Thursday, December 29, 2016

The Interpretation of Professional-Class Fantasies


And these new babies who ate and slept regularly, on a schedule, like little clocks, as Miss Swenson said, were going to grow up into a new kind of man, who perhaps (it did not do to be too optimistic) would no longer want to make wars and grab property.

—Priss daydreaming in Mary McCarthy’s novel, The Group (1963)



The dissertation I finished this past summer was about comic alternatives to “liberal satire,” a form of comedy celebrated and derided as a virtual synecdoche for the 1960s. While my focus was on the alternatives, I was obliged to specify the hegemonic cultural form (liberal satire) against which these had been defined. In the sources I consulted, “liberal” described not people devoted to any particular political or ethical philosophy but rather people who imagined they shared the material interests of affluent white professionals as a class. “Satire” described the scoffing superiority of a Mort Sahl. Criticisms of liberal satire have been widely circulated ever since Sahl was supplanted by a purportedly jazzy Lenny Bruce in the late 1950s. Such criticisms have found a renewed vigor in the weeks since the most recent disgrace of the party of the professional class—in one of the more mild examples, we hear from inside the halls of The Daily Show that Jon Stewart believed the more “eviscerating” viral videos his show often produced were “unhealthy.” This ground has been covered many times before, and so I continue to believe that our focus should be on alternatives.

What might be useful, however, is an examination of the historical grounds of professional-class ideology as a fantasy world. Criticisms of liberal satire tend to be satirical themselves. Liberalism seems most ridiculous when it appears as a set of blinders. If you read criticism to be entertained or to be assured that you’re one of the smart ones, that’s the depiction you want. People stumbling around in their own self-imposed darkness look funny, and so today even poor Ann Coulter, God bless her, can land some pretty diverting punchlines. If on the other hand you read criticism for the sake of understanding, you need to ask how postwar liberalism as a variegated, contradictory way of perceiving the world has become involved in the lived experiences of affluent professionals or “whiter people”—people whitened by their affluence and professionalism, the “white people” of “stuffwhitepeoplelike.com.” (I first encountered the comparative term in Amiri Baraka's Blues People of 1963, where the author, then LeRoi Jones, discussed black men whitened by their involvement in the world of professionals.) More than a flimsy set of blinders, postwar liberalism functions as a mode of perception characterized by its own hopes, fears, and satisfactions. Instead of merely pointing out how unmoored from reality liberalism comes to be the more it subordinates itself to capitalism’s concentration and centralization of wealth, I would like to examine the sustenance it finds in the social relations it interprets and farcically reproduces.


1.

Postwar liberalism, or something like it, is still woven through the lives of whiter professionals. Children born into white working-class families in Pennsylvania, Ohio, and Michigan still go to college and never move back—this year, some of them reportedly claimed they would skip Thanksgiving knowing their parents voted for Trump. This isn’t because their professors indoctrinated them into progressivism and sent them off to San Francisco. It’s because the jobs they train for are in different parts of the country, and it’s because people who have graduate degrees or hopes of attaining graduate degrees can imagine that they share material interests with whiter professionals as a class. As always, imagined social relations come first. Without reference to an ostensibly existing set of social relations, an ideology’s more fantastic flights must eke out a meagre existence.

Yet even a relatively meagre liberal fantasy world could offer wounded Clinton supporters plenty of juicy rewards and prickly defense mechanisms with which to stride onward into irrelevance, if that is the direction they take. With or without any empirical knowledge of our society, many of the stories professionals tell themselves would sound ridiculous to any enlightened space alien: we've always done the best anyone could have done given the circumstances; those other, bad white people are naturally prone to backlashes against racial progress; “they” hate our freedom; or to put it in more sacerdotal terms, somehow racism magically got into “our” DNA and “our” American heritage, and now it’s mysteriously transmitted like an invisible illness, rather than continuously reproduced by the very social relations which benefit affluent professionals.

When pressed, even the most devoted liberal will acknowledge that these stories are preposterous, or that at best they beg the question—what is the problem? people are racist. why? because they are. How then do these narratives come to be circulated? Setting aside the total degradation of the public sphere as a relevant factor, I believe that liberal credulity has only as much to do with a lack of criticism as with the satisfactions such fantasies have to offer, even in lieu of the last semblance of credibility. What liberals see when they survey the repeatable narratives glutting their newsfeed is a litany of wishes being fulfilled: the whiter professional is the child of the future; young people vote blue and will continue to do so even long after they are so mired in debt that they can no longer benefit from subsidies for college education or Obamacare; people of color will never cease to believe that affluent liberals will finally grant them a place in the most affluent 20% of the population; the enemy is the 1%, the 0.1%, or the 0.01% (the exact percentage depends on how truly progressive you are, but I can’t remember which order it goes in), not the yuppies who can reasonably picture themselves as the beneficiaries of subsidies to and limitless intellectual property rights for affluent professionals and their employers.

Whenever these wish-fulfillments start to seem all too fantastic, defense mechanisms kick in. The professional-class falls back on its capacity to make others look bad. The discussion of racism as absolute evil, rather than as grounded in real social relations, has at least two functions: it allows whiter people to ignore the racism inherent in the social relations they enjoy, and it renders anyone who would discuss those problems permanently suspect. All critics of contemporary liberalism are essentially the same: real or virtual members of the Ku Klux Klan. There’s no use listening to the complaints of the working-class white people who voted for Obama in 2008 and 2012 and then, in 2016, voted for Trump, cast a blank ballot, or didn’t vote at all. Indeed, since no one knows how racism is transmitted, any contact with anyone suspected of racism (i.e., anyone less than 100% on board with the professional class) could lead to infection. The long story short, if you must know, is that sometime around 2015, someone spontaneously noticed that the President had suspiciously dark skin, and it was all downhill from there—“Now hold on a minute, Grannie: what the heck kinda name is ‘Obama’?”


2.

If what we need is a cure for postwar liberalism, we might start with something like an interpretation of the fantasy lives of whiter people. Consider the central narrative of postwar liberalism in its grotesquely protracted adolescence: affluent white professionals are the children of the future. Americans from every walk of life encounter this narrative nearly every day. The economy is transitioning to a “service economy.” Everyone born between about 1984 and the late 1990s works for Apple, or soon will. We live in a “post-industrial society.” “Technology” has changed, and the “new jobs” will require college degrees. What people (“and especially children!” chimes in Clinton) really need is an “opportunity” to go to graduate school—in her final appeal to GOP moderates, Clinton promised to provide others with a “chance to live up to their God-given potential.” Demographics are shifting in our favor. Any second now, Latinos will quit it with their pesky opinions and discover that they were waiting to become moderate Democrats all along. “Young people” vote deep blue, and we all know what that means (?). All of this is cause for unhinged celebration. College graduates have “good jobs.” They’re more “progressive” and “cosmopolitan.” They have better taste in television. Their politicians—this line has been sprouting all across my Facebook feed—are a “class act.” (Trump, Fran Lebowitz explains for Vanity Fair, is “a poor person’s idea of a rich person.”) Deindustrialized cities aren’t just riddled with social problems; they’re “forgotten,” and understandably so. If you’ve heard that the deadliest garment factory accident in history happened during the Obama years, you should be relieved to learn that it happened in one of those backward, industrializing nations, not in any of the modern nations that shop there.

