t was my animus toward the colonel that had inspired me to plunk my posterior down in front of the old Underwood. But sitting there in my overcoat and knitted cap and blowing hot breath on my fingers I soon realized that the play was becoming much more than a narrow attack on that dumb son of a bitch down the street. The colonel would be there, certainly, (the antagonist, as we in the theater say). But the hero (protagonist) had to be someone sympathetic to the audience. (Like myself). A bright, witty, certainly frustrated, good-looking, middle-aged, decent, talented, good-natured (except when not) fellow, who was surrounded by pompous, self-indulgent, self-designated superior beings (the colonel being only one among many) who would never have the sensitivity to appreciate what lay just below the surface of this as yet unrecognized genius. Wow! Like lost gems dug up from some previously undiscovered pirate cache, ideas began to emerge. The protagonist would be a creator of something, something very worthwhile, memorable, of monumental proportions. One problem was that not much momentous was happening on the world scale. There was the second inauguration of Richard Nixon, of course. That was a hot one. There was the war in Vietnam, possibly the saddest spectacle I had ever seen, fueling further my enmity. There was a lot of talk about it among us at home, even with the kids, but it was a bit far afield from the original animus toward my retired colonel (retired from the army apparently just in time to avoid getting killed).
At last I settled on the idea that my protagonist Harold should be an unacknowledged genius architect. Not a bad idea. He could enter an open competition to design a new campus for the State University of New York. (Not exactly a momentous shrine, but it would suffice). If he were to win, it would be a feather in his cap because I could envision him for the prior ten years as having done nothing more challenging than to draw up plans for fast-food emporiums known to the public as Taco Shacks (work that was neither more nor less demeaning than my toiling for a similar number of years in the rubber factory). Would he win the competition? Yes or no. I hadn’t decided yet. As all artists and writers know, works of art can take on a life of their own. He could win the architectural competition and become famous and be asked to design palaces in Monaco and Venice, or he might not win the competition and in despair, could smash his car deliberately into a Taco shop killing himself (and possibly the dumb son of a bitch down the street, too?) Or better yet! What if he won the competition, and out of an even deeper despair over the dreary conventional designs that he was directed to execute by an overseeing committee he would kill himself anyway. There was an idea. What a hero!
Despair. I had no trouble relating to Harold’s feelings. How very much I empathized with my dear outrageous Harold. The warm fuzzy genius Harold was me, all right, I had always known that. The sharp-edged Harold that was beginning to insinuate himself into the play, I was beginning to believe, was also me. In my more thoughtful moments – even before I had sat down to write this play – it had sometimes come to me that a man to be worthy of his better nature, should reach for something outside of himself, should be obliged to struggle for that something in life, or struggle against it. To reach out for the love of God, if that doesn’t sound too solemn. Or, if you prefer, the devil. Or simply to make the effort to determine what it’s all about, and perhaps even make things better by smashing unquestioned conventional idols. It was the frustration in my own life at not having been able to achieve anything of significance that had crept into the play that I wrote in Paris about Thanksgiving at Aunt Betty’s (and which that certain producer had said was sick). Well, in retrospect, it had been a bit grim. The trick here was to make certain that Harold in his rage was someone larger than life, and therefore funny. He had to be able to make fun of his neighbors, excoriate them. A character who was, in fact, arrogant, whether out of self-hatred or self-love (I couldn’t decide), but for whatever reason he should go around insulting anybody and everybody in the manner, say, of Groucho Marx, making the audience laugh and love him in spite of – or perhaps because of – his outrageousness. Quite a trick, indeed, that was. But I loved attempting it, and oh, how I envied that Harold, I never having been able to achieve his level of wit, or courage, or even outrage. In the conduct of my own life, I felt a nagging obligation – a persistent need, really – to struggle over something more than the mundane drudgery (and disgrace?) of flacking for Rajah condoms. Yes, I had made a few feeble efforts to engage the world outside myself. It looked as if the war, the way it was going on, would still be going on when Pete would be eligible for the draft in a few years, and there were all those kids coming home now in body bags. There were so many things, if you stopped to think – if you stopped to think – that were intolerable and abominable. Famine in Christ knew how many nations of the world (in places I had never heard of). Interference by our nation – yes, by our nation – in the affairs of other nations, (places that I normally would never have given a thought to) including illegal clandestine assassinations (Mossadegh in Iran, Allende in Chile, Diem in South Vietnam), not to mention a lot of failed attempts, (which Senor El Presidente Castro could testify to certainly), leading to regime changes which in every case resulted in worse conditions. But like a lost sheep bleating on a rainy heath, I had come to feel largely powerless in the face of all of this. I could march to protest this or that government policy and face the jeers of the sidewalk lumpen and the police presence, which on a couple of occasions I did. (Annie was with me, of course – giving me courage) – and we even brought the kids along so that at an early stage of their lives they would have some notion of a larger world outside of themselves. But I didn’t kid myself for very long that any of this made one God damn bit of difference to those who ran the show. This, I was beginning to realize, was why I wanted to write this play (that pompous Colonel Slaughter being the inspiration). The play should incorporate enough of a sharp edge to assuage those few tormented souls like myself, and give them hope. So you could say I was putting up a struggle in my own way. Fingering these gems of despair was becoming invigorating, actually, sitting at my card table, head in hand, waiting to separate out the truly valuable from the fake.
