Warren Adler's Blog, page 4
April 20, 2018
April 18, 2018
Karen Day
When I was sixteen, I wrote my first novel. It was two hundred pages and included one dead mother, one alcoholic father, a gaggle of complicated (and tragic) friends, an unrequited love with a cute boy/football player and a main character who is sent to a Rocky Mountain drug rehabilitation center to recover from her horrendous misfortunes. I spent a year writing and was so committed that I neglected friends and school, nearly flunking out of sophomore biology, as I rushed home to lock myself in my room every day. At the time, I had no idea what precipitated this writing fever nor did I understand its origins (my mom was alive, my dad was a teetotaler and I’d never been to Colorado or a drug rehabilitation clinic). All I knew was that writing made me feel something I’d never felt before. Excited. Independent. Amazed. Determined. And later, as I began to understand why I chose my material, I felt nurtured. Taken care of. Understood. Writing as therapy is not unique to me. Most fiction writers experience a version of this. But as a young girl, growing up in a small, Midwestern town with no psychotherapists in sight, writing was a life saver.
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April 13, 2018
My Salute to Librarians
Happy #NationalLibraryWeek!
From the moment I entered the hushed, sacred precinct of the Brownsville Children’s Library in Brownsville, Brooklyn, back in the mid-1930s, I have been a passionate advocate of the public library.
My most profoundly joyous memory is walking through the crowded, noisy, aroma-filled atmosphere of Sutter Avenue, between rows of pushcarts selling anything edible and wearable, on my way to that vine-covered magic castle of books. It was like crossing a moat from the reality of a contemporary world of struggle and strife to a paradise of storytelling, which opened infinite possibilities and aspirations in a young boy confronting a strange and scary future.
Most delectable was the homeward journey, back over the same route, but this time heavy with the anticipation of reading the books I was carrying in my arms. I lived with the illusion of stamped library cards piling up until I had read every book in the library designated for my age group. I think I got pretty close.
That love affair with libraries inspired a lifetime of heavy patronage in every part of the country I have lived. In my twelve-year stay in Jackson Hole, WY, I helped shepherd our lovely little library from a log cabin, into what is now one of the best modern libraries in the Midwest. I was enormously proud to serve as its president.
It was a real battle to create a modern library in Jackson Hole. The entrenched political hierarchy was against change, and it took an extraordinary amount of time and creative energy to convince those who held the purse strings that a library was no longer merely a place for books, but a community asset, a meeting place, and an intellectual center.
I have always been madly in love with librarians, a noble profession of dedication of the highest order. In my long career as an author, librarians have been integral to my writing process. They have provided assistance in research and additional support. Even something as basic as a Google search, while an essential tool for an author, is not as enjoyable and effective as working alongside a knowledgeable librarian.
Librarians also offer the public a fantastic filter and provide them with books that are the most meaningful to both the community as a whole, and to those dedicated readers, regardless of income, for whom the pursuit of entertainment, insight, and knowledge through books, is as essential as the air we breathe.
These extraordinarily dedicated librarians have faced enormous challenges of funding and priority resetting in the face of monumental change. But this is nothing new for public libraries. They have always confronted challenges, including disinterested knuckleheaded politicians who do not understand the inherent value of these indispensable institutions.
As a kind of commercial adjunct to public libraries, there were once convenient neighborhood lending libraries found mainly inside stores selling greeting cards, stationery, and other paper products. They carried books chosen mostly from bestseller lists and rented them out to avid readers at a modest day rate.
My mother was addicted to such lending habits, and spent hours after her household chores reading. I would often find her, nose in a book, on a living room chair, deeply engrossed in such works of the imagination.
I applaud and celebrate reading fiction for pleasure, especially because of its importance as an activity in fostering an aware and civilized society. Authors, particularly novelists, are being economically squeezed as never before in our history. Believe me, it hurts to acknowledge this. In addition, there are too few filtering agents to assess the avalanche of novels coming into the pipeline. The traditional and respected evaluators of quality, like librarians, have largely disappeared, leaving behind a crowded turf of reviewers with varied sensitivities, tastes, and abilities who are trying valiantly to fill in the gaps.
