Fierce Pajamas: An Anthology of Humor Writing from The New Yorker (9 page)

I wondered if Mr. Reagan worked this hard for his dough, as I maneuvered her into the Kama Sutra position known as “Too Busy to Read Proust.”

I WOKE
to the phone shrilling in my ear like the hot line warning Mr. Reagan that ten thousand Russian missiles hurtling over Western Europe weren’t R.S.V.P.ing for a let’s-get-together-once-a-week-and-read-Proust party. I let it ring, hoping the caller would decide to quit and go reread Proust, and wondering why dames always ran out on me without saying goodbye—why they didn’t stick around with loyal wifely fixed smiles the way they did for hotshots like Mr. Reagan. Then I found myself getting a little weepy at a sentimental popular tune that was drifting through the venetian blinds:

The connoisseur who’s read Proust does it,

Mr. Reagan with a boost does it,

Let’s do it, let’s fall in love.

Read Proust, where each
duc
and
comte
does it,

Mr. Reagan with a prompt does it,

Let’s do it, let’s fall in love.

I’ve read Proust wished that he had done it

Through a small aperture,

Has Leningrad done it?

Mr. Reagan’s not sure.

Some who read Proust say Odette did it,

Mr. Reagan with a safety net did it,

Let’s do it, let’s fall in love.

“Cherchez la femme,”
I said to myself—a phrase I’d picked up on a case where the judge gave clemency to a homicidal maniac for having read Proust—and then I went out in the rain to a bookstore where I usually browsed for dames, and found one perusing Mr. Reagan’s latest autobiography. Just for fun, I looked over her shoulder and read:

For a long time, before I met Nancy, I used to go to bed early.

1984

BRUCE M
C
CALL

IN THE NEW CANADA, LIVING IS A WAY OF LIFE

T
HE
cabin attendant on our Air Canada flight answers a request for the correct time in almost perfectly unaccented English. She will not be the last Canadian in this new Canada of hers to try meeting a question with an answer, to make a reply her way of dealing with a query.

.

Below us, so vast that only a tiny portion is visible from the aircraft window, is Canada. Could any land be more aptly named? The name “Canada,” after all, derives from the ancient Indian word “kanata,” meaning, as luck would have it, “Canada.”

.

Now visible as our plane descends toward the airport are the familiar antlike legions of motor-powered cars that are the sole means of private transport for most Canadians. They swarm across the landscape in columns so regimented that none dares stray from its place on the paved strip laid down by the authorities to head off across the open country all around.

These are the new Canadians, on their way to work in this, the new Canada.

.

The dinner party goes on almost until bedtime. The conversation has blithely looped and skimmed all evening around the subject of Baffin Island, as if that icebound mass of a hundred and eighty-three thousand square miles simply did not exist. For these citizens of the new Canada, at this dinner party, Baffin Island does
not
exist.

.

The Ross Farquaharsons (as they shall be called here) dwell, like most families in this new Canada, indoors. Yet for all the official government statistics “proving” a huge leap in living standards since confederation, in 1867, the Farquaharsons live little differently from the way Canadians have lived for most of this century.

Ross Farquaharson, his wife, Helen, and teen-age daughter, Kelly, all share a single living room without running water. To use the only swimming pool requires a trip outdoors. Dogs roam freely indoors, begging scraps from the meals taken communally at a table hewn from a piece of wood.

But there is no wood to burn in the fireplace. “Ran out in May,” Ross Farquaharson says with a shrug. May is now three months past.

.

The rickety old bus full of bawling infants and caged chickens never comes; we must take a gleaming new one instead. There is no time to quibble. We have come to a wide river, and no ferryboat is available to take us across. Instead, government engineers have thrown a bridge of sorts across from the near to the far bank. It is just four lanes wide, and only a shoulder-high concrete retaining wall, a wire fence, and a few iron stanchions on either side prevent wayward vehicles or pedestrians from plunging into the rapids below.

The bus makes the two-thousand-foot crossing in thirty seconds that seem like half a minute. Yet there is no cheering from the passengers as we finally gain firm ground on the other side.

.

