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It's been difficult for me—more difficult than I've let on—to watch my granddaughter grow up in, shall we say, bohemian circumstances. Before she was born, I considered the prospect in all its distressing details, and resolved to do what I could to provide my granddaughter with some structures that would minimize the worst tendencies of her parents. And I must say that the results have been satisfactory. Despite having a mother who still styles herself a radical environmentalist and a father who lost most of his hearing playing in a punk rock band, Samantha, now in her twelfth year, commands several advantages in life: she seems to move with equal confidence through the corridors of her very good school and on the streets of her ethnically mixed neighborhood; she has two parents who speak to each other, civilly if not affectionately; two houses in said neighborhood, both in reasonably good repair and both mortgage-free; and two grandparents who are willing to step up for occasional child care duties.
My relations with Dorothy Shepanski, Samantha's other grandparent, have always been cordial, even pleasant, if hardly intimate. Twelve years ago, after Lisa had become pregnant and announced her intention to have a child out of wedlock, I sought out Dorothy. She responded to my request for a meeting with charm, grace, and a wholly appropriate reserve. I could tell that her loyalty to her difficult, talented, adult son was every bit as deeply rooted as my loyalty to my difficult, talented, adult daughter. In the years since, Dorothy and I have accepted our symmetrical positions in Samantha's family tree, knowing full well that ours is a contingent alliance: we both want the best for Samantha, and as long as Samantha's parents agree on what that means, Dorothy and I will agree as well. At Samantha's birthday parties, I've learned to avoid mentioning my corporate clients, lest I agitate Dorothy's liberal Catholic outrage at the profit motive; for her part, she has learned to keep her views on war to herself, lest she and I promptly re-enact the Oxford Union debate of 1933.
Which is why, earlier today, I found Dorothy's lack of cordiality so notable. My daughter Lisa has been in Boulder, Colorado for the past week, leading workshops at a retreat for community organizers. In her absence, the primary child care responsibilities have fallen upon Samantha's father, Gary. And it was he who called me yesterday, in need of a favor. Gary seemed to be in a state of mixed elation and overwork as he described his dilemma: an exhibition of his paintings was opening that night at Centro de Barrio Lange, and though it might seem a relatively minor affair, a few paintings hanging at a neighborhood community center, the curator had connections, the other artist was from L.A., people from New York were coming. Samantha would attend the first hour or so of the opening, then Dorothy would pick her up, but the schedule got tight on Saturday, when the people from New York wanted to take Gary and the other artist out to lunch and Dorothy had matinee tickets for the repertory theater. Gary is not a person who finds it easy to ask for help; beneath his bluster the awkwardness was almost painful to perceive; though I daresay that if his artistic career continues to advance, he will get much better at this sort of thing. In any case, I agreed to take Samantha; it would be, as always, my pleasure. I would be at the Tangled Bank; Dorothy could drop Samantha off on her way downtown to the matinee.
A brief meeting of the executive committee had come to an end not long before; I was sitting at a table in the main room of the Tangled Bank with Melissa, a fellow board member who has taken on a rather large job: temporary director of the center. Our discussion included a few budgetary matters, and the progress of the search to find a permanent director. Perhaps we had finished with the official business; perhaps the conversation had moved on to lighter matters; perhaps we were talking about her child, or her research, or the politics of the biology department. It is not unlikely that we were laughing when Dorothy appeared in the door.
"Samantha's on the nature path," she said.
"Dorothy," I said. "Come in."
"Louise is in the car," she said. "We're running late."
"Of course," I said. "Is it still the Chekov?"
"You might want to talk to that child," she said, and was gone.
Showing posts with label Samantha. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Samantha. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Dorothy, January 12, 2008
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St. Stanislaus Parish, $1,820. They always send her a receipt, first thing every January, which is nice, but Dorothy takes out a calculator and adds it up anyway. $35 a week. You wouldn't think it would come to that total, the sevens turning into sixes, but somehow it does. Is it still the right amount? Dorothy reaches across the dining room table, and finds a hand-written sheet on one of the stacks of paper. In 2007, her gross income was about $36,000, what with Social Security, her mutual funds, and the annuitized payment from her husband's life insurance, about a thousand more than the year before, the mutual funds did a little better this last year, so for this year Dorothy will continue to follow Father Wilkes' formula, and start putting checks for $36 in the envelope each week. One dollar more each week, it doesn't really seem to matter, except when you look at yourself in the mirror, that's what Father Wilkes used to say. His formula was simple—however many thousands of dollars you made last year, before taxes, give that many dollars weekly to the parish. He called it "half-tithing." Father Wilkes expected that you would tithe, of course, but he only expected that half of your tithe would go to your church. Dorothy liked that—the acknowledgment that her other giving was, well, valid. It wasn't the only reason Dorothy had stopped attending her suburban parish in the 1980's, and started driving in to St. Stanislaus, in the old Polish neighborhood near downtown, where because of her name, Shepanski, everyone thought she was one of the old-time parishioners coming back, but of course she wasn't, her maiden name was Sullivan, and Walter had come from Pittsburgh, not from any parish around here. No, it wasn't the only reason, but it was part of it. Her old pastor had looked at every other charity in the world as competition, practically enemies. Father Wilkes had been so much more reasonable. Dorothy still liked Father Wilkes, in spite of everything. Centro de Barrio Lange, $125. Dorothy has found the shoebox where she keeps the notes she writes herself about her charitable donations. She takes out a new sheet of paper and begins to add them up. Friends of the Parks, $100. It still upsets Dorothy that the county won't keep up the parks the way they used to, it offends her to be asked for money to support something that tax dollars ought to take care of, but Dorothy gives anyway, the parks are too important. Northern Day School, $100. Samantha's school, too rich for Dorothy's blood, but she feels obligated to contribute something, a school like that, she wonders if they get annoyed at $100 checks, the way waitresses get annoyed if you leave pennies on the table. Public Radio, $100. The young man on the phone allowed as how the station would take any amount, but he kept talking about their minimum suggested donation of $75. Then as soon as Dorothy agreed to the $75, the slippery young fellow tried to talk her into upgrading to the $150 level, saying how at that level she would get a discount card that she could apply to various cultural events around town. Dorothy let him read her the list, but the only one Dorothy would be interested in was the Repertory Theatre, and she and Louise already had season tickets to that. So after half an hour of discussion with the young man, Dorothy proposed a compromise—instead of $75, she would give $100, sort of a $25 tip, and they could keep the discount card for someone who wanted to go to the symphony, and the nice young man eventually agreed that was good solution. Public Television, $160. Dorothy shakes her head as she reads the note, how ridiculous these so-called "gifts" are! For her donation, she received a set of four "Comfort Food" cookbooks as a thank you, and a note telling her she must reduce her IRS deduction by $40 for "fair market value." Well, she thinks, the IRS can figure it any way they want, for her own personal purposes the donation was $160, those cookbooks weren't worth a damn anyway. Catholic Relief Services, $75, Doctors without Borders, $50, American Friends Service Committee, $50. She doesn't know which one does the most good, so she spreads it around, her little bit. Save the Children, $336. $28 a month for the child in Sierra Leone. Her friend Louise sponsors a child too, and Louise puts the photos and letters and drawings from the child on the refrigerator. Dorothy can't do that—the shame of having so much more overwhelms her. She reads the letters, looks at the pictures, then puts them in a drawer. Tangled Bank Nature Center, $250. Louise had suggested the two of them make their gifts in memory of Professor Jorgensen, but Dorothy had quietly refused. St. Stanislaus Stained Glass Restoration Fund, $75. It had broken Father Wilkes's heart to have to cover those gorgeous windows with Plexiglas. Dorothy didn't care much for the new pastor, Fr. Knoll, but this was one project where she had to support him. American Heart Association, $300. Walter died in 1968 at the age of 47. She was 42. Gary was only 12. In the late 1980s, she had opened a mailing from the American Heart Association, asking her to make a donation in the memory of her late husband. She threw the mailer away, offended. How did they know he had died of a heart attack? And how did they track her down, twenty years after the event? But the next year, the mailer came again, and this time she put it on the table. Maybe she should call them, and complain. The next day, when she was volunteering in the rectory office, she took a coffee break with Father Wilkes. She told him about the mailer, how offended and angry it made her. She had never considered that her husband had died of a disease, simply that he had died and left her, that's the way it was. At the end of the coffee break, Father Wilkes gave her absolution. Father, she told him, I wasn't going to confession. Yes you were, he said. He suggested she join a widows group. She resisted. It was so long ago, she told him, I've been widow for twenty years. He kept urging her. She finally joined. She didn't like most of the ladies, especially the ones who made whatever disease their husbands had died from into a cause. Death was just death, she thought to herself, not a personal insult. Eventually she spoke up and said so to the group. The other women didn't know what to say. But they weren't all bad, the widows. There were some women she didn't mind listening to, the ones who were having troubles with their kids now that the fathers were gone. She tried to tell them what Gary had been like in high school, how he had always been in trouble with school, but never in trouble with her, not really. Maybe some of the women understood. There was one other "veteran" in the group, a woman, like her, who had been widowed a long time. That was Louise, the beginning of a friendship. Anyway Dorothy had kept going to the group for several months, until they changed the time and it didn't fit into her schedule anymore. And the next year, when the begging letter from the American Heart Association came, Dorothy made a memorial in her husband's name. And every year since.
