by STEVE MARTIN
So it was a complete accident that I stumbled into a party in my building, having inverted my floor number and gotten off at 21 instead of 12. Slipping past the first bloc of chatterers and avoiding the host, whom I identified through deduction, I flipped back the Oushak rug and counted the knots per square inch. These people had money. I heard snippets of conversation; words like feldspar and eponym filled the air. In the corner, a lone piper played a dirge. I knew where I was. This was a Mensa party.
That’s when I saw Lola. She had hair the color of rust and a body the shape of a Doric column, the earlier ones, preinvasion. She walked across the room carrying one of those rum drinks and endearingly poked herself in the face with her straw as she slid herself onto the blue velveteen sofa. If she truly was Mensa, she would have no problem with my introduction. “Please don’t relegate me to a faraway lea,” I ventured.
“I can see you’ve read Goethe, the Snooky Lanson translations,” she countered. “Lozenge?”
I was pegging her around 140. Her look told me she had put me in the low 120’s. My goal was to elevate her assessment and wangle a Mensa membership form out of her. Taking a hint from soap operas, I talked to her with my back turned while staring out a window. “Wouldn’t you rather parse than do anything?” I queried. “Hail Xiaoping, the Chinese goddess of song,” she rejoined.
Lola then engaged in some verbal sparring that left me reeling. “This is quite an impressive apartment,” she offered.
I saw a dictionary on its stand. Oh, how I longed to run to it and look up impressive! How I wanted to retort in Mensa-ese! I felt the dog look creeping over my face, but it was my turn, and I spoke: “I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult.” I threw my head back, laughing, coughed out my lozenge, and watched it nestle into the Oushak. She asked me my name. “Call me Dor.” Later, I realized I meant “Rod.”
Lola and I sat and talked through the night. After the party, I held her and whispered, “I love that you’re in Mensa.” She whispered back, “I love that you’re in Mensa too.” My temperature dropped to arctic. She told me her phone number, but since it was all sevens, I couldn’t remember it. Then she walked to the elevator, turned back toward me, and said, “We have to stop meeting like this.” Those words hit me like tiny arrows in the heart. That night, I cried and cried into my pillow. Eight months later, it was explained to me that it had been a joke.
Most things one wants in life come when they are no longer needed. My membership was awarded exactly one year later, when I applied and became an honorary Mensa “plaything.” Answering a brochure ad that came with my introductory packet, I went on a Mensa love boat trip to Bermuda. Embarking, I saw a woman standing aft, her back to me, bent slightly over the railing, looking very much the way a Doric column would look if it were bent over a railing. She turned and saw me, and I again saw my Lola. It was as though nothing had changed in a year, because we were both wearing the same thing we wore on that first night, still unwashed. She spoke: “Long time no see, Dor.”
I corrected her, gaining the upper hand: “My name’s not Dor.”
“What is it?” she asked.
“It will come to me.”
“Would you like to take a walk on the boat deck?” she asked.
Boat deck? Where is the damn dictionary when you need it?
She spoke: “I have only two years to live. Let’s enjoy them while we slaver.”
“Then slaver we shall, slaver we shall.” I took her hand and we turned eastward, toward the setting sun. “And by the way, I think my name is Rod.”
Michael Jackson’s Old Face
The things I could have said!
I would have loved being at a dinner party years from now, cocking an eyebrow at an old friend, while an invited guest whispered some choice gossip. I would have loved sending a silent message about someone I work with, by glancing down, a quiet smile breaking at the corners of my mouth, or by a tiny disapproving shake of the head. As my talent shifts in strength from year to year, I would have loved showing a wise acceptance of my successes and failures, with nothing more than a simple look. I would have liked entering a room and acknowledging an acquaintance with a nod, or snubbing an enemy, or withering a bitter critic with my indifference.
Luckily, I am able to have lunch once a week, at Jones’ Grill on Melrose, with Walter Matthau’s face and imagine how things might have been. Walter orders paradoxically, and his eyes shine as he looks over to include me in the joke. He then brings a smile to his face, which creeps irresistibly onto the waiter’s face, and the waiter then shuffles his feet and returns to Walter a sly look of respect. I order coldly, free of nuance. I have a salad.
