Sputterpub's Blog

“This afternoon is for the birds,” Sarah thought. And then she smiled. She felt that, because she hadn’t been smiling much lately. She paid a little attention.

She was looking at her yard, noting the lively population of dark-headed little flyers amid the yarrow, two robins standing at the ends of the garden like sentinels, a solo hummingbird popping in and out of the salvia blooms. It was 2 p.m. and the creatures were acting dawn-hungry. They looked healthy, happy.

She wondered how “for the birds” came to mean something worthless. She turned to her corner home office, woke the computer, and looked it up.

And smiled again. Apparently the phrase was American, from the WWII era, originally applied to bad army rules. It was probably taken from “shit for the birds,” referring to the avian habit of picking undigested seeds and grain out of horse droppings.

Sarah already knew about that line of bird food. She has a tenacious memory about things that interest her, and facts that create perspective always interest her. She’d heard long ago that although there was a flurry of anti-car sentiment back when the automobile was first introduced (jobs will be lost, the economy will be hurt), in the end, only one form of life-as-we-know-it was extinguished by the advent of car culture: a few types of small birds, who got through the winter by gleaning edibles from warm horse manure. Those must have been the very birds, on their last legs (wings), who contributed to the creation of the “for the birds” idiom.

She felt cheered. She is a normally sanguine individual, but lately she’s been tamped down. Unmotivated. She’s been thinking that this persistent dullness and sadness may be actual depression. She’s been assuming she’ll come out of it in a few days – that’s always been the case when she’s felt like this before – but the current siege has persisted for almost a month. Looking up language on her computer is the first indication that she may be mending.

Sarah has had a lucky life. She was the first-born and only daughter of a strong marriage, and her brothers, kids, and most cousins are still alive. She married twice, somewhat casually, and both divorces were amicable. She likes to live alone.

She was always attractive enough. She was always plenty smart. She’s had no trouble earning a comfortable living as a benefits consultant.

So maybe it isn’t surprising – the way the deaths of two exes hit her. But she and her friends were surprised.

Philip went first. He passed away two years earlier, from rampant cancer that began in his left big toe. At that point Sarah hadn’t seen him for over a decade. He’d been what she described as an insignificant other, during most of her 40s. He was the relationship that occurred after her divorces. There’d been an initial frisson of attraction for her, followed by some seriously good kissing and then unimaginative sex. She had ditched the physical side of their friendship soon after. But Philip was tenacious to the point of being a pest, and she enjoyed talking and camping with him, so they continued to spend time together for six years. That included some terrific camping experiences: a week at 10,000 feet, above the tree line, alone with alpine flowers and giant sky; sojourns in Death Valley before it became a national park, when it was possible to camp with freedom; a meandering road trip through swathes of extreme northern California and northwestern Nevada.

He was brilliant in geology and astronomy. He was ingenious at cards. He had brains but he also had an attention-deficient, impulsive, mumbling personality. He was a seeker after truth, but as an acolyte, always on the lookout for a teacher/guide. When he became too cultish for Sarah, and when his parenting went all-love and no-restriction, she took herself away from him and his. She couldn’t bear to watch what she was sure would be unhappy consequences. And she was correct; his older son, a pretty child of 13, drowned in the bay after going out all night with his posse.

She knew from mutual acquaintances that Philip then found a woman in his latest cult and married her. She also knew he lost that wife to cancer a few years after the wedding. She thought of sending condolences then, but stopped herself. She asked what would it lead to: seeing him? She didn’t want to see him.

She again considered communication when she first heard about his cancer. But it sounded then like he had a good prognosis. She declined to stir that pot. She was shocked when he went from good prognosis to dead, in less than a month.

That was two years ago, but Sarah notes that she often thinks about him. She told all her friends that Philip wasn’t a boyfriend, and that was true. But he was a close friend, they shared some eccentric values, and he reminded her, fondly, of other dysfunctional boys. She had been a disruptive elementary school student, bored and not able to suppress her words or facial expressions, and when she was removed from class it was always to spend time in a room down the corridor, with Keith-who-rocked and Steve-who-raged and Patrick-who-stuttered, and a few others. The detention boys were always more interesting to her than those who remained in the classroom.

She read and wrote backwards and upside down from an early age. Philip was the only person she ever met who shared the inclination. Sometimes they called one another by their reverse names: Pilihp and Haras. They appreciated the fact that his was almost a palindrome and hers suggested how she sometimes behaved.

Philip was tall and thin and grey of hair and eye. He was a stone mason and his skin seemed granite gray, as if he were covered in rock dust. He had a way of perching on a seat, long legs twisted around one another and bony visage gazing downward at her, that reminded her of a vulture. Which thought returned Sarah to the yard birds.

