Dating Your Mom (10 page)
Authors: Ian Frazier
“It's been hard for you, I know,” Dr. Smith murmurs.
“Every time he walks in that door, I say a little prayer. And every time he walks out I pray that he'll walk back in again. Every time that phone rings, I think it's the hospital calling to tell me that something's happened to Morris, that something's gone wrong with one of his experiments, that Morris has beenâ” Her brave smile has begun to tremble around the edges.
“Now, dear, you know I take every precaution.”
“I know, but when I think of that colleague of yours in Sweden, that horrible accident with the vibrating chair ⦔ She blinks at the tears as her voice catches.
“Really, dear, you mustn'tâ”
“Isn't this silly of me,” she says, brushing at her eyes with her napkin. “Oh, I'll be all right in a minute.”
Suddenly the beeper Dr. Smith wears at his belt makes an insistent noise. The family takes no notice as he excuses himself and heads for the telephone; over the years, such interruptions have become as much a part of their mealtimes as the clink of sterling on china. When Dr. Smith returns, he is no longer the relaxed father enjoying a quiet evening at home. “That was the Governor's personal bodyguard,” he says in a voice flat with urgency. “The Governor has become ⦔
“Impotent?” Mrs. Smith asks, going white under her tan.
“That's the preliminary indication.”
“Oh, my God!”
“They're sending a chopper in ten minutes to fly me to the capital,” Dr. Smith says.
“Quickly, children,” Mrs. Smith says. “Take flashlights and stand out on the lawn, so they can see where to land.”
The next few minutes pass like speeded-up film as Mrs. Smith packs a lunch for her husband, finds him a warm sweater, helps him with his raincoat. The sound of rotor blades can be heard descending from above.
“Good luck, Morris,” Mrs. Smith calls after him, holding up two sets of crossed fingers.
Halfway through the door, he turns and comes back to her. “You know something? You're pretty wonderful yourself,” he says, giving her a quick kiss.
Dr. Smith runs across the lawn, bathed in landing lights, to the open helicopter door. One hand holds his hat on his head against the downwash; the other hand clutches an emergency kit of arousal aids. He pulls the door shut, the noise of the engine rises, and then the machine swings up into the night sky.
“Good luck, Daddy! We love you!” the children cry.
Transfixed, we all follow the lights until they vanish over the tree line on their mission of hope. Darkness and quiet return; on the lawn, the flattened blades of grass unbend. For the loved ones Dr. Smith must leave behind, the hardest partâthe waitingâhas begun.
In England, when people discuss poetry they're talking businessâbig business. Some countries leave their poets gathering dust on the academic shelf, but here in England people like their poetry the way they like their tea: hot, fresh, and three times a day. Poetry experts estimate that in one fiscal year the English poetic community generates over 950 million pounds (almost 1.2 billion dollars) in revenue, all of which goes right back into the local economy. That works out to about twenty-six dollars apiece for every English man, woman, and child. With numbers like these, it's no wonder that poets here demand, and receive, the highest word rate of any Western country.
At the top of this heap sits the poet laureate of England. Chosen from among the best in his field, the
poet laureate is a throwback to the days of the royal bard, constantly singing odes at the jeweled elbow of some pagan king. Today, the poet laureate no longer spends all his time around the palace but is permitted to live in his own style of home and furnish it as he wishes. This, combined with a salary, income from lectures and endorsements, and the unlimited use of a government vehicle, makes the job one of the most attractive in all literature. So when Queen Elizabeth and Prime Minister Thatcher announced earlier this year that they were looking for a new person for the post, they received so many applications that they have already been forced to pull a couple of all-nighters in an attempt to read through them. Fueled by innumerable cigarettes and cups of coffee, the Queen and the Prime Minister have checked and double-checked every poem and application, always with this dark thought at the back of their minds: What if we make a mistake?