Walter’s face understands my problem, so he doesn’t demand much. I tell my tales in the midwestern style, sometimes choosing the right words, sometimes not finding them, but always unable to fill them in, to color them, to give them the triple-layered meaning or send them to him with a shimmer and a spin. But Walter’s face doesn’t mind; he accents the words for me, reacts for me, illustrating the expressions that are just out of my reach.
After a drink, Walter’s face reminisces; his eyes fill, and a potential tear decides whether to let go. Finally, the weight of the water pulls it down the craggy slopes, where it dissolves and finally disappears into a hundred rivulets. My own sympathetic tear never hesitates; it speeds down along the Teflon and lands on nothing except the hard Formica tabletop. But Walter knows what I mean.
Later, I walk to the car, where my people wait, unable to interpret my mood, offering me things I don’t want, not reading in my face that I would like to be alone.
That night, I lie behind my new face, speaking to it. It listens, but it can’t say much back. Sometimes I feel a muscle twitching in response, reaching back toward me, trying to speak. I listen carefully, as Walter would, to expressionless lips whispering, “What will I tell my child? How, when I am dying and unable to speak, will I look into his eyes and say I love you?”
In my dream that night, I see the image of serenity crossing my face, softening the mask. I sit and drink tea. My old face looks out the window and sees Walter, who signals approval with a fleshy smile. I stand; my pain moves up from the heart and onto my face and dissipates. Then the happiness comes; next, the grief; then the joy. They all come up from the center, leaving traces of themselves in my brow, the corners of my mouth and eyes, my lips—and so revealing my character. I wake, momentarily feeling whole, but then I remember: The face reveals the heart, but sometimes it’s easier to change the face.
In Search of the
Wily Filipino
We have seen the slit-eyed dangerous Jap, we have seen the wily Filipino ...—MARLON BRANDO, discussing movies on Larry King Live
The wily Filipino. How often have I gone to bed at night with that phrase echoing through my head. And yet only recently I became aware that I had never actually seen one. I had driven through Filipino neighborhoods, but everyone and everything I saw was rather straightforward. Signs signifying this or that—the dry cleaner, the auto repair-all seemed innocuous, but probably hid a true guile lurking underneath. I wondered under what circumstance the wiliness would come out. I have worked with a Filipino for several years, and I decided to try a little test. I asked her what she would do if she saw a traffic accident and someone were wandering around looking dazed. “I would stop and help, I suppose,” she said. “Why?” I asked. “To get something?” She looked at me and retorted, “What would you do—call for help and wait for someone to show up?” I realized she was invoking the stereotype of the Benign and Polite WASP. I was so upset that it almost made me want to be angry.
I decided to rent movies in which I might examine the portrayal of the Filipino. I looked at The Godfather, 2001, and Gone With the Wind. There was not one depiction of a Wily Filipino. Why? Perhaps the movie industry is secretly run by Filipinos. Perhaps it was they who had been the hidden hand behind such films as The Logical Filipino (1986), The Straight-up Guy from Manila (1
993), and the adventure film Deep in Wily Laos (1995). And if that was true, wouldn’t it demonstrate unquestionable guile?
A friend of mine told me about a sensational Filipino acupuncturist, and I called to make an appointment. “What seems to be the problem?” a deceptively pleasant voice asked on the other end of the line. “I ... I ...” I hadn’t quite worked out this part of the plan. I hung up. Thirty seconds later, the phone rang. There was no one there. I thought nothing of it, then soon recognized the craft and mechanics at work: Caller ID! The wily Filipino had called me back with caller ID and now had my number! Fearing reprisal, I redialed and booked an appointment.
