Arlene's Scratch Paper

Customer Service, Delhi Style

2008-06-12T08:32:00.003-04:00

Macy’s flagship store on 34th Street in Manhattan sits squately 160 or so blocks from my apartment, the equivalent of nearly eight miles, a $35 cab ride, a 25 cent telephone call, a four hour stroll, or a $2.00 subway ride. We share the same crowded and complex island. At this personable little shop, a furniture salesman calls me by my first name, thrilled that at least one wanderer has given him commission for the day and simply perhaps, because my credit is good. My careful research has finally netted me a couch, a large red leather one fashioned mostly in Italy to replace one that looks like several cats used it as a scratching post and with a large indentation in the center. I have no cats and I’m not that large.

My new couch landed in my living room, courtesy of two delivery men who attempted to shake me down for extra money. I live six flights up and only a narrow loveseat could make it into the elevator without trepidation. The extortion didn’t make it past a $20 bill in my wallet and I decided to contact Macy’s to complain. I dug up a Customer Service number on my receipt and dialed. I figured I would be reaching someone in the United States, like one of those ubiquitous call centers used by banks, and I might chat with a pleasant man or woman in a city like Boston or Florida or Arizona. Every once in a while I’m connected to an operator in New Jersey, although a Jersey accent might be shocking to the rest of the country. While I waited, a cordless telephone piped in American pop music into my ear as I wandered in circles around my apartment. I listened to four songs, including a glass shattering number by pop siren Mariah Carey.

A male voice interrupted the music and stopped the room from spinning.
“Macy’s. My name is Julius. How may I help you?”

His voice was distinctly Indian, with a carefully enunciated monotone that dragged each vowel out with military precision. In fact, it sounded like he was reading from a chart, with his professor carefully underlining each syllable with a wooden pointer.

“Oh, yeah, hi. I’m calling about my couch, you know, a sofa, and the delivery. I – by the way, where am I calling?”
“Madam, I am located in New Delhi,” Julius answered. “How may I help you?”
“Is there anyone available in the United States?’ I gently queried, wondering what an office building in India looked like thousands of miles away, if he shopped at Macy’s, what wages he earned, and would anyone be able to understand my New York accent, let alone colloquiums like “yeah, so what’s the point?” and other phrases not dissected in their training manuals.

“I mean, Macy’s is not that far from where I live. How do I reach someone at the 34th Street store? And — how did I wind up getting India?”
“Madam,” he repeated, not unkindly. “How may I help you?”
“My sofa was delivered and the drivers tried to shake me down for money,” I clumsily explained.
“Madam, it is not good to shake so much.”
I hung up the phone.

I didn’t have much better luck with AOL when I spoke to Chad, Norman, and Vince in India about how to get rid of my cookies. Cookies are things that store information on my computer, I think, not Nabisco snack items. My dial-up service wasn’t working properly and when I called for assistance, my quest for service began with a circuitous route from New York to New Delhi, then two cities in the Midwest whose names I’ve forgotten, Philippe in Canada, and then Ernie from the Philippines who resolved the problem. I need to clean my cache. Well, it seems like I need a passport, too.

Outsourcing to other countries has its limits. So I wondered what the dialogue would be like between Yankees Hall of Fame catcher Yogi Berra, who caught Don Larsen’s perfect game in the 1956 World Series, and a customer service representative from India when this king of malaprops calls America Online for service on his computer.

Yeah. Hello? Hello? Is this thing working? Is anyone there? Thank you for calling AOL Tech Support. My name is Bob. You can call me by my first name. What is your name, please?
Yogi.
(Pause)
Hello? Is anyone home?
Yogi? Am I really speaking with a yogi?
Yeah. My name is Yogi. Can you help me with my computer? (background whisper: I’m on the telephone with a man who says he’s a yogi. Thank you so much for that information. What is your complete name, sir?
Berra. Yogi Berra.
Mr. Berra Yogi.
No, it’s the opposite way around. It’s Yo-gi Ber-ra.
Okay. Mr. Yogi. I am so excited to speak with a yogi. I will do my best to help you. Where are you calling from Mr. Yogi?
I’m calling you on my phone.
Where is your phone?
In my ear.
Ah. So you are calling from Ireland.
Ireland? Never been there. I’m calling you from New Jersey.
And where is Newj Ersey?
It’s right next to New York. Can you guys fix my computer?
Ah, New York. Perhaps you know my cousin, Dr. Patel?
I don’t know no Dr. Patel.
He drives a cab in New York City. He’s studying to be a medical doctor.
Ain’t that something. But what’s wrong with my computer?
Ah, so you are a Yogi with a computer.
I got a message from my grandson and I can’t turn this thing on.
Mr. Yogi, please tell me the name of your computer.
My computer doesn’t have a name. It’s just a computer.
I see. No name for your computer. Does it have the word Apple on it?
Yeah, I see the word Apple.
Mr. Yogi, press the button next to the Apple.
90% of this is pressing a button. The other 10% is pressing another button.
Mr. Yogi, what happens what you press the button?
The same thing that always happens. The computer turns on. You mean I have to call all the way to China for someone to tell me to turn on my computer?
Mr. Yogi, I am trying to help you. Is your computer on or is it shut down?
It’s ain’t shut down til it’s shut down.
What is your password?
Hey, who are you anyway? I never give out my signals.
Mr. Yogi, maybe you could meditate for a little while before we proceed.
I’m not on medication and what’s it your business, anyway?
Mr. Yogi, please click on the setup icon.
I’m clicking.
Do you see a box that says cache?
What did I do? Win something?
Mr. Yogi, first you must click on the box that says setup. Then another box opens up that says cache – c-a-c-h-e.
Oh, yeah. I see the cache. I’ve observed a lot by watching.
Look for the cookies.
Carmen! Do we have any cookies?
Mr. Yogi, we are not eating any cookies. We are removing them.
Carmen! Throw the cookies out. This way my computer will work.
Sir, these are not cookies to eat.
What is your name again?
My name is Bob. How can I help you with your AOL today?
Uh, Bob. First you tell me to find my cookies. Now you tell me to throw them out. What’s it gonna be?
Mr. Yogi, look at your computer.
I’m lookin’.
Do you see the word cookies?
Oh, yeah. I see the word cookies.
Click on the cookies.
Can I finish my chocolate chip one first?
Mr. Yogi, you may eat the cookie first.
Okay, I’m back.
Click on the cookie.
I can’t.
Mr. Yogi, why cannot you click on the cookie?
I just ate the cookie. I just told you that.
Click on the word cookie on the computer screen, Mr. Yogi.
I’m clicking, I’m clicking, and it clicked.
Mr. Yogi, do you see the box that says clean the cache?
The cache is clean.
Drag the cookies to the cache.
They are in the trash. Now you want me to get them out of the trash?
The computer cache. Do you see a globe?
Where am I gonna find a globe?
Look at the computer for a tiny, little blue globe and click.
Oh, yeah, I see it.
Click on that. And then go to the display tab.
Tab? What’s a tab?
It’s a little box and it says “empty cache now.” Do you see it?
I never saw it coming.
Now press the mouse and click.
Yep, okay. They are in the cache.
Mr. Yogi. Please now click.
I clicked. What’s next?
Mr. Yogi. Now you must restart your computer.
Okay. I’m restarting my computer.
I will wait while you restart your computer, Mr. Yogi from New York.
All right, Mr. Bob. My computer is back on again. It’s like déjà vu.
What is your view?
I’m sitting at my computer.
Is the computer turned on?
If I’m going to figure out how to use this, I’m not sure that we’re as smart as we think we could be.
Let me give you the reference number so you don’t have to explain things again if you have to call us back.

Lessons from Bill Heinz

2008-04-26T12:56:00.000-04:00

W.C. Heinz, simply called Bill by friends, family, and colleagues, was perhaps the lesser known of a literary cannon of sports journalists: A. J. Liebling, Red Smith, John Lardner, and Grantland Rice. A craftsman of the written word whose use of detail plucked the reader into the middle of a story whether he was writing about boxing (“The Professional”), football (“Run to Daylight”), the war from the frontlines or a surgeon during the Korean War (he wrote the novel M*A*S*H under the pseudonym Richard Hooker), Heinz brought a descriptive, personal feel to his writing, influencing generations of writers, journalists and novelists, including David Halberstam and Jimmy Breslin. Ernest Hemingway wrote that “The Professional” is the only good novel about a fighter I've ever read”.

Bill Heinz and boxing trainer Ray Arcel remained close friends since Heinz began pounding the keys of his Remington (one loaned to Hemingway), 50 years ago. Arcel, the legendary trainer of more 2,000 fighters and over a dozen world champions, handled so many of Joe Louis’ opponents he given the nickname “The Meat Wagon.” Two years before his death in 1994, Arcel and his wife, Stephanie (Stevie), suggested that I write to their old friend. The advice from a master whose keen eye for detail and reflective modesty holds its own as a standard for writers. Bill Heinz died at the age of 93 on February 27.

July 17, 1992

Dear Arlene Schulman,

Naturally I'm pleased that you find something of substance in the product I have been turning out of this Remington portable since 1932. I don't know what help any advice from me will be, but I'll try by the numbers (which relieves me of the task of building those paragraph bridges which are so important in giving a piece of writing its flow).

1. It has been said that writing is like painting, I guess--can't be taught, but can be learned. Hemingway said he learned by reading the greats he admired and studying what they did to create the emotion, or emotions, that moved him. In other words, the science precedes the art.

In my own growth process I derived much from reading John O'Hara's short stories, for dialogue, and Hemingway for scene setting, the placement of the characters in it and, of course, the dialogue that identified and distinguished them.

2. Writing is show-and-tell, and "show", when possible, is far preferable than "tell". Anything anyone tells is suspect, while if the readers is brought to believe he has seen and heard it himself, he is a believer forever. Too many writers get between the subject and the reader, so whenever possible the writer should get out of the way.

3. Back to role models: A half century ago I used to ski, and found that when I followed the instructor down the slope my form flowed much better than when I was on my own. I think that in trying to find one's own style, one should find in one's reading the style, or styles, with which one feels most comfortable, and then follow that as I followed the ski instructor. Of course, at the beginning, one will be just an imitator until gradually one's own self emerges in one's own style. Critics like to sneer at this, but the French impressionist painters all borrowed from one another and learned from one another in finding their own way.