Looked at from the standpoint of a creative muse there was much in a despairing outlook that could be inspirational. I still had to labor at the rubber factory every day. I could fume over that. And on Sunday mornings, as dependable as the Sunday Times, come rain, snow, sleet, hail, or sun, I would hear the distant whistled strains of “The Bridge Over the River Kwai” and know that a moment later the colonel’s steed would drop a few more steamy ones outside my dining room window. The muse reveled in these humiliations. But there is such a thing as overload, too. Too much bitter gall could overwhelm and drown creativity. Along with the inspiration, I needed a goddamn rest from it. (Emotion recollected in tranquility, I believe Coleridge said).
My job at Pro-Tec was the most immediate obstacle to tranquility. Writing about Rajah brand rubbers and artificial vaginas (for those tormented brave souls having undergone trans-sexual operations) was daunting enough. But worse, I have to admit, not all of my relations with my colleagues at the office were felicitous, a fact that contributed to a persistent uneasiness that did not foster creativity. On the surface I maintained a calm and cordial countenance, but always there was the constant fear of attacks on my rear as well as discovery that I might be a fraud. For instance, it was a daily battle to fight the tendency to fall asleep on my desk after lunch, which if discovered certainly would not have pleased Frank DeAngelo, the company’s C.E.O. (Sleep was wary and fitful). And there were those who would kill to get my job. My immediate superior, Morrie Glick, Marketing Manager, was okay. (Morrie also didn’t mind a little snooze after lunch. We had had some great boozy lunches together, usually hosting a trade magazine editor, so we could charge the bill to Pro-Tec). Morrie had hired me years before, and was perhaps the only person in the company I trusted. He once told me in a wine sodden moment that as long as he was where he was I would always have a job. The problem with Morrie was that he had a restless dick. He had hired as his “assistant” a very accessible female, if not a lady, one Diana Payne-Pignatelli, who knew nothing about marketing or communications or public relations or advertising, although being the mother of only one small child she probably knew a little bit about Rajah condoms (or equivalent devices). She also had large ambitions to rise in the company, and in exchange for her sexual favors, she quickly found herself in the position of exerting undue influence over Morrie. And she hated me. (The feeling was mutual). If she had known anything, or if she had shown the slightest bit of courtesy to anyone in the company other than Morrie it wouldn’t have mattered. I can’t think of how many nights I dreamt that it was Diana Payne-Pignatelli riding by my house on the Colonel’s stallion, raising herself at an angle in the saddle and farting while brandishing her bullwhip at me, my wife, my two children, and Spot, the dog.
When she first came on the job, I bore her no ill-will. But having read in Ms. Magazine or someplace that women in the workplace labored at a disadvantage, she had resolved from the start to treat all of her male colleagues (except Morrie and those in a position above her) with icy contempt. I was in a position below Morrie, so I was never to be favored with a collegial cordiality. Worse, she had gotten it into her head that she could do my job. (She had walked in on me one day during one of my afternoon naps). In all honesty, she could not have done my job. Her idea of a Rajah press release was to write something like this:
“The latest Rajah condom introduced by Pro-Tec sports a ribbed exterior and a rainbow selection of colorful tints guaranteed to provide new thrills to your loved ones, while at the same time protecting against unwanted pregnancies and diseases.”