St. Stanislaus Parish, $1,820. They always send her a receipt, first thing every January, which is nice, but Dorothy takes out a calculator and adds it up anyway. $35 a week. You wouldn't think it would come to that total, the sevens turning into sixes, but somehow it does. Is it still the right amount? Dorothy reaches across the dining room table, and finds a hand-written sheet on one of the stacks of paper. In 2007, her gross income was about $36,000, what with Social Security, her mutual funds, and the annuitized payment from her husband's life insurance, about a thousand more than the year before, the mutual funds did a little better this last year, so for this year Dorothy will continue to follow Father Wilkes' formula, and start putting checks for $36 in the envelope each week. One dollar more each week, it doesn't really seem to matter, except when you look at yourself in the mirror, that's what Father Wilkes used to say. His formula was simple—however many thousands of dollars you made last year, before taxes, give that many dollars weekly to the parish. He called it "half-tithing." Father Wilkes expected that you would tithe, of course, but he only expected that half of your tithe would go to your church. Dorothy liked that—the acknowledgment that her other giving was, well, valid. It wasn't the only reason Dorothy had stopped attending her suburban parish in the 1980's, and started driving in to St. Stanislaus, in the old Polish neighborhood near downtown, where because of her name, Shepanski, everyone thought she was one of the old-time parishioners coming back, but of course she wasn't, her maiden name was Sullivan, and Walter had come from Pittsburgh, not from any parish around here. No, it wasn't the only reason, but it was part of it. Her old pastor had looked at every other charity in the world as competition, practically enemies. Father Wilkes had been so much more reasonable. Dorothy still liked Father Wilkes, in spite of everything. Centro de Barrio Lange, $125. Dorothy has found the shoebox where she keeps the notes she writes herself about her charitable donations. She takes out a new sheet of paper and begins to add them up. Friends of the Parks, $100. It still upsets Dorothy that the county won't keep up the parks the way they used to, it offends her to be asked for money to support something that tax dollars ought to take care of, but Dorothy gives anyway, the parks are too important. Northern Day School, $100. Samantha's school, too rich for Dorothy's blood, but she feels obligated to contribute something, a school like that, she wonders if they get annoyed at $100 checks, the way waitresses get annoyed if you leave pennies on the table. Public Radio, $100. The young man on the phone allowed as how the station would take any amount, but he kept talking about their minimum suggested donation of $75. Then as soon as Dorothy agreed to the $75, the slippery young fellow tried to talk her into upgrading to the $150 level, saying how at that level she would get a discount card that she could apply to various cultural events around town. Dorothy let him read her the list, but the only one Dorothy would be interested in was the Repertory Theatre, and she and Louise already had season tickets to that. So after half an hour of discussion with the young man, Dorothy proposed a compromise—instead of $75, she would give $100, sort of a $25 tip, and they could keep the discount card for someone who wanted to go to the symphony, and the nice young man eventually agreed that was good solution. Public Television, $160. Dorothy shakes her head as she reads the note, how ridiculous these so-called "gifts" are! For her donation, she received a set of four "Comfort Food" cookbooks as a thank you, and a note telling her she must reduce her IRS deduction by $40 for "fair market value." Well, she thinks, the IRS can figure it any way they want, for her own personal purposes the donation was $160, those cookbooks weren't worth a damn anyway. Catholic Relief Services, $75, Doctors without Borders, $50, American Friends Service Committee, $50. She doesn't know which one does the most good, so she spreads it around, her little bit. Save the Children, $336. $28 a month for the child in Sierra Leone. Her friend Louise sponsors a child too, and Louise puts the photos and letters and drawings from the child on the refrigerator. Dorothy can't do that—the shame of having so much more overwhelms her. She reads the letters, looks at the pictures, then puts them in a drawer. Tangled Bank Nature Center, $250. Louise had suggested the two of them make their gifts in memory of Professor Jorgensen, but Dorothy had quietly refused. St. Stanislaus Stained Glass Restoration Fund, $75. It had broken Father Wilkes's heart to have to cover those gorgeous windows with Plexiglas. Dorothy didn't care much for the new pastor, Fr. Knoll, but this was one project where she had to support him. American Heart Association, $300. Walter died in 1968 at the age of 47. She was 42. Gary was only 12. In the late 1980s, she had opened a mailing from the American Heart Association, asking her to make a donation in the memory of her late husband. She threw the mailer away, offended. How did they know he had died of a heart attack? And how did they track her down, twenty years after the event? But the next year, the mailer came again, and this time she put it on the table. Maybe she should call them, and complain. The next day, when she was volunteering in the rectory office, she took a coffee break with Father Wilkes. She told him about the mailer, how offended and angry it made her. She had never considered that her husband had died of a disease, simply that he had died and left her, that's the way it was. At the end of the coffee break, Father Wilkes gave her absolution. Father, she told him, I wasn't going to confession. Yes you were, he said. He suggested she join a widows group. She resisted. It was so long ago, she told him, I've been widow for twenty years. He kept urging her. She finally joined. She didn't like most of the ladies, especially the ones who made whatever disease their husbands had died from into a cause. Death was just death, she thought to herself, not a personal insult. Eventually she spoke up and said so to the group. The other women didn't know what to say. But they weren't all bad, the widows. There were some women she didn't mind listening to, the ones who were having troubles with their kids now that the fathers were gone. She tried to tell them what Gary had been like in high school, how he had always been in trouble with school, but never in trouble with her, not really. Maybe some of the women understood. There was one other "veteran" in the group, a woman, like her, who had been widowed a long time. That was Louise, the beginning of a friendship. Anyway Dorothy had kept going to the group for several months, until they changed the time and it didn't fit into her schedule anymore. And the next year, when the begging letter from the American Heart Association came, Dorothy made a memorial in her husband's name. And every year since.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Melissa, December 17, 2007
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"This has nothing to do with Lisa," said Gary. "It's only because I pretty much fucking built the place."
I nodded. "That’s... what I understand," I said.
