In the summer of 1967, as we did every summer, my family vacationed in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, in our dilapidated old house that my father purchased in 1960 for four hundred dollars, not exactly on Lake Michigan, but just across the highway from it on a dirt road, if you can call it that. It is just five miles into the U.P. after crossing the Mackinac Bridge and considered part of the town of St. Ignace.
Over the years, the house has been “improved” upon here and there, but it is not what you would ever call grand. In the beginning, it had no electricity or plumbing but thanks to my mother, both were installed after the first two years of roughing it, starting with a real bathroom. Since then it’s had a wood floor laid down, the antiquated fireplace rebuilt with stones collected by all of us in a big summer project in 1963 and a fairly decent kitchen put in; that is, a gas stove, an old refrigerator a neighbor was getting rid of, a recycled sink from the local dump and cupboards made by my father. All this was done without turning what we call a camp into anything resembling a modern home which is just the way we like it. It has three knotty pine bedrooms, one for Mom and Dad, one for the girls and one for the boys. If we had guests, they slept on the couches in the living room or in sleeping bags anywhere they cared to. We also have a little one-room shack, our playhouse, that has a small bed and a table with a kerosene lantern for any guest important enough to rate their own room. We have a couple of tents but after a family of bears came clamoring around them in 1965, no one wants to sleep in them except unsuspecting rubes from the city gung ho to experience the great outdoors.
Though it seems to be a wilderness, the town boasts a school, two churches, a library, the only one within two hundred miles, a bakery/restaurant and a general store that sells gas, firewood, bait, and anything else the owner, Mrs. Gutzman, a wily widow who pumped the gas herself in any weather until she was ninety-two, decided to stock. It was always an eclectic offering and we, my brothers and sister, looked forward to her surprise offerings each summer. In 1964 she sold 45 rpm records to cash in on the Beatles and the British invasion. Another year she sold moccasins with a sign that said “Handmade by local Indians,” though we did notice the Made in Taiwan stamp on the inside. She also sold homemade ice cream one year that kept melting before she could stack it into cones. And every year she sold pasties, those Cornish turnovers of meat and potatoes that are a U.P. staple.
My family consists of Mother, my older sister Deborah, my older brother Martin, myself, the middle child Rebecca but called Becks and my younger brother Tim. My father passed away last winter and we were not even sure we were going to make the trip this year, so fraught with peril did it seem without him but Deborah talked us into it. She was writing her dissertation and wanted time alone to think, write and collect information in the area so she came up before our regularly scheduled time, the last two weeks in July. Deborah and Martin are a little older than Tim and myself. In fact, they are adults though neither is married yet; Martin is twenty-six and Deborah, don’t-you-dare-call-me-Debbi, is twenty-four working on her master’s. I am seventeen and Tim is only fourteen, just starting high school. He is the only athlete in our family of avid readers, shuns books, is good with his hands and resembles our father.
This particular summer, the first without our beloved Dad, got off to an auspicious start when Mother’s cousin Jeanette showed up alone saying her “goddamn hillbilly, stupid ass old husband” kicked her out and she had nowhere to go. She traveled all the way up from Kentucky in an old pickup truck with bald tires and one suitcase. She was plenty riled and proceeded to buy out Mrs. Gutzman’s supply of Boone’s Farm Apple Wine and cracked the first seal in the parking lot. She asked Tim to drive her back because she wasn’t in any condition. Tim had to sheepishly say he didn’t have a driver’s license yet and her reply was “So goddamn what? Drive this piece of shit.” He then had to admit he really didn’t know how to drive a stick shift and all hell broke loose from her mouth, a woman known to curse up a blue streak in the best of times. She pushed Tim aside, got in the truck and took off leaving him in the dust. He had to hitchhike back.
Mother spent the first day trying to calm Jeanette down and get her settled into the playhouse she was reluctant to stay in because she couldn’t find her way to the bathroom from out there. She wanted to sleep with Mother who couldn’t quite accept sleeping with her drunken cousin in the bed where her husband, until recently, slept. “Oh hell, Bernice, can the sentiment. Husbands are a dime a dozen, you’ll find a new one,” she said, which set Mother on a crying jag that lasted long into the night.
But that was just the beginning of our first summer without Dad. Deborah had literally taken over the living room and turned it into a sort of library/office/newsroom with hundreds of books and pamphlets, newspapers and old prints, a typewriter and a file cabinet. These “resources” covered the couches, the chairs, the table, half the floor and even the shelf in the shed. She had really made herself at home in the two weeks she’d been here alone and I guess I could see the need but really, she could have made an attempt to get the place ready for our vacation that always included a fire in the fireplace complete with marshmallows every night, music on the old phonograph and card games played on the old pine table, also made by Dad. Now we were barely allowed in our own living room for fear of messing up Deb’s piles of books and notes. Mother was unable to deal with Jeanette and Deborah and the loss of Dad, who I have to say, was a class act and would not have brooked any aggression or sass from these two high-strung locusts, and would always maintain perfect harmony. He had a way about him, that’s all I can say without bawling myself. His death has left Martin edgy, Tim quiet and lost. Mother and I cry a lot and Deborah sulks and throws tantrums.
Things settled down eventually and with an unusually warm summer, we stayed at the beach all day and sometimes into the night and roasted our marshmallows in the sand--building a fire and sharing with our neighbors and any vacationers who just happened by leaving the living room to Deb. We got used to it and decided in the interest of saving Mother additional grief, we would not fight or squabble. That is until one day a book was found missing, sending Deborah into a tailspin with everyone turning the place upside down trying to find it. “The worst part is,” she cried, “that it’s from the library and I won’t be able to return it at the end of the week.” She was afraid of the old librarian, Miss Stackpole, who would reproach anyone with an overdue book, a turned corner or god forbid, pencil markings. What would she say about a lost book? Deborah was horrified at the thought of telling her.
Martin, who’d been both fishing and blueberry picking for the day and missed all the hysteria, came in happy and tired with his bounty and was immediately apprised of the situation, i.e. the lost book. But instead of going along with Deb’s mania, calmly asked if it was a book by Piaget and when Deb’s face lit up, ready for him to tell her where it was, coldly said he threw it away.
Well, the hysteria then turned to frenzy, then back to hysteria then on to panic where it sidled up in a state a sheer madness. Deborah lost it. While she was blubbering and shrieking, Mother asked Martin if he were sure or if it might just be in the shed or outside somewhere. Martin repeated that he was quite sure he’d thrown it out. “It was just lying in the shed, the cover was worn, the book itself was completely outdated, Piaget has long since issued revised editions so I just tossed it out with the wine bottles and fish guts. I thought it was mine from college and saw no reason to keep it around.”
Oh dear, the howling from my sister after hearing that. She snarled and scratched and almost attacked Martin but she knew better than that--Martin never understood the concept of not hitting women if they happened to be sisters. He just replied in a deadly hiss, “Why don’t you just fuck off?” Right in front of Mother which stopped everyone cold. Mother didn’t quite know how to react; Martin after all wasn’t her little boy anymore. She couldn’t very well wash his mouth out with soap. She was just glad Tim was still at the beach and didn’t hear it. It was a more innocent time.
Martin and Deborah didn’t speak to each other for the rest of our vacation and avoided contact completely and totally. It’s too bad because they used to be so much fun playing Scrabble, both literate types and highly competitive. Martin picked a lot of blueberries that year and Deborah paced the living room smoking cigarettes from an ebony holder making it seem so glamorous. She still had not gone to tell Miss Stackpole that she’d done the unforgivable, lost one of the library’s precious books. Mother offered to go to the library with her but Deb curtly replied she’d handle it herself, she wasn’t a coward but that if she had to pay for it, Martin was going to cough up the dough.
On the day the book was due, Deb got herself dressed up properly and was heading out the door when Tim, on her heals said he’d go with her. Now this had to be the first time Tim ever voluntarily entered a library and when you consider that Martin and his local friends were going out on a boat that morning, this came as something of a shock. “Becks, did you hear that, did I hear right?” Deb asked. I said I thought I might have heard wrong myself and we stared at Tim with open mouths. “I just thought I’d like to go see what all the fuss is about. I mean, books or something. What’s the big deal about them anyway? Besides, if the old bag in charge gives you any trouble, I’ll be there to help you out.” We both looked at him and laughed. He was small for his age but was for the most part scrappy. And adorable. I didn’t ever say that out loud because he’d hate it. He wanted to be a man and was a little rough and tumble but had many endearing qualities, as I said, resembling our father.
