“I wouldn’t think of it.”
But I would.
Constantly.
CHAPTER 15
FARZAD ONCE USED the term “the threaded life.” I was deeply intrigued, but because he was at the time deeply engaged in insulting me and my tribe—quite creatively, if I remember correctly—I had no chance of interrogating the underlying etymology. Today I try again.
“Farzad, what did you mean when you used the phrase ‘the threaded life’?”
“I would never use such a phrase.”
“You did.”
“I pride myself on clarity and essentialism. This is not a phrase used by a person of my breeding. Besides …”
“Besides what?”
“Besides, I have decided to stop making fun of your Jewish heritage.”
“OK. Why?”
“It no longer bothers you.”
“No, it doesn’t. Can I start making fun of your Muslim heritage?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“We tend to put people who make fun of us to the sword. It’s in the Qur’an somewhere, I think.”
“Ah, OK. What’s this got to do with the threaded life?”
“I do not know. What is the threaded life? What are you talking about?”
We are walking in Griffith Park in the Hollywood Hills, between the Hollywood sign and the observatory, a beautiful public space of brave small desert flora and sharp canyonesque hillsides and soaring views, somewhat tainted by a reputation for rutting men behind rocks, where apparently anonymous gay sex is the order of the day. We have never come across anyone, but we will keep trying. Farzad’s dog, a scrawny nervous creature of indeterminate origin, is straining on the lead.
“So … I engineered a road trip with Grace.”
Farzad nods sagely.
“This is good. Where are you going?”
“To Berkeley to see Innocent.”
“Ah. And is some part of you still attracted to Grace? Besides your microscopic penis.”
“Yes, most of me. And my dick is not small, by the way. Bet it’s bigger than yours.”
“There are no penises bigger than mine outside of Tehran. How do you think I got to marry the blonde American cheerleader? I have already told you, you suffer from penis envy. Trust me, I am a psychologist. How did you engineer this trip?”
“I lied a little.”
“And why would you be attracted to Grace now, nearly twenty years after you left her?”
“I think I may have made a mistake.”
“Meyer, you know what your problem is?”
“What?”
“You live a poorly composed threaded life.”
I say nothing, not wanting to break the spell. His dog, improbably named Great Satan, gives a short bark and stops.
“Ah—there must be two rutting men behind that rock. Perhaps you should go and show them your little penis, Meyer.”
I remain silent. I am getting quite good at extracting free wisdom from Farzad. The key is an infuriating lack of response from me. He cannot bear that; he has to play the pedant.
“There are some people who live lives constructed like wondrous tapestries. They integrate their many relationships, their work, their hobbies, their internal lives, and their family—all different colored threads. And among them there are those who can be guided to step back, raise themselves up, and gaze down on this piece of art they have woven. An ability to do this requires a sort of objectivity that most people do not have. The ability to separate the external from the internal, the real from the illusory. To grasp the integrated whole, rather than to fret and worry about one or two misplaced tiny threads that disappear into the grand composition of a life. These people are mentally healthy, they require no guidance. You, of course, are not one of these people.”
“I’ll have you know I have an excellent ability to—”
“Shut up, I’m not finished. Your threads are, in no particular order of importance: Grace, Innocent, Bunny, Isobel, Krystal, your music, Van, your job, the CEO, your band members, and …”
“And you.”
“Shut up, I’m not finished. I do not qualify as a thread. That is because I am the omniscient narrator of your life and well above being a mere thread. Now, where was I? Right. So these threads, of which I have mentioned just a few of many, including your shameful private parts, have coalesced into a tapestry that you are unable to see. I, however, can see it clearly. It is spectacularly unattractive, could not adorn a wall even in the most modest dwelling. I strongly suggest that you unravel the threads and reweave it into a composition with balance, structure, and beauty. Then you will become self-actualized and happy. And your penis will grow.”
Yes, this is what I wanted to hear. I will reweave.
