What's There?

Ignition:

Up about five miles in the air, I look out a window and watch the earth scrolling below. A marvel of modern technology, and a feat of modernity: Commercial Flight. Witnessing the expansive land below safely nestled in my United Airlines seat I begin to absorb a greater understanding of the political economy and modernity (at least in the cultural sense) of the nation. It can't be helped. Everywhere I look now I see a great engine propelling us forward, but with uncertain ends. All of this: the airplane, the stewards, passengers, my small cup of ginger ale, a book about "Main St.": products of a great material state. But where we are being carried to, I do not know.

The Corporate Machine in the Garden:

Where I was being carried from was Michigan. A week earlier I was returning to the Motherland, visiting my parents, and introducing them to my girlfriend for the first time. My parents recently retired and permanently relocated to Roscommon, a very simple bucolic part of the state. Their "new" home is a hinterland ripped from the pages of Jefferson's notes. A place where tall verdant trees environ streets and most stretches of the highways (Mitt Romney even complemented them on their height in the last election). Where you can drink cool clean water from the tap worry-free, and turkeys roam freely at their leisure. Situated between two lakes, the one closest to the home (the same one we visited since I was an infant) is known for its beautiful clear waters, to the north and south, and rivers running to the east and west, this land is truly an American Pastoral.

Though upon returning to this small town Shangri-la I noticed familiar restaurants out of business, vacant lots, and a distinct presence of chain stores. The most obvious one appeared when we needed to purchase groceries for the week. Appearing juxtaposed against the greenness that surrounded it was the enormous Walmart. Even here in Jefferson's Ideal we met the corporate jötunn. It had followed us all the way out into the outer reaches, deeper into the American Mythology, trying to stamp its presence into the consciousness of the people with an avuncular tone whilst exploiting the ideologies of the American Ethos with low unbeatable prices; perhaps well aware of the giant footprint it was leaving, perhaps not.

I wondered if any corporate colossus understood the footprints they make. My answer was: most likely not, but there were a few. One such giant was a Michigan Man: Henry Ford.

Detroit Agonistes:

Ford was not oblivious to the destruction he and his peers' (Edison and Firestone, and then some) business of mechanization was doing to the "Americana" of the nation. That was, in large part, why he returned to his birthplace of Greenfield, Michigan and constructed a living, breathing monument to the American Pastoral he was helping eradicate. In many ways I see Greenfield Village as one of the first attempts from trusts to amalgamate their image with the American spirit. It is not only a place where visitors can tour the courthouse Abraham Lincoln practiced law in, or Noah Webster's home (where he wrote most of America's first dictionary), but also Ford's childhood home, his first factory, Edison's workshop, the Wright brothers' bike shop. The museum shows both the genesis of the United States hand-in-hand with the genesis of electric companies, Ford Motor Co., and commercial airlines.

I have no real objections to showing the innocuous (in many ways wholesome) beginnings of different corporate primogenitors. These corporate entities are, after all, American in origin (although very multi-national nowadays), so to include them in the nation's history is very natural--especially considering their influence during the Industrial Revolution and onward. It is not like they are altering historical records like Stalin. However, Greenfield Village is a palpable representation of companies public relations campaign (at times eerily close to a cult or personality) to ingratiate themselves with the general public. By channeling different aspects of the American Mythology (i.e. the American dream, Main St., the American Pastoral, etc.) trusts gain favor with the public. This strategy helps tremendously when the jötnar lift up their feet and move on, leaving only a footprint of what once was.

Footprints like Detroit.

On the last day of our trip, my parents took my girlfriend and me on a tour of Detroit. I hadn't been back in years. Needless to say, the terrible things one reads or sees about the city appeared true. Traveling down Woodward (the main vain) towards the heart of downtown, I noticed trash littering the sidewalks and gutters. Endless block after block containing abandoned, decrepit buildings or homes, and behind them vast empty lots, the occasional Victorian relic still standing with boarded windows, tall unkempt grass growing (stories of dead bodies being found in them), and the droves of poor black faces walking about with unknown destinations.

We passed The Spirit of Detroit, and he appeared to struggle under the invisible pressure of the city's plight. In the left hand was the god that forsaken him, and in the right was the family that abandoned him. The only places that remained to have any life were Comerica Park (where the Detroit Tigers play), Ford Field (home of the Detroit Lions), and GM's Renaissance Center (headquarters of the motor company, also contains hotels, restaurants, shopping center). But it is a gaunt remnant of its once healthy self.

Detroit is like a dying feral dog. You watch it lying there, haggard and filthy, as it starts to breathe its last breaths. An overwhelming sense of guilt and sadness wash over you.  It watches you with such viridity, its eyes blameless, as it sighs with each exhale. You can't help but feel its death is all your fault. You've played some part in its demise.

Parting Thoughts:

And so as I slowly move through the air, looking down at this nation, I cannot help but think about the jötnar that walk above me. From up in this rarefied place I get a better view and understanding. The giants are even up here. I'm riding in one, sipping some of their product right now.

And that's the real shit-kicker: I participate in all of it. I am embedded. In some cases I really enjoy myself. I love Greenfield Village, and I didn't have second thoughts to purchasing chips and shampoo from Walmart. But when I witnessed Detroit, and saw what happens when the jötnar lift their feet and move on, what those footprints look like, I felt saddened because of the implications. That we are inextricably bound to these giants.

Where can we plant our feet? Where can we step that has not been stepped, or that is not occupied by the jötnar already? Where are we free to live from the shadow of these colossi? The answer I keep coming to is: Nowhere. So I have to assume that is the future. That is where we are heading towards.

And so I ask, "What's there?"

Exchange on Modernism

Below is a little conversation that took place on Facebook. I quoted Marshall Berman's 'All That is Solid Melts Into Air'--which is a really enjoyable read--and opined on the meaning of modernism (also read: modernity) in contemporary times. Some friends of mine chimed in... 

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(Me:) "To say that our society is falling apart is only to say that it is alive and well." - Marshall Berman, 'All That is Solid Melts Into Air' But I wonder if this still rings true. What can be said for modernism (either the adventurous or the routine) when places like Stockton, CA and Detroit simultaneously exist? These are the thoughts I have at half past midnight...

