THE STORM

Rich has stayed overnight at his parents’. He emerges from his old bedroom, which is now his sister’s room, into the dark hall. It is six o’ clock.

–Rich! his mom whispers from her bedroom. Be careful –– there’s no electricity.

–I really want some coffee, he says.

He looks outside

and. Mom tries to heat some stale coffee on the stovetop. Mom is wrapped in her blue Snuggie. “I’m sorry there isn’t one for you,” she says to Rich. Rich says, “It’s ok –– when you die, from the cold and the no-heat, I’ll pick that one off your dead body.” They both laugh. (No, I’m serious.)

A few hours later, just as the heat returns, there is a commotion heard outside. Their nextdoor neighbors, who live in the house which once had the skating rink, have their snowblower going, all blowing high and low, up and down the sidewalk. “Why do they have their cars parked on the street?” mom complains as the nextdoor man blows a path past their front window. “The plows are never going to be able to get down our street now.”

Maybe the neighbors are cultivating a new, another skating rink in their driveway. Maybe that’s why they’ve parked their cars on the street and not in the drive. Otherwise, it would seem odd; one might even say obscene, to obstruct the  plows and the natural flow of –– the return to order.

Fit, young twentysomethings play ball in the street.

–Where did all these young people come from?

Taken up winter rentals in the condos across the street. All of it –– the nextdoor snowblower and his wife and the woman walking her dog and the young men sporting in the street –– all very Norman Rockwell.

The clunky radiators sputter & hiss. The family fall into a daze of eating and sleeping until the blizzard resumes and night falls. Dad sneaks outside to reshovel the driveway and retrieve the booze from his car. In the street: a great commotion. The nextdoor neighbor lady and one of the twentysomethings from across the street are engaged in a heated exchange. The young man has parked in a space that the nextdoor lady believes to be hers by eminent domain. Dad shovels and reshovels the same spot just to stay outside and hear the drama enact itself. Eventually an older man from across the street joins the fracas. O frabjous day! The feuding neighbors disband before the police arrive. When the police arrive, they find dad alone on the sidewalk, shoveling the already shoveled driveway.

–What happened? and dad shrugs his shoulders.

–Somebody called the police about a disturbance.

The neighbors are interviewed; the police disperse.

The night falls quiet again, pressing and pressing upon the young and the feverish.

CATHOLIC FUNERAL

Out the door –– the line to greet the bereaved family members as Rich and his family come into the church on the Saturday, come in from the cold, and work their way through the crowd to the back of the line –– stretches and stretches –– the queue snaking around and around the sanctuary into the cold, gold sacristy. Rich’s fourth grade teacher calls him Richard and asks, “Do you remember me?” as he is held captive by the Line, and Rich admits he does not, and she admonishes, “For shame, Richard; I taught you when you were in…” and holds up four fingers.

Four. One more than three.

They wait in line an hour and then the family announces that everyone needs to sit down so they can start the mass, and like a madcap game of musical chairs, everyone scrambles for a seat as the boy sopranos begin to sing the prelude in the style of the castrati. During the service, Rich wonders what music he will play in the wake of his own parents; he decides “Hard Headed Woman” by Cat Stevens would be appropriate for his mom, but when he suggests it to her after the service, she says, “No; but maybe ‘Morning Has Broken’.” Rich finds his lachrymal ducts leaking a little, in the church, during the service, thinking about his mother’s funeral and how perfect he will arrange everything: and what it will mean.

In a Catholic service –– you know, –– there is much standing and sitting and standing and sitting and then kneeling (if you are) and then sitting from kneeling and standing and so on. Finally, one boy soprano heralds “Ave Maria”; Rich’s dad will later say it was almost too good for the church, this boy and his voice and that song (meaning, Rich thinks, too European, which, to an Anglophile like his father, is desirable). They exit the church and find that there is snow falling, everywhere faintly –– they had been shut up in the cold, gold church for three hours, nearly fainting over the Fallen. And now, finally, at last, their end ––

Snow falling on all those living and all those dead.

THE SKATING RINK

One time, before the new neighbors had moved in and when the nextdoor house was empty that one winter, the nextdoor driveway froze over once after a storm. Richie and his sister called it “the skating rink” and would beg mom everyday that week to let them run nextdoor to go skating.

(To be clear, “skating” denoted slipping across the ice on their boots; the rink itself just a grotesque patch of splotched ice.)

But when they were kids, though, there was a really real skating rink at the Carousel hotel in Ocean City, Maryland, where their families would go (Mommie and Daddie and their friends and friends’ kids) every President’s weekend for years and years. They would take the ferry and get delicious split hotdogs on toasty buns and play card games and then retrieve the car and drive through Dehyeaware and drive and drive until reaching the Carousel!

The skating rink was in the center of the dark hotel, and rather than a beach view, Richie and his sister would beg and beg for an outside-windowless view of the inside skating rink. They would sit on the floor outside their hotel room and watch all the horsey-faced skaters go round and round the rink; and at least once during the weekend would rent skates and go skating round-round themselves (well, with Mommie).

