by
Mary Karr
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[...] I babble on about my long-held grudges against the god I don't believe in, saying, What kind of god would permit the holocaust?
To which Lux says, You're not in the holocaust.
In other words, what is the holocaust my business? When my own life is falling apart, he wants to know, why am I taking as evidence of my own prospects the worst carnage of history.
[...] The three of us are walking toward the street when he says, Who made all this?
The park? Some nice liberals, I say.
No, this, he says, sweeping his upturned palm across the autumn landscape.
The door opens a crack, and in the spilled, triangular glow, a tall kid wearing a red bandana over his streaming brown hair slips out. He stops six feet away and bends slightly forward--almost a butler's bow--saying, Excuse me, Miss Karr. Mind if I join you?
Who is he? With his formal demeanor and gold granny glasses, he could be a student--some Ivy League suck-up.
Join away, I say, adding as I flash my wedding ring, I'm a miz.
My goodness garcious, ma'am, he says, those are some seriously blinding stones you're flaunting. We met before . . .
And we had. David was a Harvard Ph.D. candidate in philosophy I'd once been introduced to at the back of a reading by mutual pals. Some kind of genius, David's meant to be, though his red bandana is the flag of a gangster or biker, ditto the unlaced Timberland work boots.
I ask him how long he's been coming, and he says not hardly any time, and I say it's my first go, and he asks me if I get it, and I say if I got it, I wouldn't be out here smoking. He says same with him, adding while he drank a lot, he mostly did marijuana, which can't be so bad because it's natural.
I say--cleverly, I think--Strychnine's natural.
[...] After you, Miz Karr.
It brings me up short--his outlaw wardrobe paired with the obsequious ma'am thing--and I say testily, Are you fucking with me?
No ma'am, he says, his hands flying to his T-shirted chest.
Then it strikes me that he's just a shy kid from the Midwest raised to say ma'am like I do to every waitress and dry cleaner. We scuttle inside like a pair of field mice from our inept exchange.
DFW appears omg :'(
I add, What kind of God wants me to get on my knees and supplicate myself like a coolie?
[...] You don't do it for God! You do it for yourself. All this is for you . . . the prayer, the meditation, even the service work. I do it for myself, too. I'm not that benevolent.
How does getting on your knees do anything for you? I say.
Janice says, It makes you the right size. You do it to teach yourself something. When my disease has ahold of me, it tells me that my suffering is special or unique, but its the same as everybody's. I kneel to put my body in that place, because otherwise, my mind can't grasp it.
[...] He'll also remember the claim of Philosophy David (who's working a security job while trying to start a novel) that a doctor made him keep the bandana on his head else it might explore. [...]
on her time, with Dev, in the Halfway House
See, I resent this shit, I say, pressing on the horn, adding, Even the fucking traffic feels orchestrated to fuck me up. Dev needs to eat. You need to get home before dinner curfew or you're grounded.
It's funny, she says, how everybody else is traffic, huh?
[...] it turned out--Wilbur Fred was paying all her bills.
Which pissed me off, since I was paying her gas bill and grocery bill. As was, it turned out, my sister. I made Lecia go down there and call me with Mother on the line, so we could confront this bookkeeping inconsistency.
Mother elided it by saying, Oh, Ben doesn't pay those. He helps me out all kinds of ways.
Helps you out how? I wanted to know.
How? Lecia said.
Well, he cuts the grass, Mother said.
I pay Sweet to cut the grass, I said, referring to an old pal of my dead daddy's.
I pay Sweet to cut the grass! Lecia said.
on her mother's triple-dipping
Maybe that time is so blurry to me--more even than my drinking time--because we remember through a filter of self, and of self I had little, having been flattened like a cartoon coyote by an inner anvil. With no self, experience streams past. Time lags until it's sponged up. [...]
