Tales From A Broad Read online




  FRAN LEBOWITZ

  Pseudonyms have been used and other details altered to protect the identity of people and organisations in the book. Many incidents and characters are purely fictional.

  ‘Waiter, hey you there, please come.’

  ‘My dear, but your glass still has some.’

  ‘Ah, the top is quite bare,

  filled with just air,

  so I must summon someone.’

  Dear Mrs Lebowitz,

  Fran said that she was too depressed to cut and paste today. I thought I should bring this to your attention …

  Dear Mr and Mrs Lebowitz,

  While we try to make our camp food as nutritious as possible, we are not able to produce the data Fran has requested on fat grams per servings …

  Dear Mr and Mrs Lebowitz,

  We regret to inform you that Fran has been suspended from school for initiating a small riot in the auditorium …

  H. D. Rosen, Psychiatrist

  File 109

  Lebowitz, Fran

  ‘No, please, they were great … very supportive. My mom told all of us that we were special! Gorgeous! Brilliant! My brother pushed her away, “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” My sister hunched down, got embarrassed, “I am not.” Me? Well, I believed her. “I am? You think? Yeah, I am!” And then, and then, I found out. She lied. This whole time, Mom lied. Just the other day, I was in a store with someone prettier …’

  The Lancaster Herald Tribune:

  Fran Lebowitz, sophomore at Franklin and Marshall College, was arrested last night for shoplifting at the 7-Eleven on Oak Street. When police questioned her about the package of bacon she had under her shirt, she responded, ‘I was born this way … weird, huh … bacon grafted to my skin … That? Oh, it’s my lucky cheese … carry it with me everywhere …’

  Dear Mom and Dad,

  When this gets to you, I’ll already be in Mexico. I want to experience the real world … I have been asphyxiated by my middle-class upbringing … I promise to finish school next year … I have everything I need: my sleeping bag, a few clothes, pen and paper, some money I’ve saved, and your credit card, just in case …

  Dear Bonnie,

  Can you believe? He asked me to marry him! FINALLY! I mean, the guy could have buried himself a piece of coal when we met; it’d be a diamond by now … Mom nixed the idea of a white leather wedding gown and a barn dance. So it’s ice carvings and pasta stations … After all the guys I’ve brought home, Mom and Dad don’t even mind that he’s not Jewish. He can read! He’s a lawyer! That’s sort of like being a Jew, no?

  Dear Bonnie,

  I thought it’d be a little different … a soulful, peaceful sort of thing. But Sadie, she just cries all the time. And I’m still fat. Tell me it gets better after the first week!

  From the diary of Fran Rittman:

  … Just when I needed him most, my dad died. He dropped dead on the tennis court. Two days after he retired. I had a bunch of things I needed to go over with him. The funeral was packed. People sent in the most gorgeous, abundant trays of food I’ve ever seen. I couldn’t stop ploughing through it all: bagels, lox, cream cheese and sable, corned beef, roast beef, chicken salad and challah, lasagnas, casseroles, rotisserie chickens. By the time we got to the service, I could barely button my sombre but sexy miniskirt. How can I think of food? Turns out I’m pregnant!

  Dear Bonnie,

  The kids are fine. We miss you. I’m a little mixed up right now. (Don’t say, so what’s new?) Just made the biggest fuck-up to date at work and the client fired me. The insurance company is after me about the car. There’s snow everywhere. I had to shovel the walk with Huxley on my back. Of course, Frank’s away again. When do I get to go away … and do I have to come with me? I’m working on a plan, though … stay tuned.

  We are all born with a rut radar. Mine is finely wired, a little oversensitive maybe. Perhaps just a bit hyperactive. Twenty steady boyfriends before turning 16, a new best friend 12 times a year, switched college majors every time I met someone who seemed exactly like the sort of person I really, really wanted to be. I’m not fickle. I’m just never there yet. Whenever the pond of my life becomes still, I slip into the calm I so desperately crave. I lie on the rich, green banks and feel the sun shining, hear the birds chirping; a butterfly is … well, it’s bugging me. A niggling sensation creeps in. This is not the perfect location; it’s a little too hot/cold/wet/ dry/quiet/noisy and what is that smell and why the hell am I sitting on the mud next to a big puddle anyway? Give me the rapids, baby! Give me Niagara … Oh my God, is that my reflection? Why didn’t anyone tell me about my hair? Next thing you know, I’m stirring those waters until the froth is as thick and heady and deceptive as the top of a pint of Guinness.