While many of these reviewers are quite discerning, they are too fractionalized to offer a cohesive voice that can help propel an author towards the ultimate goal of discovery and, of course, book sales. Add to this obstacle a diminishing cadre of dedicated long-form readers of literature, books that do not fit into any genre, the NOVEL. Note the caps.
Of course, I am oversimplifying. The novel is an art form, and the clichéd image of the starving artist applies. To many authors, writing novels is their oxygen, but even the act of creation implies the impulse of finding willing adherents, meaning readers.
Librarians serve as prime filters of edifying reading material for the people they serve. Taxpayers fund them to purchase the books for the people they serve. The public library is the one truly bright spot for writers who brave the trials and tribulations of the industry. When authors are forced to give their works away for nothing in the fierce battle for recognition, there is no economic benefit to the writer. Only purveyors get a most precious commodity, i.e. a name in their databank, and a potential consumer for other products they offer on sale.
The author’s fiercest ally in the battle for human enlightenment is the librarian. I salute them all.
*originally published in Library Journal
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April 11, 2018
Jeremy Tiang
Growing up in Singapore, I was raised largely on books from the UK — a common enough experience in a former British colony. From a childhood diet of Enid Blyton and Beatrix Potter, I graduated to Jane Austen, Thomas Hardy and Philip Larkin. There were writers from Singapore too, but these were few and far between, and I never heard them spoken of in the same reverential tones as books from the British motherland. Yet, wonderful as these authors were, I never saw myself in their work. I began writing as a way of making sense of the world around me. Things have changed since then — there is now a thriving writing and publishing scene in Singapore, and many of our authors are making waves far beyond our shores. Nonetheless, Singapore is a young country, still building a sense of self, and there are many stories yet to be told. I hope to continue adding my voice to this growing narrative, and hope the day will come when Singaporean children have a body of literature to call their own, rather than having to borrow someone else’s.
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April 4, 2018
J.T. Ellison
I’ve been a writer since I could hold a pencil. As a child, I read voraciously, penned little poems and short stories. I wrote all through high school and college, planning for this to be my life, until a lone professor told me I wasn’t good enough to be published. It was the first time someone had ever told me my writing wasn’t good enough. I was the person everyone asked to edit their papers. I got straight As in every English class. My entire schooling from elementary on was structured around my facility with words.
And that one person derailed me entirely. I quit writing immediately, to the dismay of everyone around me. I took another path into my adult life, a career in politics. I got married. I worked in the White House and Department of Commerce and for Lockheed Martin. I wrote all the time, but technical writing, not creative. Not my heart.
I came back to the page in a moment of sheer duress. In 1998, we moved from D.C. to my husband’s hometown of Nashville. My 19-year-old cat died soon after, I couldn’t find a job, didn’t fit in enough to make friends, and I spent the first two years in a paralyzed state, watching copious amounts of television and feeling sorry for myself.
All that TV must have turned on my storytelling gene. I wish I remember why I decided to try to write again. I only remember the sheer joy, exhilaration, and relief when I did. I wrote a paragraph. Just one. But in my word-starved mind, it was beautiful, and when I put in that last period, I cried.
Fifteen years removed from that glorious reawakening, I am a happy full-time writer. My world now consists of constant deadlines. I’ve written 20 novels, have achieved many of my goals, and I feel so blessed, so lucky, to have this gift, to have it recognized by my readers.
I still get overwhelmed when I think of those eight years without words, though I firmly believe everything happens for a reason. I probably wasn’t good enough to get published when I was twenty. I probably wasn’t good enough to get published when I was twenty-eight. I landed my first book deal when I was thirty-six, and even now, 20 books in, I’m working hard to improve my craft, to get better, to level up each and every time.
What looks like a curse is so many times a blessing. I needed to live. To experience sadness. To travel. To be loved. All those components make their way into my work. Without that eight-year gap, I wouldn’t be the woman, the writer, I am today.
