I could see that my aunt hated to say this, but she thought she was doing the right thing, and perhaps she was.
“You use up a lot of electricity, you know, with that computer, playing solitaire,” said my uncle, “and you don't need to run the hot water the whole time you're shaving. Just turn the water back on when you rinse the blade.” These were obviously economic grievances that he had been harboring for some time.
“Irwin, that doesn't help matters,” said my aunt. Rarely did she speak harshly to him. My uncle, chastised, savaged another pickle, and it disappeared into his Padre Pio beard, never to be seen again. The Chinese family to our right were studying the Talmud-sized menus and consulting with one another in their native tongue. A shade, in the form of a waitress, arrived with our soups. We all had ordered mushroom barley, but now our unity in soup seemed quite sad. Our shared preference for barley soup had, over the months, given me an odd sense of family, despite whatever tensions existed between myself and the uncle, but the discovery of the wine bottles by the Flatleys had shattered this. My uncle started to eat; my aunt and I were too upset to begin.
“I understand your position entirely,” I said to my aunt Florence, trying to gather myself with dignity; my uncle's head was bent to his bowl. “You've been wonderful and good to me and I'm very grateful. I promise you that my drinking is not out of control…. At least I don't think it is. So I don't want to go to rehab. It almost killed me the last time…. So I guess it's good timing, my decision to head for the Poconos.”
I peered into my soup, ashamed. Barley and vegetables floated listlessly in the overcast broth. And yet, in that murk, I could make out my reflection—my eyes in that soupy mirror were two black coins. I didn't recognize myself.
“You're thirty years old,” said my uncle. “You're a free agent. Just don't put me in your book, if you ever write it. I want to write my own novel about being a salesman. Arthur Miller wrote the play, but I'll write the book.”
“I won't write about you, I promise,” I said.
My uncle, satisfied, ate his soup. My aunt took a sip of water, and then she said, “We love you, Alan. Please, please be careful.”
“I will be,” I said.
“He'll be all right,” said my uncle to reassure her. “Eat your soup,” he then barked, commanding both of us, not wanting us to waste food, and I did so numbly, without tasting it. I avoided my aunt's eyes for the rest of the meal. Naturally, I didn't have much appetite. My uncle had my sandwich wrapped up, told me to eat it for lunch tomorrow. Not an ungenerous man, he paid for dinner.
Later, at the door to my bedroom, my aunt hugged me goodnight, and when she released me, she said, “I love you very much…. Irwin is fond of you, too. Loves you, you know, even if he seems gruff most of the time. He's liked having you here. If you stop drinking, you can always come back to us.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I love you.” She didn't look like my mother, even though they were sisters, but telling her I loved her was almost like saying it to my mother, something I hadn't been able to do since I was twenty, except in my mind.
“We probably won't see each other in the morning unless you get up when I do,” she said, “so let's say good-bye now.”
She opened her arms for a second hug. We held each other. “Please don't hurt yourself with the drinking,” she said, and let go of me.
“I won't,” I said.
Then my aunt Florence walked down the short hall to their bedroom. My uncle was playing his weather channel. He played it at night, too, a habit from his days as a traveling salesman when he needed to know the weather just as much as a sailor.
I lay on my bed, once again careworn. How terrible to be alcoholic. You just want to quietly soothe and maybe poison yourself, but you end up poisoning those around you as well, like trying to commit suicide with a gas oven and unwittingly murdering your neighbors.
I started rubbing the bony center of my nose, which I always rub when things have gone badly. Then midway through this nose massage, I heard a slight aspiration—Jeeves, like humidity, had accumulated on my left. Jeeves, I think, is closely related to water. They say we're all 50 percent H2O, but Jeeves is probably 90 percent. Jeeves and water seep in everywhere, no stopping them, like this underground lake that starts in Long Island, I'm told, and then pops up in Connecticut. So Jeeves spilled over from his lair, the bedroom next to mine, and was now standing alongside me, like mist on a mirror. “Yes, Jeeves,” I said.