  If I could change the old metronome, inhale-exhale, inhale-exhale, I would. I’d breathe sort of spirally. I’d take the thump-thump, thump-thump and give it a new beat … until the next minute when I would question, once again, what exactly it is that I want. For some, this sort of agitation would lead to industrious results, scholarly pursuits, inventions that save the world. I am gifted only in how far I’ll stretch to scratch an itch I can never reach.

  One time, I made it clear across the globe and missed the forest and the trees but tripped over a surprising lesson. You’re not supposed to keep scratching. I’m better now. I can see my glass is half full … but, of course, I did order a double.

  When Sadie was two and Huxley nearly one, I was due my next personal crisis. I can’t risk skipping one of those. (I still take great pride in having been, some 20 years ago, the first on my block to get anorexic.) So, when my father died and my biggest client stabbed me in the back, the door swung wide open.

  I began passing countless evenings out on my freezing cold deck in Westchester County, in my puffy coat and hat (picture Taliban goes Gortex), chain smoking – or would have been if it wasn’t such a struggle lighting up with mittens on – and drinking wine. I wanted to be a better mother. I wanted to be a luckier literary agent. I didn’t want to be either. I couldn’t believe I was smoking again. Thank God I could smoke again.

  It wouldn’t be fair to say my husband, Frank, ignored me. He’d wave now and then through the window as he walked to the kitchen to get another beer (so that’d be six waves on a weeknight and 12 on a weekend, which is more friendly than some marriages). Then, one evening, who knows why – maybe because my mitten had caught fire – Frank stepped outside and saw that I had been crying. ‘Are you sad?’ he asked. He’s sensitive like that.

  ‘Well,’ I sniffed.

  I’d gone too far. He got defensive. ‘What’s wrong now?’ he asked. ‘What’d I do?’

  ‘No, no …’

  ‘What didn’t I do?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing.’

  ‘Oh, great. This again. I do nothing.’

  ‘No, it’s not you. Really. I’m just a mess. That’s all. It’s stress, everything’s too hard. I never see the kids. I’m missing out on everything they do. I need to connect with them. I need something. I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up. I’m not good at anything … I want to get away.’ I cried and thought of more things I wanted, needed, hated, but left it at that.

  ‘Hmmm,’ he said.

  ‘Hmmm,’ I said. ‘You asked.’

  ‘Want a beer?’ he said.

  ‘Nah, got some wine already.’

  ‘Okay, I’m going in now. It’s fucking freezing out here.’ He ruffled my hair and went to his study and began working on a small miracle.

  Two weeks later, we are on a 22-hour flight, heading 10,000 miles away into a 12-hour time difference, with two small kids. We are heading to Frank’s Singapore office on an extended business trip. We fly up the front of the plane. We give
each kid a lot more than the recommended dose of cough syrup. I display it with a wink-wink, nod-nod to the other passengers so they’ll know we have their comfort in mind. The meds have the desired effect on Huxley. In fact, they work so beautifully that any time we see his eyes flutter – probably just REMing but who wants to take chances – I scream, ‘Dose him!’ We might as well club the poor kid.

  Unfortunately, but predictably, the cough syrup has the opposite effect on Sadie. She never goes to sleep. She never stops talking, except when she is simply yelling. Hundreds, thousands of times a minute she barks out something like ‘I want to go on that plane!’ or ‘I’m going to Thingapore!’ She rattles the back of her seat, jumps in her chair, runs up and down the aisle, up and down the stairs, in and out of the bathroom, dragging the toilet paper with her. We try to settle her down but lack the wit to do anything more creative than scream at her, spank her, hiss at her, threaten her, and toss her to each other saying, ‘Your turn!’

  She drives us crazy. I don’t know about the other 30 people who paid $10,000 to fly themselves in style and comfort. It’s entirely possible that they are a little annoyed. I don’t ask. I don’t want to disturb them.