So off went Tim and Deb to face old Stackpole and I went swimming with Mother and Jeanette, really working on our tans and drinking Coca-Cola. When we went back for lunch, Deb pulled in, slammed the car door, her fists were balled and she had a pale slightly bewildered look on her face and Tim had a book in his hand and was actually reading it, a sight we’d really never encountered before. Mother and I both did a double take on that one but before we could investigate, Deb wasted no time telling us that not only did she have to pay for the book, she was to return everything she’d borrowed until it was paid for and that the charge was thirty-five dollars. “For an outdated, ragged-ass book no one in this town would ever want to read!” She was livid and her makeup was melting on her face. Apparently she’d had words to that effect with Miss Stackpole who would not budge. When Deb demanded to know how the price was determined, she said it was private information not available to patrons. Deb marched out of the library vowing never to return to which Miss Stackpole said in that case she would probably have to send the police to pick up the other materials; her nephew happened to be on the police force and she could count on him to which Deb blew a gasket and rattled the set of old wooden double doors trying to get out, nearly shattering the glass panes.
Tim, trying not to get involved unless needed perused the bookshelves and began talking to a young lady who was fascinated with a book on birds of the U.P. Tim, trying hard not to appear ignorant or for that matter, with the woman coming unglued, said he might be interested in a book himself, that he needed something to read while here on vacation and she recommended a book on bears of the U.P., mentioning she might be at the beach later looking for piper plovers, her favorite bird.
Deb very calmly informed Martin that evening that the price of the book was thirty-five dollars and he would have to pay it. He only said “bullshit,” and went out to clean fish. We had two more days of tense silence before Mother intervened and suggested that since Martin threw the book away, he should pay for it. “That’s bullshit!” is what came out of him though he apologized to Mother for his language and said he would try not to cuss in her presence but that he was mad as hell and would not be ripped for thirty-five dollars for a useless book in terrible condition from a hick-town library. Mother said they should go and speak to Miss Stackpole and see if a more reasonable sum could be agreed on. Martin refused to step foot in the library but said he’d pay “something” if a more rational price was charged. He thought six dollars tops even though he knew it would fetch nothing in a used book store. He was sick of the whole fiasco but wanted to salvage the vacation.
So in the end, Mother went to see Miss Stackpole and agreed to fill in at the library for three days so Miss Stackpole could visit her sister in Traverse City and that is how she ended up with a job unexpectedly. Before she married Dad she had been a teacher. She continued to work in the library during the summer from 1967 on. Deb wrote her dissertation on the child-rearing methods of the Ojibwe Indians and later a book on the tribes of the Great Lakes region. Tim became something of a bookworm after that trip to the library especially when it was learned he needed glasses all this time but “who knew?” said Mother.
Jeanette went back to Kentucky and her “old goddamn son-of-a-bitch husband” though she could always be counted on to show up unexpectedly from time to time. Martin is still Martin, a psychologist, only now he is married to Paula who has to constantly remind him to watch his mouth. I became a writer like my sister and am working on my first novel set in the U.P. We still have our vacation house and last year we had to put on a new roof but otherwise everything remains the same. We survived Mrs. Gutzman’s death and the first thing her son did was install self-service pumps but that wasn’t until 1978. She lived to be one hundred and three. Her son also opened a pretty nice restaurant and gift shop that brought a lot of tourists to the area. Miss Stackpole retired and never bothered to replace Piaget’s book; she knew it was all “bullshit.” Tim owns a bookstore in Greenwich Village in New York that is a living shrine to Jack Kerouac.
We still miss our father, who loved the U.P. and sang a little song he made up when crossing the Mackinac Bridge. We sing it at the top of our lungs driving across this majestic expansion over the friendliest lake in the world to the warmest place in our heart. Sometimes this makes Mother cry but then she laughs. She never found a replacement for Dad and I don’t think she even tried; some people are irreplaceable and that’s just the way we like it.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
#49 SARCASM: THE FINE ART OF ANTAGONISM
Here I am at Day Three of the writing camp, Put Some Funny in Your Writing, where we are to learn the techniques of humor-writing, the ability to make laughter. I came to this workshop because I want to write biting, scathing, loathing political Satire, or so I thought.
We, the ten of us in the workshop, minus the one who only comes at the end, out of breath and frenzied, are about to begin an exercise using Sarcasm to make a point and to realize just how subversive humor is, or can be. If I ever get off, so to speak, in this workshop, in a strange city, coming here in frightful fear, and trying to be funny which I have not, I freely admit, been so far, I will consider it all worth it. I keep scribbling, hoping for something riotous to dash out of me. It’s still dodging me but who’s keeping score?
It has been said that we are in dire need of humor just now. Whenever someone says that it means the world is in a pile of hurt and the only remedy is to laugh at things. If that’s the case, I sense job opportunity. But then I forget, jobs are over. Some say humor is life-saving, some say life-giving. Some say it’s just a good time. Some have no sense of humor and never give it a thought but are a big drag on others.
There will always be a need for the really, truly Sarcastic barb. It can be in the form of either Exaggeration or Understatement studied in Day Two of this workshop in which I wrote about my husband, Mr. X and his use of Exaggeration. But Sarcasm implies a deeper meanness. For some, mean has meaning, but I’m getting ridiculous, albeit, still not funny.
Our assignment for today was to read the morning paper or the morning screen or have it filtered right into our brain via an invisible microscopic tube that only a select number of really-in-the-know geeks own at this time, then run it through the humor mill and come out with funny insights. This is called political Satire, which was my proclivity until I got into this workshop, have fallen into trouble and find it nearly impossible to unearth my funny bone which I’m certain I recently had and used regularly. I’m not remotely amusing and did think of dropping out for lack of funniness but then thought the biting, scathing, loathing Sarcasm I’d come in search of was to be the antidote to my troubles. Instead I find I’d like to think of something more ephemeral, subtle and leave the biting to those with stronger teeth at this time.
I’ve decided to keep it light because if I get started I’m afraid I will not be able to stop the biting, scathing, loathing that I feel. I once had a room go silent, so awful were my few sentences of Sarcasm. It was in a workshop on writing for the arts and entertainment world. I may have overdone it with my six-sentence story of an American guy who went to Iraq to make friends, hook everyone up to cable and got beheaded in the process. It had been in the news that day and I felt inspired by the sheer loathing antagonism this story brought out of me and I took pleasure reading it to the class, wanting them to feel my angst toward the perpetrators of this heinous deed. I was truly Sarcastic bordering on evil. The others in the workshop cringed and turned away from me. The teacher immediately rebuked me for bringing politics into his little workshop at a hip hotel, mostly for young women hoping to break into Hollywood media. I was the oldest one there, older than the teacher and L.A. gives me a terrible attitude and there I was. My grim little story really got to the teacher and he wouldn’t give me so much as a scrap of recognition henceforth. I knew I’d overplayed my hand and thereafter wrote charming movie reviews: I really outdid myself but it was no use. I reviewed a children’s book and did a feature on celebrity yoga, I wrote a feature on a comedian…trying desperately to edge back gracefully into the effervescent world of the entertainment industry. I was consistently hated. I could not get back to approval or even begrudging respect. I was done in that class. Over sensitive, I thought. Frivolous, I perhaps vaguely hinted at.
But in this workshop political humor is what’s called for. I won’t try to shock anyone this time. But then again, I am actually here to learn biting, scathing, loathing Sarcasm. I just hope I can be side-splitting before this class is finished. Sarcasm is second nature.
As instructed, I read the paper this morning. I generally do anyway. I am weary of the Democrats; I knew they would be tedious despite a charismatic leader. I don’t want to make fun of him as he is our chief and I respect that…but…nothing funny here.