(Al:) The Roman empire fell amidst chaos and something evolving replaced it. Maybe we are at a similar spot on that historical timeline. Change is inevitable, be it the world in which we live or the human condition itself. Humans look at snapshots of their lives .. 2, 5, 10 years at a time and somehow feel that same stability should somehow naturally be perpetual, but instead it is the most unnatural thing that could be. The failures with Stockton & Detroit and approaching failures with dozens of other cities have direct cause and effect. A large segment of our society is too blind to see this cause. Once that segment becomes the majority, the city is doomed and will fail. We might be five years away or fifty from complete collapse in our government and society as we know it. It depends on this current rate of change. I for one remain hopeful it is reversible and self correcting. Thanks for the thought provoking post.

(Me:) Sure. I think Berman would agree with your basic idea of the ebb and flow of human history. What you’re getting at (in Bermanian terms) is “adventure modernism” (i.e. people are going to continue on, searching for the next great part of existence; the destruction they suffer is only at the result of creation; they are trying to not only look into the abyss, but go into it, and survive it, and come back from it with a better understanding, etc. etc.). In these terms, I think his point would be: the fact that there is unrest is a sign that people are toiling away, working towards the future, perpetually creating and destroying. We’re just witnessing that next paradigmatic shift, the next stage of modernism in the United States. As a result, some things are going to go to the wayside in order for the next “thing” to take the stage. And this may still be so.

But my point is simply this: I don’t see it. Detroit suffered for a new modernism—corporate capitalism, globalization, deindustrialization, the White Flight, etc. etc. all played huge factors to the decline of this once blossoming metropolis. For Detroit, and other (mainly Rust Belt) cities in the USA, it dies a slow and painful death so that the new modern life of the suburbs can arise. Smash cut to now where even the suburbs are declining—large swathes of homeowners underwater on their mortgages, houses foreclosed and left to rot, education systems defunded almost annually (ceremoniously depending on whom you ask), even what were once the Crystal Palaces of suburbia (the malls) are now vacant either of stores or people—across the nation in places like Stockton, Grand Rapids, MI, Lakewood, CO, Jefferson County, AL, Harrisburg, Boise, Central Falls, RI, and the list goes on. So with all this in mind, I ask myself: “What are we building towards? What is the next step in modernism?” And I find no satisfactory answer. The end of feudal society came about from the mobilization to cities, centuries later the destruction of slums in Paris, London, New York, Chicago, Tokyo, Beijing were to build new asphalt roads, concrete walkways, steel buildings, and more for greater modern cities, and in turn some of these like-cities were abandoned for the greater megastructures of the new modern exurbs/suburbs, but now we are witnessing urban AND suburban decay with no obvious paradigm to shift to next. I look around and I see paralysis at best, and retrograding at worst. The soil that used to be so loose has now ossified, and we find ourselves waste deep, stuck, waiting for some unknown future.

This is what I was getting at last night. There is no pastoral left to escape to and build great structures upon anymore. We are left in our ruins now. Of course societies will continue to exist, in one form or another, but will they continue to modernize?

(Joe:) Greed was the catalyst for the fall of the Roman Empire and with history being cyclic, we are at the threshold of the same future for the same reason. Too much wealth in the hands of too few while the rest are left to grovel. It is easy to say "Well everyone has the same opportunity". You have to be an idiot to really believe that. And now, one of the popular trends is to suck the very life out of this country and take it off shore. So, what does the future hold? Well if we don't succeed in blowing up the planet, regardless of the depths to which society falls, there will always be a tomorrow and those individuals who will give their all to effect a resurection [sic] of the good life.

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Though it may appear as if Al and Joe were on different talking points than mine, I do think they were speaking about modernism--even if their comments were more politically motivated. 

Berman wrote 'All That is Solid...' in the seventies up to the early eighties (the book being published in 1982). In it, Berman argues against the notion that we were living in a "post-modern" USA. He wrote...

To be modern, I said, is to experience personal and social life as a maelstrom, to find one's world and oneself in perpetual disintegration and renewal, trouble and anguish, ambiguity and contradiction: to be part of a universe in which all that is solid melts into air. To be a modernist is to make oneself somehow at home in the maelstrom, to make its rhythms one’s own, to move within its currents in search of the forms of reality, of beauty, of freedom, of justice, that its fervid and perilous flow allows.

By this assertion, everything is modern. There can never be a next phase, no "post" anything. We have always been modern--err... starting with Baudlaire. Which is confusing because if we are to use his own logic--that everything eventually breaks down and becomes replaced (or in Marxist terms "all that is solid melts into thin air")--then "modernism" itself should be vulnerable to its own nature. Shouldn't it?

I'm going to refrain from answering for now.

Instead, I want to opine further on Berman's idea of modernism precisely as a positive event in human history. My initial post focused (perhaps loosely) on this thought. In reading Berman, I had the overwhelming impression that modernism was not only an unavoidable force of human nature, but that it was (more or less) the impetus for progressive change (i.e. change for the better of society). From paving the roads in cities in the mid-19th century to the creation of sprawling suburbs in the mid-20th century, and from Russian literature to the New Deal, these are all moments of modernism that highlight positive changes--even in oppressive "backwards" societies.* I have a problem with this.

For instance, Berman devotes a considerable amount of time on Russian literature (more precisely Russian life in St. Petersburg from the mid-nineteenth century to the early twentieth--viewed through the literature). Berman lauds Russian writers like Pushkin, Dostoevsky, Nevsky, Dudkin, Mandelstam, et al. for their sharp wit in combating the oppressive realities of their lives. In his eyes, their literature is the basis for modernism--what he called the "modernist adventure"--and their writings were a sign that even in a place like oppressive Tsarist Russia (which he likened to many Third World countries of the twentieth century) such thoughts could exist. And they existed exactly because of a more modern city like St. Petersburg was created and allowed for such modernist thought to blossom. Huzzah!

