Original version appeared in Urban Grafitti, May 9, 2015
In April of 2016, Mark McCawley, editor of Urban Grafitti, passed into the ether. RIP – I miss him. Problem is he brought the UG archives along with him. So I have resubmitted this story in September and it was published by the Amsterdam Quarterly.
The decline of my mother, now 93 on 14 May, has been a slow, long descent since I was a teen. But when does a life suddenly become less a tragic testimony to survival and more of a burden – you are not sitting around waiting or hoping she dies but then again there is the tick of a clock, and discussions arise about what dignity is and what the purpose of mere longevity ... Continued at Amsterdam Quarterly #23
In April of 2016, Mark McCawley, editor of Urban Grafitti, passed into the ether. RIP – I miss him. Problem is he brought the UG archives along with him. So I have resubmitted this story in September and it was published by the Amsterdam Quarterly.
The decline of my mother, now 93 on 14 May, has been a slow, long descent since I was a teen. But when does a life suddenly become less a tragic testimony to survival and more of a burden – you are not sitting around waiting or hoping she dies but then again there is the tick of a clock, and discussions arise about what dignity is and what the purpose of mere longevity ... Continued at Amsterdam Quarterly #23
To be the child of immigrants ... is in itself a special kind of experience; and an important one to an author. He has heard two languages through childhood, the one spoken with ease in the streets and at school, but spoken poorly at home. Students of speech have explained certain kinds of mispronunciation in terms of this double experience of language. To an author, and especially to a poet, it may give a heightened sensitivity to language, a sense of idiom, and a sense of how much expresses itself through colloquialism. But it also produces in some a fear of mispronunciation; a hesitation in speech; and sharpened focus upon the characters of the parents.
• Delmore Schwartz, In Dreams Begin Responsibilities and Other Stories
• Delmore Schwartz, In Dreams Begin Responsibilities and Other Stories
This is an excerpt from my novel BEER MYSTIC,
chapter 33, when the mother of main character, Furman, comes to visit his East Village apartment
Book cover art: © David Sandlin, design: author; photo of author & mother © Susan Landgraf, 1984
There was an extraordinary silence, where memories seemed to create entire holographic films starring my father and we were both watching this movie. … That my mother could talk forever about nothing but almost never about something was also part of the conundrum. My father had “disappeared” during WWII and never really reappeared – if you know what I mean. He was an engineer and worked everyday and brought home presents and yet, he was never there, always deep in thought, deep in books about certain WWII details, the “World at War” on TV.
As she climbed into her Honda Civic I noticed for the first time her swollen ankles, the blossoms of varicose veins on the backs of her calves. The climb into the front seat was one serenaded by an amazing tragic stillness. It brought back the stories of her deprivations during the Big War. From the black-and-white photos it was obvious she had had perfect slender legs once and a smile that glowed. And now the way she hunched over ever so slightly like she’s beginning to curl back up into the spiraling cocoon. The way each memory remembered with such authority was meant as testimony to her infallibility and immortality. It actually performed just the opposite: You became aware that each memory was flawed or a necessary rewritten fiction like the teenager who brags about his sex life to hide the fact that he is a premature ejaculator.
The way she held the top of the steering wheel as tightly as ever. Here eyes straining just above the wheel’s upper curve. Her knuckles turning white. Holding on for dear life. Just sitting there. “OK, mom, put’r in drive already.” I whisper. Just before she pulled out into traffic I saw her reach into her tote bag and place the Tupperware container with my father’s ashes on the passenger seat next to her.
chapter 33, when the mother of main character, Furman, comes to visit his East Village apartment
Book cover art: © David Sandlin, design: author; photo of author & mother © Susan Landgraf, 1984
There was an extraordinary silence, where memories seemed to create entire holographic films starring my father and we were both watching this movie. … That my mother could talk forever about nothing but almost never about something was also part of the conundrum. My father had “disappeared” during WWII and never really reappeared – if you know what I mean. He was an engineer and worked everyday and brought home presents and yet, he was never there, always deep in thought, deep in books about certain WWII details, the “World at War” on TV.
- “What’s about your vader’s ashes?”
- “What about’m? should I sprinkle them on my corn flakes?”
- “I don’t know vat to do wid dem.”
- “I think the weird thing is that he stopped taking his Coumadin.”
- “He did take them every day and I watch him to be sure.”
- “I have tried to tell you that I found 133 tablets in a small box in among his stuff. You know, like spit out. Why did he stop taking them?”
- “I do not want to hear you talk about him so.”
- “He left them behind to show that he wanted to die of his own accord. Have dignity in death and – in my mind – deny forever the existence of god.”
- “I know not where you get dis from? You are saying that I am to blame for him wanting to die?”
- “It’s not your fault. It is just that in living, surviving, he just saw himself losing face, losing, I dunno, dignity, human dignity.”
- “I tried to give him …”
- “It wasn’t for you to give. Pain and debilitation squeeze the spirit out of soul.”
