Columns
Observations and ruminations of a random nature
Insults and Explanations
Originally Published: September 24, 2001
Here’s how I tried to explain it this morning over the crunch and slurp of cocoa puffs: What if some guy who played with Legos a lot did something really, really awful – so awful that everyone we know got angry at him, hated him with all their might. And then, suddenly, some of those people we know, maybe neighbors of ours, looked right at you and said, “Hey! You play with Legos just like him! You must like what he did! You must have helped him! I hate you!” And then they ran after you with rocks and sticks.
The topics of conversations at breakfast these days are surreal. Children are so much more sensible than adults, and it is a challenge to explain to them why we do what we do. Like shooting at random people who happen to be wearing turbans. Or firebombing places of worship. Or putting an entire race of people in isolated camps because of their ancestry. Three sets of eyes look back at me in perplexity. We talk about things to do with our anger – how can we excise this madness we feel in our stomachs. I tell them, have told them, since they were able to walk, that it’s Ok to get mad if you’re wronged – it’s not Ok to take your anger out on those unlucky ones (in their case usually a brother or two) who happened to be in the vicinity at the time. That, I tell them, is what we need to remind ourselves now as a country. Calm down. Think before you act. I tell them even grown-ups forget that sometimes.
When we walked around our neighborhood that Friday after September 11th, as part of the nationwide candlelight vigil, my oldest son Sebastian, who is 9, asked if he could write an insult to those responsible for the terrorist attacks. He read it aloud to anyone who would listen as we collected neighbors along the way.
(his words and spelling)
“I would like to say that you are the most idiotic, inconsiderate,
uryn smelling bafoons with a phytoplankton for a cranium, with
a cortex that an electron has to look through a microscope to see.”
Maybe the United States could do something like that; hurl some big juicy insults at Osama Bin Laden to cool our anger and increase the odds of acting rationally when the time comes. Siphon off a little bit of the poison while we can.
***
I checked out the most unlikely assortment of books from the Arlington Public Library the other day. Two books on Rhode Island (for a book report of Sebastian’s), three books on Jewish symbolism, holiday traditions, and folk stories, and a book entitled “The Muslim World”, all from the children’s section of the library. I am finding a great need to understand things on a basic level these days, and children’s books tend to cut to the chase. I need to learn how to explain to my boys, in simple, non-rhetorical terms, just what the Muslims believe. My own knowledge riddled with western interpretations. I want the boys to understand that the teachings of Muhammad are as far from the twisted interpretations of Bin Laden as was the “Christianity” of the Nazis from the teachings of Christ.
The books on Jewish lore I got because I want the boys to understand that they enjoy many heritages, that they are “one quarter” Jewish, (along with their one half Catholic and, as Sebastian says, “one quarter nothing”), and that there is a rich tradition to which they belong. Last night, as we grouped in the living room in our pajamas and got ready to settle in to “Ramona the Pest”, I first read them a few stories from the books, one entitled “The Passover Thief” about a carpenter who first loses his money to a thief, then gets it back by cleverness and using a cool head. They cackled in delight as the wise carpenter pummeled the thief and retrieved his money. As is always the case with kids, wisdom and humor won them over.
***
My husband told me the other day that he has been praying for peace. It was a revelation to me. Aside from our modified Catholic wedding ceremony 13 years ago, religion has not played any overt roll in our lives together. I was filled with hope and fear when he told me of his prayers. And I felt, guiltily, a kind of sullen envy. I had no one to turn to. A big, nebulous blob of benevolent mist just wouldn’t fit the bill. It terrified me that this man who I find to be so reasonable, so analytical and level-headed, felt the need to pray for peace, that he must feel that reason was no longer enough and that faith had to take over. But there it was. He had faith. It was unimportant that he doesn’t attend church regularly, or that he disagrees with many of the positions of the Catholic church. He had God to turn to. There was a parent. A Really, Really Big Parent. Someone who might be able to fix it. Put it right. I felt grateful that he believed, and jealous that he did, and scared. It isn’t that I don’t believe in God. I just don’t know what or where God is, and why he/she would bother with us. I certainly don’t believe that any one group of human beings has a monopoly in God’s name, whatever else I may be unsure of. Perhaps God is waiting to see if we can ever start acting like children and be thoroughly and rightly baffled by the insanity of the adults around us.
***
I periodically hear jet fighters overhead, even as I write this. It’s part of the joy of living ten minutes from DC. I try not to think of this place - where we are raising our family - as ground zero, but at 2 AM it’s hard not to dwell on it. The helicopters over the Pentagon on September 11th were beating on my eardrums in stereo from the TV and through my bedroom window. Our house is on an ambulance route to Arlington Hospital and we heard many that day. We are in the thick of it. We all are.
The accounts have been amazing - from the beauty of individual heroism to the collective empathy of nations. So much has been, is being and will be written about Sept. 11th that I won’t add to the outpouring of words here. An image I’ll take with me, aside from the videotape horrors that will invade my nightmares from now on, is the black cover of the New Yorker, with the even blacker towers silhouetted, and the one, lonely, unutterably sad cartoon by George Booth inside. I can’t add anything to that.
Lost Toys
Originally Published: March 21, 2001
Sebastian had been sick for 5 days - a gently rolling fever that reached a nasty high of 103 one Saturday morning, but retreated without fuss after some bubble gum flavored acetaminophen. He had no appetite, and certainly no oomph. He was feeling somewhat better on Monday, but was not quite in shape to go to school. He’d eaten so sparsely in the last few days, that even a quick trip to the grocery store exhausted him. He is not often off his victuals.
So he was generally in a weakened state when this small event occurred. He and I had just finished, yet again, a favorite chapter out of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. After we’d galloped through the breathless events of the Third Task and closed the book, my raspy voice croaking for rest, Sebastian headed to his room to play on his own.
A short time later, while in the laundry room, I faintly heard him calling for me. Through the walls, over the hissing of the washer, up the stairs and around the corner, a sharp pluck at some primal sinew told me this was not an idle cry.
He arrived at the laundry room door just as I came out. His cheeks were tear-streaked and pale. He looked up into my face and blurted out," Mom, I haven't played with Legos for a really long time!" He hung his head, helpless and bereft, and stood in front of me, expecting … something.
If he’d been older, or even younger, I might have laughed it off. But he is nine. The time is coming - soon - when he will leave his toys to his younger brothers and turn to other pursuits. His brothers will abandon them in turn, happily reaping the benefits at a yard sale, thumbing through the cash they get and thinking instead of big-ticket purchases, never again to be made thoroughly content by a few dollar’s worth of plastic and rubber.
I felt unprepared. It seemed too soon for both of us. I wasn’t ready, and I did not know how to respond, whether I should tell him that his concerns were well grounded, tell him to cry and to fear and to mourn his childhood that, from this moment on, would erode away from him, that this was the first step into young adulthood, a fearful place where everything gets turned upside down and where more questions will present themselves than answers. That he was wise beyond his mere nine years to see this terrible, wonderful moment for what it ultimately was – the first step away from home.
Whether he could have faced that truth, was not my dilemma as I looked at the face that looked at me. The truth was, I couldn’t face it. Not just yet. Not without a last stand. So I told him what I hoped was a likely version of the truth; that he wasn’t done with these toys yet. He'd been playing with Legos since he was four, hadn’t he? And now he was just, well, taking a break! Perhaps in favor of other building toys, or maybe a romp with all those Beanie Babies that had, of late, acquired a thin layer of dust on his shelf.
“But I haven’t played with Legos since October. Mom, it’s not just a break! I think… I think maybe I’m getting to old to play with them.” I held him as he renewed his sobs onto my shoulder, tearing into those primal sinews and leaving my heart and lungs hanging in shreds. He’d found the most likely truth himself, in spite of me.
