“The struggle of memory against forgetting.” Milan Kundera
We’re Americans. Our specialty is forgetting. History is what happened five minutes ago. History is gaudy spectacle – the Super Bowl halftime show, Lady Gaga arriving at the Grammy Awards in an embryo – and we need it big, loud, and flashy, and the faster the better. 4G fast. Trivia is our lifeblood and we demand instant access to the latest from Hollywood, the doings of the Kardashian conglomerate, quick updates from the Jersey Shore, tweets from Sarah Palin. We create reality. Information that doesn’t fit is discarded. George Orwell is dead. The Ministry of Truth manufactures lies. Ignore the truth and you will be rendered powerless by lies. They say the economy is staging a recovery, yet millions of homes sit empty and millions of people cannot find decent jobs to afford those empty homes. “Imported from Detroit” is an ironic advertising slogan. Reality contradicts spin, but who cares? Verizon now has the iPhone. This is important. Demand for Botox is tremendous. This is newsworthy. The struggle to remember, the need to forget. How did we get from there to here, from peasant and serf and disposable industrial laborer to the golden age of the middle class and then to this era of never-ending anxiety? The cognitive dissonance is as loud as a screaming F-14. We can afford tax cuts for those who don’t need them; we can afford foreign wars that go on for decades; yet we can’t afford to help the less fortunate, young or old, the infirm, the indigent or the unlucky because austerity is what we do now. The poor must sacrifice so the wealthy don’t have to. This is the new fairness doctrine. Cut to the bone, slice to the marrow, a penny saved on the backs of the poor today can be handed to the plutocrats tomorrow. But who cares? We have spectacle. We have shopping malls. We have 3D television. What happened in Egypt already seems like ancient history, as dusty as the Great Pyramid. One less toothbrush in the stand, one less towel on the rack, one less plate on the table, one less voice on the phone -- one more stone in the cemetery. The powerful count on us to forget. Entire political campaigns are built on false myths and fairy tales of a time that never was. Sarah Palin is the new Reagan; once again it is morning in America, a happy time. The road to forgetting is paved with negotiable facts.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Friday, February 04, 2011
Fiction: A Refined Gentleman
In early September Kelsey dragged me to a wine and cheese back-to-school reception at her daughter’s school. I owed her for accompanying me the month before to an incredibly dull company BBQ where we found ourselves seated at a table with two guys from the Accounting department. Talk about heavy, uncomfortable silences.
Making chit-chat with strangers gives me the willies and I felt my anxiety level rise as soon as we entered the school courtyard, crowded with parents milling around tables loaded with cheeses, olives, bread, vegetables, pasta and dips donated by the owner of a well-known local restaurant; an adjacent table was loaded with wine bottles, all local varieties, served in clear plastic cups by a late 40’s woman who radiated an aura of established money. I pegged her for the wife of a surgeon -- one of those energetic types with unlimited time to devote to worthy causes while her spouse repairs arteries or snips out brain tumors.
“Red or white?” she asked, holding a bottle of each.
“Both, though not at the same time. Start me off with white.”
The woman gave me a disdainful look when she handed me the cup. I often have that effect on people though I don’t know why.
“Don’t go away. I’ll be back in a minute for the red,” I said sweetly.
Kelsey punched me on the arm. “Behave, OK? Let’s mingle.”
“How about you mingle and I drink my wine. This definitely isn’t my scene. Can’t you feel the neurosis in the air? It’s so thick it’s choking me. Every one of these people thinks their child is destined for Harvard, Yale or MIT.”
Kelsey warned me not to get started. “I’m going over to say hello to Amy,” she said. “If I leave you alone for five minutes can you stay out of trouble?”
After assuring Kelsey that I would remain on my best behavior, I sat on a low wall and watched a fluffy cloud slip across the sky. There was just enough of a breeze to stir the flag flying over the courtyard. Lincoln Elementary is a landmark on the prosperous side of our seaside town, built in the early 1920’s, and now surrounded by multi-million dollar homes with red tile roofs, manicured lawns, wrought-iron gates, balconies and curving driveways. Kelsey had explained that the school district bussed kids in from lesser parts of town to achieve a modicum of socio-economic balance. Brown Juan and Juanita meet lily-white Ethan and Emily.
