THE CALL (1). Thursday, April 6, 2006
"Hello?"
Other than two or three from my parents, this was my first call since I'd gotten home. My voice was loud but modulated.
"Bob? Is that you? Listen, this is Charlie. Charles Frescobaldi? How you doing, Bob?" It was the neighborhood contractor who had inspired the dropped ceilings for my subway designs. We had been sidewalk acquaintances. "So. I ran into Eleanor the other day, she told me you're ... that you were released." Charlie's dialect is nervous, educated Brooklynese. I pictured his big round head and imagined him running a hand through the thick wavy black hair. I heard faint sounds of ice tinkling, then swallowing, and imagined he had moved the telephone away from his mouth. "How do you feel?"
"Better, thanks. How are ... "
"Good, good. Listen, I happen to have a nice job for you. Can you, er, work yet?"
Well, I thought, I sure can --at least I hope so. But why did you call me, Mr. Fresco? Because you knew I'd be cheap? No, that was ungracious.
"Sure."
OPERANT THERAPEUTIC MODALITY. Monday, February 20, 2006
"Artsy fartsy!" I screamed. I jerked my head toward the drawings. Obviously, the flavor of the month was Therapy through the Arts. In addition to the usual mimeographed notices of fire regulations and so-called activities, the walls of the otherwise tasteful corridor were papered with saints, phallic projectiles, severed heads, and giant parentals menacing diminutive offspring. Across the top of this display was a strip of oak tag with a caption in large black curlicues:
MASON CLINIC PROUDLY CELEBRATES THE CREATIVITY OF OUR CLIENTS
DR. JARVIS MASON'S CASE NOTES (1). Tuesday, January 17, 2006
It's just the same old story... la la.
Profile: Robert Green ("Bob"), Caucasian male, age 38.
Diagnosis: clinical depression.
Predisposition: 3 early checkouts in family, 2 on maternal branch; patient has suffered from chronic D. at least since onset of adolescence.
Pre-trauma symptoms: low-self esteem masked by rigid routine; absolute "reliability"; workaholism; occasional puffs of escaped rage.
Triggering episode: After 11 years [1994-2005] of awful bed lock, wife, Eleanor Herrick, leaves him ("bo-ring") for another (!) woman [Friday, August 5, 2005]. She keeps apartment (hers, he moved in when they hooked up). Loses job, moves to worse neighborhood, immediately traumatized, and over subsequent 7-mo. period [August 2005-January 2006] sinks steadily.
Crisis and aftermath: Hits bottom, sticks head in oven [January 14, 2006]. Parents, expected later that afternoon, turn up early (on a hunch), save him. Grade-A health insurance through wife (tax lawyer, large white shoe firm, separation not yet formalized). And, yesterday, here he is.
Current state: fetal, locked in private room, 24-hour supervision @ 10-minute intervals.
Medication: SSRI's [selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors], normal dosage, for now. If no luck, we'll switch him over to MOWIES [monoamine oxidase inhibitors].
Prognosis: Way too soon to say.
IMAGINING THE C.C. RIDER. Saturday, April 8, 2006
It's my idea, all mine. It used to be the Loomis ice cream parlor; now it will be the C.C. Rider dance club. (Pity the neighbors.)
Although I had been inside the parlor only two or three times, none recently of course, I remembered it well. Pink marble counters, pale green fixtures, etched glass windows, black and white tile floors. And, most important, the vibrations, caused by the subway, which ran right below the building. Especially when you were standing at the cash register, if a train passed you could feel these vibrations running up your legs into your bowels.
Vibrations to Vibes. The C.C. Rider. Old fashioned, ultimate chic, conversation piece. I would transform the lovely ice cream parlor with its high tin ceilings into the kind of subway car they had around 1950, fifteen years before I was born. I leaned stiff-armed against the kitchen table. Eyes wide open, I imagined ...
... metal fans, dark green, slowly spinning overhead. Maps, posters. Straw seats with little rectangular handles on top, also dark green. Loud laughter/ conversation, pulsing techno/ bodies. Tinkling of glass. Old wooden cash register. Tokens, anyone?