I entered the office and sat in the waiting lounge. “Waiting for what?” I wondered. Probably waiting to be outfoxed, one way or another. The assistant asked me to fill out a form. She cleverly slid the sheet toward me and artfully offered me a pen. As I filled out the form, I listened to the coded dialogue that went on in the office. Common inquiries about the weather were no longer empty pleasantries; they were complexly structured sentences in which the first letters of every word combined to spell out my mother’s maiden name. Once in the office, I started using words with the doctor and his nurse that were uniquely American. Words like cahoots. I wanted to see their reaction. I got none—well, one, a look so wily I shuddered.
Then this exchange happened:
“It says here you want treatment for parvo.”
“Yes.” I countered. This game was rough.
“Parvo is a dog disease.”
The lake of perspiration on my forehead instantly beaded into a map of Michigan.
“Yes,” I replied. “I’m worried that my dog may have it.”
“So you’re here for anxiety? You want me to treat you for worry?”
This was not just idle sparring between two worthy foes. This was a coded chess play of words, a dazzling display of cunning.
The needles went in. Four in my ears. Three in my scalp. Some were twisted by hand; some had electric current sent through them. Ten minutes later, they were removed, and I felt remarkably calm. The tables had been turned. The wily, crafty Filipino had allayed my anxiety, and now I was indebted to him. He had won. I had anticipated some form of wiles, but I never suspected it would be at this level of sophistication.
I returned home and the Larry King Show was still on:
“... the luckless Italian, the furtive Chilean, the horny Hawaiian, the pungent Norwegian, the strict Eskimo, the loud-talking Canadian ...”
“We’re running out of time,” said Larry, and the show came to a close.
I needed to get away. I packed my bags, booked a ticket on WILY (the official Filipino airline), and flew to Hawaii.
Bad Dog
“You’re a bad dog, a very bad dog!” shouts Dr. Fogel.
I’ll show you what a bad dog is, thinks Jasper, padding down the hallway to his dog bowl, where he can think.
Sulking next to his dish, Jasper tries to sort everything out. The FedEx man is supposed to be barked at, dammit. When he is outside the gate, he is outside the threshold of recognition. As he nears, he comes inside the threshold of recognition. Of course I’m going to bark at him, even if I know who he is. The plumber is even lower than the FedEx man. I’m just saying, Watch out, he’s got a wrench. Is that so terrible?
The cat slinks by. Jasper thinks the one epithet he could never say: Fraidy.
In the next room, Dr. Fogel is on the phone. “Well, I need that package today, doggone it.” Jasper shudders. I hate it when he uses that word. Does he know how it hurts me? Does he know what he’s saying? Why can’t he say Goddammit, like everyone else? Goddammit is a decent, benign swear word, no matter how you look at it. Even backward, it’s ... it’s ... oh my dog!
The doorbell rings. Jasper’s up and running to the front door, barking. Master and dog arrive at the same time. “Quiet, Jasper! Quiet!” says Dr. Fogel, but Jasper can’t keep quiet. The door opens. It’s the FedEx man.
Oops, thinks Jasper. He immediately puts his nose between the deliveryman’s legs. They love this; this will be my salvation, he calculates.
But from above he hears, “Bad dog! Bad, bad dog.”
What? Bad dog? Jasper keeps on the happy face but is killed inside. He watches the exchange of signature and receipt, then follows Him, hoping for a pat or a word of understanding or just anything. It does not come.
Jasper dips into his bowl of water, hiding his big sad eyes. This is a major, major problem, he thinks. That night, lying on his sawdust-filled bed, Jasper realizes that there’s something in his brain telling him to distinguish between the Federal Express man, who must be barked at in all circumstances, and Granny Fogel, for whom he demonstrates his admiration by rolling over and showing his genitals. But how can I stop myself from doing what I want to do—nay, what I must do? This urge is so strong, based on so many factors, so many subtle discernments. He decides that he lacks some key piece of information, some general rule of understanding that would put him on the clear path. He resolves to search for that knowledge by taking a trip around the world. For Jasper, the world is defined by a five-foot fence that surrounds his yard, the house, and all its contents.
