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The job was this: I went to a beautiful house and turned pages, pronounced words, kept watch until he had finished, or maybe even fallen asleep.
It was my second semester of graduate school. In some haze of unemployment and reverse culture shock after a year in France, I had accepted an offer for a teaching assistantship and free classes, all intended to end in a master’s degree in French literature.
My first semester teaching was a stroll though an emotional minefield as undergraduate students trampled my best intentions. On the other hand, I wrote my own papers that were deemed brilliant, or at least pretty good. The editor of a literary journal invited me to be her assistant. The graduate advisor asked me to stay for my doctorate. The juxtaposition of experiences was dizzying, especially in the wake of the advances attempted by a former professor and employer (I babysat his children). That moment he smoked pot in his car and grabbed my hand was a sexual harassment moment that I scarcely recognized at the time, much less attempted to address. In fact, I was convinced that I had mistaken that strange event afterward, glad still that I had grabbed my hand back before he put it where he had apparently intended.
Instead of dwelling on what may have happened, I buried myself in books and music—live music that had become amazingly accessible to me when I started dating one of the pop music critics in the area. I buried myself also in that music critic, a tall, unshakable, wonderful guy with a way of making the world go away, a guy who remained childlike and may still have that capacity, as I imagine him still working in a record store, turning new music on his turntable and his head and his words. Most of all, I knew that he adored me—a mutual feeling—and we explored the city as if it were brand spanking new.
The next semester, after a summer of successful teaching and a multitude of private students who paid very well, I found myself in a pedagogy seminar—something that would have helped enormously in my first semester. My private students and the income they brought were gone, so when the pedagogy professor announced a tutoring gig, I ran up after class to learn the details.
The student was one of hers, an intermediate French grammar and conversation student who was housebound at times. I collected the assignments, and made the call.
K. was twenty years old, a friendly kid with his own passion for music and a weekly radio show. K. was not doing so well when I met him, though, and I talked to his sister while I waited for the pastor to finish his weekly visit.
K. had a protective family, to say the least. When he had been diagnosed with leukemia five years earlier, the family gathered, and decided that the cancer would never win. With love and laughter, they endured, keeping the world at bay. K. was indeed still alive, very much so, despite the recent chemotherapy treatments that had prompted me to his home that day.
We looked at the current chapter of French grammar, and at some point, inevitably, K. changed the subject. His real love really was music, and he could talk about that for hours longer than he could conjugate irregular verbs. I took my boyfriend once, which thrilled them both. We attempted some conversations in French, and I brought French pop music, which K. did enjoy. In fact, the reason that the university was providing a tutor in French, and not some other subject, was that K. dreamed of going to Paris. He loved the French language, and kept that thought of travel as a bright light at the end of an exhausting and sickening tunnel, a beacon of hope for recovery.
The treatments were grueling. Sometimes K.’s sister or mom called me to say he was not up to that day’s session, and I did not see him. He was hospitalized at times, and then, finally, he returned to his real class. My job ended.
Our intermediate French classes had the distinction, the true honor, of reading a literary masterpiece. Not only did our students read the masterpiece, but they put on skits about it with a distinguished audience: the author himself.
Alain Robbe-Grillet died recently, a fact that may well have been rejoiced by some intermediate French students from those years. Some surely remember the book that they struggled through, certain that it would prevent them from earning the A they had strived for all semester. They struggled for sure, wondering at first if it was the deficiency of their language skills or the excessive amounts of alcohol from the night before that made the book such a bitch to read. At a point, they realized that it was the book itself–a cruel joke–that was so impenetrable. Thought provoking, it was, and the thoughts it seemed to provoke in my own students seemed to be ones of anger, perhaps even violence. The language is relatively simple, in fact, but the story is an endless loop of beginnings, slight changes, and frustrations. The question and answer session for the author ended, as I recall, with the author shouting at undergraduates who meekly asked him what he intended in the book. “Have you never read your own authors?” he challenged them. “Have you never read Faulkner?”
And despite that, K. did perform the skit for the great author, and the author laughed. I could barely believe that this was the same kid who could not hold his head up for most of the afternoons that I spent with him.
I saw him again, on his twenty-first birthday, celebrating at a club with a band he loved, joking that he was going to have a drink—a real no-no, he told me. He energetically remarked also that he had planned that long awaited trip. His sister was going with him to Paris. He was in remission, and had been for a long time by then.
My career at the institution of higher learning unraveled in unpredictable ways… unpredictable to me at the time, but damned obvious now in retrospect. I had left, quite shaken, and never set foot in the halls that I had once loved, vowing never to see some people again in my life. And I have not.
Several months later, my brother tossed a newspaper on my plate. “Hey, isn’t that the kid you tutored?” he asked.
K. had gone home, the obituary said, for Christmas holidays after treatment following a minor relapse. His doctors had thought that the benefits of being with family during holidays outweighed the risk of leaving the hospital. He went home one last time, and caught pneumonia, and he died.
