The Peaceful Transfer of Power

My paternal grandparents were on opposite sides of the political spectrum. Grandpa was a Republican, Grandma was a Democrat. They mutually agreed to abstain from voting because their votes would merely cancel each other out.

One election Grandpa sneaked downtown and voted for his Republican candidate. Grandma found out minutes before the polls closed. She ran down the street, clutching her skirt, and reached the polling booth just in time to cast her ballot for the Democratic candidate—to annul Grandpa's subterfuge. You gotta love democracy.

Honduras just experienced a coup. Iran's recent election leaves everyone wondering. Don't get me started on North Korea, Burma, China . . .

I keep recalling the images of George W. Bush showing Barack H. Obama around the White House. The country was polarized; the divide seems to get worse every election. It takes no great stretch of the imagination to wonder if one party might someday refuse to hand power over to another.

Yet hand over they do. Argue all you want about righteousness, the Constitution, and the rule of law, it took character for Bush to show Obama his new quarters, his new office; for Bush to make Obama's transition as smooth as possible; for Bush to say, in effect, "I disagree with you, boy-oh-boy I disagree with you, nevertheless I hand the reigns of power over to you."

Even though I consider Bush to be the worst president in American history, I take my hat off to him for making the transfer of power look easy. He was commander-in-chief of the most stunningly invincible military force the planet has ever known, yet he said, to the head of the rival party, "Here, it's yours."

And only because the majority of the population wanted him to. Go figure.

Running in Circles

Friday was the last day of school in Germany. My office (attic) window faces a grade school, and Friday I happened to look outside and see a young mother trying to get her playfully rebellious first grader to cross the street and follow her home.

I love subtle moments, little scenes that most people overlook or forget soon afterwards. A friend commenting on my last post said she hoped the story I told there was true. They're all true. And I'll never run out of them: watching a kid rescue a bike from the junk pile; waiting on a bag lady who enters my store; staring out my attic window as a mother herds her son across the street—these aren't stories I would make up, they're events that happen, the kind of which happen all the time. If you suspect I'm being dramatic I assure you it's just a matter of perspective. Or maybe I'm being dramatic.

The face of the mother I watched Friday was cold and impatient. Her boy ran around in circles, giggling in that insubordinate way only little boys can. The mother scolded him. She pointed authoritatively to where she wanted him to go. She chased him briefly, but soon gave up. Finally she ran out of patience and ordered him across the street under threat of punishment.

Thankfully he made a game out of obeying, by meandering his path and flapping his arms like a bird. Once the two were across the street the mother put on her business face: get the kid home, get him fed, plant him in front of the TV . . .

I see that face everywhere. I see exceptions too; some parents exude a glow that tells me they know what they're experiencing, that they're not taking it for granted. Even trivial little moments like zipping up a jacket, tying a shoe, wiping a chin. Some parents know instinctively how precious such moments are, and how fleeting. Most unfortunately don't, or at least don't show it.

I wish I'd had a video camera and could have filmed the little boy running around in circles, enjoying life for life's sake, unaware of the weighty responsibilities ahead of him, making sounds for the mere joy of hearing them come out of his mouth.

Making a game out of crossing a street.

And I wish that, twenty years from now, I could show my video to his mother, and watch the expression on her face as she relives a small moment in her past and finally understands its wonderfulness.

I see something every time I look out the window, or sit on a park bench, or wait at a bus stop. I can't get through the day without adding to my ever-growing file of reasons to write. And yes, my friend, the stories are true. If they sound too good to be true, well, thanks.

Now, hold on a second. You know you can't get away from a schmaltzy Steve post without watching a Hallmark video:

Bag Lady

The last jewelry store I worked for catered to the carriage trade. Although I enjoyed selling its high-ticket merchandise, I loathed bending over for its snooty clientele.

One day a bag lady entered the store. Her clothes looked like she'd slept in them for a month, the wrinkles on her face could well have been molded with a putty knife, and her eyes had that anxious, shifting way about them characteristic of the old and infirm.

And, true to stereotype, she lugged a bag. It was large and reinforced, with a sturdy plastic handle and a faded JCPenney logo.

The other salespeople avoided her. The thing to do in this kind of situation is wait for the customer to leave. Usually they just want attention, and if you withhold it they'll get bored and go elsewhere. But Bag Lady was the only shopper in the store at the moment, so I figured I had nothing to lose by being nice to her.

We looked at everything together. Gold watches. Strands of natural pearls. Diamonds that cost as much as a house. I let her try each piece on, and I loved observing how appreciative she was of my attention. She kept glancing admiringly at me with those moist, skittish eyes, occasionally checking her reflection in a wall mirror and adjusting brittle tufts of hair. The other salespeople watched from the opposite side of the room, smiling superciliously and shaking their heads.

