Page 54 - WTP Vol.VII #2

Driven (continued from preceding page)
now, and stare at the whitecaps. My parents have dis- solved into the blue, massive harbor. Out of the froth, their figures rise up, and I remember flying with Anne to Queens to introduce them to her, who has already left the car, searching for a path through beach grass where we can take an extended walk that I will pre- tend to enjoy.
During one of our visits to Queens, in the middle of the usual lengthy cocktail hour, my father asked me to get the next round. I left him, my mother, and Judy in the living room, and mixed drinks in the kitchen. When I returned with the tray of Manhattans and Martinis, my father had changed the Peggy Lee tape, and he and Judy were holding hands and dancing to the “Hop-Scotch Polka.”
She played the guitar for them after dinner, using my old acoustic instrument from childhood, given to me so I could take lessons on the public television station. The program was Folk Guitar with Laura Weber, whom I just Googled and see she died on the same date as I’m writing this, in 1995, when she was seventy! Hello, Laura! If I still had my guitar, I would play “Streets of Laredo” for you!
Oh, you hop a little on your little left shoe You hop a little on your right one too
You don’t mind bouncin’ like a kangaroo To the Hop-Scotch Polka
Anne left my parents’ living room early to read in bed. My mother called this “very sophisticated,” but re- sented it. When I was alone with my parents, I praised Anne’s playing and my father called it “pretty punk.” Why? Why would he say that?
He had gotten her to stand on one foot, and she was balancing herself, balancing crookedly, but balancing just fine nevertheless, and I was disgusted with him when I saw her inquisitive and trusting face smiling over at me.
Now he apologizes, but it’s too late. “I guess I just wanted the best for you,” he says.
My Name is John
I can tell he really regrets not only that, but what seemed like a painful tradition regarding their only son. Vivian, a painter from the Rhode Island School
of Design, who had won all sorts of fellowships, was very helpful to my mother, setting the table, moving the chairs around our living room/dining area, taking newspapers to the incinerator. The next morning, my mother whispered to me, “Do you really like her?” so I replayed the whole evening, trying to see what Vivian did wrong, even questioning my own affection.
When I was twelve, my mother accepted for me my Aunt Linda’s invitation to go by bus with her to Wil- liamsburg, Virginia, a five-night hotel stay, hosted by that company.
And in college, there was Judy: short, a bit plump and always smiling. Her father was the chairman of the English Department and her mother an earthy person who loved to read. Judy took after her, and I saw my- self following the footsteps of her father in all ways. We dated for a year, so my parents saw her often. For some reason, or maybe no reason at all, my father became convinced Judy’s right leg was shorter than her left. He mentioned this again and again. She did have a little wiggle in her walk, which made him con- clude that, if we married, our children would inherit her handicap. He used to get drunk and rave about it when we were alone.
We left the Port Authority with an MC named Steve who told jokes and played games during the eight- hour trip in which the broken air conditioning stayed set on high. Everyone wrapped themselves in jackets and sweaters. There was no bathroom, so when we approached a rest stop, he’d ask, “Oui?” and if anyone answered, “Oui! Oui!” the driver pulled over.
He begged me to ask Judy to stand on one foot. “I bet she can’t do it!” he yelled.
“I bet she can!” I yelled back.
Mine was:
47
My name is John
I sit in Seat Three
You know what I mean When I say Oui! Oui!
We pass a disabled bus, its passengers standing on the shoulder. The driver has opened a metal flap on the flank and is removing luggage. The logo says Casser Tours. I didn’t know they were still in business.
Steve asked us to write a poem—it had to include our name and seat number. The winner would get a ciga- rette lighter. I was thrilled at this prospect.
A crusty old woman wrote:
I sit in Seat Four
My name is Augusta
Turn off the air conditioning Before I bust ya