Tuesday, August 2, 2011
The Piano with No Black Keys
Last night I played a piano with no black keys, on which the in-between pitches (those elusive F, G, A, C and D sharps) had to be picked out from among the endless stretch of rough white canvas. Then Conan O'Brien appeared, and because I've always fantasized of preforming on his show, I asked if I could play him a tune. Boy, did I know where to place those off color notes. Though he was quick to shake my hand and leave, he pressed a post-it into my babysoft palm before departing. I could tell he really liked it, especially the part where I sang about sleeping with all the nuns from my orphanage. As I watched him bob off, I noticed that Mr. O'Brien was very short, shorter than I was, and I realized then that I must be dreaming. This was after receiving two literary rejection letters (the emails came through as I lay drunk and dozing in bed), and so I think my brain was trying to make up for things. Thanks brain. I owe you one.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Blueblood
Dear Mother,
This morning I set out for a bit of light holiday shopping. As you know, my man Berkley normally executes my purchases, but as he’d fallen ill the week previous, it relied entirely upon me to see the list through. So, having dressed to the very pinnacle of perfection (having coordinated not only the shoes and coat, but the hair as well, gelled to the same midnight shade), I set out into the city.
It’s near enough Christmas that the city tree has been erected in the brick plaza near Taggert’s department store. You’ve seen it at some point, no doubt, on any one of the nightly news programs I know you’re so fond of, and I wonder if you’ve noticed that each of its bulbs are blue, not unlike the tree we decorated when I was a boy. It was, in fact, the same blue I remember from your hands as well, Mother, from the fine inlays running between your knuckles and along your fingers, the blood blue, they say, before meeting oxygen and spoiling red.
As you know, I’ve always found shopping rather dull, and as such, I endeavored to line my expedition with a bit of padding. Being sharply dressed, which I’ve already noted I was, served as an obvious boon (I rarely find a thing more satisfying than watching the casual passer-by nearly break his neck to catch a hint of my jacket’s label). A bit of espresso, too—ideally ensconced in a small nest of milk-foam—can do wonders to elevate one’s shopping experience, and so I popped into the local café.
“Welcome to MegaCafé,” the boy behind the register chimed, his voice the electronic sing-song of an automaton, “how can we help you?”
I ordered a double shot, twelve ounce cappuccino, bone dry, in a mug rather than a paper cup.
“One dry double-tall cap for here?”
Normally I let such banalities slide, but the verbal crippling administered to my order was, frankly, so emotionally devastating I couldn’t help but articulate my distress.
“I’m very sorry, but, I would like a twelve-ounce cappuccino, please.”
“Oh, tall means twelve-ounce,” he smiled, eyes sparkling. “That’s just how we say it.”
“Yes,” I said, cringing because he was forcing me to channel a sort of unpleasantness I was hoping not to exude, “I’m aware that your establishment has its Italian terminology for drink sizes, but, and—how best to put this? Perhaps a question, to start—Do you know much of the Italians?”
“I’m sorry?”
“The Italian race? I can tell by your expression that you don’t. Well, a lot gets said about certain painters and certain sculptors, but let me tell you this,” I leaned close enough to smell his metallic, twelve-dollar cologne, “the Italians are extremely dirty, as a people.”
“Okay!” he cried. “One twelve-ounce cappuccino, coming right up!”
I delivered a wink as I took my ceramic mug and exited the café—the boy may have exhibited a rigorous adherence to mediocrity, but damned if he didn’t know when the customer had his point. Cappuccino in hand, the hot ceramic stinging against the fingertips, I braved on toward Taggert’s, steeling myself as best I could against those humans insistent on displaying their unseemliness to the world. You know the type—the sallow, unemployed digenarians with the audacity to wear clothing political in nature, who openly advertise their drug use and debauchery, who wear, of all things, patches on their garments, and not just one or two, but dozens! Dozens, on one piece of clothing! And to what end did they sit, I wondered, shadowed beneath the spire of the city tree? Waiting for a visitor who would not arrive, I supposed, a sentiment that iced me to my core.
Having made it past that unfortunate crowd, I stepped into Taggert’s, my entrance facilitated by a very kind gentleman holding the door (though there was a slight confusion when a woman and I bumped shoulders trying to enter simultaneously). The soles of my shoes clicked along the marble floor, and the sound, as familiar as the Rolex’s pulse, instantly assuaged the nerves so recently riled outside.
“Hello sir,” said a blonde in a lint-spangled coat, “do you need help finding anything today?”
“Indeed,” I told her, “I’m looking to purchase a gift for my mother, what with the holidays approaching.” Here, I nudged her in the arm, the gesture looking quite classy with the coat thrown over the forearm, as mine happened to be.
“Absolutely,” she beamed, “do you have something in mind for your mother?”
I didn’t, I explained, and normally my man Berkley would offer a sliver of insight, an edge with which to crack the shell on the entire mystery to reveal, at its soft center, an appropriate gift.
“I see,” she replied, and I judged by the rather raw texture of her hair that she might be unaccustomed to anecdotes concerning one’s personal valet. “Well, what kind of person is your mother?”
“She’s quite terrible, really. She lives in an old mansion up on the hill—Dutch, I believe, built by wealthy fur-trappers in the early 1800s—and I’m beginning to fear that a specter of some kind has come to haunt her in her recent years. You see, she recently took a husband,” I looked over my shoulder to ensure we were among friends and patriots, “an Italian man, I’m afraid. Do you know much of Italy? A country where its men routinely wear white pants—” I was racked by a violent shudder, “—what else is there to say about such a place?” She shook her head dumbly and I continued. “Alas, I’m here for a gift, not a new brain for Mother!”
I laughed loudly, though I fear the attendant was lost entirely in the depths of my eloquence at this point, as she stood simply, blinking. I continued plainly, “You see, what I’m looking for is something unique, a collector’s item. Something rare, hand-crafted. Something entirely unexpected.”
After what appeared a tremendous effort, the girl’s sputtering mouth ushered forth a sentence. “And do you have something? In mind?”
“Not a clue, I’m afraid, save that the greatness of my purchase must, at the very least, triple her own efforts, lest I’m to be outdone by an old kook living on the hill who snatches up every Italian gigolo that strolls past!”
“Let me just find? Somebody? I’ll be right…” and she trailed off in both speech and person. I stood casually near a pair of mannequins, both handsomely dressed in sweater vests and slacks
(a look best executed on the links), and I couldn’t help but notice, in the faint reflection of the window, the striking similarities between their strong, perfectly symmetrical faces, and my own.
“You possess the nervous air of a man who doesn’t know what he’s looking for,” a voice boomed over my shoulder, “yet wishes desperately to find it.” I turned and saw a man in an ash-gray suit with wide lapels. His necktie, undoubtedly silk, shone the cold blue of ocean deep.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Chuck Barrington,” he said, extending a hand that was undoubtedly deft with a squash racquet. I introduced myself, though a little simply, I’m afraid, caught off-guard as I was by the sheer elegance of this stranger, Mr. Barrington. Whether it was the way he had materialized from what seemed the very essence of the store, or his thick, perfectly-combed head of hair, I cannot say. I excused my stutter with a compact cough into a closed fist, and continued, “Did the attendant see you over, then?”
“I’m afraid not. I’m from a different department altogether, an agent for our more refined customers. I’m afraid the young woman who regrettably intercepted you does little more than peddle Armani jackets to college students and the working poor. Tell me sir, how familiar are you with Italy?”
“I’ve only met a few of its ex-patriots,” I grumbled, “and those encounters have provided enough substance to avoid the country altogether.”