Something like this narrative found at least four grounds in real conditions during the imagined Golden Age of postwar liberalism. First, it allowed people to make sense of social changes undergirded by the transformation of the North American University into a training ground for a growing population destined for graduate and professional schools. Despite what you may have been taught, this change had relatively little to do with the G.I. Bill. The most far-reaching social changes tied to the rise of the modern university were in the lifestyles and employment prospects of Baby Boomers, in the nature of "women’s work," and in the opportunities welcomed by a striving "black bourgeoisie." And these changes were either complete or at least well under way by the mid 1960s: the basic character of the modern graduate-degree-track university could be described in its entirety by the sociologists Christopher Jencks and David Riesman in their 1968 book, The Academic Revolution. If any Federal legislation should be emphasized in this regard, it would be not the G.I. Bill but rather the programs implemented by the Economic Opportunity Act of 1964 and the Higher Education Act of 1965, programs transparently designed to increase the number of graduate students in the country. I suppose the reason professional historians and journalists don’t emphasize these programs is that for the professional, programs such as these belong to the future rather than the past. Or so they must hope: the flip-side of the rise of the “service economy” as subsidized by liberal Great Society programs has been the long decline of employment in manufacturing. That decline was relative to employment in the service economy for two decades after 1945; in 1965, it became an absolute decline. This was cause for some alarm—the corresponding decline in Western Europe, where Keynesianism did not suffer the flagrant incompetence of the Johnson administration, did not follow for more than a decade. But affluent professionals have tended to downplay the decline of manufacturing in favor of narratives such as, “someday we’ll all join hands together on the quad of the Apple campus.” Or we won’t, but it will be okay because, after all, nobody wants to hold hands with a bunch of ignorant racists (see the third ground for the child-of-the-future narrative below).

Second, the narrative of the affluent professional as child of the future allied the professional class with the final decision makers in all capitalist societies: capitalists, or in the case of contemporary or “monopoly” capitalism, the managerial class staffed by the most affluent among the affluent professionals. Improvements in global transportation such as the standardization of modern “container shipping” (“containerization”) and the liberalization of world trade meant that U.S. manufacturers could profitably move their activities outside the United States long before the "neoliberalism" of the 1980s. Manufacturing shrank in the United States only as it mushroomed all around the globe. Domestic investment could then be focused on the education and employment of people with graduate degrees. And this was a doubly profitable arena because the public could be cajoled into subsidizing investment in it. Capital found highly trained workers without even needing to pay for them. And why not? These subsidies to capital could be interpreted as investments in a future you can believe in.

Third, the child of the future narrative helped affluent white professionals build strategic alliances with “minorities.” Whatever their actual importance, the imagined importance of these alliances cannot be overstated. It was widely believed that Kennedy owed his narrow victory over Nixon to a black voting bloc. A similar narrative appeared in 2008, albeit as only one part of a dubious second-coming-of-Kennedy tale. And the affluent white professional’s affection for black voters has not always gone unrequited. Jencks and Riesman reported that black men expressed higher hopes for professional careers than for careers in what they perceived as a more segregated world of business. Since whiter professionals dominated every corner of U.S. culture and government, any ambitious parent of sufficient means could look to graduate school as their child’s land of opportunity.

On the rare occasions when a professional-class periodical has bothered to interview non-professional-class black people, the dreamscape has been badly unsettled. One of the current objections to the “end of identity politics” thesis demonstrates why this is necessarily so: “Identity politics is over? What do you call white rural voters voting as a bloc?!” Setting aside the fact that white rural voters did not vote as a bloc—on average, the poorer they were, the less likely they were to vote at all—here’s the rub: until recently, whatever you called it, you certainly didn’t call it identity politics. The entire point of the administrative class’s identity politics was to make people whiter, strip them of the vestiges of an imagined antiquated era before the administrative class swooped in to save the day, and send them off, more or less on their own, up a narrow career ladder. White people are supposed to be born almost finished. From there, it’s up to them to climb the ladder. Professional-class identity politics allows you to identify with any group as long as the interests of that group can ultimately be identified with the interests of the professional class. A black barber recently quoted in the New York Times was speaking outside the terms of the professional class when he suggested that, as long as students are receiving federally subsidized loans for tuition, maybe there should be similar loans for barbers paying the mortgage on their barbershop. Whether or not this would make for wise policy is a moot point. Come November, the barber would be counted in one of only two ways: either he would ally himself with the professional class, or he wouldn’t. One of his companions at the barbershop voted for Trump, but only because he saw it as a way of getting revenge on a family he held responsible for his lengthy incarceration. Both men knew that their vote counted only as far as it pertained to the success or failure of the program of the professional class. If they supported Clinton and she won, their own policy ideas would be ignored; if they didn’t and she lost, their policy ideas would be ignored, and they’d hear a lot about “the Obama effect.” Either way, they evidently did not expect Clinton's potential loss to affect their own lives any more than the lives of whiter professionals far more directly dependent upon liberal largess.

But just as important as any actual sympathies between whiter professionals and their imagined “black voters” is the way that a free-floating feeling of connection helps professionals avoid forging ties with what they recognize as the single largest demographic in the U.S. electorate, white people without college degrees. You can jettison forty percent of the electorate by piecing together fragile coalitions across the remaining sixty percent. This raises a fourth ground for the child-of-the-future narrative: belief in this fantasy has allowed government administrators to jettison the more expensive duties of any legitimate state. If you’re trying to purge the electorate of people without college degrees, it’s best to focus your attention on people who can be promised an opportunity rather than on people who explicitly disdain the opportunities you’re willing to offer. The Federal government appears today as a Frankenstein monster: part publicly endowed charity glorified by the coercive powers of a failed state, part benevolent uncle to the capitalists and their faithful professionals. A world of employment is opened to the professionals tasked with determining who does and who doesn’t qualify for government programs. And money is saved by determining that only children, students, the deserving poor, and corporations qualify for any kind of public support. Children can’t be blamed for their parents’ failures. Students are candidates for the professional class, and so deserving of our respect and encouragement, especially since they can be talked into receiving support in the form of meagre subsidies for deviously inflexible forms of debt. The deserving poor may or may not be citizens entitled to social securely, but they can still be treated as humanitarian cases. And corporations? Well, everyone knows why we have to subsidize them. Where else are the children of the future going to work? Beyond that, everyone else has to take personal responsibility for their own fate. 