He pulled away and walked slowly to his room. The floor was covered in Legos, but even I knew his little brothers had left them there. He sat on the bed and looked hopelessly around. “I feel like I’ve already built everything.” he said shakily. He pulled the back of his hand angrily across his eyes.
It was a moment when I had to compile everything I knew about my son in one instant. Every insight, every nuance I’d learned from watching him grow up to the nine-year-old who sat before me. He wasn’t ready to leave childhood behind – his sorrow told me so - but he’d seen a glimpse of what life might be like without the familiar comfort of his toys. He was mourning a loss that hadn’t yet happened but which lurked ominously just out of sight, like the monster that inhabited his closet a few short years ago.
“You know,” I said carefully, “if you were really too old to play with Legos, you wouldn’t be sad about it. You’ll know when it’s time to leave your toys, and you won’t mind, then. It’ll be a natural step, like moving on to chapter books and boxing up most of your picture books. It’ll just happen and you’ll be ready. I promise it won’t happen until then. Anyway,” I smiled at him, hoping I looked reassuring, “Didn’t I tell you that we’re never giving away these Legos? We’ve got thousands of dollars invested here. You better believe it, Bub, your children and your children’s children are going to inherit these. There’s probably a college tuition’s worth here!”
Sebastian sighed, but it was a very small one, and the hopelessness had left his eyes. I leaned on the door frame and looked over the Lego wreckage. I know you, I thought, as well as I know anyone, and this might help you. Might help us.
“I have an idea. Why don’t you build Hogwarts Castle out of Legos? Make it huge, the size of your entire table. Use as many pieces as you can, all your pieces, maybe. Make the turrets, the secret rooms, the staircases, the owlry, the great hall, everything. It could be amazing. What do you think?”
Sebastian looked at the table in question. “No thanks.” He said.
But I knew him, alright. The wheels were turning. Just a few more minutes and I would be sure. He swung his feet, looking at his socks.
“Mom? Do you think I should really use all the pieces?”
He never did finish the project – let’ face it, it was a pretty tall order – but he became happy again. Now, a couple of months later, he undoubtedly plays less with Legos and his other toys than he used to. But he doesn’t seem as sad about it. He is wistful, occasionally, but not so raw, as if he has mysteriously gained some perspective he can live with.
I am aware, now, of a slight restlessness in him, which I suspect will only become more pronounced over the next few years. It is subtle, a distant rumbling and tremor deep below the surface, but it is there and I can feel it. I know him. He is growing up.
The Boot and the Other Shoe
Originally posted: March 13, 2001
No one likes rejection.
Especially not writers.
This is the bottom line. When a writer decides to submit work for consideration by a publisher, he or she resignedly opens a vein, then watches as the blood drains away from heart and brain and seeps into the fibers of pristine white sheets, blossoming finally into a manuscript. When the pages dry, the author weakly paper clips them together, and writes, with ebbing strength, a courageous though slightly self-deprecating cover letter using the remaining clotted drops upon the floor. The sheets are then slid into a standard manila folder which has been shakily addressed in indelible ink. At the post office the writer will fumble in front of the stony-faced clerk, folding the Self-Addressed-Stamped-Envelope exactly down the middle and wedging it inside the ochre manila, behind the eager manuscript, hoping never to see that same envelope come slithering in through the mail slot at home, fat with rejection.
I recently had the pleasure of being rejected by Zoetrope: All Story, a magazine owned by Francis Ford Coppela, maker of noteworthy films and mediocre wines. Zoetrope: All Story publishes good short fiction and screenplays. This magazine has had stories short-listed for the O. Henry Awards. This magazine is well respected among fiction writers and the film industry. This magazine declined the use of my short story:
Zoetrope ALL STORY
1350 Avenue of the Americas 24th floor New York New York 10019
Russell,
“Interview with a Consul General”
Thank you very much for submitting your manuscript to Zoetrope: All Story.
We appreciate your interest and regret that we are unable to use your story.
Thanks!
The Editors Z
This was printed on a narrow piece of thick paper, its narrowness insuring, I believe, that 3 slips could be cut from each sheet of what was probably very costly stock. I have tried to recreate above, the beauty and subtle hues of the inks. The almost periwinkle blue juxtaposed against the rugged elegance of warm slate gray. The marine depths of the ball point, written in a neat, if hurried, hand. Light heartedly, the numbers of the address and the words “New York” begin with a quirky switch, the blue instead of the gray, a sort of “Fade in” look to the words above that brief slice of rejection. The over-sized “Z” of Zoetrope and the one after the word “editors”, actually touch the edges of the paper. There is no margin. No margin at all for those Zs. This was not mere coincidence, I knew. It occurred to me, after considering the paper for some time, that a graphic artist had designed this. It is in staggeringly good taste. It is bold and yet gentle; substantial and also vacuous; blunted, and yet eviscerating. A thing of loveliness, a beautiful, crushing thing.
Slipped opportunistically into my provided SASE, was also a photocopied sheet. The editors were inviting me to subscribe – at a substantially reduced price – to Zoetrope: All Story. There is something pathologically humbling about being turned so deftly from prospective contributor to ripe consumer. I opted not to subscribe.
So now I await the rejection of the same story from The New Yorker. Those two publications were, in my green estimate of 5 months ago, my two top choices, and they were the only two places I submitted this story. This is how deluded I was - Zoetrope was my fall-back choice. The New Yorker is such a long shot, I have no real hope – except, of course, where all writers have hope – in that small and ragged chamber of their hearts that still believes in fairy stories.
I sent out the manuscripts in October. I was sure Zoetrope would take months to reply, as they are a fairly small organization, and the editors are probably over-extended as it is. The New Yorker, in my limited experience ( I submitted a work of non-fiction to them four years ago), tends to zing back their rejections within three weeks. It has been 5 months. What does this mean? It could mean many things. It could mean they’re considering the story. It could mean it is still circulating as an inter-office humor memo. It could mean they never even received it.
What it probably means, I tell myself, is that they are back-logged and the folded SASE will be entering my mail slot any day now, another tasteful, graphically engaging little slip of paper that will unceremoniously tell me this story will never find its way between the covers of their magazine. And yet…
This column will occasionally follow the pedaling of this work of short fiction, I think. Yes, that sounds like fun, doesn’t it? The age-old hunt for acceptance by a would-be Writer (can we really call ourselves a Writer if our publications number, say, less than 10? Less than 7? Yes, if one of those publications is The New Yorker one damn well can…).
If and when the New Yorker rejection comes in, I will share it with you. Don’t they say misery loves company? Not that multiple rejections of this story will cause me misery– as Elaine May said (and I am paraphrasing here), you have not hurt me because I am going to analyze it. We will turn this into a voyeuristic project. Come with me now, as we …wait. Then we shall see where the next acts of submission take us.
Cordless
Originally posted: January 1, 2001
As my home state of California descends into rolling bedlam, I sympathize with the desperation brought on by a few hours without electricity. It is well to remember, however, that others have gone through this trial and survived. I was living in Bogotá, Colombia in the early 1990s, with my husband, our new baby and about 7 million other people. An acute drought left the hydroelectric power plants literally high and dry. The city was blacked out eight hours a day, six days a week –we were usually spared on Sundays. As time went on, people adapted and learned to get by with less. Life went on.
Six years ago we left the Bay Area and moved east. In that time, California seems to have gained a lot of poundage, the unsightly bulge hanging over its cinched-in borders. It leaves me to wonder if my beloved California can ever regain its sleek proportions of yesteryear. Does it have the willpower to reduce? Could it listen to advice?
Here, transcribed for the screen (an appropriate medium for California), is a scene that took place between Colombia and California on a recent morning as they discussed the Golden State’s delicate problem. To fully enter into the spirit of the thing, it is helpful to picture Benicio Del Toro as Colombia, with California being played by Kevin Spacey - though it’s probably safe to assume they’re both already under contract elsewhere.