“Aha!” he cried, grin expanding to the very limit of physical possibility. A strong hand found my shoulder, and together we drifted past the displays and registers, to an unremarkable beige door in an unremarkable beige wall. I found the vast expanse of beige a bit unsettling, but beneath the door frame, an oasis: a blue light shimmering on the tile. “Italy has a reputation, as I’m sure you know, for fine products, its star designers: Gucci, Prada—I can discern from your expression that I need not continue.”
“Your point is made,” I said, smoothing an agitation from my coat.
“But this, as I’m sure you know, is a fallacy, for the finest, rarest, and most painstakingly crafted items in all the world can be found here, right beneath our noses.”
“Yes, yes, I’ve gone through something of an Amish phase. Fine furniture, if a little overly pragmatic.”
Mr. Barrington removed from his pocket a large key-ring, which, in a fashionable reversal of expectation, held only one key. Into the lock it went, and he pressed open the door. I followed him into the hallway, a cold stretch of blue concrete, at the end of which, a set of stairs descended into blackness.
“Not the Amish, I’m afraid, though I do respect your adventurous sense of commerce and your dedication to the American people.” I kept close as Barrington made the downstairs plunge, but even inches behind his voice, I could see not one hair on his head. “The products to which I’m alluding require a broader understanding, one that lies outside of economy altogether. You see, the novelties I’m about to present are not crafted for a wage. They are purities of the heart, jewels forged in the fire of the human soul. I present to you, good sir, the finest assembly of my existence.”
Barrington flipped a switch, and a pair of monstrous blue lights flickered to life above us, joined then by an adjacent pair, and then another, until the space in which we stood revealed itself a warehouse one hundred yards in length. Running perpendicular to the lights, dozens of wood tables spanned from our end of the room to the other, their legs carved into thick, snake-like corkscrews. Barrington gave an approving nod as I stepped forward, and I discerned that the tables contained thousands of items, and that as far as I could perceive, no item appeared twice. There were crude clay sculptures, hand-knit garments, frames composed of cardboard and glue and an abundance of uncooked macaroni. I pressed my hand to a rainbow-striped wooden board, its exact purpose unapparent, and found the ink fresh enough to seep into my skin. And, on the corner of the next table, I beheld a folded paper card, its face drawn in blue ballpoint pen. “Merry Christmas Mom,” its exterior read, while, on its interior, two stick figures, one taller and with significantly longer hair, embraced between hearth and blue-baubled tree. “All I want for Christmas is you,” it explained.
“Anything you can imagine, and everything you cannot,” said Mr. Barrington, as he came to a respectful distance. “These materials are obtained from children ages six to fourteen, a period our department has defined as critical in production. I must point out, of course, that our means of procurement are rather clandestine—.”
“You mean to say that you steal these from children?” I cut in, uncharacteristically.
“I do, sir.”
I took a deep breath and dabbed the welling of emotion from my eye with a silk kerchief, “They’re so… pathetic.”
Barrington, without so much as a flourish, produced a fresh kerchief in exchange for my soiled one. His grin had diminished, but still his glossy whites were revealed, soft blue in the room’s reflected light. “It seems you’ve found your gift, have you not?”
I held the card in my hands, unbelieving. Hesitated to set if down for fear I would never see it again, sure, as I was, it held the allure of something lost forever.
“Very well,” he said. “You can leave the way you came in.”
By now, dear mother, I’m sure it’s quite obvious I never sent that card or this letter, as nothing came for you in the post last Christmas. I’m also sure you’re aware of the unfortunate events that plagued me these past twelve months, and while I do not desire to rehash their ugly details, I feel compelled to explain, in some small way, the effect they’ve had on me since. When notified of the family stock taking its oft-discussed nosedive, I scrambled to sell my shares, learning only afterward that you, under your second husband’s advice, had traded your shares years ago. It was not embarrassment that prohibited me from returning your correspondences—a rumor sloughed off from various social circles which were, for months, abuzz with the news—as much as it was betrayal. This was the same sentiment that informed my decision to ignore the flurry of letters you sent when, after several weeks of bickering with various members of the board, I was expelled from Father’s company (left only with a pittance sufficient enough to retain my condominium and Berkley’s services), and it’s in the same vein that I’m responding to your request I visit you and your suitor.
While I am rigorous to my own standards, I am not without heart; with this letter I send my respectful condolences at the news that Aldo has fallen ill. If he does manage to pull through, I understand a great relief will wash over you, and your lives will appear both blessed and entirely new. However, I also understand your strength as a woman (a strength you seem too willing to forget) and I know that when Aldo does pass, you will continue to survive, and in a better fashion than you are now. It seems to me, in re-reading your letters from this past year, that you remember very little of what it was like to lose Father, but I remember that time quite well, and of all the incidents of that period, I can recall with startling clarity that first Christmas without him.
We didn’t erect the tree until Christmas Eve, if you remember. You told me in confidence that the very sight of the tree would be too much, and not wanting to upset my distraught mother any further, I told you, in my hushed boyish tone, that I felt the same way. But when that night arrived, you explained that the stark emptiness of the room was more terrible than any reminder of Father, and so you asked me if I would mind were someone to deliver a tree (imagine that—you asking me, when all I had wanted was to please you in the first place!). Though the hour was late and the minute, to cite a common colloquialism, the last, thunderous knocking struck our home and a large, brown-bearded man hoisted a pine into our living room, needles falling from his shirt and into the carpet. And so, by the flickering light of our hearth, we strung the tree with garland, brightened it with blue bulbs, and, my small torso held high above your head, we rested a gold star upon its crown.
But I fear that I am digressing, suffice to say that no matter what occurs over these next few weeks, there is something pure in your blood (that bond which we will always share, you and I alone now) on which you can draw from and rely. As for myself, I have found suitable pastimes with which to occupy my free hours. Most recently, I’ve taken to sitting in that same shopping center of downtown, where they’ve re-erected their holiday décor. It sounds a bit unrefined, I’m sure, but I’ve been content to sit and sip a black coffee, to nibble at a MegaCafé pastry, my collar turned against the wind sweeping in from the street. I tell you this for when you do find yourself alone, dear mother, so that you’ll know where I’ll be—quiet beneath the second hand, the blue shadow of the city tree.
With respectful condolences, best wishes, etc.,
Your son,
-Per
This morning I set out for a bit of light holiday shopping. As you know, my man Berkley normally executes my purchases, but as he’d fallen ill the week previous, it relied entirely upon me to see the list through. So, having dressed to the very pinnacle of perfection (having coordinated not only the shoes and coat, but the hair as well, gelled to the same midnight shade), I set out into the city.
It’s near enough Christmas that the city tree has been erected in the brick plaza near Taggert’s department store. You’ve seen it at some point, no doubt, on any one of the nightly news programs I know you’re so fond of, and I wonder if you’ve noticed that each of its bulbs are blue, not unlike the tree we decorated when I was a boy. It was, in fact, the same blue I remember from your hands as well, Mother, from the fine inlays running between your knuckles and along your fingers, the blood blue, they say, before meeting oxygen and spoiling red.
As you know, I’ve always found shopping rather dull, and as such, I endeavored to line my expedition with a bit of padding. Being sharply dressed, which I’ve already noted I was, served as an obvious boon (I rarely find a thing more satisfying than watching the casual passer-by nearly break his neck to catch a hint of my jacket’s label). A bit of espresso, too—ideally ensconced in a small nest of milk-foam—can do wonders to elevate one’s shopping experience, and so I popped into the local café.