"Not the electrical, of course. Or the plumbing. Or the concrete pours. Though I could've done a better job than those assholes the contractor hired."
"It was very generous of you," I said. "I mean, it is, still—"
"Fuck that," said Gary. "There was nothing fucking generous about it. Okay. I'm going out."
He opened the door and walked out into the snow. I looked out at the roof, the snow, the night, the big guy in the jumpsuit.
"Are you all right?" I called after him.
"I'm fine," he called back. "Close the fucking door. You're letting the heat out. It's a fucking green building, remember?"
I closed the door and tried to keep an eye on his progress through the window. Framed by the vertical slit, the scene had become even more disorienting: snowflakes illuminated from below, the hulking figure trudging among the vents and boxes. I saw him tug at something, kick it, then lift the thing, a snowy mass, and toss it into the darkness.
A minute later he was back on the landing, stomping the snow off his jumpsuit.
"Fucking big-assed tree branch," he said. "From the oak tree. Totally blocking the intake. It must've fallen in the windstorm. That was two weeks ago, before the snow. You been having problems that long?"
"Maybe," I said. "I thought it was just winter. I... I just... turned up the thermostat."
"You shouldn't let shit that go that long. You gotta get a regular maintenance man for this place."
The snow was flying off his clothes and boots. I stood as far from him as possible on the little landing.
"I'm working on it," I said. "With the board. It takes time."
The shaking and stomping and brushing stopped. He looked at me.
"Hey," he said. "I'm not getting down on you personally. Sorry if I came on too strong."
"No problem," I said. "It was so great for you to come over and help. I really didn't know who else to call. Let me get you some coffee."
"You're pretty much a volunteer here yourself, aren't you?" he said.
"Sort of," I said. "One of the donors made a deal with the biology department. Next semester my teaching load will be reduced by one class."
"That's not much," he said. "This is a big job here."
"There's a search committee," I said. "Maybe by summer we'll have a new executive director. C'mon, let's get that coffee."
Downstairs, you could already feel the warmth returning. I fixed a cup of coffee for Gary and a hot chocolate for me. We talked about our kids for a while. I asked about Samantha. He said she was trying to find her mother a job. He asked about Jake—how was he handling the steroid scandal in baseball? I said he was trying to use it as an excuse not to take his asthma medicine. Smart kid, he said. Smart at being stupid, I said. Gary had stopped swearing—as if he no longer needed the sparks of profanity to keep him warm.
His eyes wandered around the center for a moment. Builder's eyes. The same attention to detail that a biologist brings to the field, but something else, too. More willful.
"You did all the carpentry?" I said.
"Yeah," he said. "The rough and the finish."
"You did a great job," I said. "It must be difficult for you, now that Lisa—"
"Nothing fucking to do with her," he said. "I mean, she was the fucking client, but that wasn't why I did it."
He seemed to want to tell me something, but he wanted me to ask.
"Why then?" I finally said, after a pause.
"Sam's grandpa," he said, after his own pause.
"Raymond?" I said.
"You know," he said. "At the time, I had no fucking clue. Only when I looked back, I could see how old Raymond had put it all together. Know what I mean?"
"I don't quite follow..." I said.
"Look," he said. "This was the early nineties, after the band had finally gone fucking south. There I was, living off the book, no reported income, no visible fucking means of support."
"You were in a band?" I said. "I guess I should have known... from the tatoos."
I smiled awkwardly.
"Yeah," he said. "I was in Arbeit Macht Frei."
"No way!" I said. "My older brother had all your albums. And this disgusting t-shirt.... I thought the band was from West Berlin or Amsterdam or..."
"Someplace cool?" he said. "Nope. Three jews and a polack from right fucking here. Fucking suburbs, actually."
"Wow," I said. "You guys really had a following in Columbus. You were like... grunge before there was grunge."
"Like grunge before there was money," he said. "We toured for ten years. Most of the time we were crashing on our fans' fucking floors. I was telling you a story about Raymond. You wanna hear it?"
"Uh, sure," I said.
The story started with the breakup of the band. He told me how, in its last two years, Arbeit Macht Frei had made a little money and they had all started to hate each other. How he walked away with just enough cash to buy an old crackhouse in Barrio Lange and fix it up. How he built himself a studio and started painting again. How he and Lisa had had a thing. How Lisa had been almost as much of a fringe character as he was back then, this fucking crazy environmentalist chick. How she got pregnant. How she wanted to keep the baby, which surprised the fuck out of Gary. But how he knew she was serious because she quit drinking right away.
Then he leaned forward and gave me a little sociology lesson. He told me how the fucking state comes in and fucks up everyone's lives if a dad can't pay his fucking child support. He leaned back and shook his head. Fucking Lisa had been about to go ahead and apply for fucking welfare anyway.
But that was when Raymond Deveridge, Lisa's dad, whom Gary had never even fucking met before, showed up with a package deal to solve everyone's problems.
Gary lifted his arms and looked around the room.
"You mean the center?" I said. "The Tangled Bank? This was Raymond's idea?"
"Oh, the idea was Lisa's. But you gotta understand, Lisa had lots of fucking ideas. Raymond picked the one he was going to make happen."
The deal took a year or two to play out. Lisa got a job running the center, Gary got a job building the center, nobody had to get married who didn't fucking want to (the two of them sure as hell didn't), their paychecks were nice and low, but not too low, which looked good for the fundraising, which Raymond took care of, at least in the early years, until Lisa got good at it.
And when Samantha was born, she got a trust fund, with monthly payments right from the start. So the small paychecks didn't matter, because Lisa and Gary didn't have to use those paychecks to support their kid.
Gary paused, to let me catch up. I sat in silence for a moment.
"It's... it's a lot to absorb," I said.
"The trust fund even sends me checks when I take Samantha for the weekends," he said. "Fucking sweet, hey?"
"So that's how this place started," I said. "Kind of a... family thing."
"Hey," he said. "This place is real. Fuck the family drama. That river is real, all the nature is real, you know the science is real, and I can guarantee this building is fucking real."
"I know," I said. "Thanks. For everything. Well, I gotta get home. I have to be back here at 7:30 to unlock the doors for a busload of seventh graders."
I stood and picked up the cups. Gary stood up too.
"Yeah," he said. "I should get back to the studio."
"I'm sorry I had to interrupt you," I said.
"Don't worry," he said. "I never get started before midnight."
"This has nothing to do with Lisa," said Gary. "It's only because I pretty much fucking built the place."
I nodded. "That’s... what I understand," I said.
"Not the electrical, of course. Or the plumbing. Or the concrete pours. Though I could've done a better job than those assholes the contractor hired."
"It was very generous of you," I said. "I mean, it is, still—"
"Fuck that," said Gary. "There was nothing fucking generous about it. Okay. I'm going out."
He opened the door and walked out into the snow. I looked out at the roof, the snow, the night, the big guy in the jumpsuit.
"Are you all right?" I called after him.
"I'm fine," he called back. "Close the fucking door. You're letting the heat out. It's a fucking green building, remember?"
I closed the door and tried to keep an eye on his progress through the window. Framed by the vertical slit, the scene had become even more disorienting: snowflakes illuminated from below, the hulking figure trudging among the vents and boxes. I saw him tug at something, kick it, then lift the thing, a snowy mass, and toss it into the darkness.
A minute later he was back on the landing, stomping the snow off his jumpsuit.
"Fucking big-assed tree branch," he said. "From the oak tree. Totally blocking the intake. It must've fallen in the windstorm. That was two weeks ago, before the snow. You been having problems that long?"
"Maybe," I said. "I thought it was just winter. I... I just... turned up the thermostat."