poet laureate is a throwback to the days of the royal bard, constantly singing odes at the jeweled elbow of some pagan king. Today, the poet laureate no longer spends all his time around the palace but is permitted to live in his own style of home and furnish it as he wishes. This, combined with a salary, income from lectures and endorsements, and the unlimited use of a government vehicle, makes the job one of the most attractive in all literature. So when Queen Elizabeth and Prime Minister Thatcher announced earlier this year that they were looking for a new person for the post, they received so many applications that they have already been forced to pull a couple of all-nighters in an attempt to read through them. Fueled by innumerable cigarettes and cups of coffee, the Queen and the Prime Minister have checked and double-checked every poem and application, always with this dark thought at the back of their minds: What if we make a mistake?
As students of history, they know how costly human error can be. Sometimes it has meant that the foremost living poet missed his chance to be laureate, as happened this century with W. H. Auden. After getting the necessary recommendations and breezing through a personal interview with King George VI, Auden, who had the highest Q rating of any poet in the world, looked like a certainty. But he neglected to make the important post-interview follow-up call, and then the King misplaced Auden's folder when he went on vacation and didn't know how to get in touch with him. The loss to literature resulting from this act of carelessness can only be imagined.
Other poets appear to be qualified during the selection
process and then, once installed, they turn into complete goldbricks. That was what William Wordsworth did. From our vantage point of years, we can see that Wordsworth's entire career was nothing but an elaborate bait-and-switch scam: write some poetry, get yourself chosen poet laureate, and thenâquittin' time! In Wordsworth's years as laureate, he became so bone-lazy that he would write only the meters of poems; he would do a limerick:
process and then, once installed, they turn into complete goldbricks. That was what William Wordsworth did. From our vantage point of years, we can see that Wordsworth's entire career was nothing but an elaborate bait-and-switch scam: write some poetry, get yourself chosen poet laureate, and thenâquittin' time! In Wordsworth's years as laureate, he became so bone-lazy that he would write only the meters of poems; he would do a limerick:
De duh de de duh de de
dah,
De duh de de duh de de
dah.
De duh de de duh,
De duh de de duh,
De duh de de duh de de
dah.
dah,
De duh de de duh de de
dah.
De duh de de duh,
De duh de de duh,
De duh de de duh de de
dah.
Then he would mail that in to the “Information, Please” column of the London
Times Literary Supplement
and ask if any subscriber knew what the words might be.
Times Literary Supplement
and ask if any subscriber knew what the words might be.
Just as disappointing was Alfred, Lord Tennyson, a laureate who literally could not write his way out of a paper bag. He proved this at a benefit performance for the Christian Temperance League in 1879. The poet was placed inside a large sack of standard-weight brown paper on a stage at Covent Garden, given several pens, and left to himself. He thrashed and flopped helplessly inside for four and a half hours; finally, members of the Grenadier Guards had to come and cut him free.
How Tennyson ever made laureate is anybody's guess, yet even he was an improvement on John Dryden, England's first poet laureate, although by no
means her best. Whenever people told Dryden they didn't like one of his poems, he threw such a fitâarguing, sulking, and snapping at themâthat they would resolve never to be candid with him again. By means of such behavior, Dryden was able, in a short period of time, to manipulate an entire population into pretending that he was a genius without equal. Today, we know better.
means her best. Whenever people told Dryden they didn't like one of his poems, he threw such a fitâarguing, sulking, and snapping at themâthat they would resolve never to be candid with him again. By means of such behavior, Dryden was able, in a short period of time, to manipulate an entire population into pretending that he was a genius without equal. Today, we know better.
And what of John Masefield, poet laureate from 1930 to 1967? He was the one, you will remember, who penned the howler “Sea Fever,” with the opening
I must go down to the seas again,
to the lonely sea and the sky
to the lonely sea and the sky
Eeeeeeeouch!
It is a sad fact that among past poets laureate of England tin ears like Masefield's have been not the exception but the rule.
It is a sad fact that among past poets laureate of England tin ears like Masefield's have been not the exception but the rule.
