Thanks for the fantasies, Davy

Many of my contemporaries are remembering Davy Jones today. No doubt more than one of us is recalling how cute Jones was, how sweet and adorable he looked as he sang about his Daydream Believer. His face seemed to hold an incorruptible innocence which was (and is) pretty much the antithesis of the rock and roll image. Now I seriously doubt that Jones was an innocent (in show business? No way.) but that was the appearance he projected.

The “safe-to-take-me-home-to-meet-Mom” Jones of Daydream Believer never did it for me. I wasn’t interested in Sleepy Jean or homecoming queens. Nope. I was instead interested in the Davy Jones persona I heard in the song, Look Out (Here Comes Tomorrow). Yeah, I know it was cheesy but bear with me.

Written by Neil Diamond, Look Out is the story of a guy with a problem–he’s in love with two different girls. The song begins with some simple but catchy guitar chords before Jones jumps in to confide his troubles.

 

Look out, here comes tomorrow

That’s when I’ll have to choose

How I wish I could borrow

Someone else’s shoes

 

To my young ears (I’m not going to tell you how young because I don’t want to remember how old I am now) this was an unusual and unexplored dilemma. How can you be in love with two different people at once? Jones describes how-

 

Mary, oh what a sweet girl

Lips like strawberry pie

Sandra, the long hair and pig tails,

Can’t make up my mind

 

Now, to a kid, this wasn’t just a tad naughty, it was downright kinky. One minute Davy (at least in my imagination) is making out with Mary and then doing God knows what with a tomboy in pig tails!

 

Jones expresses his special kind of angst in the chorus–

 

I see all kinds of sorrow

Wish I only loved one

Look out, here comes tomorrow

Oh how I wish tomorrow would never come

 

Listening to these lyrics and the way Jones breathlessly delivered them in his earnest British accent, well, let’s just say my prepubescent hormones were nudged a little bit closer to full-out, right-on puberty.

 

Last verse–

 

Told them both that I loved them

Said it, and it was true

But I can’t have both of them

Don’t know what to do

 

Oh my God, Jones sounds so forlorn, so desperate, so…passionate as he repeats the chorus. And before I even know what makeup sex is, I imagine the argument, the tears as he tells Mary (and then Sandra and OMG, Mary again) that he is choosing the other girl.

In reality, these were the 1960s and famous as he was, Davy Jones could have had as many girls as he wanted. But my immature mind didn’t yet understand all of the complexities and impossible reconciliations the era would usher in. I just knew that I wanted the passion I heard in Jones voice.

It’s a unique sadness we feel when we say goodbye to a wished-for icon of our coming of age years. When Whitney Houston died, I felt sorrow but it wasn’t tinged, at least not for me, with the memories of newness and possibility that only childhood can bring. We may leave our childhood icons behind as we age, but when they die, we can remember what they inspired in us and what we did or did not achieve.

 

Here’s the song (click through to You Tube). Thanks, Davy.

Futzing around with Dr. Phartz

When I go to see a doctor, I expect to be treated with respect. Good luck with that these days. Now I’ve learned to be prepared for the unexpected.

Take yesterday, for example. I went to see a specialist whom I’ve seen before. Now it’s well known that this guy is a prima donna. I’ve accepted that. Still, there is no excuse for a doctor taking his bad mood out on you.

The scenario went something like this:

I arrive at the office of Dr. Phartz. A nurse who has clearly been on her feet too long ushers me to the treatment room. After waiting for half an hour (not bad) the doc, a put-upon look on his face, walks in.

“Hi Pat. Haven’t seen you in a while.”

Now usually when a physician says it’s been a while since he/she has seen you, that’s a good thing, right? I mean unless you’ve been avoiding doctor’s orders, it usually implies you are feeling fine. But the way Dr. Phartz  said it, it sounded like I had committed some medical ethics crime.

“No, I’ve been feeling pretty good but a—“

“Well, then why are you here?”

Dr. Phartz had a bad habit of interrupting.

“Because a couple of weeks ago my stomach started bothering me,” and I went on to describe my ailment. Or I should say I tried to describe my ailment. I didn’t get very far when Dr. Phartz butt in.

“Do YOU have a hernia?”

Huh? How would I know? I mean, isn’t he the guy who would tell me?

“Uh, not that I know of.”

“You’re a runner, yes?

“Yes. I am.”

“Well then are you sure you aren’t gulping air while you run?”

He’s kidding, right?

“I doubt it. I’ve run for years and never had a problem “gulping air.”

“All right. Get up on the table.” (A command. Not a suggestion.)

After poking and pushing on my stomach, Dr. Phartz rolled his stool away from the examination table, removed his glasses, and dropped his voice to a serious whisper. “You need a CT scan.”