Here’s another story in the news: It is said today that the Israelis and Palestinians might maybe could be thinking about starting new peace negotiations. Both sides say, "yeah, maybe…I’ll get back with you" which is enough for the State Department to issue a bold warning: PEACE THREATENING TO BREAK OUT IN MIDDLE EAST! What could be more resounding? Again, with the peace. The leaders of both states, if you will, feign indifference but know they have to try to make Hillary look good, Obama look good, but not too good. Look what happened when they tried to help Clinton look good: Instant Intifada.
Both leaders say there is nothing new in the alleged treaty they pretend to look over, no details, "nothing is new but we’ll talk." You can be sure there will be bloodshed within…say one week.
I know I am not in the least funny in my scathing, biting observations. I haven’t had much funny lately; I’ve been troubled and I’ve spoken of this before not to bore anyone because I am bored by the very idea of boredom and unhappiness, who said anything about unhappiness anyway? Even the feuding factions have given up worrying about unhappiness and its consequence and now look to find the craziness in the state of affairs because that is what it is and if you can recognize it, dig it up and by your sheer audacious alchemical creativity, turn the supremely unfunny into a frenzy of crazy juice, your fucking, dragging, horrifying, little killing field of a region can be turned on itself by making, not treaties but biting, scathing, loathing jokes about the horror and the stupidity! You will be ridiculed into action or to death. Maybe humor will be the new job opportunity after all.
Okay, that was fun. Or was it funny? Not even. But I got it out of my system. I just hope when I reread it there is some use of Sarcasm because that was the exercise, the meaning of my early morning foray into a writing workshop when I really can’t concentrate and am not in the least funny, have been sleeping on a couch and find the hot, humid weather distracting but stick with me, this is only Day Three, two more to go, as luck would have it. I’m bound to get going, I paid a lot of money to be funny; I have to laugh our troubles away; I have to laugh my troubles away. That’s a lot of troubles. A lot of laughter. And you can’t tell funny, you’ve got to show it. That’s a lot of trouble too.
We, the ten of us in the workshop, minus the one who only comes at the end, out of breath and frenzied, are about to begin an exercise using Sarcasm to make a point and to realize just how subversive humor is, or can be. If I ever get off, so to speak, in this workshop, in a strange city, coming here in frightful fear, and trying to be funny which I have not, I freely admit, been so far, I will consider it all worth it. I keep scribbling, hoping for something riotous to dash out of me. It’s still dodging me but who’s keeping score?
It has been said that we are in dire need of humor just now. Whenever someone says that it means the world is in a pile of hurt and the only remedy is to laugh at things. If that’s the case, I sense job opportunity. But then I forget, jobs are over. Some say humor is life-saving, some say life-giving. Some say it’s just a good time. Some have no sense of humor and never give it a thought but are a big drag on others.
There will always be a need for the really, truly Sarcastic barb. It can be in the form of either Exaggeration or Understatement studied in Day Two of this workshop in which I wrote about my husband, Mr. X and his use of Exaggeration. But Sarcasm implies a deeper meanness. For some, mean has meaning, but I’m getting ridiculous, albeit, still not funny.
Our assignment for today was to read the morning paper or the morning screen or have it filtered right into our brain via an invisible microscopic tube that only a select number of really-in-the-know geeks own at this time, then run it through the humor mill and come out with funny insights. This is called political Satire, which was my proclivity until I got into this workshop, have fallen into trouble and find it nearly impossible to unearth my funny bone which I’m certain I recently had and used regularly. I’m not remotely amusing and did think of dropping out for lack of funniness but then thought the biting, scathing, loathing Sarcasm I’d come in search of was to be the antidote to my troubles. Instead I find I’d like to think of something more ephemeral, subtle and leave the biting to those with stronger teeth at this time.
I’ve decided to keep it light because if I get started I’m afraid I will not be able to stop the biting, scathing, loathing that I feel. I once had a room go silent, so awful were my few sentences of Sarcasm. It was in a workshop on writing for the arts and entertainment world. I may have overdone it with my six-sentence story of an American guy who went to Iraq to make friends, hook everyone up to cable and got beheaded in the process. It had been in the news that day and I felt inspired by the sheer loathing antagonism this story brought out of me and I took pleasure reading it to the class, wanting them to feel my angst toward the perpetrators of this heinous deed. I was truly Sarcastic bordering on evil. The others in the workshop cringed and turned away from me. The teacher immediately rebuked me for bringing politics into his little workshop at a hip hotel, mostly for young women hoping to break into Hollywood media. I was the oldest one there, older than the teacher and L.A. gives me a terrible attitude and there I was. My grim little story really got to the teacher and he wouldn’t give me so much as a scrap of recognition henceforth. I knew I’d overplayed my hand and thereafter wrote charming movie reviews: I really outdid myself but it was no use. I reviewed a children’s book and did a feature on celebrity yoga, I wrote a feature on a comedian…trying desperately to edge back gracefully into the effervescent world of the entertainment industry. I was consistently hated. I could not get back to approval or even begrudging respect. I was done in that class. Over sensitive, I thought. Frivolous, I perhaps vaguely hinted at.
But in this workshop political humor is what’s called for. I won’t try to shock anyone this time. But then again, I am actually here to learn biting, scathing, loathing Sarcasm. I just hope I can be side-splitting before this class is finished. Sarcasm is second nature.
As instructed, I read the paper this morning. I generally do anyway. I am weary of the Democrats; I knew they would be tedious despite a charismatic leader. I don’t want to make fun of him as he is our chief and I respect that…but…nothing funny here.
Here’s another story in the news: It is said today that the Israelis and Palestinians might maybe could be thinking about starting new peace negotiations. Both sides say, "yeah, maybe…I’ll get back with you" which is enough for the State Department to issue a bold warning: PEACE THREATENING TO BREAK OUT IN MIDDLE EAST! What could be more resounding? Again, with the peace. The leaders of both states, if you will, feign indifference but know they have to try to make Hillary look good, Obama look good, but not too good. Look what happened when they tried to help Clinton look good: Instant Intifada.
Both leaders say there is nothing new in the alleged treaty they pretend to look over, no details, "nothing is new but we’ll talk." You can be sure there will be bloodshed within…say one week.
I know I am not in the least funny in my scathing, biting observations. I haven’t had much funny lately; I’ve been troubled and I’ve spoken of this before not to bore anyone because I am bored by the very idea of boredom and unhappiness, who said anything about unhappiness anyway? Even the feuding factions have given up worrying about unhappiness and its consequence and now look to find the craziness in the state of affairs because that is what it is and if you can recognize it, dig it up and by your sheer audacious alchemical creativity, turn the supremely unfunny into a frenzy of crazy juice, your fucking, dragging, horrifying, little killing field of a region can be turned on itself by making, not treaties but biting, scathing, loathing jokes about the horror and the stupidity! You will be ridiculed into action or to death. Maybe humor will be the new job opportunity after all.
Okay, that was fun. Or was it funny? Not even. But I got it out of my system. I just hope when I reread it there is some use of Sarcasm because that was the exercise, the meaning of my early morning foray into a writing workshop when I really can’t concentrate and am not in the least funny, have been sleeping on a couch and find the hot, humid weather distracting but stick with me, this is only Day Three, two more to go, as luck would have it. I’m bound to get going, I paid a lot of money to be funny; I have to laugh our troubles away; I have to laugh my troubles away. That’s a lot of troubles. A lot of laughter. And you can’t tell funny, you’ve got to show it. That’s a lot of trouble too.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
#48 OSMOND VS. OSMOND
Below is a sketch I've written that may or may not be included in the final draft of my sequel to "The Portrait of a Lady." I like to write these short stories to get my mind working on ideas for the continuing conflict between Isabel and Gilbert Osmond.
Gilbert Osmond entered Caffe Greco at eleven on a rainy Thursday morning in an aggravated disposition having just come from his art dealer, Raymond Durelli, where to his utter amazement he learned that a picture had been sold for a substantial sum to none other than his very own wife, Isabel, and she had not even requested the discount usually reserved for the better customers, of which, as his wife and he a frequent buyer, she was entitled to, though this is not first and foremost what had him in a furor.
