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.