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March 30, 2018
THE “VEDDY” FORMAL DINNER PARTY: SOME HARROWING HINTS
“‘The ‘Veddy’ Formal Dinner Party’ is a satirical piece I wrote that was originally published in 1977 in Washington Dossier, the society magazine for the nation’s capital from 1975-1991 run by my wife and eldest son. Every page in the magazine reveals a different nuance of life during that era – revisiting this piece brought back a lot of fond memories. I couldn’t wait to share it with you and I hope you enjoy it.” -Warren Adler
And now we come to the litmus test of Washington society standing, the environment when real reputations are made or broken… The “veddy” formal dinner party.
If you blow this, all your dreams of grandeur, all those fantasies of power, all those grasping years of hunting for true glory, will come crashing down around your ears as if Samson himself had moved the pillars and you were left to rot among the dying Philistines.
The “veddy” formal dinner party is an event so rigidly choreographed and disciplined that one false move, the tiniest “faux pas” such as merely lifting the wrong fork will set you back so far you may never retrieve yourself, even if everything you do from then on will be absolutely correct.
There are two firm rules that you should adhere to if your expertise at these events is faulty. The first is to remain absolutely alert. If necessary take a nap before attendance. You will need all your faculties. Secondly, watch the hostess. She is the mastermind behind this entire event. Pray that she knows her onions. Assume that she does, then copy her. Do what she does. Watch her fingers. Pick up the utensils she picks up. Eat when she eats. Turn when she turns. When she sips, you sip. When she cuts her meat, you cut your meat. Do not get waylaid, no matter how interesting your partner’s conversation gets. Hope your peripheral vision is perfect.
Just in case you tend to short spans of concentration, let us take you through the ritual as if someone frightfully snobbish, a monitor, is standing over your shoulder. Let us assume that the invitation is correct and that you have replied correctly. You have circled the date. You have chosen your gown or formal dress suit and remembered to take it out of the cleaners.
If the invitation says come at eight, you have ten minutes of lead time only, depending on your rank. If you are a cabinet minister, fifteen minutes late is obligatory. There are only twelve of those, so the chances are you are outranked before you depart.
Don’t be later than ten minutes. Your apologies will only earn you demerits. If you have not got a chauffeur, be sure you find parking early enough so that you and your companion can arrive together. A drop off could earn you a demerit. Always enter together. That way, it will seem as if you have arrived by chauffeured limousine.
You will be greeted in the vestibule by a butler. He will show you the placement chart or wheel little cards placed around an imaginary table. Do not take the card from its rack. Do not groan or show any emotion when you learn who will be your dinner partner.
Even if you hate your dinner partner and the butler is not looking, do not change the arrangement. There are other place cards on the table. Suspend your animosities even if, by some accident, you are placed next to your wife’s lover or your husband’s mistress or your ex-wife. There can be no mortal enemies at dinner parties. Everybody must speak, even those who are not speaking.
If it is not raining and you are a woman, do not go to the ladies’ room for a touch-up upon arrival. It implies insecurity. The objective is to appear totally secure and cool at all times. Perform your ablutions immediately before leaving for the party.
Always greet the hostess first, even if one of the guests is your long-lost mother, the hostess is the star. She will be waiting to receive. A two- cheeker is an appropriate greeting. Greet the host next. If you are a man do not even give him a one-cheeker. The host will probably introduce you to all the guests. Don’t let your eyes wander looking for the bar. A waiter will pass drinks. Take only one and sip slowly. Remember that alertness counts. There will be enough wine served to float a battleship.
The pre-dinner cocktail is a half-hour, sometimes 45 minutes. It is the time to be complimentary only. Everybody must feel beautiful, well turned out. The hostess will be showing off her best crystal glasses and china, and you will be obliged to show yourself off to your best advantage. If any of the guests are tacky and ugly, lie to them.
You are not before a congressional committee. Everyone should stroke everyone else. From your earlier peek at the chart, you should have remembered your dinner partners on your left and right. If you haven’t, don’t run back downstairs to find out. Hope that your dinner partners recognize you. If both have forgotten, stay cool. You will find out soon enough.