The plane approaches the airport runway slowly, cautiously, even tentatively, as if the Canadian pilot were unwilling to risk landing until his airspeed was throttled back to almost nothing and his wheels were fully down.

.

Everywhere the same gradations of blue and green and yellow and red and brown and orange and purple and taupe and mauve and pink and beige; city and countryside, summer and winter, in this new Canada, the only color is that of a single spectrum attempting to encompass all the hues of the rainbow.

.

The story of “Jack” (real name: John) typifies life as it is lived today in this, the new Canada. He had no choice after graduating from elementary school but to attend high school, and after high school no choice but to attend university, and after university no choice but to go to work. “It’s the system,” he confides, without evident bitterness. Jack is twenty-eight.

If he “keeps his nose to the grindstone,” in the painfully graphic phrase Canadians are wont to use in describing toil, Jack may one day earn as much as two hundred thousand Canadian dollars per year in his job as a physician, a princely income in this new nation—not yet a nation when Pickett charged at Gettysburg—where sixteen ounces of prime sirloin steak can cost the average worker a fraction of his weekly wage.

.

In this land of the musk-ox, the beaver, and the moose, there is no musk-ox or beaver or moose meat to be had. The man behind the counter at the meat store is little more than a butcher. The remains of cows and sheep and pigs are all he has to sell.

.

It is a Saturday night in Coboconk. Like so many towns in this new Canada, Coboconk is too small to be a city and too large to be a village. The citizenry has learned to treat this not as a paradox but as a fact of life. And life, in Coboconk, as all across this vast land with more letters in its name than India but less than one-thirtieth the population, goes on.

.

The sight is far from uncommon: uniformed men are removing the furniture from a suburban house and manhandling it piece by piece into a huge van parked on the street nearby. No one protests or attempts to restrain them—not even the family whose possessions these are.

The house is soon stripped bare. The van is bolted and locked and rumbles away. A few minutes later, the former occupants of the now deserted house are bundled into a waiting red Volvo station wagon, and it, too, moves off down the street and out of sight.

“Well,” sighs a neighborhood woman who has been watching all along, “we’ll never see
them
again.”

.

“They say we’ll get some rain today.”

“They tell us you’re up here from the States, eh?”

“They never let you park in that spot without a permit.”

Who are “They,” who seem to know all, to control all, in this new Canada? The Canadian we ask blurts out the answer we expect. “I don’t know what the heck you’re talking about,” he sputters, careful not to
not
look us straight in the eye.

.

The church, save for the minister, the choir, the sexton, and perhaps a hundred parishioners huddled in a space easily large enough to accommodate a hundred and thirty or more, is empty. The stone walls lack paint. Bits and pieces of colored glass serve as windows. Music is provided not by an orchestra but by a lone pipe organ. Men shuffle among the worshippers soliciting coins and paper currency—anything anyone can afford to give. There is no talking, no playing checkers, no smoking allowed.

.

There are no schoolchildren with bouquets to see us off at the airport, as there had been no folk dancers to greet us when we arrived. This is the new Canada.

.

“Friendly, familiar, foreign, and near.” That was the old Canada. No such four glib adjectives could today limn this new Canada; or could they? Is it merely the same old Canada but full of new Canadians? A new Canada but full of old Canadians? Somewhere in between—as, indeed, most of the new Canada lies somewhere in between the Pacific on one side and the Atlantic on the other?

What is this thing we call the new Canada; and, equally important, what isn’t it? More important still, has our foray, shorter by far than all of Frobisher’s and Franklin’s voyages of discovery combined, helped unravel the enigma of a nation-cum-riddle only now coming to terms with changes that not even Canadians pretend to know have yet occurred? To these quintessentially American questions, can there ever be truly Canadian answers? Perhaps it is too early—or too late—to ask.

1985

CALVIN TRILLIN

CORRECTIONS

January 14

B
ECAUSE
of an editing error, an article in Friday’s theatre section transposed the identifications of two people involved in the production of “Waiting for Bruce,” a farce now in rehearsal at the Rivoli. Ralph W. Murtaugh, Jr., a New York attorney, is one of the play’s financial backers. Hilary Murtaugh plays the ingénue. The two Murtaughs are not related. At no time during the rehearsal visited by the reporter did Mr. Murtaugh “sashay across the stage.”