That's really great and all, but... uh... like what about all those poor serfs (hundreds of thousands of them) who died in the mud of the Neva to create that great modernist city? What about the fact that the reason those serfs were working to death was because they were slaves to the nobility? Or that all this great literature is being primed by the subjugation of the lesser fortunate (the Clerk) at the hands of their masters (the Tsar)? (Dostoevsky knows something of that oppression... 'How are winters in Siberia?') Or that these lesser fortunate people--many who contributed most to the better future--suffered disproportionately as a result of it? Hey Berman! what about all the modernist serfs who built the future and who longed to go beyond the squalid conditions of oppressive Tsarist Russia... and then oppressive Stalinist Russia... and now oppressive Putinist Russia... where is their modernism? What positive outcome have they benefited from?**

Or to put this in terms that hit closer to home, what about the African American experience, Berman? The success of nascent United States (especially the South) is in large part thanks to slaves. But maybe that's unfair because modernism didn't start for Berman until the mid-nineteenth century... oh wait... they were still slaves in the 1850s! and then they were disproportionately poor and disenfranchised and terrorized for another one-hundred years, and for the last 50 years they've had the oddest looking equality I can think of. But let me provide some "modernist" specifics. The New Deal. Great modernist event. The creation of the welfare state that played a huge role in the prosperity of many Americans--essentially creating the middle class. What could possibly be wrong with that? Well... um... many of the programs were at the expense of blacks because of white supremacy. How 'bout that? Case in point: the Agricultural Adjustment Administration (AAA) provided cash benefits to farmers for work done in the field. However, a disproportionate number of blacks (yes, even more than poor white sharecroppers) were swindled out of their appropriations by the (white) landowners. If this sounds familiar, it's because similar instances happened with the Tennessee Valley Authority (the inspiration for the Marshall Plan), the Federal Land Bank, the Rural Electrification Administration, etc. etc. Or what about blacks living in urban US environments who suffered from the likes of the Robert Moseses of the nation (who constructed roads and buildings right through their neighborhoods--on towards a better future no doubt), or whites during the '50s and '60s who fled the urban areas, and took refuge in the suburbs, along with most of the work... but hey, you know, they have Ralph Ellison and James Baldwin to, like, write about their plight, so modernism still exists... and it's great!

This is all becoming a little too exhaustive and redundant. And I don't mean to go all Howard Zinn on Berman. I like the book. I like Berman's views of modernism. But perhaps what makes this all so frustrating is that Berman knows, is completely aware of what I'm writing about! The beginning of 'All That is Solid...' is about Goethe's Faust and the relation it plays with modernism/modernity and how Faust's accomplishments come at his own undoing (not to mention the deaths of innocent people). So Berman admits at the beginning of his book that we're talking about tragedy here! A tragedy brought upon by negligence that ultimately ends up spelling out "d-o-o-m."

This gets be back to answering that question I posed above.

Modernism has what I've started calling the "duality of construction"--which is to say, in modernity's construction of a better future it is simultaneously creating/meliorating new life, and destroying/exacerbating an old one. This even applies to itself. Even Berman admits this, though he believes modernism replaces itself with itself, and not some "other" epoch. But I'm not so sure. I believe that, like Faust, modernism can reach a point of limitation and then destroy itself.

And this brings me back to my original question, and Al and Joe's responses. When I asked "What can be said for modernism (either the adventurous or the routine) when places like Stockton, CA and Detroit simultaneously exist?" Al and Joe both gave (in their own way) witness to modernism's duality of construction. They both see the ebb and flow. The ability for humanity to create and destroy in an almost breathless daily fashion, indefatigably towards the unforeseen future. And in this sense, I believe they both still have faith in modernism--even in their own bleak ways.

But not me. Yes, the sun will rise and set until it explodes, but I'm curious as to whether or not it will rise on a modern United States or not. I for one am dubious. For good reason, too.

What good is modernism if people suffer for their entire lives as a result of it? What are we even creating things towards nowadays anyway? Tax cuts? Hyperloops? The new iPhone 6? What good are these new things if A) they only tend to benefit people who are already in a position to benefit from them? B) they aren't actual benefits? The tragic negligence seems afoot here too!

I'll go a further step and state that it is precisely this "tragic negligence" of modernity that causes the current state of paralysis, and because of it that modernism has fallen back on itself and is no more. We have allowed the suburbs and the urban environments to decay, and ourselves to slip into anomie, all for a future that appears to survive solely in the realm of "pop." For these reasons I do believe we are truly (now more than ever) living in a "postmodern" world.

I don't see this as a bad thing. I don't see it as a good thing. Like many postmodern things, I suppose it just is...
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* Note: Berman does not necessarily make note of suburbs or the New Deal in 'All That is Solid...' but I believe they fit well with his notion of modernism.
** And yes, I realize Russians no longer live like they did in the nineteenth century, but that doesn't mean oppression has disappeared... especially if you happen to be gay.

Scenes: A Parody of Youth

“You recall moments like that. Nostalgic. Stripped from an
inexplicable version of genuine bliss. Being abruptly torn from a
dream quickly forgotten. The large hands of your father callous and
warm grasping your shoulder. He beckons you. You slowly rise from
rest. All your relatives remain strewn across the linoleum floor.
Peaceful. Still. You’re so careful not to let the screen door slam as
you exit out the back. The day is just waking. You feel something
symbiotic, ineffable as you walk down to the lake. The cement path is
cool from the night. Dew remains on the blades of grass. Birds make
their calls. Your father already stands knee-deep in the lake, getting
the rest of the equipment into the rowboat. You walk off the concrete,
through the wet lawn and step slowly into the cold lake water. Minnows
keep safe distance from your colorless white feet. Sand works its way
between your toes. The current creates undulating ridges in the
lakebed. You watch slowly as with each step your feet crash into the
natural formation. Underwater plumes arise from the miniature dunes.
And as much as you feel like a giant, you experience partial guilt for
destroying the natural creation of the tides. Your father lifts you
into the aluminum boat. He places the life vest on you. It’s moist. He
must have dropped it in the lake. You wrap your arms around it and
huddle for warmth. ‘We’ll get out in the sunlight, and you’ll be
fine.’ Peering over the edge, you can still see the bottom of the
lake. Minnows following, then dispersing with every row your father
makes. Back again, then dispersing, back and forth, to and fro until
the boat gets further from the shore and they retreat to the shallows.
Wiggling wet sand off your toes, you watch as your father fixes your
line. He keeps going on about catching the mother of them all. Out in
the middle of the lake you can smell summer’s musk. Wiping the sleep
from your eye, you cast out the line. Dad hands you a Coke. And even
though it’s six in the morning, and your mother wouldn’t approve, he
wants you to drink it. And you do, gladly. That sweet syrupy taste
washing past your palette, the filial burn on the back of your throat.
You smile. He smiles. A sweet moment. One you question its very
existence. How could something so simple, pure, enjoyable ever exist?
The world was coated in majesty then. Now the veneer has worn. The
color has become faded and grey. The cottage sold. The lake filled.
You grew up. Things changed. You witnessed your father lose his aura
of invincibility. Then you realized his invincibility never existed.
What was once an inexhaustible, wide-open world now became a very
finite place, with borders and limits. You were no longer colossal,
but a spec, on a blue spec, circling a yellow spec, in a vast abyss,
very unknown and very forgettable in the celestial conversation. And
so you recall moments like that. Oneiric. You miss them. They remind
you of a time when things were full of limitless potential. Everything
was pure. A boundless Shangri La. It’s a farce, and you know it. But
you like it. What alternative do you have? The Truth is brutal. In the
face of such savageness, what is one to do? Pull your collar up and
embrace the cold. Because even though you know the high fructose corn
syrup and phosphoric acid are slowly killing you, the Coke still
tastes as sweet as it did on those early summer mornings. When you
cast out that line, and hoped to catch the mother of them all.”