Over the long term, everyone eligible to vote is expected to become a whiter professional or an aspiring whiter professional; either that or they are expected to face a forewarned and well deserved extinction. The problem today is that the dinosaurs are sticking up for themselves, either by refusing to vote for the candidate of the professional class or, worse, by voting for Trump. That they are sometimes sticking up for themselves in repugnant ways is beside the point as far as professional-class fantasies are concerned. From the standpoint of the professional, if the unprofessional cannot be construed as quaint, charming, or exotic, they must seem somewhat repugnant to begin with.


3.

The Clinton camp’s 2016 strategy—jettison white voters without college degrees and woo disaffected suburban GOP moderates—may seem ridiculous to you today, knowing as we now do that by any definition of “moderates,” Trump won the group by gaping margins. But don’t hold your breath waiting for the DNC to give up on this game plan. I see no evidence that a hard left turn is in the works—a Keith Ellison facelift in the front office, maybe, but a substantive revision of the platform, unlikely, especially since there will always be someone else to blame if things don’t pan out. Get organized, or expect to find yourself deciding once again between an entrenched conservative and a reform-minded clown.

As you organize, keep in mind that the DNC apparatchiks are going to hold their line by manipulating whiter, professional-class fantasies. This past election has to be recognized as a farcical battle between two segments of a relatively affluent, woefully antiquated, white “middle class”: the white “working class” which remembers a heyday in the fifties, and the whiter “professional class” which remembers a heyday in the sixties. For a supposed progressive, Clinton spent a lot of time repeating the phrase, “We’ve gotta get back.” To the extent that these two entities exist as classes, they are mired in outdated ideologies: both desire a return to a Golden Age which never was. Trump promised protections for jobs that would not be needed if we used technology to produce social wealth instead of capitalist profit (pronounced “growth”). Clinton promised ever increasing subsidies for people who see themselves as the more “competitive” horses in an accelerating race, who prevent most people in the world from applying for their jobs in the first place, and who use union busting and the benign neglect of un-enfranchised (pronounced “undocumented”) workers to stretch their hard-earned dollar with the unpaid labor of others.

In saying all of this, I should add that I would not in any way advocate for “a bit more populism,” as the columnist Paul Krugman puts it. Krugman’s warning against mere populism is timely, if the rest of his column these days reads as a lot of professional-class self-pity. In the coming months and years, the DNC will be talking a lot about “message,” the idea being that they’ve been right all along (“We have an understanding of what works,” Clinton told Stephen Colbert), they just haven’t communicated how brilliant they are to those ignorant hicks they thought they were finally rid of.

We don’t need more vacant pandering. We need substantial policy alternatives. I for one would like to see a platform geared toward the creation of an economy where people are obliged to do less and less labor for capitalists and free to do more work for themselves and their society as a whole. I don’t believe that work only has value if it can make a capitalist a buck. I certainly don’t believe that anyone should be forced, under the threat of ruin, into doing a particular sort of work merely because the powerful will pay to have it done. The policies I want to see considered are not subsidies targeted toward the encouragement of capitalist growth and the development of affluent professionals, but programs productive of a guaranteed universal income, a shortened work week, and a public sphere designed with personal and social rather than merely professional development in mind.

The professionals as members of the conspicuous-consumption class may be unlikely champions of these sorts of programs. But I count only three general pathways for them from here. One is that they will retreat into the satisfactions of their fantasy world and become irrelevant, at least as far as electoral politics in the medium term is concerned. In some sense this first alternative has already been realized: what gets diagnosed as congressional Republican stonewalling should instead be seen as merely one symptom of just such an electoral irrelevance (unfortunately, the DNC does not seem to distinguish between its opponents and its excuses). The second is that professionals will take Trump’s moment as an opportunity to be swept away by their own more authoritarian impulses—if the unprofessional are too ignorant to do what we tell them to do, we’ll praise ultra-right-wing faithless electors before we will accept the consequences of our own incompetence. The third possibility is that the manifest bankruptcy of contemporary liberalism will inspire people to build new coalitions around substantive left alternatives. Put more simply, whatever empty slogans they repeat, the professionals have a choice to make between a reactionary and a progressive politics. They can act as a “middle class” allied with Capital, in which case they will be reduced to authoritarianism or some other form of relative impotence. Or they can act as the proletariat. They cannot have it both ways. Will they work to shore up their class privilege or to abolish class society?


(Thanks to Jeremy Orosz for commenting on an earlier version of this post.)

Sunday, April 8, 2012

Quince and Color Field

When a performance of new music is as thoughtful and joyful as that by the Quince and Color Field Ensembles this past Good Friday, it’s easier to focus on the relationship between a composition and its realization, to hear interpretation as a kind of listening. An evening’s program appears more whole. One little piece taken from a young John Cage’s Living Room Music, “Story” (1940), based upon a text by Gertrude Stein, seemed to capture much of what was happening on that warm evening in full blown spring, the dark first night of Passover: “Once upon a time the world was round and you could go on it around and around.”

Cage would have been 27 or 28 when the piece was premiered. Written for percussion ensemble but entirely dependent upon careful voices, the piece lends itself to flat performances. The mighty clarity of Liz Pearse’s first intonations made it clear that this would not be one of those. The Quince Ensemble had already demonstrated a towering dexterity by performing Lisa Bielawa’s anxious syncopated canons in her paranoiac setting of another Stein text, “The Boat” (1998). In “Story,” Kayleigh Butcher and Aubrey von Almen contributed unassuming, deliberate articulations of the wincing ticks so badly overblown by other performers. Flawless rhythm and nuanced articulations drew attention to musical characteristics that can be ignored when expression is valued over the physicality of a musica practica, a situation Roland Barthes once bemoaned in an essay of that title. “Animans” by Andrew Martin Smith, a trio for saxophone, clarinet, and soprano performed by James Fusik, Christopher Culp, and Amanda DeBoer spaced the voices out across the stage so as to emphasize relationships between disparate characteristics. Even what seemed to be the tiniest distinctions between ten found sounds became vibrant details in Benjamin Fraley’s and Karl Larson’s performance of a work by Stuart Saunders-Smith; as the title of that piece explains, “When Music is Missing, Music Sings” (1985).

The point was really brought home for me by a trio of duets featuring Fusik on saxophone. “Grab It” (1994/2004) by Jacob ter Veldhuis for tenor saxophone and tape sets different sounds against a powerfully narrow pallet of repetitive but rhythmically complex variations on profanity, playing on some of the different ways sounds blend and clash. In Giacinto Scelsi’s “Canti del Capricorno” (1972), Fusik and DeBoer showed off an intelligent craft in a work that explores the widest variety of shades and sounds with the smallest number of instruments and players, a Scelsi specialty.