“Really? What do you think the problem is?

Dr. Phartz rolled further away, stood up and let forth his theory.

“Beats me.”

Excuse me?

“Get the scan,” he said handing me the test orders. “We’ll call you with the results.”

And with that, Dr. Phartz strolled out of the room and shut the door.

“Beats me?” That’s all he had to say?

On the way out of the office the receptionist called to me.

“Yes?”

“I think you forgot something, dear,” she said.

“I don’t think so. I have my purse. Wait a minute, did I leave my cell—“

“No, dear. We need your co-payment,” the receptionist smiled.

I wasn’t sure what I was paying for exactly. I supposed the authorization for a CT scan. I handed her my VISA card.

“Uh-oh,” said the receptionist. “There’s a problem with the credit card machine. It’s not working. Could you pay by check, dear?”

“Sorry but I don’t have my check book with me.”

It was at that point the genteel receptionist dropped her gentility.

“Look ma’am. We have a very strict policy.” She pointed at a sign—one we’ve all seen innumerable times in doctors offices—that read, “Payment must be received the same day services are rendered.”

“I understand but your credit card machine isn’t working and I don’t have my check book.”

“Payment must be received the same day services are rendered,” Ms. Camp Follower reiterated.

I thought for a moment. “Services rendered.” But what services? I’d gone to the doctor to get some kind of idea about what might be causing my stomach ache. But all I’d really gotten was a befuddled, “beats me.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t have a check and it’s not my problem that your machine is down. I can always mail—“

“Well,” Ms. C.F. cut me off, “just WHAT are we supposed to do about your payment?”

I thought another moment then shrugged.

“Beats me,” I said and walked out.

Paradise…not (Part Three)

This is the conclusion to the story of my Hawaiian vacation from hell.   

Ah. An entire afternoon at the beach. Finally. Waikiki was more touristy than I  had imagined but the crowd was sparse and I wasn’t complaining. I had a thick enticing novel, giant towel, sun block, and pair of dark glasses.  I just wanted to read, listen to the waves and doze. I looked over at Sheryl, already sacked out on her lawn chair.

Or so I thought.

“HEY,  I want to talk to you about something.”

I put down my book. “Okay,” I said tentatively and turned to find Sheryl’s face scrunched into a scowl.

(Oh God, what now?)

“I am really disappointed with you for not taking Mark and me out to dinner. You’ve been here, what, a week now? Not once have you even suggested we go out.”

“But  last night we went to that Thai place you recommended. My treat. I—“

“That doesn’t count, “Sheryl informed me. “That was just the two of us. What about Mark?”

“I thought Mark had to work?”

“That’s not the point. “

Apparently not.

“Well, “ Sheryl said, “we’re taking you to the Polynesian Cultural Center tomorrow. You can make up for it then.” She stood and folded up her lawn chair.

“What, we’re leaving? We just got here!”

“I told Sandy we would go to the movies with her,” Sheryl informed me.

“Oh. What movie?”

“Sophie’s Choice.”

“That’s a great film!”

“You mean you have already seen it”?”

“Yeah. About two weeks ago.” (Gee, was that okay?) “But please go ahead and go. I’d rather read anyway.”

“Well, why can’t you just see it again?”

Hmmm. Well, maybe because I don’t want to sit through another two and a half hours watching Nazis torture people no matter how wonderful Meryl Streep is in the movie?

“I’d rather not, Sheryl. I just saw it. I don’t mind at all if you go without me.”

“Ya know, I really don’t like your attitude,” said Sheryl, slinging her beach bag over her shoulder.  “What’s with you anyway?”

***

“Mm, this is sooo good.” I took another lick of my macadamia nut ice cream, ignoring Sheryl’s disapproving  glare. At this point, I didn’t care if she thought my butt was as big as her old VW beetle, I was going to enjoy myself.

Sheryl, Mark and I had spent most of the day wandering around the Polynesian Cultural Center, a sort of Hawaiian Epcot, taking in the tiki carving and hula dancing, sampling poi and pineapple (I definitely preferred the latter), and going on a canoe ride.  I’d sprung for the tickets which set me back sixty bucks but I figured I would do just about anything to keep the peace at this point. I was flying home soon and didn’t want my visit with Sheryl to end on a sour note (despite the fact that the entire trip, thus far, had  been downright bitter).

“Hey, look up,” Mark cried as he pointed his camcorder in Sheryl’s and my direction. Mark had just bought the camera and was planning on a making a little movie of our adventures at the Cultural Center. Having gulped a Mai Tai or two before indulging in my ice cream cone, I was feeling little pain as I smiled for the camera. Sheryl even seemed more relaxed. “Let’s stop and buy a couple of bottles of wine for tomorrow night,” she said. “We can get a pizza and watch Mark’s movie.” Sounded good to me.