Trundling an Empty Barrow Up the Lane: Nabokov’s Pale Fire: Part 2

The focus now shifts to the moral of Nabokov’s Pale Fire: a profound attempt of capturing humanity’s perturbation with mortality and the relationship Art (specifically literature) plays.  Many literary critics have dissected and attempted precise explication of the novel.[1]  Among them, Bryan Boyd is often the most quoted, read critic of Nabokov’s work and life—and specifically his novel Pale Fire.[2]  In his 1997 essay, “Shade and Shape of Pale Fire”, Boyd re-evaluates his previous “Shadean” stance—the notion that the entire Pale Fire (i.e. Foreword, Poem, Commentary, Index) was all written by John Shade and not portions by Charles Kinbote—and adopts a more balanced view of who wrote what, as well as the potential moral.[3]  In providing analysis of Pale Fire some objections to Boyd’s conclusions will be raised.  For the most part, though, Boyd’s observations and conclusions are agreeable.[4]

            Mirrors.  One prevalent motif throughout the novel is the imagery of mirrors.  Subtle at first, one slowly begins to realize the mastery of Nabokov’s work at play.  Mirrors, of course, reflect an image in reverse.  Nabokov applied this to his novel in several ways.  Be it in the reversing of words or names (Hazel Shade’s “mirror words” and twisting T.S. Eliot as “toilest” and Jakob Gradus—Shade’s eventual assassin—becomes Sudarg of Bokay the “mirror genius”), or places (Kinbote’s wild kingdom of Zembla juxtaposed with Shade’s passive New Wye), or people (Shade and Kinbote are very much opposites).[5]  Staying within the idea of reflections, the reader must take one step further and allow for self-reflection.  Fictional literature is a reflection of one’s reality (as both the author intended and the reader sees it).  Upon examining fiction, the reader should reflect and consider the possible relationship literature has with the world in which he or she exists.  Through examining the mirror world, one gains a better understanding of one’s own.  This fact plays a crucial role in Pale Fire.[6]

            Death.   Throughout the novel the reader is presented with death.  Either in Kinbote’s Foreword (the recollection of Shade’s death, or hinting his own potential suicide), in Shade’s magnum opus (where the imagery of death permeates the poem—especially with Hazel Shade), or in Kinbote’s Commentary (mainly in the narrative of Gradus’s westward journey), the idea of death is never too far from the reader’s mind.  The very first sentence of Pale Fire introduces Shade’s death “…(born July 5, 1898, died July 21, 1959)…”.[7]  In the poem, the fist line reads: “I was the shadow of the waxwing slain” another introduction to death—also another example of Nabokov’s double: Shade is the shadow of the waxwing slain.[8]  The remembrance of Hazel Shade in the poem and Kinbote’s notes reflect thoughts of the afterlife.[9]  Nabokov consistently relays this message of death.  Here the moral begins to show itself.  The reader cannot escape death.  Even as Kinbote flees from the majestic Zembla to the bucolic New Wye, he cannot.  He brings death with him.[10]  Gradus is the personification of death.  And even in the suburban Arcadia, death is there too.  This is exactly what Shade tries to communicate to Kinbote in his poem, but not to fear death.  Boyd suggests that the first line of the poem should be read as the last, suggesting life after death.[11]  Though the first line may double as the last, it might not necessarily point towards afterlife.  What could just as easily be true about the cyclicality of life is that death plays a part, and that the two are not mutually exclusive, so one should embrace both in toto.  Embracing mortality is embracing one’s humanity.

            Whatever the interpretations might be, and Nabokov left enough room for many, what is unequivocal is Nabokov’s success at revealing humanity’s struggle with their least favorite attribute: impermanence: and where Art (in this case literature) goes along in the endless endeavor.  That is Pale Fire’s greatness.

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[1] For further reading consideration: Will Norman, Duncan White, Transitional Nabokov, (London, Peter Lang Publishing: 2009); Geoffrey W. Erwin, Pale Fire: A Novel of Mirrors: Reflections and Resemblances—A Study, (Washington DC, Georgetown University Press: 1990); L.S. Dembo, Nabokov: The Man and His Work, (Madison, Wisconsin University Press: 1967); Paul Duncan Morris, Vladimir Nabokov: Poetry and the Lyric Voice, (Toronto, University of Toronto Press: 2010); Bryan Boyd, Vladimir Nabokov: The American Years, (Princeton, Princeton University Press: 1993).

[2] In his 2001 publishing of Nabokov’s Pale Fire: The Magic of Artistic Discovery, Boyd recants his previous Shadean analysis in The American Years (1993) and provides a more accurate analysis of Nabokov’s novel.  The bulk of Nabokov’s Pale Fire centers around the ideas promoted in his essay “Shade and Shape in Pale Fire” (1997), which most of this criticism will be focused.

[3] For the entire essay: http://www.libraries.psu.edu/nabokov/boydpf1.htm

[4] Boyd makes very valid points.  By no means is his analysis to be disregarded.  However, neither are they to be taken without incredulity.  In this phase of critical analysis, the boundaries do not always have to be agreed upon.

[5] Vladimir Nabokov, Pale Fire, (New York, Vintage: 1989), 80, 193, 314

[6] Nabokov enjoyed playing with the idea of doubles, and often used the idea of “mirrors” in his novels—especially later on in his career.  For further reading: Despair, Lolita, Ada or Ador, Look at the Harlequins!

[7] Nabokov, 11.

[8] Ibid. 33.; Boyd makes this argument in his essay “Shade and Shape,” 6.