"You shouldn't let shit that go that long. You gotta get a regular maintenance man for this place."
The snow was flying off his clothes and boots. I stood as far from him as possible on the little landing.
"I'm working on it," I said. "With the board. It takes time."
The shaking and stomping and brushing stopped. He looked at me.
"Hey," he said. "I'm not getting down on you personally. Sorry if I came on too strong."
"No problem," I said. "It was so great for you to come over and help. I really didn't know who else to call. Let me get you some coffee."
"You're pretty much a volunteer here yourself, aren't you?" he said.
"Sort of," I said. "One of the donors made a deal with the biology department. Next semester my teaching load will be reduced by one class."
"That's not much," he said. "This is a big job here."
"There's a search committee," I said. "Maybe by summer we'll have a new executive director. C'mon, let's get that coffee."
Downstairs, you could already feel the warmth returning. I fixed a cup of coffee for Gary and a hot chocolate for me. We talked about our kids for a while. I asked about Samantha. He said she was trying to find her mother a job. He asked about Jake—how was he handling the steroid scandal in baseball? I said he was trying to use it as an excuse not to take his asthma medicine. Smart kid, he said. Smart at being stupid, I said. Gary had stopped swearing—as if he no longer needed the sparks of profanity to keep him warm.
His eyes wandered around the center for a moment. Builder's eyes. The same attention to detail that a biologist brings to the field, but something else, too. More willful.
"You did all the carpentry?" I said.
"Yeah," he said. "The rough and the finish."
"You did a great job," I said. "It must be difficult for you, now that Lisa—"
"Nothing fucking to do with her," he said. "I mean, she was the fucking client, but that wasn't why I did it."
He seemed to want to tell me something, but he wanted me to ask.
"Why then?" I finally said, after a pause.
"Sam's grandpa," he said, after his own pause.
"Raymond?" I said.
"You know," he said. "At the time, I had no fucking clue. Only when I looked back, I could see how old Raymond had put it all together. Know what I mean?"
"I don't quite follow..." I said.
"Look," he said. "This was the early nineties, after the band had finally gone fucking south. There I was, living off the book, no reported income, no visible fucking means of support."
"You were in a band?" I said. "I guess I should have known... from the tatoos."
I smiled awkwardly.
"Yeah," he said. "I was in Arbeit Macht Frei."
"No way!" I said. "My older brother had all your albums. And this disgusting t-shirt.... I thought the band was from West Berlin or Amsterdam or..."
"Someplace cool?" he said. "Nope. Three jews and a polack from right fucking here. Fucking suburbs, actually."
"Wow," I said. "You guys really had a following in Columbus. You were like... grunge before there was grunge."
"Like grunge before there was money," he said. "We toured for ten years. Most of the time we were crashing on our fans' fucking floors. I was telling you a story about Raymond. You wanna hear it?"
"Uh, sure," I said.
The story started with the breakup of the band. He told me how, in its last two years, Arbeit Macht Frei had made a little money and they had all started to hate each other. How he walked away with just enough cash to buy an old crackhouse in Barrio Lange and fix it up. How he built himself a studio and started painting again. How he and Lisa had had a thing. How Lisa had been almost as much of a fringe character as he was back then, this fucking crazy environmentalist chick. How she got pregnant. How she wanted to keep the baby, which surprised the fuck out of Gary. But how he knew she was serious because she quit drinking right away.
Then he leaned forward and gave me a little sociology lesson. He told me how the fucking state comes in and fucks up everyone's lives if a dad can't pay his fucking child support. He leaned back and shook his head. Fucking Lisa had been about to go ahead and apply for fucking welfare anyway.
But that was when Raymond Deveridge, Lisa's dad, whom Gary had never even fucking met before, showed up with a package deal to solve everyone's problems.
Gary lifted his arms and looked around the room.
"You mean the center?" I said. "The Tangled Bank? This was Raymond's idea?"
"Oh, the idea was Lisa's. But you gotta understand, Lisa had lots of fucking ideas. Raymond picked the one he was going to make happen."
The deal took a year or two to play out. Lisa got a job running the center, Gary got a job building the center, nobody had to get married who didn't fucking want to (the two of them sure as hell didn't), their paychecks were nice and low, but not too low, which looked good for the fundraising, which Raymond took care of, at least in the early years, until Lisa got good at it.
And when Samantha was born, she got a trust fund, with monthly payments right from the start. So the small paychecks didn't matter, because Lisa and Gary didn't have to use those paychecks to support their kid.
Gary paused, to let me catch up. I sat in silence for a moment.
"It's... it's a lot to absorb," I said.
"The trust fund even sends me checks when I take Samantha for the weekends," he said. "Fucking sweet, hey?"
"So that's how this place started," I said. "Kind of a... family thing."
"Hey," he said. "This place is real. Fuck the family drama. That river is real, all the nature is real, you know the science is real, and I can guarantee this building is fucking real."
"I know," I said. "Thanks. For everything. Well, I gotta get home. I have to be back here at 7:30 to unlock the doors for a busload of seventh graders."
I stood and picked up the cups. Gary stood up too.
"Yeah," he said. "I should get back to the studio."
"I'm sorry I had to interrupt you," I said.
"Don't worry," he said. "I never get started before midnight."
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Lisa, November 12, 2007
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After lunch, we took a walk in the old German graveyard, and for the first time all day, Sam dropped her sullen act.
"Look Mom, this one died when she was a baby."
She grabbed my hand and pointed to a gravestone.
Margaretha Schwab. Born June 3, 1842. Died August 12, 1842.
"1842," I said. "This was practically the frontier back then. A lot of infant mortality."
"That means babies dying, right?"
"That's right."
We walked toward another gravestone, her hand still in mine.
Hanna Schwab. That must be the mother. Born 1823, Leipzig. Died 1867. Here. That would be...
"Sam, what's sixty-seven minus twenty-three?"
"Forty-four."
My age. When Hanna died. How many more children did you have, Hanna, after losing Margaretha at...
"What's 42 minus 23?"
"Oh god, Mom. Nineteen." She looked at the stone. "You're figuring out how old she was..."
"Yeah."
"The gravestones are so gross," said Sam. "Somebody should clean them."
"Those are lichens," I said. "They grow on the old limestone. The calcium neutralizes the acid rain. It's a good place for them to grow."
"So they shouldn't clean them?"
"I would leave them just the way they are. Graveyards are good for nature."
We strolled quietly among the stones, still hand in hand. Keydel. Otterbein. Baum. Walsch. In England, they teach nature courses in graveyards. Rocks and weathering. Human populations. Biodiversity.
"Mom," said Sam, "are you a Wiccan?"
"I don't think so," I said. "I'm not very religious."
Who needs a nature center? You could hire the buses, set up day tours. Would that work here?
"Grandpa's an Episcopalian," said Sam. "And Dad says he's a half-assed Taoist—"
"Is that so?" I said.
"—and Grandma Shepanski is a Catholic, and that leaves you."
An old truck rumbled by on County E. There must still be a few working farms around here. The driver probably wouldn’t dream of stopping at the old church, now that it's been converted to a little café. What would he make of a busload of eco-tourists? Those old guys have a different relationship with the land—harsh. Hateful, sometimes. But intimate.
Sam tugged at my hand. "Mom! I'm asking you a question! What religion are you?"
"I'm not much of anything," I said. "Are you doing a report for school?"
"No," she said. "I'm just curious. I read a book on religions of the world."
I suppose this place could make you feel religious. Very quiet and peaceful. But then as soon as you think about it—as soon as you focus on the quiet—you can hear the highway. No buzz of transcendence. Just the distant angry roar. What is it? Ten miles away?
"You worship nature, don't you Mom?"