“Welcome to MegaCafé,” the boy behind the register chimed, his voice the electronic sing-song of an automaton, “how can we help you?”
I ordered a double shot, twelve ounce cappuccino, bone dry, in a mug rather than a paper cup.
“One dry double-tall cap for here?”
Normally I let such banalities slide, but the verbal crippling administered to my order was, frankly, so emotionally devastating I couldn’t help but articulate my distress.
“I’m very sorry, but, I would like a twelve-ounce cappuccino, please.”
“Oh, tall means twelve-ounce,” he smiled, eyes sparkling. “That’s just how we say it.”
“Yes,” I said, cringing because he was forcing me to channel a sort of unpleasantness I was hoping not to exude, “I’m aware that your establishment has its Italian terminology for drink sizes, but, and—how best to put this? Perhaps a question, to start—Do you know much of the Italians?”
“I’m sorry?”
“The Italian race? I can tell by your expression that you don’t. Well, a lot gets said about certain painters and certain sculptors, but let me tell you this,” I leaned close enough to smell his metallic, twelve-dollar cologne, “the Italians are extremely dirty, as a people.”
“Okay!” he cried. “One twelve-ounce cappuccino, coming right up!”
I delivered a wink as I took my ceramic mug and exited the café—the boy may have exhibited a rigorous adherence to mediocrity, but damned if he didn’t know when the customer had his point. Cappuccino in hand, the hot ceramic stinging against the fingertips, I braved on toward Taggert’s, steeling myself as best I could against those humans insistent on displaying their unseemliness to the world. You know the type—the sallow, unemployed digenarians with the audacity to wear clothing political in nature, who openly advertise their drug use and debauchery, who wear, of all things, patches on their garments, and not just one or two, but dozens! Dozens, on one piece of clothing! And to what end did they sit, I wondered, shadowed beneath the spire of the city tree? Waiting for a visitor who would not arrive, I supposed, a sentiment that iced me to my core.
Having made it past that unfortunate crowd, I stepped into Taggert’s, my entrance facilitated by a very kind gentleman holding the door (though there was a slight confusion when a woman and I bumped shoulders trying to enter simultaneously). The soles of my shoes clicked along the marble floor, and the sound, as familiar as the Rolex’s pulse, instantly assuaged the nerves so recently riled outside.
“Hello sir,” said a blonde in a lint-spangled coat, “do you need help finding anything today?”
“Indeed,” I told her, “I’m looking to purchase a gift for my mother, what with the holidays approaching.” Here, I nudged her in the arm, the gesture looking quite classy with the coat thrown over the forearm, as mine happened to be.
“Absolutely,” she beamed, “do you have something in mind for your mother?”
I didn’t, I explained, and normally my man Berkley would offer a sliver of insight, an edge with which to crack the shell on the entire mystery to reveal, at its soft center, an appropriate gift.
“I see,” she replied, and I judged by the rather raw texture of her hair that she might be unaccustomed to anecdotes concerning one’s personal valet. “Well, what kind of person is your mother?”
“She’s quite terrible, really. She lives in an old mansion up on the hill—Dutch, I believe, built by wealthy fur-trappers in the early 1800s—and I’m beginning to fear that a specter of some kind has come to haunt her in her recent years. You see, she recently took a husband,” I looked over my shoulder to ensure we were among friends and patriots, “an Italian man, I’m afraid. Do you know much of Italy? A country where its men routinely wear white pants—” I was racked by a violent shudder, “—what else is there to say about such a place?” She shook her head dumbly and I continued. “Alas, I’m here for a gift, not a new brain for Mother!”
I laughed loudly, though I fear the attendant was lost entirely in the depths of my eloquence at this point, as she stood simply, blinking. I continued plainly, “You see, what I’m looking for is something unique, a collector’s item. Something rare, hand-crafted. Something entirely unexpected.”
After what appeared a tremendous effort, the girl’s sputtering mouth ushered forth a sentence. “And do you have something? In mind?”
“Not a clue, I’m afraid, save that the greatness of my purchase must, at the very least, triple her own efforts, lest I’m to be outdone by an old kook living on the hill who snatches up every Italian gigolo that strolls past!”
“Let me just find? Somebody? I’ll be right…” and she trailed off in both speech and person. I stood casually near a pair of mannequins, both handsomely dressed in sweater vests and slacks
(a look best executed on the links), and I couldn’t help but notice, in the faint reflection of the window, the striking similarities between their strong, perfectly symmetrical faces, and my own.
“You possess the nervous air of a man who doesn’t know what he’s looking for,” a voice boomed over my shoulder, “yet wishes desperately to find it.” I turned and saw a man in an ash-gray suit with wide lapels. His necktie, undoubtedly silk, shone the cold blue of ocean deep.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Chuck Barrington,” he said, extending a hand that was undoubtedly deft with a squash racquet. I introduced myself, though a little simply, I’m afraid, caught off-guard as I was by the sheer elegance of this stranger, Mr. Barrington. Whether it was the way he had materialized from what seemed the very essence of the store, or his thick, perfectly-combed head of hair, I cannot say. I excused my stutter with a compact cough into a closed fist, and continued, “Did the attendant see you over, then?”
“I’m afraid not. I’m from a different department altogether, an agent for our more refined customers. I’m afraid the young woman who regrettably intercepted you does little more than peddle Armani jackets to college students and the working poor. Tell me sir, how familiar are you with Italy?”
“I’ve only met a few of its ex-patriots,” I grumbled, “and those encounters have provided enough substance to avoid the country altogether.”
“Aha!” he cried, grin expanding to the very limit of physical possibility. A strong hand found my shoulder, and together we drifted past the displays and registers, to an unremarkable beige door in an unremarkable beige wall. I found the vast expanse of beige a bit unsettling, but beneath the door frame, an oasis: a blue light shimmering on the tile. “Italy has a reputation, as I’m sure you know, for fine products, its star designers: Gucci, Prada—I can discern from your expression that I need not continue.”
“Your point is made,” I said, smoothing an agitation from my coat.
“But this, as I’m sure you know, is a fallacy, for the finest, rarest, and most painstakingly crafted items in all the world can be found here, right beneath our noses.”
“Yes, yes, I’ve gone through something of an Amish phase. Fine furniture, if a little overly pragmatic.”
Mr. Barrington removed from his pocket a large key-ring, which, in a fashionable reversal of expectation, held only one key. Into the lock it went, and he pressed open the door. I followed him into the hallway, a cold stretch of blue concrete, at the end of which, a set of stairs descended into blackness.
“Not the Amish, I’m afraid, though I do respect your adventurous sense of commerce and your dedication to the American people.” I kept close as Barrington made the downstairs plunge, but even inches behind his voice, I could see not one hair on his head. “The products to which I’m alluding require a broader understanding, one that lies outside of economy altogether. You see, the novelties I’m about to present are not crafted for a wage. They are purities of the heart, jewels forged in the fire of the human soul. I present to you, good sir, the finest assembly of my existence.”
Barrington flipped a switch, and a pair of monstrous blue lights flickered to life above us, joined then by an adjacent pair, and then another, until the space in which we stood revealed itself a warehouse one hundred yards in length. Running perpendicular to the lights, dozens of wood tables spanned from our end of the room to the other, their legs carved into thick, snake-like corkscrews. Barrington gave an approving nod as I stepped forward, and I discerned that the tables contained thousands of items, and that as far as I could perceive, no item appeared twice. There were crude clay sculptures, hand-knit garments, frames composed of cardboard and glue and an abundance of uncooked macaroni. I pressed my hand to a rainbow-striped wooden board, its exact purpose unapparent, and found the ink fresh enough to seep into my skin. And, on the corner of the next table, I beheld a folded paper card, its face drawn in blue ballpoint pen. “Merry Christmas Mom,” its exterior read, while, on its interior, two stick figures, one taller and with significantly longer hair, embraced between hearth and blue-baubled tree. “All I want for Christmas is you,” it explained.
