What’s the matter you dissentious rogues
That rubbing the poor itch of your opinion,
Make yourselves scabs?
Cariolanus
“They
got out the tape measure and stopped the game.”
Florence
was lying on the bed in Mary’s old room, trying to look interested even though
she didn’t know anything about baseball.
She said, “I don’t
understand. How could they find a tape
measure that long?”
“Well,
it was a string about thirty feet long and the coaches just kept handing it
back and forth to each other, you know, while the other one stood still.”
“OK,
I gotcha.” Her crew cut was growing out
but she still looked like a boy. “Did
they carry you on their shoulders?”
“Oh,
no, it wasn’t anything like that. The
game wasn’t even over. They just wanted
to see how far I hit it. I was only in
the seventh grade and they measured it to be three hundred and eighty five
feet. They almost forgot about me. I mean I felt like I was being discussed by
the adults as a kind of phenomenon. We
just sat around waiting for them to finish and I was embarrassed. The other kids looked at me in a funny way
that I never forgot.”
“They
were probably jealous.”
“I
don’t think so. I mean, most of them
just saw baseball as a game and I think they thought the coaches were acting
like fools. They didn’t really
care. But hitting a ball that far made
them look at me with a look that I had never seen in their faces before. It was a kind of a fear but it definitely
wasn’t envy.”
She
looked up at me and said, “Do you think
they were afraid of being hit by the ball?”
I
was so surprised by her question that I couldn’t think of anything to say.
She
said, “You told me you were a
pitcher. Maybe they thought you might
hit them with the ball like you said you did sometimes.”
I
laughed.
She
said, defensively, “Well, you said that
you used to hit them sometimes and you were a wild pitcher.”
“No,
I wasn’t a wild pitcher. I said I used
to throw wild pitches sometimes. That
just means that you throw it over the catcher’s head. He’s squatting down so it isn’t as hard as it
seems.”
“I
thought you said you threw it over the backstop sometimes.”
“Well,
it’s true, I did, once! But we had a very low backstop. It’s true some of the kids were afraid of my
pitching because I didn’t have very good control, but nobody does in the
seventh grade. That wasn’t it. I mean
they weren’t afraid of me in that way.
They just had a kind of awe in their faces like they thought I might
really make it to the Big Leagues someday.”
“Well,
I really don’t know anything about baseball.
I’ve never even been to a game.”
She sized me up and said, “Before
I met you I didn’t think I would ever go to one. But I guess I’ll have to get used to it.”
“No. I don’t go to the games anymore myself. I resent baseball in a way. I mean I really enjoy watching it because I
... I mean because it always brings back
the memories, the good feelings. But I
have so many bad memories also.”
“Bad
memories?”
“Well...” I didn’t think it would be easy to explain.
“Is
it because you hit so many kids with the ball?”
She cringed a little after she asked the question. I had told her that some of the smaller kids’
knees shook when I pitched, and I could tell that it really impressed her.
“No. Nothing like that. They said I was good enough to make the
Majors. But you know how that is. Let’s just say that I was good enough to have
a shot at it. That’s all anyone can hope
for anyway. But being a three hundred
hitter, or hitting fifty home runs a year is just something that...”
I
stopped talking and looked at her. She
seemed to be thinking of something else.
She
said, “I don’t want to interrupt you,
but do you still want to go shopping with me this afternoon? Like you said?”
“What? Oh.
Yeah. You mean for the woman and
her baby. What’s her name?”
“Sally. I didn’t want to forget to ask.”
“Sure.”
“Great. I’ll call her and tell her I’m coming. After you’re finished... I didn’t mean to imply that what you were
saying wasn’t important.”
“Oh. That’s all right. It isn’t really. I mean it’s just a game.”
“Well,
most men take it so seriously. I was
afraid you were one of them. I’m really
glad you’re not. I don’t think I could
take sitting around on Saturday afternoons watching baseball games.”
“Well,
don’t worry. I couldn’t either.”
She
seemed preoccupied. I said, “You seem a little ... I don’t know...”
“What
do you mean?”
“I
don’t know. Kind of distracted.”