“Will you be needing anything, sir, before I retire?”
“A new brain, Jeeves.”
“Really, sir?”
“I've made a mess of things. Aunt Florence found out about my tippling.”
“Most troubling, sir.”
“I've hurt her terribly. I should be lashed. If we weren't heading for the Poconos, she was about to give us the boot. She said she has to practice ‘tough love’ on me, Jeeves. And I don't blame her, but she's been overly influenced by those admirable twelve-step programs. But I need more than twelve steps. For what ails me, I require that whole staircase in Rome.”
“Most vexing, sir.”
“They say it all comes from low self-esteem. Maybe I can order chest-expanding equipment from Charles Atlas. That might help.”
“Perhaps, sir.”
“My aunt also said she doesn't want to enable me. All this language is strange, don't you think, Jeeves? Enable. Tough love. I think enable should be switched to spoil rotten…. And that's what you do to me, Jeeves. Spoil me rotten, just by listening. It's a great comfort.”
“I endeavor to give satisfaction, sir.”
We weren't about to throw ourselves on each other's neck, but it was a moment awash in tenderness and bonhomie.
“Good night, Jeeves,” I said.
“Good night, sir,” he said and I blinked and he was gone.
CHAPTER 4
A dream with a lovely elementMy face has a problem, well, two problemsStiff words with JeevesA cataloging of sport coats and a summary of my twenties as related, in a way, to sport coatsStiff words with Uncle IrwinA change of plans—the Hasidim aren't where I thought they were—but a pleasing alternative is presented
I woke fairly early, around eight-thirty, and all seemed quiet. No uncles were up and racing their stationary bicycles and creating havoc, and so I was confident that Jeeves and I would have a pleasant, midmorning start. I thought it would show character if we were on the road before noon.
“Morning, Jeeves,” I said. He was at the bedside with my bath towel, having sniffed out that the young master was conscious. I smiled at Jeeves. Had no effect on him. Inscrutable as always. It's relaxing, though, to have an inscrutable person about—no fatiguing one's self with scrutinizing, if you know what I mean.
“Good morning, sir.”
“Had another dream, Jeeves.”
“The cat and mouse again, sir?”
“No, this dream was about a girl, though I would like to know what happened to that mouse. Anyway, this girl was leaning over me … her face right above mine. I think I was lying on my bed or maybe on the ground somewhere. Her eyes were blue. Very light blue. Kindly eyes, Jeeves. Her hair was blonde, but not very blonde. She said, ‘I love you, Blair.’ I couldn't believe it. Couldn't get any words out in response. Too shocked. Cowardly. Then she was gone and I was walking around an odd city with menacing buildings. Make anything of it?”
“Would appear to be a hopeful dream, sir.”
“You think it's an omen for our trip? Maybe she's a god of some sort who will look after us.”
“Perhaps, sir.”
“I like how she called me Blair. Very intimate using my surname that way. Don't you think, Jeeves?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But maybe she's not a god. Maybe I'm going to meet her in the Poconos. Maybe she's a blonde Hasid. We had both better keep an eye out for a girl like this—dark blonde hair, blue eyes. The nose was straight and fine, Jeeves, an elegant nose, and the lips were pink, not too fu
ll, but womanly. Quite vivid, my memory of her.”
“Yes, sir.”
“When she said she loved me, I felt that I loved her. A very strong feeling, Jeeves. I wish I could have said something. But I was scared. Then I was in that terrible city. Not New York, not anywhere recognizable.”
“Perhaps you will dream of her again, sir.”
“You know, I was in love once, Jeeves. My heart still hurts sometimes. It's like sciatica … I think, ‘Why didn't she love me?’ And then I get this pain…. But I wish I were in love again. I'd like to have a new someone. You know that song, ‘Good Night My Someone’? It was in some musical I saw on TV. According to the song, that's what you say at night to the person you love when you haven't met them yet. They're just out there somewhere. Maybe this blonde is out there…. I'd like to tell someone I love them, Jeeves.”
“A very human longing, sir.”
