sometimes
i feel
quiet
like a tree
only wanting
to bend
in the wind.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
At Peace
He is a Pillsbury doughboy with short fingers and pudgy hands. At 53, he carries a journeyman beer belly and a gentle grin indents his puffed out cheeks. He sits in my living room, faded tan jacket still on, and knots with care the apron strings of my daughter’s doll. She, in her own adolescent pudginess, works her hands in mid-air in a perfect mimic of his. A five year olds’ grin mirrors the one on his face. He is my boss at the water treatment plant and he asks me if I would please work a graveyard shift tonight on my day off….and by the age of 20 he has two tank destroyers under his command shot up and is driving a third when they order him to stop at the edge of Berlin so the Russians can finalize their revenge for Operation Barbarossa upon the Berliners and their army….
He has a special regard for me because, at 30, I have two daughters, ages three and five, who remind him of the innocent days of his three now grown daughters. In turn, I have a growing respect for him as we talk at length during our slack periods at the filter plant about our families and about World War II, its history in his life and in books. I pause during our frequent talks, hearing for the first time what he is not saying while he recounts about time standing still….the incendiary shell bursts at his feet and propels him backward with a giant’s sucker punch. Desperate for oxygen, he pulls the first deep lungful in through his nose and the heat sears the mucous lining. He is robbed so completely of a sense of smell that a bologna sandwich is a steak is a chicken leg is a bowl of Campbell’s tomato soup....
“Sure, Claude. Be glad to. I’ll be there at 11,” I say, already counting the overtime money.
“Well, good. Thanks, I appreciate it. You know, we’d be okay if some of our people would just quit flushing their toilets.”
“I know,” agreeing with the old joke all water operators share.
“With that settled, I think I’ll get back to my bird watching,” he softly confides
Another joke shared, I just chuckle. He sneaks out on Friday afternoons when our shifts overlap and states that he is going bird watching.
“I’m still seeking the elusive red-headed, double-breasted mattress-thrasher,” he intones solemnly and I know he really means he is headed for the Airport Lounge for a few gin and tonics and the furtive smoking of borrowed cigarettes. But I follow our ritual and reply with the caution “Keep you eye out for bears”…. the sleeping bag is a double thickness wool blanket with a zipper lengthwise in the middle. The bag can be pulled over his head mummy style. When it is wet, it retains little heat lying on the rain-soaked ground. The German shelling stops sometime in the night. The jeeps, trucks, and tanks pull into thickets of trees and brush in the darkness. They throw their bags onto the ground, so tired that they don’t even shovel away the mud and the pools of water to create a dry cradle for their bodies. His tank cracks, pops, and hisses as it cools nearby. He falls quickly into a hard dead sleep. He wakes when his gunner jabs him in the ribs whispering, “Look! Look there!” Through the lifting morning fog, he sees rows upon rows of green onions. Last night they stopped in their blind weariness by a farmer’s field. Here the spring crop pops up through the French soil. Mindless now of the mud, he joins the other newly-awakened men and crawls on all fours into the field and grabs at the green clumps….
I know full well that he is married, very married, as only those who have lived through the war years can be married. It has now been twenty eight years and her name is Colleen, but he nicknames her The Bear. The war uprooted them, separated them. Friends were shipped to places unpronounceable and some died there. War rationing made for lean times, but not as lean as the Depression. Back then, the concept of uncertainty was transformed into a tangible emotion. Now they do things they can share like hunting together, playing in a band together, eating together, or drinking together: the simple things, the easy pleasures that are as sure as sound sleep…. he still dreams war dreams, some funny, like when they prop up the body of the frozen Kraut captain in the back of their jeep and drive around to the different camps scaring the hell out of the lieutenants. After they are ordered to never do that again, they laugh and say, “What are they going to do? Send us to a war front?” Other dreams weren’t funny, they were nightmares; like when he advances on a distant enemy under sniper fire, looks around and then down at himself. He is dressed in a German uniform. Those soldiers he shoots at are Americans. He bolts out of bed screaming and....Colleen wakes, goes into the kitchen, and starts the coffee which they will drink until the sun comes up and Claude goes to work. She then strips the bed of the sweaty sheets, opening the window to air out the room.
He shows up on the Fridays we share looking like hell. After we get the plant running, the chlorine dosage set, and the flocculent chemistry balanced, he says, “I had that dream again”. We finish our morning chores, getting the water flowing through the plant. We pour our cups of coffee and talk and listen and listen and talk …. today is quiet so Claude turns the driving over to his gunner from New Jersey and steps down off the moving tank. He starts a conversation with a fellow GI from Pennsylvania and they compare deer hunting stories. After a mile of walking, Claude climbs back into the tank and secures the hatch. A couple of minutes later a shell lands so close to them that it knocks them to a stop. Their ears ring from the explosion. Claude lifts the hatch and inspects the damage. The kid is gone and the tank drips red, fresh and wet like a new coat of paint….
Long after the war he first sets their hunting rifles in the corner of the least used room of the house. Then for some housecleaning reason, he moves them into a closet that is now just a storage space with sliding doors. And, finally, coming across them years later, he takes them downtown and sells them .
He has a special regard for me because, at 30, I have two daughters, ages three and five, who remind him of the innocent days of his three now grown daughters. In turn, I have a growing respect for him as we talk at length during our slack periods at the filter plant about our families and about World War II, its history in his life and in books. I pause during our frequent talks, hearing for the first time what he is not saying while he recounts about time standing still….the incendiary shell bursts at his feet and propels him backward with a giant’s sucker punch. Desperate for oxygen, he pulls the first deep lungful in through his nose and the heat sears the mucous lining. He is robbed so completely of a sense of smell that a bologna sandwich is a steak is a chicken leg is a bowl of Campbell’s tomato soup....
“Sure, Claude. Be glad to. I’ll be there at 11,” I say, already counting the overtime money.
“Well, good. Thanks, I appreciate it. You know, we’d be okay if some of our people would just quit flushing their toilets.”
“I know,” agreeing with the old joke all water operators share.
“With that settled, I think I’ll get back to my bird watching,” he softly confides
Another joke shared, I just chuckle. He sneaks out on Friday afternoons when our shifts overlap and states that he is going bird watching.
“I’m still seeking the elusive red-headed, double-breasted mattress-thrasher,” he intones solemnly and I know he really means he is headed for the Airport Lounge for a few gin and tonics and the furtive smoking of borrowed cigarettes. But I follow our ritual and reply with the caution “Keep you eye out for bears”…. the sleeping bag is a double thickness wool blanket with a zipper lengthwise in the middle. The bag can be pulled over his head mummy style. When it is wet, it retains little heat lying on the rain-soaked ground. The German shelling stops sometime in the night. The jeeps, trucks, and tanks pull into thickets of trees and brush in the darkness. They throw their bags onto the ground, so tired that they don’t even shovel away the mud and the pools of water to create a dry cradle for their bodies. His tank cracks, pops, and hisses as it cools nearby. He falls quickly into a hard dead sleep. He wakes when his gunner jabs him in the ribs whispering, “Look! Look there!” Through the lifting morning fog, he sees rows upon rows of green onions. Last night they stopped in their blind weariness by a farmer’s field. Here the spring crop pops up through the French soil. Mindless now of the mud, he joins the other newly-awakened men and crawls on all fours into the field and grabs at the green clumps….
I know full well that he is married, very married, as only those who have lived through the war years can be married. It has now been twenty eight years and her name is Colleen, but he nicknames her The Bear. The war uprooted them, separated them. Friends were shipped to places unpronounceable and some died there. War rationing made for lean times, but not as lean as the Depression. Back then, the concept of uncertainty was transformed into a tangible emotion. Now they do things they can share like hunting together, playing in a band together, eating together, or drinking together: the simple things, the easy pleasures that are as sure as sound sleep…. he still dreams war dreams, some funny, like when they prop up the body of the frozen Kraut captain in the back of their jeep and drive around to the different camps scaring the hell out of the lieutenants. After they are ordered to never do that again, they laugh and say, “What are they going to do? Send us to a war front?” Other dreams weren’t funny, they were nightmares; like when he advances on a distant enemy under sniper fire, looks around and then down at himself. He is dressed in a German uniform. Those soldiers he shoots at are Americans. He bolts out of bed screaming and....Colleen wakes, goes into the kitchen, and starts the coffee which they will drink until the sun comes up and Claude goes to work. She then strips the bed of the sweaty sheets, opening the window to air out the room.
He shows up on the Fridays we share looking like hell. After we get the plant running, the chlorine dosage set, and the flocculent chemistry balanced, he says, “I had that dream again”. We finish our morning chores, getting the water flowing through the plant. We pour our cups of coffee and talk and listen and listen and talk …. today is quiet so Claude turns the driving over to his gunner from New Jersey and steps down off the moving tank. He starts a conversation with a fellow GI from Pennsylvania and they compare deer hunting stories. After a mile of walking, Claude climbs back into the tank and secures the hatch. A couple of minutes later a shell lands so close to them that it knocks them to a stop. Their ears ring from the explosion. Claude lifts the hatch and inspects the damage. The kid is gone and the tank drips red, fresh and wet like a new coat of paint….
Long after the war he first sets their hunting rifles in the corner of the least used room of the house. Then for some housecleaning reason, he moves them into a closet that is now just a storage space with sliding doors. And, finally, coming across them years later, he takes them downtown and sells them .
Sunday, November 23, 2008
aperitif...a play in one act
Cast of Characters
(In order of appearance)
Nathan James a present-day, non-traditional student at a small Northwest college…Amy is his girlfriend
Gertrude Stein at the time of her part in this play (1925), an author of experimental literature and a source of encouragement to all artisans who “want to make it new”
Sylvia Beach at the time of her part in this play (1925), owner of the bookstore, Shakespeare and Company, and a friend to many literary and artistic figures
Ernest Hemingway at the time of his part in this play (1925), a young author about to publish his first novel
F. Scott Fitzgerald at the time of his part in this play (1925), a well-known author of short stories and "The Great Gatsby"... with his wife Zelda, they epitomize “The Jazz Age”
(In order of appearance)
Nathan James a present-day, non-traditional student at a small Northwest college…Amy is his girlfriend
Gertrude Stein at the time of her part in this play (1925), an author of experimental literature and a source of encouragement to all artisans who “want to make it new”
Sylvia Beach at the time of her part in this play (1925), owner of the bookstore, Shakespeare and Company, and a friend to many literary and artistic figures
Ernest Hemingway at the time of his part in this play (1925), a young author about to publish his first novel
F. Scott Fitzgerald at the time of his part in this play (1925), a well-known author of short stories and "The Great Gatsby"... with his wife Zelda, they epitomize “The Jazz Age”
aperitif
The curtain rises. There are three groupings of set props, each free-standing and separate from the others.
Stage Right, a plain wooden door hangs in a partially-framed wall with bare studs exposed above a half wall of sheetrock. On the door is a coat hook.