DR. M ASON'S CASE NOTES (2). Wednesday, February 15, 2006.
I like Bob Green. For starters, the man can wield the English tongue. In today's session, he used some interesting imagery. In his own words:
"A couple of months ago, I think it was, I was trudging up a snowy hill from the subway after a long day of futilely searching for a job, when a huge Doberman, leashed luckily, jumped right at me. His snout turned into Mick Jagger's face, screaming into a mic. And his asshole master, some drugged out punk with brain piercings, thought it was really funny."
Prognosis: This is a very talented, creative guy although his D. is deep. If the family pitches in, if we can put him back together with ongoing SST's plus talk-talk -i.e. the usual combo--plus the modality flavor of the month, which is tailor-made for Mr. G-- and, if, after all that, he can get a job and keep it ... yes, a lot of ifs. But this guy just might make it.
A DREAM OF TRAINS (1). Thursday, February 24, 2006
Understand that in my former incarnation I was an architectural draughtsman with a large downtown firm. My parents, presumably with Mason's approval, brought to the clinic all my instruments (except the compasses), plus the special paper I had requested. Understand, too, that presumably in keeping with its therapeutic purpose, this putative art course is called "Visual Fantasies."
I think I'll tell this in narrative form.
With trembling hands and in silence, I hang the drawings from the stainless steel clothespins in front of the whiteboard. The class consists of myself, the young instructor (female), and two other "clients," Frederick M, a tall fat man with sandy hair and a permanent expression of fury on his florid face, and Dorothy S, a thin middle-aged woman whose gray face is a circus of tics and whose fingers incessantly tap out the same tunes which, over the years, I myself have played. We two men wear patterned sport shirts, the instructor a dark-green shirt, very becoming, if I may be so bold. The instructor and I wear blue jeans and Frederick, brown corduroy trousers. Dorothy wears a plain well-cut navy blue woolen dress. During one of the morning assemblies, Mason reminded/explained to the community (the unlocked members) that a few months back he had, "for morale's sake, determined to outlaw bathrobes and slippers in public spaces, except, of course, for the physically incapacitated."
As the always pleasant instructor coos encouragement and my two fellow-students stare into space, I announce the title, then begin my lecture. At first my voice is violently tremulous and much too loud, but as I proceed the trembling subsides to a tremor and I am able to modulate the volume.
"The concept behind these fine perspective pictorials by the [sic] eminent architect Robert G. [no surnames here] is simple. In every subway car, there will be two levels. I note at the outset that the cars themselves will not need to be an inch higher than at present, since all modifications are to be made to their interiors. It should also be acknowledged that these modifications have been inspired by the work of Robert G's friend, the noted neighborhood contractor, Charles F., whose work with the dropped ceiling, albeit controversial, has revolutionized the re-design of historic residential townhouses." At this point, Frederick barks a loud cough and his red face grows even redder. Dorothy, almost imperceptibly, frowns. I try to ignore these reactions.
"Note that our plan is to lower the first ceilings to six feet, leaving two-feet-four-inches above. Ladders, either permanent ones extending vertically at either end of every car, or removable ones slanting up from the station platforms through the large custom windows, will provide access to the upper level." I pause to drain half the water from the large Styrofoam cup that is practically an appendage for most of us, since a well-known side effect of many of our medications is thirst.
"You will also note," I resume, aiming my pointer at the first drawing, "that PLAN A calls for people who are six feet or taller to ride lying down on the upper level." By now, Dorothy has begun to peek shyly at me, and Frederick, to pace the room. For obvious reasons, moving around is permitted during classes.
I drone on. "PLAN B, on the other hand, adds to the design of PLAN A intermittent vertical compartments wide enough to contain a single person, exact number to be calculated by demographic survey, and reaching from the floor of the car through to the ceiling of the upper level. Passengers six feet and taller will be directed to these compartments. The upper level will now be reserved for those passengers who elect to lie down and are willing to purchase a special gold transit pass for that priv ... "
At that point, Frederick startles us all by interrupting, in his usual booming voice: "... privilege, the theory being that many harried commuters already look as though they would gladly pay a surcharge for a seat, so how much more willing would they be to pay to lie down? Conceivable, but admittedly problematic, are two additional dimensions."
