Clothing Optional Page 7

—Well, what do you think?

  —It’s super. It really is. It really sounds like a winner.

  —Thanks.

  —Now, what part were you thinking of having me play in the movie?

  —Well…uh, I thought it’d be great if you played the part of the comic.

  —Really? Hmmm…

  —Is something wrong?

  —Well, the problem is that I’m not an actor.

  —So?

  —So I can’t see how the hell I can play a guy like that.

  —But…

  —I mean, look, I know the kind of comic that you’re talking about. Christ, I must know a thousand of them. But I don’t think it’d be believable if I did it. You know what I mean?

  —Well…

  —Look, I’m really flattered that you asked me. Really I am.

  —Uh-huh…

  —Hey, I have an idea. Why don’t you actually use one of those comics? You know, some unknown like Dickie Curtis, or Lenny Bates, or Joey Rush? Some guy who can actually play himself? Have you thought of that?

  —Well…

  —Christ, that would be a hell of a shot for someone like that.

  —Right.

  —You should consider it.

  —Okay.

  —Hey, look, thanks again for thinking of me.

  —Sure.

  —And I’ll see you on Wednesday to talk about the Paul Williams roast. Okay?

  —Sure.

  —What do you say, two o’clock at the Stage Deli?

  —That’ll be fine.

  —So I’ll see you then?

  —Uh-huh.

  —Super.

  Bad Exit Strategy

  Allow me to begin by saying that I’m basically a good guy. I’m a faithful husband and loving father who tries his best to be a good neighbor in the small New Jersey suburb we live in. Despite all best intentions, however, I do admit that I am not above occasional mishaps—human errors that range from inadvertent oversights to wrongheaded miscalculations. But if pressed to recall a moment where I plummeted to my lowest depth of civil behavior, the time when my chosen exit strategy was, at best, atrocious, it would undoubtedly be what took place about ten summers ago in our town’s swimming pool.

  It was an August afternoon. The temperature was in the nineties and our kids were getting antsy, so we decided to take them to the local swim club. The Olympic-sized pool was crowded with similar-thinking neighbors who were seeking relief from the oppressive heat. The time soon came, however, when I found myself in need of relief of my own. That’s right, I had to pee and was faced with the familiar decision of whether to leave the pool and endure the hot cement of the pool’s perimeter on my barefooted way to what was traditionally an unkempt men’s room or simply stay put and add a little water of my own to my surroundings.

  I opted for the latter with no knowledge whatsoever that the town was trying an experiment where they put a chemical in the pool that, when combined with the acidic property of urine, turned a reddish color, which, in effect, acted as a billboard proclaiming, “THIS DISGUSTING PERSON JUST PEED IN OUR LOVELY POOL!” What followed was even more horrifying, as I had no way of knowing that the rather heavyset woman who was next to me, the one to whom I pointed to let our community know that it was indeed she who made a liquid donation to where they were bathing before I scampered away in a cowardly attempt to put as much distance between us as possible, was a local candidate for mayor. That what I was actually doing was telling a significant segment of the town’s voting population that this sweet, grandmotherly woman who was running on a “town beautification” platform had just sullied these very waters with a beverage that she had drunk earlier and was now personally recycling into the pool that they and their loved ones were playing Marco Polo in.

  The elections were held that November, and she lost by nine votes. Whether those nine people were at the pool that day and this episode influenced their decision is a question I cannot answer. Nor can I tell you with any degree of certainty that if she was elected mayor, she wouldn’t have eventually ridden that wave of popularity to higher offices in the county, state, or, God help me, the United States Senate, had I not snuffed out her political career. All I do know is that about a year later, I saw her at the crowded deli counter of our local supermarket, said, “I am so, so sorry,” and handed her the much lower number I was holding before scurrying away as quickly as if she had just peed in a swimming pool.

  The Enchanted Nectarine

  In 1979 I ate a nectarine that I still think about.