To the left of this wall, a kitchen sink with no plumbing rests on a counter top supported by bare 2 x 4 legs. Above the sink is an empty window frame in a bare stud wall.
Stage Center, midway between Up Stage and Down Stage, a small wooden table stands with a plain wooden chair on each side of the table, Right and Left.
Stage Left, a double-hung window, partially open, is framed in a bare-stud wall with half pieces of sheetrock on each side. Floor-to-ceiling stage curtains bracket the window.
The door opens. A young man, late 20’s, enters. A backpack is slung over one shoulder. He talks on a cell phone.
NATHAN:
. . .just walking in the door, as a matter of fact. What’s up, Amy? (Pause) No, I can’t. I’d really like to, but I just can’t. I have to get this poem written for Johnson’s class tomorrow. You know I’m behind in his class, what with work and all.
He walks to the table, sets down his backpack, and returns to the door where he hangs up his jacket.
Amy, you’re not listening! I can’t come over. I have to do this homework. (Pause) No, I’m not driven. I just have to do well. I don’t want to be a janitor forever and that’s all I am now. A janitor who is trying to be a college student. I’m not yelling. Look. That’s it. I have to go. Goodbye.
He puts his cell phone in his backpack and pulls out a small writing tablet and pencil. He sets the backpack on the floor and sits down. He starts writing.
What the hell’s her problem? Just leave me alone.
He stops writing, wads up the sheet of paper, and throws it toward the sink. He stands up and paces back and forth Downstage in front of the table.
I just can’t get started. I’m fresh out of ideas. Great! I should be a waiter instead of a janitor. “I’m sorry, Sir. We’re fresh out of ideas, but may I recommend the filet of sole?” Right.
He walks to the wall by his apartment door, leans forward and looks at the wall in several places.
Come on, my rogues’ gallery of writers. How about some help? How about you, Fitzgerald? God knows you had your share of writer’s block, trying to keep Zelda under control. . .as well as your drinking. Aw, what’s the use? (Pause) Wait a minute. Why not? I’ve read a lot about Scott and that time period and the others of his generation. I know I can’t go back in time. Why can’t I use my imagination and bring them here? (Pause) Only I want Fitzgerald in his prime, at the top of his form. Like right after "The Great Gatsby" was published. Where was he? Oh, yeah. Paris. That’s it! Paris, France, 1925.
He walks from Stage Right to Stage Left. As he crosses an imaginary line directly in front of the table, the stage lighting on Stage Right Fades Out to darkness.
The lighting on Stage Left Fades In with the golden glow of an afternoon sun.
The window bracketed by stage curtains rolls to the right behind one curtain. A large potted tree with flowers around its base now stands between the two stage curtains, illuminated as though by sunlight.
He walks slowly toward Stage Left, his head swiveling back and forth taking in the sights. He stops. A smile of recognition comes over his face and he waves toward Stage Left.
Gertrude! Gertrude Stein! Over here. It’s Nathan.
A short portly woman walks on stage from Stage Left. She smiles broadly at him and waves back.
NATHAN:
Hello, Gertrude. Good to see you again.
GERTRUDE:
And it’s good to see you. I didn’t know you were in Paris. Will you be here long?
NATHAN:
Oh, I just arrived. A spur of the moment thing. Don’t know how long I’ll be here. That depends. I’m looking for Scott Fitzgerald. You know where I can find him?
GERTRUDE:
Ha. That would be anybody’s guess. It won’t be very far from a bottle. That much I know. He’s been on a running drunk since Gatsby was published. Life is just one big merry-go-round for him and Zelda.
NATHAN:
Shit! That’s just great. Sorry for swearing, Gertrude, but I really wanted to talk to him.
GERTRUDE:
Well, good luck. Here lately you never know which Scott is going to show up. I’ll tell you, the company he’s been keeping. He and Zelda. They’ve been going to parties up on Montmarte. A vicious crowd. They devour people like sharks. Anything goes with that group.
NATHAN:
Maybe Scott’s a drunk, but I didn’t think he was that self-destructive. Is he really that bad off?
GERTRUDE:
It’s Zelda. She’s the problem. Remember that affair she had last year with that French aviator?
NATHAN:
Yes. Scott told me a little about it.
GERTRUDE:
Well, they patched that up. But things are still a little tenuous. Now she’s making him jealous with other women. Flirtations. Secret little conversations. I don’t think she’s serious, but I don’t know that for sure.
NATHAN:
But this just keeps Scott from his work, his writing.
GERTRUDE:
And that’s precisely the point! Zelda’s jealous of Scott’s writing. Not what he writes, but the time he’s away from her doing the writing.
NATHAN:
I always knew Zelda was high maintenance. I didn’t know it had gotten this bad.
GERTRUDE:
It has. Also. . .I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something else at work here. I really think that girl has some deep-seated mental problems. That’s why Scott goes to those parties. To keep an eye on Zelda. He’s afraid of what might happen if she passes out and he’s not there.
NATHAN:
Damn, what a mess. Now, I don’t know what to do and I still don’t know where he is.
GERTRUDE:
Don’t give up all together. You might get lucky and catch him in a rare moment of sobriety. (Pause) Just a thought. Try Sylvia Beach. She has people coming and going all the time at Shakespeare and Company. She might have heard something. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I want to finish my walk through the Gardens. Then to home and Alice. I wish you luck.
NATHAN:
Thanks. Give my best to Alice.
GERTRUDE:
I will. Next time you’re in town, you must stop by for tea. And bring Amy. Goodbye.
NATHAN:
I’ll make a note of that. (Smiling) Goodbye.
Shaking his hand, she turns and walks Up Stage to the tree. She looks it over and walks off stage, Stage Left.
Nathan walks slowly Down Stage a few paces. While he is walking, the tree rolls toward Center Stage and is hidden behind the stage curtain.
In its place, a three-shelf bookcase now stands on a square wooden table. A sign fastened to the bookcase says “Shakespeare and Company”. There are about a dozen books placed haphazardly on the three shelves.
A petite, sharp-featured woman walks on stage from Stage Left and starts dusting the books with a feather duster.
Nathan turns and walks Up Stage toward this set.
NATHAN:
(He leans over as though poking his head through a door opening). Hello. Anyone home?
SYLVIA:
(Turning around, startled) Oh, Nathan, it's you. You gave me a fright! Come in, come in, what a nice surprise.
NATHAN:
Sorry for the scare. How are you and how’s the book business?
SYLVIA:
I’m fine. So’s the business. Are you in town for long?
NATHAN:
Not this trip. I’m a man on a mission. Although, it’s looking like a doomed mission. I’m trying to hook up with Scott Fitzgerald.
SYLVIA:
Oh. I see. Then I take it you’ve heard.
NATHAN:
I ran into Gertrude. She was taking her afternoon walk through the Luxembourg Gardens. She brought me up to date on Scott. I guess it’s not been pretty.
SYLVIA:
No, no it hasn’t. It’s like watching a moth circle a flame. You know it’s going to burn its wings and come crashing down.
NATHAN:
Yeah, Gertrude told me about Zelda, too. What a waste.
SYLVIA:
Yes, it is, but it’s not all Zelda. Let’s face it. Scott’s an alcoholic. He doesn’t need a reason to drink. The drink’s got him. Zelda just compounds the problem.
NATHAN:
Great. That makes me more discouraged than ever. To hear it from you as well as Gertrude. I was really hoping he could help me.
SYLVIA:
What is it, Nathan? You can tell me. You know I’m the soul of discretion.
NATHAN:
I know. It’s nothing earthshaking. Except to me. You see, I’m under a deadline to finish this poem and I can’t get it going.
SYLVIA:
(Laughs) Is that all? A slight case of angiosse de la page blanche.
NATHAN:
(Smiling) What’s that? I don’t speak French.
SYLVIA:
Writer’s block. That’s French for writer’s block. It happens to every writer sooner or later. If they write long enough.
NATHAN:
Well, it’s happening to me. That’s why I’m looking for Scott. Thought he could get me jump-started.
SYLVIA:
Don’t know about that. Maybe this big lug coming through the door could help.
Ernest Hemingway enters, winks at Nathan, walks over to Sylvia, and gives her a bear hug.
ERNEST:
(In a loud voice) Who’re you calling a big lug, you little sweetheart? When are you going to run away with me?
SYLVIA:
(Laughing) Let go of me, you big brute. Or I’ll call Adrienne to come teach you manners.
ERNEST:
Stop. Stop. Don’t call in the war department. I’ll be nice. Promise. Scout’s honor.
All three laugh. He turns to Nathan with a warm grin and they shake hands.
How’ve you been, Nathan? Haven’t seen you in a coon’s age.
NATHAN:
Good, Ernest, good. How’s the writing going?
ERNEST:
You wouldn’t believe it. Just kicking ass and taking names. Knocking the hell out of my first novel. It’s going to set the literary world on its ear. Mark my words.
NATHAN:
Outstanding. What’s it called? What’s it about?
ERNEST:
(Quieter now, not so boisterous) Well, the working title is "Fiesta". Can’t tell you what it’s about. Bad luck to talk about work in progress. Up to my armpits in revision. Just trying to tread water.
NATHAN:
Hmp. Wish that was me.
SYLVIA:
Our Nathan’s hit the brick wall at 60 miles an hour. Writer’s block.
ERNEST:
Hell, is that all? Come into Dr. Hemingstein’s office and we’ll lance that pesky boil. Seriously, what’s the problem?
NATHAN:
Can’t get it started. Mind’s a blank. Then I get mad and I know that’s not helping the cause.
ERNEST:
Right. Time to back off. That’s what I do. I set my pencil down and look out the window at the rooftops. Then I try to think about the last true sentence I’ve read. Or heard. Nothing elaborate. Just a simple true sentence. Then I write about it. Next thing you know, the juices are flowing and I’m on my way.
NATHAN:
Good idea. I’ll try it. That’s why I told Sylvia I was looking for Scott, so he could. . .
ERNEST:
(Explodes in anger) Fitzgerald! That drunk! Don’t waste your time. He’s washed up. A has-been. Zelda’s killed his talent. He should have dumped her ass a long time ago. A wife interferes with writing, she’s history. Plenty of fish wiggling their tails out in the ocean.
Nathan and Sylvia stare blank-faced in stunned astonishment at Hemingway.
Well, I’m out of here. Have to meet Hadley. That damn Fitzgerald makes me so mad. Have to go cool off. Sylvia. Nathan. (Nods his head and leaves)
It is quiet in the bookstore with Nathan and Sylvia looking at one another in a long pause.
NATHAN:
What the hell was that all about? I thought they were friends.
SYLVIA:
They were. Scott got him signed up with Scribner’s and shared a lot of good advice with him. Now, Ernest doesn’t need him.
NATHAN:
You don’t throw away your friends simply because you’re starting to get known.
SYLVIA:
You don’t know Ernest the way I do. He’s like a boxer in a boxing ring. And remember. You can only have one winner in a boxing ring.
NATHAN:
I’d still like to track down Scott. I’ve come this far. I’d like to see it through to the end.