***

The next night after devouring our pizza, we opened the second bottle of wine and prepared for the show. Mark dimmed the lights, popped the videotape into  the VCR,  and plopped onto the couch. “You’re going to love this,” he assured us. “Pass me my Oscar.”

“You’ll have to settle for this instead,” said Sheryl passing him the wine.” Mark grabbed the bottle, poured a healthy  glass full,  and pressed ”play”  on the remote. The video began with a brief dedication:

 TO MY WIFE, SHERYL, THE BEST LEI IN TOWN

“Get it? Get it? “Mark shouted. “Lei. Lay. Ya know, laid!”

“Oh, Mark, you’re so funny,” Sheryl giggled.

Yeah, he was a real laugh riot.

Mark managed to calm himself as we watched his document of our day at the Poly Center—the hula performances, wood carvers, craft exhibits. Lovely shots of Sheryl. He’d pretty much caught it all. Except…

“Hey Mark, I thought I was in some of these scenes.”

“Oh, I cut you out of those,” he said. “Don’t worry. You’re in one coming up.”

And he was right. Suddenly there I was.  Me and my macadamia nut ice cream cone, all up close and personal.

“You were really chowing down on that thing,” Mark howled.

I wanted this to be over. Mark’s video. This trip. My life.  The camera quickly cut away from me and my melting ice cream to a large hula girl, seen from the back, her hips shaking her grass skirt into a frenzy. But wait—there I was again, my ice cream cone further up my nose before the hula girl’s giant hips jiggled back into view. Each edit was faster than the last until the montage  concluded with the camera’s zoom lens as far up the hula dancer’s skirt as it could go.

“Oh my God,” Mark crowed, “you can see right through that skirt!  Man, what an ass!”

You could say that.

***

Late that night we watched the Monty Python movie, The Meaning of Life. Along with the usual M.P. absurdities is a scene where a vacationing couple visits a resort. As Hawaiian music plays in the background the tourists discover their room is actually a medieval dungeon.

I started laughing.

“I don’t get it,” Sheryl remarked.

A few minutes later, in another sketch, a grotesquely obese man dines in a restaurant. The man, Mr. Creosote, consumes so much food that he must regularly vomit into a bucket next to his table.

‘Guess he’d had enough.

I started laughing harder.

“That’s not funny,” Sheryl said.

No, it wasn’t.

Two days later I boarded a plane for the mainland and headed home.

***

Seven years after my visit to Hawaii, I heard from Sheryl. She called one night to tell me she was in town, would I like to get together? After I recovered from the shock of hearing her voice, I told her, sure, I would see her. She said she would call me at noon on Saturday so we could firm up our plans.

That Saturday I woke and made my usual coffee. I tidied up my apartment, showered, and put on a pair of new jeans with my favorite sweater. When the phone rang at noon, I didn’t answer.

Paradise…not (Part Two)

“GET OFF that towel, young man! Get off of it right NOW!”

It was 8:00 A.M. and Sheryl was already yelling at one of the kids–a ten year old boy wearing red bathing trunks and neon green flip-flops. Sheryl taught special education students at a nearby elementary school.  Now that the academic year was over the fifth grade instructors had taken the kids to a three day camp on a private beach outside of Honolulu. It was a sort of “last hurrah” before everyone went their separate ways for the summer. It was the most beautiful beach I had ever seen.

“I don’t want to! You’re a bitch,” cried the boy, tearing off a flip flop and hurling it in the direction of the ocean.

“You got that right! We are going to breakfast, NOW.” Sheryl grabbed the child’s arm, pulled him to his feet and looked over at me. “Are you coming?” she asked.

“I think I’ll read for a while. I’m not really hungry.”

“Well, you will never lose weight by skipping breakfast.” She started to walk away then stopped. “Oh yeah. We’re making chocolate covered peanut balls after we eat. I’ll need your help,” Then she proceeded onward, dragging the flailing boy with her.

Well, I figured, a snack couldn’t hurt.

***

We had been at camp just shy of 24 hours. I had hoped that after our adventure at sea, things would settle down and we could relax a little but it was not to be. Two nights before I left for Hawaii, Sheryl had called to tell me about the camp. “You don’t have to come,” she assured me in her southern lilt. “It’s fine if you want to hang out at the apartment. Mark will be at work.”

Mark was in the Army and his and Sheryl’s apartment was located on a military base. It would have been easy for me to take a bus downtown to shop or site see. But I felt a bit uncomfortable staying behind so I told her it was no problem, I would tag along.

The morning after the disastrous sailing trip, I had second thoughts.