4. When, at the end of WWII, Milton Gross was given a sports column by The New York Post, he asked Red Smith for advice. Red said: "Be there." Being there means not only being in attendance, but with eyes and ears at the ready. Too many writers don't really look or really listen. Look and listen for the distinguishing ingredient. Many years ago Stevie Arcel, in talking about "The Professional" mentioned (in the opening chapter) the flower pots on the tenement fire escapes, the yellowed leaves of the Easter lillies and the pink foil still around the pots a long time after the shouldn't be there any longer. She said: "That tells the whole story of tenement life." Of course. That's why I put it there. Now, Stevie may be the only reader who caught that, but I caught it and every good writes first for himself or herself.

5. The space problem: I know what you're going through, and I don't know any answer except to write as tight and right as you can. Even now, when every couple of years or so and I do a peace for "The Times" sports section, they'll call and say: "We've got to take out six lines." My reaction, although I can't say it, is: "Take it out of the white space around the goddam drawing." So, you see?

6. Grammatical note: The proper verb form is to "try to" and not "try and". Anyone who ever tried and put it in the past tense got a sentence like this. Don't feel badly. Some of the highest priced heads talking heads on TV make the same error. Somewhere here I've got three or four single-spaced typed pages of grammatical errors made on the networks by their reporters, anchor people and commentators. When I was doing an occasional piece for "TV Guide" I sent them the casualty lists and asked for suggestions as to how it might be made into a piece. They said their readers wouldn't care. The point was that they didn't care.

7. Sometimes the dice come 7 and here I am. In closing, I can only say that whatever I have to say is in my work, an dif you can find "Once They Heard the Cheers" you'll find a lot of "how-to" there. To you and your work I send my

very best wishes,

Bill Heinz

No cows graze in Columbus, but did you see the unicorn?

2008-03-21T10:49:00.002-04:00

I’ve been listening to people complain that Columbus, Ohio is too big.

Others complain about its reputation as a cow town.

I haven’t seen any cows.

But then again, I’m from New York. I’m not sure that I would recognize one.

I haven’t seen anyone wearing overalls Downtown, except me.

But Columbus is beginning to sound like New York City.

Cars head north or south on High Street with every window rolled down for cross-ventilation and the pounding beat of a stereo thundering out into the street. When someone drives by at night, the windows rattle and the walls vibrate.

In New York, these deafening car stereos are considered a mark of success by arrogant teen-agers, most of whom have never heard the smooth sounds of Frank Sinatra and couldn’t care less about James Thurber.

Once newly minted musicmobile, piloted by a young man who wouldn’t have heard three firetrucks wailing behind him, was so loud that I swear I saw the unicorn in the garden move.

Well, it’s not an actual unicorn.

The unicorn is a bronze statue in a lily garden across the street from Thurber House, 77 Jefferson Avenue, that celebrates one of Thurber’s best-known tales, A Unicorn in the Garden.

In the story, a man wakes up his wife to tell her that there’s a unicorn in the garden and it’s eating roses.

“The unicorn is a mythical beast,” she says.

She calls him a “booby” and tells him she will put him in the “booby hatch.” The wife calls the police and a psychiatrist, and when they enter the house, she says, “My husband saw a unicorn this morning.” They cart her off and ask the husband if he has seen a unicorn.

“Of course not,” he says. “The unicorn is a mythical beast.”

The husband lives happily ever after.

Now if this scenario were repeated in New York, it would take on a different twist altogether.

For one thing, most people don’t have gardens, so the closest thing would be a terrace. A Unicorn on the Terracedoesn’t quite have the same ring.

Rose don’t grow on terraces, so the unicorn would be eating a potted plant that couldn’t be identified or a leftover wooden dresser that one was meaning to throw out but couldn’t get out of the apartment.

When the wife calls the husband a booby, he would probably ask her to repeat it into a video camera so that he would have evidence for their divorce proceedings.

Psychiatrists don’t make house calls.

The police, arriving 45 minutes later with their guns drawn, would search the house for unicorn, going through closets and cabinets before filling out a missing-person report.

Animal-rights activists would complain that because the unicorn couldn’t be found, there must be a police cover-up.

There are plenty of boobies in New York.

I’m certain that there are plenty of boobies in Columbus who resemble Thurber’s people.

But they’re spread out, not packed into skyscraper apartment buildings as in New York. Walls are thin there, hallways and entranceways congested, and more people know your business than you think.

And they have no patience.

I’ve crossed streets in Columbus while 25 cars wait to turn. So far, no one has honked the horn, bellowed through the window, cursed at me or given me the finger.

In Manhattan, my foot wouldn’t even be off the curb before one, if not all, of the above had occurred.

People walk in New York City. Not necessarily by choice, but because it’s the only way to navigate through streets and around people.

I stopped at the mall in Columbus (we don’t have malls in New York City) and found at least a half-dozen shoe stores specializing in walking shoes.

But I rarely see anyone walking.

I’m looked at strangely as people toot their horns and ask me if I need a ride. Being sensible, I won’t accept a ride from a stranger.

So the rest of the world drives by with windows rolled up, air conditioning blowing and music going full blast, and I’ve got concrete under my feet.

I like the exercise, and it helps burn off those Buckeye Donuts.

People here aren’t as thin as in New York.

In New York, you pay more to eat less. There are women’s clothing shops that carry only sizes 6, 8, and 10. I figure I’d have to buy two of everything and sew them together.

In Columbus, however, women have hips, and there are plenty of size 12s on the rack.

There’s less makeup, too.

In my neighborhood, a trip to the supermarket to buy dog food necessitates wearing at least mascara, foundation, concealer, eye shadow, blush, and lipstick.

I haven’t seen too much lipstick on line at Kroger.

It really comes down to one thing: New Yorkers think vertically, Ohioans horizontally.

Developers spread out from Columbus, swallowing farms and towns.

In New York, developers gobble up sun and sky.

People think differently when they’re stacked on top of each other.

You can be anonymous in New York, but you really can’t get away from anyone. In Central Park, you can’t really lie under a tree and meditate. You could doze off and find your wallet and shoes missing. Or worse.

Twenty minutes out of Columbus, you can find some woods that a bulldozer hasn’t touched – yet.

Even Downtown, you can get away from civilization, if only for a moment.

I walked through Deaf School Park and looked at the shrubbery. A New Yorker wouldn’t appreciate the topiary garden. I figured that someone must have had a lot of time on his hands.

Next to these elegantly sculpted Parisian women lay a (real) man sleeping on top of a picnic table, his arms folded over his ample middle, a can of beer lying on its side.

That’s a familiar sight at home.

A couple from Columbus described themselves as common folk.

In New York, you describe yourself as type A or type B, give your astrological sign and generally end the conversation with “I have an appointment with my therapist.”

I wouldn’t say that things are slow here in Columbus, but one evening I hit a particularly rough spot. So I spent the night reading the telephone directory.

The Columbus telephone book is a rather unusual one. I’ve never seen so many names that are also nouns and adjectives.

There are Blues, Greens, Blacks, Whites, Browns, Gray, and a Maroon.

I found a Yin and a Yang, a Tootles and a Zook, more than one Rambo, Farmers and Holsteins, a Cowman, Lamb, Hogg, and a Steer.

It’s a book fill of Queens, Princes, Jesters, Bishops, Damsels, a Shah, a Munster, a few Looneys, Cranks and Crooks.

You can search for a Daft, a Bobo that’s Boffo and go out with a Bang.

There are Lemons and Limes, a Missouri and a Nebraska, Kings and Kongs, Friend and Foe, a Hobo with a few Hicks, a Ding and a Dong with a few Frisbys tossed around for Good Luck.

You can Hoot at Fate and Ho and Ha at an Idol.

Man, Gents, Pop, Daughters, Cousins, Dames, a Bridgegroom and a Groom could be Wedd and then have a Fling with a Heimlich and Gallop with Fickle Fowls.

You can Yo and Yep, Woo a Tweet and a Twitty, and Zapp a Zag.

I didn’t find any Cows in Columbus.

But I found a few Moos.

But let’s not Dilley Dalley.

I think there’s a unicorn on my terrace.

Originally published in The Columbus Dispatch. Arlene Schulman lived in Columbus, Ohio for a summer as journalist-in-residence at the Thurber House.

The Solitary Shopper

2008-03-20T17:51:00.003-04:00

I am one of those people to whom many stories are told. From dusty tales of Mexican laundry folders who drink too much on Saturday nights to one very nervous cop aiming his gun at me as I exited my apartment to dispose of recyclables, to my traveling companions on overstuffed M100 buses, to underappreciated and aggravated secretaries, public school teachers with unruly students, to Wall Street workers coming off an exhilarating trade, the shopping bag of disclosure is open and ready for unpacking.

It happens most often while I shop. From tomatoes to turtlenecks, the hordes corner me like some sort of exalted celebrity as I’m preoccupied with finding the right size, shape, or shoe: dapper shoe salesmen complain about women who send them scurrying to the storeroom as they spend their weekends being waited on hand and well, feet; chubby cashiers at Target, Saks, and Duane Reade point out their swollen ankles; and the chic who shop at the Gap and Henri Bendel invite me into the operating room as they describe gallbladder and appendix removals. I’ve listened to tales of cheating boyfriends, sloppy husbands, and dirty landlords from the minions who purchase and pander at Macy’s and Bloomingdale’s; epics reveal painful shoes, poor diet, bad bosses, bad days – my bunions and I could be standing on line to pay in the world’s most remote shop or tugging on a too small skirt in a dressing room separated from the sales floor by a curtain. I keep thinking that if I set up a series of couches near cash registers I can get the chats and complaints over all at once. Move over, Dr. Phil. I’m hanging out my shingle for retail therapy.