“Hard facing life by myself, Jeeves.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You, of course, cushion the blow considerably.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Sorry to start the day with such talk, Jeeves.”
“Perfectly all right, sir.”
“I'm not being very stoic,” I said, and inwardly I chastised myself—get moving, Blair! So I stored the memory of the girl from the dream in my mind, like a picture in a wallet. “My towel, Jeeves,” I said, rallying bravely.
“Yes, sir.”
Out of respect for my aunt, I had not drained the two bottles of wine that were hidden under my bed, and a sober night's sleep had me feeling rather hale for my mountain adventure, and maybe, too, the lack of booze had sprung the girl from my subconscious. Perhaps there was something to abstention. So I swung the Blair legs out of that very good New Jersey bed, relieved Jeeves of my towel, and set out to follow my usual regimen of bath, shave, yogic exercises, newspaper, and coffee. Even on a travel day, I wanted to stick with my routine—you know, not wanting to jinx things.
But the ceremonies began poorly. My toilet was not a success. Something had gone wrong with my face during my eight hours of unconsciousness—the body is a mystery—and I didn't feel very good now about traveling. It's hard to be courageous about setting off for the unknown when your face isn't working, but I was going to have to press on, regardless. It was either the road or rehab. So I retreated to my room and quickly upholstered myself with the day's costume that Jeeves had laid out: brown linen pants; light blue shirt; my green paisley tie, which is especially good for travel since paisley looks like things in motion, either butterfly wings or spermatozoa, depending on your worldview; check sport coat; black socks; and wing tips, which are also good for travel—taking flight and all that.
As I completed noosing my tie, Jeeves insinuated himself into the room, and I hid my face from him. But Jeeves sees all. He cleared his throat, like a bell tolled at the start of a round of boxing.
“Yes, Jeeves?” I said, acting like there was nothing wrong.
“If I may say so, sir, you have again forgotten to shave.” There was a quiet severity to his articulation.
“If you will notice, Jeeves, I have shaved most of my face.” I matched his quiet severity with confident severity.
“The upper lip, sir, has been neglected.”
“What of it?” I felt myself weakening. My upper lip was under attack and not very stiff.
“It is not appealing, sir.”
“Show a little courage, Jeeves, some creativity,” I said with false bravado. “I am aspiring to a Douglas Fairbanks Jr.-Errol Flynn look. Not to mention Clark Gable.”
“I do not advise such a look, sir. It is not suitable for a young gentleman.”
“Are you saying Douglas F., Errol F., and Clark G. were not gentlemen?”
“They were actors, sir.”
Jeeves had me with that one. A crushing blow. It was all over. I had to concede. What was I thinking? Actors! So I came out with it. I couldn't filibuster the fellow.
“Listen, Jeeves,” I said. “Morale is low. Very low. Rally round! I have a spot on my lip, that's why I didn't shave. The mustache is meant as camouflage. Hair on the upper lip is better than a pimple on the upper lip. Well, actually two pimples. Have you noticed that my spots are always symmetrical, Jeeves? Must be glandular—glands on the right and left of my body must get clogged at the same time. A kind of stereo effect. Remember last month, I had a pimple on the right cheek and one on the left cheek in parallel locations?”
“I am barely able to discern these upper-lip blemishes, sir, that you refer to. They are neglible and like most blemishes will not be noticed by anyone, whereas this unfortunate mustache is readily apparent and will be perceived by the most casual glance.”
“But I can't tolerate pimples, Jeeves. How can I face the legions of barmaids and hoteliers and Hasidim that we are sure to meet in the Poconos with these things on my face?”
“They are hardly visible, sir.”
“There's no reasoning with me, Jeeves. I know I distort the spots, but I can't help it, and we should both be grateful that I didn't make things worse and attack myself in the bathroom.”
“Yes, sir.”
I wasn't joking when I said that an attack on the self had been averted. You see, when it comes to blemishes, I'm like one of those people who feel the need to throw themselves into a body of water when they are on a boat, even though they know that such an act is irrational. So it's the same thing with me and pimples—I know I shouldn't squeeze them, but I can't help myself. I am the Hart Crane of acne.