The next morning, Jasper is out early. He sidles along the fence, hugging the wall, nose lowered into the grass. After an hour, he realizes that what he’s doing is pointless, except for the pure fun of it all. He hangs around the kitchen for a while, doing the big-eyes thing, but gets nothing. Unrewarded, he moves to his bed for a snooze. Jasper puts his nose next to his last saved biscuit and nuzzles it. He thinks, Questing is hard, and he rolls over on his back, sticks his legs in the air, and falls asleep.
Falling hard into a dream, Jasper imagines himself paddling through the air in a vast gallery of paintings. Although he’s never actually been to a museum, he once guided himself accidentally through London’s Tate Gallery Internet site (the letters That-A-That-Every are all left-handers on a keyboard, and one lucky paw slap sent Jasper spiraling into cyberspace). Now, in his dream, he is able to whirl and twist in the air, viewing the pictures up close and reading their museum labels. His dream, swirling up from his simple unconscious, changes each painter’s bio: “Johann Fuseli, Swiss painter and former dog.” “Giovanni Battista Tiepolo, Italian painter and former dog.” Jasper sees that these artists have transformed the canine within themselves into wonderful works of art.
The doorbell jars Jasper out of his sleep. Consciousness takes over, and the beautiful dream fades back into his thin cortex. Rising, he looks through a series of windows, from the bedroom to the kitchen, and beyond the kitchen to the street. He sees the white rectangle of the FedEx truck. Impulsively, he runs toward the front door.
Charging down the hall, he can feel the bark welling up inside him. He is like a boxer with a coiled left hook about to be thrown, like the clapper of an alarm, already in motion toward its bell. He knows what he is facing: the cold censure of his master, balanced by the deliciously frightened face of the FedEx man. The bark churns deep within him. He feels it in his belly, moving up through his lungs. His body chemistry pumps him forward like a jockey’s whip, and he turns the corner to the foyer. There in gleaming white is the target, handing over the trim FedEx box to Jasper’s beloved and vulnerable master. As he slows, the fleshy part of his paws struggling against the hardwood floor, Jasper’s locomotion compresses his energy, forcing the bark into his throat. With his master looking on, he opens his mouth; the bark now lies just behind his tongue. As it rolls over the damp, spongy, pink surface, the miracle that is Art rises from his shallow unconscious and transforms the sound waves, curving the pointy spikes of the highs and rounding the crevices of the jagged lows. Jasper looks up at his master, and out comes, in a lovely baritone:
We’re having a heat wave A tropical heat wave ...
Now there is not a sound. A performer’s eon passes: the time between the final note of the aria and the whooshing, enveloping applause of the audience. Finally, into the silent ethereal m
ist that swarms in Jasper’s head, comes his master’s voice: “Good boy—you’re a good, good boy.”
Jasper turns, feeling the euphoric relief of an adrenaline shutdown. He moves away from the door. The cat walks by. There but for the grace of God go I, thinks Jasper. He walks into the kitchen, laps some water, looks back at the startled tableau by the front door, and goes outside to lie in the sun.
Hissy Fit
Let us assume there is a place in the universe that is so remote, so driven by inconceivable forces, where space and time are so warped and turned back upon themselves, that two plus two no longer equals four. If a mathematician were suddenly transported and dropped into this unthinkable place, it is very likely that he would throw a hissy fit. This is exactly what happens when a New York Writer contemplates, talks about, or, worst of all, is forced to visit Los Angeles.
It must be understood that the New York Writer is not necessarily a writer from New York. At home on the East Coast somewhere—it could even be Rhode Island—he is an individual, unique in every respect, defiantly singular and stylistically distinct. But when the assignment comes in, by fax or phone, to fly to Los Angeles and interview a poor-sap movie producer (poor sap because his ego leads him to believe that he will be the first of his kind to come off well), the proud author’s metamorphosis begins. As the specter of California rises like a werewolf’s moon, the mantle of New York Writer descends from the heavens and lands on his epaulets.
The ticket arrives by messenger and is subjected to much investigating and cross-checking to verify that it is truly round trip. Confusing words like temblor and Knott’s Berry Farm drift in and out of his consciousness, and he wonders about the special mores of a thong-based culture.