“I’m not so sure this is a good idea,” I told Sheryl at breakfast.

“What’s not a good idea?”

“Going to camp with you. I’m still feeling really jet lagged. It might be better for me to stay here, after all.”

Sheryl nearly spit out her coffee. “No! I don’t want you staying here. Mark will be working. He’ll be busy.”

“But you suggested I stay here when we first talked about this. It’s not like he’ll have to entertain me. I can do stuff on my own.”

“I said ‘no.’ You’re not getting out of this.” Sheryl stood and took her coffee cup to the sink. “You’d better get ready. We have to meet the kids at the school in forty five minutes. Remember to put your cup in the dishwasher.”

***

It wasn’t long before I saw that Sheryl’s teaching skills were not, shall we say, on the subtle side. For reasons I didn’t understand, yelling was her foremost method of communication with her special ed students.

“Yeah, that’s her style,” said Sandy, a fellow teacher. “I guess it works for her,” she shrugged.

I guessed it must though I couldn’t imagine how. Every few minutes it was “Get over HERE,” “Go over THERE, and “I am not going to say this AGAIN,’” but it wasn’t long, of course, before she was saying it AGAIN.

After two days of this, I was beat. Once they got the kids to sleep, Sheryl and her teacher buddies would sit on the beach and gab but all I felt like doing was going to bed. Of course, that didn’t mean I would be able to get any genuine rest. On our first night I quickly discovered that the children and adults would be snoozing together on a series of bunk beds in two sleeping quarters—one for the girls, the other for the boys. Each bed had a dull  gray metal frame that came equipped with a mattress about as thick as a matchbook cover. Who were the previous campers, I wondered. Monks wearing hair shirts?

The first night passed without much incident except for the usual, “I need to go to the bathroom,” requests from kids who had gulped too much apple juice at dinner. But the second night wasn’t quite so serene.

“He’s touching me, he’s touching me! He’s touching my woo-woo!”

Woo woo? Wha? It was 2:30 in the morning. I was trying to process what a “woo woo” was when  someone switched on the overhead lights and Sheryl’s vocal chords swung into action.

“What the HELL is going on?”

“It’s just Rodney,” said Sandy. “He’s having a nightmare.”

Well, that made two of us. Mine was called My Hawaiian Vacation.

I sat up and squinted. Turns out Rodney was the kid with the red bathing trunks and neon green flip-flops. Sheryl, his favorite teacher, stood over him.

“Nobody’s touching your woo woo, Rodney. Nobody!  Turn over and go back to sleep. Right NOW!”

And with those soothing words of comfort, Sheryl flipped off the lights.

***

On the third and final day of camp, we took the kids on a field trip to the Nu’uanu Pali Lookout.  The site is known not just for its views of the Ko’olau Mountain Range but for its extreme trade winds. We actually had to lean into the winds in order to stay upright. Some of the kids thought this was a ton of fun. Others, however, were less enthusiastic.

“I don’t like this! I’m scared,” little Wanda cried, leading the revolt. “I want my mommy! I wanna go home!”

Pretty soon most of the kids were crying. “Let’s walk down to the next—” Sheryl hollered but the wind had taken over, making it impossible to hear. Of course, this did not deter Sheryl in the least as she continued to yell soundlessly until we made it to a calmer overlook.

Catching my breath, I took in the scene. The cliffs had an eerie, menacing characteristic. I asked Sandy if she felt the same way.

“Yeah, they’re hard to take.” she said. “A 19th century Hawaiian king forced his enemies to march to the top. When they got there he told them, ‘You have a choice. We can push you. Or you can jump.’ Nice guy, huh?”

“I wanna go home! Right NOW,” Wanda wailed.

***

The next morning Wanda got her wish and we boarded a bus and headed back to Honolulu. The grownups had spent the previous evening throwing themselves a “farewell”  party. Giant bowls of chips, dips (macadamia & cream cheese dip—who knew?), and 2-liter bottles of soda were spread out over the dining hall table. Sheryl continued to pretty much ignore me so I had snuck away in order to get to sleep early.

“What happened to you last night?” Sheryl asked once we were settled on the bus.

“I was tired so I went to bed.”

“Well, you didn’t have to be so antisocial. I hope you’re not going to be like that during the rest of the trip.”

End of Part Two.

 

 

 

Paradise…not

Honolulu.

The plan was to spend time with my close friend Sheryl and her new husband, Mark. I should have known what I was in for when I went to their wedding reception and Mark swung his long chunky leg over a chair, grinned at me and said, “Oh, I’ve been so many places and I’ve done so many things.” I guess acting like a pompous ass was one of them.    

