“You’re right. I’ll call from mine. Come on, give me the number!”
And she stood up to get her purse.
Jesus, what an idiot I am.
I’m absolutely positive that just then my temperature must have been 103 degrees.
“Listen, just drop it, okay?”
“But why do you want to spoil my fun?”
“You want to know why?”
“Right. Why?”
I didn’t have the slightest idea what the fuck to say, but suddenly, in the midst of complete darkness, I glimpsed a shaft of light (later I understood why: the angel, nauseated by my lackluster performance, had left the room).
“Because . . . Sorry, what makes you think the text was necessarily sent by a woman?”
Her expression suddenly changed.
“Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.”
Then she went into a trance.
At that point I realized I’d gotten off scot-free. The mere thought of hearing a male voice answer the call, of intruding on a form of intimacy she knew nothing about, was enough to dissuade her from her planned prank.
Like many other members of the female sex, Alessandra Persiano tends to be very considerate of gay people. She’s horrified at the idea of seeming indelicate.
And so, problem solved.
Later I decided to go by and see my mother-in-law (as long as Alagia had roped me into becoming her home caregiver, I might as well start right away).
We were in the kitchen, me, her, and Miorita (her caregiver), when another text message came in.
Text messages are always suspicious if you fail to read them right away. In fact Assunta and Miorita exchanged sidelong glances. Whereupon I let out a pro-forma sigh of annoyance and pulled out my phone (though I’d have gladly ignored it, considering all the cell phone trouble I’d had to deal with over the course of that day).
I read it.
I probably betrayed a slight sense of panic, but the text was far too demented not to prompt at least some minimal facial twitches.
Instead of putting the cell phone back in my jacket pocket, I laid it down on the table, facedown.
Then I sat there for a little while, waiting to decide what to do next.
“Your problem,” Ass said, catching me off-guard (which is something I’ve always hated because, no matter how you look at it, it’s not fair play to catch someone off-guard like that), “is that you’re still trying to have a sex life.”
“Eh?” I asked, with the astonishment of someone caught red-handed.
“Just think of it as a routine, a grind,” she argued, completely nonchalant, taking it for granted that I knew what she was talking about. “After all, that’s the movement in question. You’ll see how much easier it comes to you.”
“I don’t see what you’re basing this fine piece of advice on,” I retorted while mentally treading water. “Leaving aside the fact that sex and life are two very different concepts.”
She smiled.
“You need to use the bathroom, don’t you?”
“What?” I replied, truly caught off-guard now.
“Well, don’t you?”
“Umm . . . actually, yes, but how did you know that?”
“Because you have a burning need to write back to whatever young woman just wrote to you.”
I blushed.
“Who are you, my jealous girlfriend?”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous. It’s just that I can’t stand seeing people make fools of themselves.”
“It’s not what you think.”
“Then let me read it.”
“Sorry?”
“I’m not your girlfriend, right? So you have no reason to make up stories.”
“All right.”
I grabbed my cell phone, opened my text messages, and handed it over to her, like a robot.
Even now I can’t believe I did it.
She read the text.
No expression whatsover.
She handed me back my cell phone.
I reread the text, as if I couldn’t remember it.
Well? You’re not going to say anything about the “wrong number” message I sent you on purpose?
We sat in silence for something like a couple of minutes.
Two minutes without talking is a long, long time when you’re in the same room as another person.
“How long has this been going on?”
“Nothing’s going on.”
“Then I guess now you’re going to tell me that it only happened the one time.”
“That’s right.”
Silence.
“Okay, three times.”
Silence.
“Five, maybe six, okay?”
“Was it really necessary?”
“These things are never really necessary. They just happen.”
She looked at me as if to say: “Huh.”
“Now you must be feeling pretty full of yourself, having discovered you’re so intelligent without even knowing it.”
I came that close to blushing.
I told you, this woman is embarrassing.
“A little.”
Pause.
“You’re a dickhead.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
“No, but world class, seriously.”
“What makes you so sure of that?”
“Because only a world-class dickhead would be sent a text message like that.”
Truer words were never spoken.
I was about to tell her how right she was when, looking around (since I couldn’t bring myself to look her in the eye), I happened to spot a bottle I recognized.
“That’s the one I gave you, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Mm-hm.”
“Well, there’s quite a bit missing.”
“So?”
“So I’m a dickhead and you’re some kind of genius?”
She thought it over for a moment.
“Am I supposed to be saving my virginity for the chemo?”
I stared at her, not knowing what to say.
Then, as if on a delayed fuse, I burst out laughing.
And so did she.
After we’d been sitting there for a while wiping away our tears, I felt obliged to point out to her that concerning the matter of one’s so-called sex life, I’d actually spent a lot of time thinking about it, and I’d come to the self-taught conclusion that they really were two entirely different concepts, that they really didn’t play well together.