In retrospect, the romance of ice skating seems lost on Rich; his wobbly six-foot-three lanky frame does not take to the idea of thin, sharp blades attached to tight-fitting shoes anymore. He was fearless when he was five; as he grew, he perhaps grew more self-conscious, or less interested in going round and round in circles. Having been once in the center, he is content –– to stay off the rink; to spectate now; to observe. He prefers ice clinking in a tumbler now. Ice clinking, swirling round and round.

A SINGLE MAN

Rich went to see A Single Man last week which was, of course, not quite the Isherwood book, but lovely still. (And he rather imagines that it was what it will be like, he writes to his friend Barney.) “In truth, I can’t quite imagine you teaching eighth grade, darling –– I have great sympathy for anyone who works with middle schoolers…” he writes to his friend, three months after he received the original message on Facebook, as if no time had passed at all. “In middle school, they are just hot bundles of angst and acne –– once angelic stars gone all supernova. Just hormone factories.”

In class during the “getting to know you” segment on the first day, one girl in his Thursday afternoon block course mentions that she has fifteen piercings, and a boy named Joe calls out from across the room, “Where?!” –– and then realizes, “Sorry; I didn’t mean to ask that (shouldn’t have asked),” but Rich continues the interview unfazed: “So, are you finished then, or are you planning on getting more?” And the girl concedes to being finished –– for now. The boy named Joe is the only student in all of Rich’s classes this term majoring in literature; most are studying computers or accounting or nursing. There are several novitiate x-radiographers in the pierced girl’s company this Thursday; Rich doesn”t know what to say to them about x-radiography, except, “Well, you’ll all have jobs –– the health care industry is booming (booming, he says), and everyone is getting so old. In ten years, kids, it’s going to be bleak: just us and a bunch of old people roaming the stark planet. So, anyway –– radiographers, ex x-radiographers! –– in high demand! (Booming!)”

As he and his friend Emily drive home from the college, on their way to Atlantic City, Rich converses with her about grotesque pop culture idols while also wondering, What will happen to us though, Joe? I asked, “What do you want to do with a literature degree?” and you said, “Oh, I don’t know, man.” To major in literature: the world, the whole world! But I think that we are rather like x-radiographers too, Joe… and explains to Emily the ten surgeries Heidi had as he had watched two interviews with her three nights ago.

And thinks: this is what it will be like. That. And.

It is called Rich. Or sometimes Richie. And will be Richard.

THE AESTHETE

Rich is reminded of a strange incident that occurred while he was pursuing his (first) master’s degree in education at The New School in Manhattan. A colleague of his, Patricia –– who had spent years toiling in the business world and was at the time switching careers to education, in an effort to buy back whatever cachets of her soul she could –– invited their class to her plush brownstone in Brooklyn. Patricia was a rather grotesque figure herself, who, in a Dorian Grayish attempt to retain her youth, had nipped and tucked herself more times than one could tell, rendering her almost like the figure of Ida Lowry in Terry Gilliam’s 1985 film Brazil. As we sat around in her living room, sipping fine liqueurs from her amply-stocked cabinet, she rose from her chair, crossed the room to Rich, and announced, ‘There is something I want to show you,’ soliciting the young man to follow her into the boudoir. There, above her dressing table, torn from the pages of some past issue of Esquire, was pinned-up a man’s graven image…

This is a well-known ad, around since the nineties. Rich didn’t quite understand, but Patricia whispered, ‘I knew that you were the only one here who could appreciate this.’ The two stared a drunken moment at the idol and then, turning from him, returned to the others. There is something in this symbiosis, between the young dandy and the older woman who makes a show (or a mockery?) of her femaleness, which does require further attention. But not from me, and not here/now.

TOKYO MANDARIN

Everyone who is everyone in Upper Township is at the chic, au courant Chinese/Japanese/Thai restaurant in the still sleepy Shoprite shopping plaza in Marmora. Rich and Karen wait ten minutes for a table and chitchat with a sleepy Brian E––, who is waiting for a take-away meal. He asks about Rich’s sister, as he always does, and he assures him that she is returning soon, and he looks content and says he can’t wait to see her. “She’s the same; she never changes,” though he wonders if one can move to L.A. and not be changed. The friends part (Brian with his meal and Karen and Rich to table).

They are reminded of the creepy statue on the third floor of the Rosenbach (outside the library; though the docent kept pronouncing it lie-berry, much to the consternation of the three English teachers) that at first was thought to be Medieval and then Renaissance but later revealed to be from the century just past. The docent spun the statue round and round. On one side is Jesus Alive, looking imposing and taut and fit, his muscles glistening like a model from the cover of Men’s Health magazine. On the reverse, Jesus Dead, looking scary and shrunken, his arms crossed in front of him to signify shut. When the docent was spinning and spinning the Christ like a coin, Rich had felt his heart hurt, like, “Shouldn’t you be more careful?” until it was revealed that this artifact was, in fact, not so much a relic as a modern artifice; a faux as opposed to “a find”.