When you run out of compliments, the weather is appropriate for conversation. Save the choice morsels for the dinner itself (you will need every conversational resource you can muster. You will be trapped with your partner for nearly two hours.) Don’t try to bridge this gap by calling your hostess in advance to find out who will be your dinner partner. That will finish you before you start and you might be uninvited.
Getting to the dinner table will not be intimidating if you watch the hostess. She will announce the beginning of the party by walking to the dining room on the arm of the ranking guest. Follow her casually. Hopefully, you can find your place without putting on your glasses, but that is highly unlikely no matter how much you remember about the seating plan. Ladies are seated first. The gentlemen stand until all the ladies are seated. This is the easiest part of the ritual if you can tell the men from the women.
Now comes the hard part: identifying all those forks and spoons and glasses arranged like soldiers around the center plate. The napkin will be simple. There is only one of those. Some of the utensils will appear quite strange. It’s not like a table setting at a restaurant, and the chances are unless you’ve been secretly practicing it will not be the kind of table setting at your usual home meals.
Knowing forks is the most critical piece of information at this juncture. This is because the fork will be the kick-off utensil. When in doubt, watch the hostess. If she’s an amateur the entire dinner will be a disaster, and you may lose brownie points because of guilt by association, a familiar Washington malady.
Start the conversation with the person on your right. Turn when your hostess turns to the person on her left. The hardest part is making conversation. There could be a spill-over of the compliments. When in doubt or at a loss for words, name drop shamelessly and hope that your partner might know some of the names you drop. You can then gossip about third parties by transferring the compliments to them.
There are of course certain dos and don’ts on conversation. At a diplomatic party, watch out for human rights. If you are Jewish at an Arab dinner avoid religion. If you are a Democrat at a Republican dinner avoid politics. If you are a white at an African-American dinner avoid race. Sex is fine, but avoid mixing it with either the fish or the meat dishes. Movies are good as last resorts before name-dropping. If you are dissatisfied with the president do not attack him, attack his press secretary or even Bert Lance. They are used to it. If you like the president and supported him in the election, slip in “Jimmy” occasionally when referring to him.
Do not tell off-color jokes. Time your anecdotes. If they run over two minutes shorten them. Avoid body contact with your partner especially under the table. Save any seduction sequence for a cocktail party.
The easiest place to become thoroughly bombed is at a formal dinner party. The wine never stops coming and it comes in every color. Chassagne-Montrachet with the opening seafood course. An old Madeira with the soup, Meursault with the fish. A fine Chateau or a Burgundy with the meat course and vegetables, Dom Perignon with dessert. Every sip will be quickly replaced.
Since you will be so busy watching the hostess, finding things to say to your partner, searching for the right fork or spoon, eating between conversations, worrying about slighting the dinner partner on either side by forgetting to divide your time, being nervous at the prospect of being called upon to make a toast, you will sometimes forget that the wine is still coming and wonder why your glass never empties.
This could have a domino effect, especially on your kidneys. It will not be easy to remove yourself from the table while the dinner is progressing. Even a full bladder could be interpreted as a flaw.
If you have not paced yourself, you can be either drunk or exhausted by the time dessert rolls around. But if you have arrived at this point with success you had better clear your head. Dessert can ruin you.
Before it is served you will be confronted by an odd little dish, it will be filled with liquid floating with a piece of lemon. It will be served on a plate and under the little bowl will be a doily.
Do not drink this liquid, even if it looks appetizing. Hostesses can be testing your mettle. Repeat: Do not drink. It is a finger bowl. But once you have hurdled that obstacle, another will immediately confront you. This is because you must now remove the finger bowl from the plate. That is the easy part. The problem is the doily. You see, the plate where this doily sits will quickly be used for some mushy variety of dessert, generally a mousse. Since you must serve it yourself from the waiter’s serving plate you can easily smear it all over the doily. Such a ”faux pas” is worthy of a flunking grade on its own. You must remove the doily from the plate with the finger bowl.
Some people have been observed placing the dessert in the finger bowl thinking it is some kind of sauce. Normally they die of mortification right at the dinner table.