No, what had him in such a fury was that she was buying a work of the so-called Impressionists; a laughable style of no redeeming value perpetrated by dealers in Paris to make fools of naive Americans and significantly line their own pockets while encouraging artists of lesser merit in their hostile campaign against all that was deemed intelligently sublime in the art and craft of painting as it had been practiced for centuries but was now to lie fallow as charlatans committed this fraud on the art world.
That his foolish wife of little taste should be among such gullibility was an outrage to Osmond, more so, as he had been negotiating for a superb Gian Lorenzo Bernini architectural drawing that was to be marketed for a considerable price tag of its own, and Osmond, hoping to extract this sum from his wife’s bank was incensed that she should part with one half the needed cash for this daub by the irascible James McNeill Whistler, a poseur, a hack, possibly the worst of the assemblage calling themselves Impressionists.
Osmond ruefully thought to himself Isabel had not the intelligence to choose the more talented of the bunch, Edgar Degas, who had at least a formidable set of skills lacking in the rest of the group even if he chose to align himself with these third-rate daubers, something he was sure to regret in time.
Now he was to learn by an indirect route that his duplicitous wife had purchased a minor chalk and pastel drawing of the Campanile Santa Margherita in Venice, a more weak, unfulfilled representation one was likely to find of a motif that had been rendered by so many artists in the past it was now almost a cliché but leave it to Isabel to be willfully obtuse--her central ideas having been born in ignorance, encouraged by a society gone mad.
She also had to know he would not hang this piece of humbug in the Palazzo Roccanera--she was therefore planning to hang it in Gardencourt, her house in England--a fact Osmond found as disagreeable as the artists she chose to sponsor and where Mr. Whistler made his home although he did not place the two facts within the same frame.
As Osmond ordered a campari and soda and took a corner table he chanced to see a personage he vaguely recognized, that of Mr. Edward Rosier, a collector of objects de art, old lace and enamels, and once a suitor of his daughter Pansy to no avail, a face he did not immediately distinguish--the gentleman had grown stout and now sported a full beard--and before Osmond could place him, wishing thoroughly to ignore him on principle, could not but take the offered hand as Mr. Rosier approached his table though inviting him to a seat would have been beyond Osmond’s sociable endurance.
“Ah, Mr. Osmond, don’t tell me you are now looking to establish in your drawing rooms a sampling of the Impressionists; I would never have taken you for one who falls for such shenanigans but it is all the rage these days so you may have made a good investment.”
Osmond glared at the impudent man, his eyes ablaze with rancor and deigned not to answer this mocking accusation but instead return the jab: “I don’t in the least know what you mean, Mr. Rosier, is it? Ah, yes, now I remember you and your little collection, you sold it, did you not? And got a good price too if I recall.”
Mr. Rosier colored a little at the obvious reminder of their shared past and decided to continue his subtle attack on a man he thought sinister. “I’ve just come from Durelli’s and I couldn’t help but notice you and Mrs. Osmond now possess a Whistler drawing, might I congratulate you?” he said with a factious grin.
“You may congratulate my wife if that is what it is, I myself know nothing of Mr. Whistler nor care about his meager efforts.”
“I understand your wife is a great friend of the artist. He’s quite sought after-- quite the darling of the public. I hear he is to paint Mrs. Osmond’s portrait. You are tolerant: a portrait by Mr. Whistler can take considerable time. Many ladies have been quite worn out posing for hours a day, with never-ending sittings...he takes great pains with his portrayals...and for a dear price, I'm told.” With that he gave a hearty laugh, tipped his hat and left Osmond stewing.
Osmond’s mood was blackening to a deadly rage as he contemplated what the insufferable man Rosier told him. If it were true, he would surely have to rein in his obdurate wife again. She would become a blot on his reputation as a collector of Old Masters and antiquities. He would have to demand Durelli refund the money for the Whistler drawing and put it toward the Bernini. As for the alleged portrait, tolerance had never been Osmond’s forte and it would not now be practiced in any way for the Impressionists, a trend that would soon, could only be, regarded as a bout of madness, he thankfully concluded.
Gilbert Osmond entered Caffe Greco at eleven on a rainy Thursday morning in an aggravated disposition having just come from his art dealer, Raymond Durelli, where to his utter amazement he learned that a picture had been sold for a substantial sum to none other than his very own wife, Isabel, and she had not even requested the discount usually reserved for the better customers, of which, as his wife and he a frequent buyer, she was entitled to, though this is not first and foremost what had him in a furor.
No, what had him in such a fury was that she was buying a work of the so-called Impressionists; a laughable style of no redeeming value perpetrated by dealers in Paris to make fools of naive Americans and significantly line their own pockets while encouraging artists of lesser merit in their hostile campaign against all that was deemed intelligently sublime in the art and craft of painting as it had been practiced for centuries but was now to lie fallow as charlatans committed this fraud on the art world.
That his foolish wife of little taste should be among such gullibility was an outrage to Osmond, more so, as he had been negotiating for a superb Gian Lorenzo Bernini architectural drawing that was to be marketed for a considerable price tag of its own, and Osmond, hoping to extract this sum from his wife’s bank was incensed that she should part with one half the needed cash for this daub by the irascible James McNeill Whistler, a poseur, a hack, possibly the worst of the assemblage calling themselves Impressionists.
Osmond ruefully thought to himself Isabel had not the intelligence to choose the more talented of the bunch, Edgar Degas, who had at least a formidable set of skills lacking in the rest of the group even if he chose to align himself with these third-rate daubers, something he was sure to regret in time.
Now he was to learn by an indirect route that his duplicitous wife had purchased a minor chalk and pastel drawing of the Campanile Santa Margherita in Venice, a more weak, unfulfilled representation one was likely to find of a motif that had been rendered by so many artists in the past it was now almost a cliché but leave it to Isabel to be willfully obtuse--her central ideas having been born in ignorance, encouraged by a society gone mad.
She also had to know he would not hang this piece of humbug in the Palazzo Roccanera--she was therefore planning to hang it in Gardencourt, her house in England--a fact Osmond found as disagreeable as the artists she chose to sponsor and where Mr. Whistler made his home although he did not place the two facts within the same frame.
As Osmond ordered a campari and soda and took a corner table he chanced to see a personage he vaguely recognized, that of Mr. Edward Rosier, a collector of objects de art, old lace and enamels, and once a suitor of his daughter Pansy to no avail, a face he did not immediately distinguish--the gentleman had grown stout and now sported a full beard--and before Osmond could place him, wishing thoroughly to ignore him on principle, could not but take the offered hand as Mr. Rosier approached his table though inviting him to a seat would have been beyond Osmond’s sociable endurance.
“Ah, Mr. Osmond, don’t tell me you are now looking to establish in your drawing rooms a sampling of the Impressionists; I would never have taken you for one who falls for such shenanigans but it is all the rage these days so you may have made a good investment.”
Osmond glared at the impudent man, his eyes ablaze with rancor and deigned not to answer this mocking accusation but instead return the jab: “I don’t in the least know what you mean, Mr. Rosier, is it? Ah, yes, now I remember you and your little collection, you sold it, did you not? And got a good price too if I recall.”
Mr. Rosier colored a little at the obvious reminder of their shared past and decided to continue his subtle attack on a man he thought sinister. “I’ve just come from Durelli’s and I couldn’t help but notice you and Mrs. Osmond now possess a Whistler drawing, might I congratulate you?” he said with a factious grin.
“You may congratulate my wife if that is what it is, I myself know nothing of Mr. Whistler nor care about his meager efforts.”
“I understand your wife is a great friend of the artist. He’s quite sought after-- quite the darling of the public. I hear he is to paint Mrs. Osmond’s portrait. You are tolerant: a portrait by Mr. Whistler can take considerable time. Many ladies have been quite worn out posing for hours a day, with never-ending sittings...he takes great pains with his portrayals...and for a dear price, I'm told.” With that he gave a hearty laugh, tipped his hat and left Osmond stewing.