She
wouldn’t meet my eyes. We were silent
for a few seconds. Then she said, “Well,
maybe there IS something.” She looked as
if she wanted to tell me something but didn’t know if she should.
I
said, “You can tell me about it.” In truth, I was a little worried.
She
said, “Well, I’d like to do it now.”
“What?
... IT?
Right now?”
She
said, “I like to do it anytime. You know like we did when we first met.”
I
said, “Of course, so do I...” I was curious. “What made you think about it now?”
“I
don’t know,” she stretched voluptuously
on the bed, “maybe it was all the
baseball talk.”
Afterwards,
I went next door and got my thermometer and made her take her temperature. “It’s a hundred and three Flor.”
“I
told you, I have a naturally high temperature.”
“Nobody
has a naturally high temperature of one hundred and three.”
I
looked into her eyes. She was cradled in
my arm, on the bed. She didn’t meet my
eyes. “You feel hot... I think you
should go to the doctor.” We had talked
about it before. “Just to find out. It can’t hurt anything.”
“There’s
nothing wrong with me. I never go to the
doctor unless I have to.”
“But
it’s obvious to me that you have to.”
She
was silent. We were both dressed, lying
on her bed. Judy Chicago looked down at
us from a large poster on the wall, a gift from Mary. The silence grew.
Later,
I calculated that, just about exactly at that time, in
I
had gotten used to her silences by then.
I used the time to study Judy’s wry smile and the tufts of black hair
under her arms.
“Well?” I asked after at least two minutes of
silence.
She
answered, “I’m thinking.”
Another
long silence followed. We had just made
love but Mick Jagger’s words and music played in my mind, “I can’t get no, I can’t get no, I can’t get
no, no, no, no, I can’t get no satisfaction, but I try, and I try, and I try
and I try, I can’t get no, ... girlie
action.”
Judy Chicago seemed happy about it. I felt like throwing one of her famous plates
in her face. While
“What?” I looked up at Judy again. Her face said, “That’s right jack, you heard her.” I thought,
“Fuck you bitch.” I yelped like a
wounded animal, “I’m not aggressive.”
She
said, “Look, I’m not taking this,” and
tore her head away from my arm, like a kid getting up from a slide after he’s
been tagged too hard at home plate. She
glared at me menacingly and said, again,
“I’m not going to put up with it.”
“Put
up with what?” I asked. I heard my voice rising in disbelief and I
thought it was my only pride that told me that it was my moral obligation to
tell her the truth about her temperature.
I
remembered Van’s self-righteous indignation in front of the restaurant. Maybe I
was being aggressive. Maybe, without
knowing it, I was behaving like him.
Maybe some people could have temperatures of a hundred and three and be
normal. No. I knew that was wrong and I wondered if some
of the men who confessed to fictitious crimes in front of Stalin’s tribunals
really believed that they were guilty of those crimes.
She
said, “If you don’t know then you’re
hopeless.”
Somehow
I imagined that her tone of voice was conciliatory, in spite of what she said,
probably because reason told me that conciliation was best. I took the time that she always gave herself
to respond, and thought about what I should say. After at least a minute I said, “Well, at least you have to hear that I am trying
to help you.”
She
was silent, as usual, and for the first time it occurred to me that long silences
in conversation might be common in
I
said, without a pause, “Sound’s good to
me.” But I was left with the feeling of
hypocrisy and cowardliness. I felt that
I should ask her about her temperature again, but reason intervened again and I
said, “Why don’t you call me when you
are ready to go shopping?”
“OK. I’ll be back in about an hour. I have to do some errands.”
“Fine.”
I
went back to my room next door, put on my running shorts, got a can of beer
from the refrigerator, went outside into the back yard, stretched out in the
chaise longue in the Oakland sun, and opened Nietzsche’s Beyond Good and Evil.
A
shrill voice came from over the fence,
“Get away from me you little Greek bitch!”
Silence. Another, younger voice responded, “You’re not supposed to say that to me.”
The
girls were standing on the stairs of the apartment building behind our house. A
fat, 11 year old had her hands on her hips and was glaring at a pretty, blond,
five year old.