In Philippe Leroux’s “Hommage à Grisey” (1999), the dramatic possibilities of the voice and saxophone pairing were on full display (I hope to hear more from DeBoer and Fusik). Standing far apart, the performers worked through sections of alternating articulations in stereophony. One of the most difficult things involved in talking about new music is its tendency to subvert the aesthetic of inhuman perfection in a phonographic world. New music often calls attention to the physical limitations of the most skilled performers and their instruments, and in this piece the voice seemed to set up challenging articulations that the saxophone strained to mimic, at times exceeding by falling just short. Adolph Sax could hardly have imagined that such a range of sounds would ever be available on an instrument that to this day still is not designed to meet the demands of flexible music. The saxophone inscribed a fragile, distant hearing of the voice’s seemingly effortless articulations. The frays and tatters are no doubt sounds that Fusik tries to polish away, and part of what made the piece work so well is his access to an exceptionally wide palate of articulations and techniques. Yet the limits were there as a serendipitous remainder, as the body and instrument engaged in an impossible task.

Perhaps the best new music strains more toward impossibilities than perfection; this might help to explain the exaltation of hearing a springtime concert featuring skilled artists enjoying the youthful bloom of their first years as mature performers. This was a full program with too many successful performances to describe in the space of a blog, including world premiers of works by Jonathan Sokol, Maria Grigoryeva, and Amanda Feery. My point is this: Cage would have been 27 or 28 when he composed “Story,” but the depth of his musicality was already evident. The spring equinox was on my mind as the concert concluded with some delightful arrangements of traditional songs featuring the startling changes of Jeff Weston’s double bass. It seemed to me that the program offered not so much the first signs of spring peeking out from beneath a melting snow, as a field of cherry blossoms come alive, a vision of summer’s daylight, autumn’s harvest, winter’s darkening comfort, and around and around.

Friday, June 24, 2011

Terry

Last week was a week free of McCarthyisms because I was upstate attending what was without a doubt the most simply elegant wedding I've ever seen. I was very grateful to be invited. It was hard coming back to the city after being with friends that I miss so much. It's the fourth Sunday of a month all of a sudden, time for another entry that's too long for a blog. I'm interrupting the series on moving to bring you an unrelated short story.


I had been thinking about quitting drinking. I had very recently taken up smoking cigarettes and thought perhaps I would tell all my friends, as I sipped San Pellegrino, that I had decided to swap one out for the other. I would explain to them, a filter between my lips and an empty paper in my hand, that I had just decided not to drink anymore. No further explanation. It’s what’s left unsaid wherein the romance lies. And then, in a motion almost magical, I would move my thumbs and say, “I think—” pause to glide my tongue along the glue and begin again, “I think for now anyway,” and place the finished cigarette coyly between my lips.

This maneuver would take some practice, and the trouble was that I wasn’t partial to cigarettes. It had been an addiction I had tried picking up, but to no avail. I would smoke when I felt like it, but usually didn’t. I had never really had any luck at developing chemical dependencies. One stiff drink with a bit of regularity was a luxury I enjoyed, but realistically, I could never convince even my apprehensive mother that I had a problem. I would smoke at the bar, or I would smoke two cigarettes in a row at a Parisian café after a dinner of escargot and calves kidneys as I sipped a bit of coffee for dessert. But then, for the longest time, I wouldn’t.

The rolling is what really got me interested. I hoped to meet an affluent chain smoker. I would roll her cigarettes and learn how to do it like the fellow in the metro the other day who rolled one on a packed rush hour train between one stop and the next, almost as if he didn’t know he was doing it. As it was, I was concerned that I didn’t smoke enough to really learn to roll. But that was my chosen smoker’s identity. I would roll my own in Rizla quality papers. I hadn’t settled on a brand of tobacco just yet.

And so that afternoon, when I was sitting at that so-very-lovely Parisian restaurant all afternoon, I ordered a bottle of sparkling water and hoped I would be recognized as sophisticated, not cheap. I ordered a cup of coffee after dinner, and requested an ashtray (one of the first phrases I learned from my phrasebook). I spent the rest of the day feeling keen and quick witted, and I thought that surely this new lifestyle would provide me with the edge I needed to finally get that sharp intellect I had always wanted. I planned on going back to my room and reading Nietzsche. I would become a brilliant cigarette-smoking professor, living anywhere (well enough) east of Cleveland and north of Philadelphia, and wear sweaters to dinner parties and ask the hostess if perhaps she had any San Pellegrino and pretend to be a recovering alcoholic, looking down upon the Fredos of the world with their banana daiquiris. The best alcoholics I knew came in couples, a recovering alcoholic and a functional alcoholic, and whereas I wasn’t a functional anything, recovering would suit me nicely.

The trouble was Terry, as it had been before. Terry’s problems occurred on several levels but began with the fact that Terry was a genuinely nice person, eager to help and relatively happy. That last fact would irritate any decent human being, especially a 20-something who rolled his own cigarettes and scowled sometimes. Terry was a physically fit retired college counselor who had been born to first-generation immigrants in San Francisco’s Chinatown and spent his life in the Bay Area. He had a passion for traveling and was keeping a room in the Fondation Etat Unis where I was staying myself for a month. He stood at some 5 feet and wore thick glasses that made his eyes look like one of those crude caricatures, with dense black rims and silver paisley in long rectangular insets that ran along the stems. He smiled with all of his teeth and spoke very deliberately, each syllable enunciated with an opening mouth. He was one of the first people I met in Paris, and he had been eager to help.

The first thing that made me begin to suspect I didn’t like Terry, from the very beginning when I first met him a week before the onset of my tea-totaling intentions, was his method of giving directions. He privileged the words “right” and “left.” He would occasionally hold out one of his hands at arm’s length, bend his wrist, extend an index finger and point six inches across at chest level. It was never clear whether the direction he was pointing referred to something in real space, or if it was an abstraction relative to some landmark mentioned earlier in the monologue. Never mind that the Rou Jordan ran directly east and west. He would never, come what may, ever, ever suggest doing anything involving a cardinal direction. If you asked specifically he would pull his head back an inch, turn his upper body slightly as if facing in some specific direction, and say, “Yeah, this way,” pointing a little more emphatically, as if to clarify. At our first meeting, he gave me directions to an office where I could buy a month-long metro pass. I attempted to follow his directions and learned never to do so again.

I decided to give up on the metro pass and accidentally spent 10 euro on ten metro tickets sold by two slim adolescent Italian kids in Adidas pants who stood flapping the note I had given them against their lips as I walked away skeptically. Another five for five came from a kid at the Fondation who had successfully procured his metro pass and no longer had any use for the tickets. It seemed as though I could probably get along like that.