Osmond’s mood was blackening to a deadly rage as he contemplated what the insufferable man Rosier told him. If it were true, he would surely have to rein in his obdurate wife again. She would become a blot on his reputation as a collector of Old Masters and antiquities. He would have to demand Durelli refund the money for the Whistler drawing and put it toward the Bernini. As for the alleged portrait, tolerance had never been Osmond’s forte and it would not now be practiced in any way for the Impressionists, a trend that would soon, could only be, regarded as a bout of madness, he thankfully concluded.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
#47 TWO MEN AND A RECKLESS WOMAN
I was seen in an embrace in the back of a bar by a friend of my father's, a woman named Marleen, who looked upon the scene with displeasure, as the man I was embracing or letting embrace me was not only married but in her opinion, low matter.
When back inside the bar, she took my arm and led me to a table in the corner where she attempted to articulate her views which included shaking her head and rolling her eyes as if to say "It's so obvious." She added that she thought he was creepy and gave a little shudder. She wondered what was with me--an attractive, smart woman who could certainly do better for male companionship than this cretin--but she didn't know me at all at that time so wrote it off as new in town and uninformed. She wanted to warn me. Those who hang out in bars know things or intuit things I wouldn't, coming from a college town and libraries. I was moving back to my hometown after having been away for some time. I was feeling reckless.
Naturally, I paid no heed to her warning; I never do. Two days later I ran into her and she invited me to dinner and made it known it was especially to meet a man, a friend of hers. A man, while not perfect, she said, still several stages higher than the one I was embracing behind the bar. Again with the little shudder and rolling eyes. I found this funny but she was serious.
She implied that her friend appreciated art and culture and had been out in the world, “not easy to find in these parts,” she added as an additional sales pitch. "You might like him," she said though I sensed some hesitation. "He has some personal issues...but, well, you'll see. He can be a friend and you're new in town. I just think he's a better choice than that creep from the bar." Again with the shudder. "He will at least take you to some nice places."
My initial reaction was to say no thanks, as anyone's would be but I didn't have any real reason to decline so I let her ease me into yes. She had a forceful personality and I let myself be persuaded and wrote down an address. It couldn't hurt and I was a little curious by this time.
It was summertime so the dinner was casual. We had fresh trout, caught that day. I think there was wine; maybe I brought white wine. The men were drinking beer. The food was good, prepared in a simple, effortless way without embellishment. The friend was not bad looking, had a deep sensuous voice, a wicked eye and an artificial leg. He told the story of the motorcycle accident that ripped off his leg, his lying in the woods nearly unconscious and eventually crawling to the road and hoping someone would see him and not run him over. To me this was quite a horror story but he told it in a way that wasn't morbid; it had been five years since that night and he'd relayed this drama many times. He used it to good effect.
I began an affair with him shortly thereafter. He was a wild lover with a shaky psyche. That he was not exactly perfect was no surprise but that is another story. I'm trying not to have regrets but to view things dispassionately. He did take me to some nice places.
I also began an affair with the married man embraced behind the bar and that too, is another story. I believe I am still that same reckless woman though now I have bouts of discomfiture. Stories live on in a small town when you've long moved on. Marleen, the woman who interfered when she saw something she didn't like and tried for an antidote, a stranger really, is also long forgotten--I'm not even sure I have her name right--but what is not forgotten is her concern: a sort of sisterhood that impressed me at the time.
But in the end, she did not save me at all but instead complicated my life for a time as her selection was not one to let things go. He stalked me for one entire winter and I had to move back to the college town for awhile just to get some peace. Eventually he had a mental breakdown and spent a few months in the psychiatric ward of the local hospital. He called me the devil but years later reconsidered and called me an angel of mercy.
My selection, the married man who was described as creepy also complicated my life; that was to be expected. Our affair had many stops and starts over the years and his wife was probably none too pleased with any of it though she once told he she didn't care at all when I ran into her in the hospital elevator. He also spent time in the psychiatric ward though he did not blame it on me but on Vietnam and the military and his wife's refusal to give him sex.
Marleen's selection, while single, more cultivated and better looking managed to earn my disdain in numerous ways most especially by the threats of violence and paranoid jealousy I had to endure. He also destroyed the portrait I did of him and dumped the pieces on my front porch in the middle of the night while my mother was visiting me which I deeply resented. It was a very good likeness and had won a small award in a juried show. He scared my mother and I vowed revenge though my father said he has suffered enough and to let it go.
My selection, the man embraced behind the bar, while married, not particularly attractive or brilliant managed to keep my regard for the most part. He had an endearing sense of humor Marleen's selection completely lacked. When he divorced, nearly 20 years later than when this story began, I was once again seen embracing him in a parking lot to the disapproval of nearly everyone. The portrait I did of him, while only a quick sketch, unfortunately burned up in a fire at his hunting camp.
When back inside the bar, she took my arm and led me to a table in the corner where she attempted to articulate her views which included shaking her head and rolling her eyes as if to say "It's so obvious." She added that she thought he was creepy and gave a little shudder. She wondered what was with me--an attractive, smart woman who could certainly do better for male companionship than this cretin--but she didn't know me at all at that time so wrote it off as new in town and uninformed. She wanted to warn me. Those who hang out in bars know things or intuit things I wouldn't, coming from a college town and libraries. I was moving back to my hometown after having been away for some time. I was feeling reckless.
Naturally, I paid no heed to her warning; I never do. Two days later I ran into her and she invited me to dinner and made it known it was especially to meet a man, a friend of hers. A man, while not perfect, she said, still several stages higher than the one I was embracing behind the bar. Again with the little shudder and rolling eyes. I found this funny but she was serious.
She implied that her friend appreciated art and culture and had been out in the world, “not easy to find in these parts,” she added as an additional sales pitch. "You might like him," she said though I sensed some hesitation. "He has some personal issues...but, well, you'll see. He can be a friend and you're new in town. I just think he's a better choice than that creep from the bar." Again with the shudder. "He will at least take you to some nice places."
My initial reaction was to say no thanks, as anyone's would be but I didn't have any real reason to decline so I let her ease me into yes. She had a forceful personality and I let myself be persuaded and wrote down an address. It couldn't hurt and I was a little curious by this time.
It was summertime so the dinner was casual. We had fresh trout, caught that day. I think there was wine; maybe I brought white wine. The men were drinking beer. The food was good, prepared in a simple, effortless way without embellishment. The friend was not bad looking, had a deep sensuous voice, a wicked eye and an artificial leg. He told the story of the motorcycle accident that ripped off his leg, his lying in the woods nearly unconscious and eventually crawling to the road and hoping someone would see him and not run him over. To me this was quite a horror story but he told it in a way that wasn't morbid; it had been five years since that night and he'd relayed this drama many times. He used it to good effect.
I began an affair with him shortly thereafter. He was a wild lover with a shaky psyche. That he was not exactly perfect was no surprise but that is another story. I'm trying not to have regrets but to view things dispassionately. He did take me to some nice places.
I also began an affair with the married man embraced behind the bar and that too, is another story. I believe I am still that same reckless woman though now I have bouts of discomfiture. Stories live on in a small town when you've long moved on. Marleen, the woman who interfered when she saw something she didn't like and tried for an antidote, a stranger really, is also long forgotten--I'm not even sure I have her name right--but what is not forgotten is her concern: a sort of sisterhood that impressed me at the time.
But in the end, she did not save me at all but instead complicated my life for a time as her selection was not one to let things go. He stalked me for one entire winter and I had to move back to the college town for awhile just to get some peace. Eventually he had a mental breakdown and spent a few months in the psychiatric ward of the local hospital. He called me the devil but years later reconsidered and called me an angel of mercy.
My selection, the married man who was described as creepy also complicated my life; that was to be expected. Our affair had many stops and starts over the years and his wife was probably none too pleased with any of it though she once told he she didn't care at all when I ran into her in the hospital elevator. He also spent time in the psychiatric ward though he did not blame it on me but on Vietnam and the military and his wife's refusal to give him sex.
Marleen's selection, while single, more cultivated and better looking managed to earn my disdain in numerous ways most especially by the threats of violence and paranoid jealousy I had to endure. He also destroyed the portrait I did of him and dumped the pieces on my front porch in the middle of the night while my mother was visiting me which I deeply resented. It was a very good likeness and had won a small award in a juried show. He scared my mother and I vowed revenge though my father said he has suffered enough and to let it go.