March 25

BECAUSE of some problems in transmission, there were several errors in yesterday’s account of a symposium held by the Women’s Civic Forum of Rye on the role played by slovenliness in cases of domestic violence. The moderator of the symposium, Laura Murtaugh, is not “a divorced mother of eight.” Mrs. Murtaugh, the president of the board of directors of the Women’s Civic Forum, is married to Ralph W. Murtaugh, Jr., an attorney who practices in Manhattan. The phrase “he was raised with the hogs and he lived like a hog” was read by Mrs. Murtaugh from the trial testimony of an Ohio woman whose defense against a charge of assault was based on her husband’s alleged slovenliness. It did not refer to Mrs. Murtaugh’s own husband. Mr. Murtaugh was raised in New York.

April 4

AN article in yesterday’s edition on the growing contention between lawyers and their clients should not have used an anonymous quotation referring to the firm of Newton, Murtaugh & Clayton as “ambulance-chasing jackals” without offering the firm an opportunity to reply. Also, the number of hours customarily billed by Newton, Murtaugh partners was shown incorrectly on a chart accompanying the article. According to a spokesman for the firm, the partner who said he bills clients for “thirty-five or forty hours on a good day” was speaking ironically. There are only twenty-four hours in a day. The same article was in error as to the first name and the background of one of the firm’s senior partners. The correct name is Ralph W. Murtaugh, Jr. There is no one named Hilary Murtaugh connected with the firm. Ralph W. Murtaugh, Jr., has at no time played an ingénue on Broadway.

April 29

BECAUSE of a computer error, the early editions on Wednesday misidentified the person arrested for a series of armed robberies of kitchen-supply stores on the West Side of Manhattan. The person arrested under suspicion of being the so-called “pesto bandit” was Raymond Cullom, twenty-two, of Queens. Ralph W. Murtaugh III, nineteen, of Rye, should have been identified as the runner-up in the annual Squash for Kids charity squash tournament, in Rye, rather than as the alleged robber.

May 18

BECAUSE of an error in transmission, a four-bedroom brick colonial house on Weeping Bend Lane, in Rye, owned by Mr. and Mrs. Ralph W. Murtaugh, Jr., was incorrectly listed in Sunday’s real-estate section as being on the market for $17,500. The house is not for sale. Also, contrary to the information in the listing, it does not have flocked wallpaper or a round bed.

June 21

IN Sunday’s edition, the account of a wedding that took place the previous day at St. John’s Church in Rye was incorrect in a number of respects. The cause of the errors was the participation of the reporter in the reception. This is in itself against the policy of this newspaper, and should not have occurred. Jane Murtaugh was misidentified in two mentions. She was neither the mother of the bride nor the father of the bride. She was the bride. It was she who was wearing a white silk gown trimmed in tulle. The minister was wearing conventional ministerial robes. Miss Murtaugh should not have been identified on second mention as Mrs. Perkins, since she will retain her name and since Mr. Perkins was not in fact the groom. The number of bridesmaids was incorrectly reported. There were eight bridesmaids, not thirty-eight. Their dresses were blue, not glued. The bridegroom’s name is not Franklin Marshall. His name is Emory Barnswell, and he graduated from Franklin and Marshall College. Mr. Barnswell never attended Emory University, which in any case does not offer a degree in furniture stripping. Mr. Barnswell’s ancestor was not a signer of the Declaration of Independence, and was not named Hector (Boom-Boom) Bondini. The name of the father of the bride was inadvertently dropped from the article. He is Hilary Murtaugh.

1990

CHRISTOPHER BUCKLEY

STARDATE 12:00 12:00 12:00

“I watch science-fiction movies.
.
.
. I like to watch them on tape, so I can examine them closely. There’s only one problem: I still can’t figure out my VCR.”

—William Shatner, in
TV Guide.

C
APTAIN
K
IRK:
Captain’s log, stardate 7412.6 . . . hello? The red light still isn’t going on. Testing, 1-2-3-4. Chekov, it’s not recording.

C
HEKOV:
I know, Keptin. Perhaps a negative function with the clock-timer.