  It was August. August 2 to be exact. My girlfriend and I were getting engaged, and a show I’d written material for, Gilda Live, was about to begin its run on Broadway. Life was good. And was made that much sweeter by a purchase I’d made at a Columbus Avenue grocery on my way to rehearsal. A nectarine. China’s contribution to the world of fruit. And while this writer does not regard himself adequately gifted to describe the glory of that mutant peach with hairless skin, let’s just say that the moment I bit into it, I instantly forgave God for all the wars and sufferings he’d previously turned his back on—figuring he was busy making this amazing nectarine while all that other stuff was happening. This taste of heaven, which caused me to wonder whether, at the next round of SALT, the Soviet Union would think twice about invading Afghanistan if Jimmy Carter were to feed Leonid Brezhnev a nectarine like this one just before their little chat got under way. Whether Leonid would, instead, take one bite, immediately drop to the floor in a squatting position, and hold Carter’s hands as they kicked their heels in the jubilant Cossack dance from the wedding scene in Fiddler on the Roof.

  But the wonders of this nectarine did not stop there, however, as my other senses, apparently envious of the festival the taste buds were attending, shifted into a higher gear and became more receptive to the offerings of the city street’s colors, music, and smells that they were previously too self-involved to savor.

  Yes, all that was right with the world was embodied in that single nectarine, whose only fault was that it wasn’t the size of a basketball so its majesty could be shared by entire neighborhoods over the course of several weeks. As it was, I now was in the process of sucking whatever juices still remained in the strands clinging to its pit when I entered the Winter Garden Theater and learned of a tragedy—first from a stagehand, then verified by everyone else. Thurman Munson, the New York Yankees catcher and team captain, had died in a plane crash. The heart of the lineup as well as the dominant spirit of their clubhouse lost his life while practicing takeoffs and landings in the Cessna he’d bought so he could spend days off with his family in Canton, Ohio.

  A city of fans was instantly bound by shock. Disbelief. Raw emotions were soon followed by tributes. The catcher’s position left empty as the Yankees took the field for their next game…The scoreboard photo of Munson, his frizzy hair peeking out from beneath his cap, towering over a tearful Reggie Jackson in right field…A young widow with three small children at a televised funeral.

  I’d never met Thurman Munson, but I mourned the loss. Selfishly, I was going to miss his presence on the team he personified. Their first captain since the legendary Lou Gehrig. Emblazoned on the tail of the doomed Cessna was the same number that was stitched on his jersey, NY15. A true Yankee to his untimely end.

  I didn’t idolize Thurman Munson—perhaps because I was now twenty-nine years old and supposedly past the age of regarding ballplayers with the same awe as I did Mickey Mantle and Sandy Koufax while growing up. Then again, those players were bigger than the game itself, performing with a grace that elevated the acts of hitting and throwing cowhide to an art form. This was not the case with Thurman Munson, whose play was regularly described by adjectives such as scrappy, gruff, and combative. Whereas I don’t have a single memory of Willie Mays having a spot of dirt on his uniform, Thurman was the blue-collar counterpart who wallowed in his attempts to protect home plate or dive into the stands to catch a foul ball. His every move gave the appearance
of an effort. Unbridled exertion. Thurman’s demeanor was abrupt and coarse. He was stout and hairy, and on no planet in any universe would he be considered handsome. Yet, this was his attraction. Why he was crudely lovable. Ralph Kramden with shin guards. A common laborer who toiled for a paycheck. Who loved his family. And his life. And most probably appreciated a good nectarine. Devoured it with abandon. Relished every fleck that didn’t get caught in his droopy moustache. And slobbered the juices that hadn’t already spilled onto the front of his already soiled shirt.

  Did Thurman Munson like nectarines? Was it possible that the bulge in this tough guy’s cheek was not a chaw of tobacco but, indeed, a pit? I had no way of finding out. I knew none of his teammates, and the few sportswriters I was friendly with thought I was kidding when I asked. So the question was quickly assigned to the same part of my brain where other former curiosities like “Would Jesus have thought Good Friday was an appropriate name for the day he was crucified?” and “Do fat people use more toilet paper?” were filed.