That evening, Terry found me and asked if I would like to go for coffee in the morning. He was punctual at 7:30 the next day as I stumbled about my room looking for a belt. The first thing he wanted to do was to take me to that missing office where I could purchase my metro pass. It turned out not to be so missing at all, just located west of the Fondation, not east. On the way there, I told him about the tickets I had bought and observed that whereas it was already the 6th of July, and I would almost certainly be gone on or before the 25th, and whereas I already had 15 tickets purchased at quite a bargain, it seemed like it would not be as sensible an investment as it had once appeared. But Terry turned his head in a way that said, “If that’s really how you feel,” and proceeded to tell me all about the virtues of the metro pass. Always eager to please and very eager to get on with coffee (and breakfast no less!), I agreed at least to check it out.

As much as I would have loved to learn a bit of French, having never studied any of it, my typical interactions with the locals always began with a period of time spent standing in the back of the room, swaying back and forth, reciting to myself again and again the single phrase I had managed to piece together out on the sidewalk with my phrase book. Occasionally I would start to move forward toward the counter, but if at that point another human being in the room happened to move or to stand still in a way that made me think they might move again someday, I would stop and go back to pacing and muttering. Once everyone in the room thought I was sufficiently disturbed, they would all stand completely still and watch to see what I would do. Then I would blurt out a string of vowels and mumbled consonants through my nose (my attempt to pass as a native speaker), to which the clerk would respond,

“What did you say?”

“Je swee desolet. Je parl a pen francais.”

“Never mind that. English is okay.”

But with Terry there I barely had time to look up a phrase before I was at the counter. In retrospect, the clerk wanted to encourage me to get something I did not know existed, a weekly pass. I could have renewed it each week, and considering the maximum duration of my stay, I would have ultimately spent less than I did on the monthly pass. Already troubled by the fact that the U.S. dollar wasn’t valuable enough to buy pity in the EU, I was upset when I realized my mistake about two minutes after having set down 61 euro for the monthly pass. When I expressed this to Terry, he revealed that he had the weekly pass, but had for some inexplicable reason encouraged me to get the monthly pass. I was a little angry with him then. We spent the remainder of the morning wandering from one tram to one bus (no doubt to impress upon me the priceless nature of my new pass) to one closed coffee shop after another. Terry told me we were looking for a real deal on coffee, but all that happened was that I began shaking from low blood sugar and blind rage, I still hadn’t had a cup of coffee, and I had just spent 61 euro on something that could have cost me 17. I determined not to spend time with Terry again.

Terry, however, had other plans. He would drop by my room and invite me to this or that and share his tips on how to save money while traveling. You could buy anything for only so much, and “a little salt and pepper, and its good for two meals!” I avoided him as best I could for the next few days, and in the meanwhile decided I should quit drinking. Considering the low cost of French wine in France, I was a little disappointed in myself, but my first day sans alcohol was progressing nicely. I thought my head seemed a little clearer, I had my copy of Nietzsche, my mechanical pencil, my filters, papers and tobacco—my evening was planned. Then Terry knocked on my door.

With little resistance I was committed to “evening coffee” at 9:00. I immediately regretted it, but resolved to make the most of the situation. We walked along and Terry pointed in various directions and talked about grocery stores where one could buy chicken wings for only so much, and with a little salt and pepper it would be good for two meals! He finally took me to McDonald’s for coffee. I was concerned because, being now off the wagon (or on the wagon if you’re one of those people who know the difference and would like to share your esoteric mastery of old adages), I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to fade away into a dehydrated glow that night, especially after riddling my system with a half-dozen cigarettes and a cup of espresso. Nevertheless, this particular McDonalds had a coffee vending machine and I had a Euro, so I got a cup of espresso. Terry, on the other hand, needed change for the machine, and I had just spent my last coin.

So he waited in line to get change, and I went and stood outside of the McDonalds, directly in front of the door. Five minutes later he came out,

“There you are! I couldn’t find you. Okay, I got the change. How do you get it with cream and sugar?” he enunciated every syllable.

“I don’t know, Terry. I drink mine black.”

“Oh. They don’t tell you anything.”

I went in with him, we looked at the machine, and I will admit it could not be solved. So it was back to the line for Terry. I went back to the sidewalk and stood directly outside the door, reading the covers of magazines, all of which seemed to have something to do with sex, but not in a vulgar way, just thoughtful articles about sex or about thoughts on sex. It must have been the anniversary of sex or something. One magazine featured an entire issue devoted to world religions and sex, or at least sex was involved, or perhaps it was only because that was the only French word I felt confident identifying (though certainly not pronouncing). I waited for a while and Terry emerged,

“There you are! You keep disappearing on me!”

I suppose that Terry must have started his search for his disappearing companion by looking under the tables, crouching down and craning his neck as the customers made obscene gestures at him. Perhaps he then wandered back to the kitchen and into the cooler followed by a shouting French McDonald’s manager. When cornered, he very likely squinted through his glasses and enunciated one syllable at a time,

“I’m looking for my friend. He keeps disappearing on me!”

At least he had his cream and sugar and, “it’s decent when you have cream and sugar.” We found a spot on a bench and sat drinking our coffee and chatting. I was glad to have finally achieved our initial goal. We talked about the Bay Area and about good deals on pieces of meat that, with salt and pepper, are good for two meals. He would stick two bony fingers in the air to emphasize the key term of his familiar mantra, smile with all of his teeth, and sip on his coffee.

And then I was covered in my own coffee. I suppose that if I live to be a hundred I will probably do that about three or four more times, maybe more as old-man condition sets in. There’s no explanation for it. Nothing startled me, nothing happened, I hadn’t stopped paying attention, I just spilled my coffee all over myself and the leather jacket I had bartered for at a flea market a few days before—88 euro down to 53! And exactly the color I had always wanted! Coffee was all over my pants and shirt, but most of all I was worried about the jacket. It had developed hideous streaks down the arm, and, knowing absolutely nothing whatsoever about leather, I thought maybe I had ruined it.

I’m superstitious. I would never admit to it, and you could hardly tell, but I do cut fruits and vegetables into odd numbers, and I do hope that God will pity my wretched condition and allow me to get the orange peal off in one piece so that I won’t have to spend the rest of my life alone (though it must be a mild superstition since I only sometimes throw away the orange when things start looking grim). When something bad happens for absolutely no reason whatsoever, I know what or whom to blame, and this Terry fellow was bad luck.

