Helen in a hotel room, Winnetka, Illinois
She was listening to Vivaldi’s Concerto in D Minor for Guitar and Viola d’Amore. Her head equation
meant that she thought it was time that she went home to visit her family and got Oreo started on her journey to learn the secret of her birth. The phone rang, interrupting the music and breaking off another equation at a crucial operation. It was a wrong number, a woman selling magazine subscriptions. Helen was annoyed, so she let the woman go through the whole megillah. Finally, she said, “You’ve convinced me that I can’t beat your low, low prices. I think I’ll take a three-year subscription to Field and Stream.” The vendor was overjoyed (this was her first actual sale in 5,235 calls). Then Helen said, “That is, of course, if you have a braille edition.” The magazine woman apologized wholeheartedly for her company’s lack of foresight — a choice of words which Helen pointed out was particularly unfortunate for a person with her handicap to hear. With further apologies, muffled sobs, and long-distance groveling over her lack of tact, the woman hung up.
Someone was obviously circulating a defective telephone-sales list, for a few minutes later a dance studio called. Helen debated a moment over whether she should be a paraplegic or an amputee but decided that either would be tasteless and settled for spasticity. Again, apologies, sobs, and groveling. Helen was able to complete her equation:
C = H — MB2
where C = catharsis, psf
H = homesickness, cu ft
M = meanness, mep
B = Bell telephone, min
Jimmie C. and his friend
Jimmie C. and Fonzelle Scarsdale had been best friends ever since Oreo had beat Fonny up during her first practice session of WIT. Fonzelle showed Jimmie C. his report card. He was a straight-F student. He was not exceptionally stupid but had no time for studies, preferring to spend most of his free hours perfecting his walk (“I like to walk heavy, man,” he had confided to Jimmie C.).
Jimmie C., distressed, said, “What is your mother going to say when she sees this? My heart norblats for you, my hands curbel.”
“Hell, man, she’ll just give me a party.”
“A joyber? What kind of joyber?”
“A do-better-next-time party, jim. What else? But I’m hot, though. That yalla-nigger gym teacher give me a F in phiz ed. Now, you know I’m good in gym, jack. I’d like to bust that nigger up ’side his head.”
“Who are you talking about? Mr. Ozaka? He’s Japanese.”
“They got you fooled too, huh? Them so-called Japs, Chinks, all them — they all niggers. Just trying to chicken out of all the heavy shit going down on us black niggers. But they niggers just the same. One of these days, Charlie Chalk gon peep their game, then he’ll start treating them just the way he do us.” He laughed at the prospect.
Fonzelle put his report card back in his wallet and pulled out a celluloid zigzag of identification cards. Each one showed his picture, but the names on the cards ranged from toothsome (Vasquez Delacorte, Miguel Salamanca) to bland (Ronald Gray, Dave Johnson). “In case I ever get picked up, the pigs will be confused, dig?” He compressed the pleats. “My cousin’s a cop. I went with him when he had to testify in night court the other day. This foxy chick walks in. Man, she was really together. Legs so big and rounded off. I scrambled to write that address down. But the judge, he’s keeping it all to hisself. I couldn’t hardly hear, man. You know what they fined that chick? Ten dollars and costs! If it was some ol’ nappy-head broad, some pepperhead, they woulda thrown her ass under the jail. Gee-me-Christmas, there’s some shit going down, jim!”
Jimmie C. nodded in sympathy.
“Hey man,” Fonzelle said, “I’m looking for a job.”
“Doing what?”
“As a lover, man. That’s what I’m best at. What’s the opposite of red?”
“Bormel?” Jimmie C. offered.
“Yeah, blue. I get me a blue light and put it outside my door. Did I tell you about the last one I had. I told her, ‘Three dollars! Are you kidding? Where I come from, you pay me!’ She wasn’t bad, either. Really squared me away. After I came out, I saw this faggot. I thought it was a chick at first. I said, ‘What you mean you ain’t no girl, girl?’ I told Doris about that, and she cracked up. Doris is cool, jim. She may be a dyke, but she one stone fox. Wouldn’t mind some of that cat myself.” He giggled. “Know what she told me the other day? She had to go to the doctor, see? Had a infection in her cat. So the doctor examines her, does his little number with the slides and things, and says, ‘Miss Jefferson, I don’t understand this. You a virgin, you still cherry and all, yet and still you got this infection in your cat. And this ain’t no ordinary infection. This kinda germ, we usually find it in people’s mouth. It’s a — whatchacall — a oral germ. Now, Miss Jefferson, how do you explain that?’ Doris says that without even thinking, she comes out and says, ‘Well, doctor, I sat on a dirty teaspoon.’” Fonzelle doubled over, whooping and hollering.
Jimmie C. smiled gently, not wanting to offend his friend by telling him he didn’t know what the varnok he was talking about.
“You got a telephone book?” Fonzelle asked.
Jimmie C. handed it to him, and Fonzelle dialed a number. “Hello, Alcoholic Anonymous? Please listen careful, now. Scotch on the rocks, gin and tonic, screwdriver, bloody Mary, muscatel, martini, sneaky Pete—” He doubled up again. “They hung up. I can usually get in about ten of them before they see where I’m coming from.”
Jimmie C. was just about to tell him never to use his phone again for such aglug purposes, when his mother, whom he had not seen for almost a year, walked in.
“Nu, how’s my baby?” Helen said, embracing him.
Jimmie C. could not even sing, his small body was curbeling so with joy. Such was his curbelation that he did not notice that Fonzelle had said good-bye and was executing a heavy walk, its choreography a combination of Motown and early Clara Ward, out the door.
When Oreo saw her mother, she said, “Later, Mamanyu,” and went out into the back yard to cry.
When Louise saw her daughter, she said, “Well, I be John Brown! Look who’s yere!” She kissed Helen, pulled her over to James, who grinned and seemed about to get up, and went straight to the kitchen to begin preparing a nice little homecoming meal.
La Carte du Dîner
d'Hélène
Allow 40 min for AMERICAN AND/OR JEWISH dishes.
(Choice of six in each course. No subsitutions.)
Hors d'Oeuvre
halibut imojo
funghi marinati
CHEESE AND CRACKERS
PICKLED HERRING
Leberknödel
sashimi
dim sum
empanadas
pâté maison
vatrushki
Zubrowka
Aquavit
Pepsi
Soupe
mtori
stracciatella
NEW ENGLAND CLAM CHOWDER
MATZO-BALL SOUP
Hühner Suppe
awase miso