“Anything you can imagine, and everything you cannot,” said Mr. Barrington, as he came to a respectful distance. “These materials are obtained from children ages six to fourteen, a period our department has defined as critical in production. I must point out, of course, that our means of procurement are rather clandestine—.”
“You mean to say that you steal these from children?” I cut in, uncharacteristically.
“I do, sir.”
I took a deep breath and dabbed the welling of emotion from my eye with a silk kerchief, “They’re so… pathetic.”
Barrington, without so much as a flourish, produced a fresh kerchief in exchange for my soiled one. His grin had diminished, but still his glossy whites were revealed, soft blue in the room’s reflected light. “It seems you’ve found your gift, have you not?”
I held the card in my hands, unbelieving. Hesitated to set if down for fear I would never see it again, sure, as I was, it held the allure of something lost forever.
“Very well,” he said. “You can leave the way you came in.”
.&.
By now, dear mother, I’m sure it’s quite obvious I never sent that card or this letter, as nothing came for you in the post last Christmas. I’m also sure you’re aware of the unfortunate events that plagued me these past twelve months, and while I do not desire to rehash their ugly details, I feel compelled to explain, in some small way, the effect they’ve had on me since. When notified of the family stock taking its oft-discussed nosedive, I scrambled to sell my shares, learning only afterward that you, under your second husband’s advice, had traded your shares years ago. It was not embarrassment that prohibited me from returning your correspondences—a rumor sloughed off from various social circles which were, for months, abuzz with the news—as much as it was betrayal. This was the same sentiment that informed my decision to ignore the flurry of letters you sent when, after several weeks of bickering with various members of the board, I was expelled from Father’s company (left only with a pittance sufficient enough to retain my condominium and Berkley’s services), and it’s in the same vein that I’m responding to your request I visit you and your suitor.
While I am rigorous to my own standards, I am not without heart; with this letter I send my respectful condolences at the news that Aldo has fallen ill. If he does manage to pull through, I understand a great relief will wash over you, and your lives will appear both blessed and entirely new. However, I also understand your strength as a woman (a strength you seem too willing to forget) and I know that when Aldo does pass, you will continue to survive, and in a better fashion than you are now. It seems to me, in re-reading your letters from this past year, that you remember very little of what it was like to lose Father, but I remember that time quite well, and of all the incidents of that period, I can recall with startling clarity that first Christmas without him.
We didn’t erect the tree until Christmas Eve, if you remember. You told me in confidence that the very sight of the tree would be too much, and not wanting to upset my distraught mother any further, I told you, in my hushed boyish tone, that I felt the same way. But when that night arrived, you explained that the stark emptiness of the room was more terrible than any reminder of Father, and so you asked me if I would mind were someone to deliver a tree (imagine that—you asking me, when all I had wanted was to please you in the first place!). Though the hour was late and the minute, to cite a common colloquialism, the last, thunderous knocking struck our home and a large, brown-bearded man hoisted a pine into our living room, needles falling from his shirt and into the carpet. And so, by the flickering light of our hearth, we strung the tree with garland, brightened it with blue bulbs, and, my small torso held high above your head, we rested a gold star upon its crown.
But I fear that I am digressing, suffice to say that no matter what occurs over these next few weeks, there is something pure in your blood (that bond which we will always share, you and I alone now) on which you can draw from and rely. As for myself, I have found suitable pastimes with which to occupy my free hours. Most recently, I’ve taken to sitting in that same shopping center of downtown, where they’ve re-erected their holiday décor. It sounds a bit unrefined, I’m sure, but I’ve been content to sit and sip a black coffee, to nibble at a MegaCafé pastry, my collar turned against the wind sweeping in from the street. I tell you this for when you do find yourself alone, dear mother, so that you’ll know where I’ll be—quiet beneath the second hand, the blue shadow of the city tree.
With respectful condolences, best wishes, etc.,
Your son,
-Per
Sunday, December 26, 2010
The Basteland
Before I jump into things, I just want to announce (to my six lovely readers) that I'll be posting a brand-new short story in a few days, so keep your eyes peeled for some high-society Christmas angst. Until then, the Basteland, an older piece of mine, a celebration of Thanksgiving gluttony AND a sonic recreation of Elliot's The Wasteland (I'm sure he's muttering scathing comments in his grave RIGHT NOW). Be sure to check his original version out better enjoy this poem, and to make yourself a more wonderful, rounded human being (of course).
The Baste Land
For Zaccaria Fulton
il più grande Turchia.
I. The Broiling of the Dead
Broil is the cruelest setting, breeding
Dryness out of the dead bird, mixing
Convection and direct heat, stirring
Dull flavor with sinewy bites.
Winter kept us hungry, coating
Ribs with forgetful snow-cones, feeding
A little life with freeze-dried burgers.
Summer surprised us, coming for the long-starved belly
With a shower of grain; we shopped at the Safeway,
And went into the sunlight, into the Hunting Garden
and sipped broth, and clucked for an hour.
Gobble gobble, gobble gobble gobble, gobble gobble.
And when we were chicks, staying under the porch at Duke’s,
A farmer, he chopped off our heads,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, GET BACK HERE. And back I got.
In the oven, there you feel cooked.
I roast, most of the night, and go south after dinner.
What are the tastes that clutch, and would ranch dressing go
with this stony meat? Meal of man,
You cannot talk, or think, for you are only
A heap of cooked appendages, in the oven heat,
And the seasonings give no flavor, the rosemary no relief,
And the continual basting no sign of moisture. Only
There is flavor inside this dark meat,
(Come in and try a bite of this dark meat),
And I will show you something delicious from either
Your aroma at start trailing behind you
Or your aroma at evening radiating right off you;
I will show you fear in a handful of scraps.
Ich liebe die Türkei!
Die Türkei ist so lecker!
Auch ich glaube,
die Türkei ist gut für Sie.
“You gave me cranberry sauce first a year ago;
“They called me the cranberry-sauce girl.”
—Yet, when we came back late, from the children’s table,
Your mouth stained, your stomach distended, I could not
Eat, and my appetite failed, I was neither
hungry nor full, and I tasted nothing,
Reaching for the pain in my gut, the disquiet.
Ich glaube, dass ich viel zu viel gegessen.
Madame Sosostris, famous culinarian,
Prefers her food cold, nevertheless
Is known to be wise with bird and turnips,
With a wicked set of tartars. Here, said she,
Is your carving, the twisted Drumstick Leg,
(Those are pearls of juice that coat the thighs. Look!)
Here is Breast meat, the Lady of the Bird,
The bird of family dinners.
Here is the sister with three kids, and outside her Wheels,
And here is the one-eyed uncle, and his finger,
Which is straight, is something he extends without tact,
Which I am offended to see. I do not find
it funny. Fear death by frowning.
I see crowds of relatives, sitting round in a ring.
Thank you. If you hear from the Mrs. on the phone,
Tell her I bring the Jell-o mold myself:
One must do everything these days.
Unreal sitting,
Near the brown skin of wintery meat,
A mouth loaded with the undone fridge, so many,
I had almost choked to death swallowing so many.
Belches, loud and frequent, were exhaled,
And each man unfixed his belted jeans.
Fluttering eyelids up and down on friend William’s face,
Head dipping toward the wooly cloth and print of flowers
With a too-fed groan at the final call for ninths.