So here I am, the queen of sound bite confessions. Many members of my tribe wear less clothing and more makeup, so my appeal, I think, rests on the fact that I’ve become as comfortable and comforting as a restful recliner or a security tzachke. These may be pretty bad analogies but the point is, I may not stand out much, but I am around. Like Woody Allen’s Zelig. I am everywhere but nowhere. The fascination of speaking with me is no more evident than alongside of sales racks from Manhattan to Minneapolis, and in front of cash registers from 7-Eleven to Saks Fifth Avenue. And nowhere is my expertise more in evidence and my patience tested than when I shop at Lord & Taylor, a calmer, more soothing shopping experience without the hordes and gaggles of gigglers, fluorescent lights, and the hamster mazes of aisles of its more flamboyant sister, Macy’s.

The lineage of women among the sales racks can be traced back, I’m convinced, to the early days of hunters and gathers. On the back walls of some muddy cave, maybe in northern Spain and in France, or perhaps in uptown Manhattan’s Inwood Hill Park, charcoal paintings of cavewomen wielding clubs beating their way to sales racks are just waiting to be unearthed. During their hunting and gathering days, the female half of the species stayed behind. tending to huts, caves, and children, ripping roots and plants from the soil, while the male half of the species men hunted big game with bows, arrows, and spears. The women waved goodbye while their mates went after dinner, and this communal commiserating, companionship, and co-parenting kept the community alive. And thus began the origins of the group shop. I know there’s a shopping bag from the Ice Age hidden deep in the core of our planet just waiting to be carbon dated.

In the evolution of women, torched bras and nylon stockings have been replaced by Spanx, spandex, and credit cards. Women still gather but they also hunt; two or three women in a department store with big game in sight, from Manolos to sequins to sassy skirts and scarves, descend on department and specialty stores everywhere in the world. This portion of Darwin’s evolutionary theory is still with us. A few women, like myself, mutate from this genetic claim and strike out on our own to go shopping. Others require my validation.

How do I look?
Fabulous!
How does this make me look?
Fabulous!
I’m a size 14 and this dress is a size 6. Do I look good or what?
Fabulous!

My intersection with the shopping sisterhood creates a Venn diagram of dialogue to the point where I’ve considered wearing a wig and glasses and hiring a bodyguard. Let me serve up a taste of my shopping life.

Shopping can be divided into several categories: in the name of bargains, camaraderie, the boredom pack, the curiosity group, “I wonder what size I am now” collection, the triage trio, the demanding duo, or let’s get it over with, I can’t stand the crowds for another minute – and let’s face it, shopping with friends can be a frightening phenomenon. When I shop with friends, I buy clothing I would never, in my wildest dreams, consider bringing home, like the plaid linen dirndl skirt or grape poncho with tassels. A straight line can be drawn from the manufacturer, to the shop, to my wallet and to my closet and then slam dunked into the thrift store donation bin.

So.

Here I am, the solitary shopper, armed with coupons and credit cards, a bottle of tap water, toothbrush, and toothpaste as I make my descent into Lord & Taylor on a foraging mission to supplement my collection of blue jeans and t-shirts with a few snappy skirts and tops. Standing outside the store I spot a woman dressed in a red kimono (she isn’t Japanese) and a man with a snaggle tooth wearing a squirrel tailed hat and a swirl of cheap necklaces. Hmmm is right. Doors swing open at ten sharp at the Fifth Avenue flagship store. Second later, I walk smartly through the revolving doors, fortified with two eggs, bacon, and Swiss cheese on a roll (no seeds) and Diet Coke (ice and lemon, please). Like a prizefighter prepared for swift punches, dubious ones, and a knockout blow, I have trained for the markdown, the misplaced belt, the search for the right size, and the dedication to come out a champion with more than a few dollars saved. Down for the count means nothing fits and I’m waved out of the store with no shopping bags. For the record, this has only happened once and only because I sailed through the shoe department to check on winter boots which hadn’t yet arrived.

Three minutes into my adventure, I am spotted, much like a Brad or Angelina blending into the crowd.

It began on the escalator, next to the sign indicating that we have ascended to the third floor.

“Is this the fifth floor?” Two woman with over processed blond hair and Bermuda shorts inquire.

I give this some thought.

“Could be,” an answer designed to throw them off my trail and to discourage any lingering conversation. I rappelled to the fifth floor and spotted a familiar sign, 40% off, which means that swiping the barcode on my coupons would net me an additional 20% off. I’m cookin’.

Racks overflow with marked down Ralph Lauren, Tommy Bahama, Eileen Fisher, Lord & Taylor’s house brand, Kate Hill, Liz Claiborne and the labels of others who cloak and cover our bodies from a size 0 to a size 24 plus, from extra small to three times as large. Sweaters, skirts, jackets, pants, t-shirts, tops, tank tops – the sisterhood flocks around the racks, touching, pulling, checking price tags, looking for a snag and examining colors and shapes. A number of women like me envision themselves a lot smaller, holding up what should fit and then being disappointed. You can blame it on the manufacturer for poor sizing but a three way mirrors holds no illusions.

My shopping companions poked through the racks and a few poked me with their purses. Now, mind you, the floor was loaded with idle saleswomen. I was hoping to leave via early decision but not today.

“What do you think of this color?,” asked one woman who looks like a model, holding up a yellowish-brown sweater with orange stripes.

“I’ve never seen this shade before,” I admitted, squinting at the odd shade.

“How much is this with markdown? Is this too much for me to pay,” a woman carrying a briefcase checks in, holding up a Ralph Lauren skirt with the priced mowed down from $200 to $119.

“I think it’s worth it,” I replied. Well, not really, but a little encouragement can go a long way.

“What do you think my husband would say?” asked another woman, already wielding enough shopping bags to incite a hernia, and armed with a vertical valance attached to a denim skirt.

“I think he’d love it,” I offered with conviction; although I’d never met the man, I was convinced he would be overwhelmed.

“I just had a tummy tuck. Do you think I can fit into this?,” inquired an older woman with a flat stomach but enormous hips, thrusting a pair of hip huggers at me.
I had to think about this one.

“Why not give it a try?,” I suggested diplomatically.

“Do you think this sweater will match my skirt that’s hanging in my closet at home?,” demanded one woman with a large perm and even larger purse.

“Absolutely.” And I didn’t hesitate.

“What handbag goes with this?,”, questions a friendly woman with long black hair dressed in black holding up a black skirt and sweater.

“Something black,” I advised Lilly Munster. “Black goes with everything.”
The floor seemed to close in on me.

“Where’s the ladies room?,” demanded a woman in a pink tracksuit (they seem to be everywhere).

“By the elevator but not on the 6th floor,” I answered mechanically, digging into my purse for my water.

“Can you zip me up?,” asks one gray haired woman with her back hanging out of a white blouse.

I put down my water.

“You may want to inhale,” I noted. “And go back into the dressing room.”

After inching my way toward the center aisle, I was almost free.

“I’m going to a wedding. Do you think the bride’s mother will like this? She’s really quite particular,” wonders one woman holding up a black and white dotted dress.

“She’ll love it,” I yelled, waving my water.

“Why are you wearing that?”

Two women stopped me, looking at my denim blouse with disdain. They may have noticed that it’s wrinkled and has white stain from toothpaste but I can’t be certain.

“When the gun is pointed, I’ll put on anything,” I snarled.

And we haven’t even made it into the dressing room. I slip into an empty one and lock myself in. I grunt and groan getting in and out of too tight blouse that gets stuck under my armpits and cuts off my circulation. Paramedics may have to cut this off my body. It’s a bit like wrestling with a bear until it finally pops off and I pop out, able to catch my breath again. I look around. There I am, at all angles. My hair appears to be windswept in the airless cubicle and, is my behind really that large? A suspicious mole comes off in my hands; it’s just an M&M from an earlier snack. My ear is pressed to the flimsy wall as I tune in to the sisterhood.

These shorts are gorgeous, comes from the room to my right.
Mom, why are you buying that? cries a embarrassed teenage voice that could have been my own from years ago.
Because I want to.
I don’t want to be seen with you wearing that.
Fine. Don’t look then.

But, in the end, these are just shorts and a misguided outfit. There’s a rap on the white shutter-ike door. Doorbells and a peephole, anyone?

“Do you think this costs too much?,” inquires an older woman with glasses holding a poodle and a v-neck t-shirt with a $49 price stag.

“Yes,” I said. “ff you have to ask.”

“Does this make me look fat?,” demands a woman who says she’s a nurse. She turns around twice in a pleated skirt that makes it look like there’s air under her skirt.
But those are her hips.

“What about my hips?” She smoothes down the pleats but they don’t move.

“What about them?” I raised my eyebrows.

After closing the door and putting on my own clothes, I snuck out, a Ralph Lauren sweater tossed over my head.

The petites are one floor up and I quickly ducked behind three slinky mannequins. A couple of women haven’t discovered me - yet. Both petite, with white hair, overdressed for a day out shopping, and smelling of mothballs, stale perfumes, and general decay, they push their way through jumbled racks of marked down clothing.

“It isn’t beautiful?” cooed the taller of the two, holding up a dirt colored sweater. “It was made just for you.”

They drift apart. They are so slim that their clothes hang at right angles on awkward arms and at their age, their bodies have sharp angles, like isosceles triangles, and bony shoulders. The hair of the taller one wore hair that was so messy it looked like she picked out errant blouses from the tangles. This was clearly their event of the day, maybe even of the week, and they dressed as ladies who lunch and ladies who shop. Neatly tailored with matching handbags, they were two gals out for a day on the town.

After following them for about 20 minutes, I hit the lottery. A black skirt made of silk and wool carried a price tag of $86 down to $49.97. I quickly did the math – 40% off would be close to $25 minus an additional 20% off would be about $20. Or so I thought. The friendly saleswomen looked at me over her glasses and scanned in the tag. The skirt was reduced to $9.56 not counting the 40% off and 20% discount coupon. My grand purchase accumulated to $3.99. The saleswomen said that her son just graduated from college and that someone must have coded the tag improperly in the computer. This never happens to me.

A woman carrying four bags stopped me.

“How do I look in this?,” she demanded

I looked her over and asked her to turn around. And turn around the other way. And the other way. She started to topple, her black and white polka dot dressed swirling in a hypnotic pattern.

“I’ve never seen you look better,” I gushed. “I would buy two.”

Time to move on.