  All told, with the drive to the airport and the two hours waiting around, by the time we land we have been at it for about 27 hours. The very thought of fighting people in the baggage claim, juggling the kids as backpacks slide down my shoulder, elbowing my way into the taxi line, figuring it all out … I’m sure I don’t have enough kick left to manage it. Frank has a serene look on his face. He’s always fairly mellow, but this is something more. This is intense satisfaction; this is the look of a man in his finest moment. He is just so danged proud to be introducing us to his mistress, The Far East.

  Lo and behold, our luggage practically leaps into our arms just as we get to the belt. But, of course, we still need to slog through Immigration and Customs. Slog? Wrong! In fact, Immigration and Customs wave happily to us. They give us candy. They are embarrassed to ask questions and demur about seeing our passports until Frank insists that we all want the stamp.

  This is the single best airport in the world, bar none. I smile at Frank and he knows what I am thinking: We’ve really landed.

  He smiles back: Baby needed a break? Baby got one. Just wait till I show you around.

  My eyes flash trouble: Where is Sadie?

  His mouth droops: I don’t know.

  My brows arch: What do you mean, you don’t know?

  His chin dips menacingly: Why is this my fault?

  My neck goes forward: So you think you did your bit, huh, delivering me here, saving my soul, and now you’re off duty so our kids can get stolen in this place crawling with heathens.

  His body lurches. He catches Sadie, who was enjoying a bit of treadmill exercise on the luggage conveyer.

  ‘Cute, lah,’ says an airport worker, patting her head.

  My smile at Frank: What softies these people are. Nice.

  His smile: That’s just one thing I’m gonna show you, baby.

  Mere seconds later, we are in a pristine taxi, having waited in a line that was quiet, orderly and odour-free. I can tell you now, the line was purposely placed inside the airport building. Had we been waiting outside, as you do in most other places in the world, folks would have likely turned quite caustic, aggressive and rather smelly. Because in the true environment – the outside of Singapore – a freckle feels like an extra layer, the wind is an oven blast in a sauna. Tempers, certainly mine, tend to flare extravagantly in half a second over who knows what, something like having to tie the kids’ shoes.

  The taxi driver takes us on a road called the ECP. The sun is just coming up and I can make out the sea on one side between massive mango trees with twisted branches and roots that creep in and out of the earth like sea dragons. There are palm trees and colourful lilac bushes, paths along the shore and inviting huts scattered here and there. The median strip contains carefully cultivated fronds and flower patches. We are home in five minutes.

  Sadie has lost none of her energy. Huxley is choking on a candy. We haul our heavy bags into the lift lobby of block five, Fortune Gardens. It isn’t yet 7 am. My clothes are damp; sweat slithers down my neck. Frank’s hair is dripping and a dark blue stain is growing on the back of his shirt. We go into our apartment. I only notice the saturating starkness, the endless beige-ness of it all. I guess I was expecting something closer to a Hyatt than a Holiday Inn.

  I close my eyes and ardently wish I could offload the kids and take a two-day nap. That might bring colour to my world. I hear a plop on the floor. It is the sound my sweat makes when it finishes hanging around my jaw. My thoughts move to the impossible heat. Through the haze and the beige, I spy lizards scrambling up the wall. Hey, I think, somewhat deliriously, they add a nice swatch of green. I look at the kitchen – no oven, only a stovetop and for that there is only a wok. I’m hearing myself thinking, ‘Yeah, the glass is half full, but I ordered a double.’

  Frank is beside himself with bust-a-gut joy. ‘Hey, look at this! Ever eat off a wok?’ He grabs Sadie to show her. ‘Look on the ceiling. That’s a gecko, honey, isn’t it cool?’ He takes the kids out on the balcony. ‘See this view! Incredible!’

  I take a shower but turn shy when I see a lizard sharing it with me. I try to ignore the dirt on the windowsill, the slick, black scum all over the tiles and the brownish water that never turns hot. By the time I get out, the aircon has kicked in. I let it chill me, get dressed and wander over to the family. I am shaved and clean and human. I have on a fresh pair of undies, a starchy T-shirt and shorts. I go out on the balcony, from where I see the gentle, rippling expanse of pale blue sea, the ships sitting in the near distance, waiting for their next command. I see the swimming pools, the playgrounds, the plaza of useful shops, the putting green. I see four pristine tennis courts equipped for night play. I see my happy husband and lovely children.