Â
If anyone can turn this tradition around, Queen Elizabeth and Prime Minister Thatcher can. Both have proved themselves to be smart, articulate women with an eye for spotting talentâand the world of contemporary poetry gives them quite a bit of talent to spot. So far, the top candidates are Philip Larkin, 62; Roy Fuller, 72; D. J. Enright, 64; Gavin Ewart, 68; Ted Hughes, 53; and Dr. Leo Buscaglia, 59. Larkin is a popular essayist, as well as a poet with a strong sense of the beauties of commonplace speech. Fuller served on the governing board of the BBC, England's main TV network, and a reflected glow from that “cool medium” often shines through the luminous poetry on which his reputation rests. Both Enright and Ewart
have been poets since they were very little, and they have had a great many interesting insights over the years. Hughes is a much-honored poet whose trademark is the originality shown in every page of his work, which combines a love for the rhythms of nature with some other values. Buscaglia, though not, strictly speaking, a poet or an Englishman, still might be as good a choice as anyone, if not better. First, he is a doctor; second, he is an author and expert on the subject of human emotion, notably love, which has always been the poet's province; and third, his books,
Love,
and
Living, Loving, and Learning,
and
Personhood,
which have sold in the millions, are profound enough to be poetry already. With a slight change in typography, they would be. Lots of people know who Dr. Buscaglia is. And, compared to more traditional poets, Dr. Buscaglia is a nicer person. He could infuse social functions with a warm feeling that would humanize all that glittering pomp, and everyone would benefit. Along with poetic talent, the ability to reach out to others might well be an important requirement for the poet laureate of the future.
have been poets since they were very little, and they have had a great many interesting insights over the years. Hughes is a much-honored poet whose trademark is the originality shown in every page of his work, which combines a love for the rhythms of nature with some other values. Buscaglia, though not, strictly speaking, a poet or an Englishman, still might be as good a choice as anyone, if not better. First, he is a doctor; second, he is an author and expert on the subject of human emotion, notably love, which has always been the poet's province; and third, his books,
Love,
and
Living, Loving, and Learning,
and
Personhood,
which have sold in the millions, are profound enough to be poetry already. With a slight change in typography, they would be. Lots of people know who Dr. Buscaglia is. And, compared to more traditional poets, Dr. Buscaglia is a nicer person. He could infuse social functions with a warm feeling that would humanize all that glittering pomp, and everyone would benefit. Along with poetic talent, the ability to reach out to others might well be an important requirement for the poet laureate of the future.
Soon the Queen and the Prime Minister will announce their decision. One of the candidates will wear the wreath of laurel; the rest will send their congratulations, and console themselves with the thought that, at this level of poetry, there really are no losers. With a new poet laureate at the helm, a new era in English poetry may dawn. And in libraries and country retreats and book-lined dens across the land thousands of poets will return to their work, providing the verse that feeds a nation.
To the theatergoer: The performance of
Songs for a Conquered Moon
that you are about to see differs so completely from the spirit of the play as I wrote it that I wish hereby to disavow any and all association between myself and this production. If I could, I would remove my name from the marquee and from the program you hold in your hands; unfortunately, I am informed by my lawyers that contractual considerations render this impossible. When I wrote
Songs,
I set out to weave a net of speech, action, and mood with which to ensnare certain moments in human existence that are as fleeting and evanescent as a dream. Seeing my lovely net filled instead with the unappetizing aesthetic baggage of one particular director and set of
actors makes me wonder briefly why I ever chose this regrettable profession in the first place.
Songs for a Conquered Moon
that you are about to see differs so completely from the spirit of the play as I wrote it that I wish hereby to disavow any and all association between myself and this production. If I could, I would remove my name from the marquee and from the program you hold in your hands; unfortunately, I am informed by my lawyers that contractual considerations render this impossible. When I wrote
Songs,
I set out to weave a net of speech, action, and mood with which to ensnare certain moments in human existence that are as fleeting and evanescent as a dream. Seeing my lovely net filled instead with the unappetizing aesthetic baggage of one particular director and set of
actors makes me wonder briefly why I ever chose this regrettable profession in the first place.
