Fiction
The Aloofness of Dad
by Mari N. Schaal
Richard
"There's no glory in cleaning out toilet tanks, Son."
That was the last thing my father said to me that fateful night in Georgia, and I have never been quite sure what the old man had meant. So far as I or my mother could tell, Richard Westburg, Sr. has never in his entire career as CEO of a prominent advertising firm, had to clean out a toilet tank. Even at his humble beginnings, as an intern for the Accounting Department of Hashby and Montgomery, he kept his fingers clean. The words had been ominous yet meaningless in their delivery, and I drunkenly stumbled out the door shortly thereafter.
Now, in my Victorian brownstone with my wife and 2.5 children (the third is coming along, Glenda's belly swollen up adequately, as I've seen to twice before), I am holding up nicely. Almost a decade has passed since that strange evening in December, yet my mother still phones me monthly, hope in that wretched voice of hers. Before, the calls had been daily, then weekly for quite some time. When nothing turned up, and nothing kept on turning up, the calls waned somewhat, yet she's been persistent.
I am an orthodontist, an odd profession for me to choose, considering my parents' backgrounds. No, nobody expected me to follow in my father's financial footsteps; however Richard Sr. had also been a fairly successful screenwriter, under a pseudonym that I cannot mention here, and my mother a professional poet. In all my years I have intentionally stayed away from the art of writing, maybe out of spite. I don't know, but I spent many years in school to get where I am now, and I have no regrets.
Now about my lovely wife: Glenda and I met in college, freshman year. She was in my psych class, sitting pretty in the back corner of the room. I was never the kind to approach a girl, however each time I saw her, I yearned more and more for this mysterious woman, for the knowledge of her touch, her soft skin. After three weeks of consistently trying in vain to strike up a conversation, she at last agreed to accompany me on a night out. I immediately dumped my high school sweetheart for the mere opportunity. I didn't want anything to get in the way.
The courtship lasted almost a year. We married in the spring, and our first-born arrived nine months later. Family was our first priority, so she dropped out of school to raise little Scotty, and I dipped into my trust fund. Things went very smoothly for about a year.
It was in my twenty-first year when my father said those words. We were visiting distant relatives in Georgia, just my father and I. Mother was giving a lecture somewhere and Glenda was expecting again. She stayed home, as we didn't want her moving around in the cold a lot. The relatives were practically strangers to me, and the trip was only for the weekend. I phoned Glenda both of the nights I was away, and regretted coming when Father began his confessional over a turkey dinner Sunday evening. A knock-down argument ensued between the two of us, as never had happened previously. Our entire relationship up to that point had been icy at best, and I don't really remember what had started it, but I'd had enough. Perhaps I had enjoyed the aloofness of Dad all those years, and when he began spilling family secrets over wine in front of meaningless people, I blew up. After he'd said the toilet words, I don't know what came over me, but I punched him in the face and stumbled out, took a flight back home, and was sleeping beside Glenda in no time flat. I barely even remember the plane ride back. I do remember throwing up in one of those tiny stalls at one point or maybe three, but that was it.
The relatives in Georgia claim my father went running after me. I have no recollection of this, or much else from that evening. I believe I had taken a cab to the airport, and I'm fairly certain I was alone. As you've probably guessed, no one has heard from my father since.
Things, for me at least, went on pretty much as usual. Mother moved to Manhattan to be close to her sisters, and I stayed in California. Glenda eventually begat Faith, and, as I've said, the next one's on its way. The house is filled with children's sounds, but Patricia takes care of them just fine, and I rarely have to interact with either of them.
Glenda
The first time I saw Richard I thought he was a real geek. It was in one of those boring college classes where the teacher's mind doesn't seem to extend past his textbook, and I spent a lot of time just staring out the window. My parents had recently separated and I found myself moody a lot of the time, quiet and depressed, and then Ricky comes along. At first he just sat at the table next to mine, and I'd catch him looking at me out the corner of my eye. I wasn't interested so I just ignored his obvious crush. When he started talking to me, though, I found that I enjoyed the attention, and eventually gave in.