Then I saw my nephew, and stopped him, crying, “Benton!
“You who tried to eat chips in the foyer!
“That junkfood you grabbed without fear or pardon
“Has it begun to rumble? Will you burst right here?
“Or has the onslaught of turkey disturbed your head?
“Oh keep the Dog close Bent, that’s friend to men,
“To sneak him kale under the table again!
“You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon invité—mon diner!”
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Friday, March 5, 2010
The Snail: A Love Story
I
I stopped and looked past my knees, where a small snail peered up from the pavement. "Hey,” he called again. "Where you going?"
"Pinehurst," I said. "A couple blocks up."
The snail blinked its tiny beige eyes. "You think could help me out here buddy?"
I looked around to make sure no one was watching. The street was empty, save for a few budding poplars and the open mouths of garage doors. I knelt down close. "Do you need a lift?" I asked.
"Buddy, that would be great. Tell you what. Why don't you pick me up real careful-like and put me on your shoulder?"
"Sure," I said. I pinched his cinnamon-brown shell and plucked him from the ground with a small plop.
"This is just great," he said from his new perch. "It really is. You're a champ, you know that? A real gentleman. Say buddy, you don't live around here, do you?"
"Used to," I told him. "I live in Seattle now."
"No kidding? I had an uncle who lived in Seattle. Said he hated it. Real crumb-bum weather, he said."
We passed Dillon St. The smell of cut grass mingled with the warm exhaust of automobiles rolling in off I-80. In the gutter of a nearby house, an old bird whistled as she fixed her nest, weaving in twigs and bits of trash. I looked at the sun, keeping my eyes half closed to hold the tiny gold spires shimmering in my lashes.
"This is just great, buddy. I can't thank you enough for picking me up. I really can't. People aren't too friendly these days."
"It's rough out there," I said.
"It sure is, Buddy. It sure is."
* * *
When we got to Pinehurst, I asked the snail where he wanted to be dropped off. He swiveled his head from side to side, mumbling something about a friend who hadn't yet arrived. I told him that he was welcome to wait inside as long as he didn't mind if I played the piano. He brightened, and told me that would be swell.
I got myself a glass of water before playing, and I asked the snail if he'd like something to drink, too. He said yes please, so I poured some of my water into a cap from an empty soda bottle. I took my glass, the snail, and the cap upstairs and set them in a row on top of the piano, my small audience of three.
I played a couple of scales to start out, then I did and old jazz tune, "I Left My Sugar Standing in the Rain." I didn't sing too loud, because I'm self-conscious about my voice. When I finished, the snail whistled and cheered.
"Buddy," he said. "That's some hot stuff right there. It really is. How long have you been playing for?"
"A long time," I told him.
"That's just great buddy. Why don't you play me something else?"
I played another jazz tune, and then I did a couple of my own. When I finished, I asked him what he thought.
"They're good buddy. Real good. You've got a lot of heart, you know that? There's a lot of feeling there."
I asked him how my voice sounded.
"Not great, buddy. I'm not going to lie to you. But you've got heart. I wouldn't make something like that up."
"Thanks," I told him. "That means a lot."
* * *
Evelyn called around six p.m. Earlier, when the snail's friend still hadn't shown up, I offered him something to eat, and we had cereal. I put a single cornflake in his cap and splashed a few drops of milk over it. He was halfway through the flake when I answered my phone.
"Hey," Evelyn said. She sounded like she was chewing on something hard. "Your mom okay?"
"She's good," I told her. "The surgery went well."
The snail oozed to my elbow and jerked his head back. Taking the cue, I placed him on my shoulder and he leaned close to my ear. "You still coming out tonight?" Evelyn asked.
I looked down at the snail. He shrugged. "Sure," I said. "Should I drive?"
"No. I'm bringing Beth, so I'll drive. We'll pick you up at eight."
"Beth's coming?" I asked, but she had already hung up the phone.
"Who was that, buddy-boy?"
"Someone I used to know," I told him. I tapped my fingers on the table for a minute, and then I looked at the snail. "Do you want to come out with me tonight?"
"Buddy," he smiled. "You're too good to me. You know that?"
"I know," I told him. "Let's finish eating and get dressed."
II
We decided I should wear my red flannel shirt since it was warm and the snail could sit inside the breast pocket. While we inspected the shirt in the mirror, I mentioned that I didn't know how the girls would react to my bringing along someone they hadn't met. I put it as delicately as possible, and he took it well. He said he just wanted to listen in, anyway.
At eight we stood in front of the house and waited for the girls to arrive. It began raining, so we stood close to the garage, and I smoked a cigarette. He asked if we could share, so I blew smoke across my shoulder. He coughed lightly and told me I was a true charmer.
A few minutes after eight, Evelyn's headlights swept into the driveway. I flicked my cigarette to the curb and the snail flopped into my pocket. When I sat down in the backseat, Evelyn and Beth turned to look at me.
"I didn't know you smoked," Evelyn said. Her voice was raw and coarse and flat.
"I don't smoke," I said.
Evelyn threw the car in reverse. The engine wheezed as we backed out of the driveway, choked when she kicked it into first gear. She stared straight through the windshield, her jaw clenching and unclenching, the muscles at the corners of her mouth knotting and falling loose. Her hair was cut short. It ran close to her head, blond glowing gold in the muted light. She looked very beautiful driving too fast on the wet road.
I realized Beth was still twisted around and smiling, her upper lip tucked awkwardly behind the lower. Her huge, amphibious eyes were unblinking and filled with the smeary red-and-green of passing signals.
"Did you notice I'm wearing E's hair?" she asked. Her hair, too, was cut close to the scalp.
"No. When did you get it cut?"
"Not that, stupid," she said, looking at the car roof as she patted the back of her head. "I mean this." She brought her hand forward, fishing a six-inch fox-tail from just behind her ear. Red-and-blond, a lock of Evelyn's hair.
"Evelyn," I said, leaning forward, "do you keep a bag of your old hair?"
"What?" She glared at me in the rear-view mirror, eyes carved from arctic ice. "I donated it," she said. "I just made a couple hair-clips first is all." She fussed with the radio, and staticy guitar swamped the backseat. I felt the snail wriggling in my pocket. His eyes crested the top of the fabric.
"Hey buddy," he whispered. "What's going on? Your heart's thumping like a mad-man down here."
"See that girl?" I whispered back, jerking my head to the left. "The one driving? I think I'm in love with her."
"Really?" I couldn't tell if he was incredulous or impressed. "What do you like about her?"
I thought about it. "She's mean.”
Evelyn turned down the radio. "What?"
"Nothing," I said.
"You were just whispering."
"No I wasn't," I said. "I don't whisper."
She shook her head and turned the radio back up. Beth turned around again. "It’s been like what, four years?” she shouted. “How long are you down for?"
"Until my mom's better," I yelled back. "Probably only a couple weeks."
"Is it good to be back?"
"I don't know. Do you still like it here?"
She drew her small lips into a compact smile. ”Sometimes," she said.
"Hey buddy," the snail whispered after Beth turned back around. "Hey buddy, where we going?"
"A party," I told him. "A friend of Evelyn's."
"You excited?"
I thought about it. "I don't know."
Evelyn snapped off the radio. "I swear to god you're whispering."
"I don't whisper," I said.
She brought the car to an abrupt halt. "Whatever. We're here."
* * *
I took another shot of Sailor Jerry's and caught Beth drooling on herself. Before thumbing the spittle from the corner of her mouth, she looked to make sure no one was watching. I politely turned the other way.