But Sheryl wanted me to visit. Said they had a spacious guest room and weren’t far from the beach. We could go many places and do many things (well, she didn’t really put it that way), please come. I hadn’t seen her for nearly a year and I’d never seen Hawaii. I decided to put my reservations about Mark out of my mind. Why not focus on the positive? My girlfriend loved him so he couldn’t be that bad.

And he wasn’t. But she was.

“I’ve never seen you this heavy,” Sheryl informed me, oh, about thirty minutes after I arrived on the island (upon graduating from college I had become depressed and put on fifteen pounds). Hmmm. Well, I wasn’t happy about my plus size either but this wasn’t quite the “aloha” I was expecting.

We spent the evening lounging on the couch, watching an Olivia Newton John concert video (I wish I was joking) and sipping Long Island Ice Teas. I was exhausted from the trip and the five hour time change. The combination of jet lag, tequila, and Ms. Newton John’s “singing” conspired to turn me into a limp guest. As I made my way up the stairs Sheryl told me we had to wake up at 6:00 to go sailing. So much for relaxing on the sands of Waikiki.

The next morning, dazed from Dramamine (who knew sea sickness medication could make you feel so stoned?), I boarded a 55 foot sailboat along with approximately twelve of S and M’s good friends. The weather was a tropical wet dream and the Pacific Ocean looked like it would play nice with us. I found a shady spot on the boat and took a horizontal position as we set sail, the boat skimming smoothly through the water. Ah.

“We’re getting ready to heel” shouted the skipper.

Huh? I must have nodded off. Say that again?

“You’d better grab onto something,” he yelled. “You don’t swim too good when you’re unconscious!”

I started to slide with increasing speed towards the starboard side of the craft. Somehow I managed to grasp hold of a railing just before finding myself positioned, feet first, on the edge of the tilting boat, staring up close and personal into the moving water.

“Hang on,” the captain shouted again. “We’re havin’ fun now!”

Is that what this was?

When we finally, years later (slight exaggeration but only slight), dropped anchor off Diamond Head, everyone popped open their coolers and out came the beer and Mark’s specialty, homemade spring rolls. Permanently traumatized, I gulped a Miller Lite despite my drug induced state. Maybe if I got high enough, this would seem like fun.

“Don’t you want another spring roll,” Sheryl asked, pushing the Tupperware towards me. First I was too fat; now I wasn’t eating enough of her husband’s fried food?

“I don’t think so. I feel kinda queasy.”

“Suit yourself,’” Sheryl said and snapped the lid on the container before marching off to the bow of the boat with a couple of her gal pals.

“Why did I come on this trip,” someone behind me moaned.

My feelings exactly! I turned around to find out who the other miserable sailor was. Ooops, wish I hadn’t. A deeply tanned guy with huge biceps was leaning over a handrail, emptying the contents of his stomach into the ocean. So much for the spring rolls.

“He shouldn’t have come today.” One of Sheryl’s gal pals had sidled up next to me. Her white bikini was tiny. Her implants were not. “He’s hung over. We’re going to drop him off at the port before going back.”

Gee, could I get off there, too?

“We’re heading in,” hollered the skipper. “There’s a squall warning!”

The good times just kept coming.

After a short jaunt to a nearby dock to unload the upchucking passenger, the skipper steered us towards home. Of course, our side trip only ensured that we run into the squall. Around the time the boat began its slow bounce up and down a series of small waves, Sheryl decided it would be a cool idea if she could try steering the boat.

“Sure,” the skipper cried, “why not?”

Why not? Maybe because she’s never sailed a boat and it’s storming?

Delighted with herself, Sheryl plopped behind the wheel while I sat and prayed. It was windy, raining, the sun was going down, and my soon-to-be former best friend was guiding the boat.

After docking (the skipper had smartened up and taken the wheel from Sheryl at that point), we disembarked and headed for the car. We were soaking wet, tired, and hungry. Well, at least one of us was.

“We’re going to bed early,” Sheryl informed me when we got back to the apartment. “If you want something to eat, you can heat up some left over spring rolls. Goodnight.”

It was going to be a long vacation.

End of Part One.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Beth’s story

It’s funny how in life people you know only briefly can make a permanent impression on your memory. Lately, I’ve found myself waking early in the morning and remembering Beth. I was renting an aging Spanish style downtown apartment and Beth and her young daughter lived across the hall. We were both in our twenties and in the juggling act that comes with that age—me with college classes and a part time radio career, she with the responsibilities and burdens of single motherhood.  We didn’t see each other often but when we did I was struck by the grooves of dark circles beneath her wide sad eyes. We seldom had much to say to each other but she was a good neighbor, polite and quiet without any late night ruckus. At least until the boyfriend arrived.