But wouldn’t it be nice –– to have spinning Jesus statue with one always to make life decisions? Crucified, dead, entombed Jesus says “no”; sexy, alive Jesus says “yes”. What to order for dinner, Jesus? The friends, without the aid of Jesus, decide for themselves on steamed dumplings, pad thai with shrimp (spicy), and General Tso’s. But what would Jesus have ordered? Is muscly Jesus on a low-carb diet? (Perhaps we should’ve refused the rice and dumplings and noodles and fried chicken dish.) Would dead Jesus have respired, “Get whatever you will; we all go to the tomb eventually. So why not just get the Tso’s and enjoy it?”

And they did.

ULYSSES BOOK GROUP: JANUARY OUTING

By train, by car, by foot, the three converge on Rittenhouse Square for brunch and a day of reJoyceingin, in Philly. The temperature does not rise ‘buv freezing; all three-freezing keep themselves bundled in hats and coats and scarves as they admire the houses ‘long Delancey Street and smile and shiver and saunter, staying on the sunny side of the street, to the Rosenbach Museum, where there is an original manuscript of Ulysses. The Rosenbach brothers were prolific collectors; Rich asks the dotty old docent if the Rosenbachs ever married; nay, never, and the one brother liked very fine French clothes and brushes and facial unctions (Subtext: you do the math); the other liked ‘im ‘is books.

On the third floor is the library with the first editions and a death mask of the man:

He sleeps so peaceful with’is head emptied there of all them thoughts & such. The three freezing friends go to The Irish Pub (actual name) to discuss the book. Kaaarrr’n hasn’t read, the naughty attendant, but earlier explained that she went temporarily blinded in one eye, she did, like Joyce or the Cyclops in Chapter 12 (who had but one “I” to start, so you can sees ‘is problem with getting blinded in the won eye). This place is not as boisterous as Barney Kiernan’s; no jingoistic citizens to spoil their orders of stouts and plump chips & veggie burghs, with a corned beef sammich for One Eye. How’d you get the mascara on with One Eye? Aye, was a trial. Her cousin warned never use eyeliner; don’t want that sticky pencil coming at your peeper. Patti drops her pen twice. Rich has to axe for the fork & knife. When they’ve finished, they walk Mack Patty to her Pattimobile and then retrieve Karen’s chariot from the South Street garage. They motor their way home to the shore, the beach –– where Gerty waits to Bloom to show him her stockings (dirty Gerty –– oh!) so that he can make the fireworks. They, their way away from the beautiful City of Brotherly Love. Says Bloom, “I mean the opposite of hatred.” Quite.

CLEAR, 26˚ F

Rich runs out to his car to retrieve.

In the dark winter’s night, it is wonderful to hear the world, unfreezing and refreezing itself. The cracking of the icicles as they are broken from the eaves; cracking and recracking. The world.

THE LOST GENERATION

The little match girl stands at the doorway, leaning out into the bitter cold night to smoke a cigarette. Even though she lives all alone, she dares not smoke in the house. Even though in the house she has not pets nor even plants, she would dare not. It is bitter (bitter) outside but it is (better this way). She throws the butt into the coffee can and shivers as she shuts tight the door.

Rich thinks at dinner that his is la nouvelle génération perdue; maybe a truer lost than Hemingway’s even. Hemingway at least had his wives and his cats; Rich has no wives, no cats. In the apartment –– the apartment feels drafty like someone has left some door open somewhere. At dinner his mom said (he had dinner with his parents), “By the time we were your age, we were married and had bought our first house.” And Rich rejoindered, “Yes; your generation really screwed up ours.”

Like his sister, too. His sister is back in L.A., making preparations to move back east (unto the place from whence the rivers come, thither they return again). When she first moved, she drove out west without a GPS and got lost out there (but this is an existential) and now must find her way back par avion, which is faster. But not faster –– she will spend these next few weeks packing and selling and returning and preparing. And then she will board a plane out of hell bound for the bitter cold east coast where there has been snow.

The snow –– the match girl’s ashes pepper the powdery white snow that is blown into tiny drifts drafting into the apartment. When Rich drove across the bridge back into town earlier and lowered his window to pay the toll taker, sand blew in to ash on his dashboard. The sand mixed with the snow and with the ashes just as he used to mix the spices in the mixing bowls as an enfant terrible.

The wind goeth toward the south, and turneth about unto the north; it whirleth about continually, and the wind returneth again according to his circuits.

The abiding earth –– continues to mix us (mix us) in its gristly processor.

RECHARGEABLE TOOTHBRUSH

Listed under DANGERS in the instructions manual: Do not use while bathing.

Suddenly all he can think about is brushing his teeth in the shower. It is all he can think about.