I could see Kelsey and Amy talking on the other side of the courtyard, Amy gesturing with her cup, Kelsey listening intently, her head cocked to one side. It hadn’t been easy to get Kelsey’s kid into Lincoln, and without Amy’s knowledge of the school district’s policies it might not have happened – as Amy frequently reminded us.
I meandered back to the wine table for a refill. A striking brunette in curve-hugging jeans and an off the shoulder t-shirt had replaced the surgeon’s wife; her eyes were green and luminous and on her finger rested the largest authentic diamond I’d ever seen. Her make-up was flawless, her teeth dazzling. I figured her for the wife of a finance or real estate wheeler-dealer, and I’d of bet my last twenty bucks that she drove a Mercedes SUV and did Pilates or yoga three times a week.
The brunette asked what grade my child was in and if he or she liked her teacher, and before I could reply launched into a spiel about the PTA and the Lincoln Foundation. “Fundraising is so important,” she said. “We want the best for our kids, right?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “Nothing but the best. I promise to make an appropriate donation. Thanks for the wine.”
Three guys had taken my spot on the wall so I sat a few feet away, sipped at my wine and eavesdropped. One of the guys was talking about a remodel on his 7,500 square foot home, the problems he was having with a local contractor who had come highly recommended but was proving to be a disappointment. His companions listened, nodding from time to time as if they too had experienced similar frustrations with hired help. I noted their expensive jeans, loafers and shirts with the sleeves rolled up, casual elegance courtesy of Banana Republic and Nordstrom. I smelled money and entitlement. When their talk turned to parasailing in Costa Rica I got up for another refill.
“Back so soon?” the brunette asked. “Are you one of those people who just show up for the free wine and appetizers?”
I leaned across the table. “Can you keep a secret?” She said she could. I glanced over my shoulder and lowered my voice. “I’m an undercover vice cop, here on a case. I don’t mean to alarm you, but everything is not what it seems at Lincoln Elementary.”
“Are you serious?”
“Afraid so. Don’t blow my cover, OK?”
“OhmyGod. Of course. OhmyGod. I won’t say a word.”
Feeling pleased with myself, I resumed wandering around like a cultural anthropologist on a field expedition. Moving on the periphery of conversations about all sorts of subjects, the mundane small talk and polite courtesies that fill adult days and nights, I made mental notes to share with Kelsey later. While I may not enjoy making small talk, I do enjoy listening to it.
On my second lap around the courtyard Kelsey joined me.
“Sorry for deserting you. Amy’s going through some hassles at work and needed to talk. Are you behaving yourself?”
“I’m a shining example of restraint and rectitude. I have stories to tell. Tidbits of juicy gossip.”
She kissed me on the cheek and told me I was full of crap. She was happy, having a fine time, thrilled that her child was at Lincoln.
“What’s the protocol for these shindigs?” I asked. “How much time do we need to put in before we can bail? I refuse to share you with these people for more than an hour.”
“Fifteen more minutes? Let me finish with Amy, say hello to the principal and the PTA president, and we’ll go.”
I continued my walk, thinking of Amy, a tolerable woman -- in small doses -- but an incorrigible drama queen whose life careened from one crisis to the next: if the problem wasn’t her ex-husband, it was her hair stylist or her auto mechanic or her mother and on and on. I hated to see Amy take advantage of Kelsey’s natural empathy.
The wall was free again so I sat down and closed my eyes and listened to the echo of voices and laughter.
“Excuse me, is this wall taken?”
The voice belonged to a man with a Clintonesque head of silver hair, pale blue eyes that looked right into mine, and skin tanned as if the man it covered had just returned from two weeks in the Yucatan. He wore a beautifully tailored navy blue suit, a white shirt and gold cufflinks.
He extended his hand. “James Casso. New parent?”
“Yeah, my lady friend’s daughter just started second grade.”
“Welcome to Lincoln. It’s a great school. What kind of work do you do?”