The
bigger girl said, “I don’t care. I’m telling you anyway. Get away from me and don’t ever come
back. I don’t want you around here.”
The
five year old whimpered, “I don’t have
anywhere else to go.”
“Can’t
you understand? I don’t care. Just stop following me around!”
The
eleven year old stomped down the stairs, and the little girl began to sob
pitifully. I got up from my chaise
longue and peered over the fence.
“What’s going on over there?”
The
eleven year old froze in her tracks and looked at me without saying
anything. I said, “You shouldn’t treat her like that.”
The
five year old peered down at me through her tears. The eleven year old stood, frozen, like a
startled doe. I asked her, “Who is she?”
“My
cousin.”
“Well
that’s even worse. Anyway, what’s wrong
with being Greek?”
She
paused for a few seconds and then blurted out,
“My mother says it’s bad.”
“Why?”
“Because
my father was Greek and he dumped us.”
“He
divorced your mother?”
“Yeah
and he didn’t give us any alley money.”
I
smiled and said, “Well, that’s too bad.”
She
looked at my smile like any kid would who is being had by an adult but doesn’t
know why.
I
said, “Well, the Greeks are the greatest
people who ever lived.” I looked up at
the little girl. She wiped a tear from
her cheek with an elegant finger and started down the stairs. I said,
“Without the Greeks the modern world wouldn’t even be possible.”
The
bigger girl stared at the ground. I
asked her, “What nationality are you?”
She
looked ashamed, and throwing her head back and wrinkling her nose in disgust
said, “I’m half Greek.”
“You’re
ashamed of it?”
She
stared at the ground for a few seconds before answering. “Yes.”
“What
is your other half?”
“My
mother is half Sioux and half Jewish.”
“My
God!,” I couldn’t think of anything to
say. I stammered, “What a... fantastic... mixture. I can’t imagine anything more...” I wanted to say “romantic,” but held my
tongue. She looked into my eyes
intently, as if she were studying my face for a sign of duplicity. The little girl had finally descended the
stairs and walked towards us. I said,
boldly, “Half Greek, a quarter Jewish
and a quarter Indian. I can’t believe
it. And you are ashamed of your
ancestry?”
It
seemed as if no one had ever talked to her like that. I looked at the little girl. “Are you a hundred percent Greek?”
She
looked up at me with innocent eyes and said, very proudly, “I’m Greek.”
“No
you’re not, stupid. You’re only half
Greek.” The little girl shrank
back. The big girl closed her eyes and
said, “Her father’s Irish.”
I
couldn’t restrain myself and I said sharply,
“Look. I don’t like the way you
talk to this beautiful little girl.”
The
little girl looked up at me with adoring eyes.
I continued in the same tone,
“You should be proud of yourself.
You have one of the best...
mixtures that anyone could ever wish for. But you don’t feel good about yourself so you
take it out on her.”
The
big girl stared at her shoes, but listened attentively. Just then, I remembered hearing her mother
scream at her and remembered that her name was Melissa.
A
car drove into the driveway. Melissa’s
mother was driving and another woman was in the passenger seat. They waved. The girls waved and then I
waved. The car disappeared around the
corner and went into an open garage. I
asked the little girl, “What’s your name?”
“Cindy.”
I
turned to Melissa. She wouldn’t look up
from the ground. I said, “Melissa.”
She
didn’t seem surprised that I knew her name.
“Yes.”
“I
don’t ever want to hear you talk to Cindy like that again.”
There
was nothing angry or threatening in my voice.
I was more like a gentle question.
She was silent. I said, “Do you
understand?”
“Yes.” Her answer was perfunctory.
“Look. She is just a little girl. You can’t be expected to want to play with
her, but you don’t have to treat her badly.
Remember what I told you about the Greeks and Jews and Indians. You come from a...” I couldn’t find words
that she would understand. I said, “Don’t ever forget what I said. And try to make an effort to learn about your
ancestors.”
She
looked up at me with glittering, almond eyes.
I looked over her head and saw her mother and the other woman getting
out of the car. I said, “Feel good about yourself and treat her well
too.”