My selection, the man embraced behind the bar, while married, not particularly attractive or brilliant managed to keep my regard for the most part. He had an endearing sense of humor Marleen's selection completely lacked. When he divorced, nearly 20 years later than when this story began, I was once again seen embracing him in a parking lot to the disapproval of nearly everyone. The portrait I did of him, while only a quick sketch, unfortunately burned up in a fire at his hunting camp.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
#46 ISABEL'S SHADOW
This six-sentence story was posted on sixsentences.blogspot.com and is a part of a sequel I am writing to Henry James's "The Portrait of a Lady." See my blog theportraitofaladyrevisited.blogspot.com.
Isabel Osmond was having difficulty swallowing her meager repast of fruit, tea, bread and honey after having come from her husband’s study an hour previous where they quarreled about a sum for an old master painting he wished to purchase that she felt they could not afford at this time.
While sitting in a small courtyard adjacent to the dining room in a desultory mood, Mrs. Osmond was delivered a telegram by mistake--a missive intended for Mr. Osmond from a woman who identified herself as Mrs. Halpern. The message sent to Mrs. Osmond’s husband, Gilbert Osmond suggested a time and a place for a meeting with an implication that it was of some urgency though not anything dire in nature.
Isabel at first confused as to the identity of the woman had her maid summoned and instructed her to dispatch the telegram to her husband’s butler, Higgins, not thinking much of the incident, assuming it was in relation to his lately manic acquisitiveness for paintings of the Renaissance period and that immediately preceding it. He was in negotiations with several owners of such paintings and was in a flurry of communication and travel a propos potential sales.
Mrs. Osmond drank her tea, nibbled at an orange but left the bread untouched and was about to leave the courtyard before the sun became too strong when her mind clicked into operating mode and she remembered where she had heard the name Halpern--it was her husband’s former mistress Madame Merle, recently remarried, once again plotting with Osmond, their intrigues a thing a great flowering of which Isabel could only speculate on while the blood raced to her head precipitously, aware that once again she would have to contend with her husband’s secretive past when what she had hoped for was a future free of its menacing shadow.
Isabel Osmond was having difficulty swallowing her meager repast of fruit, tea, bread and honey after having come from her husband’s study an hour previous where they quarreled about a sum for an old master painting he wished to purchase that she felt they could not afford at this time.
While sitting in a small courtyard adjacent to the dining room in a desultory mood, Mrs. Osmond was delivered a telegram by mistake--a missive intended for Mr. Osmond from a woman who identified herself as Mrs. Halpern. The message sent to Mrs. Osmond’s husband, Gilbert Osmond suggested a time and a place for a meeting with an implication that it was of some urgency though not anything dire in nature.
Isabel at first confused as to the identity of the woman had her maid summoned and instructed her to dispatch the telegram to her husband’s butler, Higgins, not thinking much of the incident, assuming it was in relation to his lately manic acquisitiveness for paintings of the Renaissance period and that immediately preceding it. He was in negotiations with several owners of such paintings and was in a flurry of communication and travel a propos potential sales.
Mrs. Osmond drank her tea, nibbled at an orange but left the bread untouched and was about to leave the courtyard before the sun became too strong when her mind clicked into operating mode and she remembered where she had heard the name Halpern--it was her husband’s former mistress Madame Merle, recently remarried, once again plotting with Osmond, their intrigues a thing a great flowering of which Isabel could only speculate on while the blood raced to her head precipitously, aware that once again she would have to contend with her husband’s secretive past when what she had hoped for was a future free of its menacing shadow.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
#45 JENNA'S CONSTANT SORROW
I'm a man of constant sorrow
I've seen trouble all my days--Bob Dylan
Jenna was sent out for coffee early that day, she had been working for a car dealership for the past week and one of her tasks was to fetch coffee for the owner and a few of his better salesmen, the only ones working the showroom lately, the recession leaving the dealership with fewer sales and fewer sales people. Jenna was hired to answer the phone and direct calls; when the permanent secretary went on maternity leave they decided not to replace her until the economy improved. Everything in Jenna's life was now about the recession. She lost her job, her boyfriend lost his job, her best friend was demoted in the interest of saving jobs and even Jenna's father was talked into early retirement.
Jenna walked listlessly to the nearest coffee shop in the damp fog of a San Francisco morning that did not appear to be lifting as the paper had said. Jenna wondered why the weather forecast was so often wrong. Didn't they feel embarrassed? How could you not predict three days of cold and rain? Instead the paper said its usual "morning fog, afternoon sun." Jenna figured the weather bureau laid-off most of its staff and because San Francisco was fairly predictable, never varied the forecast.
These were the kinds of thing Jenna thought about as she walked the streets or rode the bus. She also thought about the homeless people who looked more bedraggled and pitiful than usual after a night of awful cold and wet. Jenna had been in the city for two years, coming from Marin and still she could not look at the homeless with dispassion. Her parents taught her to be concerned with those less fortunate than ourselves but Jenna sometimes wondered if she were one of the less fortunate. She had been unemployed for seven months except for the few temp jobs she managed to get, boring with low pay but still important to have. Jenna was just scraping by, unable to call her parents who were on a mission in Zimbabwe. Whenever they emailed, the message was filled with the hardship and misery they encountered each day and she felt thoughtless saying she has no money for clothing or any extras at all. Each month she scrapes together enough for her rent, some basic food and bus fare. She shops in dollar stores for things like shampoo, detergent and powdered lemonade. Yesterday she found a skirt on a dollar rack in Goodwill and felt elated until she got it home and found it was missing the zipper.
As she was balancing a tray of expensive coffee drinks she passed a guy wearing a wet blanket, flip flops and shorts obviously having looked at the weather report before spending the night in the park. Jenna wore a sweater but she too had on sandals and felt the cold on her legs and feet. She would have liked to offer the man a coffee to warm himself up but they were not hers to offer. This was what life had become; constant worry about money and form. How much were you supposed to give, to whom and what happens if you don't. Jenna's therapist said she had a guilt complex instilled by her parents who were hippies from the sixties and always said it was necessary to do your part in establishing equality; that you could not enjoy things while others were suffering. Jenna was now an adult and could make these decisions herself but old habits die hard. She was in the unfortunate position of having little but seeing others with less every day. That is life in San Francisco. Nothing is hidden, the poor aren't pushed into outer, less attractive locations: everyone gets a place on the streets of San Francisco. She always liked this about the city but found with the recession it was beginning to pall a little. She could no longer tell the truly unfortunate from the hucksters and spent too much time feeling either uncaring or conned. She wished her parents would come home; she wanted to talk to her father who was always the voice of reason on these matters. He could clear things up for Jenna; her therapist, Michelle, wasn't up to speed on activism and its discontents. She wore expensive shoes and had an Italian espresso machine in her office, real artwork on the walls and leather chairs and sofas. Jenna didn't think she had guilt over any of it or worried about the homeless on cold, rainy nights.
Back at the car dealership, she returned to the phones and the filing and was able to forget the streets for which she was grateful. It was not the most exciting job she'd hoped to have but it was a job and allowed her to unwind her perpetual brain loop of the more exasperating things that filtered in each day. The salesmen were bored and often funny and seemed to like Jenna though thought her a little serious. They were good-time kind of guys and wanted to cheer her up, make her laugh, lighten up. One in particular was often back in the office circling her desk, looking for "trouble and tribulation" he said and laughed with gusto. Jenna didn't find the remark particularly funny but these were salesmen: She had no experience with this playful type. Her boyfriend was a coder, recently laid off from a tech firm that was supposed to be a sure thing. He was finding trouble and tribulation and was not at all jocular about it. Jenna thought maybe these salespeople could teach her a thing or two, including the one saleswoman who wore short skirts, patterned stockings, high heels and low-cut blouses. She laughed with the men, flirted with the boss and practically manhandled the male customers; she was one of the dealerships star salespersons and let everyone know. If a customer took a test run with Gina, there was usually a sale. "Never underestimate the power of a short skirt," she would say with glee. She had none of the scruples Jenna had been raised with: not exploiting the body for cheap effect being one of them. Jenna had grown up and seen enough to know she had some pretty outdated modes to work through. Michelle said she had every complex women raised in religious homes had and asked her to talk about her beliefs.