SYLVIA:
Hmm. It’s 6:00. You might catch him at the Closerie des Lilas. He sometimes goes there for an aperitif before going home for dinner. . .or an evening of partying.
NATHAN:
It’s worth a shot. If he’s not there, I guess I can always go back to my apartment.
SYLVIA:
You’ll find him. And good luck with the poem.
NATHAN:
Thanks, Sylvia. Goodbye.
Nathan waves, turns away from Sylvia and walks Down Stage toward the audience.
Sylvia exits Stage Left and the bookcase rolls to the left. Again the tree in the pot stands between the two stage curtains.
Nathan turns and walks slowly to the tree, admiring it with a smile. He then turns toward Center Stage and walks toward the desk where a dapperly-dressed man wearing a suit and tie sits, sipping a glass of wine and looking about him as he enjoys the afternoon sun.
SCOTT:
Nathan! I heard you were looking for me. (Standing) Please come join me. (Looking Stage Right) Jean, another glass of your Chablis for Nathan.
Nathan walks over to Scott and they shake hands. They then sit down, Scott in the chair to the Left and Nathan in the chair to the Right. Scott appears slightly drunk, yet friendly.
NATHAN:
How’d you know I was looking for you?
SCOTT:
I saw Gertrude on her way home from the Gardens. Had some apologizing to do. A little incident that happened the other night. Did she tell you about it?
NATHAN:
No, she didn’t.
SCOTT:
Just as well. Not one of my better moments. So, you came to Paris to see me. I’m flattered. What’s the occasion? Wait, before you start. . .Jean, a full carafe of your Chablis, s’il vous plait.
Jean, the waiter, is imaginary, as are the wine glasses that Scott and Nathan drink from in pantomime.
NATHAN:
I’m really not that thirsty, Scott, and. . .
SCOTT:
Nonsense. Nonsense. The very thing to work up an appetite before dinner. Where were we?
NATHAN:
The reason I came looking for you. I’ve got a deadline on a poem and I’m dead in the water. Writer’s block.
Scott gazes off in the distance before answering.
SCOTT:
(In a quiet voice) Yes. Yes. Isn’t that always the way it goes? You’re talking about an old friend of mine there. We go back a long way. He still comes to visit me occasionally, damn him.
NATHAN:
Hemingway said the same thing this afternoon. He said. . .
SCOTT:
(Suddenly alert) Ernest? You saw him earlier?
NATHAN:
(Evasive) Uh. Yeah. At Shakespeare and Company. He came in while I was visiting with Sylvia.
SCOTT:
Did he mention me? Did he say anything? I’ve been trying to get a hold of him, but he’s never home and he never answers the notes I send him by mail.
NATHAN:
He didn’t say anything about any notes. No. Said he’s hard at work all the time. That’s about all.
Scott drains his glass and pours another. He offers the imaginary carafe to Nathan who shakes his head.
SCOTT:
Once upon a time it was Ernest who’d look all over Paris for me. To show me what he’d written or to ask my advice. Guess he doesn’t need me now.
Scott drains his glass and pours another out of the carafe. There is a long pause.
Well, what about you, Nathan? You need me, huh?
NATHAN:
I could sure use your help. Yes.
SCOTT:
Good. Good, that’s what friends are for. (Pause) I was reading Masefield the other night. A double sonnet called “On Growing Old.” Damn fine. You read him before?
NATHAN:
John Masefield? Yeah, some. Not much. Don’t know that one. Isn’t he the one that said “Give me a tall ship and a star to steer her by,” or something like that?
SCOTT:
Yes, that’s him. Well, at the end of the first sonnet in that poem, he says “Only stay quiet while my mind remembers the beauty of fire from the beauty of embers.” That’s what you need. First of all, quiet yourself. You see, you’re looking for a blazing conflagration, a finished poem right at the start. Complete and intact. It doesn’t work that way.
NATHAN:
(Excited) Yes, you’re right. Go on. I’m with you.
SCOTT:
You have the core of a poem burning a hole inside of you. Quiet yourself and you’ll find it. Concentrate on those few fiery coals. Blow on them. They’re there. Trust me. See the beauty of embers he was talking about. That’s your starting point.
Nathan stands. A large smile is on his face as he starts pacing excitedly.
NATHAN:
I get it. You’re right. I’ve been expecting the poem to be fully formed at birth, so to speak. I need to slow down and start simple. The basics first.
SCOTT:
(Excited as well) Now you’ve got it. Great. Let’s celebrate. Jean, another carafe over here. Drink up, Nathan, drink up.
Nathan sits down, calmer now. He looks at Scott intently. Scott drains his glass and pours another.
NATHAN:
I can’t celebrate yet. I still have to write it.
SCOTT:
Yes. Yes. But you can do that tomorrow. Let’s paint the town. I’m in the mood now.
NATHAN:
I can’t, Scott, the poem is due tomorrow. Remember? (Pause, then guardedly) Besides, don’t you have some writing you want to do tonight? Aren’t you working on something?
Scott stands shakily and grabs the edge of the table to balance himself. He’s drunk.
SCOTT:
(Angry) What’s this? You trying to give me advice? Maybe you’ve forgotten, buster. You came to me. You’re the student, I’m the author. (Pause) Or is that it? You’re lording it over me that you’re still in college and I had to quit. Huh? Is that it?
NATHAN:
(Calmly) No, Scott. That’s not it. Please sit down. Didn’t you just say that’s what friends are for? To get together and talk about writing?
Scott sits down. He now looks intently at Nathan. He shakes his head, looks down, and then looks back at Nathan.
SCOTT:
I’m sorry. It’s not you. I wish I could spend the evening writing. It’s Zelda. She needs so much attention and it’s not just the drinking. She’s been acting strange lately. It’s like her mind’s a broken alarm clock that can’t keep time and the alarm goes off unexpectedly at all hours.
NATHAN:
I don’t know what to tell you. I’m sorry.
SCOTT:
Well, she needs me. I know that much. I can’t leave her and I do love her. She was there for me when I needed her.
(Pause. Scott stands, a little steadier now) So I’d better get on my way. We’re going to the Ile de la Cite to meet some friends for dinner. Sorry I have to run off. Duty calls.
Nathan stands and they shake hands.
NATHAN:
I understand. There’s someone I need to see tonight, as well. A little fence mending.
SCOTT:
Sorry about earlier.
NATHAN:
It’s already forgotten. Thanks for the help. That’s not been forgotten. Have a good evening. Goodbye.
SCOTT:
I’ll try. Goodbye for now.
Nathan watches as Scott walks slowly away Stage Left. He sits down and notices the writing paper and pencil still on the table. He begins to write slowly and then faster.
The light on the Stage Right side of the apartment grows brighter matching Stage Left. The potted plant rolls Stage Left and Nathan’s other apartment window appears between the two curtains.
Nathan stops writing and stands. He stares across his apartment and then bends over to his backpack on the floor. He pulls out his cell phone and punches a number.
NATHAN:
Amy? Hi. You still talking to me? (Pause) I know. I know. I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I was a jerk. (Pause) The poem? Well, I’ve got a rough draft, believe it or not. Would you like to hear it? Great. I call it “aperitif with F. Scott: Paris, 1925.” Okay, here goes.
in the streaming video
he is a visual archive
one mega-byte of mpeg format
from a university website
he sits at a desk
and writes with a scowl
suit and tie are grainy black
the trees twitch darkly
under the sterile sun
halting the unreeling frames
I ask him to join me
it is a late autumn evening
an aperitif at the Closerie des Lilas is more in line
did you write well today
keeping Zelda at bay?
I too know the fear
when it is not formed
the wonder of that newborn shape
the frustration when it is not fully alive
pursed lips smiling
Scott walks the rue Cardinal Lemoine
down to the Seine
seeking old friends
recalling with them
when the words were effortless
I chew on our last conversation
Fitzgerald and me
the memoir before us
of the beauty of fire
from the beauty of embers
What do you think? (Pause) Well, let’s celebrate then. Can I buy you a beer? Good. The Burger ‘n Brew in ten minutes? Great. And, thanks Amy. I am so sorry for the way I’ve acted. I have so much to tell you. (Pause) Okay. Ten minutes. I’m already out the door.
He closes his cell phone and goes to the door. He puts on his jacket, his back to the table.
Scott Fitzgerald quietly walks to the table and sits in the chair at the Stage Left side. He crosses one leg over the other and rests his hands on his lap in a relaxed pose. A slight smile is on his face.
Nathan turns and sees Scott. He pauses, staring at him, a smile on his own face. He quietly opens the door and walks out turning the lights off as he leaves.
The stage is dark except for a soft diffused spotlight on Scott sitting at the table. This stays lit for a few seconds, then slowly dims until all of the stage is in darkness.
The End
Stage Right, a plain wooden door hangs in a partially-framed wall with bare studs exposed above a half wall of sheetrock. On the door is a coat hook.
To the left of this wall, a kitchen sink with no plumbing rests on a counter top supported by bare 2 x 4 legs. Above the sink is an empty window frame in a bare stud wall.
Stage Center, midway between Up Stage and Down Stage, a small wooden table stands with a plain wooden chair on each side of the table, Right and Left.
Stage Left, a double-hung window, partially open, is framed in a bare-stud wall with half pieces of sheetrock on each side. Floor-to-ceiling stage curtains bracket the window.
The door opens. A young man, late 20’s, enters. A backpack is slung over one shoulder. He talks on a cell phone.
NATHAN:
. . .just walking in the door, as a matter of fact. What’s up, Amy? (Pause) No, I can’t. I’d really like to, but I just can’t. I have to get this poem written for Johnson’s class tomorrow. You know I’m behind in his class, what with work and all.
He walks to the table, sets down his backpack, and returns to the door where he hangs up his jacket.
Amy, you’re not listening! I can’t come over. I have to do this homework. (Pause) No, I’m not driven. I just have to do well. I don’t want to be a janitor forever and that’s all I am now. A janitor who is trying to be a college student. I’m not yelling. Look. That’s it. I have to go. Goodbye.
He puts his cell phone in his backpack and pulls out a small writing tablet and pencil. He sets the backpack on the floor and sits down. He starts writing.
What the hell’s her problem? Just leave me alone.
He stops writing, wads up the sheet of paper, and throws it toward the sink. He stands up and paces back and forth Downstage in front of the table.
I just can’t get started. I’m fresh out of ideas. Great! I should be a waiter instead of a janitor. “I’m sorry, Sir. We’re fresh out of ideas, but may I recommend the filet of sole?” Right.
He walks to the wall by his apartment door, leans forward and looks at the wall in several places.
Come on, my rogues’ gallery of writers. How about some help? How about you, Fitzgerald? God knows you had your share of writer’s block, trying to keep Zelda under control. . .as well as your drinking. Aw, what’s the use? (Pause) Wait a minute. Why not? I’ve read a lot about Scott and that time period and the others of his generation. I know I can’t go back in time. Why can’t I use my imagination and bring them here? (Pause) Only I want Fitzgerald in his prime, at the top of his form. Like right after "The Great Gatsby" was published. Where was he? Oh, yeah. Paris. That’s it! Paris, France, 1925.