The house, by now, was brimming with bodies, overflowing with smoke. Wherever I looked, I saw huge, colorful tees and sloppy halter-tops; clean-shaven chins and glossy lower lips. Even peoples' shoes were pristine, crisp laces running back and forth, sharp as razor blades.
Evelyn stood on the other side of Beth. She picked at the rim of her red plastic cup, looking bored. When I turned to look at her again, she was gone. More shoes and breasts filed slowly through the door, sand through an hourglass. Pictures rattled against the wall.
"Hey," Beth said. "Want to take another shot?"
"Sure." I was already drunk, but I liked the idea of having something to do.
Beth poured the shots and we took them. My stomach belly-flopped, and Beth inched closer. Her perfume filled my nose, grape-candy and hair-spray. I could feel my face turning green.
"Are you having a good time?" she asked.
"Sure," I said, but the word felt swollen and tasteless in my mouth. "Do you think Evelyn's having a good time?"
Her face crumpled into a pout. "Who cares? She never has a good time."
"Really?" I was looking for her around the room.
"Yes!" Beth bleated. "I think she hates everyone sometimes."
"Me too," I said. "I kind of like it."
"God you're absolutely drunk, aren't you?" Beth sounded hysterical.
"Yes," I said. " I think I need to use the bathroom."
* * *
Looking in the mirror was a bad idea. My face was shock white and empty. Both eyes blurry red. Even my lips looked swollen. I took the snail out of my pocket and set him on the rim of the sink.
“What's up, buddy?”
"I don’t know,” I said, nearly losing my balance and falling into the bathroom door. "I don't think things are going very well."
"I've got to tell you bud, you're looking pretty crumb-bum right about now." When I lowered my eyes, he said, "But I think you've got a really good chance with that other girl, the one with the wonky teeth and big eyes."
I shook my head. "She doesn't make me feel like anything," I explained. "She makes me feel normal."
The snail looked on sympathetically. He didn't have anything to say to that.
"I'm just scared," I told him.
"I know you are, buddy, but let's hurry up. Someone's knocking."
* * *
I found Evelyn leaning against the wall, her attention focused on something lodged beneath her nails. I wanted to tell her that she had a very nice stare, the way her eyes cut into things.
"No one's even said anything about my dress," Beth blubbered. I looked at the floral-pattern tablecloth she was wearing. "I mean, would it kill you to say you like my dress?"
I looked past her eyes, to the lock of hair swinging quietly behind her left ear, the red-and-blond fox-tail. I opened my mouth and closed it again. I looked at my shoes. They were old, and the laces didn't match. One set was green, the other, purple. They almost looked like snakes. I imagined that snakes were holding my shoes together for a small daily wage, and it made me smile.
"You suck, you know that?" Beth prodded me in the chest. Below her stubby pink finger, the snakes evaporated, leaving behind only tattered, discolored cloth. Evelyn looked over before focusing on her nails more intensely.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm sorry that I suck." I broke away and slid my back along the wall, close to Evelyn.
"I like the way you stare at things," I said. "And I think you're really mean."
She looked up. "What?"
I leaned forward and kissed her cheek. She didn't move or close her eyes. I pulled my head back.
"Your stare is really nice," I said again as she walked away.
Beth's shoulders bucked. She covered her face, and I fished my cigarettes from my pocket.
I took a final look at the room on my way through the door, and everything was blurry watercolor, purple-red. I squinted, and a crescent-moon smile wobbled into focus from across the room. It belonged to a tall guy in a pea coat and red cap. He was talking to Evelyn. He said something and she laughed. He jerked his shoulder toward the door, and she ran a couple fingers through her hair.
III
I sat with my legs spread and my elbows propped on my knees, water soaking through the seat of my pants. The snail sat between my shoes. I blew smoke in his face without him having to ask.
"You look upset there, bud," he said finally.
"Yeah?" I stubbed out my smoke and lit another.
"You're letting that girl get to you. That's bad news. You know it’s bad news."
A couple stumbled out of the house, hands crammed in each other’s back pockets. They swayed left and right, zigzagging to a green four-door. The girl retrieved a tangle of keys from her purse, wobbling precariously on her heels as she fumbled with the driver-side door. When she dropped the keys, her male passenger wrapped his arms around her waist. He pressed her to the car and kissed the back of her neck. They forgot about the keys.
"I know it's bad news," I said. "But I like bad news. I do pretty okay with bad news."
The snail considered this. "You're a weird one buddy, but like I said, you've got a lot of heart."
"Thanks."
I heard the door open again and when I turned around, I saw Evelyn hovering behind me. "I knew you smoked," she said.
I exhaled a thick cloud of the stuff. "Yeah. I guess I do."
She stood with her hands on her hips, head turned aside. The long curve of her neck was exposed, like the bow of an ivory ship. I knew that right then I could stand, take her small waist in my hands and press my lips against her neck, that she would turn her head against me and I would smell tea and citrus in her hair, and that I could wedge a palm between her shoulder blades and hold her even closer, that we could just be like that, standing on a wet driveway in a strange neighborhood.
"Who were you talking to?" she asked finally.
I placed the snail on my palm and lifted him up for her to see. I wondered if he would call her "buddy," too.
"You're out here by yourself," she said carefully, sifting through each word, "talking to a snail?"
I thought about it. "Yes."
Her voice cracked. "What's wrong with you?"
I thought about that, too. "I don't know," I said. I put the snail down. She stood there with her arms crossed, shivering. I took a deep breath and held it. "Can I ask you something?"
She looked up from the pavement. "What?"
"Do you remember the first time I kissed you?"
Evelyn rolled her eyes to one side, then to the other. She sucked air through her teeth and the muscles in her jaw flexed.
"Yeah," she said. "Why?"
"I don't know. I can't remember it that well, I guess. Only that it was nice. I remember that it was really nice."
I didn't want to look at Evelyn, so I looked at the snail instead. He was lifting his head like he wanted to sit on my shoulder, so I obliged him. Evelyn stormed over, snatched the snail from his perch, and hurled him into the side of the house. I heard his shell pop. I heard small bits rain down on the driveway.
"People don't just say things like that!" she screamed. "People don't say they don't smoke when they obviously do, or ask people if they keep bags of their old hair! They don't ask their exes stupid questions, and they don't fucking pretend that they can talk to a fucking snail!"
Evelyn stormed inside the house and I stood alone on the driveway. In the dark, with a handful of stars blinking overhead, it was like being in space. The rusted Cadillacs lining the street were planets, the greasy paper bags tumbling through the gutters satellites, meteors, and bits of frozen ice. After a moment, Evelyn burst from the house with Beth in tow, her big, unappreciated table-cloth dress fluttering behind her. They slammed the doors of Evelyn's car and sped away. They squeaked around the corner at the end of the street, and the smell of burnt rubber reached my nose.
I dove into the flowerbed.
"Buddy," came the snail's faint voice. "I'm over here buddy. By the daises."
I parted a small sea of white and saw the snail laying the dirt, naked save for a few bits of shrapnel clinging to his back. "I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to get you into this."
"It's okay buddy. I don't want you to beat yourself up over it." The snail was trembling a little, but his voice was steady. "You can't help this kind of thing. You've got too much heart. Kids like you get in a lot of trouble."
I nodded, trying hard to stifle tears.
"It's okay buddy. There there. Tell you what. Why don't you pick me up real careful-like and find us a good spot to lay down inside? I saw some carpet in the living room. What do you say, buddy?"