The only saving grace was that I had hardly sipped my coffee, and though this was the principle reason for my present condition, the hope was that with less caffeine in my system I would now be able to fall asleep. I simply wanted to go back to my room and try to salvage what I could of my clothes. My concern was spreading to my shirt and jeans, and I asked Terry if I could borrow some of his laundry detergent. He said yeah, he had some kind of tablet, who even knows where he bought it. And I said,

“Is it a powder? Because the machines here only take powder.”

“Well, I think, probably, you could grind it up . . .”

“Well does it work? Have you used the machines here?”

“No. I wash my clothes daily by hand. It’s so easy . . .and cheap!” he perked up on that last word, “And you can air dry it, which doesn’t take very long at all. And you can save a lot of money, because, you know, the washing machines here are so expensive.”

And I thought: this scrawny bundle of joy can’t even wash his clothes like a person. And I said, “I think maybe I should stop at this supermarket if it's still open and get some laundry detergent.”

So he said, “Okay.”

And fifteen steps later he said, “We should take the bus. It’s really fast.”

So we stood at the bus stop, fifty yards from the supermarket that apparently I was not longer going to visit, for three silent minutes. I started to read the signs at the stop, and I started to realize something.

“Terry, does this bus take us to the Fondation? Or are we just taking it to the tram stop?”

“Just to the tram.”

“Well, do you think maybe we should just walk? It’s kind of nice out, and it’s only, like, two blocks.”

“Okay. Yeah, it’s only about four blocks.”

“Yeah. Let’s just walk. Maybe I’ll stop in at this supermarket if it’s still open and get some laundry detergent.”

But when we got there, the security guard, sensing we were Americans, said in English,

“Excuse me, I’m sorry. It’s closing.”

I must have looked heart broken or sopping wet or both, because as Terry repeated the phrase, “You can use some of mine,” over and over and over and over and over again in the background, the security guard asked me what I needed.

“Just laundry detergent.”

“Okay.” And I was off, Terry hot on my heels. I immediately saw the detergent and pulled the smallest package I could find off the shelf,

“Is this laundry detergent?” I puzzled.

“I think so.”

“Okay.”

So we got in line, paid and left. I began to suspect that Activateur was not laundry detergent.

In three minutes we had walked the three blocks to the tram, and one came along shortly thereafter. I lamented my jacket, telling Terry how I had just bought it. We made it back to the Fondation, and he continued talking about his deranged method of doing laundry, suggesting that for the leather perhaps “a little soap and water, and it’ll be good,” telling me how much money you could save even as he climbed into the elevator and disappeared.

When I got back to my room I stripped off my clothes and googled coffee stains. Mr. Breakfast provided me with four options. Stain remover (whatever Activateur was, it was not stain remover), white vinegar and cold water (I had balsamic, and I began to feel as if I was in a Mr. Bean sketch), baking soda (nope), and the yolk of an egg with a few drops of alcohol and warm water. I had six eggs from the market and warm water. I assumed that what was meant was rubbing alcohol, but I also knew that I had my duty-free Jim Beam in the closet. Thinking whiskey was probably slightly more fabric friendly than balsamic vinegar and certainly no worse than espresso, I decided to give it a shot. I scrubbed the mixture into my shirt and pants. They were covered in the gooey substance, and, having finally determined that, whatever it was, Activateur was definitely not laundry detergent, I washed them with a bar of soap in the sink. Even my white undershirt came out shining. It was amazing. As for the leather jacket, it looked as though nothing had ever happened. The streaks had apparently just been moisture, and when they dried, there was nothing more to be said.

I decided not to trouble that night with the cigarettes, I didn’t really know how to roll them anyway, so instead I celebrated with a shallow glass of bourbon and fell promptly asleep. When I woke up the next morning I pulled my pants in from where they were hanging in the window. They hadn’t taken very long to dry at all.

Saturday, June 11, 2011

not my idea of happiness

This is getting up late this week, and believe you me, there are a lot of excuses. I almost waited to revise it through the next week, but I decided that the blog is designed to prevent me from being able to polish things. Next weekend I'll be up north, so there won't be a new post until the 26th. If you missed getting up at 5:00 am this week and reading your McCarthyism with a bowl of plain oatmeal before your 10 mile run, you could just pretend I took this week off, save this one, and come back for your brand new post next weekend. Otherwise, please check back in two.





16th-century representations of Happiness typically feature her bearing symbols of health and wealth, as in Agnolo Bronzino’s painting from about 1567. Yet wealth and health, it would seem, are not always enough. In his 1970 State of the Union address, Richard Nixon turned from an extended meditation on law, order and authority to ask a question that might seem surprising against faded memories of the disgraced President. "In the next 10 years we shall increase our wealth by 50 percent," he said, "The profound question is: Does this mean we will be 50 percent richer in a real sense, 50 percent better off, 50 percent happier?" Here Nixon relates happiness to some kind of genuine wealth, not as dollars and cents but as a richness of living.

There seem to exist somewhat contradictory ideas about happiness, and in this entirely ahistorical assemblage of fragments I just want to call attention to some of them in a haphazard fashion. If in Nixon’s quotation happiness is related to a true richness, there is also a way in which happiness gets depicted as emptiness. Ned Flanders is arguably the happiest character on the Simpsons, and in part for good reasons: he takes good care of himself physically and respects his neighbors and family, so Homer’s hatred for the guy appears to be a depiction of a dark human tendency to despise goodness. At the same time, there are more than fleeting hints that Ned’s happiness is founded upon willful ignorance and that at a deeper level he suffers in ways that his happiness can only barely veil.

Happiness is not always considered to be so superficial. On the contrary, there exists a whole set of ideas about happiness as something genuine and as something that trite wealth can actually destroy. This way of thinking raises a number of problems that I can't entirely get into here; I tend to think that the irony of the Beatles’ performance of the Motown hit “Money (That’s What I Want)” is that the good listener is supposed to know that some things are more important than money and hear the song as ironic, when in fact the sentiments expressed seem unexpectedly earnest. Be that as it may, one of the main theses in Roseanne was that, even in the face of degrading conditions, the Conners find a true happiness that money cannot buy. In the clip presented in the video below, happiness is explicitly linked to two things, interpersonal connections and pleasure, and the wealthy Mrs. Wellman is excluded from both.



Yet if this kind of happiness holds any kind of truth, it is certainly only because it is a happiness that doesn't come easy. They say that it takes more calories to frown than to smile as if you should smile because it doesn't take as much effort, but one could ask if this fact might also explain why there are so many ponderous oafs plodding about with fleshy grins tucked beneath their ruddy noses. Smiling, they claim, makes you feel happy, but to put it another way you might say that madness begets madness. "Happiness," is supposed to be the right choice for everyone, a virtuous and transcendent detachment, if not a moral responsibility. There is, however, another way of coming at the same thing, as when they say that ignorance is bliss. Every day, goes the exhortation, you make a choice of whether or not to be happy, but is it an informed choice? Or better yet, how might happiness refer to something that excludes pleasure (how did Heaven come to be represented as sanitized and dull)? How does the overwrought incantation of one's own happiness substitute for the physical thrill of playing, or discovering something new, or getting close to someone? Only truly miserable people sincerely believe that life is too short, since after escaping the painful joys of a tumultuous life they suddenly find themselves caught rushing headlong toward a void. Getting down to the marrow does not always lead to happiness, but why should happiness be so precious?