Lord & Taylor has now added music to its genteel shopping experience, so I hummed and danced to Abba’s Dancing Queen.

A shopper came my way on the third floor.

“What’s that thing?,” she asked, pointing to the scanner near the sale priced Dana Buchman outfits.

“It checks radioactivity.”

I hustled on another dressing to try on a very expensive skirt by Ellen Tracy. The dressing room was larger than my living room. I tossed my jeans onto the upholstered chair, dropped my handbag on the floor, draped my blouse on the table, and examined my cellulite from all angles.

I bought the skirt with my coupons.

I have yet to wear it.

Moving back to the fifth floor to search for a top to match the skirt, an African American woman who looked to be about 75 covered by a four sizes too large church suit looked puzzled. She wore a church hat and rested her cane on a chair with her handbag. She nuzzled up to me in the Ralph Lauren section, eyeing a blue skirt. She pulled one off the rack.

“This is too big,” she said.

She lifted up her jacket to show how her skirt was pinned together with about 60 safety pins.

“I’m down from 187 to 146,” she announced. “Do you think this is too big? “

I looked at the tag. It was a 12.

“It might be,” I offered. “Take the 10 in with you.”

A Lily Pulitzer dress in green and yellow, hung awkwardly from its tag on a hanger.

“I wonder where that’s gonna go”, wondered one woman.

“I’m wondering, too,” I chimed in,

It was gone the next week. I discovered a shirt dress originally $200 and marked down to less than $50 – now I felt like a success. I haven’t been able to wear it because it’s been too hot.

My day is almost over. The few men I’ve seen shop early and leave furtively even when they are in the men’s department. I decided to check out the handbags. I wasn’t in the world of purses, clutches, and carryalls more than five minutes when three saleswomen asked me if I needed help. I began to get annoyed.

My friend, Ruth, told me that I should go shopping in dark glasses or with an entourage to throw off the scent from the sisterhood. On my next visit, I wore my hair in a ponytail and a t-shirt with hood. It didn’t help.

One woman confronted me.

“How do I find the sizes?,” she asked.

“Look for S-M-L-XL,” I growled. “Those are clues.”

An older woman leaned against the racks. I gently tilted her so that she stood upright with her cane.

I prepared myself for the rest, as they waved clothes at me from one end of the store to the other.

How does this look on me?
This is the most fabulous thing I’ve even seen you in. Run to the register before someone else picks it up.
This is just you! What was your name again.
Do you think I should get this?
Absolutely.
Does emerald green go with red?
Absolutely! Go stand next to the elves.
What do you think my husband will say?
I think he’ll just love it.
Does this make me look young?
By at least 30 years.
I’ve always wanted something like this.
Lotsa luck.
Can I borrow your coupons?
Do I know you?

Ms. Jones, one of the saleswomen on the 5th floor, spotted me in my disguise. My ruse was up.

“What do you think of this jacket?” I held up a blue Tommy Bahama cotton jacket.

“Fabulous.” she whispered. “You couldn’t have made a better choice.”

Six Word Novels in the Tradition of Ernest Hemingway

2008-03-20T17:40:00.006-04:00

Odyseuss. Homecoming. 20 years. Bit Late.

“Don’t touch that apple,” Adam warned.

In-laws. Crass. Complaining. Arctic melting. Send!

Take this job and. . .quarter, anyone?

Medication does strange things to people.

The bell tolls? I don’t hear. . .

Sunrise. Chicken lays an egg. Breakfast.

Hark? Who goes there? Not I.

Doorbell rings. No answer. Publisher’s Clearinghouse.

Odysseus. Vietnam Vet. Not home yet.

Homer. Odysseus. Seus. Yertle. Help Wanted.

Homage to Phyllis Whitney

2008-02-11T18:24:00.001-05:00

At Bellport High School out on Long Island, my brother graduated as his class valedictorian, my sister as her clas salutatorian. And then there was me. I held the solid middle ground of my graduating class.

But I was the only one who met Phyllis Whitney, an author whose books I'd read since the second grade. Her grandkids attended high school, one a year ahead of me, the other a year behind. Phyllis Whitney spoke at one of our library classes at Bellport High when I was a junior. I remember her warmth and the sparkle in her eyes when she spoke about writing.

She sponsored a writing contest and I, bored out of my mind from mindless high school chatter, decided to enter. Phyllis Whitney started the story and we were asked to complete it. I'll have to dig it out of my archives and include it at a later point. I still have the issue of the publication that the story appeared in.

I remember doodling in my notebook and daydreaming in Social Studies class until I heard my name on the loudspeaker. I wasn't sure why my name was mentioned until a classmate advised me. That was the first and only time my name was projected around the school. I had won the contest, an award and reward for high school years that passed without distinction.

Many years later, I found out from a group of children's book writers that Phyllis Whitney was living in Virginia. I would come across the contest publication from time to time when I was cleaning and thanks were long overdue. I wrote to thank her for this hefty start to my writing career. And Phyllis Whitney replied with a note when she was just 100 years old.

"What a lovely letter! You bring back years that passed so long ago. I'm happy to know that I inspired you to become a writer.

I will send a copy of your letter to Sara Courant who sponsored those affairs. I know she will be pleased.

Today, I no longer write fiction, but I have been working on my autobiography.

All best,

Phyllis A. Whitney"

Phyllis Whitney passed away on February 8, 2008 at the age of 104.

Retail Therapy

2008-02-11T18:21:00.000-05:00

Reading in New York City - Sunday, April 22nd

2007-04-07T14:35:00.000-04:00

Arlene Schulman

Sunday, April 22nd, 2007

Kehila Kedosha Janina Synagogue on Manhattan's Lower East Side
(close to The Tenement Museum, the famous Katz's deli and Chinatown)
Broome at the corner of Allen Street

Time: 1 pm to 3 pm

Admission is free.

Arlene will be reading from a selection of her works along with writer Eleni Gage (North of Ithaka) and poet Nikos Alexiou, reading from his latest work, The Garden of Lost Vespers.

Refreshments will be served.
For more information, please call KKJ at 212-431-1619

Kehila Kedosha Janina is the only remaining Greek (Romaniote) synagogue in the Western Hemisphere.

Log onto wwww.kkjsm.org for more information.

Hope to see you there!

Arlene's Affiliations

2007-04-07T14:33:00.000-04:00

Arlene is a proud member of

PEN,
Women in Communications,
Hadassah,
and
Association of Fundraising Professionals

Update to Someone You Didn't Know

2006-07-21T08:27:00.000-04:00

Diane Newton's life was tragically cut short when a 19-year-old joyrider crashed into her parked car in Harlem on July 3, 2005. I worked with Diane, a public school teacher, for a short time when I taught writing as part of an arts program in New York City. Her classes were magical and inspiring. I will never forget her care and concern for her students and for her patience. My story, Someone You Didn't Know, tells of my teaching experiences and focuses on Diane's class.

Her killer was sentenced to three years in prison. Diane Newton's life was worth much more than that.

So Long to Betty Friedan

2006-02-12T16:34:00.000-05:00

A life well lived; an extraordinary woman who changed the way women view themselves and how the world should perceive us.

A Million Little Pieces - and a Few Lies

2006-01-29T18:46:00.000-05:00

Writing a memoir means recreating past events and taking down the truth as we see it. And the way we see it or recall it is open to the varities of one's personality, persuasion, prediliction for remembering details, age, and circumstances. My brother and I remember the same events differently. The basic event is the same but our recollection and interpretation of the facts as we perceive it are different. It's not that we've created our own fantasy but we sifted through live's events and tragedies through different lenses. But the basic events are the same.

James Frey took events from his own life and embellished them to the point where they became lies. His books are technically fictionalized memoir which gives them the label of fiction. Should some memoirs now receive a label called "faux fiction" or "half-truth fiction"? How do we know what actually happened? But when facts - not thoughts or feelings - are tampered with the credibility of every non-fiction writer suffers.

So Long to Barrymore's

2006-01-29T18:36:00.000-05:00

Barrymore's closed its doors this past evening, one more remembrance of what Times Square used to be. A handwritten sign taped to the door - "Kitchen closed" - and the people quietly sitting at the bar or at tables having a drink or two marked its last day. You could sit and have a drink at the bar or order a burger or salad in its cavern like space. Ted and Steve, two waiters, would pull up a chair and chat. At the next table might be a stagehand or two, or even Chita Rivera, George Hearn, Karen Ziemba or other Broadway regulars relaxing and unwinding. It was unpretentious, if you had an attitude it was best to leave it at home, and you could strike up a conversation with the people at the table next to you.

In its place, we've heard, is a hotel. The regulars will find another place to go and tourists will pay top price to say they've stayed in New York. And we'll walk past 45th Street and see the ghost of Barrymore's, just like walking down 42nd Street and you can hear the ghosts of the Times Square Gym.

Book Excerpt: 23rd Precinct: The Job

2005-11-13T17:38:00.000-05:00

23rd Precinct: The Job

Written and Photographed by Arlene Schulman
Published by Soho Press

"Being a cop is a culture, it's a way of life. You did nothing before. You have no time for a fuckin' schedule. Your life is this job. You become the culture," insists Sergeant Charlie Columbo. "I can walk down the street in any neighborhood and people say 'Here comes a fuckin' pig.' A lot of young kids don't have what it takes to become a cop. I'm a cop. You live it, breathe it, you fuckin' bleed it. Intelligence is a rarity on this job. You need adrenaline and excitement. Once in a blue moon, you'll get it.

"There isn't a guy on this job with fuckin' time who doesn't need a psychiatrist. The Job doesn't want to recognize what happens to us." Sergeant Columbo pauses to light a cigarette. "Most cops are crazy. If you weren't when you come on, you become crazy. The first person through that door is me. No one's getting hurt except me. It's my responsibility. It's a combination of responsibility and worthlessness.

"I'm not going to let someone with three years (on the job) get killed, or someone with four kids. I know that if I go through the door first, that everyone behind me will be okay. On the job I've had a concussion and broke my leg twice. They can't fuckin' kill me. I'll die from smoking."