I cannot help noticing how well he has caught my tone. The instructor watches uneasily for signs of impending violence, but since class participation is encouraged (and often hard to come by), she allows the interrupter to continue. Dorothy is still studying either her feet or the floor.
"The first addition," thunders the intruder, "will be to subcontract the upper levels to the subway prostitution firm, Darlene's Rush Hour Services for Gentlemen, of which I happen myself to be founder and C.E.O. You may recall," he digresses from his own digression, "that it was one of our gals who wrote the best-selling memoir, Tightly Packed Pants. The second ancillary dimension will be the employment of jobless youth to awaken passengers in time for their stops, recompense to take the form of gratuities."
"Those sure are problematic dimensions," Dorothy finally mutters, licking her chapped lips.
My best course is to humor him. "Thank you, Frederick," I say before he can continue. "That presentation displayed the crisp succinctness we have all come to expect from you." He nods brusquely, smashes a fist into a palm, then sets off around the room again.
"It will be apparent," I drone on, "that PLAN A is the more egalitarian, although I will be the first to admit that even it is open to allegations of height-ism, which, as we all know, in this city is often tantamount to racism. Nevertheless, I feel certain that the more fundamental issue for the city council will prove to be space utilization versus revenue return. Let me close with a caveat: I plead with the authorities not to regard the plan -whichever version is ultimately selected--as a panacea for the city's future fiscal ills. Such a misuse, such a misjudgment, would lead inevitably to gross overcrowding of the new facilities, making a mockery of the initial rationale for redesign. Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you."
Frederick, without interrupting his circumambulation, smashes his hands together twice; Dorothy, expressionless, rapidly and silently taps her fingers together several times. The instructor smiles (widely) and nods (vigorously).
"Very good, Bob," she says. And since this has been my first class presentation and I have been at the clinic for barely a month, she adds, "Welcome aboard."
* * * *
The next morning when I came down for breakfast, my drawings were up there with the rest in the corridor. They had even been allocated their own small bulletin board just to the right of the others, where the light was excellent. And I must admit to a surge of pride as I read the caption, which I could guess the art teacher had prepared:
MASON CLINIC CLIENTS ARE NOT ONLY TALENTED. THEY CARE ABOUT THEIR CITY!!!!!
DR. JARVIS MASON CASE NOTES (3). Tuesday, April 4, 2006
BG discharged! He's still on the SSRI's and I'll be seeing him as an outpatient, twice weekly at first. Says he's been offered a job and, beat this, it actually has something to do with trains! (He waxed mysterious when I asked for more details). I think I may have a bright idea that will benefit us both.
CREATING THE CC RIDER. Saturday, April 15-Friday, June 2, 2006
When Charlie Frescobaldi saw what a skillful, prompt, willing worker I (still) was, I became his right-hand man for the whole project. The boys (cocaine snorters, pill poppers from Manhattan with obscure financial backing) quickly came to know and love us both. From start to finish, Frescobaldi showed great finesse. Within the first few days, contracts had been signed, advances rendered, and we had been authorized to send the bills to their accountant, a box number. Within another week, Charlie had finagled several thousand extra for me, for "expanded services."
I did perform expanded services; these were the busiest seven weeks of my life. As I told Mason during one of our-now weekly evening meetings, "There are times when I even long for the quiet times at the old firm, the days when there was even time to mark time. At times."
"Understandable," he chuckled, "but insincere, of course. You love this job, Bob, it's obvious. Which is wonderful. Don't forget to invite me to the opening."
This lighthearted allusion to the old problems, the cool way I now dealt with Eleanor (we legally separated in early May), the work -everything went so well. During another session, I fatuously said to Mason that a busy, successful life is the best bulwark against mental illness: one lives a crazy life in order not to be crazy. Nodding sagely, he took a hit from his pipe.