Saturday, June 4, 2011

talking politics



Miss Manners, with the eloquence and keen insight I’ve come to expect from her column, got down to one of the basic reasons why the “politics rule” of social etiquette makes sense today: it is less that talking politics might hurt someone’s feelings than it is that “politics” has been reduced to a set of base, superficial and ultimately degrading assertions. Don’t talk about it around the dinner table unless you want to find out just how shallow, thoughtless and ignorant people can be. It would be nice to learn more about the history of this rule, its origins and the changing justifications for it, but for now I can just say that Miss Manners is as timely here as ever. When I set out to write this post I was discouraged because I kept coming across material that all of us, regardless of our political opinions, should be able to agree is trash. As someone who revels in the richness to be found in discarded objects, digging around this week led to some disappointing reminders that there are some objects that are truly stupid.

A few years ago, “the world’s smallest political quiz” made a brief appearance on facebook, and it was so transparent that performing a close reading of it was depressingly unsatisfying. The quiz is unabashedly designed to help you discover that you’re a libertarian, asking questions that you’re supposed to be able to answer already (don’t you know that we should end corporate welfare?!) without requiring you to think about some of the more complicated problems raised by any of the issues it cites. The quiz's logo features a mighty green arrow whisking you up to the pinnacle of political thought even as your open-mindedness expands to the outer corners of the chart, and at the end you receive a score for your level of achievement on the quiz. I got a 20% on personal issues and a 10% on economic issues simply by disagreeing with any bald assertion that I thought needed to be qualified before I would be able to give it even a “maybe." I might have been able to get a 0% if only I had more character. Considering that this was a multiple choice test with three choices for each question, statistically speaking I could have done better if I had just guessed randomly.



For sake of space, I'll have to talk about what this quiz suggests about libertarianism and what libertarianism has to do with this quiz in a different post. There is a preliminary point I want to make, one that might help readers to understand what I am doing as I assemble scattered materials for this blog. Perhaps one reason why “politics” seems so shallow today is that the term seems to be used to refer either to the relationships between various political platforms (like the Democrats or the Republicans), or, as suggested by this quiz, to the results one gets by adding up all the items in one’s grab bag of disconnected opinions. The message is that it doesn’t matter in the least how you arrived at your opinions; you’ve got ‘em, you’re sticking to ‘em, and now all you want to know is what to call yourself. If you believe that there should be no National ID card and that people should control their own retirement, you too could be an enlightened libertarian. If you’re indecisive, you’ll get stuck in the quagmire of centrism. And if you refuse outright to subscribe to vacuous assertions, you’re a statist who opposes diverse lifestyles and questions the importance of civil liberties.


What is completely missing in the quiz, what the quiz in fact denies, is politics as a process for proposing ways of organizing social spaces, of describing and shaping relationships between individuals and between each individual and his or her society. That would be a kind of politics that could only be understood in relation to basic ideas about the world and the ways it works, ideas that ought to be critiqued and tested even as they are used to challenge and inform political opinions and platforms. Every "principle" in this quiz can be reduced to a paranoid preoccupation with some indefinite "freedom" from "government," the entire thing depends upon a brute ignorance of any actual forms of social violence or oppression, and ultimately, the quiz doesn't propose any actual politics, any way of organizing social spaces, it only obstinately insists on the need to limit the role of government. It is not that politics are shallow, it is that politics in the sense implied by “the world’s smallest political quiz” demands that you be shallow.


Though I hope to avoid getting so explicit about it as I have here, every post on this blog is, in the alternative sense I’m proposing, political. One of my main goals is to pay attention to what is going on even in those things that seem most benign, especially in those things that seem most obvious, and to be less preoccupied with opinions and labels and more curious about how people arrive at their opinions and how labels change historically.


With that, I'll leave you in the capable hands of Monty Python. Their satirical take on leftist political factions sums up a lot of what I've said here and suggests a possible fate for any degraded and degrading so-called politics.



Saturday, May 28, 2011

progressive jazz banjo




The Smothers Brothers might be best known for causing a ruckus over at CBS, but the way that story often gets told, it might seem as if Tom Smothers was just another promoter of a counterculture that was already becoming a permanent part of mainstream U.S. culture. In digging deeper, it becomes apparent that he was actually thinking much more carefully about the contradictions all around him.

This last semester I wrote a term paper about “The Incredible Jazz Banjoist,” a recording from the brothers’ fourth album, Curb Your Tongue, Knave! (1963). In it you can hear, both in Tommy’s music and in his preamble, a lot of familiar tropes about white men as square, up-tight and too preoccupied with musical notation and virtuosity. These tropes seem to have arisen in part because historical claims of white racial superiority were premised upon the idea that white men were somehow more rational and predisposed to self discipline, making them better qualified to rule over themselves and others. Warwick Anderson talks about this in a short but thoughtful article in a recent edited volume, and it comes up in a great book by Matthew Frye Jacobson, but if you really want an eye opener about how white people thought about themselves in the 19th century, one of the best books I read this year was George Fredrickson's inquiry into what white people thought about black people.

It would be possible to think of this recording simply as playing on familiar ideas about the supposed incompetence of white people in musical practices more commonly associated with black people. But in fact, many of the expectations Tommy sets for himself aren’t so much associated with black musical practices as they are with a particular kind of whiteness. When he claims to play “progressive jazz banjo,” he brings to mind the music of someone like Stan Kenton, known for his overcrowded scores and lack of emphasis on improvisation. The banjo might have been understood as a white musical instrument at this time, but its inappropriateness here has less to do with its whiteness in a black style of music than with its “half-barbaric twang” in a refined, sophisticated progressive jazz. Tommy fails to live up to the demands of a high-class whiteness.

And perhaps this is also where he most succeeds. He and his banjo may be more than just a little out of control, but when he arrives at that final triumphant chord, his audience bursts into genuine and delighted applause. Tommy may not have measured up to the standards he set for himself, but perhaps the fault lay not with him, but with the standards. In the end, it's just a joy to hear him goofing around.

Saturday, May 21, 2011

Moving, Part I

On the fourth Sunday of every month I'll be posting something that's too long for a blog. I anticipate that these will tend to be essays or short stories, but like everything else you find here, they'll be works in progress.

This is the first in a six part series entitled, "Moving."