He walks from Stage Right to Stage Left. As he crosses an imaginary line directly in front of the table, the stage lighting on Stage Right Fades Out to darkness.
The lighting on Stage Left Fades In with the golden glow of an afternoon sun.
The window bracketed by stage curtains rolls to the right behind one curtain. A large potted tree with flowers around its base now stands between the two stage curtains, illuminated as though by sunlight.
He walks slowly toward Stage Left, his head swiveling back and forth taking in the sights. He stops. A smile of recognition comes over his face and he waves toward Stage Left.
Gertrude! Gertrude Stein! Over here. It’s Nathan.
A short portly woman walks on stage from Stage Left. She smiles broadly at him and waves back.
NATHAN:
Hello, Gertrude. Good to see you again.
GERTRUDE:
And it’s good to see you. I didn’t know you were in Paris. Will you be here long?
NATHAN:
Oh, I just arrived. A spur of the moment thing. Don’t know how long I’ll be here. That depends. I’m looking for Scott Fitzgerald. You know where I can find him?
GERTRUDE:
Ha. That would be anybody’s guess. It won’t be very far from a bottle. That much I know. He’s been on a running drunk since Gatsby was published. Life is just one big merry-go-round for him and Zelda.
NATHAN:
Shit! That’s just great. Sorry for swearing, Gertrude, but I really wanted to talk to him.
GERTRUDE:
Well, good luck. Here lately you never know which Scott is going to show up. I’ll tell you, the company he’s been keeping. He and Zelda. They’ve been going to parties up on Montmarte. A vicious crowd. They devour people like sharks. Anything goes with that group.
NATHAN:
Maybe Scott’s a drunk, but I didn’t think he was that self-destructive. Is he really that bad off?
GERTRUDE:
It’s Zelda. She’s the problem. Remember that affair she had last year with that French aviator?
NATHAN:
Yes. Scott told me a little about it.
GERTRUDE:
Well, they patched that up. But things are still a little tenuous. Now she’s making him jealous with other women. Flirtations. Secret little conversations. I don’t think she’s serious, but I don’t know that for sure.
NATHAN:
But this just keeps Scott from his work, his writing.
GERTRUDE:
And that’s precisely the point! Zelda’s jealous of Scott’s writing. Not what he writes, but the time he’s away from her doing the writing.
NATHAN:
I always knew Zelda was high maintenance. I didn’t know it had gotten this bad.
GERTRUDE:
It has. Also. . .I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something else at work here. I really think that girl has some deep-seated mental problems. That’s why Scott goes to those parties. To keep an eye on Zelda. He’s afraid of what might happen if she passes out and he’s not there.
NATHAN:
Damn, what a mess. Now, I don’t know what to do and I still don’t know where he is.
GERTRUDE:
Don’t give up all together. You might get lucky and catch him in a rare moment of sobriety. (Pause) Just a thought. Try Sylvia Beach. She has people coming and going all the time at Shakespeare and Company. She might have heard something. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I want to finish my walk through the Gardens. Then to home and Alice. I wish you luck.
NATHAN:
Thanks. Give my best to Alice.
GERTRUDE:
I will. Next time you’re in town, you must stop by for tea. And bring Amy. Goodbye.
NATHAN:
I’ll make a note of that. (Smiling) Goodbye.
Shaking his hand, she turns and walks Up Stage to the tree. She looks it over and walks off stage, Stage Left.
Nathan walks slowly Down Stage a few paces. While he is walking, the tree rolls toward Center Stage and is hidden behind the stage curtain.
In its place, a three-shelf bookcase now stands on a square wooden table. A sign fastened to the bookcase says “Shakespeare and Company”. There are about a dozen books placed haphazardly on the three shelves.
A petite, sharp-featured woman walks on stage from Stage Left and starts dusting the books with a feather duster.
Nathan turns and walks Up Stage toward this set.
NATHAN:
(He leans over as though poking his head through a door opening). Hello. Anyone home?
SYLVIA:
(Turning around, startled) Oh, Nathan, it's you. You gave me a fright! Come in, come in, what a nice surprise.
NATHAN:
Sorry for the scare. How are you and how’s the book business?
SYLVIA:
I’m fine. So’s the business. Are you in town for long?
NATHAN:
Not this trip. I’m a man on a mission. Although, it’s looking like a doomed mission. I’m trying to hook up with Scott Fitzgerald.
SYLVIA:
Oh. I see. Then I take it you’ve heard.
NATHAN:
I ran into Gertrude. She was taking her afternoon walk through the Luxembourg Gardens. She brought me up to date on Scott. I guess it’s not been pretty.
SYLVIA:
No, no it hasn’t. It’s like watching a moth circle a flame. You know it’s going to burn its wings and come crashing down.
NATHAN:
Yeah, Gertrude told me about Zelda, too. What a waste.
SYLVIA:
Yes, it is, but it’s not all Zelda. Let’s face it. Scott’s an alcoholic. He doesn’t need a reason to drink. The drink’s got him. Zelda just compounds the problem.
NATHAN:
Great. That makes me more discouraged than ever. To hear it from you as well as Gertrude. I was really hoping he could help me.
SYLVIA:
What is it, Nathan? You can tell me. You know I’m the soul of discretion.
NATHAN:
I know. It’s nothing earthshaking. Except to me. You see, I’m under a deadline to finish this poem and I can’t get it going.
SYLVIA:
(Laughs) Is that all? A slight case of angiosse de la page blanche.
NATHAN:
(Smiling) What’s that? I don’t speak French.
SYLVIA:
Writer’s block. That’s French for writer’s block. It happens to every writer sooner or later. If they write long enough.
NATHAN:
Well, it’s happening to me. That’s why I’m looking for Scott. Thought he could get me jump-started.
SYLVIA:
Don’t know about that. Maybe this big lug coming through the door could help.
Ernest Hemingway enters, winks at Nathan, walks over to Sylvia, and gives her a bear hug.
ERNEST:
(In a loud voice) Who’re you calling a big lug, you little sweetheart? When are you going to run away with me?
SYLVIA:
(Laughing) Let go of me, you big brute. Or I’ll call Adrienne to come teach you manners.
ERNEST:
Stop. Stop. Don’t call in the war department. I’ll be nice. Promise. Scout’s honor.
All three laugh. He turns to Nathan with a warm grin and they shake hands.
How’ve you been, Nathan? Haven’t seen you in a coon’s age.
NATHAN:
Good, Ernest, good. How’s the writing going?
ERNEST:
You wouldn’t believe it. Just kicking ass and taking names. Knocking the hell out of my first novel. It’s going to set the literary world on its ear. Mark my words.
NATHAN:
Outstanding. What’s it called? What’s it about?
ERNEST:
(Quieter now, not so boisterous) Well, the working title is "Fiesta". Can’t tell you what it’s about. Bad luck to talk about work in progress. Up to my armpits in revision. Just trying to tread water.
NATHAN:
Hmp. Wish that was me.
SYLVIA:
Our Nathan’s hit the brick wall at 60 miles an hour. Writer’s block.
ERNEST:
Hell, is that all? Come into Dr. Hemingstein’s office and we’ll lance that pesky boil. Seriously, what’s the problem?
NATHAN:
Can’t get it started. Mind’s a blank. Then I get mad and I know that’s not helping the cause.
ERNEST:
Right. Time to back off. That’s what I do. I set my pencil down and look out the window at the rooftops. Then I try to think about the last true sentence I’ve read. Or heard. Nothing elaborate. Just a simple true sentence. Then I write about it. Next thing you know, the juices are flowing and I’m on my way.
NATHAN:
Good idea. I’ll try it. That’s why I told Sylvia I was looking for Scott, so he could. . .
ERNEST:
(Explodes in anger) Fitzgerald! That drunk! Don’t waste your time. He’s washed up. A has-been. Zelda’s killed his talent. He should have dumped her ass a long time ago. A wife interferes with writing, she’s history. Plenty of fish wiggling their tails out in the ocean.
Nathan and Sylvia stare blank-faced in stunned astonishment at Hemingway.
Well, I’m out of here. Have to meet Hadley. That damn Fitzgerald makes me so mad. Have to go cool off. Sylvia. Nathan. (Nods his head and leaves)
It is quiet in the bookstore with Nathan and Sylvia looking at one another in a long pause.
NATHAN:
What the hell was that all about? I thought they were friends.
SYLVIA:
They were. Scott got him signed up with Scribner’s and shared a lot of good advice with him. Now, Ernest doesn’t need him.
NATHAN:
You don’t throw away your friends simply because you’re starting to get known.
SYLVIA:
You don’t know Ernest the way I do. He’s like a boxer in a boxing ring. And remember. You can only have one winner in a boxing ring.
NATHAN:
I’d still like to track down Scott. I’ve come this far. I’d like to see it through to the end.
SYLVIA:
Hmm. It’s 6:00. You might catch him at the Closerie des Lilas. He sometimes goes there for an aperitif before going home for dinner. . .or an evening of partying.
NATHAN:
It’s worth a shot. If he’s not there, I guess I can always go back to my apartment.
SYLVIA:
You’ll find him. And good luck with the poem.
NATHAN:
Thanks, Sylvia. Goodbye.
Nathan waves, turns away from Sylvia and walks Down Stage toward the audience.
Sylvia exits Stage Left and the bookcase rolls to the left. Again the tree in the pot stands between the two stage curtains.
Nathan turns and walks slowly to the tree, admiring it with a smile. He then turns toward Center Stage and walks toward the desk where a dapperly-dressed man wearing a suit and tie sits, sipping a glass of wine and looking about him as he enjoys the afternoon sun.
SCOTT:
Nathan! I heard you were looking for me. (Standing) Please come join me. (Looking Stage Right) Jean, another glass of your Chablis for Nathan.
Nathan walks over to Scott and they shake hands. They then sit down, Scott in the chair to the Left and Nathan in the chair to the Right. Scott appears slightly drunk, yet friendly.
NATHAN:
How’d you know I was looking for you?
SCOTT:
I saw Gertrude on her way home from the Gardens. Had some apologizing to do. A little incident that happened the other night. Did she tell you about it?
NATHAN:
No, she didn’t.
SCOTT:
Just as well. Not one of my better moments. So, you came to Paris to see me. I’m flattered. What’s the occasion? Wait, before you start. . .Jean, a full carafe of your Chablis, s’il vous plait.
Jean, the waiter, is imaginary, as are the wine glasses that Scott and Nathan drink from in pantomime.
NATHAN:
I’m really not that thirsty, Scott, and. . .
SCOTT:
Nonsense. Nonsense. The very thing to work up an appetite before dinner. Where were we?
NATHAN:
The reason I came looking for you. I’ve got a deadline on a poem and I’m dead in the water. Writer’s block.