He was a small boned defeated looking guy who always wore the same dowdy jacket, no matter the weather. Like Beth—though about ten years older—he was soft spoken, until the fighting began. On those nights angry bellowing and worse, Beth’s screams, would breach the quiet. Sometimes a sound like a bag of potatoes thumping into the wall would signal the end of the argument.

“Are you okay,” I would ask, rapping on her door. We’re okay, she would tell me, her daughter crying in the background (often the jerk would take off at that point, avoiding my gaze as he rumbled down the stairs). Please don’t call the police the police will make it so much worse please don’t call them please don’t call them please don’t.

Invariably, the following morning the boyfriend was back, whining for her as he repeatedly tapped on her door.  Eventually, Beth would appear and he would sulk into her apartment.

I thought I could help her. I volunteered at a crisis center and knew people at the local domestic abuse shelter. At that time, the philosophy was not to involve the police because, as Beth feared, the violence could escalate and a bad situation could become worse. Much worse. I told Beth about the shelter.

“They would take you and your daughter in and keep you safe,”I said and handed her a card with a contact name and phone number. “You don’t have to put up with this.”

Her look told me she didn’t know how not to put up with it.

A few weeks later, the police showed up. But it was Beth who had called them.

“He slashed my tires,” she said as we stood in our shared driveway. Her voice sounded tinier than usual, like it was stuck in a skinny funnel lodged in her throat.

The police repeated what I had told her about the women’s shelter and said they could put her in touch with a counselor there. Yes, she said. Yes, she would call.

Later that day I came home from class and found the boyfriend putting new tires on Beth’s car. When I passed her on the stairs, she wouldn’t look at me.

Time went by and with it, people and places faded in and out of the forefront of my thoughts. The boyfriend kept coming back. But one Sunday afternoon, after what seemed like hours of his sniveling and whimpering for forgiveness, it became obvious that Beth was not going to let him in. Finally, the boyfriend announced his exit by  slamming his fist into her door and and hurling obscenities with equal force.

I’m not sure what the actual tipping point was for Beth but at 5:00 the following morning I found her standing on our landing, her daughter’s big eyes peeking out from behind her.

 We’re going we’re leaving please don’t tell him when he comes He says he’ll kill me he will he means it.

We hugged goodbye. She said she would call and let me know when she and her little girl were safe. 

Even though I didn’t see their actual departure, it remains clear in my mind: Beth’s whispered, Go! in the stairwell, the rush and the panic, the fear for their lives.

When I think about that time in my life, there are two versions that play in my head. In the first, I never hear from Beth again and have no knowledge of how the boyfriend discovered she’d moved away. In the second version, Beth eventually calls and tells me that she and her daughter are doing well, living in another city with her sister.

But the truth is,  I don’t know which version is real.  Memories of one’s past become fluid as you move through life. Nothing is quite as fixed as it once seemed. Maybe my imagination tries to resolve Beth’s story because I wasn’t able to.

Or because it’s easier than waking up near dawn and wondering if she got away.

All that we remember

How do you balance a human catastrophe against the personal traumas and dramas of your own life?

It’s September 9, 2011 as I write this. The media is filled with stories remembering 9/11/2001. News anchors and reporters ask–where were you when the terrorist attacks occurred? How has the United States changed as a result?  How has the world changed? We’re all familiar with these questions and many of us have no doubt answered them numerous times, if only in our private thoughts. But I wonder about questions we seldom hear asked in respect to that morning.  Not, “how did you hear that the Twin Towers had fallen” but instead, what was going on in your personal life? Were you starting a new job? Moving to a new home? Attending your  mother’s funeral?

We like to say that a national or global  tragedy puts things into perspective, that it makes our problems seem small in comparison. On the one hand, this is true. I can watch video of the collapsing towers and reflect on  the thousands of people inside who were incinerated, crushed, or jumped to their deaths. I can picture  the passengers on the planes and try to imagine what they went through knowing they were going to die. I feel grateful that none of my loved ones were among the dead or injured. My own worries at the time slipped into the background, no longer as big as they seemed.

Yet, on the other hand, that’s only partially true. Because no matter the disaster that’s happening to others, others is the operative word. Our separate, personal dramas continue. Our focus on them may blur momentarily but soon enough, our eyes clear and our own problems realign themselves into the forefront of our lives. And more often than not, we can only think in terms of how the larger tragedy will affect our immediate circumstances.

We don’t like to admit this because doing so makes us look selfish and self-centered. It’s hard to own up to the fact that our personal lives take precedence once the shock of the disaster wears off.