In the first place, condoms don’t “sport” anything, and rainbow tints certainly don’t guarantee new thrills. In the second place, referring to “loved ones” in the plural implies promiscuity. In the third place, the reference to unwanted pregnancies would bring down the wrath of the Catholic Church and the right-to-lifers. And in the fourth place, reference to protecting against disease would tend to suggest that the female is some kind of a whore with the pox. That was all in just the first sentence.
Diana Payne-Pignatelli, after showing her effort to Morrie (who showed it to me) was never allowed to write any such stuff, but it was obvious she was gunning to take over my own (more professional) duties.
Morrie complimented her on her ambition and enthusiasm, whereas I told her I thought she must be kidding. This did not go over all that well, and was the point at which I came to realize we would never be close friends.
Diana, however, being only 29 years old, and having more energy and ambition than yours truly, was not one to give up. It was obvious she was in for the long haul, and she took advantage of every opportunity to undermine my position. She had persuaded Morrie to let her sit in on strategy meetings, and her rapid-fire series of “suggestions” and cross-examinations could wear a guy down (particularly after three martinis at lunch and no opportunity to sleep it off).
“What do we really know about our product line, Brock?” she asked one day. Brock. How would she like it if I called her Payne-Pignatelli? I had a first name, after all.
“What do you mean, know about?” I replied. “Do you mean have I tried the new ribbed model personally?” Damned if that was any of her business. “How about you, Diana, I mean, from the woman’s angle, so to speak.”
Ignoring my question, she went on frostily, “I mean, have you been to any of the manufacturing facilities? Are you familiar with quality control, sanitary considerations, employee satisfaction?” (There had been known instances when some disgruntled employees trying to form a union had stuck pins in some of our high-end Monarch line sheepskin condoms made from the intestines of specially bred animals on the Iberian Peninsula). It was an indication of my evil nature that I tended to think that was a brilliant labor tactic, because it meant the recall of whole batches of our high-end product, putting our German owners in a position of having to compromise with the union workers..
“I have not been to a production facility, no,” I said.
She gave Morrie a meaningful look.
“It might be a good idea to visit one of the factories,” Morrie put in, picking up on Diana’s cue.
“Well, the Monarch line might be worth looking into,” I said. “I could fly over to Barcelona and take Annie along with me.”
“I don’t see that that’s necessary,” Diana interjected, stiffening. She gave Morrie a look of strong disapproval. “Weren’t you planning on visiting Spain, Morrie?”
“Um, well, that’s a thought,” Morrie said. I don’t think he had ever been out of the country, primarily because he was terrified of flying. But he rarely contradicted Diana. Perhaps now that she mentioned going to Spain, an idea was forming. He could go with Diana by cruise ship. She could take notes, and they could test our products.
“We have a Rajah facility in San Diego,” Diana persisted, getting back to her original suggestion.
“I know where the facility is located,” I replied. “We also have one in New Jersey.” The idea of flying to San Diego didn’t please me, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to drive there. I didn’t like flying any more than Morrie did. Not because I was afraid, (although I never experienced a take-off without crossing my fingers), but the idea of sitting next to some guy with spreadsheets and casebooks scattered all over his lunch tray could be depressing. I don’t know. Spreadsheets are something I never understood (and don’t want to), and the idea of some guy (sipping a diet Coke) and puzzling over papers on an airplane even today (now using laptop computers) just thinking about it tends to make me bilious. (Steady infusions of Scotch help a bit to settle the stomach). Don’t get me wrong. I’m not one of those people who thinks that everybody who is employed in middle management ought to be unhappy. (Maybe only 99 per cent are). The guy with the spreadsheet probably thinks this is wonderful, the modern era, when you can do company calculations 35,000 feet in the air, and then land on the ground, retrieve your golf clubs from baggage, play 18 exhausting holes with some customer prospect who you can’t stand before heading off with him to the Ramada Inn for a Surf and Turf dinner, and lots of talk about those Amazin’ Mets, and adding another five pounds of fat around the middle. Of course, there’s always a pool to do laps in, and an exercise room with weight-lifting machines. But on those infrequent occasions when I had been obliged to interview one of our distributors (say, in Kalamazoo, Michigan, or Kankakee, I forget what state) I never noticed anybody using these facilities, although the bar was usually crowded with men in business suits, neckties off (myself among them) looking at each other with mostly dour expressions and sometimes mirthless grins and casting envious eyes on the one female in the room (always with an ample girth and yellow hair) who would be playing “golden oldies” on the piano.