She told me that that was fantastic, that she’d been losing sleep over that question for years, and that she had absolutely wanted someone to explain it to her before she died.
THE BANALITY OF DOGS
In a way—which I’ll explain later—I like Mary Stracqualurso. Anyone who’s encountered her unmistakable prose even once in his or her life will, I believe, be able to sympathize.
When I’m channel-surfing through the local TV networks and I run into her in the middle of a guest spot on a news broadcast or in the act of bestowing a pearl of wisdom on a working beat reporter, who extends his microphone to her in the belief that he’s drinking at the fount of a venerable old glory of Italian journalism, there’s nothing I can do, I have to listen right through to the end.
I delight in her goatish ignorance, the way she’s chronically misinformed on any and all subjects, the inurbane diction that is so distinctly her own, the chilling nonchalance with which she says d when she means t, c when she means g, f when she means v, p when she means b, and z when she means s.
I am filled with an unidentifiable but pleasant lassitude in the presence of the disarming obviousness of her opinions, the mediocre moralism, the baseless conceit with which she will pontificate on any topic withou
t knowing anything about it, the saliva-sprays that accompany her bilabial occlusive consonants, often forcing her interlocutor to move out of their range with cranial jerks that are as sudden as they are ridiculous (she has certain unresolved issues with her dental adhesive), the fact that she thinks herself irrestrainably amusing and wise (a conviction that she bases essentially on the fact that when she makes a wisecrack she laughs at it herself, often even before saying it), the congenital cowardice, the way she never speaks the name of anyone powerful, unless it’s to kiss an ass that may one day prove useful to her.
And for the five minutes following her performance I sit there crying crocodile tears in front of the television set, satisfied and responsible for the harm I do to myself, a little bit like a diabetic secretly binging on Nutella.
The constitutive torment driving my perversion is the fact that I can’t understand such a phenomenon. I watch Mary Stracqualurso to figure out if she really exists, and how she interacts with reality.
But beyond (and even more important than) the metaphysical inquiry, there’s a part of me (of all of us—and there are many of us—who are incapable of resisting the fascinating impunity of the illiterate), more instinctive and immediate, that responds symptomatologically to the Stracqualursian stimulus. All it takes for me is an “In that gase,” an “Exacdly,” an “Obfiously,” and I’m glued to the screen and turning up the volume, dropping everything else I might have been doing at the time.
Don’t think I’m an impassioned fan of trash TV. I hate trash TV. I don’t have a taste for bad taste. I’m clear-minded enough to realize that if, the minute I come across Mary Stracqualurso on TV, I stop watching any other program and stick with her, it must mean I like her.
Even those who are sublime connoisseurs of trash TV actually like trash TV, but they just won’t admit it. They’re like closeted gay guys who pretend they like to watch mainstream porn films but concentrate on the cocks.
Now, if I don’t like something, I just try to avoid it. The sublime connoisseurs of trash TV, the ones who systematically critique the contestants on Big Brother, are transformed into editors of the Accademia della Crusca Italian Dictionary as soon as the moderator of a talk show hesitates in his use of a subjunctive, issue report cards on the etiquette of the rich and famous, judge the way they hold a fork or match the colors of their clothes—those are people I consider assholes.
Let’s be perfectly clear: if I hear a public speaker slip on a verbal banana peel, I’m the first one to laugh. But I’m not an illiterate-hunter; I’m not that sadistic.
Among other things, if we’re being completely honest, if you want to critique someone—even if it’s a contestant on Big Brother—then you have to have accomplished something in your own life. And if you take a look at the average profile of a fan of trash TV, nine times out of ten you’ll find a frustrated member of the petty bourgeoisie, with a family that depends on him but who is in turn dependent on his family (frequently on his wife), devoid of talent but generically cultured and educated, with artistic and/or intellectual aspirations that were predictably shipwrecked, and who, in response to the question: “I’m sorry, but what work is it that you said you do?” plunges into a tragic, dazed silence that he immediately however overcomes, piling on self-definitions that leave the hapless listener in the most claustrophobic state of awkward embarrassment.
Like a maniac throwing open his raincoat to offer unfortunate passersby the unasked-for spectacle of the pitable attributes he possesses, the impassioned fan of trash culture will demonstrate a thorough expertise on the topic of bad taste (especially with regard to television), in a desperate attempt to avenge himself on his biography. In other words, he suffers from a bad case of failure mange. Even though the facts (and especially his vital statistics) tell us the opposite, he is convinced that he is artistically gifted. A little bit like old people who feel young inside. He’s attempted various careers, always keeping one in reserve as an alibi (politician and, in second rank, journalist; rock star and, in second rank, music critic; poet and, in second rank, author; director and, in second rank, TV writer; and the list could go on and on), but the truth, pure and simple, is that he doesn’t know how to do a blessed fucking thing.