"I don't know about worship. I fight for it sometimes."
The wind shifted a little, and for a moment it filled my ears, masking the sound of the highway. The bleak November wind that Hanna Schwab would have heard, the season after baby Margaretha died, while her husband cleared the land, not primeval forest, but a forest a century or two old, grown unchecked since the European microbes had decimated the native population. You and your husband didn't need to fight the Indians, did you Hanna? Smallpox had done that already.
Sam let go of my hand, and ran off to study something—a few yards away. Under that bush—what is it?
I hope you had a daughter, Hanna. One that lived.
After lunch, we took a walk in the old German graveyard, and for the first time all day, Sam dropped her sullen act.
"Look Mom, this one died when she was a baby."
She grabbed my hand and pointed to a gravestone.
Margaretha Schwab. Born June 3, 1842. Died August 12, 1842.
"1842," I said. "This was practically the frontier back then. A lot of infant mortality."
"That means babies dying, right?"
"That's right."
We walked toward another gravestone, her hand still in mine.
Hanna Schwab. That must be the mother. Born 1823, Leipzig. Died 1867. Here. That would be...
"Sam, what's sixty-seven minus twenty-three?"
"Forty-four."
My age. When Hanna died. How many more children did you have, Hanna, after losing Margaretha at...
"What's 42 minus 23?"
"Oh god, Mom. Nineteen." She looked at the stone. "You're figuring out how old she was..."
"Yeah."
"The gravestones are so gross," said Sam. "Somebody should clean them."
"Those are lichens," I said. "They grow on the old limestone. The calcium neutralizes the acid rain. It's a good place for them to grow."
"So they shouldn't clean them?"
"I would leave them just the way they are. Graveyards are good for nature."
We strolled quietly among the stones, still hand in hand. Keydel. Otterbein. Baum. Walsch. In England, they teach nature courses in graveyards. Rocks and weathering. Human populations. Biodiversity.
"Mom," said Sam, "are you a Wiccan?"
"I don't think so," I said. "I'm not very religious."
Who needs a nature center? You could hire the buses, set up day tours. Would that work here?
"Grandpa's an Episcopalian," said Sam. "And Dad says he's a half-assed Taoist—"
"Is that so?" I said.
"—and Grandma Shepanski is a Catholic, and that leaves you."
An old truck rumbled by on County E. There must still be a few working farms around here. The driver probably wouldn’t dream of stopping at the old church, now that it's been converted to a little café. What would he make of a busload of eco-tourists? Those old guys have a different relationship with the land—harsh. Hateful, sometimes. But intimate.
Sam tugged at my hand. "Mom! I'm asking you a question! What religion are you?"
"I'm not much of anything," I said. "Are you doing a report for school?"
"No," she said. "I'm just curious. I read a book on religions of the world."
I suppose this place could make you feel religious. Very quiet and peaceful. But then as soon as you think about it—as soon as you focus on the quiet—you can hear the highway. No buzz of transcendence. Just the distant angry roar. What is it? Ten miles away?
"You worship nature, don't you Mom?"
"I don't know about worship. I fight for it sometimes."
The wind shifted a little, and for a moment it filled my ears, masking the sound of the highway. The bleak November wind that Hanna Schwab would have heard, the season after baby Margaretha died, while her husband cleared the land, not primeval forest, but a forest a century or two old, grown unchecked since the European microbes had decimated the native population. You and your husband didn't need to fight the Indians, did you Hanna? Smallpox had done that already.
Sam let go of my hand, and ran off to study something—a few yards away. Under that bush—what is it?
I hope you had a daughter, Hanna. One that lived.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Samantha, November 12, 2007
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Parents can get so crazy, they don't even know what they're doing sometimes, they don't listen to anyone, if they don't have a job, that's the worst. Just think about it, I mean if you're a like a kid you've got school to go to, but if you're a Mom and you don't have a job and your last job paid you like a whole year's salary just to go away, then there's no place you have to go where you have to act normal, so you can just stay home and be as crazy as you want and only your kid can see you. I asked my Mom, so when are you going to start looking for a job, and she said she had been working seven days a week at the center since before I was born, she was even signing papers with one hand and holding me on her breast with the other, Mom! I said, but she wouldn't stop, she was still in the hospital, she said, waiting for her milk to come, that's how devoted she had been to the center, and what she needed now was to get in touch with other things in her life, and I'm like okay, whatever, go be a yoga mom, I didn't really say that out loud. So then this morning I'm eating my breakfast like normal and she comes in and makes a big deal of cutting the grapefruit for me and then she starts carving out the little pieces with this weird little knife I'd never seen before, and I'm like Mom, what are you doing, I just dig it out with the spoon, and she said this was the way her mother did it for her, couldn't she do something nice for her daughter once in a while, and then she sprinked brown sugar on both halves of the grapefruit, smashing the clumps with her fingers which is so totally gross and she put each half on a little plate and set a spoon beside it like it was some kind of fancy dish from a chef show on TV, and then handed one of the dishes to me with like a total crazy person's smile. And I'm like, I can't eat that I don't eat sugar, and she said, what do you mean you don't eat sugar, don't you eat candy with your friends, and I'm like no, Mom, no I don't and she said fine, and threw both halves of the grapefruit in the garbage one after another, and walked out of the kitchen. So I put the stupid little plates and the stupid little knife in the dishwasher and I ate my toast and read a few more pages of my book, and then she came back in the kitchen with the phone in her hand and said she had just called my school and told them I wouldn't be coming in today, and I'm like what do you mean, my group is doing a presentation today, and she said, it's okay, I've got it all taken care of, but I'm like Mom! we're doing the rivers of North America, and ours is the Red River, the only one that flows north, but she said it's about time I let some of the other kids do the work, because today we're going for a drive in the country, just the two of us.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Arthur, September 28, 2007
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Dorothy needed someone to take her shift at the center, there was a funeral she had to go to, Louise's friend Marian or Marianne or something like that, I'd never met the woman, not much point in me going to the funeral, so I said, Sure, I'll take your shift. Volunteer Greeter, they call it, you just sit by the door and say hello to anyone who comes in, they want the center to be open to drop-bys, even the teenagers in the park, and apparently having an old fart at the door prevents vandalism, I don't know how, I sure as hell couldn't stop those teenagers from indulging their destructive tendencies if they were so inclined, but you know, it works, you just look 'em in the eye and say Welcome to the Tangled Bank, have a look around, and the kids calm right down. That's only when they come in, of course, the rest of the time you're on your own, this was the 3 to 6 p.m. shift and there was one kid playing the ecology video game for a while but then his friends came and got him and that was that. When the place was empty I walked around, straightened up a little, I wasn't going to get out the spray bottle like Dorothy does but I do my part. I found a book on one of the tables and I was going to put it back on the shelf where it belonged but it wasn't a science or nature or ecology book, it was some sort of adventure book for girls, Wilhelmina and the Cro-Magnon Cave, maybe it was Cavern, I figured it must belong to that girl, the daughter of the director, she was always hanging around reading, kind of a sullen girl, but maybe all girls are sullen at that age, about the same age Betty was when she decided the neighbor lady was her best friend, going over there every night to help her with her collections, never understood what that was about, tearing pages out of magazines and cataloging them, now I don't think that neighbor lady was a bad influence, what was her name? there were a lot of people in Terre Haute who worked at the Federal Prison, we were very tolerant of those occupations, still a forty-year-old divorced woman, what was she? A nurse? A librarian? hell, I suppose she was alright, a little eccentric, said my wife, and Betty will have plenty of time for boys later on. I read a few pages of the book, there was nothing else to do, I didn't expect it to be be my cup of tea, but they got right to the cave drawings, I've always been partial to cave drawings, and it was set in 1918, the year I was born, Austria or Switzerland or some such place, but then they came out of the cave and went back to the boarding school and started giggling and that was enough of that book for me. A few minutes later the director came down the stairs, carrying one of those white bankers boxes, I didn't have any idea she was up there in her office, she must have been working there the whole time. I offered to carry the box for her, it never hurts to make the gesture, and she stopped and looked at me funny and eventually smiled and said no, no thanks, she had it under control. So I showed her the book and she said, Yes, that would be Samantha's, and I put on top of her box for her and asked if she would be locking up at six o'clock because I didn't have any keys. Then she finally put the box down and found some keys in her pocket and handed them to me and said that I could lock up, that would be good, and she picked up her box with book balanced on top and headed for the door, kind of in a hurry I'd say, but I called after her and asked, What should I do with the keys? and she turned and said I could keep the keys, for all she cared, because she didn't work there anymore.