Fade in.
Split screen. Colombia, on the right, is a dark-haired, ruggedly handsome man with a careworn face and a disarming smile. He is dressed in a double-breasted suit and has his elbows resting on the desk of his modest office. His smoky voice is softly accented, skilled in the art of persuasion. A full ashtray sits next to him and the sounds of traffic rise up from the street below. It is gray and drizzling out the tinted window behind him.
On the left side of the screen, California, in silk pajamas, is hidden under the disheveled sheets of a king-sized bed. His room is light and modern, but shows signs of the previous night’s boozy festivities. When we finally see him, he is good-looking, though gone a little to seed with his excesses. His suntanned skin glows with age-defying crème, and his teeth are very white. Beyond the bed, there is a spectacular view of the Pacific ocean beneath a cloudless sky. A breeze sifts in through an open window, lazily fingering the diaphanous curtains.
The phone is ringing.
CALIFORNIA
(fumbling for the handset from under the sheets)
Hello?
COLOMBIA
Levántate, vago! Qué ha habido? Good morning to you! Hey, I just had to call. I hear that you’re going through a really tough time right now.
CALIFORNIA
(mumbling)
Who the hell is this? You sound familiar… Is this Mexico? How’d you get past my service?
COLOMBIA
No, it’s Colombia. I gave you my card at that fundraising dinner a couple of weeks ago? You said we should have coffee?
CALIFORNIA
(groggily)
Oh, right… God, what time is it? It’s still dark out ..oh …wait…
(gingerly flips up his sleep mask and squints)
… God damn it, asshole, aren’t you three or four hours ahead? What is it, like, six?
COLOMBIA
Well, it’s 2 PM here, which makes it 11 AM your time. Sorry. Thought you’d be awake, you know, with the crisis and all. How you doing?
CALIFORNIA
How the hell do you think I’m doing? My fridge was off for an hour last night, my gelato got slushy, and today I’m faced with resetting my Malibu lights and my alarm system! I’m dead, that’s how I’m doing. Life is over and I’m rotting in my grave. Now can I get back to sleep?
COLOMBIA
Listen, it’s none of my business, but I think it’s high time I offered you a little advice. After all, when it comes to this energy rationing stuff, I have a lot more experience than you. Funny how the tables turn, isn’t it! I mean, usually it’s you and the rest of the States offering me advice about my drug problem, my social unrest, my corruption…
CALIFORNIA
(face in his pillow)
Oh puh-lease…
COLOMBIA
…and now it’s my turn. Don’t be a fool - take it. I’m older than you and even though I don’t pull down your kind of money, I can help. I know a thing or two about sacrifice.
CALIFORNIA
(sitting up)
Oh, get real! You have no idea what I’m going through. This is California, for chrissake! Not some little back-water piss-ant country nobody can even spell right – no offense. Do you have any idea what it means for me not to have electricity? I swear to God, the world as we know it will end! My life? Over! Your life? Meaningless! Just pull the plug on every slack-jawed parasite that depends on me for his movies, his dot com-estibles and his next flavor of the month!
COLOMBIA
(dryly)
I’ll try to find a reason to go on. You know, a little bird told me you’ve been passing the hat among your neighbors. Canada’s pissed – says you only call her when you want something. Listen: There are things I can tell you to get you get through this crisis. A few years ago I went through months of rationing, eight and ten hours a day without elec-
CALIFORNIA
HOLD IT! Don’t even go there. What is this –- my-suffering-is-worse-than-your-suffering day? OK, let’s say you lose power for whatever – eight, ten, twelve hours. So the tortillas get made by hand and the cock fights close down early. Big deal. No one even notices. When I lose power even for an hour or two, it’s the dark ages all over again. Good-bye Mr. MicroChips. I define state-of-the-art, my backward friend. Let me put it this way -- did you get on the front page of every major newspaper in this country? Well I did, buddy. I was headlines, and you know why? Cuz people are scared, that’s why. California without power is like a day without fucking sunshine.
COLOMBIA
(a pause)
I don’t make much in the way of tortillas, and cock fighting has been illegal here for years, if I’m not mistaken.
(He lights a cigarette and inhales deeply)
So what is your plan? Eight hours, if it ever comes to that, is a long time for people to be without electricity. You might want to start educating them about things like preparedness and conservation, making the most of the hours they do have power and staying occupied when they don’t.
(grins knowingly)
You’re gonna have a hell of a baby boom starting in about nine months, my horny friend. Also, you’ll need to push oil lamps and candles -- say it’s aromatherapy or something –- you guys go for that, don’t you? Your people will have to get out the sweaters in your northern half-- and they’ll have to drop that thermostat even lower. Knowing your clientele, you’ll also have to remind them to back up their files. While you’re at it, since they’re not gonna have television for long stretches, encourage them to read books in the evenin-
CALIFORNIA
What are you on about? I’m not listening to a word you’re saying, and don’t repeat it. Not to anyone. Look, I know you mean well and all, but you’re a little confused. It’ll never get that bad here. I’m California, remember? Hollywood? LA? Silicon Valley? I don’t get screwed – if there’s any screwing to be done around here, I’ll be doing it, thank you very much.
(there is a moments pause)
Hey, you smoking? Cigarettes? Christ, I can hear it! I can actually hear your lungs crackling. I’d rip that damn thing out of your mouth and snuff it right into your Berber if I was there. Disgusting habit.
(shudders)
And another thing; I’m no stranger to suffering, you smug bastard. Ever heard of a little natural phenomenon called earthquakes?
COLOMBIA
Oh, I’ve heard something about them. Volcanoes, too, if you remember.
CALIFORNIA
There you go again! Trying to out-do me! “Oh boo-hoo! My earthquakes are more devastating than yours! My people get buried under mud and ash and lava from my volcanic eruptions! My hurricanes kick your hurricane’s butts! My police force is more corrupt than your police force!”
COLOMBIA
I never said that.
CALIFORNIA
(continuing, on a roll)
…and to top it all off you blame me and all the other states for your little embarrassment!
(whining)
“Oh, but if demand for drugs in the United States wasn’t so rampant, we could stop production of them!” Boo-friggin’-hoo. I’m California. I do drugs. Get over it.
COLOMBIA
(smiles sadly and stubs out his cigarette)
You know they’re talking about relaxing your pollution standards? That’s what your new popularly elected president wants to do. Looks like he’s got a Texas-sized grudge against you. Watch your back, hermano. It’s gonna be a long summer.
CALIFORNIA
Summer? Are you crazy? Who’s even thinking about summer? Just get me power for the weekend. I got a whole lot of parties up and down and side to side with killer surf and an awesome snow pack. I don’t intend for anything to mess with that.
COLOMBIA
(lights another cigarette and stands up)
Just thought you might want advice. Guess I stand corrected. Look, maybe I’d better hang up. Go back to sleep. I can see you’re not really awake yet. Besides, my time’s up. I have a crisis or two to deal with on this end.
CALIFORNIA
Again with the underhanded digs! You just waggle it in my face, don’t you? What is it this time? Floods? Locusts? Miss Colombia got an itch?
COLOMBIA
Cuidado, maestro. You know Señorita Colombia’s off limits. No, it’s a little matter of my civil unrest – but I’m sure you’ll learn all about that in good time. Don’t worry your pretty little head for now.
CALIFORNIA
Screw you.
COLOMBIA
Same to you, friend. And wish me luck. These people here are nuts.
CALIFORNIA
(sighing)
I know. Here, too.
COLOMBIA
(grinning)
My people are crazier than your people.
CALIFORNIA
Don’t start.
COLOMBIA
OK, OK. I’ll check in again soon. Call if you need anything.
CALIFORNIA
(putting his sleep mask back over his eyes and settling in)
Right. You’ll be the first to know. You and my therapist. And put that goddamn cigarette out. Pollution standards, my ass. Disgusting.