This is my least favorite icebreaker question. I detest being defined and categorized by my job, and if I didn’t need the money I wouldn’t do what I do; I’d much rather be a professional magician or a blues guitar player or a rodeo clown. Hating the occupation question as I do, I make a point of lying when it’s directed at me. At a wedding once I concocted three different occupations while moving down the buffet line.
“I’m a casualty of the great American casino economy,” I said.
Casso laughed. “I take it you’re unemployed?”
“Hard core unemployed, a grim statistic.”
“How long has it been?”
“Thirteen months, four hundred and seventy-six resumes, two interviews, no job offers. What’s your line, doctor, lawyer, CPA?”
“I’m a private wealth manager.”
“Sounds impressive.”
Casso shrugged. “It simply means people entrust me to take calculated risks with their money. All in all I do pretty well for my clients and myself, even in a sluggish economy like this one. It’s not rocket science: good fundamentals and a long term outlook are the keys.”
He sounded like a TV commercial you see during golf tournaments. Trust Charles Schwab. Grab a piece of the rock, etc. I admired the suit, the tan, the manicured fingernails, the gold cufflinks, but James Casso and I had as much in common as an armadillo has with an egret. I was about to get up and move on when Casso turned the conversation in a completely different direction.
“One of the marvelous things about this school,” he said, “which I’m sure you’ve already taken notice of, is the crop of trophy wives, many of whom are not above a bit of extramarital activity. Take the woman who served your wine. Brittany Lancaster Taylor, former swimsuit model and sometime jewelry designer, twenty-six years younger than her husband, restaurant impresario Randall Taylor. Randy boasts a net worth, conservatively speaking, of thirty million dollars. He’s also without doubt one of the most perfect bastards I have ever met. Cutthroat. Pitiless. No qualms about cutting a legal corner or two. You either love him or despise him – middle ground is out of the question. I never understood the attraction. Like most people, I assume Brittany married Randy for the lifestyle he can provide her, but perhaps I’m being narrow and cynical. I suppose it’s possible that Randy is the love of her life and treats her like a princess.”
Casso paused and smiled. “I’ve been trying to get into her panties for some time now. No breakthrough yet, but I’m a persistent man and sooner or later I get what I want.”
“Does your wife know about this quest of yours?” I asked, lightly.
“What wives don’t know never hurts them,” Casso said. “I’m on my third, so I feel myself something of an authority on the subject.”
I sipped my wine and held my tongue.
“You disapprove?” Casso asked.
“Not at all. Whatever puts air in your tires.”
“Are you telling me the idea of straying never crosses your mind? I find that difficult to believe. Do you share everything with your girlfriend? No secret, inner life for you?”
“Being raised Catholic left me susceptible to guilt.” A lie. I was raised a Methodist.
Where the hell was Kelsey? This is the reason I have an aversion to social functions. Of all the people to be stuck in conversation with I had the misfortune to get this serial philanderer in a thousand dollar suit.
“Your ethics come from being raised Catholic?”
I told him that I hadn’t set foot inside a church in thirty years, which was true; in fact, I said, it was my firm and abiding belief that God was the single most destructive myth ever created by the human race. This amused him.
“Under what circumstances do you lie?” he asked.
“When it’s convenient, of course.”
Casso smoothed his tie. “Lies are indispensible. Many years ago I discovered two sources of endless pleasure: making large sums of money and having a variety of sexual experiences. Boredom is man’s natural enemy. For me, money and sex keep boredom at bay. I’ve never lied to my clients -- that’s the truth -- but sex is another matter. If I have to tell a lie or two in order to have sex, I do so without hesitation and no guilt whatsoever. Some men collect antique firearms or vintage cars; I collect women. I remember them, too, every one of them – the feel of their skin, the smell of their hair, the sound of their voices.”
Golf or tennis at the country club doesn’t do it for you, huh? I thought to myself.
But Casso wasn’t finished. “Not to brag, but I have something of a gift when it comes to women. I can look at a woman and instantly know if she’s the type who takes it through the back gate. For example, see that woman over there, the one on the left? She doesn’t.”
I was on my feet and felt the blood rushing to my face. My empty cup fell to the cement. “That’s my girlfriend,” I said.