[9] Boyd makes an interesting point in his essay (17) that Nabokov hints at supernaturalism in relation to Hazel Shade’s encounter with the phantom or phantasm that predicts the death of her father (188).  Perhaps, but this critic is dubious.

[10] An interesting connection can be made between Kinbote’s escape from Europe to the New World in search of a better life—mainly void from death—and Pastoralism.  What is Pastoralism?  Without losing too much focus: in the 1950s and 60s, two literary scholars, and progenitors of the American Studies field, Henry Nash Smith (with his book Virgin Land) and Leo Marx (The Machine in the Garden) studied apparent themes within literature concerning the New World (and eventually the United States) as an untamed land with infinite possibilities.   These themes would form the notion of Pastoralism (and would eventually be studied and taught within the “Myth and Symbol” school of study for the nascent American Studies).  To be succinct: Pastoralism is linked to escapism, and eventually leads back to humanity’s struggle with mortality.  Pastoralism plays a significant role in Americanism. 

[11] Boyd, 26.

Trundling an Empty Barrow Up the Lane: Nabokov’s Pale Fire: Part 1

Vladimir Nabokov’s Pale Fire is one of the great novels of the post-War era—of the English-language.[1]  Such a superlative requires some vindication.  Allow me.  What constitutes a great novel?  Well, one could have long, laborious dialectical discussions on such a question only to end up with what they had from the beginning: nothing.  Subjectivity is a merciless paradox.  All and none are correct.  And when one criticizes literature, music, film, or the arts etc. etc., the need for order becomes an imperative.[2]  So in order to evaluate, one must first create some boundaries—ultimately understanding said boundaries are illusory, but still necessary.  Once perimeters are agreed justifiable, establishment follows.  When one individual sets the borders alone, he or she freely accepts them and thus plays within his or her own rules—free to change them whenever it behooves the individual.  This becomes inadequate when applying critical analyses on a macro-level.  Therefore when dealing with a broader scale, the communal element must apply.  At this point, the critic looks at the other great literary solons of both past and present.  Once he or she can reach an agreement with the community (in this case: an agreement on the attributes of a “Great” novel), the boundaries can be established.[3]    Looking back, when one thinks of some of the capital G “Greats” (i.e. the “Greatest Novels of the English-Language in Such-And-Such-An-Epoch”) what comes to mind?[4]  According to the Modern Library (a subsidiary of Random House publishing), the best novel of the twentieth century was James Joyce’s Ulysses.[5]  Larry McCaffery (well-known literary critic and former professor of post-modern literature) wrote in the American Book Review in 1999, that Pale Fire was the greatest 20^th Century novel, stating: “[Pale Fire is the] most audaciously conceived novel of the century-and the most perfectly executed-this is also the book whose existence could have been the most difficult to anticipate in the year 1900.”[6]  Indeed.  Others claim Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, de Cervantes’ Don Quixote, even Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged as the jötnar of their literary realm.  Irrespective of what novel sits atop the conjectural lists, one can begin to notice broad, overarching similarities between the novels.  These similarities become the foundations for judging a novel as a Great.  Most of the Greats contain some acute observation of the “human condition” or the world humanity inhabits and the symbiotic relationship between both.[7]  The Greats often succeed in revealing realities within the contexts of fantasy. And at times a novel is considered a masterpiece because it per se revolutionizes the literary world—like Joyce’s Ulysses.[8]  All the while entertaining the reader.[9]  The Greats do all of these in some capacity with much gravitas, a balance of quality and quantity, pious yet playful.  Pale Fire is one of these novels.  It addresses humanity’s struggle with mortality, and the relationship Art plays in the struggle.  Whilst simultaneously exploring the form and structure of fictional writing—creating a novel novel. Like Ulysses, it is a novel for literature, and like Moby Dick, it is as much for the masses.  While literary critics, scholars, or those with a penchant for such, will lionize the novel for its many allusions to other bodies of work or the unique structure and impact on the post-modern literary world; the casual reader (with enough patience and keen eye) will appreciate the underlying moral, and have fun navigating the labyrinth Nabokov created.

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[1] Of course, this entire review is the personal opinion of one individual.  Subjectivity is not irrevocable.

[2] Note: Criticism is not meant pejoratively here, rather a formal intellectual judgment, or observation. 

[3] This does not always come to fruition—these things seldom do.  Often times a loose nucleus is created in which dissenting opinions form the outer nebulous, and the conforming ones draw closer to one point.  Never a true establishment, but when building a house of cards one must accept instability.

[4] Answering this question will help answer the initial one.

[5] Modern Library, “100 Best Novels: The Board’s List,” Random House, Inc., http://www.modernlibrary.com/top-100/100-best-novels/ (accessed August 5, 2011).  Many readers are of the opinion James Joyce’s Ulysses ranks high above the rest.  Indeed a solid paragon, but often an overused standard that, ironically, diminishes the greatness of the novel.

[6] Larry McCaffery, “The 20th Century's Greatest Hits: 100 English Language Books of Fiction,” American Book Review 20, vol. 6 (1999).  McCaffery placed Joyce’s Ulysses in second, Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow in third, and Ellison’s Invisible Man and DeLillo’s Underworld in the top twenty—even including Bret Easton Ellis’ American Psycho on the list.  A man after this critic’s own heart.  For the entire list: http://www.spinelessbooks.com/mccaffery/100/index.html

[7] “Human condition” consumes every aspect of being “human” in multiple conditions (i.e. philosophy, psychology, sociology, biology, anthropology, theology, cultural studies, economics, etc. etc.).

[8] Debate still carries on in certain circles about how much impact Ulysses had on the literary world, but little doubt can be had for what the novel meant for the Modernist movement.

[9] Or, at least, enough of them.

To The End: Monday: 10

I have a daily routine.  At 6:15 I will get out of my bed, slip on my scuffs and morning robe, and enter the adjacent bathroom.  I brush my teeth and floss.  Then I wash my face with hot water, lather, and shave.  Afterwards, I shower, dress back into my scuffs and morning robe, and go to the kitchen.  All of this should not take more than an hour because I want to prepare breakfast before 7:30 so that I may eat while watching the Gene Almann Morning Show.  Monday breakfasts usually consist of two eggs over medium and some whole wheat toast with butter and honey, a mug of hazelnut coffee with a teaspoon of Ovaltine poured in along with Half & Half.  Setting the proper amount of time between cooking the eggs and brewing the coffee is paramount in the breakfast leg of my morning routine.  Too long will leave the eggs harder than preferred, possibly burnt.  And too short leaves no room for properly mixing the Ovaltine while also spreading the butter over the toast.  I like real butter.  My daughter, Belle, once suggested yogurt butter, but I can tell the difference.  She said it was for my health, but I just read in the paper the other day about a study depicting the dangers of too much soy in the male diet—one of the main ingredients of the “healthier” yogurt butter.  The study showed a relationship between high soy intake and male impotence.  I laughed when I first read the article.  At my age, I really do not need to worry about such things.  Irrespective of the medical facts, I prefer natural butter, mostly because I can taste the difference.  You cannot replace authentic with synthetic.  I can taste it.