The conversation with Krystal unravels faster than a poorly woven tapestry.
“You’re driving with Grace?”
“Yes, she was going anyway. Innocent invited her too.”
“Are you still attracted to Grace?”
“For goodness sake, Krystal. We’ve been divorced nearly twenty years. I am ride-sharing. We are going to visit our son.”
“Where are you sleeping?”
“I booked a room at a B&B.”
“Where is Grace sleeping?”
“I don’t know. Maybe she booked a B&B too.”
“Where?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“You’re a liar, Meyer.”
“I don’t know where she is staying. What are you implying?”
“I am implying that you want to fuck your ex-wife.”
“Oh, please, Krystal.”
“You see Grace maybe once a year. Now you’re driving together. Sleeping in the same bed.”
“For fuck’s sake. I have my own room, she has hers.”
“Oh, so now you are staying in the same B&B.”
“I don’t know. Maybe. She may have mentioned it.”
“Why are you lying to me?”
“Am not. Not intentionally.”
“This relationship is fucked, Meyer. Fucked.”
“That’s a different discussion.”
Like most red-blooded American males, I shy away from confrontations with girlfriends. I am not a temper-losing sort of guy and, in the absence of that, there is simply no way to negotiate a relationship argument to a firm conclusion with a smart modern woman. What happens, generally, is that the male is requested to change his behavior and to share his feelings more. That’s it. The sum total of gender politics in the new millennium. Change your behavior, and share your feelings more.
Clearly, Krystal is soon going to be an ex-girlfriend. I would rather she waits until I have rewoven the threads of my life.
CHAPTER 16
“I AM GOING to visit my son this weekend. I need to take Friday off. Maybe Monday too.”
The CIO strokes his ugly goatee, which I have always wanted to rip off with a pair of pliers. He is my manager, so I need his approval.
“Meyer, this is very short notice. I don’t know.”
His name is Bryn. The name alone should have ensured that he was banished to the edges of society, there to be subjected to eternal ridicule. But somehow, presumably through pure ass-lickery, he has risen to CIO. Chief information officer. This is a title that came to prominence in the 1980s, when CEOs realized that they knew nothing about computers and needed somebody to pretend that they did, so that they could hide behind deniability. Like most CIOs, Bryn is an idiot who thinks that computers were built to assist accountants.
“Bryn, sign the leave form.”
“Meyer, you are on thin ice here. I will sign this leave form if I feel it is justified. I will have to talk to the CEO.”
“Listen, you spineless technophobe. Sign the leave form or else I will fuck your wife and put it on YouTube, and release your identity to the Russian cybermafia.”
He thinks I am being funny and laughs. A little haltingly.
Being a techno whiz
at a large company bestows one with outsized power and reckless courage.
“Bryn, my dick is bigger than yours.”
He looks at me nervously. Am I making a pass at him? Being ironic? Making a joke? Presenting a larger metaphor? Talking in riddles?
He folds. “OK, just this once.”
Bryn was promoted to be my boss a few years ago. He is somehow connected to the CEO via one of the CEO’s ex-wives, mistresses, or girlfriends. I suspect the job was a payoff of some kind, a favor to keep a mistress from opening her mouth, presumably about some unspeakable, disgusting, and probably illegal sexual aberration that the CEO wanted kept under wraps. Bryn had taken a few courses in Computer Science at some community college and had worked as a something or other in a small company, making sure the disks were backed up or something. This apparently qualified him to join our IT department and then to quickly ascend to CIO, where he spends most of his time trying to hide his ignorance, mainly by being a so-called consultative manager, which allows him to remain clueless, delegating important decisions to more knowledgeable underlings. It is not possible to hate Bryn. However, it is possible to gain some pleasure in flaunting his ignorance.
“Hey, Bryn, have you read about this new computer from SAP?”
“SAP makes hardware?”