The AMC television series Mad Men gave a brave example of this when it dealt with the assassination of JFK and its  impact on the lives of the show’s characters. The shock and and subsequent mourning over the lost president acts as a catalyst for an unhappy wife to finally realize her marriage has failed and thus, tell her husband she wants a divorce. But it’s the scene of a young woman—Margaret–due to marry the day after Kennedy is killed that has stayed with me. As Margaret tries on her wedding dress for one last fitting, the news from Dallas comes over the television. When Walter Cronkite reveals that the president has died, the bride-to-be collapses in front of the TV, crying, “It’s ruined! It’s ruined!” while her mother looks on, helpless.

It’s a selfish—and human—moment. And who hasn’t shared a similar experience? I remember the Iranian hostage crisis of 1979-80. I was in a theater company and getting ready for my first performance as the American military was attempting a rescue. I remember thinking, “Please, don’t spoil my opening night.” Yes, it was a self-centered thought. I’m not proud of it now and wasn’t then. But the thing is—wide  scale calamities don’t just affect the initial victims and their families. Tragedies as large as the assassination of  a president or a terrorist attack take a toll on the smaller things in life, as well. It’s a sad ripple effect.

And so, when I remember 9/11, it’s not just the images of planes slamming into skyscrapers or our collective grief I relive, but also the troubles I was navigating at work and the deep depression that followed when I resigned. When I hear friends and neighbors repeat the words, “never forget,” I know that we never will. We’ll always have our own unique reminders—the lost job, ruined wedding, and yes, even joyous births—to keep those memories safe.

Capers, cash and moral conundrums

Is it ever morally okay to practice the adage, “Finder’s keepers?”

Let me explain. My husband and I were walking our dogs the other evening when I spotted a forgotten lone black umbrella  on a park bench. I pointed it out to my husband who joked, “Need a new one?” We continued our walk, hoping that the person who left the umbrella would remember it before getting rained on. But the incident got me thinking.

”What would you do if you found fifty dollars in the park” I asked my hubby.

“Call the police.”

“Really? For fifty dollars? What are the police going to do?”

“Maybe someone has been looking for it and reported it to the police in hopes that a good Samaritan has found it and called it in.”

“But fifty dollars?”

“Well,” my husband said, “what if it were five thousand?”

“Then I would call the police. That’s not a normal amount of cash for someone to lose in the park.”

“But that fifty dollars could be worth as much to one person as five thousand is to another. It’s relative.”

“Okay, what about five dollars?”

“I’d have to think about it.”

(My husband has such a moral compass!)

“How about one dollar?”

My husband then joined the ranks of the rest of us sinners and said, “I’d probably keep that.”

Since our walk in the park, I’ve been wondering: is it ever okay to keep what has  obviously been lost or left behind, especially when it’s money? And if you do find fifty dollars  in the middle of the park or street and call the police but no one claims it, is it for naught? At what value do you decide to call dibs (or not)? In the case of a one dollar bill, what if it was a homeless woman who dropped it? Do you actually try to track her down?

“Police  department. You’re being recorded.”

“Uh, hi. I’ve been walking my dogs and I found a dollar.”

Pause.

Police department operator: “What are you calling to report ma’am?”

“ Did anyone, uh, call you about a lost dollar?”

At this point I imagine stunned silence and annoyance on the part of the operator. I mean, finding a buck on the sidewalk isn’t exactly the same as discovering robbers breaking into your neighbor’s home. The police operator might think I’m some practical joker trying to waste his or her time. Maybe it’s best just to walk over to the public library and offer the dollar to one of the homeless guys who hang out there. Or put it in the “Cure M.S.’” fish bowl at the grocery store.

There are all sorts of little moral dilemmas that we humans face every day, whether we realize it or not. One afternoon last year I got  home from shopping to discover that the bagger had accidentally put a jar of capers between my containers of yogurt and bottles of tomato juice. After unpacking the grocery bags, I set the jar on the counter beside the kitchen door so that the next time I went shopping, I would remember to return it. A few days later, I went to grab the jar on my way out but it it was gone. I  searched the kitchen—no capers. Damn!

(Why do people eat capers, by the way? Beyond being an accompaniment to caviar,  I can think of few good culinary purposes for them.)

Eventually, the caper of the capers was solved when the jar turned up on a shelf in the refrigerator. Okay, now I had to keep them, right? You can’ t put cold capers back on the shelf at the grocery store.  Well, I figured, maybe I could use them. But every time I think about splurging on a little sturgeon roe, I just can’t do it.  I know I’ll feel guilty eating caviar with capers obtained under false pretenses. Who would think that a tiny jar of capers could cause such a conundrum for my conscience?

The other evening I asked my husband if he had figured out yet what to do if he found a five dollar bill in the park. When he told me he was still mulling it over, I laughed and said we could nail it to a tree with a sign that read, “Is this yours?”