Bag Lady fell in love with an oval sapphire ring surrounded by diamonds in the "Princess Di" style. It cost five thousand dollars. I felt sorry for her; the way she gazed lovingly at the ring decorating her bony hand, the way she tilted her hand to catch reflections from the store lights—lights designed to present the piece in the most enticing way—made me feel a little ashamed for having participated in her fantasy, for having stoked it. In a few minutes she would leave the store empty-handed but for the JCPenny bag, and I would go back to questioning what purpose I served foisting expensive rocks onto the nouveau riche, callow bumpkins who stretched their stunted egos by putting salespeople, who well knew their place, in their place.

Bag Lady said, "I'll take it."

I responded the only way I knew how, with a question tested by a million salesmen before me, words predestined by cosmic mandate for just such an occasion, just such a coordinate in the space-time continuum:

"Will that be cash, or charge?"

"Cash," she said. She fished an obese wad of money out of her bag and peeled off five thousand dollars in one-hundred dollar bills.

I guess I'm supposed to summarize this post with sage advice about not taking anything—especially people—for granted. But the fact remains, when a bag lady enters your jewelry store, the time you spend catering to her will almost certainly be wasted. So there isn't really a moral to this story. Except . . .

. . . the rest of the sales staff, smirking from a distance. Every time I find myself in the company of people who are sure their path is the right one for me, I can't help thinking of Thoreau's "different drummer" quote, and wishing such people would read it, become moved and inspired by its liberating theme, then go fuck themselves.

Undimmed by Human Tears

On Stage

I don't patronize bars, but my last job required I attend lots of conferences, and since everyone gravitated to the hotel bar to socialize, so did I. One evening the live music was provided by a young, clean-cut man who sang and played keyboards. He wasn't a prodigy. He wasn't going to be the next Elton John. He was a local boy who got a gig in a local hotel bar. But he was competent and enthusiastic and I loved his choice of songs. I told an employee sitting next to me how much I enjoyed the music.

"He's sometimes off key," she said. "And his range is limited. His voice is low-weight. It lacks distinctive timbre. Without timbre he'll go nowhere." She flicked her hand at him dismissively.

Turns out she had once worked as a background vocalist for a recording label. There were hundreds of women vying for her job, she told me. She left because the rewards didn't justify the effort. Her dream was to be a famous singer, not a background flunky. Now she worked for me, answering phones, greeting visitors, filing forms.

"He's not vocalizing," she complained. "He doesn't project from the chest. He just sits there and sings."

That he did. He sat there, he sang. I couldn't help noticing he was on stage, not she.

Are We There Yet?

I got my edits Friday. I'd been waiting anxiously: what if the editor should want major changes? What if he should want a different title?

Now I know. He wants major changes. He wants a different title.

The book has been critiqued many times. Each time I've reacted in a kind of Kübler-Ross sequence of stages:

1. Denial: There's nothing wrong with my manuscript. My manuscript is peachy keen. YOU, on the other hand, are a work in progress.

2. Anger: You wouldn't tell John Grisham his characters are under motivated, would you? Would you? Didn't think so.

3. Bargaining: How about if the aliens land in chapter 23 instead of chapter 16?

4. Depression: Why did I ever quit my job at Chuck E. Cheese? I was up for assistant manager. Now I can't write my way out of a wet paper bag.

5. Acceptance: Oh, all right, I'll cut the three scenes that show how the neighbor's cousin became terrified of thimbles. Are you HAPPY?

I keep hearing from and about fellow bloggers who've finished their first novel and are getting ready to query. I grit my teeth. Some have checked all the boxes: they've participated in writers groups, employed beta readers, distanced themselves from the project, edited, edited, edited. Still I grit my teeth. Because for most of them, the climb has just begun.

There's a difference between the critiques you get from industry professionals and those you get from beta readers. No matter how brilliant the latter are, feedback from agents and editors always seems shockingly concise and penetrating by comparison. It illuminates fatal flaws in your manuscript, flaws everyone else inexplicably missed. You find yourself on the operating table, your innards exposed from belly to brisket, pleading to the surgeon:

How about if the aliens land in chapter 23 . . . ?

Each time I'm told I need to make a major change, one that involves extensive deletions or the construction of new scenes, I feel as though I've been kicked in the yarbles. I give myself a few minutes, an hour, a day—whatever it takes—and almost always I come to agree with the criticism. As I write this, it's been a couple of days since I received the Big Edit, and although I've got difficult work ahead of me, I agree it needs to be done. The problem, like all problems, is an opportunity in disguise: the book is going to be better as a result of the effort. So I'm grateful, I think.

Am I there yet?

No, this is actually the second edit at this house; I had to make major cuts to the manuscript before the publisher would take it on. Life is just a long sequence of edits, interrupted by headlong bursts of raw drivel. Anyone who says "my book is finished" is either holding a copy or holding onto a dream.



I won't rest until the Mormon Tabernacle Choir records "The Scrotum Song."

Wellesley Virginity Chart

According to a recent study, studio art majors at Wellesley are busy-busy outside of the studio:



I, on the other hand, was a math major.

Statistics don't lie, but I'll tell you something about math majors: what they lack in experience they make up for in enthusiasm, and you've never had real sex until you've had it with someone whispering sweet diophantine equations in your ear.