For a while after that we dated casually. Or, I should say I dated Ricky casually. Ricky was all over me, clingy and possessive like you wouldn't believe, and I'm not sure why I stayed with him. I had a handful of other guys I was seeing, but when I discovered I was pregnant, Ricky was the only one who stepped forward. I didn't really want to have the baby, but Ricky convinced me it was the best thing, and although I don't regret having Scotty in my life, I've been sad a number of times about the ending of my scholastic career. I wanted to travel, you know, to do something where I could go all sorts of places?
After Scotty was born I devoted all my time to taking care of him and Ricky. Those were some tough times, with Ricky trying to finish school and no money coming in. After some difficulty, we managed to get a little money from his folks, but I was out of my element, doing domestic things all the time. We were fighting a lot, maybe because I was stressed out with childrearing so much, or maybe because of Ricky's school. He was gone a lot, at study groups and the like, and it was really tough on me. I lost touch with a lot of my girlfriends from before. I mean, most of them were out partying and having fun - I was the homebody sitting around, taking care of a kid. And to top that off, I got pregnant again. I was a basket case, freaking out all the time. When Faith was born I knew I couldn't handle it. One was enough, too much for me even, so I called up Patricia. She did a lot of childcare, so she was able to help me out. After Ricky's dad vanished, his mom let us have all sorts of money, and that was great. That's how I paid for Patty.
Richard
Patty. Let me tell you about Patty. After our second child was born, Patricia appeared like an angel. She was barely out of adolescence then, and she did some sitting for us over the weekends, so that Glenda and I could take some time for ourselves. After I got my practice, Patricia moved into the in-law unit below us, and took care of us wholly. She is a large, freckled girl with round hips who rarely wears a bra. She is a nice addition to our family, attending to the children for most of the time, and to my sexual needs when necessary. Very much an opposite from the brunette, slender visage of Glenda, Patty is smelly, gregarious, and a luscious young woman.
Glenda
After Patty moved in downstairs I started taking classes at home. It was hard, at first, to focus like before, but eventually I got the hang of it, and even learned, to boot! I'm thinking of telling Ricky about wanting to go back to school. I don't think he'll like the idea, but I didn't necessarily like the idea of having another child, so maybe he'll have to get used to it. Don't get me wrong, I love Faith very much, but the truth of the matter is that I need to be my own person, not some other person's ideal of the perfect wife. I never got the chance, you see. After my parents split up, they both took a sudden interest in my life, my career. I think part of my eventual decision to have Scotty was a way to get them off my back, to let me lead my own life. I know, it was stupid, but I was young. Of course, then I rarely had enough energy to make my own decisions, and when I got pregnant again I just went along with what Ricky said. Besides, I felt kind of bad that Scotty might not have been Ricky's, and Ricky wanted his own kid.
Patricia
I met Glenda on the first day of school in the lunch hall. She was sitting by herself and I'd seen her in one of my classes. English, I think it was. At any rate, she noticed me looking lost - all the seats were pretty much filled - and she waved me over.
Glenda's a real Sweetheart. I was still a high school junior at the time, taking a few classes at the local college, and I was nervous as hell. She made me feel welcome and I took to her instantly. She was having a lot of trouble at home at the time and I felt like I could help support her through it, since my parents divorced when I was nine. Then she met Richard. She calls him Ricky but I call him Dick. I don't know what she sees in him.
Mrs. Richard Westburg, Sr.
Junior was always a very headstrong young man, even from the very beginning. He and Richard were always butting heads on this thing or that. It was no surprise that he took up something as bizarre as orthodontia. It was exactly the type of thing we both expected, something as removed from our passions as could be. I suspect that Glenda was along the same lines. She is a very sweet girl, yes, but one from a broken home and with minimal social graces. Richard and I always suspected he would do something as such, in fact we anticipated some young punk rocker at our doorstep. We were very relieved when we met Glenda, despite the pregnancy. He certainly could have done worse.
Richard
After Father disappeared, Mother was a mess. I tried visiting her a couple of times shortly after the event, to find Father's things still strewn about the house. I even caught her washing some of his clothes when I visited her in Manhattan that one time! When I confronted her with it, she became flustered and guilty, as if she didn't want to admit that he was really gone, or that she awaited his return. It's sad, really.
I think she's a lot happier now, closer to her family. When I speak to her on the phone each month she sounds much? better.
Mrs. Richard Westburg, Sr.