The little guys were still there and more abundant. She thought they were sparrows. Sparrows in the yarrow. Again she smiled. Small brown birds had joined the flock, pecking at the ground cover between the robins. Wrens? Sarah is no ornithologist but sometimes she tries to identify the flyers who visit. Once a big ring-necked pheasant spent a few minutes in her garden. She marveled at his breastiness; he looked too heavy to fly. But he hoisted himself elegantly when motivated. Recently the yard received a sharp-shinned hawk. Sarah has friends who have attended raptor courses and they advised her that the bird was probably a Cooper’s instead, but she listened to recorded calls and was sure the well-camouflaged predator was a sharp-shin. Whatever. All the small birds disappeared from the yard that day, and didn’t return for half a week.

It was Peter’s death that triggered the sadness spiral that culminated in this afternoon. Peter had been Sarah’s husband for most of her 30s and his 40s.

She hadn’t seen him in a while either. Their breakup was friendly but he was angry that she didn’t love him enough, and he wanted a clean split. She hadn’t even been sure she would hear about it if Peter died, but her former stepson, now as old as his father had been when he was with Sarah, informed her and also asked if she had any pictures of his father. Peter’s death had been sudden and unexpected – a car crash on a Friday afternoon – and Sarah’s consequent tour of the photo albums, almost as unexpected, took her down lanes of memory she hadn’t intended to tread.

If Peter were a bird, he would have posed like a penguin and acted like a hawk. He was an aggressive guy, a lawyer who had been a soldier in his youth, and his military posture, especially when he put on his tux, reminded Sarah of the Antarctic creature. But he was like a small hawk, the way he could harry and hang on.

He and Sarah had great sex and a wonderful beginning, but their years together were marbled with stress. There were memories of good travel, early days of energetic planning, recollections of kids in distress, medical emergencies, ex-spouse drama.

Now she was rocked by a strange aftermath. She had shared memories with Philip and with Peter, that were theirs alone. She’d never planned to reminisce with either man. She hadn’t expected to see them. But she’d been carrying with her the idea that when Philip remembered Humphrey’s Basin, when Peter revisited Jamaica in his mind, Sarah was a figure in their heads. Suddenly that wasn’t the case. Those rooms where she might have twirled like a music box ballerina, those chambers were no more. If the memories were to persist, they’d be alone now, in her.

That seemed to impose an obligation. She felt as if she were appointed to recollect accurately: like she owed that to her dead friends.

“Funny,” she thought, now not-grinning, but she had more and better memories from times with the insignificant-other Philip than from episodes with her husband.

There was a flurry outside that caught her attention. Birds on the wing. Then Sarah saw the slower movement: the crazy neighbor lady’s deranged striped cat, belly-crawling toward the nicotiana like a soldier under fire. She was pleased to see no birds falling for the cat’s strategy.

Even so, Sarah went into the yard. She made her tread heavy, and herded the cat away.

I visited the periodontist recently. Irv’s a master at one-way conversation; he has to be, because my mouth is always filled with his fingers and his instruments. While he was scraping and analyzing my broken wisdom tooth, he talked to me about gift exchanges with his friend Kevin. Irv and Kevin go way back; although Christmas isn’t Irv’s holiday, Kevin keeps sending presents and Irv feels he has to reciprocate. This year he bought Kevin a beautiful hand-carved oak-framed clock. He got it in the classy antique store just up the street from his office. He knows the proprietor and that’s how he found out that Kevin returned the clock. It really got to him.

The holidays are over but I had a comment. As soon as I got my mouth back, I recommended a nice bottle of something. One of my employees gave me some Remy Martin VSOP Champagne Cognac. I really didn’t need it; I had my own favorite at home. But I wholeheartedly thanked the giver. And it was with satisfaction that I presented the bottle to the hosts of the New Year’s Eve party.

I think that was a wise suggestion for Irv. Even though it didn’t work so well for me. I went into that New Year’s Evening with happy expectations. None of them were met.

It was the first time in years I’d had anything resembling a date for the celebration. Most December 31s I’ve spent on the couch or alone in bed. It only resembled a date, though. It was Michael. And while it’s true that he’s male and single and self-described as straight, while it’s also true that he seemed specifically to ask me to be with him at Ted and Genevieve’s for New Year’s Eve, it was Michael. There’s never any physical contact between us. There’s no such thing as a personal comment with Michael. It’s only the complete absence of any flirting or glancing touches that makes it seem that maybe, somewhere deep in him, there is a spark of chemistry toward me. As if the gentleman didth protest too much…

The truth is, we’ve got nothing going, man-and-woman-wise. Michael is intelligent and inoffensive and uninteresting. I don’t believe he’s gay. I don’t believe he’s straight. I suspect he’s one of a category I’m now reading about: the asexuals.

When I know I’m going to be with him, I start collecting items of interest to talk about, and I feel eagerness building. But as soon as I see him I deflate. Immediately I lose most energy to introduce the topics. There’s something about his inhibited persona; he engages easily in superficial liberal art-appreciative conversation, but although the man has an impressive vocabulary, he usually introduces a new topic by describing it as “interesting.”