COLOMBIA
Hey, Cal?
CALIFORNIA
(already inert, buried under the covers again)
Um?
COLOMBIA
Forgive me for asking, but I think I know you well enough now to say this-- could you at least turn down your heat and close those windows? Maybe switch off the Bang & Olufsson when you leave the house?
CALIFORNIA
(phone slipping from his hand as the snores begin)
Umfffzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Colombia slowly hangs up as we--
Fade to black
Big Brute
Originally published: December 30, 2000
I am on my knees, genuflecting to my washing machine. It is a trim little front loader, into which I am cramming darks until no more will fit. Perhaps it is the flash of white I see amid the black as I wrestle the portal shut, or just the act of packing a very large quantity into a very small space that suddenly conjures up my life of nine years ago. How strange that at this moment in time, as we begin this much anticipated year that arrives positively soggy with significance, here on the edge of this Kubrickian abyss, I find myself thinking of… my cat.
Isaac was a willful, self-serving animal who had in full measure the insanity of his Siamese heritage. Affectionate when it suited him, his ardor would die without warning. He would end a session of caresses with his teeth or claws. We inherited him already full grown into an awesome beast - a massive, black brute with a white chest and paws. Of “mixed” breed, he had a special intelligence, a radar for those people who disliked cats. He would settle himself in a lap with a sensuous, proprietary grunt and a threatening kneading of his claws. He once held a friend captive on a chair in front of the TV during an entire documentary on Russia. The friend, later rescued, said afterward he couldn’t make up his mind who was the more evil, Josef Stalin or Isaac.
The cat was very well traveled, flying back and forth with us from California, where my family lived, to Colombia, where we lived. My family always sounded disappointed and alarmed to find that Isaac was yet again, joining us for a visit to their home. The only people who saw the good in Isaac were myself, my husband Adolfo, and our vet, who undoubtedly, had seen worse. Isaac was our first child, and we loved him.
Our second child, a human, was born in December of 1991. Sebastian was an immediate sensation, a golden child who elicited cries of delight from all who saw him. He had his own room, a crib, toys, and most of our attention. If there was ever a time for sibling rivalry, Isaac would have been thoroughly justified to wallow in it.
But that was another thing about Isaac. He was never predictable. He turned out to be a patient, if somewhat aloof older brother. Rather than try to sleep on Sebastian’s face, as we feared he might, he waited until the baby was up for the day and then curled up in the still warm crib, in a fat ray of sunshine, content for the morning. He shared me with Sebastian during impromptu naps, when I would have the baby on my chest, and Isaac would stretch down my leg, claws retracted, purr thrumming. When Sebastian began to move about, began to crawl and make loud, unpredictable baby noises, Isaac showed resigned leniency and never once lashed out at the pudgy hand that roughed his tail. I always kept a nervous watch, but Isaac never even hissed at this disruption to his life.
During this first year of Sebastian’s life, and incidentally, the last year of Isaac’s, it was a hard time to be living in Colombia. Apart from the chronic kidnappings, murders and civil rights abuses that filled the papers, we had entered a terrible drought. The reservoirs outside Bogotá were down to 26% of normal. As most of Bogota’s electricity is generated by hydroelectric power, there was a sudden, acute shortage of energy, compelling the city’s government to impose strict electricity rationing for the city of some 7 million. Up in our apartment, with Adolfo at work downtown, Isaac, Sebastian and I, like the rest of the people in our rationing district, were without power 6-7 days per week, 8 hours per day. This they broke into two four hour blocks: 6-10 AM and again from 5-9 PM, although a new schedule would materialize frequently without warning, leaving the apartment suddenly dark and quiet. I learned how to change diapers by candle and flashlight, Sebastian learned to appreciate the dancing shadows of the candles, and Isaac learned how to tuck himself around my feet in the darkened living room as I stood by the window, rocking Sebastian and singing any song that came to mind, just to fill the silence. My memory of those days and evenings is dim, but I remember the crackling of the candles, Sebastian’s baby smell and damp soft hair, Isaac’s thick presence in the room, and an unabiding loneliness. My frustration at my own helplessness was softened by writing long letters by candlelight. This is an excerpt from a letter to my sister. The original is blotchy with wax drippings.
October 15, 1992
Bogo-fucking-ta
Baby’s asleep, no electricity. A generator is droning in the background, a faint whiff of gasoline emanating from it and the million other generators that are grinding along at this moment all over the city. Looks like rain but probably isn’t going to-- just gray and oppressive. Across the narrow street, a maid is scrubbing the sidewalk and brick steps with soapy water. Her red scrubby broom makes a scritch scritch scritching sound as she rhythmically sweeps the soapy water back and forth over the bricks. The doorman of the building leans his back against the doorway and smokes a cigarette, watching her under his bored lids. Now she hoses down the brick, moving the sea of foam evenly back toward the sidewalk and eventually over the curb. I can smell the detergent faintly through my partially opened window as it cascades down the steps, four stories below. Wouldn’t guess there was a serious water shortage, would you? People still wash their cars and their sidewalks every day, wasting gallons of water in pointless pursuits… As you can see, my attitude hasn’t improved too much.
Isaac was already sick by this time. He had a recurring tumor in his hind leg that each of our vets, the one in Colombia and the one in California, had removed twice. There was now no skin left to close over the area, making another attempt to remove the aggressive thing that was ensnaring his flexor tendons impossible. It would be amputation of the leg, or euthanasia. Our vet in California told us that cats do very well on three legs, that in general, animals do not sit around feeling sorry for themselves, as do humans. Our Colombian vet said, gently, that he himself would not perform an amputation, that to him it was better to put an animal down than to mutilate it. But he would be willing to recommend another vet, should we decide to proceed…
It was mid November when the surgeon called to say Isaac had come thorough the amputation fine, and that we could expect to pick him up next afternoon. The next morning, however, he called back, and in a solemn voice, said that Isaac’s kidneys had failed during the night-- that he had died. He was very sorry and what did we want to do with the body? Did we want to see him?
I did. I needed to touch the big black beast. When we arrived at the clinic, it turned out that our desire to see Isaac had never been passed on. There was a scramble behind the scenes for a moment, then we were led to a table that had on it a sealed cardboard box. They slit the top with a razor, and there was Isaac in a jumble inside, the thick, luxurious fur looking dusty and unkempt. There was no mistaking this for sleep. I touched his head lightly, scratched the unresponsive ears and said my good-bye. We later received a very sincere computer-generated form letter from the Clínica Veterinaria Dover, expressing their deepest sympathy for the loss of (fill in the blank) and their conviction that he was surely in pet heaven. They offered continuing service, not only to help us fill the vacancy left by (fill in the blank), but to provide loving, long-term care for his replacement as well. It was signed with a rubber stamp.
We returned to the US for good the following month. I went on ahead with Sebastian, because a job awaited me in California. Adolfo stayed behind for a few weeks and sold off all our stuff. Among the things he sold was Isaac’s carrying case, the one I used to have to coax him into before a trip, the one that was marked with scuffed decals and half-removed customs tags. I thought of the paper work we always had to do to fly with him, the drugs we had to force down his stubborn throat, the scratches on my arms, and the guilty amusement a stoned Isaac would give us. Traveling with a baby was so much easier than traveling with a cat. The simplicity of it was horrible. I hated leaving Isaac in Colombia.
Isaac, it turns out, never did leave our family. Sebastian later developed chronic asthma, and after extensive testing it revealed one of his primary triggers to be - cats. We can never get another one. Ever. Isaac’s odd brand of nobility- and his dander- will stand alone. Sebastian has twin brothers now, wild boys, affectionate but unpredictable, one of whom bears the proud middle name of “Isaac”.