And it is precisely when faced with this elementary discovery that those suffering from failure mange perform their most memorable acrobatic moves, narrating their own failures as a demonstration of multifaceted artistic versatility, a generic aptitude at a Little Bit of Everything; much like those talentless musicians who appear each time with a different instrument but don’t really know how to play any of them.
As a result of this unfounded belief in a talent waiting to be specified, the object of fame to which those afflicted with failure mange aspire becomes practically incidental. They’d do anything—from neorealist film to cabaret—if an offer came in.
From this point of view, between them and a modern velina, or showgirl, for whom a bit part in an Italian-made Christmas screwball comedy and a cabinet-level position as a head of a ministry are equivalent career objectives, there is no difference. But a modern velina has recently turned eighteen and can afford to sport a miniskirt: not so for those suffering from failure mange.
Those afflicted with failure mange wind up spending their lives waiting for the opportunity that will change everything. They think that, if they were just given a chance, they could take on the world. But because the world shows not the slightest interest in them, they attack the world on the Internet, publishing (that’s exactly what they call it, when they pontificate on an online message board, convinced that that is the appropriate verb to describe the activity to which they devote themselves with such passion) pitiless reviews on topics having to do with every realm of human knowledge, from movies to television, from poetry to literature, from politics to everyday life, from techno to opera, and interior decorating to youth fashion (those with failure mange declare themselves to be formidable experts in this field in particular, even though they never spend any time with young people, and for that matter why on earth would young people ever want to spend time with them?); but given the fact that their desperate attempts make no impression save in the fraternity of online losers, each of whom they know individually (because those who have fallen into disgrace always seem ready to underwrite pacts of entente), the only option left to them is to go in search of wingnuts who at least, in comparison with them, have the defect of not speaking the Italian language correctly.
When we speak of Mary Stracqualurso, on the other hand, we must move past the mystifications of trash TV and the pathological deviations of failure mange and instead delve into a phenomenon that, as I said at the outset, truly smacks of the inexplicable.
Maria Antonietta Stracqualurso (stage name, Mary Stracqua) is a masterpiece of evolution. A contemporary classic. Living proof (complete with a speech impediment) that it’s possible to carve out a niche for oneself (or in her case, actually thrive for years) in the garden of local journalism and culture, even if you’re functionally illiterate.
Because Mary is not merely ignorant in this day and age, a carefree era that has by and large dismissed ignorance as an issue. She was already ignorant—and this is what counts most—in a time when being ignorant counted. When culture had a shared meaning. When the inability to speak proper Italian constituted a stumbling block that kept people from teaching, running for elective office, speaking in public, and writing.
Even in those times, she managed to infest newspaper city rooms, imposing her terrifying syntax on the reading public without anyone raising their voice in objection, without a single self-proclaimed public intellectual making the slightest effort to halt her misbegotten plans for expansion; even then, I was saying, she managed to make her presence felt at any public occasion where she could make her hulking, ill-clad figure known, in the self-engineered role of social crusader, blazing a shining path for later generations of illiterates who justifiably wo
ndered: “If she can be a journalist, why not me?”
From this point of view, Mary Stracqua was an early pioneer of the modern shift with regard to the very concept of the career path, whereby, as we now realize, it is possible to establish oneself as a prominent public figure even in the complete absence of talent or skill.
Now, however, if the winner of Big Brother steps onto the public stage on a strictly prospective basis (many of the competitors on that immensely popular show, in fact, get nothing more than a walk-on role on a TV series or two or perhaps an appearance on a talk show, and most of them are quickly forgotten), Mary is an example of how one can exercise the noble profession of journalism without having even the vaguest notion of what a news story is, how to put one together, and how to broadcast it.
Today, Maestra Stracqualurso has decades of experience behind her, and she still wields considerable power in the cultural circles—and I use the term “cultural” with scare quotes and due reservations—of this city (in part because, obviously, not only is she a journalist, she is also a playwright, a poetess, a novelist, and no doubt other things as well—it’s odd that she hasn’t yet been given a tenured professorship at the university, now that I think about it), and she does so with impeccable frequency.
There’s not a local television news show or radio station that doesn’t reach out to her at least a couple of times a week for her commentary on current events. And she promptly responds, with a paternalistic egotism that she doesn’t even bother to conceal, interlarding her bloodcurdling pronouncements with such violent attacks visited upon the proper use of mood, tense, and agreement, with such a cascade of adverbs chosen and employed with ham-handed incompetence, that you ask yourself—but seriously, almost hoping for an answer, since this is something that matters to you on a personal level—for what un-fucking-fathomable reason does such an obviously inept and unlettered donkey continue to enjoy the use of public forums, where she is allowed to offend the intelligence of her fellow man with complete impunity.
Show up at any academic conference (“gonference,” she’d say), lecture, exhibition, paid author appearance, election campaign dinner, or press conference, and there you’ll find Mary Stracqualurso.
My Mother-in-Law Drinks Page 14