- “I do NOT want to hear any more.” The more I thought about it, the more sense it all made. I did not tell her that, indeed, her vigilance, her paranoia, her excessive doting drove him crazy. “I wish to masturbate. I wish to die.” That’s what he said. “This is not living.” He told me that he wished it to be while watching pornography with a hard on. He told me about his WWII girl friends – German, but not Nazi. He showed me photos. They were naked photos. I have them hidden. I will never tell her.
- The phone rang again.
- “Do not these vimen want me to be two minutes alone met her son?”
- “I went up and down the dial during the time you said you were on the air. Didn’t you say Tuesdays from midnight till three? And so I called information. There’s no listing for any XYZNO Radio. They are NOT located at 156 Rivington. [No, not any more because illegal frequencies have to remain mobile. XYZNO had, in fact, once been located in the basement of ABC No Rio]. This makes me think you’re lying. This means that you’ve thus far received numerous sexual favors based on false pretenses. And I do mean favors! They certainly did me no good! What goes on? I mean are you a DJ and am I going to be able to read from my book on your show or what?! If I don’t get a satisfactory answer in 24 hours – it’s four on Sunday – I will go public with details of tales of your BEEEEEEEP …”
- “What is de matter here? You are not tellink de troot? I seem to not know you no more.” I watched her pick up the glass of flat beer. “Dis is disgusting mit dee roaches dar in.”
- “Its a roach trap. They’re attracted, go in, get drunk and drown. At least they went in a nice way and I get rid of some more roaches. It was a beer I wasn’t going to drink anyway. I mean, what’s the big deal!? So I left a beer out over night.”
- “It iss filt’y. No wunder dat you are popular met dem.” Her heaven would be a tidy and orderly place. “Let me just help you. We clean up and we feel better.” To her, help meant cleanliness. To her untidiness, a dusty place, was indicative of – nay – the very cause of depression and lack of motivation. To her, dust, dirt, and clutter were the enemies of sanity, well-being, progress. Sanitation for sanity. She saw my “suitcases” emblazoned with hundreds of beer labels. I had already fit my beer paraphernalia collection into three old naughahyde-covered cardboard suitcases.
- “Are you now moving some place new again?”
- “Always.”
- “Vhy not find a nice place wid a nice girl who can maybe cook a little bit you know?”
- “I dunno. I think I mighta.” I was ready to move. Was calling Djuna’s bluff. Threatening her with peace of mind. But then situations fell back around to nothing and I did not move. I admired how Nice could live nowhere, without permanence or knickknacks. How she maintained a presence without a homebase. But then again, I think I may have actually inspired that in her. That there can be pride of no place as well as pride of place. The clochards in Paris are not dejected like the homeless, for instance, because like hobos, they choose their lifestyle and find their place in movement, esteem in travel. Attachment in detachment. It’s like Buddhism. Maybe it was Nice who told me this. Or maybe it was I who told her.
- “You were always so happy as a boy. And now … Maybe always preparing for your worst you make happen this worst.” Another hour, another glass of lukewarm water, was consumed when finally she spoke up again. “To stay here will drive me crazy. And maybe you too. I will use a toilet in maybe a restaurant …”
- “We can go to Leshkos. Eat something.”
- “The people from Eastern Europe, they cook dirty. I do not vaant to get sick riding home. Or is dat vat you vaant?”
- “Let’s go to Veselka then.”
- “No. I only get sad when I stay here in this place.”
- “That’s what I mean. Let’s go out.”
- “You have no money. And I am not paying again and I mean by dis place your New York.”
- I walked her out, down the stoop where I kicked a used Pamper into the gutter. I held my breath, hoping no one would throw a fire cracker our way or maybe a blood balloon or fake dog shit… I walked her up the street to where she had parked her car. She ran a finger over the hood. She had lasted 90 minutes.
- “LOOOK, I just clean my car and already a coat of dirt in two hours of time. And you breathe dat all day. I am asking you now again if you will help me with those salesmens.”
- “I will. We’ll go down to their offices and give them something to chew on.” My mother has been bothered by burial plot and gravestone salesmen and we think we know where they are located. “Next time I come out. The vultures.”
- “When will that be I hope before I die.”
As she climbed into her Honda Civic I noticed for the first time her swollen ankles, the blossoms of varicose veins on the backs of her calves. The climb into the front seat was one serenaded by an amazing tragic stillness. It brought back the stories of her deprivations during the Big War. From the black-and-white photos it was obvious she had had perfect slender legs once and a smile that glowed. And now the way she hunched over ever so slightly like she’s beginning to curl back up into the spiraling cocoon. The way each memory remembered with such authority was meant as testimony to her infallibility and immortality. It actually performed just the opposite: You became aware that each memory was flawed or a necessary rewritten fiction like the teenager who brags about his sex life to hide the fact that he is a premature ejaculator.
The way she held the top of the steering wheel as tightly as ever. Here eyes straining just above the wheel’s upper curve. Her knuckles turning white. Holding on for dear life. Just sitting there. “OK, mom, put’r in drive already.” I whisper. Just before she pulled out into traffic I saw her reach into her tote bag and place the Tupperware container with my father’s ashes on the passenger seat next to her.