The 23rd Precinct stationhouse was built on 102nd Street between Lexington Avenue and Third Avenue, in Manhattan, in the 1970s as a combination police station and firehouse. No matter how many times the cleaner sweeps, disinfects, and polishes, the place never looks clean. And when a group of junkies is brought in by Narcotics, the air becomes foul with body odor that permeates the first floor and foyer.

"Hey, we got a ripe one in here!" shouts the desk sergeant, who lights a cigar to counter the odor. Although smoking is technically forbidden inside a city building, no one complains, even cops with asthma.

A neatly dressed fiftyish Hispanic man in a gray suit, with too-long cuffs and a matching fedora, is standing at the complaint window, complaining that neighborhood kids stuck their tongues out at him. "Why don't you stick your tongue out at them?," suggests Officer Miranda Mays, raising her eyebrows.

Book Excerpt: The Prizefighters

2005-11-13T17:25:00.000-05:00

The Prizefighters: An Intimate Look at Champions and Contenders

Written and Photographed by Arlene Schulman
Introduction by Budd Schulberg
Published by Lyons & Burford Press

The wolf loses his teeth but not his inclinations.
- Spanish Proverb

329 stitches

11 broken noses

2 broken cheekbones

8 cracked ribs

The stigmata of sixteen years in boxing are retold in the face of Chuck Wepner. From the beginning, he was marked. He fought Sonny Liston - and lost - in Liston's last bout, six months before Liston was mysteriously found dead. That bout gave Wepner 72 stitches, a broken nose, and a broken left cheekbone. "These were the kinds of guys that I was fighting," Wepner said without apology. "Why?" he repeated, his eyes searching around his living room filled with plaques and trophies. "Because I liked it."

They were born to become prizefighters and nothing else.

"I was born to fight," said Roberto Duran. "I don't know what else to do."

The best become legends, others legendary; some remain contenders or dilettantes - just a name under someone else's record. Their styles in the ring are as different as their origins and personalities. To study them is to see portraits of flattened noses and scar tissue, strong necks bearing proud heads, eyes that have seen victory, endured defeat, and, outside the ring, often look gentle, intelligent, whimsical, or tired, eyes, that sparkle with humor or are dull with disappointment. Features change over time. Evander Holyfield's handsome face has flattened itself in some spots and become lumpy in others. "Boxing's a rough sport," Muhammad Ali once said. "After every fight I rush to the mirror to make sure I'm still presentable. A lot of boxers' features change," he added, "when I fight 'em." The best physiques - whether large like Holyfield or small, like Michael Carbajal - look like sculpture, carved muscles in perfect proportion. And there is an aura about a man who knows that he is the best in the world.

A loud and persuasive voice shouts to them to stick their hands into a pair of sweaty gloves, to learn the basic techniques of boxing, to prove their skills against others, to compete, to win, to get out of the neighborhood, to become a champion. Some fight in the streetss, in school, at home, in prison; others hold it inside. Brother may follow brother, like Michael and Leon Spinks; a father may show off rusty skills to his son, like Nick Barbella to Rocky Graziano; and even a mother may instruct her son, like the light heavyweight Egerton Marcus, whose mother learned to box as a teenager in her native Guyana. Sometimes they find their way into the ring by chance.

Book Excerpt: Cop on the Beat

2005-11-12T20:07:00.000-05:00

Cop on the Beat: Officer Steven Mayfield in New York City

Written and Photographed by Arlene Schulman
Published by Dutton

His shoes are flawlessly shined, his shirt is precisely ironed and neatly tucked in, his shield gleams, and the creases in his dark blue pants stand so razor sharp they look dangerous. His paces from a cautious walk to a brisk run, through sheets of rain, mounds of snow, and the glare of a hot sun. His hat, its brim neatly dusted, usually conceals the top half of his eyes, making him a bit mysterious. His six-foot-three, 235 pound frames imposes but doesn't threaten. At night, he moves quietly among the dark shadows of trees and buildings, stepping out into the soft light of street lamps and disappearing back into the darkness. He moves so stealthily that local residents have dubbed him "the Shadow." But at the moment, something suspicious has caught the eye of New York City police officer Steven Mayfield, and he freezes.

Officer Mayfield is trained to react to emergencies, and now, his first day back at work after two days off, his instincts warn him to take action. He can handle this alone, but he cannot continue his patrol until this mall but offensive situation is quickly dealt with.

Mayfield picks a piece of lint off his dark blue uniform shirt. "Damn!" he groans. "Where did this come from?" He runs his hands over his shirt to be certain that the lint hasn't multiplied, and satisfied that he is spotless again, he continues his walking patrol of his beat.

It's the third hour of his tour, which began at four this Tuesday afternoon. He will finish just after midnight. Officer Mayfield is a beat cop. Though he sometimes patrols in a car with a partner, he usually works alone, walking or cycling the streets of the Upper Manhattan neighborhoods of Washington Heights and Inwood. Mayfield carries a gun, a badge, a police radio, a flashlight, a nightstick, and handcuffs. They represent law and order in their small piece of New York City.

Book Excerpt: RFK: Promise for the Future

2005-11-12T19:27:00.000-05:00

Robert F. Kennedy: Promise for the Future

Written by Arlene Schulman
Published by Facts on File

Kennedy listened to people whose voices were rarely heard - poor blacks and whites, people without jobs, farmers, Indians on reservations suffering from alcoholism, Mexican-American migrant workers, college students protesting against the Vietnam War, Hispanics living in public housing projects, the children of the slums. "Perhaps we cannot prevent this world from being a world in which children are tortured," he said, quoting the writer Albert Camus. "But we can reduce the number of tortured children. And if you believers don't help us, who else in the world can help us do this?"

In a speech in California, he said, "Our brave young men are dying in the swamps of Southeast Asia. Which one of them might have written a poem? Which one of them might have cured cancer? Which one of them might have played in the World Series or given us the gift of laughter from the stage or helped build a bridge or a university? It is our responsibility to let these men live. . .It is indecent if they die because of the empty vanity of our country."

Students chanted, cheered, and stamped their feet. Priests and nuns who wore Kennedy bumper stickers across their cornets turned out and waved to him as he sat on the hood of the car. Hundreds of people walked or ran alongside of his convertible. People waited for hours to catch a glimpse of him or to touch him.

"I found that they wanted not to just to touch a celebrity; they wanted to convey their feelings to him, and he accepted it for that," said his security man, Bill Barry.

Kennedy did not believe in security. "We can't have that kind of country - where the President of the United States is afraid to go among the people. I won't ride around in an armored car," he said. "If anyone wants to kill me, it won't be difficult." He said that there were no guarantees against assassination. "You've just got to give yourself to the people and to trust them, adn from then on. . .either (luck is) with you or it isn't. I am pretty sure there'll be an attempt on my life sooner or later. Not so much for political reasons," he sadded, "Plain nuttiness, that's all."

The poet Robert Lowell recalled that "he felt he was doomed, and you knew that he felt that. . . He knew that , and he had no middle course possible to him."

Book Excerpt: Muhammad Ali: Champion

2005-11-12T19:10:00.000-05:00

Muhammad Ali: Champion

Written by Arlene Schulman
Published by Lerner Publications

They would sit at night, and he would tell her that he was going to be the champion of the world. In their ramshackle house in Louisville, Kentucky, when the sun had set and the lights were out, 12-year-old Cassius Clay told his mother of his dream. He would knock out opponents one by one, raise his hands in victory as the ring announcer introduced him as the new world champion, and become rich and famous.

"One night I heard (heavyweight champion) Rocky Marciano fighting on the radio," he said. "It sounded so big and powerful and exciting."

Cassius Marcellus Clay was born on January 17, 1942 in Louisville. The first of two sons born to Odessa Clay and Cassius Clay Sr., Cassius Jr. demonstrated his fondness for attention even at an early age. Mrs. Clay, exhausted from a difficult delivery, could hear her young son cry and scream and wake up the other babies in the hospital.

"Gee-gee, gee-gee," were Cassius's first words, his mother said. He later claimed he was trying to say "Golden Gloves", the name of a prestigious national boxing tournament that he won twice as a teenager. "When he was a child, he never sat still," his mother recalled. "He walked and talked before his time."

Black Louisville was divided into three sections - East End, the California area, and West End, where the Clays lived. Like most of the families in the neighborhood, they were poor. The family car was always at least 10 years old with worn-out tires. The house always needed painting. The front porch sagged, and during rainy weather, water leaked through the roof and walls. Many of the children's clothes were secondhand. Once in while, the Clays were able to afford a new shirt or a new pair of pants for Cassius and his younger brother, Rudy - but not often.

Book Excerpt: T.J.'s Story

2005-11-12T19:01:00.000-05:00

T.J.'s Story: A Book about a Boy Who is Blind

Text and Photographs by Arlene Schulman
Published by Lerner Publications

My name is T.J. Olsen. You can see me, but I can't see you. That's because I'm blind.

People who are blind can see very little or nothing at all. Some people are born blind. Others lose their sight when they get older because of illnesses such as glaucoma and diabetes. I was born with a disease called retinoblastoma. It's a kind of cancer. It affects babies when they're born.

When I was 11 months old, doctors had to do surgery to get rid of the cancer. They removed my eyes. Instead of real eyes, I have plastic ones. Most people don't know that I'm blind until they see me with my cane. It's white and red and it looks like a walking stick.

Your eyes work like a camera. There is a lens at the front of each eye. The lends focuses on what you're seeing. The colored part of the eye, called the iris, opens and closes to let in the right amount of light. At the back of the eye is the retina. It's like the film in a camera. It records a picture of what you see.

Many people wear eyeglasses because their eyes don't work perfectly. They may not be able to see things far away or close up very well. Normal eyeglasses aren't enough for people who are visually impaired or blind. Their eyesight cannot be corrected with regular eyeglasses.

People who are visually impaired or blind may be able to see some things, like shapes or light and dark objects or very large things. In the United States, moe than a million people are blind.

Book Excerpt: Carmine's Story

2005-11-12T18:51:00.000-05:00

Carmine's Story: A Book about a Boy Living with AIDS

Text and Photographs by Arlene Schulman
Published by Lerner Publications

My name is Carmine. I'm ten years old, and I have AIDS.