If you googlemap my old address you can see a beautiful photograph of my former building on a gray afternoon. It must have been warm that day because my landlord can be seen standing pensively on her stoop in a black skirt, her bare forearm raised thoughtfully to her chin. She spent a lot of time at that very spot, chatting with neighbors she had known for decades, waiting for her shuffling but stern husband to pull around with the car, or simply keeping a watchful eye on her street.


Aside from smiles and pleasantries as I passed her on the stoop, I only ever had two real exchanges with my landlord. The first of these took place shortly after I first moved in. I had been fidgeting with the window in the kitchen until finally making the surprising discovery that it opened inward on an angle instead of sliding upward. It stayed that way for a couple days before my landlord caught me in the hallway and asked, in a thick Greek accent, just what in the heck I had done to my kitchen window. It was all I could do to try to explain over her insistent interrogation that I had sincerely thought that it was some kind of stylish window designed to open that way, but I told her that it would be great if she could show me how to open it some other way, especially if it would make her happy. When I unlocked the door, she slipped into my apartment and hurriedly climbed atop the kitchen counter. As she stood above me, tugging and pulling at the window frame with the full weight of her body, I resigned myself to the possibility that if she came careening off the counter to a violent death on the cool linoleum, it would probably be very difficult to explain to the authorities what had happened. Much to my relief, she finally got the window to do what she wanted, but before hopping back down, she looked at the hands she had placed atop the window frame, shook off the dust in disgust and exclaimed to herself, “I don’t know how people live like this!”


Months later, on the very last day I ever set foot in the building, I had my second and final exchange with her, and this time I was the one who went up to her apartment. It was Good Friday, and there was a late-afternoon stillness as I climbed each step one by one. I explained to my landlord that I had moved out the last of my things and only wanted to return the keys, but she started asking me about a window.


“She no tell you about the window?” my landlord wanted to know what my roommate might have told me.


“No,” I answered. The truth was that my roommate, never exactly a very forthcoming individual, had studiously avoided telling me anything for well over a month. Not knowing what my landlord was talking about, I wondered if she was still fixated on the kitchen window from so many months before.


“She no tell you about any window?” she asked me a couple more times, “any window?” eyeing me suspiciously before suddenly accusing, “You broke the window! You gonna pay for it!”


It was only then that I realized what had happened. This had nothing to do with the kitchen window at all. When I had first moved in, a metal beam in the frame of my bedroom window had been broken, and it looked like it had been that way for a long time. It might have occurred to me briefly that I should have asked to have it fixed, but the window still basically worked. I thought about the time that my roommate in Minneapolis had been left reporting that the wiring in the light to the stairwell had been broken for years, since long before I had moved in. After I had been living in the space for only about six months, we invited the landlord up for our Christmas party, and when he got in the door the first thing he said was, “Why didn’t you tell me the light was broken? Someone could get hurt!” We told him that only a handful of people had met a cruel fate on those treacherous steps, and none of them were particularly likeable to begin with, but he insisted, “You should have told me the light was broken! I’ll fix it on Monday.” Six months later I moved out, and if I had to guess, I’d say that stairwell is still dark after dusk. Anyway, I decided, whatever—a broken bar in my window frame doesn’t bother me, the window still sort of works, life will somehow go on. Months later, however, I made the mistake of pointing it out to my roommate, who, without even saying a word to me, turned around and told my landlord I had broken it.


So I was left standing there in my landlord’s kitchen as she pointed at me angrily, telling me how awful I was and how I would have to pay for my offense out of my deposit, a deposit I had long since assumed I would be swindled out of one way or another, any way you looked at it. Honestly, it was hard to blame the old woman. After a year of living upstairs from me, she still didn’t really know me from Adam (I never did learn to pronounce her name correctly). I felt exasperated, but after all of the abuse I had suffered at the hands of my roommate over all those months, it was impossible to really feel angry or defensive, or really to feel much of anything other than cheated. So I shrugged and said, “Look, honestly, I really don’t care. I can’t tell you I broke that window, because I didn’t. But, here’s my keys, I’m done.”


Suspicious people only ever meet potential liars, but they say you can’t con an honest person, and I sincerely believe that an honest person can always spot the truth when it’s told. My landlord looked across the table to her husband who had been watching the entire exchange in sober silence. They knew I was telling the truth. We could feel it.


As we got to talking, it eventually came out that I had been paying about $300 a month more in rent than my roommate, and this despite the fact that she not only kept her own bedroom but had also annexed the living room as her own personal space (I was never allowed to set foot in there). When all was said and done, she had two entire rooms to herself at well below the going price in any building for miles in any direction. I was paying a lot more money for a lot less space and subsidizing the cost of living for a roommate that was happy to turn me out as soon as she no longer needed my monthly check. This wasn’t the least bit surprising, and in any case I couldn’t possibly have felt any more cheated than I already did. My landlord, on the other hand, was livid.


“Why you no come and talk to me? Why you no ask me how much is the rent? I tell you how much is the rent!”


She repeated these phrases over and over again in various permutations, and each time I answered, “I don’t know, I don’t know. It never even occurred to me.” But she wasn’t having it, and she kept asking, again and again, imploring me to explain to her why it was that I had never come to speak with her in all of the time I had been living in the apartment just below her so that she could have told me that I was being ripped off before it was too late until finally I threw up my arms and surrendered, “I should have! I know, I should have. I’m just a fool!”


She drew her body back in her chair and solemnly shook her head.


“No,” she answered slowly in a crackling voice. Then, softly, her index finger raised knowingly, “You’re smart.”


Her husband let out one deep, gentle chuckle and looked at me from across the table with a twinkle in his eyes. How well he even speaks English I’ll never know, he never did say a word to me, but it wouldn’t have made any difference.


I gave them my keys, thanked them for being such good neighbors, and we wished one another a happy Easter. She gave me her number and insisted I call her to say whether my roommate ever returned my deposit. I never did get that deposit, and I never did call my landlord. There was something too filthy about the whole thing, something empty about conspiring with a landlord to get money from a roommate who had padded her pockets by getting the highest price she could get out of me—fair and square, as they say. In the end, it seemed a lot better to move ahead with my life. But there is something I hold onto from it all. It had been a cold, rainy spring that saw me riding my bicycle all over Brooklyn and Queens, trying, disappointment by disappointment, to find a new place to live. In that time, this city sometimes seemed like a wretched place full of wretched people. Yet in the end, for one brief moment in my landlord’s kitchen, something human was communicated. For all of the ways this massive place can make me feel isolated and alone, and despite the fact that this city was built by people taking advantage of other people, I find some lasting sense of hope knowing that on the stoops and sidewalks, at the falafel carts and dinner tables, in the museums and parks, this city can also be teeming with fleeting communities.