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry. How boorish of me. Do you want to punch me?”
“I’d hate to ruin your shirt.”
“I appreciate that – it’s Armani.”
“Mine’s Ross Dress for Less.”
My last fight was in the sixth grade against a bully named Chris King and consisted of a couple of shoves, a wild open handed slap and a headlock; it ended in a draw and three afternoons of detention in the principal’s office. I desperately wanted to feel my knuckles crash against Casso’s jaw, watch him fall, and then finish him off with a kick to the ribs. What I felt was so primal it scared me. Blood lust. The overwhelming need to inflict pain, see my victim suffer, hear him beg for mercy.
“Awfully stupid of me,” Casso said.
I said nothing. My heart was still racing when Kelsey mercifully appeared at my side. I didn’t bother introducing her.
“Good luck with your job search!” Casso called as we walked away.
Kelsey linked her arm through mine. The sky had turned deep blue and a few stars were visible. “What job search?”
“Never mind. We were just shooting the breeze. Money, politics, baseball, the usual stuff men talk about.”
“You hate baseball. I bet you were talking about sex. Some of those mothers are hot.”
I pulled her close. “Would I talk about sex with a refined gentleman like that?”
Making chit-chat with strangers gives me the willies and I felt my anxiety level rise as soon as we entered the school courtyard, crowded with parents milling around tables loaded with cheeses, olives, bread, vegetables, pasta and dips donated by the owner of a well-known local restaurant; an adjacent table was loaded with wine bottles, all local varieties, served in clear plastic cups by a late 40’s woman who radiated an aura of established money. I pegged her for the wife of a surgeon -- one of those energetic types with unlimited time to devote to worthy causes while her spouse repairs arteries or snips out brain tumors.
“Red or white?” she asked, holding a bottle of each.
“Both, though not at the same time. Start me off with white.”
The woman gave me a disdainful look when she handed me the cup. I often have that effect on people though I don’t know why.
“Don’t go away. I’ll be back in a minute for the red,” I said sweetly.
Kelsey punched me on the arm. “Behave, OK? Let’s mingle.”
“How about you mingle and I drink my wine. This definitely isn’t my scene. Can’t you feel the neurosis in the air? It’s so thick it’s choking me. Every one of these people thinks their child is destined for Harvard, Yale or MIT.”
Kelsey warned me not to get started. “I’m going over to say hello to Amy,” she said. “If I leave you alone for five minutes can you stay out of trouble?”
After assuring Kelsey that I would remain on my best behavior, I sat on a low wall and watched a fluffy cloud slip across the sky. There was just enough of a breeze to stir the flag flying over the courtyard. Lincoln Elementary is a landmark on the prosperous side of our seaside town, built in the early 1920’s, and now surrounded by multi-million dollar homes with red tile roofs, manicured lawns, wrought-iron gates, balconies and curving driveways. Kelsey had explained that the school district bussed kids in from lesser parts of town to achieve a modicum of socio-economic balance. Brown Juan and Juanita meet lily-white Ethan and Emily.
I could see Kelsey and Amy talking on the other side of the courtyard, Amy gesturing with her cup, Kelsey listening intently, her head cocked to one side. It hadn’t been easy to get Kelsey’s kid into Lincoln, and without Amy’s knowledge of the school district’s policies it might not have happened – as Amy frequently reminded us.
I meandered back to the wine table for a refill. A striking brunette in curve-hugging jeans and an off the shoulder t-shirt had replaced the surgeon’s wife; her eyes were green and luminous and on her finger rested the largest authentic diamond I’d ever seen. Her make-up was flawless, her teeth dazzling. I figured her for the wife of a finance or real estate wheeler-dealer, and I’d of bet my last twenty bucks that she drove a Mercedes SUV and did Pilates or yoga three times a week.
The brunette asked what grade my child was in and if he or she liked her teacher, and before I could reply launched into a spiel about the PTA and the Lincoln Foundation. “Fundraising is so important,” she said. “We want the best for our kids, right?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “Nothing but the best. I promise to make an appropriate donation. Thanks for the wine.”