  Then, some years later, I met Thurman’s wife, Diana. A friend of mine took me to a reception the night before Old-Timers Day at the stadium. I got to see some of my childhood heroes, now elderly men in shirts and ties who no longer looked like baseball players but like elderly men in shirts and ties. Sensitive to both their and my need for them to be young again, I found myself picturing these gentlemen as they once looked on baseball cards—a white lie that no one in the room seemed to mind. When I was introduced to Mrs. Munson, however, more than anything, I wanted to ask if her late husband liked nectarines, but I knew my question would be a reflection on the person I was a guest of and the collateral damage could have been disastrous if it was deemed inappropriate or, more likely, idiotic.

  So while I know that it would be a far better ending to this tale if I said that by the end of the evening my curiosity swelled to the brink of eruption, causing me to dash out into the parking lot, catching up to her just as she reached her car, excuse myself, ask if Thurman liked nectarines, and that she took a moment to orient herself before a wide smile appeared on her face as she recalled the memory and said, “Why yes, Thurman loved nectarines”—I cannot honestly say that is what happened. Nor can I say that to this very day whenever I bite into an amazing nectarine, I think about Thurman Munson. Hell no. If that kind of sappiness even makes this oftentimes overly sentimental wordsmith cringe with horror, my guess is that Thurman would use it as an excuse to come back from the dead to beat the shit out of me, and he would be justified in doing so. In fact, there’s an excellent chance that I would join him in giving me a sound thrashing. That being said, I cannot remember eating as good a nectarine since that day.

  My Daughter Lindsay

  I write. This is what I do. I take words and place them in an order that will hopefully hold your interest when set down on a page or when uttered by human voices on a stage or a screen. Why do I do this? I have no choice. I’m a writer. I was born this way. And while I realize that there are far worse genetic conditions that a person can be afflicted with on the journey from one end of life to the other, the fact remains that writing is what I do because a writer is what I am.

  I belong to that particular breed whose work is unlike any job where it’s necessary to remain detached from private concerns, emotional stirrings, and both painful and happy memories so as not to be distracted from effectively performing whatever task one’s work requires. My work suggests that I do just the opposite. My work suggests that I dwell on these events and their associated feelings for the purpose of infusing them into the reality of my characters and the world that my work deposits them in. Tone? Important but secondary. Important because the sensibility of the piece, and the craftsmanship employed in its presentation, will ultimately affect how well a story is received by an audience whose only agenda is to enjoy themselves. Secondary because whether it’s comedic or dramatic, romantic or aloof, maudlin or cynical, the attitude of the selected words is but a veneer unless a relatable truth is at the core.

  This does present a problem, however. Because to have ready access to the memory of feelings, the writer must shed layers of protective psychological buildup. And in doing so, he must expose himself in such a way that criticism can be extremely hurtful.

  Recently I got hurt. No, allow me to revise that. Recently, I got destroyed. Beaten to a pulp. Hammered. Nailed. Kicked in the groin. The stomach. The face. Chewed up. Spit out. And left for dead.

  Recently I wrote a movie. It was a simple tale that I felt passionate about. Based on a simple book I’d written, which I also felt passionate about. But when the movie came out, the critics hated it. With a passion. Consequently, the words they chose to describe my words were words like “bad,” “really bad,” and “What the hell was he thinking?”