Having reached this point without a hitch, you are probably thinking you have weathered all problems. Forget it. There are minefields ahead. First, there is the champagne. It will be served with the dessert. But watch out. It is strictly for the toasts. Others will argue that point. Don’t listen. Save it for the toasts. Do not fake it. If you are a teetotaling Muslim or a member of AA, lift your water glass. People will understand. If you are not one of these, lift your champagne glass and drink from it. Remember you are always under scrutiny.
Getting through the toasts will provide many anxious moments. Sometimes everyone at the table must make a toast. It is catching, like a virus. After you finish your dessert you will hear a light bell-like tinkle. It is the sound of silver on crystal. It is not the host showing off the fidelity of these articles, nor is it a signal to depart the table. It is merely an attention getter. The toasts are about to begin.
The methodology of toasts is quite rigid. The host will toast the guest of honor if there is one or the entire assembly or the country, or God, if he is so disposed. He will, of course, be complimentary, especially to the assembled guests who will be characterized as beautiful, especially the women, brilliant, especially the men, and warm, compassionate, friendly, all those things you secretly think about yourself. Don’t get carried away; “the devil” himself will come off as God’s equal in goodness.
The problem is in the response. If a country is mentioned, the ranking member of the government must rise and offer his own compliments. If any of the guests are mentioned by name, they too must rise but after the ranking government official. If the host’s toast is to the guest of honor, he or she must rise in response.
At diplomatic dinner parties, heads of state are woven into the toasts. You could easily find yourself toasting ldi Amin or Menachem Begin even if you are an Arab. Or King Hussein if you are Jewish or the Turkish prime minister if you are Greek. Do it. Nobody cares. Love everybody.
There will be much standing and raising of glasses. Your problem will occur when you are expected to make a toast. Especially if you are totally unprepared or drunk and up to now are hiding it well. Or you have indigestion. You cannot get away with it. People will notice the absence of your toast.
If you can manage to get your tongue loose, these simple pointers will stand you in good stead. By the time you rise, every conceivable subject will be covered except the chef and the parents of the host and hostess. This is absolutely safe ground. People will think you are clever, certainly unique. After all, without parents where would the host or hostess be, and without a chef, the whole evening would not have occurred in the first place. Even if an outside caterer is used and you have seen his truck in the back driveway, make believe you haven’t.
After the toasts, the host and hostess will lead you to a sitting room for coffee and after-dinner drinks. There is still a great deal of confusion about the proper way to handle this. Before women’s lib, it was perfectly appropriate to separate the men from the women, the women to freshen up and have coffee with the hostess, the men to stay at the table for brandy and cigars with the host.
If you have what the movement calls a “raised awareness,” you will be torn no matter your gender. It would be a shame to have gone this far and ruined everything by making a political stand. There is only one way to finesse this. Start with the group of your own sex, then “freshen up,” drifting back to the group formed by the opposite sex. If you are a woman, do not smoke a cigar. Eccentricities are fine except at dinner parties, where what is outside the norm is considered tacky.
There is one more admonition. If you have retained your alertness through all this, and it is most unlikely, the timing of your departure is crucial. If you leave before the honored guest, no matter how pressed for time, you have probably canceled your next invitation. Equally terrible would be to stay too long. Be deft. Watch your footwork and never stay beyond one hour after dinner. Even that might be too much, depending on your perception of the stamina of your host and hostess who will undoubtedly escort you to the door.
You may repeat the two-cheeker with the hostess and the host if you are a woman. If you are a man, you may be tempted to give the host a two- cheeker. You, by then, will be ecstatic that you have made it through the night and sincerely wish to show your affection. Don’t.
Leave with your companion. Walk slowly to the old Volks parked behind the big Mercedes a few blocks away and speed merrily home. Do not yell for joy until you have gotten out of your host’s neighborhood. If you have been perfect you will have reason to celebrate. If you have not been, do not get depressed. You were probably a last minute choice anyway.