Scott gazes off in the distance before answering.
SCOTT:
(In a quiet voice) Yes. Yes. Isn’t that always the way it goes? You’re talking about an old friend of mine there. We go back a long way. He still comes to visit me occasionally, damn him.
NATHAN:
Hemingway said the same thing this afternoon. He said. . .
SCOTT:
(Suddenly alert) Ernest? You saw him earlier?
NATHAN:
(Evasive) Uh. Yeah. At Shakespeare and Company. He came in while I was visiting with Sylvia.
SCOTT:
Did he mention me? Did he say anything? I’ve been trying to get a hold of him, but he’s never home and he never answers the notes I send him by mail.
NATHAN:
He didn’t say anything about any notes. No. Said he’s hard at work all the time. That’s about all.
Scott drains his glass and pours another. He offers the imaginary carafe to Nathan who shakes his head.
SCOTT:
Once upon a time it was Ernest who’d look all over Paris for me. To show me what he’d written or to ask my advice. Guess he doesn’t need me now.
Scott drains his glass and pours another out of the carafe. There is a long pause.
Well, what about you, Nathan? You need me, huh?
NATHAN:
I could sure use your help. Yes.
SCOTT:
Good. Good, that’s what friends are for. (Pause) I was reading Masefield the other night. A double sonnet called “On Growing Old.” Damn fine. You read him before?
NATHAN:
John Masefield? Yeah, some. Not much. Don’t know that one. Isn’t he the one that said “Give me a tall ship and a star to steer her by,” or something like that?
SCOTT:
Yes, that’s him. Well, at the end of the first sonnet in that poem, he says “Only stay quiet while my mind remembers the beauty of fire from the beauty of embers.” That’s what you need. First of all, quiet yourself. You see, you’re looking for a blazing conflagration, a finished poem right at the start. Complete and intact. It doesn’t work that way.
NATHAN:
(Excited) Yes, you’re right. Go on. I’m with you.
SCOTT:
You have the core of a poem burning a hole inside of you. Quiet yourself and you’ll find it. Concentrate on those few fiery coals. Blow on them. They’re there. Trust me. See the beauty of embers he was talking about. That’s your starting point.
Nathan stands. A large smile is on his face as he starts pacing excitedly.
NATHAN:
I get it. You’re right. I’ve been expecting the poem to be fully formed at birth, so to speak. I need to slow down and start simple. The basics first.
SCOTT:
(Excited as well) Now you’ve got it. Great. Let’s celebrate. Jean, another carafe over here. Drink up, Nathan, drink up.
Nathan sits down, calmer now. He looks at Scott intently. Scott drains his glass and pours another.
NATHAN:
I can’t celebrate yet. I still have to write it.
SCOTT:
Yes. Yes. But you can do that tomorrow. Let’s paint the town. I’m in the mood now.
NATHAN:
I can’t, Scott, the poem is due tomorrow. Remember? (Pause, then guardedly) Besides, don’t you have some writing you want to do tonight? Aren’t you working on something?
Scott stands shakily and grabs the edge of the table to balance himself. He’s drunk.
SCOTT:
(Angry) What’s this? You trying to give me advice? Maybe you’ve forgotten, buster. You came to me. You’re the student, I’m the author. (Pause) Or is that it? You’re lording it over me that you’re still in college and I had to quit. Huh? Is that it?
NATHAN:
(Calmly) No, Scott. That’s not it. Please sit down. Didn’t you just say that’s what friends are for? To get together and talk about writing?
Scott sits down. He now looks intently at Nathan. He shakes his head, looks down, and then looks back at Nathan.
SCOTT:
I’m sorry. It’s not you. I wish I could spend the evening writing. It’s Zelda. She needs so much attention and it’s not just the drinking. She’s been acting strange lately. It’s like her mind’s a broken alarm clock that can’t keep time and the alarm goes off unexpectedly at all hours.
NATHAN:
I don’t know what to tell you. I’m sorry.
SCOTT:
Well, she needs me. I know that much. I can’t leave her and I do love her. She was there for me when I needed her.
(Pause. Scott stands, a little steadier now) So I’d better get on my way. We’re going to the Ile de la Cite to meet some friends for dinner. Sorry I have to run off. Duty calls.
Nathan stands and they shake hands.
NATHAN:
I understand. There’s someone I need to see tonight, as well. A little fence mending.
SCOTT:
Sorry about earlier.
NATHAN:
It’s already forgotten. Thanks for the help. That’s not been forgotten. Have a good evening. Goodbye.
SCOTT:
I’ll try. Goodbye for now.
Nathan watches as Scott walks slowly away Stage Left. He sits down and notices the writing paper and pencil still on the table. He begins to write slowly and then faster.
The light on the Stage Right side of the apartment grows brighter matching Stage Left. The potted plant rolls Stage Left and Nathan’s other apartment window appears between the two curtains.
Nathan stops writing and stands. He stares across his apartment and then bends over to his backpack on the floor. He pulls out his cell phone and punches a number.
NATHAN:
Amy? Hi. You still talking to me? (Pause) I know. I know. I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I was a jerk. (Pause) The poem? Well, I’ve got a rough draft, believe it or not. Would you like to hear it? Great. I call it “aperitif with F. Scott: Paris, 1925.” Okay, here goes.
in the streaming video
he is a visual archive
one mega-byte of mpeg format
from a university website
he sits at a desk
and writes with a scowl
suit and tie are grainy black
the trees twitch darkly
under the sterile sun
halting the unreeling frames
I ask him to join me
it is a late autumn evening
an aperitif at the Closerie des Lilas is more in line
did you write well today
keeping Zelda at bay?
I too know the fear
when it is not formed
the wonder of that newborn shape
the frustration when it is not fully alive
pursed lips smiling
Scott walks the rue Cardinal Lemoine
down to the Seine
seeking old friends
recalling with them
when the words were effortless
I chew on our last conversation
Fitzgerald and me
the memoir before us
of the beauty of fire
from the beauty of embers
What do you think? (Pause) Well, let’s celebrate then. Can I buy you a beer? Good. The Burger ‘n Brew in ten minutes? Great. And, thanks Amy. I am so sorry for the way I’ve acted. I have so much to tell you. (Pause) Okay. Ten minutes. I’m already out the door.
He closes his cell phone and goes to the door. He puts on his jacket, his back to the table.
Scott Fitzgerald quietly walks to the table and sits in the chair at the Stage Left side. He crosses one leg over the other and rests his hands on his lap in a relaxed pose. A slight smile is on his face.
Nathan turns and sees Scott. He pauses, staring at him, a smile on his own face. He quietly opens the door and walks out turning the lights off as he leaves.
The stage is dark except for a soft diffused spotlight on Scott sitting at the table. This stays lit for a few seconds, then slowly dims until all of the stage is in darkness.
The End
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
mantis
dried corn husks scritch
in the morning breeze.
a praying mantis
settles on a box elder leaf,
the delicate lilt of a water skip
on a pond.
a grasshopper struggles,
goes still,
a morning meal.
I’m back
in my granddad’s den,
six years old.
bath robe open,
the roped belt hung from its loops.
cowboys and Indians
on my pajamas locked in combat.
click click click of typewriter keys
the only sound as
sunlight climbs my granddad’s shoulder.
the rolling cylinder,
metal arms
that rise and fall,
black letters
on a stark white page.
I hold the cup
of hot chocolate against my chest.
my granddad stops.
his huge fingers hover
over the black round keys
mantis-like
ready to pounce.
in the morning breeze.
a praying mantis
settles on a box elder leaf,
the delicate lilt of a water skip
on a pond.
a grasshopper struggles,
goes still,
a morning meal.
I’m back
in my granddad’s den,
six years old.
bath robe open,
the roped belt hung from its loops.
cowboys and Indians
on my pajamas locked in combat.
click click click of typewriter keys
the only sound as
sunlight climbs my granddad’s shoulder.
the rolling cylinder,
metal arms
that rise and fall,
black letters
on a stark white page.
I hold the cup
of hot chocolate against my chest.
my granddad stops.
his huge fingers hover
over the black round keys
mantis-like
ready to pounce.
Second Beach
a pale thumb,
the slug claims right-of-way
on the path to Second Beach.
sunlight slashes the misted shade
waves muffle all conversation
the backpack’s wine and apples forgotten
I recall
Pachelbel’s Canon in D Major with Ocean Sounds
Sunday mornings in the North End apartment
seated at the table
with the broken drop leaf
listening until noon
Strauss
Vivaldi
the thick Sunday Statesman
sipping vodka and orange juice
healing from the night before
a penitent in church
there in the front pew
the ocean’s hymn hushes
the swirling surf’s rush
caressing the Quillayute Needles
spires of sandstone pillars
salted mist mutes the choir
enduring in its lament.
the slug claims right-of-way
on the path to Second Beach.
sunlight slashes the misted shade
waves muffle all conversation
the backpack’s wine and apples forgotten
I recall
Pachelbel’s Canon in D Major with Ocean Sounds
Sunday mornings in the North End apartment
seated at the table
with the broken drop leaf
listening until noon
Strauss
Vivaldi
the thick Sunday Statesman
sipping vodka and orange juice
healing from the night before
a penitent in church
there in the front pew
the ocean’s hymn hushes
the swirling surf’s rush
caressing the Quillayute Needles
spires of sandstone pillars
salted mist mutes the choir
enduring in its lament.
embarking from Port Williams
a cross-eyed gull, wary to share
flips a crab onshore and dines with glee
caliche cliffs hover, press the beach’s swelling
nudging her out as a sea broom flips foam
my moon sail set
I’ll soon subdue this near blue
and sail to Madagascar
to dine on the exotic and new
I’ll billet in the belly
of some sea monster
bolt away and alight
on that distant shore
a nostrum, a boon
but the midday is gone
I return to my bridle
one more afternoon, a weekend reprieve
I then will walk
this familiar sand
shouting now “Godspeed”
and wrench away
landlocked no more
plowing waves seaward, tendrils trailing
flips a crab onshore and dines with glee
caliche cliffs hover, press the beach’s swelling
nudging her out as a sea broom flips foam
my moon sail set
I’ll soon subdue this near blue
and sail to Madagascar
to dine on the exotic and new
I’ll billet in the belly
of some sea monster
bolt away and alight
on that distant shore
a nostrum, a boon
but the midday is gone
I return to my bridle
one more afternoon, a weekend reprieve
I then will walk
this familiar sand
shouting now “Godspeed”
and wrench away
landlocked no more
plowing waves seaward, tendrils trailing
Monday, November 17, 2008
carretera quince
we were opposite travelers
he was heading
north to Ogden for work
I was heading
south to Nogales to play
hidden from the road
a safe camp shared
he said
out here I know the rules
in town the rules know me
the morning before parting
I gave him three potatoes
treasures…treasures
he said it twice
scoop out the soil
make a cradle
lay the coals shallow
set the potato softly
cover it gently
coals and moist soil sealing over
walk away quietly
should walls rise up before me
on my road to Ogden
you have nourished me
you go to Nogales
how many walls can you find in a desert?
he was heading
north to Ogden for work
I was heading
south to Nogales to play
hidden from the road
a safe camp shared
he said
out here I know the rules
in town the rules know me
the morning before parting
I gave him three potatoes
treasures…treasures
he said it twice
scoop out the soil
make a cradle
lay the coals shallow
set the potato softly
cover it gently
coals and moist soil sealing over
walk away quietly
should walls rise up before me
on my road to Ogden
you have nourished me
you go to Nogales
how many walls can you find in a desert?