I found the funeral home, and wandered in, hoping selfishly that I would not see anyone from the university. I had to go, though, knew I had to. I saw the young body, laid out in a suit and tie like some wax figure representing K.—and not well. The life was gone, and life was what K. had always had.
The family was visibly shaken, there only in body—hollow ones, it seemed. For all the time that I knew them, they never allowed themselves to think that K. might die, and for so long, they were right. His father saw me. “Why?” he sobbed to me. And I didn’t know why.
I had no idea what to say, and I also knew that at those moments, it never matters, because words mean nothing when life is stripped bare. All that matters are the souls that remain, that remind, that wound, yet repair. All that matters is time, which will move forward, painfully, persistently farther and farther from the physical presence of the ones we loved, until they can come back to us—we realize they never left—through the love that remains in our hearts.
I want. I wish. Not “I need”—that’s justifiable.
Desire puts it all on the line, makes the moment, opens the door for another to walk in… or walk away.
I regret the words the moment they jump from my mouth, escape onto the page. I want them back in my head where they cannot jinx me, or hurt me, or subject me to the criticisms or objections that I do not want to face. Safe.
But no.. I would say them again.
The thoughts in our heads die without expression. Maybe some of them should do just that. But others… oh, others are life itself. And yes, I do want…
Sun shines, moments reflected in a pond and shimmering. More peaceful than silence, the birds and breeze sing in some forgotten paradise, far from the madness of the everyday, but still right around the corner.
Night comes, and the city enchants, throwing lights, lamplights, stars, glistening high into the air somewhere near a sliver of moon suspended between buildings.
I don’t often feel such confusion, wondering what nights like this are supposed to mean, if they are more than simply splendid nights. An opening door, warm air from a kitchen, bread, cheese, interrupts the cool air, and then to wander into something wonderful, something I am afraid I could come to depend on… We walk, then later, an accordion, voices, the froth on top. A kiss. Can wonderful be ordinary? I try to find a context for words, for hair brushed behind my ear, for feelings that seems so distinct from the life I lead on Monday. I stop myself before my reality becomes too distorted.
Tomorrow, at my desk, I will think of other things, like the correct answer to polite questions, and what time I need to leave for a meeting. “How was your weekend?” Does anyone expect the truth, if truth seems outside of the mundane, and yet not cause for official celebration? Can we believe that time away can be magic, or that life still holds its wonder even now, beyond a paycheck, a house to clean, appointments, errands? Maybe bliss should not be only time off. Maybe I should yield to that warmth. Maybe there is a new context I never even considered, one where joy is not held separate and only available on weekends. Can I weave that joy into the everyday and still make sense of it? Will it disappear, or fade, or will it infuse the days with softness?
Or is this all an illusion, just the dance of two lonely souls?
This morning, I picked up a pan from the oven with a wet oven mitt. That sensation took me back, back to my childhood in the wilds of Webster Groves.
When I was nine, my mom gave in to my begging and let me go for a ride. My half brother only came over when he felt like it by then—no longer every weekend. It was 1974, and as the generation seemed to dictate, he delighted in infuriating my dad with his choice of dress, friends, and things he put into his body. This time my half brother was wearing a fringed leather vest and headband, long hair, but brought no friends or pipes: only an extra helmet. I can hardly remember the motorcycle he had at the time, but we were adventurous as a family with our choice of things to drive, so my thought was that it was faster than our go-kart, and street legal—unlike the minibike he had before. I got on.
We went around the circle that was my street, and I wanted more, so we headed down the hill, down Edgar Road, and down Glendale. Wheeeeeee! It was so great, so free, so … oh my God… what happened?!!!
Lesson learned: Do not wear shorts on motorcycles. And if you do, do not rest your bare ankle on the exhaust pipe.
When the blisters healed, that scar was infinitely cooler than any tattoo could ever be: not-too-obvious proof of my reckless side. I may have seemed the goodie two-shoes, but was attracted to danger and dreams, and seeking the sublime in whatever form it presented itself–but not motorcycles now.
I cannot say it is always healthy to seek this kind of adventure. It certainly can cause discord in an otherwise upstanding life.
But hell it sure can be fun.
(Above is Richard Thompson, singing “1952 Vincent Black Lightning,” a fitting song for my moods today. Wouldn’t you like to have him come play songs in your living room?)
Pistachio ice cream is my favorite. The kind I like may not be the finest, but it is the greenest, has the most almond extract flavoring—way too much, but kind of addictive—and is filled with salty pistachios. Friendly’s pulls off this combination rather well, especially considering that the brand has been on sale for the past couple of weeks.