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THE WARREN ADLER #WRITEON OFFICIAL VIDEO
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March 28, 2018
Joy York
My interest in storytelling first began as a child when I sat on my grandmother’s porch swing after the sun went down in rural Alabama. She captivated me with amazing tales of the supernatural, revenge, triumphs, love, and loss… all under the guise of truth. When my son was young, he begged me to tell him stories of adventures with fascinating characters. I managed to weave him into the stories to heighten his interest. It became such a passion for me, I found it impossible not write them down. Once I began writing, the words wouldn’t stop flowing.
Since my professional career was not in writing, I devoted all my free time to learning everything I could about creative writing by studying, reading, joining professional writing groups, and attending conferences and seminars. Four years ago, I left my 30-year career and began writing full-time. It is the most fulfilling thing I’ve ever done.
I have always heard that you write what you know and are passionate about, so that was what I did for my first young adult mystery. With elements of a coming of age story, the book allowed me to express and exorcise all the feelings of angst and emotional turmoil I felt as an insecure teenager. Hopefully, it will do the same for others.
I love the freedom of taking a story and characters wherever my imagination will lead them…although sometimes they surprise me and have a mind of their own!
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March 23, 2018
Read the Short Story “The Dividing Line” from NEW YORK ECHOES 1
Lavine was sitting in his East Side apartment reading the New York Times. From time to time he lifted his eyes to peer out the window, where across the street a glass-walled, spanking-new condominium was taking shape. His wife, Betsy, was sitting opposite reading the arts section of the Times. Occasionally she would glance upward and look at her husband.
“We’ll just have to get used to it,” she said.
She was, he knew, a pragmatic woman. She knew how to cope, make do, steer around controversy and, mostly, how to keep him content. He was, now that he was seventy-five, eager to find tranquility, a tough chore in today’s global environment. The news from everywhere was awful, a bill of fare of suicide killings, mass murders, car bombs, ethnic slaughtering, and terrorism fears.
They had been married twelve years now, and she was twenty years his junior. She was his former secretary when he was in full-time law practice, having worked for him for nearly fifteen years. The firm had a mandatory retirement age of sixty-five.
As his secretary, Betsy was exemplary, efficient, competent, and understanding. Their relationship was friendly and beyond reproach, even in his widowhood. Neither would have dared to violate the stringent new politically correct rules regarding office behavior.
With that stricture gone with his retirement, she swallowed her pride and approached him with both trepidation and courage.
“If you ever marry again, consider me as your perfect choice of wife,” she told him when he considered his future on the cusp of retirement. “I know all your faults and virtues. I know your business. I have spent more time with you than anyone you know. And…” She winked at him. “I have always loved you.”
Oddly, he was not shocked by the boldness of her assertion. He had always felt her special interest in him, and he harbored a vague attraction for her, even in his married days. She was, after all, quite attractive, with the kind of full figure he had always admired and she came to work perfectly groomed and attired in ways that set off her strong physical points. At times she had even entered his fantasy world, but he was too ethical, hidebound, and cowardly to open that window of action.
He did mull over her offer. With retirement came the loss of his work routine, which enhanced the loneliness of his widowhood. His two children were grown and lived on the West Coast and although he was still fit and not without sexual urges, he could no longer compensate with the ingrained habits and long hours of a fervent legal career. Nor was he in love with Betsy. Attracted, yes, but not, as he defined it, in love.
After retirement, they continued to see each other. She became available to sort his papers and continue to serve him in a business way. Without the conduct restrictions mandated by the firm, and the legal barriers imposed, they now socialized in dating mode, and with the boundaries broadened, they developed a relationship, meaning they became sexually involved. To him, it was a revelation. She was remarkably giving, uninhibited, adventurous, and exciting as a sex partner and it served its purpose as a profound bonding mechanism. Besides, they were already bonded in the practical ways of domestic cooperation.
At one point in their new relationship, Betsy suggested in her practical way, that he live with her for a trial period and see if it worked out. It did and they married. She smoothly transferred her secretarial skills to their domestic life and organized and comforted him and, as vanilla ice cream goes with apple pie, she completely revived his interest in sex. These days that pursuit was achieved with some pharmaceutical assistance. She interpreted her own healthy sexual appetite as making up for lost time. He was delighted and the process went a long way to further bond with her and by the miracle of chemistry and attraction, he fell in love with her.