The Score
Boston Eddie and I wind our way through the streets of Tepic, Nayarit, following the directions given us by a fellow hip from the beach where we were all staying. “Go to the plaza. Take a left. Take a right. Go straight. You know. The name of the shop is Objetos Tipicos de los Huichol y Cora Indios.” Besides native art objects, the store owner also sells keys of marijuana.
It is midday and the sun is overhead making us sweat even more, as if we didn’t have enough reason already. The year is 1969 and we both know how tenuous our stay in Mexico could be. Eddie drove his Ford van from Lowell, Massachusetts, and I drove my VW bus from Idaho, both ending up at a little beach called Playa de los Cocos several kilometers south of Mazatlan with half a dozen other hippies from other states.
But we all remembered Mazatlan:
The cab of the dump truck was a bright white and inside were two grinning, green-uniformed officers from the Mazatlan police. In back standing in the rusting bed with its rusting sidewalls were about two dozen young Americans. Their ages probably varied three or four years either side of 21, both males and females. They had one thing in common though: their heads were shaved. And, as I stood there gassing up at the station across the street, I noticed they were wearing just T-shirts with Levis or cutoffs. No backpacks, no suitcases, no duffel bags. Their eyes carried a stunned look, like a puppy beaten too many times or a hollow-eyed kid too long without food. There was no laughter, no smiles, damn little conversation. They were defeated.
The gas station attendant standing beside me was taking in the spectacle as well and I asked him, “Que pasa? What’s going on?”
He squinted his eyes and said one word in a deep guttural tone, “Hippies!”, as though he had some phlegm caught in his throat. He spit on the ground in front of him. And then he eyed me. I must have passed inspection—my hair just flipped up in a small curl at the base of my neck, just a non-drooping moustache for facial hair—because he opened up telling me how they are driven to the border and once there they just walk across into the U.S. Both countries custom officials don’t even give them a second glance, as though they were lepers. Why should they? All they have are shaved heads, the clothes they are wearing and, if they are lucky, their wallets (with no money, of course) carrying a basic identification, maybe a driver’s license.
“What happens to their cars, their clothes, you know, their belongings?” I asked.
“They are taken. They are distributed.” he replied.
“By whom?”
“La policia,” he said, again looking at me.
“Oh.”
He looked back at the disappearing dump truck. “Sometimes the representative from your government comes down here and watches as they are loaded up and hauled away north,” he said pointing in that direction for emphasis. “It must be policy.”
“It must be,” I agreed.
We found the store and its owner. He took us to his house and I know everyone was watching us and everyone knew what we were doing. We would pay for the weed and then two blocks later Eddie and I would be busted; the weed returned to the seller, the money kept and we would soon be heading to the border just like those in Mazatlan.
But nothing happened. We bought our brick—all brightly wrapped in red Christmas gift paper with bright silver bells, 2.2 pounds for $32 American. By the camp fire that night while I was doing up one last number before crashing, the thought that started gnawing on me that morning, the vague thought that was bothering me all day and that I had put on the shelf came down off the shelf and stood in front of me.
I would leave Mexico. I would not travel to Merida on the Yucatan peninsula as planned. I would not travel for a year in Mexico as planned. Oh, I would not leave tomorrow or next week; in fact it would be two months before I would cross the border. But I would be ever observant of who was camped around me, who belonged to that flashlight beam there in the distance. And I would be ever diligent at night when I would baggy-up my weed one lid at a time from my stash hidden inside my VW. This morning I was a tourist. This evening I am a foreigner.
It is midday and the sun is overhead making us sweat even more, as if we didn’t have enough reason already. The year is 1969 and we both know how tenuous our stay in Mexico could be. Eddie drove his Ford van from Lowell, Massachusetts, and I drove my VW bus from Idaho, both ending up at a little beach called Playa de los Cocos several kilometers south of Mazatlan with half a dozen other hippies from other states.
But we all remembered Mazatlan:
The cab of the dump truck was a bright white and inside were two grinning, green-uniformed officers from the Mazatlan police. In back standing in the rusting bed with its rusting sidewalls were about two dozen young Americans. Their ages probably varied three or four years either side of 21, both males and females. They had one thing in common though: their heads were shaved. And, as I stood there gassing up at the station across the street, I noticed they were wearing just T-shirts with Levis or cutoffs. No backpacks, no suitcases, no duffel bags. Their eyes carried a stunned look, like a puppy beaten too many times or a hollow-eyed kid too long without food. There was no laughter, no smiles, damn little conversation. They were defeated.
The gas station attendant standing beside me was taking in the spectacle as well and I asked him, “Que pasa? What’s going on?”
He squinted his eyes and said one word in a deep guttural tone, “Hippies!”, as though he had some phlegm caught in his throat. He spit on the ground in front of him. And then he eyed me. I must have passed inspection—my hair just flipped up in a small curl at the base of my neck, just a non-drooping moustache for facial hair—because he opened up telling me how they are driven to the border and once there they just walk across into the U.S. Both countries custom officials don’t even give them a second glance, as though they were lepers. Why should they? All they have are shaved heads, the clothes they are wearing and, if they are lucky, their wallets (with no money, of course) carrying a basic identification, maybe a driver’s license.
“What happens to their cars, their clothes, you know, their belongings?” I asked.
“They are taken. They are distributed.” he replied.
“By whom?”
“La policia,” he said, again looking at me.
“Oh.”
He looked back at the disappearing dump truck. “Sometimes the representative from your government comes down here and watches as they are loaded up and hauled away north,” he said pointing in that direction for emphasis. “It must be policy.”
“It must be,” I agreed.
We found the store and its owner. He took us to his house and I know everyone was watching us and everyone knew what we were doing. We would pay for the weed and then two blocks later Eddie and I would be busted; the weed returned to the seller, the money kept and we would soon be heading to the border just like those in Mazatlan.
But nothing happened. We bought our brick—all brightly wrapped in red Christmas gift paper with bright silver bells, 2.2 pounds for $32 American. By the camp fire that night while I was doing up one last number before crashing, the thought that started gnawing on me that morning, the vague thought that was bothering me all day and that I had put on the shelf came down off the shelf and stood in front of me.
I would leave Mexico. I would not travel to Merida on the Yucatan peninsula as planned. I would not travel for a year in Mexico as planned. Oh, I would not leave tomorrow or next week; in fact it would be two months before I would cross the border. But I would be ever observant of who was camped around me, who belonged to that flashlight beam there in the distance. And I would be ever diligent at night when I would baggy-up my weed one lid at a time from my stash hidden inside my VW. This morning I was a tourist. This evening I am a foreigner.
the turnoff
a spider web of asphalt
crumbles off I 40
my lights on low
too much coffee too many Camels
I drive into the night
east and away
to forget that turnoff at Tucumcari
freeway exit, gas station, fill-up, pit stop
a twilight tour through a neighborhood
watching New Mexicans at dusk
a father playing catch
with a boy on a front lawn
a ball hitting a mitt, banter, smiles
what
I left behind
crumbles off I 40
my lights on low
too much coffee too many Camels
I drive into the night
east and away
to forget that turnoff at Tucumcari
freeway exit, gas station, fill-up, pit stop
a twilight tour through a neighborhood
watching New Mexicans at dusk
a father playing catch
with a boy on a front lawn
a ball hitting a mitt, banter, smiles
what
I left behind
Sunday, November 16, 2008
on waking up sixty
the warmth from flannel sheets
the silent clock, its numbers
are blurred red eyes.
I settle into the embryo
of swirling thoughts.
today is yesterday.
a year alters little.
when my son asks
I have no answer.
to describe sixty is to describe fifty-nine.
I could tell him
I now use words like relish and savor.
or pause to absorb
a robin’s nest in the pear tree out back,
a blue-colored egg
the sole occupant.
I could tell him this.
and the wonder
I have for the fragility of its shell.
the silent clock, its numbers
are blurred red eyes.
I settle into the embryo
of swirling thoughts.
today is yesterday.
a year alters little.
when my son asks
I have no answer.
to describe sixty is to describe fifty-nine.
I could tell him
I now use words like relish and savor.
or pause to absorb
a robin’s nest in the pear tree out back,
a blue-colored egg
the sole occupant.
I could tell him this.
and the wonder
I have for the fragility of its shell.
Incidents from the Back Yard
Summer, 1959.
The lime green Ford pickup with its white plywood box of a camper mounted in the bed pulls into the gravel driveway and stops on the cement slab of the carport’s basketball court. My brother and I stop our game. We stare at the California plates on the stranger’s truck. A man steps out of the driver’s side and announces cheerfully, “We’re here”. My brother and I stare all the harder. This man is a diminutive, fleshier copy of our dad.
“I’m your Uncle Max,” he says. His wife (Geraldine we find out later) sits like a bleached-white plaster statuette inside the cab. She looks at us with blank eyes on a blank face. For an instant, she reminds me of a raccoon caught on top of some garbage can under the glare of a flashlight. This visit is completely unexpected and, as the next few days unfold, thoroughly unwelcome. My dad comes out and showing great restraint shakes Max’s hand while opening the door on the passenger side of the truck for Geraldine to step out. He asks them inside for a glass of iced tea as the midday summer heat builds.
Mom is livid. She is 38 years old, four years younger than dad, and stands 5’2” tall. Her auburn hair flashes in unison with her angry eyes, but her Kentucky-born charm is on display for Max and his wife. This isn’t the first time she has had to be the perfect hostess on short notice, the proper doctor’s wife. But in the next few days of this short visit and behind closed doors, mom releases her anger in clipped conversation and she confides in my brother, my sister and me. It is not simply that they didn’t call ahead. She just doesn’t like Max and never has. Geraldine she doesn’t know; she is simply the latest wife.
To further complicate the situation, my grandparents—the parents of dad and Max—are staying with us on a planned vacation. They are as surprised as mom and dad at this unannounced drop-in by Max. They, too, are cool and distant, knowing their sightseeing trip for today is cancelled. They warm slowly to him. What should be a family reunion with shared jokes and shared experiences becomes an increasingly tense, awkward series of scenes. And it starts with an uncomfortable one a couple of hours after their arrival. Mom says she will clear out a room for them to sleep in and Max says that won’t be necessary. They will sleep in the wooden camper he has built. My folks protest about how hot it is and how it doesn’t cool down all that much at night, but Max won’t listen. He doesn’t even pull his truck under the shade of one of the many trees in the backyard.