Therapy rescued me in my twenties by taking me inward, leaching off pockets of poison in my head left over from the past. But the spiritual lens--even just the nightly gratitude list and going over each day's actions--is starting to rewrite the story of my life in the present, and I begin to feel like someody snatched out of the fire, salvaged, saved.
Which is my battle cry by the time David of halfway-house fame shows up. He leaves Boston to rent a boxy monk's cell spitting distance from my house. Ponytailed David with his gangster Timberland boots and red bandana holding his head together. Not yet thirty, with the habit of referring to his less than bright local bed partners in meetings as the Bibo Brigade, David must've seen me--a single mom in academia--as some final doorway toward a cleaned-up act.
He'd looked like an old friend when he'd first rolled in that summer with a pal. Both were shopping for a cheap place to hole up while finishing freelance writing projects they'd taken advances for. (A prodigy like David did Harvard philosophy as a mere detour.) Over cheap Chinese, we all sat for hours reordering green tea and bowls of deep-fried whatnot till fortune-cookie slips confettied the linoleum booth top.
Back in Boston, we'd always talked books--nobody had read more than David. When I'd whined in early meetings about not writing, from across the room, he'd shoot a conspiratorial grimace. He edited Joan's dissertation before it was published, and a year later, he and I even swapped and slashed up each other's first, sober work. But he'd seemed like a stray and forlorn undergrad on Easter when Warren and I had invited him over.
In Syracuse, I must bat my eyes at him or fluff my hair like some cartoon seductress [...], for right after, David starts packing my mailbox with bulging envelopes. Logorrheic, he calls himself. Words just pour from his pen. His yards-long letters come hand-printed in weensy, meticulous mouse type, painstakingly footnoted. Soon he's pleading hs troth, signing his missives Young Wether (after a tragic swain in book and opera with a crush on an older woman).
David is the only guy rash enough ever to get my name tattooed on his bicep--in a heart with a banner. Even before we've kissed on the lips, he does this. Watching those flesh-colored band-aids peel off in a phalanx to show an arm scarred and bloodied, a thinking woman would've hied for the hills. My response is more pitiful. I think, Wow, he might really like me--a thought nobody past grade five gets to have about anything bigger than a hamster. I plant a big wet Texas mouth on his.
[...]
For a week or so, its bliss. Any night I don't have Dev, David and I smoke cigars in my tree fort or read Russian short stories aloud till dawn. We watch movies where stuff blows up exclusively. Within the month, he phones Mother to announce, Mrs. Karr, I plan to marry your daughter. Mother's heartless comeback: Didn't you just get out of some place?
Then one day, almost like a switch is thrown in us both, reality sets in, turning the whole deal inside out. I'm raking leaves, waiting to borrow David's car for after-school pickup, but he slides alongside the curb, rolls down his window, and announces he's going to the gym instead.
Can't I drop you off at the gym and then get Dev? I want to know.
David prefers to pick up Dev himself, then work out.
But I'm trying to shelter Dev from David's presence in my life, which David resents. He wants to plug into the husband slot right away. Words get sharp. I throw down the rake and stalk inside. He follows.
The ensuing fight rocks the rafters--a worse tussle than Warren and I ever dragged through. And soon our every day is a rage, the whole romantic endeavor flip-flopping from cuss fight to smoochy-face makeup--the reversals coming too fast to get down in a diary. When Dev's home, I won't let David sleep over, which pisses him off no end, as does my leaving early from a research trip he takes me on. I'm mad he doesn't fit into the slot marked reliable.
[...]
Not that anything I utter warrants his pitching my coffee table at me, my sole piece of intact furniture splintering on the wall. After, I ring a lawyer girlfriend to send him a bill for it. He fires off a check with a note arguing that since he's paid for the table, isn't it his? I shoot back that the table's still mine, but he will own its brokenness for perpetuity.
(Years later, we'll accept each other's longhand apologies for the whole debacle and resume the correspondence that held the better angels of our natures.)
that pal is Jonathan Franzen lol