Their life in Manhattan was filled with theater going, concerts, opera, lectures, and dinner in restaurants or with friends. He served on a number of not-for-profit boards, and she had her opera club and circle of female friends.
“It’s not that bad,” she told him, referring to the glass-walled condominiums. “Better than that heap of old brick.”
“That heap of old brick was built in the early thirties,” he said. “Like me. I hated to see it go.”
“The new condo is an improvement to the neighborhood,” she said in her gently persuasive way.
He started to concentrate on the Times again, then looked up at the emerging building.
“What is the dividing line?” he asked.
“The dividing line?”
“Between the old and the new. Relevance and irrelevance.”
“I don’t get it.”
“That’s because you’re transitional.”
Her forehead creased and her eyes narrowed, which was the way she often expressed skepticism.
“You’re fifty-five, a baby boomer. I preceded you by twenty years. You have a dividing line as well, but you’re not conscious of it.”
He knew he sounded like he was playing the wise man, a bit pompous and all-knowing, but he felt the need to illustrate what had started in his mind as a vague concept and was fast coming into full bloom as an important and essential truth. In an odd way, he felt that the two of them were transported into a New Yorker cartoon waiting for someone to write a caption.
“I was sitting in my doctor’s office last week. Picked up People magazine and I didn’t know a single one of the featured people, nor did I care. I can’t even name them.”
“Some of them are foreign to me as well. I do know some, the older ones.”
“At some point, the editors will phase them out. Like for example Eddie Cantor.”
“Who is that?”
“Who is Eddie Cantor? You’re kidding.”
“No. I’m not.”
“He was the biggest movie star and comedian in the early thirties. He had a wife named Ida and five daughters… I think it was five daughters. He was also on the radio every Sunday night along with Jack Benny, Charlie McCarthy, and Fibber Magee and Molly.”
“Sorry. I don’t remember. I wasn’t born until 1949. Who was Fibber Magee?”
He sighed and shook his head, showing an amused smile.
“My point about the dividing line. When do memories become irrelevant?”
“You mean when do they fade out from the collective memory?”
She seemed serious, but he had the impression she was humoring him.
“There has to be a dividing line, a point where living memory becomes merely history, where things have become obliterated and lost except to those whose memory is still alive. A point where what used to exist, buildings, neighborhoods, once famous actors and politicians, fade from memory and become mere history. Like my reference to Eddie Cantor and that old pile of bricks that has disappeared.” He pointed with his chin to the new condominium rising outside. “People fade away and die out and with them goes their memory.”
“I will always remember that pile of bricks that has disappeared,” he muttered. “Not for its aesthetic value, but for its being there.”
He knew he was groping for some clear way to express what he was suggesting and searched his mind for other examples. “Take theaters. The Loews Paramount, the Capital, the Roxy. All gone. And 52nd Street, Swing Street in my time. Leon and Eddie’s, the Downbeat Club. And 42nd Street. Grant’s, where you could get the best hot dogs, and all those movie theaters where you could go for a quarter and get a double feature.” He felt himself on a roll. “And Lindy’s, the real Lindy’s, and Shrafft’s, and the Third Avenue El, and the Fifth Avenue double-decker buses and trolley cars. The subway was a nickel. Take politics.” He mulled the thought for a moment.
“Who was Harry Truman’s vice president? And Fiorello LaGuardia. He was once a person, yet most people will remember his name merely as a New York airport.”
“Lots of airports, high schools, streets, towns, and colleges are named after people that no one remembers. I don’t know where you’re going with this.”
“I’m searching for the dividing line,” he said, somewhat testily. “Like when was the moment when the curtain went down on the memory of Eddie Cantor and the Roxy and the Paramount and double-decker buses.”
“And Harry Truman’s vice president. I know that one. It was Alben Barkley. I read McCullough.”
“Not fair. That was history. He was, by the way, referred to as ‘The Veep’.”
“So how many people now retain this bit of information as living history.”