“I’ll check out the New Jersey plant,” I volunteered, hoping this would put to rest for the moment any notions of going to San Diego (which isn’t a bad town, by the way, especially if you like zoos and craft shops and walking along the waterfront).
Have you ever been to a rubber factory? The hardest part is to get through a tour with a straight face. A genial General Manager is the tour guide (genial because he knows you are from the Head Office, and could be a spy. He’s covering his ass from behind, too). He often invites you to join him for lunch, but it’s seldom a fancy caravansary which I am partial to, but rather a “quick lunch” at his favorite diner where the Philly steak sandwiches are “fabulous” and the Coke and Pepsi machines provide a beverage. The first thing you notice in a rubber factory is the smell. Rubber. Sort of like a discount tire warehouse. The second thing you notice is all female employees. Don’t ask why. Finger dexterity possibly. Or maybe the guys are too embarrassed to apply. And the third thing you notice are all these little maquettes looking like guess-whats standing up at attention and moving along various belt lines. Okay, a quick tour. They dip the maquettes into a bath of latex rubber (straight from the trees of Malaysia), then blow dry them, and the girls (women) unroll them and the collapsed rubbers move along a belt line for testing. First test: stretching. It’s fun! Sort of like snapping rubber bands at a kid’s birthday party. If they don’t break, they next fill them with water until they look like water bombs we used to drop from the third story dorm at Prep School on Masters whom we didn’t like. And then comes the air test. Blow ‘em up with compressed air, and if they don’t explode (with a loud bang) after all that, and if they still hold together, they are ready for rolling and powdering and automatic sealed packaging. I said fun. It’s fun to watch for five minutes, summoning up images of those ladies at home rolling those things on their husband’s flaccid dicks. (Well, certainly not as upright and hard as the maquettes like toy soldiers on parade). But after a very short time, I mean, if you were the lady rolling these things, no matter how expert you might become at it, which would stand you in good stead at home with hubby (or whoever), it would have to become mind numbing. (Ha! Explanation of the appeal of mind numbing television programming, including the so-called news.). How many thousands of these rubbers are produced a day? At the New Jersey facility I forgot to ask, and didn’t want to know, anyway, as an image of all of America fucking tended to leap to mind, and gave me a giddy feeling.
Anyway, I visited the plant, and wrote a report (naturally), which Morrie was pleased with until Diana pointed out that I hadn’t included production numbers.
“We have them on spreadsheets in Morrie’s bottom drawer, Diana,” I said, trying my best to be civil.
But, you see, it was this kind of thing that could overwhelm you, and when I sat down at night (bundled up before my typewriter), exhausted from the office warfare and disheartened by the daily depredations in the newspaper, it was hard to think of much of anything creative, and the writing came slowly. Annie would be lying in bed, trying to sleep. My little desk lamp didn’t cast any light in her eyes, and she was cooperative enough to stick plugs in her ears to block out the noise of the typewriter. But glancing over at that sweet little thing all bundled up under a comforter like a darling little pussy (meaning kitten) sometimes I would get horny and abandon the damned script, and crawl in with her (free Rajahs being one advantage of working for Pro-Tec GmbH).
But I finished my play! “Why Is That Dumb Son of a Bitch Down the Street Happier Than I am?” I wrote the play in a period of five months, finished just in time to get to work at painting the exterior of the house.