Remember when you were a kid, and you reached down in the cereal box, all the way to the bottom, to find the prize. My brother and I used to pour ENORMOUS bowls of cereal, professing outrageous hunger. We had a yellow Pyrex bowl that came in a set with smaller ones, red, green, and turquoise. The turquoise was the egg-mixing bowl, and the other two broke before I remember. The yellow one was used only for popcorn and potato salad. We poured the cereal into that bowl. Once when we tried that trick, my mom made us eat what we had poured. From then on, we waited more patiently for our prizes.
Usually it was all for something worthless, too, not unlike a Happy Meal toy. Once in a while, though, a Matchbox car could make it all worthwhile.
Jump forward a few years, and the prize is pistachios. Tonight I am not content to have a regular bowl of ice cream, but am hunting through the box, ignoring ice cream just to get at them.
Of course, picking all the good stuff out is not very adult of me. I do know that when I do that, the rest is more or less spoiled—or, at least, not as special without the most desired contents still inside.
But sometimes, greed gets the better of me, going after the good stuff all at once, leaving the rest to face later. And yes, it is worth it.
Just don’t tell my kids.
I won something!
After the woman read my number, she directed me to an assortment of beautiful glass, blown by the woman’s son. It was all exquisite: pendants and several small vases. But one caught my eye. It has been sitting on the shelf above my writing desk ever since. I look at it often, the way it catches the light.
I wanted to show you, and tried several more normal photos, like this:
and this:
This is a vase.
I do not have flowers in my prize, but find myself more gazing at it, letting my mind wander. Words come more easily to me than images. I pick up my small treasure, and gaze down inside, the smoke and haze and sweetness seducing me into my favorite color.
That’s better. Yes, just like that…
Right now I am standing in my kitchen, watching as thousands of tiny black ants swarm into the crowded coliseum, here to fête the latest craze that has hit the ant kingdom. It’s not Antmania! it’s not Beatlemania! it’s Terro!
Well, it’s not exactly a coliseum: it’s my kitchen, specifically, one corner of it. And as for the ant fever… the ants think the stuff is great right now, and judging from the numbers, they cannot get enough of it. But they are about to get a big surprise when they stagger back home, drunk on that sweet, sweet nectar. They imbibe, run through it, and carry some to their little ant colony on their little ant feet.
Then, they will die, poisoning the friends and family back home right along with them.
In my experience, Terro is a product that delivers the promised results—and has the skull and crossbones on the box to prove it. The kiddos are gone for a few days, and we no longer have cats. As long as I stay away from that tiny corner of the kitchen, I should avoid poisoning myself, and my ant problem will be a memory by the time I get home from my walk.
That’s a little wishful thinking, to be fair, but tomorrow would do.
“She’s so cruel,” you say, thinking of those poor ants clutching their little ant necks as they choke, collapsing at last, only to mutter their last words, in ant-speak, “Why?”
I am cruel; it is true. I am engineering the destruction of thousands of insects as I write, and I am just a wee bit gleeful about the whole affair. There is something of the “them” versus “us” in this enterprise, and I am not at all sure it is healthy in the least. It is certainly not healthy for the ants.
Some bugs seem to live beyond my capacity for this sort of killing, based on some (mis?)conception of value. Spiders are spared, mostly. Bees only die as a last resort, and I cannot even remember the last time. I don’t like to kill any bugs outside, either. It just doesn’t seem right. Well, except mosquitoes. Oh, and I’d never kill a ladybug, or a cricket. Too superstitious.
But there are bugs that put up a bigger fight, bring their entire families, invade: earwigs, roaches! (oh my), FLEAS (even worse), and yes, ants. Burglars. How dare they go after that cracker I dropped on the floor? They point out my housecleaning deficiencies. And this, I believe, is why they are here now.
A week ago, a friend called, and in the midst of our conversation, I heard screaming. It was an insect-related problem, and the insect in question was none other than an ant. Or—many ants. I said to myself, “Hmmm. So early, too,” because I had not seen any here, and knew that it would have to be July if I did. “Hmmm. Such a shame,” my thoughts continued, and as my friend went on, talking half to me and half to a distressed teenager about how the ants would not have come if the food had not been left out, I found myself tsk-tsking the entire situation, so glad that it was at their house, and not ours.
And now, just look at me. I am here poisoning ants. This is where that sort of thinking gets you. I should have known: no one ever accused me or any of my children of being too neat. That is all I can say on the matter at this point.
You may ask me if I feel the least bit guilty for this formicide.
The truth is, I do, or I probably would not be here writing this little piece, trying to make the whole thing seem slightly amusing. I really do not like hurting things, even if they are ants covering my countertops in astonishing proportions. Ants do have a useful purpose—for heaven sakes: they make peonies open! Probably a few other things, too. I somehow feel I’m upsetting the universe.
I suppose to the ants I am incomprehensible to them, this destruction to their colony a tragic moment on some level I have no way of understanding, either. But really, the ants should have known something bad would happen for their greed. It kind of makes me wonder.