So I am crying now, as I wrestle this damn portal closed on my front loader. Nine years ago I would have been wrestling Isaac into his cage, pushing his big furry rump with one hand while scrabbling with the other to swing the door shut behind him. He would turn and glare at me through the bars of the door, but would rub his big head against it and purr when I scratched him behind the ear. Maybe I should be thinking grander thoughts than this, at the changing of the year. I should be thinking about the transition of the presidency, wondering if there can be peace in the Middle East, hoping for medical advances and an end to world hunger. Maybe it’s alright, though, to be missing an old friend right now, a big, cranky black cat who was our first child.
The Letter
December 20, 2000
The same notation is marked in each afternoon of my day planner. Sometimes scrawled in soft pencil, sometimes in ink, once in a child’s purple marker. Write letter to Gwil, it says. By the fourth entry, it was abbreviated to L.O.C. Letter of Condolence.
These entries began more than four weeks ago and I still haven’t written to Gwil. I cried with him on the phone when Betty died, two days after Thanksgiving at 3:25 in the afternoon. Since words mostly failed me then-- what to say to this exhausted man who had just lost half of himself with his wife of forty years—I had felt I could at least write what I could not say. A Letter of Condolence to a man whom I hold in such high regard that it has raised my personal truth and decency standards for the rest of humanity.
Gwil and Betty were both from Manchester. They married young and moved to California in the sixties. Gwil had been at the jewelers bench since the age of sixteen. After his arrival in the US, he eventually went into business with another Englishman, an association that was destined for tragedy. The shattering of a large and valuable star sapphire ruined them financially, and the subsequent suicide of his partner, who drank a tumbler full of cyanide, finished the business for good. It was around this time that Gwil almost died of encephalitis. In fact, he had to relearn many of his goldsmithing skills when he returned to the bench after a long hospitalization. Gwil and Betty had two bright, sensible, potentially formidable daughters, the youngest of whom, Leslie, was at her mother’s side when she died.
Betty worked for Macy’s, selling men’s clothing to the pimply youths who prowled the teen department. She would chuckle throatily about the sweet young things upon whom she got to wait. When her health began to fail last year, she retired. She must have been one of Macy’s longest standing employees, had seen all matter of styles wax and wane, had seen the best and worst behavior in that microcosm of society she served all those years. She saw the seasonal help pass through the store, a photo album of unmemorable faces flipping by, many taking with them, she would mutter darkly, items that did not belong to them. Betty knew her merchandise. The little prats that waltzed through, between semesters, safe with daddy’s stipend, knew sweet fanny-adams, she would say. Betty, who in her entire life, had never expected a thing she hadn’t worked for, rolled her eyes and wondered aloud, as Gwil often did, what the world was coming to.
So this is the first Christmas season in years and years that Gwil won’t be holed up in his small work room above Johnson & Co. Jewelers in the Stanford Shopping Center. He won’t be getting out the season’s rush jobs, NPR on the radio in the background, the sound of the caustic soda bubbling away behind him, the spine-tingling hum of the ultra sonic, the soft hiss of the steam cleaner, the hurried steps of a salesperson, ingratiating, apologetic, asking for yet another favor, and could you, just this once, she needs it for a party tonight and I wouldn’t ask except that she might buy that big emerald in the front case if we can do this for her…
He won’t be there. He has been watching his wife die quickly and horribly of pancreatic cancer. He will be at home, wandering through Betty’s memory, going through forty years of things and wondering if his life can ever make sense without her.
I worked by Gwil’s side for six years. I have poured him more cups of tea than I can remember, even if I myself wasn’t having any. To this day I drink it the English way, with milk – though that’s just a small example of his influence on my life. We danced gracefully around the narrow, crowded room, never treading on each other’s toes, sometimes talking, sometimes quiet, sometimes connecting in the weird telepathic way that people do who have worked together a long time. He taught me everything about jewelry making that I could absorb. I never did develop the confidence to set the big gems, but on many occasions I watched Gwil burnish the final prongs down on rocks worth more than my yearly salary.
I sit and try to write this Letter of Condolence, during the Christmas season when, just a few years ago, I would have been at Gwil’s side at my bench, or standing at the polishing lathe, buffing up the days work and packing each in its envelopes before loading them back into the safe. Betty would soon be bringing in a huge tray of her famous sausage rolls and tiny mince pies. Gwil and I would wipe our buttery fingers on our leather aprons, turn up the music and get back to work. We’d be grinning, and, despite all the commercialization around us in the mall, feeling the Christmas Spirit upon us.
I think about all the other Letters of Condolence I have not written this year. Letters to Lawan, Pauline, Sean, Mickey, Mid. Then there are the Letters from years past that I never wrote that still haunt me but that I have filed away under an uncomfortable statute of limitations. I’ll write this letter to Gwil, pale echo of my feelings though it may be.
Dear Gwil,
I am so sorry about Betty. I can think of no simple words of comfort -- except this: Betty chose to spend her life with you. You made her life wonderful, gave her two magnificent daughters, made her laugh, and helped her make a graceful exit when there was nothing else left. I can imagine no better definition for Soul Mate than that. She is hard-wired into you, your daughters and your grandchildren, and into those of us who were lucky enough to know her. Those of us lucky enough to know you, dear Gwil, are the luckiest people alive.
Love, Russell
A Political Debate
Originally published: Nov. 14, 2000
There are so many learned and brilliant discussions on the current situation involving our recent – and apparently ongoing – presidential election, I could not possibly add anything of value. I have never had any confidence in talking politics, nor have I ever had success in screening my sometimes unsophisticated choice of words. I think of myself as a fair person, but am often accused of extremes because of the harsh, highly subjective and admittedly scatological words I apply to parties, policies, and politicians with whom I disagree––I have always been less forgiving in my speech than in my rational mind.
As the youngest of four growing up, I began using questionable language at the age of eight. When I was in third grade, my big brother witnessed me marching home in a rainstorm after school, chanting the F–word like a mantra as I stomped through puddles. Try as I might, I am not likely to affect any great change to my vocabulary now.
My shortcomings are many, but I still recognize brilliance and truth in political rhetoric when I witness it. And I did witness it. In the most honest, profound and courageous political discussion it has ever been my pleasure to observe. The participants were polite and respectful of each other, never stooping to name–calling, never becoming snippy. So well behaved and, indeed, gallant were the two, that a mediator was not required.
Here is a partial transcript of that conversation.
Pundit A: What do you like better, George Bush or Al Gore?
Pundit B: Al Gore.
Pundit A: What do you like better, George Bush or flowers?
Pundit B: Flowers.
Pundit A: What do you like better, George Bush or ivy?
(Note: Both participants had spent the weekend ripping ivy off trees – strangling and very established ivy with stalks as big around as a five–year–old’s leg. It tore at hands and lashed at faces as it was stripped away.)
Pundit B: (heatedly) Ivy!
Several hours later there was a follow–up question and answer session in a less formal, town hall meeting sort of atmosphere. Here, the two scholars were relaxed, and, pulling thoughtfully on chilled juice–boxes, seemed more than willing to share their true feelings.
Pundit B: Who would you vote for, a raccoon or George Bush?
Pundit A: A raccoon! (Note: It is well known that raccoons are Pundit A’s preferred animals and his ideal choice for presidential candidate. A well-placed raccoon, Mr. A has intimated, would gain his support over just about anything, active or inert. It was, admittedly, an unfair way to phrase the question.)
Pundit B: Who would you vote for, George Bush or salt?
Pundit A: Salt.
Pundit B: Who would you vote for, George Bush or a rock?
Pundit A: A big rock or a little one?
Pundit B: A teeny, tiny one.
Pundit A: A rock.
Later in the evening, a pull–up snapped around his narrow hips and his hair still wet and smelling of grape scented shampoo, Mr. A hunched over a red marker and a drawing of a spaceship. Obviously in a more congenial mood, he softened somewhat on the subject of George W. Bush.
