids, life, books. As punctual as she was, so unfashionably late I remained; her Delaney book held orderly pages that lay flat and clear and calm, unimpeded with notices and loose cards- she could find things if she needed to; mine displayed the remnants of a tornado, wisps if not  entire sheaves of paper sticking out from every end of a battered, red plastic cover; her grading book was concise, neat, readable, mine a series of smudges and crossings out. She favored Burberry raincoats in solid, primary colors and had a propensity for logic while I occasionally experimented with things fuchsia if not speckled altogether, only to regret it later. And in fact it is due to these very differences I cannot state the exact year or date we met, though I know it was around 1978 but will not swear to it, lest she hear me.

Helene’s union with Leo was a long and happy one; he was my beloved teacher as a child; now I had the marvelous Helene as newfound sister. These two were in sync in so many ways, and they lasted, through time; together the two of them fielded me through two marriages and the occasional disaster in between. You might say Helene appeared somewhat traditional in lifestyle and demeanor, and yet she knew more about real life than many self-styled worldly friends; she had a most unconventional mind and unique sensibility,  a sharp sense of humor and a wicked wit. I once asked her how she managed to get to the heart of things so perceptively and still lead such a time-honored, seemingly conventional and decorous existence (you see, she had this amazing ability to cut through the crap); without skipping a beat; she quickly replied, I read a lot.

And so she did. She was the archetypal avid reader and book swallower, a published critic and fast thinker. A true aficionado of all things literary. She also was the most ardent fan, astute analyst, and devoted grammar checker of my own weekly fiction blog, and if I did not have that installment posted each Friday by 9:00 a.m. there was sure to be an email in my inbox; if this laxity dared stretch into the 10:00 a.m. realm, a phone call was in order, asking if all was OK.

And no, all is not OK, because I cannot picture a world without her. She adored her family. She especially abhorred academic pedantry and phoniness of every stripe and loved the metaphysical beauty and truthful simplicity of Emily Dickinson’s poetry. And so some years ago when grappling with a particularly annoying grad course in textual criticism- led by a particularly annoying, pedantic prof- as a means of surviving it I composed the following sonnet, with Helene very much in mind and her voice in my ear; because to a great extent, she lived what she believed, not what she was supposed to believe, and that is inspiring. So I will post this on time Helene, and we will miss you.

Final Edition

For Helene Benardo

By M. Reinhardt

I took a course in textual critique-

the prof? He put me in a state of pique.

A Harvard lad with pencil very thin,

He tossed my hopes into the rubbish bin.

My topic was the Venerable Emily,

just 16 lines of simple poetry.

The task? As sublime as a flock of birds,

a mere 38,000 succinct words.

Was she a metaphysic or a loon?

A seer or a feministic goon?

But why was her behavior so damn odd?

And what about ol’ Mabel Loomis Todd?

On so many levels did I perceive her,

It finally seemed much easi’r just to be her.

Fall Poetry Fest: On Reading Barbara Pym

When reading Barbara Pym,

the sets are like a scrim;

you see right through the characters,

be it a her or him.

To all the English preachers,

(of whom she cannot say enough),

and all the English teachers,

those learned folk who read her stuff-

I wish that I could write like Pym

of life’s peculiar lots,

I think like Twain but so far sound

like Stephen Dowling Bots.

Twain is to be studied,

Shakespeare is revered,

but when I want to just relax,

to Barbary Pym I’m geared.

The Adventures. . . Cont'd., Chapter Eight: The Sigh

Nootchie has learned to sit up- by herself! She’s so ecstatic about this feat, yet another wonderful and newfound vicissitude of her tiny existence, that all she can do is shake, rattle and roll, mainly her rattle that is, but with marked brio. Alas, she still does not have the complete know how yet as to how to form discernible and real words like Wow! Wowee! This is so cool!!! But she has figured out how to emit this long, soulful sigh.

The sigh is somewhat deceptive and at first seems to carry the weight of the world on her diminutive shoulders. It emanates from way down in her essence and is low and plaintive, a kind of soft growl. It trills. If she were in glee club she definitely would be singing harmony, if in jazz she’d be scatting. But there’s also a distinct “nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen” aspect to this quietly forceful though subtly spirited ribbon of sound. It is quite moving.

Upon first hearing the sigh I imagined she had channeled all the philosophers of the world and settled finally on the existentialists, or maybe  the nihilists. I began to see Nootchie as a weary octogenarian who had just hobbled to the supermarket and was in the arduous process of shlepping her bags home, or perhaps a young public school teacher at the end of a long day and more than a few unruly students. A surgeon following a difficult transplant, or an exercise nut who had finally overdone it. A member of the clergy saddened and disillusioned by the flock. Shades of a favorite poem, Gerard Manley Hopkins poignantly immortal “Spring and Fall to a Young Child,” suddenly came into mind: Margaret are you grieving over goldengrove unleaving.. . .  All the cares of the universe seemed ineluctably captured and encased in that one weary exhalation of tension freeing yoga breath.

But then I realized that somehow I had gotten it all wrong, and as usual it was just a matter of perception. This clearly was a sigh of pure exhilaration. I can sit and almost turn over, twice she thinks, and soon I will be able to get across that room on hands and knees without being carried like a warm, smiley, happy lump- exceedingly cute and cared for, but still a curious bundle of dependent adorableness with limited free will. Si-i-i-gggghhh! This is so completely Wowee- on steroids baby- and frankly, I can’t wait. But first, a nap.