Dorothy needed someone to take her shift at the center, there was a funeral she had to go to, Louise's friend Marian or Marianne or something like that, I'd never met the woman, not much point in me going to the funeral, so I said, Sure, I'll take your shift. Volunteer Greeter, they call it, you just sit by the door and say hello to anyone who comes in, they want the center to be open to drop-bys, even the teenagers in the park, and apparently having an old fart at the door prevents vandalism, I don't know how, I sure as hell couldn't stop those teenagers from indulging their destructive tendencies if they were so inclined, but you know, it works, you just look 'em in the eye and say Welcome to the Tangled Bank, have a look around, and the kids calm right down. That's only when they come in, of course, the rest of the time you're on your own, this was the 3 to 6 p.m. shift and there was one kid playing the ecology video game for a while but then his friends came and got him and that was that. When the place was empty I walked around, straightened up a little, I wasn't going to get out the spray bottle like Dorothy does but I do my part. I found a book on one of the tables and I was going to put it back on the shelf where it belonged but it wasn't a science or nature or ecology book, it was some sort of adventure book for girls, Wilhelmina and the Cro-Magnon Cave, maybe it was Cavern, I figured it must belong to that girl, the daughter of the director, she was always hanging around reading, kind of a sullen girl, but maybe all girls are sullen at that age, about the same age Betty was when she decided the neighbor lady was her best friend, going over there every night to help her with her collections, never understood what that was about, tearing pages out of magazines and cataloging them, now I don't think that neighbor lady was a bad influence, what was her name? there were a lot of people in Terre Haute who worked at the Federal Prison, we were very tolerant of those occupations, still a forty-year-old divorced woman, what was she? A nurse? A librarian? hell, I suppose she was alright, a little eccentric, said my wife, and Betty will have plenty of time for boys later on. I read a few pages of the book, there was nothing else to do, I didn't expect it to be be my cup of tea, but they got right to the cave drawings, I've always been partial to cave drawings, and it was set in 1918, the year I was born, Austria or Switzerland or some such place, but then they came out of the cave and went back to the boarding school and started giggling and that was enough of that book for me. A few minutes later the director came down the stairs, carrying one of those white bankers boxes, I didn't have any idea she was up there in her office, she must have been working there the whole time. I offered to carry the box for her, it never hurts to make the gesture, and she stopped and looked at me funny and eventually smiled and said no, no thanks, she had it under control. So I showed her the book and she said, Yes, that would be Samantha's, and I put on top of her box for her and asked if she would be locking up at six o'clock because I didn't have any keys. Then she finally put the box down and found some keys in her pocket and handed them to me and said that I could lock up, that would be good, and she picked up her box with book balanced on top and headed for the door, kind of in a hurry I'd say, but I called after her and asked, What should I do with the keys? and she turned and said I could keep the keys, for all she cared, because she didn't work there anymore.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Samantha, September 9, 2007
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Where's your mother? said the old guy, he just came up to me and asked, I mean this was like a really, really old guy, way older than Grandpa, older even than the Prefect from the Class of 1827, the one who was haunting the boathouse on the secluded lake in the Tyrolean mountains, of course the Prefect had been young and handsome in 1827, that was the big question about the ghost, whether he kept getting older after he died which would have made him like a zillion years old, my mom always gets mad me when I say a zillion because it's not a scientific number, so she makes me do the math and figure it out, if my mom were here she'd make me say that In the book, which is set in World War I, they just call it the War in the book, but none of the characters has to go anywhere near the battles or the trenches which were totally gross, the ghost would be like exactly 110 years old, which is 1917 minus 1827 plus 20, which is the age the Prefect was when he mysteriously disappeared and probably drowned at the bottom of the lake. Which is so stupid of my mom, because she can't do any math in her head herself, she's always asking me questions like What's 63 minus 47?, she should really just get herself a calculator instead of interrupting me all the time when I'm reading, and anyway it might as well be a zillion because in the opinion of Wilhelmina, the main character, ghosts don't get any older, they always stay the same age as they were when they died, or if they do get older, it's like what actually happens to their bodies, which means if you drown that your ghost would first get fat and bloated and disgusting and then get eaten by fishes, so Wilhelmina was like way, way more afraid of the school of fish with intelligent eyes that looked at her when she fell out of the boat and sank way down into the lake, but she didn't drown that time because she managed to take off the heavy shoes she was wearing and swim back up to the surface and get rescued, and they rowed her back to shore with her bare feet, which were totally scandalous because these were the old days when girls were expected to wear stupid heavy clothes which caused lots of unnecessary drownings. So if it wasn't a ghost, Wilhelmina figured there must be a real old man hanging around the boathouse and she made a plan to catch him by hiding overnight behind an old piece of sailcloth, and I was just reading that part, which sounds scary but it wasn't really because I'd already read the other books in the series and Wilhelmina always knows what she's doing, and that's when the real old man, I mean like really real, in my world, not the book, he came up to me and started asking me where my mother was, and I could tell he didn't really want to find my mother, he was worried about me being there by myself. So I was like, my Dad's up on the roof, I'm totally okay, just leave me alone and let me read, really I just said my Dad was around somewhere but that's what I meant, and the old man just looked at me and the old ladies started to come over and get him and he just shook his head and said, Nose always in a book, you should go out and play, and it was like I knew he wasn't talking to me at all, he was talking to someone else, a long time ago.