Pundit A: If George Bush was in this house and he asked me who I was voting for, I would say, “I don’t know yet”.
When asked why, as a well-known Gore supporter, he would say this, he replied,
“Because I wouldn’t want to hurt his feelings”.
It’s good to know that the character flaws of one generation don’t always infect the next. It’s reassuring that charitable thoughts can be accompanied by gentle words. I’m glad someone is being mature about this. And of course it’s a Democrat.
Fucking Republicans.
Home of the Lost Dog: an unfair comparison
Originally published: November 6, 2000
It might be unjust to compare a restaurant like Sam and Harry’s, the famous chain of steak houses popular with the rich and famous (reviewed in this space on Oct. 30), to a small, one-of a-kind establishment like The Lost Dog Café that specializes in pizza and sandwiches with nary a filet mignon or a lobster in sight. But then, fairness can be so dull.
By way of comparison, I think it is important to mention the few similarities these restaurants do share, though it will take some thinking on my part. (A pause and the sound of fingers lightly drumming on a keyboard) They are both in Northern Virginia.
The mottos of the two restaurants seem to characterize not only their general attitude towards their clientele, but the socioeconomic platform upon which each stands. With “You are where you eat”, Sam and Harry’s, located in McLean, has the elitist, snob appeal edge, sure to win points with conservatives. Lost Dog gives a sort of unilateral two-fingered whistle and a liberal thump on the back, promising, “Food and Grog For Every Dog”.
At Lost Dog, there is no reception desk, no off-screen coat room, no obvious chain of command. No valet parking. There is, in fact, almost no parking of any kind. The Arlington restaurant is situated in a tiny strip of shops (not as grand as an actual strip mall) and is squeezed in between a laundromat and an ever-changing restaurant that is currently some nouvelle Thai variation.
On a Friday or Saturday night, the Lost Dog is packed. Our party consisted of 4 adults and 3 kids, all hungry. When the kids, ages 5 and 8, learned it would be an hour until we could eat the killingly wonderful pizza we could smell, there was much flailing of arms and legs and even some tears, but no one wanted to leave. They wouldn’t dream of it. They’d been here many times before and knew what awaited them.
They took to wandering around the dusty racks of wine and beer that act as breakers for the constant tide of customers that ebb and flow through the door. There’s always a lot to see at the Lost Dog: the massive dog-theme paintings (sort of like dogs playing poker as interpreted by Van Gough and Rod Serling), the photos of dogs lining the walls, the paw prints embossed in the concrete floor. The owners seem to delight in stocking wine and beer with the most inventive names - names like “Delirium Tremens” and “Pink Elephant”. There’s a little bit of roughing it at the Lost Dog. The floors are dirty, there is nowhere to sit while waiting, if fact, there is really nowhere to even stand. That evening, the door had been propped open with a flattened wine box (over which almost everybody tripped) to accommodate the overflow. Everyone coming and going was smiling, even our kids, who were surviving on breath mints at that point.
When we were led to our table, our waiter greeted us, and proceeded to take our scattered, chaotic orders without writing a thing down. “2 root beers, no, 3 root beers, 2 lemonades, 1 small, no wait, 1 medium cheese pizza, 2 single serving pizzas-the Pedigree Pie and the Kujo Pie, 2 sandwiches--the healthy Dog and the Big Dog, one Pink Elephant and 2 glasses of Fat Bastard Chardonnay. Oh! And 2 orders of Dog Collars ( their Tabasco-laced onion rings)!
The employees here cannot compare to those at Sam and Harry’s. For one thing, at Lost Dog, the servers appear to enjoy their work. They wear jeans and colorful T shirts that say, “Life’s short--bite hard”. Their hair is untamed, although spikes are occasionally encouraged. They are often multiply pierced, and their smiles are completely genuine. They’re muscles seem to have been developed, strangely enough, by carrying trays full of food and drink, rather than by pumping iron.
Our waiter delivered each item not only quickly, but to the correct person, even though we had all changed seats to accommodate a five year old’s tearful demand to sit next to his big brother. Throughout the meal, drinks were refilled and empty dishes were removed. The food, as usual at the Lost Dog, was fresh, unique and honest. They also seem to serve the world’s finest pita bread - not a trace of mold to be found (see previous review of Sam & Harry’s). Everything was finished. Everything was excellent. My friend Tracy and I kept remarking on the Chardonnay, not only because it was excellent, but because, well, how often does one get to say the words “Fat Bastard” loudly and unabashedly at a restaurant?
When the 2 five-year-olds requested their long anticipated Giant Chocolate Chip Cookie, the waiter returned with two, said they were not particularly fresh, and said he would be glad to give them to us for free if the boys still wanted them. They did--most kids don’t understand the adult preoccupation with “day-old” baked goods. Apparently, at Lost Dog, not fresh is not for sale.
I don’t recall that I got my moldy bread and age-old prawns at Sam and Harry’s for free...
Our bill for 7 people was about $77.00. I know, I know. It is unfair and meaningless to compare prices, to even mention, in fact, that our dinner for 4 at Sam and Harry’s was close to $400. Sam and Harry’s has the clientele, the reputation, the suppliers, the location, the trained wait staff, the... the coat room.
It’s really not fair. Home of the Lost Dog is a much better dining experience.
Restaurant Review: Dinner at Sam & Harry's
Originally published: October 30, 2000
The size and quantity of the people at the reception desk should have been a tip-off. There was not a man among them who had a neck circumference under 20”. The women had necklines that plunged down to skirt slits that ricocheted up. There must have been six or seven “hosts” present, all smiling with straight, white teeth, seen-it-all eyes, and freeze-framed hair, savagely tamed with unguents and lacquer. At least four manicured hands reached to take our coats.
Through the beveled glass double doors the four of us followed our hostess, her cleaved hem zigging and zagging smartly across her black nylons. Her heels would have clicked importantly, had there not been wall-to-wall carpeting. It was dimly lit, and a comfortable, fishy smell enveloped the dining room. As we sat down, we all remarked that it reminded us of old San Francisco. Except, when we were handed the menus, old San Francisco might have blushed.
There was not an entree under $27 dollars ( which was, predictably, the lone chicken dish ), unless one wanted to count the fresh Maine lobster listed at $19 per pound. However, our waiter informed us that the lobsters that evening were weighing in at about 4 1/2 pounds, bringing the price up to about $85. Vegetables were extra. Salads sold separately. The leather wine volume had several bottles offered in the three and four digit category. There was not an empty table in sight.
Adolfo and I had been given a $100 gift certificate to Sam & Harry’s from Manuela and Denis. It was recently rated 7th best steakhouse in the country. The certificate had been donated to our school’s silent auction fund raiser by the restaurant. The auction fell on March 11th, coincidentally Adolfo’s birthday, and it was a wonderful surprise when Manuela and Denis handed us the certificate. We had no doubt we would invite them to share the meal with us.
We ordered from what, at a less elegant eatery, would be called a Surf ‘n’ Turf menu. The variety and specifics of the steaks were mind boggling. I chose jumbo prawns with lump crab meat and Basmati rice with a tangerine vinaigrette. Denis chose lamb, and Manuela and Adolfo were able to make sense of the steak selection. Adolfo ordered a seafood salad, I tried the red pepper soup, and Manuela and Denis had the lobster bisque. Urged by our waiter to supplement the main course with another chargeable item, Manuela asked for potatoes, Denis requested asparagus, and Adolfo opted for sautéed mushrooms. The Stag’s Leap ‘97 Cabernet Sauvignon was spicy and woody and nosy and leggy and all those other wine adjectives that sound vaguely racy but make for a nice beverage.