About the play. No need for details, except to say that it was funny as hell, and ended with that dark ironic smash-up that might have been worthy of Chekhov. Or at least, Odets. (No false modesty here). It was, in fact, precisely the dark comedy (black comedy was the term that I heard bandied about) that apparently appealed to the hotshot New York agent after he saw the play performed by the Community Players during a two week-end run. Since the local newspaper objected to the title, and featured their objections in an editorial, a considerable number of our neighbors down the street rushed to buy tickets, with the idea in mind perhaps of finding themselves being immortalized. At the beginning of every performance the theatre (high school auditorium) was packed, and after the intermission only half empty. Neighbors, including the colonel, who had seen me around (now up on a ladder painting the house) didn’t know whether to congratulate me or to shun me, so I kept my head down as I went about slopping paint on the clapboard and my painter’s overalls. On the last night of the run there was a party for the cast (and the playwright and director), and the leading lady, in real life living next door to the colonel with her polo ponies and accountant husband (a gent who at a later time was indicted for fraud and cooking his client’s books), got drunk and flung her arms around my neck, and before I could duck away she planted a great big wet one on my mouth. (Annie was at home baby-sitting the children). She wanted me to take her to a local motel. Well. This was all very flattering, (and erotic), but I wasn’t about to do that kind of thing (especially with a lot of cast members watching), and also I didn’t have a Rajah with me, and so I laughed it off good naturedly, thus confirming in my neighbor’s mind that I was a stuck-up prig and probably a lousy lay, anyway.
At the New York agent’s request, I sent a script off to him, and there now came the waiting period.
Meanwhile, Annie and I had made the decision to buy the Señora’s house. David Harris had been skulking enviously around the property all winter, giving me dirty looks. Since he visited his aunt in the nursing home at least once a week, we suspected he might have it in mind to poison her, and thus inherit the property and kick us out. The house looked quite nice now with new paint on it, and between rehearsals of the play I had been working on restoring the dilapidated fence. I made an appointment with Sissy Sweatland for us to visit Attorney Birnbaum, and one fine spring day there we were, all four of us, in the attorney’s office, and we made an offer. $75,000. It was a steal, but nobody else had made an offer, and the Señora’s bank account was dangerously low. The money would be enough to keep her fed and cared for as long as it was expected that she would continue breathing. Attorney Birnbaum, after shuffling papers around for a few minutes and consulting the Señora’s bank savings deposit book, accepted the offer. I gave him a $750 binder (money saved over the winter months), and we shook hands all around, Sissy Sweatland grinning like she had won the lottery while Annie and I gave each other a hug. Attorney Birnbaum maintained a look of professional sobriety.
Before the sale could be finalized, it had to be approved by the local Probate judge, but Attorney Birnbaum assured us that would be no problem. The judge was a crony of Birnbaum’s, and had no reason to object to the sale.
Wonderful. What we didn’t count on, of course, was that the scrounger David Harris would take exception to the sale. Through a lawyer of his own he filed papers immediately claiming that the sale price was too low. The son of a bitch. Now what?
“We go to Superior court,” Attorney Birnbaum advised us.
“Oh? When?”
Attorney Birnbaum shook his little gray head. He was a small man, close to retirement, it appeared to me, and not very interested in his work (if he ever had been, although apparently the money had been good). His face was gray, his smoothly combed hair was gray, and he was dressed immaculately in a gray pin-striped suit with a vest and a nondescript grayish necktie. “I’ll file with the court. It takes time,” he said. “Meanwhile, I’ll hold your binder.”
I looked over at Annie, and I could see her eyes were moist. “It’s all right,” I assured her, not believing it for a minute. David Harris was stalling, and the Señora was sinking. We had grown to love the little old farmhouse. Despite the lack of heat in the upstairs rooms we had gotten through the winter with no colds or flu. If we were able to secure a mortgage, somehow we would find the money to fix the heating system. With the coming of spring, Annie had started a small vegetable garden, and we were delighted to notice that the front yard was filled with mature rhododendron plants and lilac bushes all ready to burst forth with blooms. Annie scratched around the edges of the house and underneath the old flaking paint where there had been flowers once, the soil was good, and she planted annuals – zinnias, petunias, asters and sunflowers (seeds for the birds the following winter).