            Gene Almann has on teens and the recent “epidemic” permeating society: sexting.  As I pile some of the egg white onto my whole wheat, Gene asks one of the teens—an overweight fourteen-year-old girl—how often she sexts with her boyfriend—a seventeen-year-old with poor acne and a bad hair cut.  “I don’t know.  Uh—I think—um—like, everyday?”  Gasps.  The camera pans over the crowd.  Mothers in pastel sundresses cover their agape mouths.  Gene repositions the glasses on her nose.  “You’re not sure?”  The girl, Grace, looks around before answering in her timorous voice.  “Well… like, yeah.  I mean… I do it a lot.  Like, everyday.”  She looks to her boyfriend, Lance.  He has a reproachable smirk on his face.  “And how often in the day?”  “I don’t know.  We text.  And sometimes we sext.  I don’t know.  Uh… a lot.”  “So much so, you cannot even give us an estimate?”  “Um,” she rolls her eyes in contemplation.  “Yeah?”  Gasps again, the mothers are nonplussed.  Gene remains stoic.  Lance continues to snicker.  Some of the yoke drips onto my morning robe.  “Shoot.”  I get up from the table and wet a hand towel.  While rubbing the yoke out of my robe Gene asks Lance, “Now, Lance, how old are you again?”  Smiling, he states, “Seventeen.”  “Was this your idea?”  “What?”  “To sext?”  “What?”  “To send sexually explicit text messages to Grace.  Was it your idea?”  Lance looks over to Grace, who is on the precipice of crying.  He judges her body language incredulously.  “Look.  I think this is stupid.”  “What is?”  “This,” his arms widen as he looks around the studio.  “I mean, come on, sexting?  You gave it a name?”  He motions between Grace and himself.  “We talk exactly like we text.  No difference.  It happens.  Deal with it.”  “So it was your idea?”  “To do what?”  “To sext,” Gene says again, her tone more strict.  “I didn’t invent it, if that’s what you’re saying,” he laughs.  The girl next to him, Francesca, smiles.  “I will not let you make a mockery of my show, Lance.”  “I don’t think you need my help.”  “That’s enough of your condescension, thank you.”  “Whatever.”  Gene turns back to Grace.  “Grace,” she chooses her next words carefully.  “Have you ever sent pictures of yourself to Lance, through texts?  Explicit photos?  Like Francesca had?”  Grace looks up.  Her chin sinks into her neck.  “I—” she looks over at Lance, then Francesca, who is examining her nails.  “—no.”  She quickly silences herself.  “Is that the truth?  It seems like you are hiding something, Grace.  You certainly seem to be carrying a lot of guilt.”  “No thanks to you,” Lance chimes in.  “I’m not the one who got her into this,” Grace bites.  “This is lame,” Lance crosses his arms.  “Why is that?  Are you afraid you won’t look cool if you don’t act like this?  Do you need to keep this façade going for all your male friends watching at home?”  “Yes,” Lance says sarcastically.  “Because all my friends are home watching Gene Almann today.”  Francesca laughs.  Even Grace smiles.  “Lance, why did you even come on the show today?  Did you even want to seek help?”  “For what!?”  “The way you are treating your fourteen-year-old girlfriend, Grace, here—and the way millions of males like yourself are treating girls like Grace and Francesca—you should want to get help.  This is an issue spreading rampantly, affecting young girls throughout the nation—even cases of prepubescent girls sexting.”  Gasps.  I drop my toast.  “Cases?” Lance says.  “You’re degrading women.”  “Saying I want to _________________ is a bad thing?”  The crowd is shocked.  Some boo him.  One woman stands and Gene gives her the microphone.  “This kind of talk is exactly what is wrong with society today.”  Others around her nod in concurrence.  I nod, too.  More boo.  Gene has to quiet them down so Lance can speak.  “Whoa, whoa, whoa.  What’s wrong with this?  Isn’t this natural.  Like it’s been going on for centuries… and now like that it’s in a new form of technology it’s the worst thing ever?  Like how is giving _______ sexist?  And how is texting about it the end of civilization?”  More hissing and boos.  Gene shakes her head.

            On my second cup of coffee I watch Shopping Smart with Jim and Sue.  Most shows consist of four to five items based around a theme, and the couple review and encourage viewers to purchase said goods.  This episode’s theme is “Making Life Easier.”  The first item is an egg holder.  “Now, I know what you’re going to say,” Sue addresses Jim enthusiastically.  “You do?” Jim says with the same energy.  “Yes.  You’re going to tell me this is just three spoons attached to one another.”  “Well…” he smiles.  “It does look like that to me.”  “Well, you’d be right.”  They share a laugh.  “But its also about how efficient an instrument it is,” she continues.  “This utility is extremely effective at what it was designed for.”  “And it is so sleek-looking.”  “That’s exactly what I was going to say, Jim!”  Sue pats him on the stomach.  He doubles over.  They laugh.  “Stole the words right out of my mouth.  Again.”  The next item is a cup with a niche at the bottom for one to store cookies, crumpets, coasters, etc. etc. Looking down at my mug I contemplate picking up the phone and ordering one.  I decide against it.  Jim and Sue also show me a banana case, a one-size-fits-all plastic container for the owner to stick his or her banana in and protect it from “damage from outside forces;” a day clock that shows the day of the week “so that you never get confused.”  “Jim’s always confused about those things.”  “Sue.  I thought I told you I didn’t like to talk about that!”  They laugh.  I like watching the show mostly because Jim and Sue make me smile.  An enthusiastic optimism about them: that’s the good thing about the two.  Sometimes they have good deals.  Like the last item: a penguin tea timer.  I end up placing an order for one—paying for it in six easy installments of $6.95 plus tax and shipping and handling.  Belle will like this.  I know.  She likes tea.  She also likes penguins.  I remember when we went to the fair once, and I won her a stuffed penguin.  Pinky the Penguin was his name, even though he was a regular tuxedo rock-hopper penguin.  She loved him, went everywhere with him.  Not sure what happened to him, but I’m sure she’ll enjoy the tea timer.