My mother had AIDS, too. Her name was Florence. She died when I was a year and three months old. I don't really remember her. But sometimes when the wind blows the front door open, I say that it's my mother.

I don't know who my father is. My mother never told anyone, not even her mother. We think he might have been from Puerto Rico, but we're not sure. Wherever he is, he doesn't know me.

My grandmother, Kay, told me that my mother was her favorite. She was fun and she liked to talk and she could make friends with anybody. Then she met a man - maybe it was my father - who was using drugs. She started to use drugs, too. I don't know why. I wish I could ask her.

My mother used a drug called heroin before I was born. She injected it into her body with needles. She and her boyfriend shared their needles with other people, and one of them must have had AIDS. That's how I think my mother got the disease.

When my mother found out she was going to have a baby, she stopped using drugs right away. She wanted to be a good mom. But it was too late. The AIDS virus had already passed from her to me.

Theatre Buzz

2005-11-06T18:18:00.000-05:00

The Lost Boy

Written by Ronald Gabriel Paolillo
Directed by Kimberly Vaughn

November 11 - 20th, 2005 Queens Theatre in the Park

**** Four Stars

For tickets and show times: www.queenstheatre.org

While John Travolta moved from Welcome Back, Kotter to can’t-buy-a- tuna-sandwich-in-Hollywood back to A-list status, his co-star, Ron Paolillo has eradicated all memories of his trademark grating Horshack laugh in smaller roles as an actor, director and writer in small New York and out of state theatres. He’s directed The Lion in Winter, The Taming of the Shrew, and Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf and other credits. He’s appeared in The Tempest, Richard III, and Adolf Eichmann.

Paolillo’s latest project is the meticulously researched and written, The Lost Boy, about the life of author James M. Barrie. While Wicked may be the backstory to the land of Oz, The Lost Boy could be considered the backstory to Barrie’s classic, Peter Pan, minus music. It traces the origins of Peter Pan back to the death of Barrie’s older brother and his anguish and torment about his failure to save him. Barrie was six years old; his older brother was thirteen. His mother never recovered from the loss of her favorite, most treasured son and she insults and degrades Barrie in frustration all his life.

Both mother and son live with the ghost of the dead Barrie. Roberta Maxwell plays Barrie’s mother as the perfection of icy resentment, of a mother who cannot even bear to look at her surviving son. Ms. Maxwell, a veteran stage and film actress, delivers a brittle Scottish accent and a performance of calculated fury with a shading of sadness that makes her role both unlikeable and sympathetic.

Bruce Connelly’s James Barrie is insulted and humilated by his mother and he brings just the right note of grieving son and brother to the stage. His imagination creates Captain Hook, played with enthusiastic glee by Joseph Lee Gramm as Peter Pan, and Wendy and their visit to Neverland appears on the stage behind Barrie.

The actors speak in hard-to-learn Scottish brogues and make them appear simple. Eva Kaminsky plays Maureen O’Rourke, who Barrie tells his tales too and falls in love with. She doubles as Wendy, speaking with a Scottish accent, then a British accent as Wendy and then back again.

Paollilo brings Barrie’s story full circle with the presentation of Peter Pan to a theatre crowd that includes Barrie’s mother and her acceptance, if temporary, of her surviving son. This three-act play, a rarity in the theatre, is a fine piece of writing and the performances by Maxwell, Connelly, Gramm, and Kaminsky are top notch.

#####

Bingo, A Winning New Musical

Book by Michael Heitzman and Ilene Reid
Music and Lyrics by Michael Heitzman, Ilene Reid and David Holcenberg
Directed by Thomas Caruso

St. Luke's Church, West 46th Street between 9th and 10th Avenues
For tickets and show times: www.telecharge.com

***** - Five Stars - Loved it!

Off-Broadway and off-off Broadway productions used to conjure up the image of an old musty theatre with folding chairs that you had wipe off before sitting, a bathroom shared with the performance, and a surly box office attendent who would point with his chin where the door was.

Not any more.

St. Luke’s has been transformed into a bingo hall for Bingo: A Winning New Musical. Theater favorite Liz McCartney (Taboo, Thoroughly Modern Millie) plays Vern, one of a quartet of bingo playing gals who will let nothing stop their bingo game. The writing is tight, the cast is brilliant, and the songs fresh and original, from Girls Night Out to Gentleman Caller to Anyone Can Play Bingo. Beth Malone’s Alison delivers a homage to Nurse Ratched from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest in a show-stopping number that could have been pulled and performed from a Broadway show. The audience participates in a couple of bingo games as the stage is creatively and wittily designed as a bingo hall.

As an added note, the Box office and staffing of this theatre is warm and friendly. You even get a slice of cake on the way out.

#####

The Great American Trailer Park Musical

Music and Lyrics by David Nehls
Book by Betsy Kelso
Directed by Betsy Kelso

Dodgers Stages, 50th Street between 8th and 9th Avenues
For tickets and show times: www.telecharge.com

***** - Five Stars - Loved it!

A great segue from Bingo is the Great American Trailer Park Musical, another terrific production from Dodgers Stages (Altar Boyz).

Linda Hart is one of a trio of women who narrate the story about the lives of several people living in a trailer park in Florida. Shuler Hensley is first rate as the cheating husband of an agoraphobic wife while Orfeh brings down the house with her belting voice as the stripper he's carrying on with. The plot has a variety of unpredictable twists and turns and we won't give them away.

You can't do no wrong with a musical with songs titles like This Side of the Tracks, Road Kill, Great American TV Show and the crowd favorite, Storms A-Brewin where the cast performs in bad hair and seventies clothings with a disco beat.

Favorites from This Writer's Bookshelf

2005-11-06T14:22:00.000-05:00

How The Other Half Lives by Jacob Riis

Southerners by Marshall Frady

Winners and Losers by Gloria Emerson

everything by James Thurber

Faces in the Crowd by Gary Giddins

Sir Vidia’s Shadow; The Happy Hills of Oceania; The Dark Star Safari; Sunrise with Seamonsters by Paul Theroux

Main Street by Sinclair Lewis (fiction)

And Other Stories by John O’Hara (fiction)

The American Way of Death by Jessica Mitford

The Jump Book by Philippe Halsman (photographs)

Veeck - as in Wreck by Bill Veeck

Complete Poems by Carl Sandburg

My Two Wars; Living Poor; The Farm on the River of Emeralds; and The Saddest Pleasure by Mortiz Thomsen

A Puerto Rican in New York by Jesus Colon

Farewell to Sport; Mrs. ‘Arris Goes to Paris (and New York - both fiction) by Paul Gallico

The Undertaking by Thomas Lynch

The Gay Talese Reader by Gay Talese

The Fireside Book of Boxing and The Professional by Bill Heinz

The Glory of Their Times by Lawrence Ritter

The Collected Stories of Isaac Bashevis Singer (fiction)

Up in the Old Hotel by Joseph Mitchell

everything by Pearl S. Buck (fiction)

The Red Smith Reader

Gift from the Sea by Anne Morrow Lindbergh

The Harder They Fall by Budd Schulberg (fiction)

A Good Scent from a Strange Mountain by Robert Olen Butler (fiction)

Down These Mean Streets by Piri Thomas

Dear Fatherland, Rest Quietly by Margaret Bourke-White

More than Meets the Eye by Carl Mydans

Mary Ellen Mark 25 Years (photography)

Calder’s Universe

Low Life by Luc Sante

The Power Broker by Robert Caro

New York Noir (photographs)

On Photography by Susan Sontag

Ansel Adams - Classic Images (photographs)

My American Century by Studs Turkel

Someone You Didn't Know

2005-10-30T14:03:00.000-05:00

Arlene Schulman

This school where I once taught writing is located in the South Bronx, surrounded by a police station, a Salvation Army, McDonald’s and White Castle, a methadone clinic, a Spanish restaurant, and a combination sporting goods-gun store. So. You could gobble down a couple of Egg McMuffins before swallowing your dose of methadone, slap a few bucks on the counter for a raincoat previously worn by a well-meaning Park Avenue matron, grab a few cuchifritos for lunch, purchase a football and a rifle, throw off a few shots into the air, and obtain a free trip around the corner courtesy of the New York City Police Department before the last bell rings signalling the end of another school day.

For me to get to this utopia, I traveled down to the George Washington Bridge via the A train and climbed the sticky stairs out to the bus stop across the street and walked under a cloud of exhaust from the endless cars, buses, trucks, and mini-vans that cross the bridge each day. The BX36 would swing around the corner in a sort of bloated pirouette and stop on its toes. I was the first or maybe the second person to board the bus on that run. By the time we reached the third stop just a few blocks away, it was filled with girls in Catholic school uniforms, adults crossing from Manhattan into the Bronx for their mundane jobs, and public school students chewing chips and donuts for breakfast who pushed and shoved each other and left their trash on the floor. I had to wrestle my way off the bus by pushing past them like I was spit out of the crowd and onto the sidewalk. I couldn’t tell if I was terrified at where I was or relieved at where I’d been.

I landed on that sidewalk to teach fourth graders or, as the arts program that hired me advertised, “to inspire to reach greater challenges”. The idea was to wheedle writing out of kids in one of the lowest performing schools in the city. You partnered with the classroom teacher who assisted or tried to assist by reinforcing your lessons, passing out papers, and working alongside the students with you. Many times they wound up breaking up fights, asking kids to be quiet, sit down, don’t touch, don’t hit, don’t spit, don’t push your desk out the door, yes, you may go to the bathroom, no, you may not, pay attention, yes, you have to do this, no, you can’t call your friend on the phone, put your nail polish away, I’m calling your mother, do not write on the desk, put away the scissors, take the Walkman out of your ears, if that isn’t yours you have no business touching it, what’s your problem?, if your mother doesn’t care, then I will find someone who does, same to you and let’s move on.

The office that hired me was run by two wealthy women whose husbands were attorneys and even after 20 years, they still led business meetings in the living room of one woman’s apartment. Although they had a maid, the kitchen area was littered with breakfast crumbs and a incontinent dog wearing a diaper stuck his nose into meetings by knocking over piles of paper. The two women were attached to their desktop phones, always distracted and offering advice on dealing with people in a kind, abstract manner. “Just tell the teacher they have to work with you” and “THIS always works.” Of course, that rarely happened.