You see, it's more of a mental, pathological condition than a skin condition. I actually have quite a good complexion, but on the odd occasion, three or four times a year, when I get a pimple—and they're often quite tiny—I look in the mirror and see the Elephant Man and begin to assault myself.
But Jeeves couldn't empathize. He probably hadn't had a pimple in years. His skin was above such things. I did think, though, that maybe I could win Jeeves over to my side by giving him the psychological angle.
“My condition is hereditary, Jeeves,” I said. “I remember, as a boy, seeing my father in the bathroom intently staring at himself in the mirror, his fingers applied to some invading blemish. His face would be devastated for weeks as a result of his prodding—his pimples transformed into bruises. It made a deep impression on me, Jeeves. The sins of the fathers are visited on the sons. So it's in my blood to assail my own face, but I hope you acknowledge the fact that I fight this inheritance. Hence the mustache!”
“Yes, sir.”
“So if you could put up with this nascent lip hair, now that you understand its roots are in a childhood trauma, I would be exceedingly grateful. If you notice, I have put on my tie for my yoga. I am holding on to the mustache, but I am bending on this other issue. This is known as give-and-take. I am not an unreasonable man, Jeeves.”
“Very good, sir.” He was coolly remote, but conciliatory. He knew he couldn't win every battle, and I had relented on the neckwear. So, trying not to be demoralized by my pimples, I did my yoga, then had some toast and coffee, while I memorized the box scores and batting averages, only to have to do it again the next morning. The worship of sports is merciless this way.
While I studied the Times, Jeeves took out to the car my two large suitcases and garment bag, which was swollen with my diverse sport coat collection. I don't have many possessions, and certainly no baubles, but I do pride myself on my sport coats. They are really my only jewels, though it's more like they're a knight's armor. I'm able to sally forth in style and engage the world when I have a sport coat on. Wallet, keys, pens, a little notebook, change, a paperback novel—everything I need to survive, except maybe water—all fit into the various pockets. For me a sport coat is not unlike Batman's utility belt, which I remember admiring as a small boy during my American childhood, years before my sense of myself as an American got somewhat clouded by reading too many British novels.
So here's a quick rundown of my sport coats,
not in order of preference, but as they occur to me:
(1) 1950s rust-colored Brooks Brothers affair made of burlapish material, discovered at a Princeton yard sale. Always solicits kind remarks, despite some eccentricity in its hue. Lining was disintegrating for some time, and I felt like that character in the Gogol story who was embarrassed by the shabbiness of his coat, but a master Italian tailor on First Avenue in New York City resuscitated the garment.
(2) 1993 gray Harris Tweed, from Brooks Brothers. An emotionally sturdy jacket. I could climb mountains wearing this tweed. Fills me with confidence. Very good in the fall and winter. Couldn't get by without it, really.
(3) 1989 gray-striped seersucker, with a neck, from perspiration, permanently yellowed, like a cigarette smoker's teeth. But I am in favor of this jaundiced collar, gives the jacket character. Picked it up at the Princeton University store, but couldn't afford the matching pants, which I don't mind, a whole seersucker outfit is too attention-grabbing; I prefer a pair of khaki pants as a complement to my seersucker jacket.
(4) 1992 Brooks Brothers blue blazer. If one's sport coats were as important as one's inner organs, then the blue blazer would be the lungs—absolutely essential; you can survive without the seersucker, for example, the spleen of sport coats, but try getting by without a blazer! Though, as I indicated above, my gray Harris Tweed actually outranks my blazer.
(5) Sullivan's of Albany middling corduroy fellow, picked up at a church thrift shop on Eighty-sixth Street in Manhattan, year unknown. Rarely worn, but hard to throw away. Just thinking about it, though, makes me feel bad for my neglect. I'm going to make a real effort to include it more regularly in the rotation.
Wake Up, Sir! Page 4