            After my second cup of hazelnut brew I have my morning bowel movement.  These are important.  More than following the routine, having multiple movements in one day is the sign of a well-functioning digestive system.  I pride myself on mine.

            At noon I am to be in Dr. Hague’s office.  Exiting the bathroom, I enter my bedroom and remove my morning robe.  I have a routine when I dress myself.  First, I place my robe back in the closet next to my evening robe and smoking jacket—the latter I have not worn in quite some time.  Opening the top left drawer of my dresser I select my socks.  Since I plan on going for a walk down to the park, I choose a sportier sock.  Sitting on the edge of my bed I put my socks on—left, then right.  In the drawer just beneath my socks are neatly folded white T-shirts.  I put one on.  Then I select a pair of slacks from the bottom drawer of my dresser.  Again, sitting on the edge of my bed I put them on—again left, then right.  I do not inspect the fit of my slacks just yet.  I tuck my T-shirt into my slacks, zip and button.  In my walk-in closet is a selection of belts.  My socks are grey-tipped high-cut whites, and slacks an off-khaki.  Black seems the safest bet, so I grab one of my many black belts off the holder in the closet and apply it to my person.  Now at this point I do not buckle my belt.  Instead, I unbutton and unzip my slacks and select a shirt to wear.  I choose a white button-up with no breast pocket.  Halfway through buttoning up the white shirt I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, have second thoughts, and decide to go with a light blue button-up with a breast pocket.  I zip, button, and finally buckle my belt—fastening it tightly around my waistline.  In the faux-foyer of my ranch-themed house I finish the rest of my wardrobe.  Shoes from Sketchers the doctor suggested I try for my lower-back problems.  And finally I put on my light spring jacket—the one with two inside pockets and flaps to cover the outside ones.  Fully dressed, I grab my keys from the bowl on the kitchen counter—next to my wallet and my prescription Zaroxolyn—and head out for the park.

            The ground is finally beginning to soften as winter makes its swan song.  I can smell the melted ice and thawing earth as I walk.  A block ahead some children play in the front yard.  Witnessing children outside makes me smile.  I remember when Belle was that age, playing with the neighbors back on Romaine Street.  She drew pictures of her dream house with a purple sun and green clouds, and Willy—Bo and Cheryl’s son from 403—would come over and pretend to be the husband.  Meryl fed them apple slices with her own homemade caramel, and lemonade.  Belle and the sisters, Nancy and Emily, from down the street rolled down the hill behind our house.  A huge man-made hill, left over from a failed building project.  The money dried up and this gigantic mound of dirt remained.  Slowly the grass began to grow there and after a year and a half no one could tell it was not a natural formation.  She loved that hill.  All the kids did.  Run up and down that hill all day and night.  Spring, summer, fall, winter, always playing on that hill.  Getting dirt all over their clothes.  Making the wives upset.  All on Romaine Street.  I used to take long walks back then, too, though for different reasons than now.  A lot is.  The children lower their voices as I pass by, careful not to make eye contact with me.  This troubles me.  All I want is for one of them to look up at me and notice me—just one glance.  The three girls talk about what type of drink they would like poured from the lone magical teapot.  One wants tea, the other coffee, the other milk.  The little boy and girl making drawings on the sidewalk talk about what colors they like best.  The girl: yellow.  The boy: orange.  He is making a spaceship, she a flowerbed.  Our paths will cross and one will have to look up at me.  Just one look is all I need.  To be noticed.  But the moment comes and goes.  They keep talking, and pouring, and drawing, and ignoring.  And I pass them by.  Only two blocks until I arrive at the park.  The light jacket I wore may have been not enough.  When the wind blows it passes right through me.  My arms fix closely to my body for warmth.  Clouds pass over the sun and the neighborhood turns a hue of grey-blue.  I zip my jacket the rest of the way and put my hands in the exterior pockets.

            I like to sit at the bench by the swings, overlooking the pond.  From there, I watch the water and the surroundings.  A willow hangs over the edge of the pond.  The way the branch bends gives the illusion the tree is reaching out to touch its reflection in the water.  Reaching out toward another world.  Occasionally, I will find young couples lounging underneath the tree.  My first kiss was underneath a willow.  Yves Moore.  Her mother was an immigrant from France, her father from the city.  Both strict Catholics, and with my brother and I sharing the same room there was no place for privacy.  Behind the school we both attended was a large field and a creek that ran through it.  At a particular break in the creek was a willow where many of the students went to show their affection.  “I don’t want you to think I’m bad at this.  I’ve never kissed anyone before.”  “Neither have I.”  A moment so innocent and brief by most accounts should be forgotten in the course of one’s life, but for whatever reason I never have.  Mallards like to rear their offspring in this pond.  Watching the younglings imitate the mother as she dips under the water for food, the way the water forms and falls off her back, is worth the walk itself.  But today there are no lovers, or mallards.  I simply sit and watch the placid water of the pond.  Then I feel a presence coming.  When I look down, a small dog stands before me.  I look around to see if its owner approaches.  No one.  “Well hey there little fella, where’s your owner?”  The dog, a mutt by the look of it—some mix of terrier and pinscher—sits in front of me, cocking its head to the side.  I look around again for someone, but I am alone.  “Well… looks like you and I are in the same boat, huh?  You come to look at the pond, too, huh?”  The dog looks to where I point.  “It’s good to do things like this.  Stare out at a pond and take it all in.  A simplicity to it, a purity.  It’s refreshing, really.”  I look down at the dog.  It continues to stare at me, shifting its head side to side.  I check the time.  “Oh boy, look at that.  I got to get back to the house.  I have a meeting with the doctor.  You wouldn’t know about that, though, would you?”  It just stares.  “Thought so.”  I get up from the bench.  The dog stands.  “You’re lucky, you know.  I envy you.”  As I start to leave the dog follows.  It trails far enough behind I cannot hear it, but I know its there.  When I turn around it stops.  “You go on home, buddy.  OK?  You go home now.  Someone’s probably looking for you.  Go home.”  I turn and continue.  I now hear the dog’s paws on the pavement in the distance until I reach the edge of the park.  The patter of nails on the concrete stops—I look back to see where it has gone.  Next to the sign welcoming visitors to the park, the mutt sits and watches me.  “OK.  Good-bye then.”