Three guys had taken my spot on the wall so I sat a few feet away, sipped at my wine and eavesdropped. One of the guys was talking about a remodel on his 7,500 square foot home, the problems he was having with a local contractor who had come highly recommended but was proving to be a disappointment. His companions listened, nodding from time to time as if they too had experienced similar frustrations with hired help. I noted their expensive jeans, loafers and shirts with the sleeves rolled up, casual elegance courtesy of Banana Republic and Nordstrom. I smelled money and entitlement. When their talk turned to parasailing in Costa Rica I got up for another refill.
“Back so soon?” the brunette asked. “Are you one of those people who just show up for the free wine and appetizers?”
I leaned across the table. “Can you keep a secret?” She said she could. I glanced over my shoulder and lowered my voice. “I’m an undercover vice cop, here on a case. I don’t mean to alarm you, but everything is not what it seems at Lincoln Elementary.”
“Are you serious?”
“Afraid so. Don’t blow my cover, OK?”
“OhmyGod. Of course. OhmyGod. I won’t say a word.”
Feeling pleased with myself, I resumed wandering around like a cultural anthropologist on a field expedition. Moving on the periphery of conversations about all sorts of subjects, the mundane small talk and polite courtesies that fill adult days and nights, I made mental notes to share with Kelsey later. While I may not enjoy making small talk, I do enjoy listening to it.
On my second lap around the courtyard Kelsey joined me.
“Sorry for deserting you. Amy’s going through some hassles at work and needed to talk. Are you behaving yourself?”
“I’m a shining example of restraint and rectitude. I have stories to tell. Tidbits of juicy gossip.”
She kissed me on the cheek and told me I was full of crap. She was happy, having a fine time, thrilled that her child was at Lincoln.
“What’s the protocol for these shindigs?” I asked. “How much time do we need to put in before we can bail? I refuse to share you with these people for more than an hour.”
“Fifteen more minutes? Let me finish with Amy, say hello to the principal and the PTA president, and we’ll go.”
I continued my walk, thinking of Amy, a tolerable woman -- in small doses -- but an incorrigible drama queen whose life careened from one crisis to the next: if the problem wasn’t her ex-husband, it was her hair stylist or her auto mechanic or her mother and on and on. I hated to see Amy take advantage of Kelsey’s natural empathy.
The wall was free again so I sat down and closed my eyes and listened to the echo of voices and laughter.
“Excuse me, is this wall taken?”
The voice belonged to a man with a Clintonesque head of silver hair, pale blue eyes that looked right into mine, and skin tanned as if the man it covered had just returned from two weeks in the Yucatan. He wore a beautifully tailored navy blue suit, a white shirt and gold cufflinks.
He extended his hand. “James Casso. New parent?”
“Yeah, my lady friend’s daughter just started second grade.”
“Welcome to Lincoln. It’s a great school. What kind of work do you do?”
This is my least favorite icebreaker question. I detest being defined and categorized by my job, and if I didn’t need the money I wouldn’t do what I do; I’d much rather be a professional magician or a blues guitar player or a rodeo clown. Hating the occupation question as I do, I make a point of lying when it’s directed at me. At a wedding once I concocted three different occupations while moving down the buffet line.
“I’m a casualty of the great American casino economy,” I said.
Casso laughed. “I take it you’re unemployed?”
“Hard core unemployed, a grim statistic.”
“How long has it been?”
“Thirteen months, four hundred and seventy-six resumes, two interviews, no job offers. What’s your line, doctor, lawyer, CPA?”
“I’m a private wealth manager.”
“Sounds impressive.”
Casso shrugged. “It simply means people entrust me to take calculated risks with their money. All in all I do pretty well for my clients and myself, even in a sluggish economy like this one. It’s not rocket science: good fundamentals and a long term outlook are the keys.”
He sounded like a TV commercial you see during golf tournaments. Trust Charles Schwab. Grab a piece of the rock, etc. I admired the suit, the tan, the manicured fingernails, the gold cufflinks, but James Casso and I had as much in common as an armadillo has with an egret. I was about to get up and move on when Casso turned the conversation in a completely different direction.