I
looked down at her fat arms and thought that what I had said was useless and I
imagined that she hated me for being a self-righteous, pretentious, moralizing,
bastard. I was surprised when she said,
with feeling, “All right.”
The
women walked towards us and we waited for them to reach us. Her mother wouldn’t meet my eyes, but looked
at the ground trying to formulate a question but without success. She said, “What’s...?” Her voice was cheerful, curious. We had talked over the fence a few times
already. I remembered that her name was
Adrienne.
“We’re
just having a little conversation. Your
daughter tells me you’re Greek?”
She
said, “Don’t pin that label on me. She’s Greek.”
She
nodded towards the other woman who said,
“I’m the Greek in the crowd.”
Cindy
said, “I’m Greek too.”
Her
mother interjected, “You’re only half
Greek. See this black hair?” She grabbed her own hair and held it
out. She pointed to Cindy’s blond
hair, “You call yourself Greek with hair
like that?”
Cindy
looked disappointed. I had seen the
woman before. From a distance, I thought
she was pretty but standing three feet away from me, she was far more than
pretty. She ran her fingers through her
daughter’s blond hair while I meditated on raven hair set off against olive
skin. Cindy noticed my fascination with
a surreptitious, approving smile. I
glanced at the woman’s wedding finger.
No ring.
I
said, self-mockingly, “Actually I was
lecturing them on the Greatness of the Greeks.”
“Oh
no, not another one of those,” she said to Adrienne and moved backwards. “The
last time I dated one of those it ended in a disaster.”
I
laughed with delight at the unanticipated prospect and said, “Well, I guess I don’t have a chance then.”
She
eyed me cautiously. Adrienne looked
disappointed.
“I’ve
only seen you a few times,” I said
clumsily. I didn’t want to lose the
opportunity. “My name is Jack.”
Adrienne
said, “Oh, I’m sorry.
I should have introduced you.
Helen .. Jack.”
Helen
pointed to Melissa. She said, “Her father is my cousin. Melissa baby sits for me sometimes.”
Melissa
colored slightly. Helen noticed with a
slight, uncomprehending grimace. Cindy
looked up at her with large, glistening eyes but didn’t say anything. The three of us shared our secret in silence.
Adrienne
said, “Tell me what is so great about
the Greeks. No, on second thought, don’t. I don’t think I could stand it.”
Helen’s
eyes met mine and with our eyes fixed together, I said, “The Greek civilization was the greatest
civilization that ever existed.
Everything that we have today comes from the Greeks. Everything.”
Demurely,
Helen averted her eyes. I looked at
Adrienne. “Your daughter tells me you’re
half Jewish.”
She
looked askance at Melissa. I said, “The Jews are the other pillar of Western
civilization.”
Helen
said derisively, “In that case Melissa
ought to be a genius.”
Melissa
scowled at the mocking irony and said,
“I get A’s and B’s in school.”
Adrienne
said, “She’s gonna be a doctor, aren’t’
you pumpkin.”
“A
surgeon.” She closed her eyes and puffed
herself up with pride.
Helen
said to Cindy, “Comon weener, I’ve got to
get you home.”
I
tried not to look disappointed and her daughter noticed. We smiled knowingly at each other.
She
said, “Maybe you ought to wait outside.”
“Why?”
“Well,
she’s not used to you. You might
intimidate her.”
I
was surprised because she had insisted that I come along. “Well, if you really think I would ... make
her uncomfortable.” There was a
silence. I said, “I help a lot of women do their shopping when
I drive cab. Well, not really. I mean...
well... almost every afternoon I help women bring in their groceries
into their apartments. Sometimes I even
help them put away the food.”
Actually
I hated doing it because it took far too much time and the women were always
poor and I never made more than fifty cents doing it.
She
began a long silence but interrupted it brusquely, “Oh, it won’t hurt her.”