Where's your mother? said the old guy, he just came up to me and asked, I mean this was like a really, really old guy, way older than Grandpa, older even than the Prefect from the Class of 1827, the one who was haunting the boathouse on the secluded lake in the Tyrolean mountains, of course the Prefect had been young and handsome in 1827, that was the big question about the ghost, whether he kept getting older after he died which would have made him like a zillion years old, my mom always gets mad me when I say a zillion because it's not a scientific number, so she makes me do the math and figure it out, if my mom were here she'd make me say that In the book, which is set in World War I, they just call it the War in the book, but none of the characters has to go anywhere near the battles or the trenches which were totally gross, the ghost would be like exactly 110 years old, which is 1917 minus 1827 plus 20, which is the age the Prefect was when he mysteriously disappeared and probably drowned at the bottom of the lake. Which is so stupid of my mom, because she can't do any math in her head herself, she's always asking me questions like What's 63 minus 47?, she should really just get herself a calculator instead of interrupting me all the time when I'm reading, and anyway it might as well be a zillion because in the opinion of Wilhelmina, the main character, ghosts don't get any older, they always stay the same age as they were when they died, or if they do get older, it's like what actually happens to their bodies, which means if you drown that your ghost would first get fat and bloated and disgusting and then get eaten by fishes, so Wilhelmina was like way, way more afraid of the school of fish with intelligent eyes that looked at her when she fell out of the boat and sank way down into the lake, but she didn't drown that time because she managed to take off the heavy shoes she was wearing and swim back up to the surface and get rescued, and they rowed her back to shore with her bare feet, which were totally scandalous because these were the old days when girls were expected to wear stupid heavy clothes which caused lots of unnecessary drownings. So if it wasn't a ghost, Wilhelmina figured there must be a real old man hanging around the boathouse and she made a plan to catch him by hiding overnight behind an old piece of sailcloth, and I was just reading that part, which sounds scary but it wasn't really because I'd already read the other books in the series and Wilhelmina always knows what she's doing, and that's when the real old man, I mean like really real, in my world, not the book, he came up to me and started asking me where my mother was, and I could tell he didn't really want to find my mother, he was worried about me being there by myself. So I was like, my Dad's up on the roof, I'm totally okay, just leave me alone and let me read, really I just said my Dad was around somewhere but that's what I meant, and the old man just looked at me and the old ladies started to come over and get him and he just shook his head and said, Nose always in a book, you should go out and play, and it was like I knew he wasn't talking to me at all, he was talking to someone else, a long time ago.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Raymond, July 23, 2007
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It was on a Wednesday night, a couple of weeks ago. Melissa and I had had a brief meeting, a sidebar if you will, in preparation for the full board meeting the next day. I was escorting her out to her car, when suddenly her back stiffened in fright. A figure was stepping out of the shadows—a tattooed arm, a cordless drill—and speaking my name. Melissa cursed at the figure, who responded in language equally vulgar but far warmer in tone, and in a moment the situation dissolved, as such situations usually do, into hasty acknowledgements of recognition and breathless apologies.
The figure was Gary. It's not unusual to find Gary around the Tangled Bank at odd hours. He displays a certain—let's call it a proprietary tenderness for the physical structure of the place, and far be it from me to challenge his feelings of ownership, particularly when they manifest themselves in frequents acts of unbilled light maintenance.
On this evening, he had stopped by to fix a piece of molding, to which he referred as if I would undoubtedly know which piece of molding, and why it needed fixing. I did not disabuse him of this impression, which encouraged him to mention additional maintenance projects, projects which would require specific budget items, as he no longer had the spare time to devote to such matters, the demand for his art work having taken off.
Of course I understood. And I was happy, and I wanted him to know I was happy, that he chose to keep coming back to the center and keep things in fine shape, but however happy I was, there was no trace of complacency in my happiness, no expectation—
A car door swung shut. Headlights came on. The lights swung to and fro as Melissa backed out of her parking space. She called out to us her sorrow at having to leave so quickly, but her son was waiting. Gary called back his complete understanding. I simply waved.
Gary and I watched her drive off, insects sparkling in the torches of her headlights, a glimpse of the glistening river as her tires caught the dip in the gravel.
I turned back to Gary and reassured him that we on the board understood that we could not count on his continued in-kind donations of skilled labor, and that if we came in under budget in the building maintenance account, it was because of his continued generosity, and that we all understood how his gifts were as good as cash.
He did not respond immediately, and for a moment I had the unusual feeling that I was the one who had been talking too much. Sometimes it seems as if you are negotiating about one thing, when in fact an entirely different issue is in play. In such cases it's best to let the other party tell you what's going on. They always do.
Gary shuffled for a moment, the cordless drill swinging in his hand, a useless tool for the current task.
Eventually he set the drill down on a window sill. Then he turned to me and asked if I meant that the debt had been paid.
There was never a debt, I explained. Samantha was my granddaughter, and it had been my privilege to contribute to her support.
It was on a Wednesday night, a couple of weeks ago. Melissa and I had had a brief meeting, a sidebar if you will, in preparation for the full board meeting the next day. I was escorting her out to her car, when suddenly her back stiffened in fright. A figure was stepping out of the shadows—a tattooed arm, a cordless drill—and speaking my name. Melissa cursed at the figure, who responded in language equally vulgar but far warmer in tone, and in a moment the situation dissolved, as such situations usually do, into hasty acknowledgements of recognition and breathless apologies.
The figure was Gary. It's not unusual to find Gary around the Tangled Bank at odd hours. He displays a certain—let's call it a proprietary tenderness for the physical structure of the place, and far be it from me to challenge his feelings of ownership, particularly when they manifest themselves in frequents acts of unbilled light maintenance.
On this evening, he had stopped by to fix a piece of molding, to which he referred as if I would undoubtedly know which piece of molding, and why it needed fixing. I did not disabuse him of this impression, which encouraged him to mention additional maintenance projects, projects which would require specific budget items, as he no longer had the spare time to devote to such matters, the demand for his art work having taken off.
Of course I understood. And I was happy, and I wanted him to know I was happy, that he chose to keep coming back to the center and keep things in fine shape, but however happy I was, there was no trace of complacency in my happiness, no expectation—
A car door swung shut. Headlights came on. The lights swung to and fro as Melissa backed out of her parking space. She called out to us her sorrow at having to leave so quickly, but her son was waiting. Gary called back his complete understanding. I simply waved.
Gary and I watched her drive off, insects sparkling in the torches of her headlights, a glimpse of the glistening river as her tires caught the dip in the gravel.
I turned back to Gary and reassured him that we on the board understood that we could not count on his continued in-kind donations of skilled labor, and that if we came in under budget in the building maintenance account, it was because of his continued generosity, and that we all understood how his gifts were as good as cash.
He did not respond immediately, and for a moment I had the unusual feeling that I was the one who had been talking too much. Sometimes it seems as if you are negotiating about one thing, when in fact an entirely different issue is in play. In such cases it's best to let the other party tell you what's going on. They always do.
Gary shuffled for a moment, the cordless drill swinging in his hand, a useless tool for the current task.
Eventually he set the drill down on a window sill. Then he turned to me and asked if I meant that the debt had been paid.
There was never a debt, I explained. Samantha was my granddaughter, and it had been my privilege to contribute to her support.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Gary, June 25, 2007
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I used to get calls at three in the morning all the time. Made 'em, too. Didn't think anything of it—3 a.m. was like fucking happy hour. Done with work, call up your friends, figure out what the fuck is going on. Or something like that. Rock 'n roll. Life on the road.
One time I remember I called my buddy Gerry in Seattle. From Amsterdam. I didn't know what the fuck time it was in Seattle. Or Amsterdam. All I knew was he had no fucking excuse for being asleep.
Somebody in Amsterdam must've know how to hack the phones. It's not like we had credit cards or any shit like that.
These days, three in the morning is my quiet time. When things get rolling in the studio. I try to get in there most nights by nine. Maybe ten. Which means eleven. And really, I'm just hanging out until midnight. Looking at what I did the night before. Different angles.
Then something starts to happen. When the rest of the world has gone to sleep.
Which is why I looked at my phone funny when it rang last night.
3:23 a.m.
I picked it up, checked the CallerID. Lisa. Shit. I'd better answer.
We went through the usual dance. Yeah I was awake. Yeah I was in my studio. Yeah I was working. No I didn't mind.
And I didn't mind, really, although the game she was playing pissed the fuck out of me, because I knew, ultimately, she was calling about Sam.
So eventually she gets around to it. She needs me to take Samantha on Thursday night and Friday during the day.
She always calls her "Samantha" when she wants me to do something, as if I need to be reminded what her full name is, as if I'm some stranger who might think she's talking about a boy if she calls her "Sam."
The fucking little insults.
I told her it would have to be Thursday night through Saturday morning—my show was opening Friday night in Chicago. I told her I'd be happy to take Sam with me. It'd be great. Sam would have a blast at the opening.
Lisa had to think about that one.
You really have a show? she said.
Yeah, I said. A real gallery. I sent you a postcard.