Blueprints, whiteprints, drafting film, tracking cloth, they disappeared so fast it was as if they had been stolen. Floor plans, section drawings, mechanicals, wiring diagrams, outlets, fixtures, switches, doors, windows, security systems, energy systems. Permits, subcontractors, short cuts, palms to grease, sloppy workers to be brought up to the mark: Charlie was particularly effective in these human areas, even scary. And it all had to look like a goddamned old subway!
Problems, of course, were legion. For instance, when a workman's flying hammer shattered one of the five-by-eight sections of mirror behind the original Loomis counter, matching the old glass cost us two thousand and many, many phone calls. Also, one of the investors, a twitcher named Joey Marx, announced that he had fallen in love with the chandeliers, and ordered us to keep them. But they clashed with the new décor and would have been shredded instantly by the overhead fans. Compromise: after a few hissie-fits and several wasted hours of aggro, he had them installed in the dining room of his own (undoubtedly tasteless) new condo.
When the parquet floors came in fifty percent above estimate, there was another huge palaver, this one even including a few threats and epithets cribbed from the Godfather movies. Of course, there were consolations, too. "Bob deserves another three grand," Charlie opined at an opportune moment a few weeks ago. Bob got it.
Somehow, an inch at a time, we crept forward. Concepts became blueprints, which were scrutinized, modified, approved. Demolition (the flying hammer), then renovation. Sounds simple? Ha!
One detail chosen from ten thousand: would the straw seats Charlie spotted in a junk shop do? Well, no, they would rip people's pants to shreds. Could you lacquer them with currently available products and still have them look forty years old? Of course you could, for a price. But it turned out there were only eight, and we needed six more, two long, four short. Here and there, rushing all over the city a la Keystone Cops, and with great agony because the damn seats all had to match, Charlie and I eventually hunted them down. I then designed the new booths, incorporating the eight short seats. It was a grand moment when we stood there and watched them being bolted into place.
Bear with me, I find these details consummately interesting. Each booth consisted of two of the transverse seats and a dark maple table. The notion of covering the tables with graffiti was dismissed as anachronistic: 1950, not 1973. Along each wall, the men set in place a booth, then twelve feet of the long seats, another booth. The bottoms of the little bare light bulbs above the tables were frosted, which sacrificed authenticity to comfort and ambiance. On the walls were replicas of the old poster ads and maps, the latter more schematic but less accurate than the ones we prefer in our new Age of Information. The ads, finned automotive monstrosities, demurely smiling Miss Subway candidates with soft pre-gym- workout bodies, were easy enough to find, but they cost a bundle. As the smiling shop owner said, "Sorry, gentlemen, these are a very hot item."
We built the huge bar across the back wall, designed as a large open-fronted conductor's booth, complete with control panels (computerized bill and inventory records) and even a little window (purely decorative) behind. The hefty entry fee would be collected in front, of course, inside, at two "token booths." As the bouncers funneled in the customers, they would move through turnstiles, chosen both for the feel and to slow the traffic just enough to prevent mob scenes at the booths. Beyond the booths, on both sides, cattycorner to the big dance floor, were twin DJ stations with all the appurtenances thereunto. The juice that these stations sucked was the main obstacle to our initial hopes of making the place green. (These days, green buildings can count not only on tax breaks, but on big write-ups in feel-good nature publications.) The design of the front of the room also gave us a major security bonus. The managers, one in each attractive, difficult to burglarize token booth, could keep an eye on both the DJ's and the dancers. The bouncers, who could be summoned by buzzer, were seconds away.
We open this Friday, June 2, 2006.
MASON CASE NOTES (4). June 5, 2006
What a blast! Besides, for me, Christmas may come in summer this year. Feature Article: "A Dream of Trains: The Pathology Is the Cure, Stupid." By Jarvis Mason, Ph.D., Fellow Royal Society for the Quashing of Depression (RSFQD), etc. etc. To appear in Journal of Alternative Modalities (JAM) (editor: the wife's cousin, Robin Bates!) Yes, Friday night I went to the opening of the club Bob just finished designing: absolutely brilliant! All that train business while he was hospitalized is completely explained: sub(way)limation, you might say.