Sally’s
room was in a very large wood frame house in the old Brooklyn Heights area of
Oakland, one of the mansions that wealthy San Franciscans had built there, in
the 1870s and 80s, to escape the unhealthy climate of San Francisco. During the Great Depression, these same
people had moved to
White
paint was peeling from the large front wall and the yard was completely
overgrown. We walked up wooden stairs
that were patched and creaking and dangerously close to collapse. Sally opened the door and didn’t see me
standing there off to the side. We
followed her from a distance, down a long, dark corridor towards the door to
her kitchen. She gave
“Oh. This is my boyfriend, Jack. Jack, this is Susan Cora.”
The
woman didn’t say anything. She peered up
at me and her face was flushed and her large breasts strained against her white
sweat shirt. She was about five foot two and her breasts looked enormous in
contrast with her small body. The baby
started to cry. Florence went over to the
high chair, cooing, “Oooo. Whatsa matter little baby...”
He
let out a violent scream.
The
woman screamed, “Get away from
him!” She rushed over to him and said,
“he’s scared of strangers.” She picked
him up and walked around the kitchen with him.
He calmed down a little but continued to whimper. His eyes never left
I
smirked and couldn’t help looking at her crotch in disdain. Florence turned to face her, and standing at
my side, looked into her eyes masochistically.
She asked, in a wavering voice,
“Do you have your list?”
The
woman leered at me and then looked at
“It’s
kinda small,”
The
woman looked embarrassed but her eyes didn’t look away from
The
baby had been looking at
She
wheeled around and walked back towards the table. She screamed,
“Shut up! Stop it. You’re driving me crazy!” With a violent push, she stuffed him down
into his chair and he stopped crying immediately, giving all of his attention
to his legs so that they wouldn’t be smashed against the chair. When he was seated, he looked across at
Florence
said to me, in a low voice, “We’d better
go, I think you’re scaring the baby.
He’s not used to men.”
We
trundled down the hall, noisily and self-consciously. Walking towards the Volvo, I was surprised
that I had descended the stairs as if trying to break them, impelled by my
anger for this cunt-eating bitch with her fatherless baby, to demolish the entrance
to her home.
In
the car,
“What
did I do?”
“What
did you DO? Didn’t you hear that baby?”
“What
did that have to do with me?” She was
silent. I said, “I mean, I didn’t even look at it.”
“Well. Something was different.”
We
drove to the Safeway grocery store in silence.
I asked, “Do you think she is a
lesbian?”
“Well,
she has a BABY doesn’t she?”
That
didn’t seem relevant to me so I didn’t answer.
She
said, “Well, she’s never made a pass at me.”
“Oh. I don’t know.
She seemed a little...
Uh...” I looked over to see if
she had caught my meaning. She hadn’t. I asked,
“Didn’t you think she looked at you kinda funny a couple of times?”
“No. Not really.”
She began a long, silent thought process and I didn’t interrupt
her.
From
the car window I could see the Lakeside Hotel.
It faced the
“Huh? Oh.
Yeah! You mean that everybody is
trying to seduce you.”
“That
isn’t exactly it really. But it’s close
enough.”
Everything
seemed absurd again and Reason seemed a tarnished jewel in a crown thrown into
the gutter. I saw myself reaching to
pick it up. I said, “Well, why don’t we drop it.” and I broke
into a giggle at the clash of images.
“What’s
so funny?”
“Nothing
really. It would be too hard to
explain.”
We
drove on in silence. After a while I
said, uncomfortable with the silence and just trying to make conversation, “You know how the Black Panthers are always
saying ‘Right On’?”
She
answered ironically, as if I were talking down to her, “Yeah, I think I’ve heard the expression
somewhere.”
“Well,
I know you’ve heard the expression but I was going to ask you if you knew where
it comes from.”
“They
probably made it up.”
“Well,
you won’t believe this, but I think they took it from Shakespeare. I’ve seen it in several places in Shakespeare
and I’ll bet
“I
doubt it. He isn’t that smart.”
“Not
true. He’s very smart, he just isn’t trained academically.”
“Comon
Jack. He’s a gangland thug. He doesn’t read Shakespeare.”
“OK
then, how about the expression, ‘Do your own thing’? Do you think
She
was cautious this time and said, “That’s
more his style. I’m sure he made that
up. It sound’s pretty stupid.”
I
jumped all over her, “Aha! I got you.