We left my place at 6 p.m. We returned around 3 a.m. In the intervening nine hours I had no good food, no decent drink, and no kisses.

I shouldn’t bitch. Life can be much worse. I think I’ll bitch.

I wore fun clothes: tunic and tights and boots and rhinestones. I felt festive. I carried the bottle of Remy Martin and presented it to Genevieve with the recommendation that we make French 75s (one part brandy to three parts bubbly). Maybe she didn’t hear me.

The house was as usual dark: redwood walls and window frames in a low-ceilinged one story cottage, set amid redwoods. Genevieve lit some candles but not enough to dispel all the shadows. Her creche, antique and also made of unpainted wood, blended into the side table on which it was displayed.

The food was not good. I ate cold artichoke leaves that had been sullied with a dab of bottled mayo and a dollop of cheap roe, tepid limp squash, eggplant and fennel, horrible bouillabaisse, and something called American pie. Or mock apple pie. It contained Ritz crackers and not a hint of apple flavor so I have no idea why it carries that name. As far as I can tell, its value is solely nostalgic, but since it hadn’t been a part of my history, I was immune. So was Michael; our discreet grimaces over dessert were the closest we came to bonding.

There was mediocre wine too (reds, and one Raymond chardonnay). When the champagne was finally opened, it was not brut and not good. And it was alone. My comments about cognac were disregarded.

The people were mostly not attractive or amusing. I wanted to like them but the more time I spent with them the more pathetic they seemed. It was like a grownup game of musical chairs, with everyone playing a role and no real festivity.

The best part of the evening was around the piano. Michael plays like he had lessons but no passion, but after he abandoned carols and switched to old show tunes, I joined in and enjoyed. Genevieve and her old friend Zell caterwauled like crazed cats but the rest of us managed some harmony.

The worst part of the evening was the conversation. It was all liberal, all PC, all unsurprising and unenlightening and not entertaining. The most interesting topic was the pronunciation of Nicasio (Genevieve insisted on saying the “s” as “sh” and Ted disagreed). Until Tony’s talk.

Tony and his wife Renee are around the same age as Genevieve and Ted. Tony and Ted have been friends long enough that each remembers the other’s first wife. Their current spouses are civil to one another but not close.

Like Ted, Tony’s a big guy. Both of them towered over my escort and seemed more attractive to me. Until Tony talked.

He described himself as a part-time therapist and a part-time contractor. He works as a psychologist a few days a week and otherwise supervises the remodel of his and Renee’s Fairfax house.

With a few early comments, Tony let me see that his story is all a reaction to his father. Who was narcissistic and controlling. Tony went into psychology to figure out his own life, but he insists that he’s excellent at his job.

He said doctors send the hopeless cases to him. He claims he can do what no one else can. Just recently, for instance, he said he’s been working with a 31-year old Jewish female. The woman is lovely and well educated but failing at everything she tries. Tony discovered that the patient was an unwanted child. Her mother married an older man and tried to seal the union with an infant. That was the patient’s older sister. But the mother only needed one union-sealing baby, and never wanted or loved the second child, the patient. Tony said he discussed this unlove with the mother, and she confessed he got it right. She is puzzled as to how he discovered her secret (so am I).

Here’s how Tony engineered the cure:

In their last session, the patient described having stomachaches as a kid. She remembered going to her mother. She recalled that her mom used to give her a hot water bottle, and she’d lie down on the floor with it, and be comforted.

Tony responded with a little (white) lie. He said he also had stomachaches as a child. He too used to go to his mother with his complaint and, like the patient, he was given a hot water bottle. But Tony’s mom would then bring him into her bed with her, and cuddle him till he felt better.

Well, as soon as the patient heard that, she saw how pale was the comfort she had received. She understood that her mother hadn’t loved her enough. She discovered the nature of the problem that was making her fail at life.

Then Tony leaned back against the couch, fingers laced at his nape and elbows out, beaming a satisfied grin. I sighed aloud or otherwise expressed sadness for the patient, sympathy. But Tony was upbeat. He said now that they’ve reached this place, they can start to fix the problem.

I’m still astounded. Fix the problem. That would be like giving Helen Keller sight. There isn’t any real fix for a baby who was unloved. And if there were, Tony would be the last one to administer it.

The evening was a little crazy for me. It was more than feeling like a reporter. There were too few points of agreement between me and the others, about food, drink, music, Tony. I felt like an anthropologist observing an alien tribe.

And I wish I hadn’t given them the cognac. It will probably gather dust in their above-fridge cabinet for the next decade. Ted may die from metastatic cancer, Genevieve may move back east, and Michael could lose his memory and speech, but that bottle will remain unopened. By the time it is discovered by Genevieve’s niece, it will have spoiled from the cabinet warmth. I probably should have kept it.