Jenna told her she had been raised in a secular home and religion was not only scorned but deemed unworthy of attention. "Superstitious peasants" was what her father called those who went to church or professed a need for a savior. Jenna knew little about religion except for Buddhism from a course she took in college. Other than that, she practiced yoga, or did before she had to give up her membership in the yoga studio though she was in it for the stretching more than the meditation. Sometimes she wished she had a firm belief system other than what her parents taught her, something bigger than humanity but she was as yet unable to realize it. She was beginning to think humanity could become depressing if that's all that was playing.
Whenever Jenna delivered the coffee, everyone was effusive in their praise for her ability to order all the various coffee drinks, get them straight--no mistakes with all the correct change given to each. Somehow Jenna didn't think this merited much praise but then again, no one else wanted to do it. Ever. At the switchboard, she had no time to think about the homeless, the weather, her parents and her own situation which was a relief. The day passed uneventfully except for Gina's big sale at the end of the day. Another for her this week.
When Jenna left for the day the sky was still a lifeless ceiling of melancholy. She walked up Van Ness for a few blocks then caught a bus. Her cell phone rang and she saw it was her friend Melynda and took the call. She said he was getting evicted and would soon need a place to stay until she finished the semester at Hastings. Jenna didn’t really want her to stay with her in the crowded studio she sublet but couldn’t really say why so she agreed without enthusiasm.
Just then a fight broke out on the bus and she was distracted for a minute, hung up and decided to get off and walk to the rest of the way. The woman next to her also got off and told her in a sincere forthright way that if she found Jesus she could put away that sorrow and find a new beginning. Jenna didn’t know why she listened to the woman; she was constantly badgered by people on the street and briefly wondered if she emitted some signal that said “susceptible.” She thought she might talk to Michelle about it in their next session. The woman went on to say Jenna could be saved, she had only to open her heart to the lord.
Her arrival at her building on Chestnut Street coincided with a distraught call from her mother. She said there had been a massacre in the village nearby and they would have to evacuate the clinic where they had been working. She was hysterical and needed to talk to her daughter, to calm down, to know she was okay.
“Mother, I think it is you we need to worry about. I‘m fine. How is Dad?”
“He’s fine…he thinks we should consider coming home.”
“I think that’s a very good idea. Please, Mother, go along with him.”
“I don’t exactly know what is going to happen next; a Christian organization is helping with the evacuation and providing medical care. We might join this organization to help continue their work. They have great courage and respect for humanity and both your father and I are impressed. They led a prayer circle last night and I participated, I’m so fearful over the events of the last two days. Your father did not join in but it left me feeling stronger, with more hope. For the first time all the talk of Jesus did not put me off. I wondered if I might be going crazy. Your father thinks maybe temporarily so because I swore I saw the image of Jesus in the clouds and that he was still there after the clouds had passed. Your father thinks I’m getting loopy and we should start for home.” She sighed and said she would let her daughter know if they would be coming home or joining the Christian organization and staying on to help.
“Please come home, Mother,” said Jenna as she hung up. Her father usually made the decisions so she felt hopeful.
It was strange she had heard the name of Jesus spoken twice in one day. She never thought of Jesus, suspected he was a fictional character, not relevant to her own existence but now she wondered. Gina, the star saleswoman at the dealership wore a cross pendant. She said it was her secret to a lucrative career in sales, the short skirts just a leg up. Jenna did not know why she told her this, she hadn’t asked about the necklace. All of a sudden she was bombarded with Jesus. She went to bed, a little tired and worried about her parents but glad they would likely be coming home. She thought of the woman saying Jesus could save you. She hoped she was right; her parent’s might need some help. With that she went to sleep and when she awoke, the sky had finally cleared, the sun was shining and she got ready for another day at the car dealership. On the bus her mother called and said they were definitely coming home, her father did not care for the organization now in charge.
“Thank God,” said Jenna.
“No, thank Jesus,” said her mother. “Your father got upset with all the talk of him and said we would go home after all.”
“Then thank Jesus,” added Jenna. “When will you be here?”
“We’re leaving the village late this afternoon with an evacuation team. Then we’ll get a flight in two days to Heathrow. I expect we’ll arrive in San Francisco sometime at the end of the week. My days are all confused.”
“I’ll pick you up. Give me the details when you know them.”
“See you soon, dear. I’m very upset. I have mixed feelings. I admire this organization immensely. I feel we are abandoning a mission that is important to so many people.”
“Better come home,” said Jenna. “Regroup.” They then were disconnected.
What happened later that day was in all the newspapers. Militants stormed the small village and took control of the clinic. Most of the workers were shot point blank though a few of them escaped in a bus that had been there to help evacuate the workers. Jenna’s father had been found among the dead, though her mother managed to hide with two women until the raid was over. She survived with seven other people who made it to safety in a nearby town. She was hysterical and had to be hospitalized. She was not able to call her daughter for two days, the longest most dreadful days Jenna would ever know. She didn’t go to work but stayed near her land phone while gripping her cell phone begging, she knew not who, for news. Gina called and said she was praying for her parents, that the car dealership would all say prayers, she would see to it. Jenna was weak with distress by this time but found some comfort in Gina’s pledge. Without them, she was alone with her fear that threatened to eat her alive.
When she finally received the call the relief hearing her mother’s voice was beyond joy, the pain over her father’s death piercing. She wanted to go to her mother but she said she would be arriving home in three days. “Your father has been cremated, yesterday…the Christian organization took care of everything with a tribute ceremony for those killed. It was a most beautiful thing, Jen, I wish you could have heard it..”
Jenna doubled over into the fetal position onto the hardwood floor, crying into the phone, clutching it as a life-line, unable to speak.
“Don’t worry, darling,” her mother sobbed into the phone. “There is nothing to worry about now. I am on my way home…”
Jenna appears again in #60 MY FIRST CHRISTMAS
I've seen trouble all my days--Bob Dylan
Jenna was sent out for coffee early that day, she had been working for a car dealership for the past week and one of her tasks was to fetch coffee for the owner and a few of his better salesmen, the only ones working the showroom lately, the recession leaving the dealership with fewer sales and fewer sales people. Jenna was hired to answer the phone and direct calls; when the permanent secretary went on maternity leave they decided not to replace her until the economy improved. Everything in Jenna's life was now about the recession. She lost her job, her boyfriend lost his job, her best friend was demoted in the interest of saving jobs and even Jenna's father was talked into early retirement.
Jenna walked listlessly to the nearest coffee shop in the damp fog of a San Francisco morning that did not appear to be lifting as the paper had said. Jenna wondered why the weather forecast was so often wrong. Didn't they feel embarrassed? How could you not predict three days of cold and rain? Instead the paper said its usual "morning fog, afternoon sun." Jenna figured the weather bureau laid-off most of its staff and because San Francisco was fairly predictable, never varied the forecast.
These were the kinds of thing Jenna thought about as she walked the streets or rode the bus. She also thought about the homeless people who looked more bedraggled and pitiful than usual after a night of awful cold and wet. Jenna had been in the city for two years, coming from Marin and still she could not look at the homeless with dispassion. Her parents taught her to be concerned with those less fortunate than ourselves but Jenna sometimes wondered if she were one of the less fortunate. She had been unemployed for seven months except for the few temp jobs she managed to get, boring with low pay but still important to have. Jenna was just scraping by, unable to call her parents who were on a mission in Zimbabwe. Whenever they emailed, the message was filled with the hardship and misery they encountered each day and she felt thoughtless saying she has no money for clothing or any extras at all. Each month she scrapes together enough for her rent, some basic food and bus fare. She shops in dollar stores for things like shampoo, detergent and powdered lemonade. Yesterday she found a skirt on a dollar rack in Goodwill and felt elated until she got it home and found it was missing the zipper.