  Hurtful? Quite. But what I had written was, at the very least, well intentioned. Operating on the assumption that a child, at one point or another, may feel unappreciated by his folks, I wrote a fantasy where a young boy named North embarks on a worldwide search for the perfect parents before coming to the conclusion that his parents, despite their shortcomings, are the best for him. I liked the idea. And I still do. It’s light and it’s fun, but if people, in their professional judgment, do not care for the way the idea was executed, this is their prerogative. If, in their estimation, the words I chose do not effectively deliver the desired message, laughs, or tears, not only is it their job to say so but it’s also possible that they are right. I’m only human. I make mistakes. Maybe I should have chosen different words. Or the same words but in a different order. Or the same words but in a different language. Or perhaps I somehow stumbled upon a curious phenomenon of chemistry where perfectly innocuous words, when placed in the order I put them in, suddenly stink to high heaven.

  Whatever the case, as the script’s author I accepted responsibility for its merit and only wished that I could apologize to anyone who was disappointed by the effort. But as a human being with feelings, I was stunned when some reviewers deployed phrases like “bad writer,” “very bad writer,” and “He calls himself a writer?” in mounting an attack that ventured beyond what I did to what I am.

  This confused me, and it hurt. Badly. Weren’t these reviews written by writers, brethren, who hailed from my own gene pool? So why were they taking words, the lifeblood of our species, and using them as weapons against one of their own? The security in thinking that my extended family of wordsmiths would, like any family, settle its differences quietly within itself was now shattered as public humiliation became compounded by feelings of betrayal and exclusion.

  Shock gave way to paralysis, and I couldn’t write. Few noticed. Banks stayed open, children weren’t sent home from school, and the flag in front of our post office remained at full mast. But for a guy whose mom still shows old home movies of him as a three-year-old shouting the words “A writer!” while dancing on the lap of an odd-smelling uncle who asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up, this was sad. Well, think about it. What other way is there to describe the sight of someone who every morning just sat and stared, in catatonic horror, at yet another page that his words seemed desperate to be removed from, as if they no longer enjoyed being in each other’s company?

  Unfortunately, many well-meaning people only served to aggravate the situation. Some friends and siblings felt too awkward to call, but their silence said a lot. And some of the ones I did hear from, well…

  —Hello.

  —Don’t read Time magazine.

  —Dad?

  —You get Time magazine?

  —Yeah….

  —You get this week’s issue?

  —It just came.

  —Well, whatever you do, don’t read pages 74, 75, and the top of 77.

  —Why not?

  —Because they really knock your ass around pretty good.

  —Oh….

  —But on 76 there’s a full-page ad for Subaru, so that one’s safe.

  —Oh….

&
nbsp; —Tell me, just so I know, what kind of circulation does a magazine like this have?

  —I really don’t know, Dad.

  —Approximately. A million?

  —No, more.

  —A billion?

  —No, I’d say around seven million.

  —So what we’re saying is that approximately seven million strangers now think these things about you.

  —Well…

  —Because I’ll tell you, it’s not easy for a parent to read something like this about their child.

  —Uh-huh…

  —I mean, for me it wasn’t as bad. I’m a man so maybe I have tougher skin…

  —Uh-huh…

  —But as far as your mother is concerned, I think she’s gonna have to change butchers.—Why?

  —Resnick made a comment.

  —Your butcher made a comment about the movie?

  —To Lillian Fein.

  —What did he say?

  —Don’t ask.

  —Dad…

  —Alan, the man is an idiot. He can barely put two words together without stopping for directions. So why aggravate yourself with what that fat meat shlepper thinks. Okay?

  —Okay.

  —He said that you were “banal, sophomoric, and stunningly devoid of mirth, wit, and social redemption.”

  —Resnick, the idiot butcher, said that to Lillian Fein?

  —Yeah, and you know the mouth on her.

  —Resnick saw the movie?

  —I doubt it. That cretin wouldn’t leave his house if it was on fire, let alone to go pay to see a movie.

  —Well, then how could he say…?

  —He was quoting one of the reviews.

  —He was?

  —Of course.

  —Oh…

  —I think the Post.

  —Oh, so the Post gave a bad review, too?

  —Brutal.

  —Oh…

  —I never read anything so malicious and hateful.

  —Oh…

  —But Time magazine is worse.