“Life goes on, darling. People who knew Shakespeare and called him Willy or Will or Bill are long gone. Think of all the things that have disappeared, never mind people. My mother wore a corset and hung her clothes on the line. My father wore a fedora and chain-smoked cigarettes. What man wears hats, and only young idiots or fools smoke cigarettes. And the sun. No one told us you could get cancer from the sun.”
He nodded, went back to reading the Times, but he couldn’t concentrate and looked up again at the building going up. But the ideas they were discussing continued to hold his attention.
“I guess that’s why I love black-and-white movies of the thirties and forties. My time. I love to look at the details, the backgrounds. The clothes my mother wore, the décor and furniture, the telephones, the old appliances, the old cars, the slang. Words like scram and mug and sucker. Laurel and Hardy, the Marx Brothers, the Ritz Brothers. Jean Harlow. Do you know she died when she was twenty-seven years old? Imagine.” He felt a lump grow in his throat and unaccountably a sob began deep inside of him and, for a moment, his eyes teared. I am a sentimental old fool, he told himself.
He hadn’t realized that she was watching him.
“Remember, darling. I watched those with you, mostly for the stories. I love those old stories.”
“And I point out who those actors are?”
“Yes, you do.”
“I do appreciate your trying to enter my past. I love you for that.”
“Now I know why you called me transitional. You have twenty years of living memory on me. Someday my dividing line will come. My range of celebrities and memories will fade away from the public consciousness just like yours.”
“It’s all changed too damned fast,” he muttered. “You don’t even get much of a chance to savor it. And you don’t know how good it was until it’s gone.”
“Now you’re getting maudlin,” she admonished.
He ignored her criticism, knowing she was right.
“I can’t keep up,” he sighed. “Once I thought I was actually computer literate. I could do e-mail, use Word for my writings and briefs. I could read an Excel sheet. Now, just a handful of years later, all I know is fast becoming obsolete, old hat. I am falling behind. I feel overwhelmed by change. I find my greatest comfort in looking backward.”
They exchanged glances. Her gaze seemed alarmed. She sees my fear, he told himself.
“Did it ever occur to you darling, that things are better than they were? That you’re living longer, that we’ve grown smarter in some ways, what with all the technological advances. Did you ever see a computer in those old movies?”
“Maybe I’m just bitching about the changes that are happening so damned fast and as you grow older you become more and more irrelevant locked in some place and mindset that doesn’t exist anymore.” He rustled his paper and went back to reading the Times. “Look at this. Horror upon horror. Then again, we did have our horrors and bloodbaths. Of course, we didn’t have instant reporting back then and the reach of communications.”
He sensed he was heading for something more cerebral than emotional now, forcing himself into a lawyerly mode to justify his premise.
“You’re just looking at the surface of things, darling,” she said after a long silence. In her pragmatic way, she had been mulling over her own thoughts. “The more things change the more they remain the same.”
“Tell it to my mirror,” he chuckled.
“I mean human nature. The way we are. Our inner core. That never changes. No matter if that pile of bricks is demolished. External change happens, but through it all, we remain the same. As humans, we are constant in our emotions and our behavior. Like Shakespeare, who I just mentioned. You know why he survived for five hundred years? He knew the everlasting unchanging immutability of human nature.”
“My my,” he said chuckling. “You are so profound and eloquent today, my love.”
Suddenly she rose, left the room, and was back in a moment. She stood before him and opened her palm in which was a little blue pill, which he recognized, of course.
“Take this,” she whispered, bending over and kissing him on the lips.
“Finish your paper and contemplate your lost world over there for the next hour. Then I’ll illustrate how human nature hasn’t changed very much at all.”
He took the pill from her and swallowed it.
It might not be a complete answer, he thought happily, but she did have a point.
“By the way,” he said as she started to leave the room again. “Let me tell you who Fibber Magee was.”
She turned, looked at him, and, putting her hands on her hips, she straightened her posture in a mocking haughty and indignant manner.
“Frankly, Scarlett,” she said. “I don’t give a damn.”
Then she pranced out of the room. 
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