  The pool at Fortune Gardens is as big as a reservoir. It’s kidney-shaped and the water splashes over a sunken edge. There are six lap lanes that will take you 50 metres in one direction and another 50 to get back. The landscaping is glorious, with palm trees, hyacinths, blooming flowerbeds and well-tended bushes. Along the shores are enough tables and chairs and chaises and umbrellas to render it undeniably resort living. The kiddy pool is a replica of the adult pool. Several barbecue pits dot the perimeter, stopping at a turtle and fishpond. You only need to walk up a few steps to get to Fattys, the restaurant that overlooks the pool.

  The pool calls out to me. It is to be our baptism, path, religion.

  ‘We must go swimming!’ I cheer.

  I even know exactly where to find the swimsuits. Towels? Sunscreen? Who cares! I rally together the family, suit up the kids, down we go and over we trot, jolly as can be at the thought of swimming in March.

  Three guards in uniform, who were just a second ago sound asleep with thoughts of betel-nut juice in their heads, sit bolt upright. A fat lady in the booking office – it looks like a movie theatre ticket booth – calls through her little cut-out hole, ‘Where caahd?’

  Frank, who has travelled all over the world and has spent a great deal of time right here in Singapore, uses his over-the-top-as-if-talking-to-a-hearing-impaired-retarded-person voice: ‘WEEE JUSTTT ARRIIIIIIVED HEEEERE. THE OFFICE, YOURRRRR PEEEEEOPLE, ARRRRRRE NOTTT OPENNN YETTT.’ He adds pantomime just in case.

  The lady of a thousand chins says, ‘Cannot, cannot go into pool, lah, without caaahddd.’

  We leave unbaptised. We head to the office, which is now just opening. Apparently we need all sorts of verification of our names, our lease, our entitlement to be here, pictures of just a certain size, laminated cards bearing these pictures and basically our raison d’être to get access to the goddamned pool. Frank gets on the phone to the real estate agent to get a copy of our lease. He then calls his office, the embassy, the ministry of this and department of that and scurries about getting the documentation. I stay in this little prefab, mon
ochrome, overly airconditioned office with the kids. They have their swimsuits on. They expect to be in that pool. We’re being denied something inalienable.

  ‘Um, excuse me,’ I say politely but sharply, ‘do you think we came all the way from America just to swim in your pool?’

  They look down at what they are doing, which appears to me to be making a paperclip chain. They turn inward at my formidable tone.

  I speak up again: ‘Look, we’ve come a long, long way. Can’t you let us in for now and we’ll settle up with you on all this paperwork really soon?’ They open drawers to find more clips to organise. Sadie starts jumping on the furniture and Huxley starts wailing in his stroller. I mix up some formula for him and am careful to make a perfectly sizeable mess of powder on the rug. I tell Sadie that her jumping is really coming along nicely. I eyeball the crew of paperclip handlers. They are not derailed from their task; they do not speak.

  I ask Sadie if she’d like to go out and feed the koi fish … some of these cough drops I found in my pocket. Huxley is wailing for his milk. I tell him, ‘Don’t worry, honey, we’ll be in that pool in a few hours. Until then, you just cry your little heart out.’ These people must have been trained by, I don’t know, G. Gordon Liddy, or maybe they aren’t even people. They simply will not be moved to pity or anger or intolerance, or even a mild dose of discombobulation.

  Finally, Frank sweeps through the doors, waving damp papers and jingling keys. He walks to the desk. One person looks up. ‘But you don’t have the caaaahd,’ she says.

  He says, ‘THESE ARE THE MAHTEEERIAHLS YOU REQUIRE FOR THE CARD. CAN WE GET INTO THE POOL NOW, PLEASE? WEEE ARE SORRRRY FOR ASKING YOU TO BEND THE ROOOOLSS.’

  The supervisor rests her clip art and makes a call. She hangs up the phone and tells us that we can go to the pool now. Frank hasn’t even shown her the papers he is clutching. She has randomly determined that she will let us have what we want. Much like the Wizard of Oz – a good man but a terrible wizard – it has always been in her powers, but that is beside the point.