We really didn't feel right doing what we did, but Richard had just about had it with Junior. I thought it was a bit harsh, but he was insistent, and I suppose I saw his point. I loathed having to lie to the young man, however he never really did seem quite crushed by the event, so?
When we made the move to Manhattan, well, that seemed to clear things up quite nicely. I wasn't so concerned all the time, and it was a great getaway. I still worried about Ricky of course, but over time, well? he seems fine, really.
Glenda
One thing about Ricky and me, we don't talk a lot. I don't think he has a clue about what's really going on inside me. Like, once we were together, then he had me, and he didn't have to work for it anymore. Like, once we were married, the mystery instantly evaporated - I don't think he ever really looked inside of me, tried to figure out what made me tick.
I've been gaining a lot of weight lately. I think it's due to depression or stress - my mom tells me that happens a lot, that it'll mess up your metabolism. Ricky's made a few rude comments, telling me I look pregnant again. When he gets like that, what can I say? I just don't say anything. Why fuel it, you know?
Patricia
Glenda and I are still really close. It took me a while to get used to Richard, but now I just ignore him. I catch him looking at me sometimes, but maybe it's just 'cause he can't have me. I think he's a pig and I don't try to hide it. Guys can be screwed up like that.
Scotty and Faith are really sweet, though, and sometimes I feel like it's me and Glenda, not Glenda and Dick. It's like, we're the family - Dick just pays the bills.
Mrs. Richard Westburg, Sr.
Perhaps it wasn't the proper thing to do, but Richard and I are much happier this way. I still call Ricky on a regular basis, just to make sure he's all right monetarily and socially, and I really think he is. He has a darling little family and has succeeded in his field. What more is there?
Mari N. Schaal's Website is at www.marinaomi.com
Personal Essays
The 60's
by A.W. Lindsay, Jr.
I stand a veteran, an old soldier returned from the front some thirty-odd
years ago. In bars, on the street, in books and magazines, I listen as the
war is discussed. I am not talking about Vietnam, though it certainly was a
catalyst of the era. No, I'm talking, rather, of the '60s.
The nostalgic extravaganzas and anniversaries are tolerable, I guess --
certainly enlightening, if you weren't there. That these extravaganzas and
anniversaries are always undermined by criticism is reasonable. But the
absolute excoriations by those who want to expunge the era totally, and who
think it best forgotten, move me to words.
The criticism usually runs thus: The generation that won the Second
World War provided well for their children, and instilled in them ideals that
culminated in such epochal markings as Kennedy's Camelot, the Civil Rights
Movement, and the Peace Corps. But we were also spoiled, irresponsible,
unrealistic and vague concerning our personal goals and aspirations, and far
too presumptive concerning what we expected of society and government; a
period of self-indulgence, long on criticism and demands but short on
remedies and resources. People experimented with drugs and did their own
"thing." Critics even go as far as blaming the moral challenges facing us
today on the '60s: our drug problems, and even AIDS because of the '60's
"sexual promiscuity." It is an observation I'll accept as observation, but
not as condemnation.
The '60s was all of the above, but it was also a renaissance period.
Then, as now, America was a bourgeois society. But, unlike today, it was one
of optimism and idealism, and had a vision; it was more than this
"covering-up-to-protect-my-own" we live with today. We seriously played The
Glass Bead Game, progressivism rampant in every vein of American expression.
Feminism introduced a redefinition of human sexuality. The Beatles (American
by virtue of their musical roots) and Motown were revolutionizing music;
Warhol, Lichtenstein and Max introduced Pop art. The "medium [as]
message"-the music included-had as its vocabulary Civil Rights, the Vietnam
War and a burgeoning, philanthropic, idealistic youth. It was a time wherein
the morality of America was well ahead of the rest of the world's, all our
internal problems not withstanding. I mean, most of our pangs were the
result of trying to do the right and moral thing. We enjoyed a society, a
style of life, a material wealth -- nay, excess -- that lent itself to a
philanthropic egalitarianism that was inconsistent with the cold reality that
existed in the rest of the world. We witnessed a phenomenon: a culture whose
morality was ahead of the rest of the world's, whose morality and aspirations
would not -- and could not -- be borne by the rest of the world. Initially, these
aspirations could not be borne by the society itself, as evidenced by
society's initial resistance to civil rights issues and the stern and tragic
response given anti-Vietnam War protests. But changes did come; we
persevered. Given the above, the '60's legacy is actually one of moral
challenge and change.