It was Emerson who said it.”
“You’re
still angry aren’t you?”
“No,
not really,” I said it with little
conviction.
“Once
you get into an argument, you just never let it end. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Well,
maybe I AM angry.” I didn’t really think
I was angry, but I thought it would be a good idea to continue talking about
the woman. “It looked like that woman
was really after you.” I paused to look
at her and then continued, “Would you
like it if you thought I was a homosexual?”
“No,
but it’s only because you’re with me. If
we weren’t together and you fell in love with either a woman or a man, it
wouldn’t make any difference to me.”
“Oh
sure.”
Her
answer took me by surprise. She
said, “I told you that I think there is
no difference between men and women.”
“Well,
I still think that’s crazy.”
“You’re
a male chauvinist.”
“I
am not a male chauvinist.”
She
steered the Volvo into the Safeway parking lot.
Her face was flushed. She said,
“Ugggh.”
I
thought, “Fuck it.” I said,
“Look, I’m tired of arguing.”
She
said, “You are the one who’s doing all
of the arguing. Stop arguing.”
“All
right. But I want to get to the bottom
of your ideas on sex and homosexuality.
I don’t like to be silent about things like this. It will just poison
our relationship.”
She
yelled, “I’d like to get to the bottom
of your ideas on homosexuality.”
We
got out of the car. I yelled back, “I can’t stand the idea of shopping for that
pint sized whore.” She glared at me. I said,
“Look, I need some stuff for myself.
Do you mind if I shop by myself?”
“Be
my guest.”
“I’ll
meet you back at the car.”
She
stomped off.
I
bought a very juicy filet mignon steak that cost $2.35, and I felt guilty. I justified the exorbitant price by telling
myself that it would serve for two dinners.
Then I remembered that it was stupid to feel guilty about food and I
bought a Maine lobster tail, a sweet smelling Crenshaw melon, a jar of caviar,
a six pack of San Miguel light, a couple of fifty cent cigars, a Scientific
American magazine, a pack of fresh shrimp, a large tomato and a head of
lettuce. The bill came to almost twenty
dollars but I didn’t give a damn. I
knew that Florence was going to a party that night anyway and she wanted to go
alone. I would need to make my own
dinner.
I
sat in the car waiting for her to finish shopping, thinking that our
relationship was probably ending anyway and that I was just reconciling myself
to it with my feast. But when she came
out of the store, pushing the cart towards the car, I could see the sad look in
her face from forty feet away and I knew that she wanted to make up. I was far more relieved than I thought I
should be. I got out of the car to help
her.
She
said, with difficulty, “I’m sorry. I’ve been acting like an idiot all day.” She didn’t look at me.
I
said, “It’s all right. I’ve been pretty bad myself.” I didn’t believe it, but I said it
anyway. I was evasive when she asked
what I had bought. “Oh, nothing. Salad, a steak. Some fish.
The usual stuff. I’ll be making
my own dinner tonight.”
“Well,
I was going to ask you if you wanted to come with me to the party tonight.”
I
contemplated the feast in the bag. If I
went to the party, it would be a day old when I ate it. She
said, “The party is being thrown in
honor of a woman who is so far out, so fantastic that I think you will really
be glad for a chance to meet her.”
“I
thought the party was going to be all women?”
She
didn’t say anything. I knew she was only
trying to make up and that men weren’t supposed to come to the party. I said,
“Don’t worry about it. I mean I
won’t be jealous or anything. I didn’t
plan on going. I know it’s going to be
all women.”
“Well,
when I was in the store, I decided that it’s wrong to exclude men. I thought about it for a long time.” She looked up at me solemnly. “I think you should be able to come if you
want to.”
“Oh,
well.. They would all resent me and
probably be mad at you and blame you for letting me come.”
“I
don’t care.”
I
reached over and put my hand on her shoulder.
I said, “Hey. I forgive you. I still love you.”
She
laughed and we hugged each other awkwardly in the car.
“I
really do want you to meet her. You have
to meet her. She’s beautiful,
intelligent and the nicest and most sensitive person I have ever met.”
“Well,
I don’t see how I can refuse that.”