"Okay," I said, and I wiped my nose. We went in and I got glass of water for myself and a cap for the snail. I carried everything into the living room, which had cleared out, more or less. Someone was passed out and mumbling in the corner, so I took the opposite side. I sprawled face-down and set the snail near my ribs. The alcohol was thick and spinning in my head, so I kept my eyes open. I watched clean shoes dance across the hardwood floor of the next room.
"See buddy? It's not so bad, is it?"
"I don't know," I said. "I'm really sorry about your shell."
"These things happen, buddy. I mean, I could be upset about my shell. Sure I could."
I sniffed and looked at him.
"Or, you know what else I could do? I could start telling people I'm a slug. What do you think about that?"
"That's pretty good," I said.
When the spinning stopped, I closed my eyes and felt vibrations moving through the floor. I didn't know where they were coming from, or what they meant. I still felt like I was in space. I couldn't get the smell of burnt rubber out of my nose. It smelled like a torched shuttle, like the charred remains of my perished crew. I imagined I was floating from the wreckage, the flames lapping, over and over and over, at the vast emptiness between planets. Space. It was a hard concept to wrap my head around.
Then, the snail wriggled close and kissed me on the cheek, lightly, a small peck. I know it sounds strange, but I'm actually glad he did it. I'm thankful. I don't think I would have made it through that night alone.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Meager, self-obsessive gruel
Dear blog,
I've been wanting to write something in you for some time now (image: tattooing the heart, X marks the spot), but I'm saving my good story, the one about the snail, for later, and I've quit writing poetry since we last met. Where does that leave us? Don't worry, dear blog, I won't turn you into a journal, not entirely, not yet. My regurgitation of daily events will at least be frilled with fine lace and white lies. Still, I regret to say that I can no longer avoid the mundane or skirt the commonplace... which brings me to the fact that, right now, my back is fucking killing me.
As far as I can tell, some phantom is digging his thumb into the right side of my spine, somewhere between my shoulder blades. The sensation spikes when I turn my head, breath, or otherwise try to function as a human being; the phantom clutches the top of my head and drives that long-nailed thumb deep into the tangle of nerves. What I've done to offend this demon, I can't say. There's an entire week of bad deeds to pick from: maybe I'm being punished for drinking chocolate milk straight from the carton, for bumming too many cigarettes, for continuing to hate my dad for reasons I can't quite place (safe to say it's not the Oedipus complex; dad left mom years ago, left her to be fucked by a rotating door of part-time dads: Jerry, Marvin, Steve; maybe that's what it is, an unsettled anger over leaving momma to the dogs). Perhaps it isn't a phantom, but a deity of some kind, the God of Productivity, come to poke me in the spine until my ass lifts from my seat and I get a job (fat chance, brash celestial being: my ass will remain forever planted!).
Whatever the entity, the pain is very real, and it's blocking better thoughts, ideas of any actual interest. I'm thinking that if I keep complaining about it, my uncle will slip me some pain medication, a little taste of sweet narcotic. Sure, my spine will be soothed, but more importantly, my brain will be all filaments and fireworks, bright lights and luminescent words. I could do some real writing. (Then again, I shouldn't be writing this in you now blog, not since I've included it on my professional resume, squeezed in at the very bottom. What will they think, my potential employers? Should I assure them that I don't have a proclivity toward pills, or would such an assurance only confirm their suspicions? I suppose it doesn't matter. I suspect that I'll kill myself before finding a job anyway.) Until then, dear blog, I hope you can survive on this meager, self-obsessive gruel.
I've been wanting to write something in you for some time now (image: tattooing the heart, X marks the spot), but I'm saving my good story, the one about the snail, for later, and I've quit writing poetry since we last met. Where does that leave us? Don't worry, dear blog, I won't turn you into a journal, not entirely, not yet. My regurgitation of daily events will at least be frilled with fine lace and white lies. Still, I regret to say that I can no longer avoid the mundane or skirt the commonplace... which brings me to the fact that, right now, my back is fucking killing me.
As far as I can tell, some phantom is digging his thumb into the right side of my spine, somewhere between my shoulder blades. The sensation spikes when I turn my head, breath, or otherwise try to function as a human being; the phantom clutches the top of my head and drives that long-nailed thumb deep into the tangle of nerves. What I've done to offend this demon, I can't say. There's an entire week of bad deeds to pick from: maybe I'm being punished for drinking chocolate milk straight from the carton, for bumming too many cigarettes, for continuing to hate my dad for reasons I can't quite place (safe to say it's not the Oedipus complex; dad left mom years ago, left her to be fucked by a rotating door of part-time dads: Jerry, Marvin, Steve; maybe that's what it is, an unsettled anger over leaving momma to the dogs). Perhaps it isn't a phantom, but a deity of some kind, the God of Productivity, come to poke me in the spine until my ass lifts from my seat and I get a job (fat chance, brash celestial being: my ass will remain forever planted!).
Whatever the entity, the pain is very real, and it's blocking better thoughts, ideas of any actual interest. I'm thinking that if I keep complaining about it, my uncle will slip me some pain medication, a little taste of sweet narcotic. Sure, my spine will be soothed, but more importantly, my brain will be all filaments and fireworks, bright lights and luminescent words. I could do some real writing. (Then again, I shouldn't be writing this in you now blog, not since I've included it on my professional resume, squeezed in at the very bottom. What will they think, my potential employers? Should I assure them that I don't have a proclivity toward pills, or would such an assurance only confirm their suspicions? I suppose it doesn't matter. I suspect that I'll kill myself before finding a job anyway.) Until then, dear blog, I hope you can survive on this meager, self-obsessive gruel.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
A Letter To Jonathan Ames
This is a letter that I recently sent to Mr. Jonathan Ames, author of "The Extra Man," "The Alcoholic," and "My Less Than Secret Life." I became interested in Mr. Ames when I learned that, like myself, he's something of a neurotic mess. So, enough of that. Here goes:
Dear Mr. Ames,
I am writing this letter, in part, to convince you that I am not an insane person. Now, I understand that the evidence might seem to say otherwise; the first line of this letter, for instance, does look a bit incriminating. But what would life be like, Mr. Ames, if we trusted evidence over gut feelings? As an exercise, I'd like you to imagine that you're Ernest Hemmingway. (Are you having fun yet? If not, you should grow a thick beard, or equip a turtle-neck sweater. It might help.) Now, being Hemmingway, start the letter over until you arrive at this point. What would Hemmingway do? Bend over the letter with a magnifying glass and a pair of latex gloves, carefully extracting traces of "crazy," hints of "wack-a-doodle-doo?" Fuck no. Hemmingway would light this letter on fire and use it to light his cigar. Think about that, Mr. Ames. Just think about it.
The second purpose of this letter, and perhaps the more relevant one, is to convince you to hire me as your personal assistant. (In hindsight (which is always 20/20, but no matter looking at that, this letter has already moved forward, and if there's anything anybody knows, it's that you can't revise a letter, that letters have to keep chugging along, like a train, double parenthetical statements and all), I realize I should have included a middle step to this equation, which would have been to convince you that you actually need a personal assistant. But how would I have done that without knowing intimate details of your life? Now we're getting into espionage, weekends spent in shadowy New York alleys, and if I were caught--though you're never supposed to think about getting caught--but if I were... well, I would have lost the sanity claim right then, right? So we'll skip right over that, launch ourselves over that vast unknown to land here, at this conclusion: You need a personal assistant, Mr. Ames.) I have a number of qualities that would lend themselves to an assistantship, though for the sake of your attention span and mine, I'll skip over most of them. I won't go into detail about my computer proficiency or typing speed (although I will mention that both of them are, for lack of a more humble term, god-like). Instead, I'll focus on two or three (most likely three; we must consider form, after all) of my more interesting qualities, assuming that you've already taken me to be something like the Swiss Army Knife of personal assistants.