My carefully crafted stage directions, absolutely essential to any understanding of the play, have been discarded from this production with a thoroughness that suggests the hired vandal. The freeway pile-up in the middle of Act II has mysteriously disappeared, without an explanation; the chorus of forty Greek sailors commenting on the action has been replaced by two town criers (obviously not Greek); the underwater sequences have been crudely faked; and the marvelous moment at the climax of Act III, when Lord Hargreaves draws his breath to sneeze and his starched shirtfront rolls up under his nose like a window shade, has been so toned down as to lose all its impact. I could continue this list almost endlessly ⦠But really, why bother?
Now, as per the agreement between my attorneys and the attorneys for the Top Contemporary Theater Company, I include here the first few pages of Songs for
a Conquered Moon,
exactly as they were written. I hope that they will give some idea of the very great distance between my play as it was originally intended and the shabby counterfeit you see on the stage before you.
a Conquered Moon,
exactly as they were written. I hope that they will give some idea of the very great distance between my play as it was originally intended and the shabby counterfeit you see on the stage before you.
A Play in Three Acts
Cast of Characters
Marcelline,
a woman so beautiful it is impossible to look at her without a sharp intake of breath. A strong woman whose looks are a form of disguise; beneath those high-fashion
dresses hides an adventurous tomboy with many of the same traits as her father, a billionaire.
a woman so beautiful it is impossible to look at her without a sharp intake of breath. A strong woman whose looks are a form of disguise; beneath those high-fashion
dresses hides an adventurous tomboy with many of the same traits as her father, a billionaire.
John Vanderjohn,
a third-generation brain surgeon and outsider. Wears his hair a bit overlong, down to and beyond his shirt collar. The echo of an Old World patronymic in his name is intentional; he should suggest the epic proportions of a Tolstoy, wandering lost in this shopkeepers' century.
a third-generation brain surgeon and outsider. Wears his hair a bit overlong, down to and beyond his shirt collar. The echo of an Old World patronymic in his name is intentional; he should suggest the epic proportions of a Tolstoy, wandering lost in this shopkeepers' century.
Railroad Tom Stevens,
a poet, a prophet, a preacher, a liar. A man as full of contradictions as the nightly news. He'd give his last quarter to a little boy, and then change his mind. Also, he is able to “shape-shift”âchange from human form to that of any other speciesâin a matter of seconds. Lover to Pamela.
a poet, a prophet, a preacher, a liar. A man as full of contradictions as the nightly news. He'd give his last quarter to a little boy, and then change his mind. Also, he is able to “shape-shift”âchange from human form to that of any other speciesâin a matter of seconds. Lover to Pamela.
One Stab,
a full-blooded Indian. Silent, laconic, terse, and as violent as the occasion requires. Well over seven feet tall. Mr. Earl's factotum.
a full-blooded Indian. Silent, laconic, terse, and as violent as the occasion requires. Well over seven feet tall. Mr. Earl's factotum.
Mark Brainard,
a young writer and critic with the most brilliant mind of his generation.
a young writer and critic with the most brilliant mind of his generation.
Bob, a neighbor from downstairs.
Five Claims Adjusters
The “Solid Gold” Dancers
Assorted Messengers and Passersby
Some Other People
Â
Act I
Â
The time is the present, approximately.
Â
The setting is anywhere along the Pacific rim; state or country need not be made explicit. Set designers are referred to postcards of the region, Kabuki drawings, and the imitation-French Regency landscaping favored by gangsters and the newly famous. A western pine perhaps, stunted bonsai-style, clinging to a coastal rock. Stage right, there is a fifty-foot waterfall, and at stage left we see an eight-lane suspension bridge of reinforced concrete. In the background is an active volcano, with molten lava coming down the sides and slowly
making its way to the footlights. Overhead a real airport control tower broods above the scene.
making its way to the footlights. Overhead a real airport control tower broods above the scene.