The misnomered Age of Aquarius was responsible for one thing and one
thing only: the freedom to question. That the subsequent generation has not
dealt with the consequences of that freedom -- that even some of those of my own
generation once chose to run back toward the shelter of the '50s (embracing
Reagan, Bush and the Republicans, in the '80s) rather than forge ahead into
the uncertainty of the future -- is not the fault of the '60's. Rather, it is a
singular lack of courage on all our parts.
Let us not forget that a nation is not great by virtue of its wealth, but
by virtue of its character. To be a nation is to have a vision, a dream, an
ethos. Not to have a vision is to sink into barbarism. As it is written in
Proverbs 29:18: "Where there is no vision, the people perish."
Young gives us a likeable, flawed hero: Miles Derry, an alienated, recovered alcoholic who has always hated "guys who are 'One of the Guys'" and blames his lifelong failures on his rich father's condescension. While working at a pornographic bookstore to make his child support payments, he stumbles upon the corpse of a naval chaplain, sees an opportunity to escape his pointless life, and steals the officer's identity after burning down the bookstore. While on duty aboard a ship as Rev. James Banquette, Miles encounters many anxieties: fear of exposure, guilt of having to lie in letters to Banquette's wife, the embarrassment of being pursued by Banquette's secret gay lover, and the frustration with being manipulated by a sexually aggressive math teacher, Robin. But as the men begin to accept and respect him, Miles ironically gets his first true taste of what it's like to be One of the Guys.
The author's skill with prose is often startling; his confident narrative voice sounds as though he has been in the literary circuit for years. He has a way of writing extremely long sentences without getting lost or losing the reader: his focus is always clear, and there are few wasted words or phrases. Young commands his English; he doesn't let the language control him. At moments he comes up with strikingly original imagery and description, such as Miles' observation that "the ship was not merely being hurled boxlike by the salt-winded muscular ocean, but possessed, deep below decks, a powerful heart and lungs...Their force was driving the ship...over the loose skin of the tossing animal sea." Young's own naval experience brings authenticity to the adventure.
The ironic humour throughout works sporadically. Young wisely depends upon the situations more than on runaway punchlines for laughs, but occasionally goes overboard (no pun intended). His satire of naval acronyms is overdone, and his depiction of the vulgarity in navy speech and attitudes might seem wildly exaggerated to readers unfamiliar with the context.
Another weakness is in character development. While Miles (and later, Mrs. Banquette) is fleshed out beautifully, other characters function more as plot puppets or straw satirical objects. There's a lot of potential for Robin, for example, to be a great foil for Miles, but we don't see enough of her.
The novel is set in Thailand, as was his first novel, and also involves the melding of individuals stories into one narrative. Whereas in The Beach it was the stories all coming together in one place, in The Tesseract the narrative invades the characters' personal stories. The narrative begins with the story of a British steamship worker who is the ship's contact with the local Thai crime boss. He is in his hotel room waiting for the crime boss to show with his bodyguards, and he panics. When they show he runs. The bodyguards follow and as we follow their flight through the streets, Garland deviates from this plotline to tell us the stories of those they pass.
We are told the story of the bodyguard and how he came to his particular position. There are the stories of the two street children who follow the chase with cautious excitement. We are told of how they met, how they survive on the street and what they dream. There is the story of Rosa and her family. We hear how she had to leave her seaside home and the love of her life to go to school, marry, have a family and live in the house where a complete stranger would come crashing through the window and be shot dead on her kitchen floor by two other men.
Along the way there are other minor characters: the graduate student who is doing a study on street kids, and the bodyguard's father. Their stories float in and out of the narrative. That is the whole feel of the book. We learn about all these stories, but once the book is laid down the reader can walk away. We are left with no lasting impression.
A tesseract, as we find out, is a four dimensional cube. A cross made of six squares once it is folded becomes a cube, but we can not see the cube in two dimensions. In the same way, we can not see the tesseract in three dimensions, only when it is folded into the fourth. Everything is connected, yet we can not see it. The question this books raises is why should we care?