I can see it already: a narrative first-person by Bob, cleaned up and footnoted by me --the case history, in effect. Therapy through the Arts, Mason Clinic modality of the month triumphant: the imagery (symbolism?) of depression: tunnel as night, phallic projectile smashing through the darkness, ambivalence thereunto, the whole nine Freudian yards. What's in it for Bob? More catharsis, maybe even a few commissions. For me? Heh heh, this will be so big it will: a) bloat my already gargantuan reputation, and b) bring in some (sorely needed) new clients! Maybe I should leave that "Stupid" off the title. Unclear: with it, rude; without, clichéd?
A DREAM OF TRAINS (2). Wednesday, March 1, 2006
Since patients at the clinic took two "classes," I also enrolled in Creative (i.e. Cathartic) Writing. Here, from the early days, is an example of my literary oeuvre.
NIGHT. G---- stands alone on a dark platform. From the black tunnel shines a single light, a beacon. An equipment train rumbles into the station, a string of flatbed cars cluttered with miscellaneous machinery and equipment. There are large generators that look like cement mixers, piles of wire and cable, pipes, drums, and so forth. Oddly, the train clatters silently. G--- is aware that the train is clattering, yet the dream is silent. Slowly, without stopping, the cars pass, and he scrutinizes each with pleasure. It all has the air of a display. He reads the caption: THE CIRCUS IS COME TO TOWN. Like clowns, two or three men sprawl impassively among the equipment, their faces covered with greasepaint, their limbs akimbo. They do not wave, and neither does G---, who has perceived in the beacon a command to bear witness at a ceremonial procession. The last of the cars disappears into the tunnel.
THE CALL (2). Monday, June 5, 2006.
My new love (hooray, no sexual dysfunction whatsoever from the SSRI's!), Kay (gorgeous, met her at opening, women's clothing designer, business client of, yes, Eleanor's) is in Rome. She promised to call this afternoon. The sun streams through the little window above the sink onto a corner of the beautiful teak table. Should I call her? No. Wait. There, it's ringing. One. Here we go. Make them wait ten rings, but no longer, or the machine will pick up. My beautiful new lemon-colored kitchen, designed exactly according to [Two] the specifications I left on the table when, shall we say, I almost checked out. Three. Clear the throat, lick the lips. Kay? No, still too early there, let's see, about six. I bet it's old Frederick, calling to cut me in [Four] on Darlene's Rush Hour Services. I stretch my hand toward the warm light. That hip lawyer (also from the opening)? Five. Did he say a beach house? Some other client, through w.o.m. So soon? Six. Thank you, Eleanor, thank you, mom and dad. The boys again, they want dance clubs in [Seven] fifty provincial cities, all subway car replicas. The old table, where I left the kitchen plans right before investigating the interior of the oven. Eight. Jarvis Mason calling with his "Great Offer" (teasingly announced at the opening). Nine. Thank you, Eleanor, thank you, mom and dad. Who knows, someone from Ho and Ho (House and Hotel) or ZANY (Zone Out New York)? Ten. Were there reporters present, then, lurking in dark corners?
Whatever. Now.
"Robert Green speaking."
About the author:
This year, Ron Singer (www.ronsinger.net) has had prose and poetry accepted by 3711 atlantic, 55 words, alba, big bridge, Contemporary Rhyme, elimae, Friends of Nigeria Newsletter, ghoti, Great Works, Nth Position, New Works Review, Pilgrimage, Poetry Midwest, right hand pointing, SN (Starry Night) Review, Waterways, and Word Riot. His Essay-Review, "O Ti Lo Wa Ju ('You Have Gone Past All'), The Caine Prize for African Writing," is in the Summer 2007 issue of The Georgia Review, and three poems are slated to appear in the anthology, Poetic Voices Without Borders-2 (PVWB 2, Gival Press). His chapbook, A Voice for My Grandmother, was published in November 2006 by Ten Penny Players, Inc, which issued a second printing in October 2007. To date, A Voice has garnered seven reviews. Singer lives in New York City, where he has just retired (after 31 years) from Friends Seminary, a K-12 Quaker school. His wife teaches, too, and she is a visual artist; their daughter is a food writer.
© 2009 Word Riot