These women never dealt with the stress of disorganized schools on a daily basis, with teachers who gave up or gave in to their distracted pupils, fourth graders who cursed at you and teachers who sat at their desk eating yogurt while you tried to mold their young people. They had no control over who sat in their class and many times the mixture was combustible, improbable and impossible. The goal I learned was to get the project over with within the allotted five or eight week time period, even though you might only meet a few times because the teacher called in sick or forgot that you were to arrive and scheduled some other activity. There was always testing or a class trip which the teacher wasn’t aware of or didn’t bother to tell you. I never dumbed down my expectations but realized that not everyone was capable of meeting them. There were smart kids and great teachers and it was only by great good luck that they met. You could blame it on a system that puts students with probation officers or on serious medication for mental illness in the same classroom with intelligent, impressionable children I had to pluck out of the crowd. And there were the parents who purchased French manicures, pedicures, hair weaves, cell phones and SUVs but not pens and pencils for their kids.

After passing the lineup of parents and kids holding soda bottles and chips for breakfast, I signed in for the day and found myself assigned to working with four teachers. The first was a tiny teacher with a voice twice as grating as Rosie Perez’s. Born in New York to Puerto Rican parents, she married a Jewish man and adopted the Joan Rivers-like intonations of a middle-aged Jewish mother-in-law where nobody has eaten enough or calls her enough. Every one of her students must have his or her desk precisely arranged. It was almost as if she had drawn an invisible placement where a notebook should go - center of the desk - pencils on the right, water bottles on the left. “Mar-vin,” she would complain. “Hon-ey. Marv-in? Remember? I told you? Your notebook should be open and in the cent-ah.” I winced and so did the students.

Another teacher sat, almost invisible, in the back of her classroom with crumpled up looseleaf papers, graffitied-over textbooks, and the stubs of pencils and lunch bags strewn all over the floor. I couldn’t stand looking at it anymore. So I took a broom and started cleaning. A large mound of garbage rose in the middle of the classroom and four kids pitched in, thrilled that someone else acknowledged these distractions. I don’t think the teacher noticed the clean room. She was too busy playing with a student’s Game Boy and happy not to be interrupted. This same classroom held a girl who stabbed the class gerbil to death with a pencil. The kids stayed away from her. So did I.

Other kids shoved desks at each other. And seated quietly on the left side of the room were four students who soaked up everything I had to offer - the poetry of Carl Sandburg, the humor of James Thurber, the photographs of William Wegman and the poetry of Langston Hughes. Overlooked by the system, they were neat, quiet, well-spoken, excellent writers - what were they doing here? I asked one small boy with curly hair and expressive eyes and lowered my voice.

“How DO you put up with this every day?,” I whispered.

“Well,” he said, “I have no choice.”

I moved to the front of the class and clapped my hands.

“Okay, everyone! We’re ready to go!”

Somehow I overlooked a chunky kid standing to my left holding on to the broom. He threw it like a javelin and missed his target. It hit me on the forearm and I was black and blue for about a week.

“Oh, sorry,” he said, “I meant to hit that kid over there.”

I reported it to the principal who sat expressionless in front of me. I wondered how parents felt when they met her. She would be retiring in a few months and stayed as far away from complaints and controversy as she could. So she sat immobile in her office, hearing nothing or just nodding to everything and departed at the end of the school year. But I don’t know how she couldn’t hear the howling coming from the third floor, like a horror movie with vampires or demons in the attic.

“That’s nothing, “ said one teacher, not breaking stride. “Those are all the kids who haven’t taken their medication today.”

Oh.

Another teacher - the sister of the Rosie Perez sound alike - proudly controlled her class, she said, with an iron ruler and only she and she only could control them. Running a classroom without teaching your students how to behave with other adults seems rather narcissistic, arrogant and irresponsible. I saw this firsthand when she called in sick one day. The substitute struggled to control the class. I made my move and announced our writing project. The kids ignored us.

“We don’t have to do that.”

They turned their backs, laughed and moved together in clusters to talk. The substitute yelled to get their attention. So did I. I waved my arms like I was at a football game. A few listened to our useless exertions. One girl did pay attention to us.

“Fuck you!”, she called out.

Another one girl imitated our hopeless voices and yelled at us to leave. I reported it the next day to the teacher who was reunited with her darling angels.

“That’s because I wasn’t there,” the teacher said proudly.

I didn’t know who to feel more sorry for. She pointed out a particulary troublesome student.

“This kid has problems,” she said, standing next to a short, wiry boy who stood about four feet tall but with the posturing of a basketball player.

I passed him in the hallway in between classes and called out a friendly hello as I did to every student I struggled to recognize. The next thing I knew he ran to report to his teacher that I had cursed at him. The principal wearily called me into her office.

“We’ve already had the parents in and he lied to them,” she said, looking at a spot on the wall above me. “He has a history of punching several kids and then lied and said he didn’t do it. Don’t worry about it.”

But I did. I wondered what it was like to be a kid bullied by this troublemaker and now I was one of them. It was fourth grade all over again. My last class of the day was with a teacher named named Diane Newton. This being the Bronx it was pronounced “New-in”. She knew the quirks and strengths of her students and didn’t insult, yell or talk about them while they were sitting in front of them as some other teachers did. She knew which kid was having a bad day and who needed to be separated from another. She was also a mother raising a son.

The floors were swept clean, her desk and closets organized, no one chewed gum or threw anything at me. There weren’t any papers on the floor and there were no howling kids. That was a good sign. Five years later, I can see and feel that classroom. The coat closets were on the left and the square desks were arranged in small groupings of six or eight. Her regulation wooden teacher’s desk was in the front of the room.

I remember the tall and neatly dressed Carl whose voice was changing so he sounded like a honking vintage Volkswagon. Another student, a girl, looked like she was in high school. She had to weigh a solid 200 pounds and at five feet seven was four inches taller than I am. She sat at her desk with her eyes closed, weary from a long day at the job. The girls in this class were larger and more developed than the boys who - with the exception of Carl - looked like they could be in the second grade. One girl kept calling out my name so eager for attention that Ms. Newton would remind her: “Ms. Schulman has to work with others in the room. Let’s give everyone a chance.” Another young man sat at his desk, folded his arms, and announced that he wasn’t “doing this crap.” Ms. Newton advised me to move on.

Ms. Newton never called in sick on the days I was scheduled as I pushed open the classroom door, perspiring, my damp hair scratching my back, drinking from a large bottle of water, and lugging what amounted to a suitcase full of books and papers. She looked me in the eye when I spoke and listened to my idea about having her students write autobiographies.

“That’s a great idea,” she said. “We can use the assignments for their writing folders. And since some are being interviewed for charter schools, this would really be a big help.”

The writing was upbeat and I remember helping them format and focus paragraphs about dreams of becoming veterinarians and shortstops, secretaries and politicians. Carl wrote about being either a politician or a preacher. I can’t remember which one. Ms. Newton helped me pass out papers and worked on their writing on days when I wasn’t there. There was one computer for thirty students and no one knew how to type. A student typing one paragraph with one finger could take over an hour. So we worked out a system: once a student finished writing, they would sit at the computer, type it out, and I would format and correct the typing errors. Ms. Newton even found the time to type up some of these herself.

Once we assigned the writing, she and I split up and worked one by one around the room. I tried pushing the heavyset girl but she was immovable. She did open her eyes a couple of times and rolled them; just a reaction was progress. Ms. Newton told me to move on. I pushed the boy who sat and sulked.

He was smaller than the rest and shrunk into his seat.

“Oh, c’mon,” I said, “This is easy. I know you have something to say. Let’s get going. You can do it.”

That little push was all he needed. Somehow, he and I made some headway. I don’t know what broke the ice but he turned into one of my best students.

“Can I help you pass out the papers?” “Could you all pay attention so we can begin?” he would call out, stamping his feet.

I wished I had made copies of their papers but I didn’t. His writing improved and he sat and watched my pencil circle verbs used incorrectly and words with creative misspellings. He would be the first one finished and he walked around the room to see how his colleagues were shaping up.

But he had an obstacle that blindsided him, Ms. Newton, and me. I spotted him sitting silently and sullenly in the back of another classroom, his legs stretched out and his head leaning on his hand. He barely looked at me, sitting slumped in his seat. He paid no attention to his teacher. I waved and mouthed hello. He looked away. When I arrived in class, his seat was empty. Ms. Newton took me aside.

“What happened?” I asked. “Something must be wrong.”

She explained that she was under investigation. The girl who craved attention reported that she had sex in the classroom coat closet with this boy while Ms. Newton was teaching the class. I must have made a face at the improbability of it. This was the fourth grade so the girl was ten or eleven. She seemed older, not sophisticated, but more physically developed than the boys. But I couldn’t figure out the logistics. The kid seemed, well, like a kid, not aggressive or even aware that they were girls. How could he possibly reach her body parts or know how they worked, let alone have sex standing up in a dark, narrow coat closet full of hooks with a girl a good foot and a half taller? But the police and the Board of Education had to investigate. He was pulled out of the classroom, his accuser remained to face Ms. Newton every day.

“What? Are you kidding me?” I asked.

Ms. Newton put her hand on my arm.

“Let’s look at the facts,” I said. “First of all, this kid doesn’t even notice the girls yet. He wouldn’t even know what to do. You have to have a certain amount of sophistication to have sex standing up in that coat closet with the hooks sticking out. How could this happen with everyone in the room?”

I walked around in circles.

Ms. Newton was calmer than I was even though she said that she was being investigated. She felt the girl, who had other documented problems, was making this up and possibly covering up a relationship with an older uncle. In the meantime, the girl was allowed to remain in the classroom and the young man removed.

“I’ll get through this,” Ms. Newton said, “because we know it didn’t happen. And it couldn’t happen. But these kids have problems”, she said sadly. “She’s created a situation for the rest of his life. This will scar him. She doesn’t care. I wish I could do something for him but my hands are tied.”

This was the last day of class and I never would find out what happened to the two. I said goodbye to the class and Ms. Newton and received a round of applause from the class, including one standing ovation from Carl. I exchanged telephone numbers with Ms. Newton, promising to keep in touch. We never did. I don’t know why.