As she was balancing a tray of expensive coffee drinks she passed a guy wearing a wet blanket, flip flops and shorts obviously having looked at the weather report before spending the night in the park. Jenna wore a sweater but she too had on sandals and felt the cold on her legs and feet. She would have liked to offer the man a coffee to warm himself up but they were not hers to offer. This was what life had become; constant worry about money and form. How much were you supposed to give, to whom and what happens if you don't. Jenna's therapist said she had a guilt complex instilled by her parents who were hippies from the sixties and always said it was necessary to do your part in establishing equality; that you could not enjoy things while others were suffering. Jenna was now an adult and could make these decisions herself but old habits die hard. She was in the unfortunate position of having little but seeing others with less every day. That is life in San Francisco. Nothing is hidden, the poor aren't pushed into outer, less attractive locations: everyone gets a place on the streets of San Francisco. She always liked this about the city but found with the recession it was beginning to pall a little. She could no longer tell the truly unfortunate from the hucksters and spent too much time feeling either uncaring or conned. She wished her parents would come home; she wanted to talk to her father who was always the voice of reason on these matters. He could clear things up for Jenna; her therapist, Michelle, wasn't up to speed on activism and its discontents. She wore expensive shoes and had an Italian espresso machine in her office, real artwork on the walls and leather chairs and sofas. Jenna didn't think she had guilt over any of it or worried about the homeless on cold, rainy nights.
Back at the car dealership, she returned to the phones and the filing and was able to forget the streets for which she was grateful. It was not the most exciting job she'd hoped to have but it was a job and allowed her to unwind her perpetual brain loop of the more exasperating things that filtered in each day. The salesmen were bored and often funny and seemed to like Jenna though thought her a little serious. They were good-time kind of guys and wanted to cheer her up, make her laugh, lighten up. One in particular was often back in the office circling her desk, looking for "trouble and tribulation" he said and laughed with gusto. Jenna didn't find the remark particularly funny but these were salesmen: She had no experience with this playful type. Her boyfriend was a coder, recently laid off from a tech firm that was supposed to be a sure thing. He was finding trouble and tribulation and was not at all jocular about it. Jenna thought maybe these salespeople could teach her a thing or two, including the one saleswoman who wore short skirts, patterned stockings, high heels and low-cut blouses. She laughed with the men, flirted with the boss and practically manhandled the male customers; she was one of the dealerships star salespersons and let everyone know. If a customer took a test run with Gina, there was usually a sale. "Never underestimate the power of a short skirt," she would say with glee. She had none of the scruples Jenna had been raised with: not exploiting the body for cheap effect being one of them. Jenna had grown up and seen enough to know she had some pretty outdated modes to work through. Michelle said she had every complex women raised in religious homes had and asked her to talk about her beliefs.
Jenna told her she had been raised in a secular home and religion was not only scorned but deemed unworthy of attention. "Superstitious peasants" was what her father called those who went to church or professed a need for a savior. Jenna knew little about religion except for Buddhism from a course she took in college. Other than that, she practiced yoga, or did before she had to give up her membership in the yoga studio though she was in it for the stretching more than the meditation. Sometimes she wished she had a firm belief system other than what her parents taught her, something bigger than humanity but she was as yet unable to realize it. She was beginning to think humanity could become depressing if that's all that was playing.
Whenever Jenna delivered the coffee, everyone was effusive in their praise for her ability to order all the various coffee drinks, get them straight--no mistakes with all the correct change given to each. Somehow Jenna didn't think this merited much praise but then again, no one else wanted to do it. Ever. At the switchboard, she had no time to think about the homeless, the weather, her parents and her own situation which was a relief. The day passed uneventfully except for Gina's big sale at the end of the day. Another for her this week.
When Jenna left for the day the sky was still a lifeless ceiling of melancholy. She walked up Van Ness for a few blocks then caught a bus. Her cell phone rang and she saw it was her friend Melynda and took the call. She said he was getting evicted and would soon need a place to stay until she finished the semester at Hastings. Jenna didn’t really want her to stay with her in the crowded studio she sublet but couldn’t really say why so she agreed without enthusiasm.
Just then a fight broke out on the bus and she was distracted for a minute, hung up and decided to get off and walk to the rest of the way. The woman next to her also got off and told her in a sincere forthright way that if she found Jesus she could put away that sorrow and find a new beginning. Jenna didn’t know why she listened to the woman; she was constantly badgered by people on the street and briefly wondered if she emitted some signal that said “susceptible.” She thought she might talk to Michelle about it in their next session. The woman went on to say Jenna could be saved, she had only to open her heart to the lord.
Her arrival at her building on Chestnut Street coincided with a distraught call from her mother. She said there had been a massacre in the village nearby and they would have to evacuate the clinic where they had been working. She was hysterical and needed to talk to her daughter, to calm down, to know she was okay.
“Mother, I think it is you we need to worry about. I‘m fine. How is Dad?”
“He’s fine…he thinks we should consider coming home.”
“I think that’s a very good idea. Please, Mother, go along with him.”
“I don’t exactly know what is going to happen next; a Christian organization is helping with the evacuation and providing medical care. We might join this organization to help continue their work. They have great courage and respect for humanity and both your father and I are impressed. They led a prayer circle last night and I participated, I’m so fearful over the events of the last two days. Your father did not join in but it left me feeling stronger, with more hope. For the first time all the talk of Jesus did not put me off. I wondered if I might be going crazy. Your father thinks maybe temporarily so because I swore I saw the image of Jesus in the clouds and that he was still there after the clouds had passed. Your father thinks I’m getting loopy and we should start for home.” She sighed and said she would let her daughter know if they would be coming home or joining the Christian organization and staying on to help.
“Please come home, Mother,” said Jenna as she hung up. Her father usually made the decisions so she felt hopeful.
It was strange she had heard the name of Jesus spoken twice in one day. She never thought of Jesus, suspected he was a fictional character, not relevant to her own existence but now she wondered. Gina, the star saleswoman at the dealership wore a cross pendant. She said it was her secret to a lucrative career in sales, the short skirts just a leg up. Jenna did not know why she told her this, she hadn’t asked about the necklace. All of a sudden she was bombarded with Jesus. She went to bed, a little tired and worried about her parents but glad they would likely be coming home. She thought of the woman saying Jesus could save you. She hoped she was right; her parent’s might need some help. With that she went to sleep and when she awoke, the sky had finally cleared, the sun was shining and she got ready for another day at the car dealership. On the bus her mother called and said they were definitely coming home, her father did not care for the organization now in charge.
“Thank God,” said Jenna.
“No, thank Jesus,” said her mother. “Your father got upset with all the talk of him and said we would go home after all.”
“Then thank Jesus,” added Jenna. “When will you be here?”
“We’re leaving the village late this afternoon with an evacuation team. Then we’ll get a flight in two days to Heathrow. I expect we’ll arrive in San Francisco sometime at the end of the week. My days are all confused.”
“I’ll pick you up. Give me the details when you know them.”
“See you soon, dear. I’m very upset. I have mixed feelings. I admire this organization immensely. I feel we are abandoning a mission that is important to so many people.”
“Better come home,” said Jenna. “Regroup.” They then were disconnected.
What happened later that day was in all the newspapers. Militants stormed the small village and took control of the clinic. Most of the workers were shot point blank though a few of them escaped in a bus that had been there to help evacuate the workers. Jenna’s father had been found among the dead, though her mother managed to hide with two women until the raid was over. She survived with seven other people who made it to safety in a nearby town. She was hysterical and had to be hospitalized. She was not able to call her daughter for two days, the longest most dreadful days Jenna would ever know. She didn’t go to work but stayed near her land phone while gripping her cell phone begging, she knew not who, for news. Gina called and said she was praying for her parents, that the car dealership would all say prayers, she would see to it. Jenna was weak with distress by this time but found some comfort in Gina’s pledge. Without them, she was alone with her fear that threatened to eat her alive.
When she finally received the call the relief hearing her mother’s voice was beyond joy, the pain over her father’s death piercing. She wanted to go to her mother but she said she would be arriving home in three days. “Your father has been cremated, yesterday…the Christian organization took care of everything with a tribute ceremony for those killed. It was a most beautiful thing, Jen, I wish you could have heard it..”
Jenna doubled over into the fetal position onto the hardwood floor, crying into the phone, clutching it as a life-line, unable to speak.
“Don’t worry, darling,” her mother sobbed into the phone. “There is nothing to worry about now. I am on my way home…”
Jenna appears again in #60 MY FIRST CHRISTMAS
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