I look to dad for an explanation and he only smiles shyly at me, shrugging his shoulders. This reaction from my dad will be repeated several times during their four day stay. The next morning Max and Geraldine look like limp rag dolls as they drag themselves slowly out of their camper. It only cooled to 80 degrees last night and that must have been like sleeping in a sweat box. Geraldine says nothing as she goes into the house to shower.
Later that morning, we all sit in the shade on lawn chairs or on the cool grass and we kids listen as the adults talk and catch up on each other’s lives. It is relaxed and easy going . . . except when Uncle Max starts talking. Then there is an undercurrent, an expectancy that something embarrassing is about to happen and no one can stop it. Even at 11 years old, I start to see a clearer, more focused picture of what is taking place. The awareness that family can embarrass family starts to grow in me. My dad is a general practitioner who went back to medical school for two more years of training in abdominal surgery. He keeps emotions and situations under control and yet is balanced with good humor and love of family.
Max is the opposite. He moves from job to job. He doesn’t know when he is talking too much, when he is making people uncomfortable with his actions. Sitting in his lawn chair, he takes off his shoes and holds them before us like they were trophies from some sporting event. These are the latest products that he is selling as a sideline business venture. The dark brown shoes are a woven mesh on the tops and the sides of the solid soles. They are plastic and they are hideous. Centering in on my brother, Max twists the shoes back and forth as though he were wringing the water out of a dishrag.
“Bet you can’t do that with your leather shoes,” he tells my brother.
“Why would I want to, Uncle Max?”
My dad looks down at the ground and then away toward the neighbor’s yard shaking his head. His face is flushed red and he looks back at us boys again with that small smile. Max puts his shoes back on and walking rapidly toward his truck yells over his shoulder at all of the sitting family members, “Stay there. I want to show you something I know you have never seen before.”
“No, Max. Please. Maybe another time,” Geraldine says in a tentative, pleading tone. This is one of the few times she has spoken the entire weekend.
Not listening and not caring, he returns holding what looks like a bright red, three-foot long, pointed broom handle. None of us can identify it and I finally ask, “What is it, Uncle Max?”
“It’s a bull’s penis,” he says energetically. “It’s been treated and petrified and shellacked. I can get all I want from a rancher out in the valley back home. He and I are going to make walking canes out of them and sell them. What do you think?”
At this even dad is stunned. He sits in his chair with his mouth half open. Everyone sits there, joined in silence. Max stands there with his Cheshire cat grin. He is serious. This isn’t some joke. Mom gets up and walks toward the house muttering, “Jesus Christ. I don’t believe it.”
My brother and I share a basement bedroom and that night in the cool quiet of the darkness we talk about dad and Uncle Max. My brother, Fred, is four years older than me and in the darkness and in our separate single beds, we are equals in a way that has nothing to do with years. Here in this room at night we discuss many things that we wouldn’t during the day.
“That Max is something else.”
“I know,” Fred agrees. “But I like Geraldine.”
“Yeah. She seems harmless. But what is it between dad and Max? Do you know?”
“Yeah. Dad told me tonight that every family has to have a black sheep and Max is ours.”
“He is really embarrassed about him, isn’t he?” I add.
“Oh, boy . . . I hope I never embarrass dad like that.”
“Me either.”
Late Summer, 1962.
Wednesday afternoons are dad’s half days off. Another doctor is on call for him. They all share these on-call days with one another. These are the years when house calls are the standard, the norm. A patient can reach the doctor at home and, if it’s serious enough, dad leaves his dinner or his book or his gardening and goes to the patient’s home to take care of the need.
Mom yells at dad from the back porch that a patient needs him to come over right away. Whatever we are doing stops. Working in the vegetable garden and hoeing the weeds together, seeing dad loosen up with his smiles coming easier stops. The storytelling and the now-easy laughter of the natural camaraderie of a father on his day off with his sons and his daughter stops.
Dad stands up from his kneeling position in the dirt. The momentary faraway look starts. He rubs his hands together, slowly brushing off the dirt. The focused eyes reflect a mind in preparation. A set look comes over his face, as though he has a patient in the next room at his office.
He walks back into the house from the garden to wash his hands and change his clothes. We kids continue hoeing the weeds, but it is not the same without him. We will wait for his return to once more pick up the threads and reweave our shared moments on a Wednesday afternoon.
He leaves us. The doctor is in.
For the past couple of years, I join my brother and my sister in a duty we all despise: we take turns answering the phone on dad’s day off. And even though he might be relaxing on the couch in the same room, we all give the same wooden response to the patient who is calling for my dad. “The doctor is not in. May I take a message? No, I don’t know when he’ll return, but may I take a message? Thank you.”
We want dad to have his time off and we like having him home. We just don’t like these “little lies”; we kids don’t lie well. I know dad is uncomfortable with this as well, but we all accept it as a necessary evil if he is going to have any time off. One day, when I am in a rush, I answer the phone with “No, dad’s not here.”
My mother overhears and after I hang up, she sternly corrects me. “Don’t say ‘dad’s not here’. Say ‘the doctor is not home’. Remember that. Don’t embarrass your father.”
Fall, 1965.
Mr. Harris is the Spanish teacher at the high school. He has a shiny bald head and his hairline starts laterally on a line beginning at the top of his ear, circling around his head like a dark black horseshoe. With a palm fan in his hand, he could pass as a stand-in for the actor Fredric March in Inherit the Wind, the movie about the Scopes monkey trial. He is a strong disciplinarian when teaching this foreign language as it’s called on my report card. And I accept his discipline as only being right since learning a new set of rules is necessary for this new language.
However, his expectations of me personally are the problem. The B- grade is not enough for the son of a respected doctor. “A doctor’s son must get an A in Spanish, as well as all his other classes,” he tells me after class in a strong and emphatic manner with the index finger of his right hand slicing the air and me into little pieces.
“I’m doing the best I can,” I say.
“That is not enough for a doctor’s son. Do more. Stop settling for less.”
I don’t hate my dad; in fact, I love him. He is down to earth and unpretentious. He accepts the Doctor or Doc in front of his last name when people talk to him. But he would rather be called Bud and not having any barrier of a title between himself and anyone wanting an honest, easy few minutes (or several hours) of conversation.
Making my way home after my “talking to” by Mr. Harris, however, I just wish he had another profession. I don’t want to be a “doctor’s son” and always have this personal definition of myself thrown up before me as someone else’s standard. I just want to be me; and if I slip or fall or stumble, I’ll pick myself up and try harder because I want to . . . not because I’m a “doctor’s son.”
At least this is the speech I’m practicing as I head home; hoping dad will make some sense out of all of this when I talk to him tonight.
“Don’t bother your father. He has surgery early in the morning,” I’m informed.
“But mom, I need to talk to him.”
“It will have to wait. This is more important,” she says as she continues to prepare dinner.
And wait it does, until the weekend. After I finish mowing the lawn and am putting away the mower in the garage, dad walks over to me and asks “Why the long face?” I tell him about the Harris monologue and how hard I’m trying in Spanish class. That’s as far as I get. I had been watching his face flush and I saw his jaw get a set to it. He looks at me quickly as I talk and then he stares off into the distance, his eyes squinting now and hardening. His nostrils flare out and stay there as he breathes in a slow, measured tempo.
Finally, as I am in mid-sentence and thinking I am in deep trouble, he interrupts.
“Damn,” he says softly, barely above a whisper.
A hushed stillness wraps around us as we sit at the red cedar picnic table, there in the big backyard with the rising summer heat of Lewiston sweltering and settling down on us, keeping the stillness company. The musical noise from the finches and the English sparrows seems muted now.
Dad doesn’t swear in front of us kids. When we carelessly let a swear word slip out, we receive the one-line dictum that he always burns into our memories . . . “If you have to swear, it’s because you didn’t take the time to choose the right word.” It is unspoken that we had better think about that before the next time.
Dad ends the conversation with that one, unexpected swearword and walks into the house to start making phone calls. At first, mom tries to stop him until she sees the slowly growing degree of anger he is working so hard to control. She steps back and finds something to do in another room. I watch all this from the back patio looking through the screen door as dad picks up the phone and, starting at the top, calls the home of the school superintendent. I retreat off the patio and out into the back yard and the safety of the picnic table.
A meeting is set up for the next week at the high school. The superintendent, the principal, and Mr. Harris will meet with dad. Much to my relief, dad informs me my presence is not required. (These are his formal words). It would be much later before I would hear the basics of that meeting. There is no apology from Mr. Harris to me after the meeting. Actually, there is no acknowledgment from anyone at school that there ever had been a meeting.
In the classroom, Mr. Harris continues to be the disciplinarian in his teaching of Spanish . . . “The rules. You kids must learn the rules of this language. This is not English; that is a different set of rules. You must learn these rules. Let’s start again. From the top . . .” And, as I said before, he is right. But I do not have any more meetings with him as a “doctor’s son”.
At the end of the semester when I show dad my grade from Spanish class, I feel I should explain something about what had happened, what I was feeling at the time.
“It’s just that I didn’t want to be an embarrassment to you,” I said.
“You’re not an embarrassment at all. I don’t want you to ever worry about that.”
“It’s just that I know you’re a doctor and you have this image in the community that I didn’t want . . .” He doesn’t let me finish.
“Look, I’ll take care of the ‘image thing’,” he says, accenting the last two words with sarcasm. “But there’s something else you need to understand. There are a lot more times when I am very proud of you than when I’m embarrassed by you. You’re my son, we’re family. And, yes, we don’t plan on it, but sometimes things happen and we get embarrassed.”
“Like you and Uncle Max?”
This rocks his head back ever so slightly and starts a slow, forward-nodding motion. He scans the backyard fruit trees with their bright green leaves and dark brown branches bearing down under the weight of the red, ripening apples. He sees this and the distant horizon of recent memories. The shy, down-turned smile starts at the corners of his mouth and he looks at me with wide-open, studying eyes.
“Yes.”
The lime green Ford pickup with its white plywood box of a camper mounted in the bed pulls into the gravel driveway and stops on the cement slab of the carport’s basketball court. My brother and I stop our game. We stare at the California plates on the stranger’s truck. A man steps out of the driver’s side and announces cheerfully, “We’re here”. My brother and I stare all the harder. This man is a diminutive, fleshier copy of our dad.
“I’m your Uncle Max,” he says. His wife (Geraldine we find out later) sits like a bleached-white plaster statuette inside the cab. She looks at us with blank eyes on a blank face. For an instant, she reminds me of a raccoon caught on top of some garbage can under the glare of a flashlight. This visit is completely unexpected and, as the next few days unfold, thoroughly unwelcome. My dad comes out and showing great restraint shakes Max’s hand while opening the door on the passenger side of the truck for Geraldine to step out. He asks them inside for a glass of iced tea as the midday summer heat builds.