I'm handsome. Please don't think me vain, Mr. Ames. This is a crucial point to make up front, owing less to my self-absorption than to the human condition. I don't mean to knock ugly people too badly--I'm ugly on the inside, after all--but I think we can agree that dealing with a gnarly, pimple-hedged unibrow on a daily basis might become a bit tiresome, a bit distracting. On the flip side, a gorgeous assistant could be equally problematic. Having an assistant who is merely handsome, however, is like owning a nice lamp, or a houseplant: the presence is nice, but when it finally breaks down or dies, the owner isn't stricken by any true sense of loss. That's the kind of guarantee I can offer here, Mr. Ames. Besides, I make a terrific wing-man and an excellent accompaniment for photographs; again, I'm attractive enough to draw the eye but too plain to hold it.
I'm obsessive-compulsive. This quality lends itself more to the professional than the social. Nail-biters, skin-pickers, and paint-peelers all conduct excellent research, and are perfect for laborious projects. Perhaps it's because work, most especially busy work--is strongly mimetic of fussing over some huge, fleshy mass. You peel away small strips of information, or rip clean an entire task, like a hangnail. I'm a whittler, Mr. Ames, and I suspect that you've got an ungodly amount of whittling that needs doing. Ask yourself, would you like to continue fussing over tedious documents and dry texts, growling older with each scratch of your pen, dying in your goddamn office chair? Or, instead, would you prefer to sip on a can of freshly-delivered ice tea, having handed those tedious troubles over in a clean manila envelope? Let me do the dying for you, Mr. Ames.
I'm insane. Now, this might seem contradictory to my first statement, that I am not an insane person. Fair enough. The two do seem to clash. Still, I think that if anyone could sight the value of working with an insane person, it would be you. I hope you don't take this as an insult, and if your writing is anything to judge by, you won't. Just know that I too read books as a confirmation that I'm not too sick to function, that suicide isn't necessary, at least not just yet. And here we are, arriving now, in the third bullet, at the point in which I throw this entire scam aside and thank you, quite sincerely, for your writing. So thank you, from one insane person to another. (Now, back to the show!)
In conclusion, Mr. Ames, you most likely suffer from a seriously debilitating mental disorder if, after reading my business proposition, you choose not to hire me. Short of offering regular vehicular blowjobs (which I don't think any writer can legally afford in an assistant), I am the ideal candidate for the position. I am the Jesus Christ of personal assistants. Ask yourself: Is that something you really want to fuck with?
I look forward to your response, Mr. Ames. Thank you for reading and responding to this email; your time and consideration is more appreciated than you know. And please, please remember, when taking everything into consideration in this matter, don't be a pussy. Hemmingway sure as hell wouldn't.
Sincerely,
Robert Lamirande
Dear Mr. Ames,
I am writing this letter, in part, to convince you that I am not an insane person. Now, I understand that the evidence might seem to say otherwise; the first line of this letter, for instance, does look a bit incriminating. But what would life be like, Mr. Ames, if we trusted evidence over gut feelings? As an exercise, I'd like you to imagine that you're Ernest Hemmingway. (Are you having fun yet? If not, you should grow a thick beard, or equip a turtle-neck sweater. It might help.) Now, being Hemmingway, start the letter over until you arrive at this point. What would Hemmingway do? Bend over the letter with a magnifying glass and a pair of latex gloves, carefully extracting traces of "crazy," hints of "wack-a-doodle-doo?" Fuck no. Hemmingway would light this letter on fire and use it to light his cigar. Think about that, Mr. Ames. Just think about it.
The second purpose of this letter, and perhaps the more relevant one, is to convince you to hire me as your personal assistant. (In hindsight (which is always 20/20, but no matter looking at that, this letter has already moved forward, and if there's anything anybody knows, it's that you can't revise a letter, that letters have to keep chugging along, like a train, double parenthetical statements and all), I realize I should have included a middle step to this equation, which would have been to convince you that you actually need a personal assistant. But how would I have done that without knowing intimate details of your life? Now we're getting into espionage, weekends spent in shadowy New York alleys, and if I were caught--though you're never supposed to think about getting caught--but if I were... well, I would have lost the sanity claim right then, right? So we'll skip right over that, launch ourselves over that vast unknown to land here, at this conclusion: You need a personal assistant, Mr. Ames.) I have a number of qualities that would lend themselves to an assistantship, though for the sake of your attention span and mine, I'll skip over most of them. I won't go into detail about my computer proficiency or typing speed (although I will mention that both of them are, for lack of a more humble term, god-like). Instead, I'll focus on two or three (most likely three; we must consider form, after all) of my more interesting qualities, assuming that you've already taken me to be something like the Swiss Army Knife of personal assistants.
I'm handsome. Please don't think me vain, Mr. Ames. This is a crucial point to make up front, owing less to my self-absorption than to the human condition. I don't mean to knock ugly people too badly--I'm ugly on the inside, after all--but I think we can agree that dealing with a gnarly, pimple-hedged unibrow on a daily basis might become a bit tiresome, a bit distracting. On the flip side, a gorgeous assistant could be equally problematic. Having an assistant who is merely handsome, however, is like owning a nice lamp, or a houseplant: the presence is nice, but when it finally breaks down or dies, the owner isn't stricken by any true sense of loss. That's the kind of guarantee I can offer here, Mr. Ames. Besides, I make a terrific wing-man and an excellent accompaniment for photographs; again, I'm attractive enough to draw the eye but too plain to hold it.
I'm obsessive-compulsive. This quality lends itself more to the professional than the social. Nail-biters, skin-pickers, and paint-peelers all conduct excellent research, and are perfect for laborious projects. Perhaps it's because work, most especially busy work--is strongly mimetic of fussing over some huge, fleshy mass. You peel away small strips of information, or rip clean an entire task, like a hangnail. I'm a whittler, Mr. Ames, and I suspect that you've got an ungodly amount of whittling that needs doing. Ask yourself, would you like to continue fussing over tedious documents and dry texts, growling older with each scratch of your pen, dying in your goddamn office chair? Or, instead, would you prefer to sip on a can of freshly-delivered ice tea, having handed those tedious troubles over in a clean manila envelope? Let me do the dying for you, Mr. Ames.
I'm insane. Now, this might seem contradictory to my first statement, that I am not an insane person. Fair enough. The two do seem to clash. Still, I think that if anyone could sight the value of working with an insane person, it would be you. I hope you don't take this as an insult, and if your writing is anything to judge by, you won't. Just know that I too read books as a confirmation that I'm not too sick to function, that suicide isn't necessary, at least not just yet. And here we are, arriving now, in the third bullet, at the point in which I throw this entire scam aside and thank you, quite sincerely, for your writing. So thank you, from one insane person to another. (Now, back to the show!)
In conclusion, Mr. Ames, you most likely suffer from a seriously debilitating mental disorder if, after reading my business proposition, you choose not to hire me. Short of offering regular vehicular blowjobs (which I don't think any writer can legally afford in an assistant), I am the ideal candidate for the position. I am the Jesus Christ of personal assistants. Ask yourself: Is that something you really want to fuck with?
I look forward to your response, Mr. Ames. Thank you for reading and responding to this email; your time and consideration is more appreciated than you know. And please, please remember, when taking everything into consideration in this matter, don't be a pussy. Hemmingway sure as hell wouldn't.
Sincerely,
Robert Lamirande
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