“One of the marvelous things about this school,” he said, “which I’m sure you’ve already taken notice of, is the crop of trophy wives, many of whom are not above a bit of extramarital activity. Take the woman who served your wine. Brittany Lancaster Taylor, former swimsuit model and sometime jewelry designer, twenty-six years younger than her husband, restaurant impresario Randall Taylor. Randy boasts a net worth, conservatively speaking, of thirty million dollars. He’s also without doubt one of the most perfect bastards I have ever met. Cutthroat. Pitiless. No qualms about cutting a legal corner or two. You either love him or despise him – middle ground is out of the question. I never understood the attraction. Like most people, I assume Brittany married Randy for the lifestyle he can provide her, but perhaps I’m being narrow and cynical. I suppose it’s possible that Randy is the love of her life and treats her like a princess.”
Casso paused and smiled. “I’ve been trying to get into her panties for some time now. No breakthrough yet, but I’m a persistent man and sooner or later I get what I want.”
“Does your wife know about this quest of yours?” I asked, lightly.
“What wives don’t know never hurts them,” Casso said. “I’m on my third, so I feel myself something of an authority on the subject.”
I sipped my wine and held my tongue.
“You disapprove?” Casso asked.
“Not at all. Whatever puts air in your tires.”
“Are you telling me the idea of straying never crosses your mind? I find that difficult to believe. Do you share everything with your girlfriend? No secret, inner life for you?”
“Being raised Catholic left me susceptible to guilt.” A lie. I was raised a Methodist.
Where the hell was Kelsey? This is the reason I have an aversion to social functions. Of all the people to be stuck in conversation with I had the misfortune to get this serial philanderer in a thousand dollar suit.
“Your ethics come from being raised Catholic?”
I told him that I hadn’t set foot inside a church in thirty years, which was true; in fact, I said, it was my firm and abiding belief that God was the single most destructive myth ever created by the human race. This amused him.
“Under what circumstances do you lie?” he asked.
“When it’s convenient, of course.”
Casso smoothed his tie. “Lies are indispensible. Many years ago I discovered two sources of endless pleasure: making large sums of money and having a variety of sexual experiences. Boredom is man’s natural enemy. For me, money and sex keep boredom at bay. I’ve never lied to my clients -- that’s the truth -- but sex is another matter. If I have to tell a lie or two in order to have sex, I do so without hesitation and no guilt whatsoever. Some men collect antique firearms or vintage cars; I collect women. I remember them, too, every one of them – the feel of their skin, the smell of their hair, the sound of their voices.”
Golf or tennis at the country club doesn’t do it for you, huh? I thought to myself.
But Casso wasn’t finished. “Not to brag, but I have something of a gift when it comes to women. I can look at a woman and instantly know if she’s the type who takes it through the back gate. For example, see that woman over there, the one on the left? She doesn’t.”
I was on my feet and felt the blood rushing to my face. My empty cup fell to the cement. “That’s my girlfriend,” I said.
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry. How boorish of me. Do you want to punch me?”
“I’d hate to ruin your shirt.”
“I appreciate that – it’s Armani.”
“Mine’s Ross Dress for Less.”
My last fight was in the sixth grade against a bully named Chris King and consisted of a couple of shoves, a wild open handed slap and a headlock; it ended in a draw and three afternoons of detention in the principal’s office. I desperately wanted to feel my knuckles crash against Casso’s jaw, watch him fall, and then finish him off with a kick to the ribs. What I felt was so primal it scared me. Blood lust. The overwhelming need to inflict pain, see my victim suffer, hear him beg for mercy.
“Awfully stupid of me,” Casso said.
I said nothing. My heart was still racing when Kelsey mercifully appeared at my side. I didn’t bother introducing her.
“Good luck with your job search!” Casso called as we walked away.
Kelsey linked her arm through mine. The sky had turned deep blue and a few stars were visible. “What job search?”
“Never mind. We were just shooting the breeze. Money, politics, baseball, the usual stuff men talk about.”
“You hate baseball. I bet you were talking about sex. Some of those mothers are hot.”
I pulled her close. “Would I talk about sex with a refined gentleman like that?”
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