Early Spring was a time of hope – hope that the New York agent after full consideration would continue to like my playscript and would want to represent it, and hope that somehow when (and if) we went to court we would win against David Harris’s attempt to block us from buying our little farmhouse. But with no news arriving from either front, we received a jolt one day in the form of a note from the Principal of the second to none in the country elementary school where Peter and Laura had been enrolled. Laura had been doing fine, excelling in fact in all of her courses and turning out to be an attentive pupil, a leader among her companions and a “delight to have in the classroom.” Peter, on the other hand, showed a sullen resistance to learning, did not pay attention in class, and showed on his Spring report card a column of Failure marks next to every subject taught in second grade.
The most discouraging part of all this was that Peter and his sister at home were two of the nicest (and brightest) kids that anyone could dream of. Being only 12 months apart in age, they somehow had never developed a vicious sibling rivalry, and they played together as happily and carefree as our dog Spot who often romped with them as they ran around our property and gawked at the passing horse parade and helped with the gardening and repair of the fence and together built little lean-to huts from broken sticks. Pete usually was the leader in the children’s activities, and his sister happily of her own free will joined in following him. It was apparent to me from the start that he possessed a large imagination, and was destined to be a leader of men. (The hope of all proud fathers). But, yes, there was a quirky side to Pete. He would happily agree to do such-and-such a task for his mother, and set out on his errand, then return a short time later, having forgotten what it was he was supposed to be doing. You couldn’t be angry with him. Reminded of what he was supposed to be up to, he would set off again in double time and return shortly, mission accomplished, a shy grin across his somewhat chubby face.
We received a summons from the Principal to discuss with the school’s guidance counselor Peter’s conduct and apparent inability to learn anything.
“Pete, what’s going on with you at school?” I asked him. It was a Saturday morning right after the mail bearing the bad news from the Principal and before the arrival of Colonel Slaughter on his mount.
Peter shrugged, then looked down and began picking at his fingernails.
“Don’t you like school?”
“No.”
This was a shock to hear. “How come. Laura likes it.”
He shrugged again. “It’s boring.”
“Well, you have to go to school, if you want to learn anything.”
He didn’t have anything to say to that.
“Well, your mother and I have to meet with the guidance counselor to discuss what’s going on, Pete.”
“Miss Crashaw,” he broke in.
“You know her?”
“She’s talked to me a few times.”
“A few times. Jesus, Pete –”
“Language, Bill,” Annie said.
“Well, I don’t get it. If she’s talked with you, hasn’t that made any impression at all?”
“She’s a dweeb.”
“Oh, come on!”
Well, there wasn’t anything more to say – at the moment. We would meet with Miss Crashaw the following Wednesday after school (I sneaked early out of Pro-Tec), and in a yardstick colored room with no windows we were kept waiting for only 15 minutes for her appearance.
Pete may not have been doing well in his classes, but he had a sure eye for character. Miss Crashaw was a “dweeb”, if there ever was one, a bony lady of some 50 years of age looking something like an evil incorporeal apparition to my unprejudiced eye as she let herself into the room, closing the door softly behind her and sitting herself down in a chair facing us across a small rectangular table. She didn’t offer to shake hands, or apologize for keeping us waiting, but she did squeeze out a thin compressed smile that was either a greeting or a look of vengefulness. It occurred to me instantly perhaps she had either seen my play or read about its disgusting title in the local newspaper. “Mr. and Mrs. Brock,” she said.
I nodded, giving her my practiced P.R. man’s smile, while Annie simply stared at her in silence. It was hard smiling at her. There was something unforgiving in her expression, I had run across it before in my many years, silver-rimmed glasses perched on a small but needle-pointed nose and bloodless thin lips that were compressed in what seemed to be a perpetual look of disapproval. A wreath of coarse gray hair around her face gave her the look of a buzzard in its nest.
“Well,” Miss Crashaw began. “We’re here to talk about your son.”
Annie and I both kept mum. Let her get on with it.
“He’s not doing well at all,” she said, shaking her head dismayingly.
We were still waiting. “What do you think the trouble is?” she went on, looking from one to the other of us.
I was shaking my head. “We don’t know. He’s fine at home. Nicest kid you could imagine.”
“Hm-m-m-m,” she hummed. “That’s surprising.”
“Is he causing any disruptions in class?” Annie put in.