I'm sorry, she said, I've been—
It's okay, I said. I know you've got shit going down at the center.
And then I explained to her how it was all legit. How the people who came to see Arbeit Macht Frei in 1983, they've got money now, and they wanna buy the bass player's art. How the gallery was putting me up in a nice hotel. How I'd get 'em to spring for an adjoining room for Sam, no problem. How I'd really, really love to have Sam with me at the reception.
And how I'd keep her away from the crack and the heroin and the whores.
I got a little laugh out of Lisa with that one.
A rueful little fuck of a laugh.
I used to get calls at three in the morning all the time. Made 'em, too. Didn't think anything of it—3 a.m. was like fucking happy hour. Done with work, call up your friends, figure out what the fuck is going on. Or something like that. Rock 'n roll. Life on the road.
One time I remember I called my buddy Gerry in Seattle. From Amsterdam. I didn't know what the fuck time it was in Seattle. Or Amsterdam. All I knew was he had no fucking excuse for being asleep.
Somebody in Amsterdam must've know how to hack the phones. It's not like we had credit cards or any shit like that.
These days, three in the morning is my quiet time. When things get rolling in the studio. I try to get in there most nights by nine. Maybe ten. Which means eleven. And really, I'm just hanging out until midnight. Looking at what I did the night before. Different angles.
Then something starts to happen. When the rest of the world has gone to sleep.
Which is why I looked at my phone funny when it rang last night.
3:23 a.m.
I picked it up, checked the CallerID. Lisa. Shit. I'd better answer.
We went through the usual dance. Yeah I was awake. Yeah I was in my studio. Yeah I was working. No I didn't mind.
And I didn't mind, really, although the game she was playing pissed the fuck out of me, because I knew, ultimately, she was calling about Sam.
So eventually she gets around to it. She needs me to take Samantha on Thursday night and Friday during the day.
She always calls her "Samantha" when she wants me to do something, as if I need to be reminded what her full name is, as if I'm some stranger who might think she's talking about a boy if she calls her "Sam."
The fucking little insults.
I told her it would have to be Thursday night through Saturday morning—my show was opening Friday night in Chicago. I told her I'd be happy to take Sam with me. It'd be great. Sam would have a blast at the opening.
Lisa had to think about that one.
You really have a show? she said.
Yeah, I said. A real gallery. I sent you a postcard.
I'm sorry, she said, I've been—
It's okay, I said. I know you've got shit going down at the center.
And then I explained to her how it was all legit. How the people who came to see Arbeit Macht Frei in 1983, they've got money now, and they wanna buy the bass player's art. How the gallery was putting me up in a nice hotel. How I'd get 'em to spring for an adjoining room for Sam, no problem. How I'd really, really love to have Sam with me at the reception.
And how I'd keep her away from the crack and the heroin and the whores.
I got a little laugh out of Lisa with that one.
A rueful little fuck of a laugh.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
Christopher, June 4, 2007
Listen in MP3
Look, I'm not the kind of guy who has to win all the time. I hear about professional athletes, how they're all afflicted with competitive natures so intense that they turn every moment of their lives into a contest, a life or death contest about who has the best stuff, who got the best deal, whoever can say, "I'm the winner." I mean, I guess that's why we like to watch them on TV—they give it their all. But I've always thought—I'm glad I don't have to hang out with guys like that—guys who won't let a little kid win a game of tic-tac-toe.
Tic-tac-toe might be a bad example. It's such a trivial game—the first player has an absolute win-or-draw strategy—just mark the center box—and the second player has an absolute draw strategy, even if the first player makes his best move—just respond by marking one of the corners.
Everyone knows that, right?
Now that I think of it, tic-tac-toe is a great example.
The point is, when you're playing tic-tac-toe with a kid, and you want the kid to win—you've actually got to try to lose—you've got to deliberately make moves that you know are bad. Sure, it goes against your competitive instincts, but you do it. Apparently this is something that Michael Jordan or Tiger Woods or Magic Johnson just cannot bring themselves to do—and it's not just the superstars. I know some guys who know some minor leaguers—and they all say the same thing—what separates professional athletes, even the ones at the bottom of the heap—from all ordinary people—is this simple thing—an inability to throw a game to a kid.
And I gotta tell you, I've thrown plenty of games to my kid. Tic-tac-toe, Chinese checkers, Super Mario 64—I've thrown them all. I've let the whiffle ball float past my outstretched hand so I could call it a home run. And not because Jake is one of those whiny, narcissistic kids who throw a tantrum if they don't win every time. He's not. But I want him to taste victory sometimes. It gives me pleasure. Of course, if he starts celebrating too much, well then I turn it up a notch, let him feel what it feels like to lose.
But on the whole, I think I'm pretty well-balanced when it comes to competition.
Which is why it's so weird that I got into such a thing with that neighbor girl. Samantha. Sam's eleven, and Jake is eight—now I'd be kidding you if I didn't say right up front that this is a friendship that I keep a close eye on. One of these days, Sam is going to get into girly stuff, clothes and make-up and gossip and so on, and if everything goes well, she'll lose interest in playing with the scrappy little boy down the block. On the other hand, if she tries to pull Jake into that stuff, then I'll have to intervene.
But right now, she's a tom boy—bigger and stronger than Jake, and a lot more coordinated. If my boy can take what she dishes out, more power to him.
Look, I'm not the kind of guy who has to win all the time. I hear about professional athletes, how they're all afflicted with competitive natures so intense that they turn every moment of their lives into a contest, a life or death contest about who has the best stuff, who got the best deal, whoever can say, "I'm the winner." I mean, I guess that's why we like to watch them on TV—they give it their all. But I've always thought—I'm glad I don't have to hang out with guys like that—guys who won't let a little kid win a game of tic-tac-toe.
Tic-tac-toe might be a bad example. It's such a trivial game—the first player has an absolute win-or-draw strategy—just mark the center box—and the second player has an absolute draw strategy, even if the first player makes his best move—just respond by marking one of the corners.
Everyone knows that, right?
Now that I think of it, tic-tac-toe is a great example.
The point is, when you're playing tic-tac-toe with a kid, and you want the kid to win—you've actually got to try to lose—you've got to deliberately make moves that you know are bad. Sure, it goes against your competitive instincts, but you do it. Apparently this is something that Michael Jordan or Tiger Woods or Magic Johnson just cannot bring themselves to do—and it's not just the superstars. I know some guys who know some minor leaguers—and they all say the same thing—what separates professional athletes, even the ones at the bottom of the heap—from all ordinary people—is this simple thing—an inability to throw a game to a kid.
And I gotta tell you, I've thrown plenty of games to my kid. Tic-tac-toe, Chinese checkers, Super Mario 64—I've thrown them all. I've let the whiffle ball float past my outstretched hand so I could call it a home run. And not because Jake is one of those whiny, narcissistic kids who throw a tantrum if they don't win every time. He's not. But I want him to taste victory sometimes. It gives me pleasure. Of course, if he starts celebrating too much, well then I turn it up a notch, let him feel what it feels like to lose.
But on the whole, I think I'm pretty well-balanced when it comes to competition.
Which is why it's so weird that I got into such a thing with that neighbor girl. Samantha. Sam's eleven, and Jake is eight—now I'd be kidding you if I didn't say right up front that this is a friendship that I keep a close eye on. One of these days, Sam is going to get into girly stuff, clothes and make-up and gossip and so on, and if everything goes well, she'll lose interest in playing with the scrappy little boy down the block. On the other hand, if she tries to pull Jake into that stuff, then I'll have to intervene.
But right now, she's a tom boy—bigger and stronger than Jake, and a lot more coordinated. If my boy can take what she dishes out, more power to him.
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