You know, that wouldn’t be a bad social experiment. I could take my video camera and hide in the bushes, filming passersby as they confront their moral standards (or lack thereof). Or I could just think about what a great idea I’ve had, sit on my couch and write about it. Some social scientist, I am.

America’s failing grades

Okay, I’ve had it. I’m sick of people who should know better calling our president “dumb’, “a buffoon,” and  “a moron,” ad nauseum. Let’s get real for a minute. Fact: Barack Obama obtained a B.A. in political science from Columbia University in 1983. At the end of his first year at Harvard Law School, Mr. Obama became editor of the Law Review (an incredibly difficult achievement for a first year law student). He received his J.D., magna cum laude, in other words, he got good grades and graduated with honors. Does a “moron” do that?

No.

You  say you don’t agree with President Obama’s policies? Fine. But taking the leap from “I don’t agree, “ to “he’s a moron,” is laughable in Mr. Obama’s case. His credentials aside, listen to the president respond to questions during his news conferences—it’s clear he’s a deep and careful thinker. But I guess to some, that’s a bad thing, too. “He sounds like a college professor,” his critics shout, “and he’s boring!” Well, how terrible to sound like a professor. A scholar.  Like someone who actually taught constitutional law at the University of Chicago Law School.

We’re living in a screwy political landscape these days. Where both Republicans and Democrats hurl nasty insults at each other on countless newspaper, magazine and personal blogs. Where popular Tea Party figures like Sarah Palin seem to revel in their lack of knowledge and abundance of ignorance. You may agree with what Palin believes but that no more qualifies her to be president than my next door neighbor. Same goes for Michele Bachmann, who is coming to be known more for her anti-gay stance, creepy dominionist delusions and nutty policy ideas (axing the federal minimum wage will eliminate unemployment? Really?) than for the substance one looks for in a presidential contender. Ditto Texas Governor Rick Perry whose cozy relationship with fundamentalist Christians is creating cause for concern among those who prefer to keep religion separate from politics, you know, like our founding fathers did.

Yes, it’s a scary world when would-be presidents avoid giving interviews to any media outlets other than Fox “News,” where they can rest assured their egos will be wrapped in swaddling clothes. God forbid, they should have to provide a few hard facts or engage in any  rational discussion. Not when they can go for easy ad hominem attacks. But that’s the point, isn’t it? Keeping things easy. Critical thinking is much harder. Not many are willing to do it. But President Obama is and like him or not, that’s what he does—think critically. To continue to label him “dumb” is absurd.

It’s a sad thing not to recognize foolishness. It’s another thing to be proud of it.

Buy the book (part IV in a series)

Time now for the fourth installment about the trials and tribulations of working at an independent bookstore.

You’d think people who visit bookstores would have fairly decent intellectual equipment. At least that’s what I once thought. But after a couple  of months on the job, I began to reassess. Read along and weep with me…

Mid afternoon and a 30ish yuppie looking woman approaches the counter where I’m working at the computer.

“Um, excuse me.”

I look up.

“What are you supposed to do with those bags up there? I mean what are they for?”

YLW points at the shelf behind me. I turn my head to look in the direction of her well-manicured finger.

“Those are gift bags.” I tell her.  “For brides-to-be.”

“But I mean  what do you do with them?”

I’m getting a little confused.

“Well, you put gifts inside of them. For the bride.”

YLW appears dumbfounded. I try again.

“You know, you use gift bags instead of having to wrap the presents. You put the presents in the—”

“But what are you supposed to do with all of the bags stuck inside,” YLW practically cries.

What the hell is she talking about? I look at the display again. Oh, I see. In order to be economical in our use of counter space, we retail geniuses have fit five or six bridal gift bags inside of the display bag. As a result, you see not just one handle at the top of the bag, but several. I attempt to explain this phenomenon to YLW.

“Oh,” YLW looks positively relieved. “I thought it was really weird. I mean what would you do with all those bags stuck inside? How would you get anything else in there?”

Wow. Who knew gift bags could be so problematic? So troublesome? How does this woman get through life?

“Hey, are there any good bars around here?” she asks.

That’s how.

***
Another working weekend. A fairly even flow of customers in and out of the store. Here comes a tall skinny brunette with her hair pulled back into a pony tail. She’s wearing pink pedal pushers and blue flip flops. The 1950s are in swing again.

“Hi,” she says. “Are these free?”

“Pardon?”

“The Sunday paper? Is it free?”

Ms. PPPBFF  holds up two copies of the local daily newspaper.  Hmmm. Let me guess. Current events aren’t her thing.

I explain that the newspaper’s publisher does indeed charge a small fee.

“Oh. Well, I only wanted them for the grocery store coupons. Guess since I have to pay for them I wouldn’t get much of a discount anyway.”

Oy.

***