Miss Crashaw pondered the question. “No. Not really. He just doesn’t seem interested.”
“He has a lot of interests at home,” Annie was quick to answer.
“He sits and looks out the window. He doesn’t pay attention. He’s not popular with his schoolmates.”
I could have put in that I wasn’t terribly popular with their parents, either. Instead, I said, “Well, he’s shy,” coughing up an ingratiating chuckle. Miss Crashaw ignored that. “You don’t have any disciplinary problems with him at home?” She sounded surprised.
We both shook our heads. “He’s a free spirit, no doubt about that,” Annie said. “His mind, I think, is always working on ideas of his own.”
“Like? –”
Annie smiled. “I’m not sure. We ask him to do something. He’s more than willing, but he – forgets sometimes what he’s supposed to be doing.”
“Ah ha!” Miss Crashaw jumped on the point. “He ignores you.”
“Not really ignores us. It’s – it’s just – I don’t know for sure. He’s – he’s distracted.”
Miss Crashaw looked from one to the other of us with a disapproving look. “I think perhaps you need a bit more discipline with him.”
I jumped in here. “Oh, I don’t know. Discipline. That’s a harsh word for Pete. I mean, he never disobeys us, or anything. Sometimes – sometimes you ask him to do something, and he’s more than willing, but he – he forgets.”
“Maybe taking away some of his privileges might help him to remember.” Miss Crashaw leaned back in her chair, satisfied perhaps that she had put her finger on the problem – the lack of parental guidance.
“I don’t think so,” Annie said. “Maybe he needs special attention to draw him into what it is he’s not interested in.”
“We give him plenty of special attention,” Miss Crashaw snapped. “With all due respect, I think the problem rests with the attention – or lack of it – that he’s getting at home.”
“He’s a happy child,” Annie retorted.
“Who doesn’t pay attention to what he’s supposed to be doing,” Miss Crashaw was quick to reply.
“Oh, baloney,” I heard myself saying, obviously disrespectfully. “He’s unique, I think.” Maybe I was feeling what all parents feel about their children. No matter. I was convinced. “He’s unique.”
“He’s failing all his subjects,” Miss Crashaw rejoined smartly.
“Then, maybe this is the wrong school for him,” I came back at her.
“You won’t find a better school, I can tell you that,” Miss Crashaw said, with some heat.
“I know. Schools here are second to none in the nation.”
“Exactly.”
“Well, we’ll talk to him, see if we can find out what the problem is,” Annie put in, soothing a bit the riled feelings.
“A little more discipline,” Miss Crashaw said, reverting to her recipe for the solution.
“We’ll talk to him,” Annie said.
Miss Crashaw pushed back her chair. “Maybe a spanking. Sometimes corporeal punishment is not the worst thing.”
“I think you’re nuts,” I heard myself saying.
“Bill!” Annie turned to me with a shocked expression.
I couldn’t help it. I wasn’t going to spank my nice kid, just because some spinster expert probably liked whacking kids whenever there was a chance for it. “Nuts,” I repeated.
“I think we’re done,” Miss Crashaw said.
“We sure are,” I said. “Let’s get out of here, Annie.” I reached for her hand to drag her, if necessary. But there was no need. She might object to my language, but she was certainly in full accord with my feelings. There was no handshake at leave taking.
“Thanks for the meeting,” I said. Annie looked pained, but followed me to the door which I opened, and stepped out into the clearer air of the administration offices and into the corridors.
“Fuck her,” I said.
“Oh, Bill,” Annie protested.
“Do you agree with her?”
“No.”
“Then, let’s get out of here.”
Of course, the problem was not solved. We did have a child who was not doing what the other kids were doing, and no matter how much I loved that little kid, and no matter how much faith I had in his ultimate superiority (like my own), the fact that he was failing in school did exist, and we were at a loss as to what to do about it. Just one more fly in the tranquil waters of my soul. But the God damn play had been written and produced (locally) and given to an agent. Maybe a little bit more time with Pete’s studies at night would do the trick. Maybe I could find some creep (the colonel?) who would welcome a good spanking from Miss Dweeb. I’d be more than happy to refer him to her. Maybe that’s what he needed and maybe what she secretly wanted most to do in life.
© Robert Riche