“Yeah, they do now. It is a tablet about the size of Apple’s, has a 20GHz processor, and most impressively, a petabyte of RAM. Resolution of the display is 4K with a holographic option, and it has integrated Bose speakers. And, get this, it is free with the purchase of SAP software.”
“God, that’s impressive. Where did you see this?”
“I’ll send you the report. It’s confidential, so don’t show anyone. I’ve signed a nondisclosure.”
The CEO calls me an hour later.
“Meyer, I want one of those SAP tablets.”
“SAP is a software company, sir.”
“Bryn says you have a report on a new tablet of theirs. 4K screen resolution.”
“He must be mistaken, sir.”
Bryn storms into my office.
“Did you bullshit me about SAP?”
“It’s possible that they will make a tablet one day. I was just speculating.”
“Jesus, Meyer, I told the CEO.”
“Always check your facts, Bryn.”
I feel guilty, which always passes, but I decide to take him to lunch, as a peace offering. We head out in Bryn’s fancy Acura. He hits the CD button. The speakers spring to life. There are four guitars, no other instruments. It is a version of a classic Hendrix song, the name of which escapes me. It starts off simply, one guitar stating the melody, high on the neck, then joined by another, whispering the chords, a third playing a simple one-five bass, and a fourth sprinkling midrange embellishments, no more than three or four notes at a time. It is haunting.
Then, as the melody comes around again, the song starts to morph, the chords now stepping out of their original clothes and modulating from a major to a minor key, with the melody bending to accommodate itself to its new environment. The bass runs double up, walking the new scales while the fourth guitar changes the short note spicing to long bending leading tones, lifting the melody into a near hymn.
The top comes around again and the fourth guitar moves into a Bach-like counterpoint, arpeggios enveloping the melody, which has changed shape again, now only an echo of the original. The chords too have opened up, their voicings stretched wider than standard form, sometimes across nearly three octaves. The bass has changed personality too, now sustaining bar-long fortissimo root notes, a foundation of deep resonance.
It is astounding. The arrangement reverses, languidly returning to the simplicity of the original Hendrix composition, the guitars slowly returning to the textural fingerprint of the great guitarist, until only one guitar remains, playing the last eight a cappella, the final note ringing out and slowly fading.
“Jesus, Bryn. I didn’t know you had taste in music. Who in the hell was that?”
“That was me.”
“What?”
“I play a bit of guitar. Overlaid a few tracks.”
“Bryn, tell me you’re kidding.”
“No, it was me.”
He is grinning shyly.
“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING TRYING TO BE A FAKE CIO? WHERE DO YOU PLAY, WHO DO YOU PLAY WITH? ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?”
“Nowhere. Nobody. I do it for myself.”
“Bryn, I play on weekends with my band, which is pretty good. Please come and sit in. Please. We do … well, all sorts of stuff. You’ll fit right in.”
“Nah. Thanks, though. I do it for myself.”
I stare at him for a long while.
“Bryn, you are one weird motherfucker.”
“Thanks.”
You never really know about people. In time, they will always surprise you.
CHAPTER 17
I ARRIVE AT Grace’s apartment exuberant, kit bag over my shoulder, like a teenager on spring break. She lets me in this time, handing me a mug of coffee as she retreats into her room to refine some last-minute packing. I wander around the small, tidy living room and kitchen looking for evidence of something. I spy an old, very small photo on the mantle—Grace and me and a tiny bundle of Innocent, bewildered face peering out of a confusion of swaddling. Grace is grinning manically. I look a little worried, which I was and clearly still am. I recognize the photo, but I don’t remember the circumstances or photographer. I am gratified that there is some evidence of what used to be us in her daily field of vision.
I circle the room again, drilling one click down to a more sophisticated snoop. Envelopes, books, magazines, tabletops, fridge. No gun magazines, no beers, no books on sports celebrities, no socks, no equity reports, no smell. No evidence of any improprieties that I can divine. Meaning, obviously, any recent tumescent male visitors.