The conversation was animated, as it always is when the four of us get together. I tore off a piece of nice, crusty, flour-dusted country bread and ate it as I laughed over something Denis was saying, probably something about boot-lickers in the scientific research community. Then I was completely distracted by what was in my mouth. Along with the nice, chewy texture of the bread, was a strong taste of... mold. There was no denying it. My mouth knows mold. But here? I must have been mistaken. I surreptitiously inspected the remaining pieces in the basket. Flour can hide a multitude of sins, I thought darkly. But, here? Where they use those little straight-razor sweeper things to remove crumbs from the table? Must be imagining it.
“There is something not right with this bread.”, said Manuela decisively. “Right!” I cried. “Like, mold?” “Exactly! Mold!” she said. Wow. Mold. When the waiter came over, I mentioned quietly to him that there was a small problem with the bread, that they might check their supply for ... freshness. He tried to tell me that the white powder on top was simply flour, you see. Yes, I said, but perhaps moldy flour?
He went off to the kitchen to “show the chef”. As we heard nothing more about it, I assume the chef was not overly impressed. A few minutes later a fresh basket of bread, the same kind of bread with its dusting of white flour, was placed on the table by our waiter, who gave me the kind of cautious, sideways glance you’d give a lunatic.
The appetizers were excellent. No mold at all that I could ascertain. The entrees were brought and placed dramatically before us, each in front of the wrong person. After some shifting about on our parts, the separately charged vegetables arrived and were squeezed in where ever they might fit, again, each next to someone who had not ordered it. More lifting, maneuvering and cramming into position, and we all finally had the correct meals. Perhaps I’m being too harsh, but I would wish that a restaurant that serves food at these prices, might find the funds with which to purchase larger tables. By the way, our waiter neglected to tell us that one order of vegetables would have easily served all four of us. Denis alone got a full pound of asparagus, most of which went uneaten.
My prawns with lump crab meat looked beautiful. I quickly calculated the mound of Basmati rice in the center as containing about $0.13 worth of grain, and as quickly, banished the thought from my mind. The prawns and the crab, I reminded myself, were where the rest of the $29 had gone. These would be perfection.
A metallic, and at once past-prime flavor hit my palate. Oh no... it couldn’t be. I gamely finished the prawn. My shoulders slumped. Not only a tad mature, but over cooked! I know an over-cooked shellfish when I meet one, because I myself am a master at over-cooking them. That is why I order them when I go out - to taste them as they should be enjoyed. These! These were tough, fishy, and tasted like freezer burn. I could do that myself perfectly well at home.
With my scarlet “L” for lunatic already blazing on my forehead, I decided to rely on the good service and over attentiveness inherent in all fine dining establishments to get my complaint across. I decided to wait until our waiter asked me if everything was to my satisfaction. That way, I could give him my honest opinion, because, after all, he asked.
I dutifully waited, my fork parked stubbornly on the rim of my plate, until my companions had eaten their fill, and our dishes were being removed. Finally, our waiter asked me if I wanted him to pack the rest of my dinner up so I could take it home. I looked at him meaningfully and said, “No thanks. I don’t want to take that home.” Then I waited for him to show surprise and ask the inevitable, “Didn’t you like it? Oh, but let me get you something else, or at least let me strike this off the bill! I am so very sorry!” But the man just shrugged and whisked the plate away with the others and did not return until he thought it was time to show us the dessert tray.
Adolfo was the only taker, and ordered a mountainous, volcanic creation that contained cream, caramel, nuts, chocolate, and more cream, and included a one-time complimentary use of the restaurant’s crash cart to get one’s heart going again. (One shock only. If you require more, it’s $50 a pop. All this is in the fine print of the dessert menu) He managed about a third of the thing , then leaned back, defeated. Those remains, we did take home.
The bill was staggering, as expected, even after subtracting the $100 gift certificate. We paid, tipped, and walked out past the still mostly full tables. There was a receiving line of thick-necked men in dark suits, slouched against the wall and who thanked us in an oddly threatening manner as we passed. Their suits all looked a little tight across the chest and shoulders.
At the door, I thought, someone will surely ask me if I enjoyed my dinner. While we waited for them to bring our coats, I even hovered near the desk, hoping for a polite inquiry from someone. A huge bronze wall, deeply engraved with the story of Sam and Harry gave me the sudden impression that I was in a pharaoh’s tomb, a monument built by his slaves to glorify his memory and herald him into the afterlife. I didn’t have time to decipher its hieroglyphics, as two thick necks and a slit skirt showed up with our coats.
The complimentary valet parking was hopping. Navigator, Mercedes, Lexus... Suits and slits and cell phones, older men and younger women. Important people who slipped in front of us and got to the valet first, pressing bills into his hand. Finally, a Toyota van that needed a wash. None of the other cars got near it. We drove away into the Virginia night, having learned, yet again, that you don’t always get what you pay for.
After Margie
Originally published: October 3, 2000
As we strolled down the crowded sidewalk, I surveyed the people coming toward us, running my eye over the al fresco diners who were already digging into their garlicky entrées, a mere fork's length from where we were walking. I'd had one of those intuitions that we were going to run into someone we knew.
It was not entirely unlikely that we'd run into an acquaintance, as we were walking around Shirlington on a Saturday night. Shirlington is the hippest part of Arlington, by a fair margin. While there may be many attractive adjectives I could use to describe Arlington, "hip" is not one of them. So Shirlington often falls on our radar screen as a local destination on a dinner-and-a-movie night out. It's a single packed block (soon to be expanded and exploited by eager developers who promise ample parking- finally plenty of space for those Navigators and Suburbans!), chock-a-block with restaurants (Spanish, Japanese, Southwest, nouvelle, pub-style...), small shops, a Russian theater company, and the best movie theater in the area. My friend Caroline had told us about Shirlington. "You all don't know about Shirlington ?", she'd intoned in her soft North Carolina drawl. A quizzical look, a mixture of pity and a kind of what-planet-are-you-from stare)
But now we're in with the "in" crowd, and we go where the "in" crowd goes. We had, by Saturday night, visited Shirlington many times, and now strolled confidently along the bustling walkways. I grinned, remembering that I'd recently had the opportunity to enlighten some friends about Shirlington. The what-planet-are-you-from stare is a wonderful, cleansing thing to dish out.
Our film, "East is East", didn't start until after 9, so Adolfo and I decided to eat at one of our favorites, the Carlyle Grand. On Saturdays it is a seething mass of hip humanity, most of whom are packed in at the bar because the wait is rarely less than an hour. Everyone is clutching their drinks in one hand, and their over-sized "pager" in the other. The pager, a thick square of gray, industrial plastic, flashes like a movie marquee when your table is ready. It is quite visible through clothing, as one embarrassed gentleman to our left found out - the hostess smiled and pointed openly at his pants. The red flashing lights through the chino gave some kind of cartoon equivalent of, "Is that a pager in your pocket or are you just happy to be dining with us this evening?" The plump man with the light-up pants grinned sheepishly.
Somehow, Adolfo and I squeaked into a table in just under half-an-hour, probably because we were willing to settle for the not-so-hip downstairs seating area. I find that the hip factor is often over-ruled by the hunger factor.
I still hadn't seen anyone I knew. Which was great - in a way. But, admitting it guiltily to myself, I wanted to see someone, someone who knew me outside of my association with my kids or neighborhood, perhaps even someone who knew me in context with my writing. The sad, lonely fact is, as a freelancer, I just don't come into contact with a whole lot of people. I don't know a whole lot of people. Which is great - in a way. Except that you don't get a lot of feedback. Validation? Is that what I was looking for as I glanced around at the surrounding tables? Someone to wave at across a crowded room, someone who could give me a quick pat on the back and remind me that I am known to someone on my own merits? How pathetic! How utterly superficial and loathsome! I reigned my attention in to our own table and concentrated on what Adolfo was saying. Soon I was thoroughly absorbed in our own conversation - luckily he is a great conversationalist. We ordered our food, laughing at the fact that we seemed to have not one, but two waiters, sometimes working at odds with each other - one bringing forks, the other taking them away, one swooping in with a water refill, the other hovering with Adolfo's diet Coke.