A couple of years later, I said goodbye to teaching. When I left, I wondered the fates of her students and the ones who soaked up Thurber and Sandburg. I wonder if kids are still howling from the third floor. I wondered if Ms. Newton was still teaching the fourth grade in the South Bronx in the same school surrounded by a police station, a Salvation Army, McDonald’s and White Castle, a methadone clinic, a Spanish restaurant, and a combination sporting goods-gun store.

I hadn’t thought about them for a good while until I opened the newspaper just after July 4th. The headlines read “Crash kills teacher. Parked, hit by joyriding teens.” I would usually skim a story like this but since I worked with quite a few teachers in the city, it caught my attention.A public school teacher sat in her car in Harlem waiting for her fiance, a city sanitation worker she was set to marry in September. They had just spoken on her cellphone and they were meeting so they could travel home together. A teenager ended all that at 2:45 in the morning. He took his stepfather’s SUV, picked up a couple of friends and sped up Seventh Avenue. Hitting a speed of 9o miles per hour, he lost control of the vehicle and hit three cars. One was occupied by the teacher. The impact of the crash broken seven of her ribs including one that pierced her heart. She died several hours after the crash, killed by a kid who was the same age as her son. Once, he could have been one of her students. I looked again at the black and white photograph of a smiling, attractive black woman facing the camera with her arm around the fiancee she would never marry. It looked familiar.

I looked again.

It was Diane Newton.

Someone you didn’t know.

The Dinner Party

2005-10-30T13:42:00.000-05:00

Arlene Schulman

The first time I attended a dinner party comprised of mostly writers took place about ten years ago. I showed up at the door waiting to be seated at a Dorothy Parker-type round table surrounded by witticisms and criticisms tossed about by literati glitterati drinking an endless supply of ruthless martinis and smoking cigarettes. The table turned out to be a long rectangle, a round of drinks might have helped, no one smoked, and the conversation didn’t exactly glitter from people who had published. The talk ranged from an alarmingly slow progression of yes-and-no answers to the sounds of forks clanging against plates like churchbells ringing across a desolate countryside. This other species didn’t speak to each other and didn’t even look at me so I knew it couldn’t be my complete lack of credentials or my overwhelming naivete. I wondered if this would be my last foray to a literary soiree.

“Have you been to Mexico?”, I asked the writer sitting next to me.

Okay, I had to start somewhere.

“No.”

He stared at his plate and listened to the clanging of the forks. That was our conversation. But I’m a New Yorker. I don’t give up easily. I butted into the chatter three writers over.

“Did you read the article in the New York Times today about birds regenerating their brains? Now they won’t have any problems!,” the woman cackled with hysterical enthusiasm.

The rest of the table held up their forks and wrinkled their foreheads in concentration as if they were studying The Periodic Table of Elements. The laugh erupted out of me like a car backfiring in the middle of a silent night.

“Problems? Problems?! What kind of problems? Like paying a mortgage or finding a job?,” I managed to force out.

A good laugh, I mean a really good laugh, forces my eyes to water and my body to shake - I could be holding onto the third rail. The poet sitting across from me managed to suppress his laughter into one small polite burble. I used the linen napkin to wipe my eyes and I clenched the table to catch my breath. The clanging of the forks took on a much faster tempo and was now accompanied by the sound of water poured into tall glasses. I clasped the napkin to my chest and got myself under control. I clanged my fork against my plate as I wrestled what may have been eggplant but I think was something else. In between tackles, I surveyed the writer sitting across from me: his brown hair that was obviously dyed jet black and he wore an affected rumpledness that one obtains after sitting for hours in Starbucks finishing that long awaited novel.

“So,” he asked gingerly. “Who’s your favorite writer?”

The forks stopped for a minute. Picture the silence before a winner is announced at the Academy Awards.

“James Thurber, of course!,” I exclaimed, hoping this would propel me into some sort of literary acceptance and intelligensia.

“Oh,” he replied, making a face like a bad odor had wafted across the table. “I read him in high school. He’s not contemporary anymore.”

“So what?”

Clang, clang went the forks. Yeah. So what? James Thurber ranks right there at the top as one of America’s greatest humorists. His work influenced generations of writers from Kurt Vonnegut to Joseph Heller, Garrison Keillor to David Sedaris. Thurber’s characters are eccentrics placed in real but exaggerated sets of circumstances and they’re tormented by each other in a gentle, humorous, ironic manner. His writing and sketches appeared in the New Yorker magazine beginning in 1927. Thurber wrote over 35 books, won a Tony Award for his play, The Thurber Carnival, and his short story, The Secret Life of Walter Mitty, was adapted into a movie starring Danny Kaye in 1947. His books include Is Sex Necessary?, My World and Welcome to It, and The Thurber Album. Stories with titles like The Night the Bed Fell, More Alarms at Night, and The Dog that Bit People have entertained generations of readers. My favorite Thurber book is The Thurber Carnival which compiles his stories and cartoons from several books. I purchased a used copy a long time ago and it’s a small hardcover with its original dust jacket, compact enough to fit into my handbag or coat pocket. I’ve read it many times. In most of his stories, the wife is generally irritated by the husband she dominates but loves nonetheless. Thurber’s men are generally benign, like Mr. Martin in The Catbird Seat. Mr. Martin is an office worker, reliable, respected, and quiet who doesn’t even smoke or raise his voice. He drinks milk. A new co-worker is introduced and Mr. Martin dislikes her immediately. Mrs. Ulgine Barrows - with “her quacking voice and braying laugh” - terrorizes him for two years by shouting silly questions at him.

“Are you lifting the oxcart out of the ditch? Are you tearing up the pea patch? Are you hollering down the drain barrel? Are you scraping around the bottom of the pickle barrel? Are you sitting in the catbird seat?” “Boo!,” she would shout at him.

Mr. Martin plotted to rub her out. He followed her home one day and rang her doorbell. He sat down on her couch and hoped to find a weapon. He asked for a drink and started smoking her cigarettes. He insulted his boss and declared that he was coked to the gills. He left her apartment and arrived quietly and meekly at his desk the next day. Mrs. Barrows rolled in, yelling and complaining to his boss that Mr. Martin drank, smoked cigarettes, used drugs and showed up at her apartment. Mr. Martin, of course, denied all this and his boss knew it was completely out of character. Mrs. Barrows was hurriedly carted out and Mr. Martin returned to the peace and quiet of his office. In The Secret Life of Walter Mitty, Walter Mitty is henpecked by his wife and he relieves himself of his misery by daydreaming. He’s inserted himself into a variety of scenarios, from flying a plane, to a life saving doctor, a crack shot with a gun interviewed on the witness stand, and facing the firing squad.

“I was thinking,” said Walter Mitty says to his wife. “Did it ever occur to you that I am sometimes thinking?” She looked at him. “I’m going to take your temperature when you get home,” she said.

In The Curb in the Sky, a woman finishes sentences for people. Poor Charlie thought he could change her and married her, against everyone’s warning.

“Once or twice, when I called on them or they called on me, Dorothy would let Charlie get almost to the climax of some interesting account or happening and then, like a tackler from behind, throw him just as he was about to cross the goal-line.”

Charlie knew this was a losing battle so he began telling stories about dreams he had, knowing that Dorothy could not know the ending. “They became the only life that he had that was his own.” Then he began to tell the same story over and over again. Dorothy never tired of correcting the ending. He ended up in a asylum where he told and retold the same story and Dorothy still corrected him. “He always gets his story wrong,” Dorothy said.

Thurber’s cartoons in simple strokes featured the war between the sexes. My favorite shows a man and woman in bed with the woman turning to the man and saying, “All right, have it your way - you heard a seal bark”. A seal is hanging not too discretely over the headboard. In another, a woman sits in a chair while her husband looks at a scrapbook with their son. He points out a photo, “And this is Tom Weatherby, an old beau of your mother’s. He never got to first base.”

I’ve read most of Thurber’s books. And through his sardonic eye, I’ve learned to look at people and circumstances with a rather ironic viewpoint which others might overlook or dismiss. Just the other day, a friend told me about her good friend who hired a cleaning lady. Somehow the cleaning lady wound up running all sorts of errands and accompanying her everywhere.

“I only want to be a cleaning lady,” she pleaded.

On her last trip out, she assisted her employer on her thrice weekly visit to her psychiatrist. It was the cleaning lady who wound up on the couch. Some people might think of this as weird. I see stories in life’s absurdities.

I think back to that dinner party. After dessert was served and the clanging of spoons began with after-dinner coffee, I waited for my moment.

“Did anyone hear a seal bark?”

Helpful Links

2005-10-30T13:38:00.000-05:00

http://www.washington-heights.us/ - Washington Heights Online: This is a wonderful website that offers a calendar of neighborhood events, history of the neighborhood, and links to other sites.

http://www.ringgarden.org/ - The Ring Garden is always looking for volunteers! It’s a terrific space at the base of Seaman, Dyckman and Riverside Drive.

www.dyckmanfarmhouse.org - The Dyckman Farmhouse Museum was constructed in 1784. It’s the only remaining farmhouse in Manhattan. Currently closed for restoration, the Museum will re-open in Spring 2005. It’s located on Broadway at the corner of 204th Street. - see also info@dyckmanfarmhouse.org

Michelle Tourigny runs an Inwood/Washington Heights event blog. Check out http://turnertourigny.tripod.com/whie/

http://www.knoxmartin.com/ - Well-know abstract painter Knox Martin is a long-time resident of Washington Heights.

http://www.mikefitelson.com/ - Check out black and white photography by the editor of the Manhattan Times.

http://www.notesupnorth.net/ - This website that promotes songwriters and musicians in northern Manhattan!

http://www.fullrangerecordings.com/ - Northern Manhattan’s first recording studio to offer recording services, seminars, and networking opportunities in support of vocalists/singers, musicians, spoken word artists and writers in the Heights/Inwood area of Manhattan. 212.568.7506

http://www.practicalnature.com/ - While hiking through our acres of parkland, don’t forget to apply insect repellent! Guys, check out the natural bug spray that doesn’t smell too girlie! And great hand cream, too!