“You looking for signs of recent tumescent male visitors?”
She knows me well. And it appears that she has been watching me for a while.
“Who, me?”
“He left this morning after I told him I simply couldn’t bear to have another orgasm.”
I stand there like an idiot, hoping she is not only exaggerating, but fabricating completely.
Grace drives a rattling old Honda, most likely purchased for its miserly fuel consumption, which I suspect is no more environmentally friendly than any other car, given the wheezes and rattles that it consumptively emits. We navigate our way onto Route 1, having decided to take the scenic route. It is 8:30 a.m. Grace leans forward and flicks on National Public Radio to catch Morning Edition. As Renée Montagne, the authoritative cohost of this eloquent institution, gently intrudes, I lean back in the seat and close my eyes. It is an indication of something, I decide, that a publicly funded entity in a capitalist superpower can be this good. Government supported, further bolstered by grateful listener contributions, this radio station is nonpareil, except perhaps for the heyday of the BBC. Nobody gets rich here. Radio journalists and announcers are paid modest professional salaries; the temptations of great fortunes in stock options and inflated bonuses do not intrude, leaving pure and unsullied reportage, smart and deep, the best of the best. In darker moments, when I consider the certainty of my being blinded one day by some black swan accident involving industrial solvents, I am comforted by the fact that I would always have Ella Fitzgerald, Steely Dan, Stravinsky, and National Public Radio. Life would be bearable.
We listen for a while. It is like old times, the short golden period when all was possible. Me, Grace, the baby. The walls of life were not visible then, obstacles and barriers puny. Any direction we chose to take was clear and infinite. And then doubt crept in, my own inventions, I suspect. That’s the problem with youth. It creates so many options that we immediately start comparing them, and that’s the end of it. Somebody once mentioned that a study concluded that arranged marriages in, um, “less democratic societies” are more solid, more successful and happier than free cho
ice marriages in the US, beacon of individual liberty. Back then, with Grace, I now wish some stern and rigid and aged elder would have presented me with an arranged life. I simply would have got on with it, built something that mattered, at least to Grace and Innocent. But no, we exploit our freedoms and end up lost in choice.
“What’s new with you, Meyer? How are your other families?”
That stung.
“Isobel is a smart, funny, and disobedient teenager, all insurrection and attitude. But fine, thank you. And you, what’s new?”
“I’m going back to Zimbabwe next month for a visit. Dad is ill.”
“Shit, I’m sorry. Your mom?”
“Old. Broken.”
There is a small rent in her voice, like a tearing of silk.
“That’s awful, Grace.”
“Life didn’t turn out the way they expected.”
“I’m not sure if it ever turns out the way anyone expects.”
“No, it was worse for them. They had a way of life. A little farm that actually produced stuff for sale. Friends. A loyal dog. They were good people.”
She falls silent. We were lightweight back then. We never really had concerns of consequence, other than Innocent. We could opine and speculate from a distance. There was no real adversity, no need to test our mettle. Sadly, eventually life submits to its own gravitas. She wants to talk. So I wait for her.
“Then it all dropped away, piece by piece. Mugabe’s thugs killed the dog, then took the farm, neglected it into ruin. I left to live in a place halfway around the world. Their savings were simply emaciated by inflation. Friends fled to the gray skies of England. They bought a small apartment in Harare and sat and watched rented videos while their dreams, I don’t know, simply withered and died.”
“I suppose they could have left.”
“They didn’t have the money to leave. They just sort of stayed, hoping it would get better, or at least not worse, hoping there was still room for White Africans. There isn’t.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I feel guilty. I should have been there while all of this was happening.”
The great regret of all dutiful children in a diasporic world. We say goodbye to our parents, and then move on, like animals in the wild. It is the curse of modernity. We want what is over there, not here. Here is boring. We want to be out of sight of both parental opprobrium and pride as we head out to try our hand.
Imperfect Solo Page 8