Somewhere after the appetizer and before the main course, I caught a glimpse behind Adolfo's shoulder, of a father holding a thin boy in his arms. The boy was supported by the father's expert hands, but I could see that his arms and legs hung down passively and his head lolled slightly as the father moved. The boys face turned partly toward me. I knew those enormous green eyes at once, the dreamy lashes languidly closing and opening. It was Jonah.
Jonah Gilman has cerebral palsy. I wrote an article for the Washington Post Magazine almost two years ago about Jonah and his mother, Margie Levant, about her determination to make him as independent as possible, to have him walk, talk, and go to school in the regular public system. She had formed an association for an alternative method of therapy for children with cerebral palsy, she was a tireless, driven person with a delightful laugh. When I began interviewing her, she was pregnant with her second child. The day before the article appeared in the Post, Margie's water broke. Michael realized she was in distress, and immediately called 911. By the time he returned to the bedroom she was dead. It was later determined she's had an amniotic embolism, a very rare and almost invariably fatal occurrence. The baby lived for a day or so, but had been deprived of oxygen so long, there was virtually no brain activity. He was buried next to Margie.
Later that night, after dinner, after the movie, after Adolfo's breathing had become very regular next to me in bed and the house was terribly quiet, I stared through our skylight at the scruffy pine branch that swayed far above the house. I thought, if I were dead, I'd like to know about my family, how they were getting along, especially if it was good news. That would go a long way toward setting my mind at ease.
Dear Margi,
Just wanted to let you know I saw Jonah and Michael last night. Jonah is as beautiful as ever. He looks taller, but otherwise unchanged. Michael looks thin, but calm. He remembered me when I went over to say hello, which is amazing that he can remember anything from that time two years ago. I was very worried about intruding, but I had to say hi to Jonah. I asked him how first grade was going. He cracked that big, rascally smile he gives. Michael tells me he's at Taylor, which means he's in the same team of 4 schools with Julian, Gabriel and Sebastian. Jonah didn't feel much like talking, but Michael said that they were doing some work on the house to accommodate Jonah's motorized wheelchair, and that we should come see it when it's finished. He looks like he's doing OK, Margie. Tired, though.
I think about you a lot, probably more than is strictly good for me. Your death still shakes me to my core and makes me wonder, when I'm feeling particularly low, how anyone can have faith in anything. And then, I remember all you accomplished in your short life, especially when the chips were down, and think, well, maybe there's hope after all. I kind of go both ways on that.
Hope all's well with you and that death isn't treating you too badly. Did you see the turnout at your funeral? Did you see our mutual pediatrician Lynne Myers and the wonderful nurse Marita there? Did you know that you were on the front page of the Washington Post? Those were just a few things. There were many more. You were important to so many people. And they remember you. It's obvious Michael and Jonah do, and always will.
Fondly,
R. C.
So I was right. I did see someone I knew. And it did have to do with my writing, not the fact that I'm a mother. And it did validate me, after all. But the person who wrote that letter to a dead mother was more mother herself than writer, or it would never have been written.
Running Column of the Self-Employed
(Part 1 in an occasional series with no particular point or audience.)
Originally published: September 21, 2000
Transitions were never my strong point.
It is September of 2000, and I seem to have been plopped right into rush hour at Transition Central. The trains are speeding by on both sides, people dodging to and fro, whistles blowing, brief cases and oxfords streaking by in one direction while bobbing backpacks and pounding sneakers race down the other, and everyone has a destination. The cars move out, the elevators lift off, the last doors slam shut in the classrooms. Meetings start, lectures begin, coffee is poured, and a million phones get pressed to a million ears as the day begins.
The house is quiet. Far below, the washing machine is churning, soaping up the pee-soaked sheets of the twins; they both wet last night. Nothing new these days. It seems transitions aren't their strong points, either.
The house is quiet. The computer hums at me, daring me to sink into it and really get to work.. I guess I could, but the clock is ticking so loudly I can't concentrate. I'll write a note to myself to get a quieter clock. Where's a pencil when you need one?
The house is quiet. Except for the damn refrigerator. The ice maker sounds like a truck changing gears in our kitchen. And the water dispenser! Now that sounds like there's a minute, fitful waterfall periodically dribbling behind the dining room wall.
Not to mention the incessant, mindless whooshing of the furnace fan.
Churn churn churn. Hummmm. Tick tick tick tick. Grind Grind. dribble dribble dribble. Whooooshhhh.
I'll never get any work done. Hmm. Maybe I should touch up that spot on the ceiling where I accidentally dabbed some paint (is it too yellow after all?) the other day when I was doing the walls. The walls of my office. My office. Where I am going to work. Where I am going to write, now that the kids are all in school. Now that the Transition is transacted, that is. Not that we're out of the woods yet, but things are settling down and a certain sense of comforting routine is elbowing out the panic that was last week. And the week before.
Julian and Gabriel, five year old twins, are in Kindergarten. I braced myself as well as I thought possible, expecting a rude awakening from our benevolent, co-operative preschool to the regimen and sink-or-swim atmosphere that is public Elementary School. The boys followed the textbook pattern of most first-timers; excitement at the novelty of it all for two days, then the realization that life as they knew it was over. There were tears at school, but nothing out of the ordinary, I was told. The much-anticipated perk of getting to ride the school bus went a long way to smoothing their furrowed brows and enticing them back to kindergarten each day. The boys told me about art, music, lunch, PE, and spoke in scandalized tones about the bullies who pushed in line at the playground. As their school is a partial Spanish immersion program, they also came home with heartbreakingly adorable songs in Spanish (Mami, donde esta mi zapato? Debajo de la silla? No, no, no! Debajo de la cama? No, no, no! Ay! El perro se lo llevó! ), their small, expressive lips working to make the sounds just right. At the end of each day, they are very, very tired. I sometimes imagine I see smoke escaping from their ears, exhaust fumes from their over-worked brains.
Over-worked brains. Sebastian, now eight and in third grade, would agree that this is an issue. Third grade, it turns out, is like reform school. Not in the criminal sense, but in the character-building sense. Without any fanfare, or warning, I might add, the ball is dropped heavily and with great resonance, into their laps as their parents take the back seat. Responsibility becomes the most important new concept in their lives. They must copy down their now nightly homework assignments into their home work logs, they must bring it home, do it, bring it back and turn it in, all without being asked or reminded. And they get letter grades, now. And zeros. Sink or swim indeed. These are the big leagues now. Get up, get out, get over it, and get on with it.
Churn churn churn. Hummmm. Tick tick tick tick. Grind Grind dribble dribble dribble. Whooooshhhh.
Where was I? Oh. Transitions. Sebastian's face is about to transition. Maybe not much, but forever. Yesterday, he had a Palatal Expander cemented to his back molars. It is a dainty device, shining with medieval and torturous potential. It spans the palate, making eating, talking, and keeping one's saliva inside the mouth, difficult. I have the dubious honor of getting to ratchet the thing up by one hole, morning and evening. Two weeks, a total of 28 turns of the screw. I'm sure if Sebastian has the secret code, he will have told us by the time this is all over. Then it stays in place for 3-4 months. He will also have his baby lower canines ripped from his jaw next week, and then, in a few more weeks, a mandibular expander inserted in his jaw. Then braces, retainer, thumb-screws, iron maiden...
He also learned to ride a bike last weekend, and is feeling quite wonderful about himself. Transitions are interesting that way. I tend to forget that often they are good and beneficial things. In fact, more often than not, they move one in a positive direction. Why can't I seem to remember that? Especially at 2 in the morning?