The lighting should try for an
effect
both spare and lush, if possible. It should change almost continually, as the moment dictates. For the second act the light panel must be equipped with at least four
state-of-the-art military lasers. Interacting with the cast members and the scenery, the lighting will become practically like another character in the drama, as palpable as the charmed radiance in a painting by Raphael or Giotto or someone of equal stature.
effect
both spare and lush, if possible. It should change almost continually, as the moment dictates. For the second act the light panel must be equipped with at least four
state-of-the-art military lasers. Interacting with the cast members and the scenery, the lighting will become practically like another character in the drama, as palpable as the charmed radiance in a painting by Raphael or Giotto or someone of equal stature.
JOHN
is seated in a chair downstage right. The residue of a black
mood can still be seen around the corners of his eyes. Occasionally he knits his brow and shakes his head. Close at hand is a fresh cup of imported coffee, which he sips from time to time. MARCELLINE enters stage left.
is seated in a chair downstage right. The residue of a black
mood can still be seen around the corners of his eyes. Occasionally he knits his brow and shakes his head. Close at hand is a fresh cup of imported coffee, which he sips from time to time. MARCELLINE enters stage left.
MARCELLINE [
hauntingly
]: Oh, hi, John.
hauntingly
]: Oh, hi, John.
JOHN
[
in an upsetting tone
]: Oh, hi, Marcelline. How come you're right here?
[
in an upsetting tone
]: Oh, hi, Marcelline. How come you're right here?
MARCELLINE
[
movingly
]: I just came in from over where I was.
[
movingly
]: I just came in from over where I was.
JOHN
[
no longer depressed
]: Oh, that's great!
[
no longer depressed
]: Oh, that's great!
MARCELLINE [
affectingly
]: So, what if weâ
affectingly
]: So, what if weâ
JOHN
[expressing the audience's hidden fears]:
Wait, wait, noâ
[expressing the audience's hidden fears]:
Wait, wait, noâ
MARCELLINE [
with perfect timing
]: Hear me out.
with perfect timing
]: Hear me out.
JOHN [
in his regular voice
]: O.K.
in his regular voice
]: O.K.
MARCELLINE [
compellingly
]: What if we went to a store and bought some things?
compellingly
]: What if we went to a store and bought some things?
JOHN [
after a pause of twenty-four seconds
]: Oh, O.K.
after a pause of twenty-four seconds
]: Oh, O.K.
Â
The scene then shifts to Tibet.
MARCELLINE
and
JOHN
come in.
TOM
is already there.
MARCELLINE
and
JOHN
come in.
TOM
is already there.
TOM [
instantly commanding attention
]: Hi, you guys.
instantly commanding attention
]: Hi, you guys.
MARCELLINE [
responding to what
TOM
has said
]: Hi.
responding to what
TOM
has said
]: Hi.
JOHN: Hi, Tom.
TOM [
memorably
]: What do you say we go and get something to eat?
memorably
]: What do you say we go and get something to eat?
MARCELLINE [with a touching
expression
]: Thanks. I'd like that.
expression
]: Thanks. I'd like that.
JOHN [
this is a great line
]: Count me in.
this is a great line
]: Count me in.
TOM [
excitingly
]: O.K., let's go!
excitingly
]: O.K., let's go!
Â
I am sorry that, owing to limitations of space, this excerpt cannot be longer. I would suggest that those of you as yet unfamiliar with my work go out and buy copies of all my plays, the better to judge future productions for yourselves. And I would also ask that the next time you want to see a play by me, you call me first to ask whether the production is any good or not. (I am home most evenings, and if I'm out, someone can take a message.) I know full well that a writer's relationship with his audience is the most important one he has. After all, without you, where would I be? I would even go to your houses, no matter how long it would take to see everybody. If you have any questions, I would welcome the opportunity to sit down with each of you on an individual basis to discuss just how great my play could have been.
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