Mom is livid. She is 38 years old, four years younger than dad, and stands 5’2” tall. Her auburn hair flashes in unison with her angry eyes, but her Kentucky-born charm is on display for Max and his wife. This isn’t the first time she has had to be the perfect hostess on short notice, the proper doctor’s wife. But in the next few days of this short visit and behind closed doors, mom releases her anger in clipped conversation and she confides in my brother, my sister and me. It is not simply that they didn’t call ahead. She just doesn’t like Max and never has. Geraldine she doesn’t know; she is simply the latest wife.
To further complicate the situation, my grandparents—the parents of dad and Max—are staying with us on a planned vacation. They are as surprised as mom and dad at this unannounced drop-in by Max. They, too, are cool and distant, knowing their sightseeing trip for today is cancelled. They warm slowly to him. What should be a family reunion with shared jokes and shared experiences becomes an increasingly tense, awkward series of scenes. And it starts with an uncomfortable one a couple of hours after their arrival. Mom says she will clear out a room for them to sleep in and Max says that won’t be necessary. They will sleep in the wooden camper he has built. My folks protest about how hot it is and how it doesn’t cool down all that much at night, but Max won’t listen. He doesn’t even pull his truck under the shade of one of the many trees in the backyard.
I look to dad for an explanation and he only smiles shyly at me, shrugging his shoulders. This reaction from my dad will be repeated several times during their four day stay. The next morning Max and Geraldine look like limp rag dolls as they drag themselves slowly out of their camper. It only cooled to 80 degrees last night and that must have been like sleeping in a sweat box. Geraldine says nothing as she goes into the house to shower.
Later that morning, we all sit in the shade on lawn chairs or on the cool grass and we kids listen as the adults talk and catch up on each other’s lives. It is relaxed and easy going . . . except when Uncle Max starts talking. Then there is an undercurrent, an expectancy that something embarrassing is about to happen and no one can stop it. Even at 11 years old, I start to see a clearer, more focused picture of what is taking place. The awareness that family can embarrass family starts to grow in me. My dad is a general practitioner who went back to medical school for two more years of training in abdominal surgery. He keeps emotions and situations under control and yet is balanced with good humor and love of family.
Max is the opposite. He moves from job to job. He doesn’t know when he is talking too much, when he is making people uncomfortable with his actions. Sitting in his lawn chair, he takes off his shoes and holds them before us like they were trophies from some sporting event. These are the latest products that he is selling as a sideline business venture. The dark brown shoes are a woven mesh on the tops and the sides of the solid soles. They are plastic and they are hideous. Centering in on my brother, Max twists the shoes back and forth as though he were wringing the water out of a dishrag.
“Bet you can’t do that with your leather shoes,” he tells my brother.
“Why would I want to, Uncle Max?”
My dad looks down at the ground and then away toward the neighbor’s yard shaking his head. His face is flushed red and he looks back at us boys again with that small smile. Max puts his shoes back on and walking rapidly toward his truck yells over his shoulder at all of the sitting family members, “Stay there. I want to show you something I know you have never seen before.”
“No, Max. Please. Maybe another time,” Geraldine says in a tentative, pleading tone. This is one of the few times she has spoken the entire weekend.
Not listening and not caring, he returns holding what looks like a bright red, three-foot long, pointed broom handle. None of us can identify it and I finally ask, “What is it, Uncle Max?”
“It’s a bull’s penis,” he says energetically. “It’s been treated and petrified and shellacked. I can get all I want from a rancher out in the valley back home. He and I are going to make walking canes out of them and sell them. What do you think?”
At this even dad is stunned. He sits in his chair with his mouth half open. Everyone sits there, joined in silence. Max stands there with his Cheshire cat grin. He is serious. This isn’t some joke. Mom gets up and walks toward the house muttering, “Jesus Christ. I don’t believe it.”
My brother and I share a basement bedroom and that night in the cool quiet of the darkness we talk about dad and Uncle Max. My brother, Fred, is four years older than me and in the darkness and in our separate single beds, we are equals in a way that has nothing to do with years. Here in this room at night we discuss many things that we wouldn’t during the day.
“That Max is something else.”
“I know,” Fred agrees. “But I like Geraldine.”
“Yeah. She seems harmless. But what is it between dad and Max? Do you know?”
“Yeah. Dad told me tonight that every family has to have a black sheep and Max is ours.”
“He is really embarrassed about him, isn’t he?” I add.
“Oh, boy . . . I hope I never embarrass dad like that.”
“Me either.”
Late Summer, 1962.
Wednesday afternoons are dad’s half days off. Another doctor is on call for him. They all share these on-call days with one another. These are the years when house calls are the standard, the norm. A patient can reach the doctor at home and, if it’s serious enough, dad leaves his dinner or his book or his gardening and goes to the patient’s home to take care of the need.
Mom yells at dad from the back porch that a patient needs him to come over right away. Whatever we are doing stops. Working in the vegetable garden and hoeing the weeds together, seeing dad loosen up with his smiles coming easier stops. The storytelling and the now-easy laughter of the natural camaraderie of a father on his day off with his sons and his daughter stops.
Dad stands up from his kneeling position in the dirt. The momentary faraway look starts. He rubs his hands together, slowly brushing off the dirt. The focused eyes reflect a mind in preparation. A set look comes over his face, as though he has a patient in the next room at his office.
He walks back into the house from the garden to wash his hands and change his clothes. We kids continue hoeing the weeds, but it is not the same without him. We will wait for his return to once more pick up the threads and reweave our shared moments on a Wednesday afternoon.
He leaves us. The doctor is in.
For the past couple of years, I join my brother and my sister in a duty we all despise: we take turns answering the phone on dad’s day off. And even though he might be relaxing on the couch in the same room, we all give the same wooden response to the patient who is calling for my dad. “The doctor is not in. May I take a message? No, I don’t know when he’ll return, but may I take a message? Thank you.”
We want dad to have his time off and we like having him home. We just don’t like these “little lies”; we kids don’t lie well. I know dad is uncomfortable with this as well, but we all accept it as a necessary evil if he is going to have any time off. One day, when I am in a rush, I answer the phone with “No, dad’s not here.”
My mother overhears and after I hang up, she sternly corrects me. “Don’t say ‘dad’s not here’. Say ‘the doctor is not home’. Remember that. Don’t embarrass your father.”
Fall, 1965.
Mr. Harris is the Spanish teacher at the high school. He has a shiny bald head and his hairline starts laterally on a line beginning at the top of his ear, circling around his head like a dark black horseshoe. With a palm fan in his hand, he could pass as a stand-in for the actor Fredric March in Inherit the Wind, the movie about the Scopes monkey trial. He is a strong disciplinarian when teaching this foreign language as it’s called on my report card. And I accept his discipline as only being right since learning a new set of rules is necessary for this new language.
However, his expectations of me personally are the problem. The B- grade is not enough for the son of a respected doctor. “A doctor’s son must get an A in Spanish, as well as all his other classes,” he tells me after class in a strong and emphatic manner with the index finger of his right hand slicing the air and me into little pieces.
“I’m doing the best I can,” I say.
“That is not enough for a doctor’s son. Do more. Stop settling for less.”
I don’t hate my dad; in fact, I love him. He is down to earth and unpretentious. He accepts the Doctor or Doc in front of his last name when people talk to him. But he would rather be called Bud and not having any barrier of a title between himself and anyone wanting an honest, easy few minutes (or several hours) of conversation.
Making my way home after my “talking to” by Mr. Harris, however, I just wish he had another profession. I don’t want to be a “doctor’s son” and always have this personal definition of myself thrown up before me as someone else’s standard. I just want to be me; and if I slip or fall or stumble, I’ll pick myself up and try harder because I want to . . . not because I’m a “doctor’s son.”
At least this is the speech I’m practicing as I head home; hoping dad will make some sense out of all of this when I talk to him tonight.
“Don’t bother your father. He has surgery early in the morning,” I’m informed.
“But mom, I need to talk to him.”
“It will have to wait. This is more important,” she says as she continues to prepare dinner.
And wait it does, until the weekend. After I finish mowing the lawn and am putting away the mower in the garage, dad walks over to me and asks “Why the long face?” I tell him about the Harris monologue and how hard I’m trying in Spanish class. That’s as far as I get. I had been watching his face flush and I saw his jaw get a set to it. He looks at me quickly as I talk and then he stares off into the distance, his eyes squinting now and hardening. His nostrils flare out and stay there as he breathes in a slow, measured tempo.
Finally, as I am in mid-sentence and thinking I am in deep trouble, he interrupts.
“Damn,” he says softly, barely above a whisper.
A hushed stillness wraps around us as we sit at the red cedar picnic table, there in the big backyard with the rising summer heat of Lewiston sweltering and settling down on us, keeping the stillness company. The musical noise from the finches and the English sparrows seems muted now.
Dad doesn’t swear in front of us kids. When we carelessly let a swear word slip out, we receive the one-line dictum that he always burns into our memories . . . “If you have to swear, it’s because you didn’t take the time to choose the right word.” It is unspoken that we had better think about that before the next time.
Dad ends the conversation with that one, unexpected swearword and walks into the house to start making phone calls. At first, mom tries to stop him until she sees the slowly growing degree of anger he is working so hard to control. She steps back and finds something to do in another room. I watch all this from the back patio looking through the screen door as dad picks up the phone and, starting at the top, calls the home of the school superintendent. I retreat off the patio and out into the back yard and the safety of the picnic table.
A meeting is set up for the next week at the high school. The superintendent, the principal, and Mr. Harris will meet with dad. Much to my relief, dad informs me my presence is not required. (These are his formal words). It would be much later before I would hear the basics of that meeting. There is no apology from Mr. Harris to me after the meeting. Actually, there is no acknowledgment from anyone at school that there ever had been a meeting.
In the classroom, Mr. Harris continues to be the disciplinarian in his teaching of Spanish . . . “The rules. You kids must learn the rules of this language. This is not English; that is a different set of rules. You must learn these rules. Let’s start again. From the top . . .” And, as I said before, he is right. But I do not have any more meetings with him as a “doctor’s son”.
At the end of the semester when I show dad my grade from Spanish class, I feel I should explain something about what had happened, what I was feeling at the time.
“It’s just that I didn’t want to be an embarrassment to you,” I said.
“You’re not an embarrassment at all. I don’t want you to ever worry about that.”
“It’s just that I know you’re a doctor and you have this image in the community that I didn’t want . . .” He doesn’t let me finish.
“Look, I’ll take care of the ‘image thing’,” he says, accenting the last two words with sarcasm. “But there’s something else you need to understand. There are a lot more times when I am very proud of you than when I’m embarrassed by you. You’re my son, we’re family. And, yes, we don’t plan on it, but sometimes things happen and we get embarrassed.”
“Like you and Uncle Max?”
This rocks his head back ever so slightly and starts a slow, forward-nodding motion. He scans the backyard fruit trees with their bright green leaves and dark brown branches bearing down under the weight of the red, ripening apples. He sees this and the distant horizon of recent memories. The shy, down-turned smile starts at the corners of his mouth and he looks at me with wide-open, studying eyes.
“Yes.”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
