THE WRITING LIFE
I bribed my mother—if she didn't loan me the fee money for class, I wouldn't put her in any more stories. It was the perfect threat. Lately I had noticed that her anecdotes were coming fast and furious and since I'd heard them all before, I was beginning to wonder if these recaps were for my benefit or if there was an ulterior motive. There was. My mother, and many of my friends have pinned their hopes on me as a route to immortality. It was clear to me that they had picked the wrong horse but it didn't seem to matter.
My Hungarian friend stopped by on Monday. I was in tears over Susan and Arnie. Last Thursday, at the same time that I was listening to my story of Susan and Arnie and thinking I should write something long about them, about their childhood in Brooklyn, Susan was filing for divorce. I'd have to scrap that story. In fact, as I helped Arnie over the weekend, I had decided to scrap writing stories altogether for awhile.
“Vait joosta mint,” my Hungarian friend said. She had only a mild interest at best in Arnie and Susan but scrapping story writing was like telling her that her portfolio had been ransacked. How could I do such a thing? The problem, of course, was that I couldn't swear off writing stories when I hadn't put her in one yet.
“I can't put you in a story, Ilona, because I like to use quotes. I can't spell most of what you say. It doesn't come out right on paper.”
My advice to the world is never to tell a Hungarian you aren't putting her in a story. To calm her down I explained my idea of putting her in a play.
“I have in mind this play. It's a cross between Our Town and You Can't Take It with You. With some music.”
“A muzzcle?”
“No, not a musical. There will be a piano and I'd like to have 'Appalachian Spring' playing on a radio somewhere. This is important because of the tree. There will be a big tree stage right. A boy about eleven will sit in the tree all during the play. He's going to be reading by flashlight, really reading, not pretend reading. He can take a snack up with him and do his homework but the emphasis will be on reading. When the third act is done, he'll climb down and say the last line, very symbolic, “Well, that's enough for now.”
“Vatts my part?”
“Yours I'll have to write out in English but only skinny Hungarians need audition. If their English gets too good, that's it and some other Hungarian takes over. Same thing with the boy. When road trips begin, he'll switch with another boy. I wouldn't want him to miss the Waltons on my account.”
She asked me who else was going to be in it; she didn't want to share the stage with hooligans.
“Everybody that I didn't get around to in stories. Actually, what I'd like is a kind of Follies, a new edition each year so I could have sequels. Brunswick would be in it and Ross would be there. She'd be the only one allowed to write her own part. However, I'd insist on my favorite lines of hers, 'They're in Von's.;...Oh, that's just the Oedipal thing;...Responsibility is experiential.' Eileen would be represented by a sign, 'Under construction.' She can't be in the play, though, because John is the only one tall enough for her and he wouldn't give her the time of day. I'd like to use Burt's line about everybody's retired by 4 a.m. The way I see Burt's and John's characters is that they'll be sitting on the couch watching T.V.. real, not pretend. At the end of a program, Burt will jump up and say with great relish to the audience, 'Sensational! You really missed it!' He could give an improvised on-the-nose review but he'd have to keep it short. Wednesdays, he and John would move over to the table for poker. Susan and Arnie will; well, no I guess Susan and Arnie won't. Maybe I could take to the couch instead.”
“You gon ve in it?”
“Sure, why not? What's the point of all the work if I don't get a chance to do something? Besides, that's the only way I'll ever get to sing, 'Ah, sweet mystery of Life.' Just think of it. I'll get to sing it every night!”
“What about d'plot?”
“Oh, I'll have a nice complicated plot. Anything anybody says in the first act will be tied up nicely in the last. I'll have a couple of fictitious characters, too, in case real ones don't work out. It will have to be very magical and all happen in one night. I also think I'm entitled to walk into the dawn with the hero.”
“Who d'hero?”
“He will have to be fictitious. I think he should be living in the cellar. He'll fall for me because he's near-sighted and because I'll be the only one who knows the author of Seven Gothic Tales. In my play, Ross doesn't get to know all the answers. I thought the hero could be down there with Joe. Did I tell you that on top of everything else, Joe went and moved out to the valley two weeks ago? Sandi and Ralph are leaving soon so there goes my menage a trois. Jenny asked, 'What about us? What are we supposed to do without them?' I think they should have thought of that alright.”
“I don lie.”
“You don't like what?”
“I don lie play. I vant to be in story. All by mysel. It very trilling, my life. How you gon get to class wid no Joe?”
“I'm not going back.”
Ilona looked at me as though I had snatched away her season ticket. I hadn't thought what my not going to class would do to her.
“It just seems to me, Ilona, that it's time for the last scene. Somebody should come down out of the treetops and say, 'Well, that's enough for now; see you next year.' I think that somebody should be me. I think...”
“You tin, you tin! What you know bout anytin? You all da time tin, don know anytin. I tell you dis: you don go to class, I not speak at you never!!!”
I'm not sure. What do you tin? It sounds to me mighty like a bribe.
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