            Sitting on the cold wax paper in the examination room while the doctor looks at my results, I focus on a picture of a house: colonial design with two chimneys and six pillars holding up the small portico.  This is a commercial painting.  I see many of these hanging in a gallery in the town square.  Similar paintings are put up in dentist offices, banks, real estate offices, in the homes around where I live.  The purpose is to promote a sense of calm and passivity.  Tranquility.  Serenity.  Sanctuary.  Safety.  Make me feel like I want to be there, walking on the hardwood floors, and looking at the china in the cabinet, or inspecting the marble kitchen top and industrial refrigerator.  Get away and go live in there.  And on most visits, I do.  I picture myself sitting a lacquered red oak table reading the morning paper.  Meryl is there.  She makes those cinnamon waffles.  Belle is there, too.  She’s young again, explaining to me the plot of a story she has created.  Mr. Frog and Carrot are friends because Mr. Frog doesn’t want to eat her.  And Meryl smiles like I remember it always—all within that colonial house.  A place and time I can escape to whenever I need.  But today, for this visit, I cannot seem to focus like usual.  I stare at the painting, but no thoughts come to mind.  I just stare and see my reflection in the glass the colonial is encased in.  “All signs look good, Mr. Dale,” Dr. Hague tells me.  A man in his early forties, male pattern baldness beginning to show, the doctor often smells of department store cologne and medical supplies.  A smell I appreciate.  “Well, that’s a relief,” I smile.  “Yes.  You have nothing to worry about.  It looks like those walks have been doing you much good.”  “Yes.  Yes that’s true.  I feel a lot better.”  “That’s good.  OK.  So I will see you in a few weeks, right, Mr. Dale?”  As I start to put my clothes back on.  “Oh yes, Doctor, you bet.  I’ll be back again.”  “All right.  Sounds good.  Keep doing what you’re doing.  We’re making great progress.”

            Around 2:45 the bus comes to drop my granddaughter, Jamie, off.  “Hehlo, Pappa!” she says as she watches her feet proceed in front.  “Hello, pumpkin,” I pat her on the head.  “How was your day?” I ask, grabbing her tiny hand.  “Good.  We made colors books and I made a green unacawn and pink kitty and Missus Bround said I did good.”  “She did, did she?”  “Yep.”  “Well that’s just wonderful, darling.  I’m so pleased to hear that.  Mrs. Brown seems to always laud you, doesn’t she?”  “What’s loud?”  “Laud, honey.  Praise.  Mrs. Brown really likes to say good things about you, doesn’t she?”  “Uhm-hmm…” she watches her feet go from grass to sidewalk.  “What would you like to eat before Mommy gets here?”  I already know the answer.  Cookies and ice cream. 

“I dunno.” 

“Oh, you don’t?” 

“Mmm-mmm.”

“Usually you tell me cookies and ice cream.”

“…”

“Well I’m glad you don’t want that today.  I’m going to make you a ham sandwich.  And if you eat all of it, I may have some ice cream for you.  Does that sound good?”

“Mmm-hmm,” she nods.

“Good.”

            While we wait for Belle to come, I put in my favorite movie—To The End.  It is a romantic film from the fifties.  Black and white.  No matter how many times I watch it never ceases to move me—especially the final moment shared between the lovers.  In the scene, Cary Grant’s character, Robert James, sits a broken and dejected man.  He has single-handedly brought about his own ruin and his wife, Helen, played by the beautiful Katherine Hepburn has come back to him one last time.  In the apical moment, Helen pleads with Robert: “If you care.  If you have any feelings left for me whatsoever you’ll tell me right now.  Tell me anything, Robert.  I beg you.  Tell me you hate me, tell me you love me, tell me you don’t want me to go.  Just tell me.  Tell me, Robert.  I don’t care about anything anymore.  I just want you to tell me something.  I can’t take this silence anymore.  I don’t want to have this between us anymore, Robert.  I beg you.  Please.  Tell me something.”  Robert sits in his chair, looking out at the world or his own reflection I have never been able to tell which.  His physiognomy is undecipherable, his equanimity unbreakable.  In a final act of desperation, Helen falls to her knees before Robert.  “Just look at me, Robert.  Please.  Just let me know you care.  Just one sign that you want me to stay, please, Robert, I want to be with you.  I don’t care about anything else.  Just give me something.  Show me.”  Robert remains still.

“Pappa?” Jamie asks.  Her crayons and white paper scattered all around her on the floor.  She presses the violet hard into the coloring book’s page.

“Yes, lovely?”

“Why do you watch this all da time?”

“Because it’s a great movie.  Don’t you like it?”

“It’s so sad.”

I laugh.  “Yes, sweetie.  I suppose you are right.  I keep watching with the hope that one time, he will turn and she’ll know and everything will be better.  I keep waiting for it.  Maybe this time it will happen.”

“No.  Is a movie.  It always does this.”

“Maybe this time he will look.”

            But she is right.  No matter how often I watch, and wish, Robert never turns to look—not even to see her leave.  “I love you, Robert.  Don’t you ever forget.  You come find me, Robert.  When you’re ready.  I’ll be waiting.”  As she closes the door behind her, the music crescendos, the orchestra hits those minor notes and the camera focuses on Robert’s face.  A close-up.  His visage still stoical, attention elsewhere, but slowly a single tear forms and begins to fall down his face as the music dies.  And then the credits come.  The End.  My heart beats flushed with ardor, I tear up.  “It’s so beautiful,” I say, wiping my eyes with a tissue. 

“Kissy-kissy movies are gross.”

I laugh.  “They are?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t like any boys at your school?”

Jamie does not answer at first.  That smile little girls are vouchsafed with forms.  “No…”

“Is that a yes?”

“No.”

A thought enters my head.  I recall the morning with Gene Almann.  “Honey… you don’t know how to text message, do you?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“You do?”

“Mmm-hmm.  Mommy lets me.”

“She let’s you?”

“All da time,” she says enthusiastically.

“Oh my…”

The doorbell rings.  Jamie leaps to her feet. 

“Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!”

I stand from the couch, following my granddaughter.  The doorbell rings again.

“Okay, okay.  I’m coming, hold on.”  I look in the peephole.  Belle waits on the other side.

Opening the door.  “Hello, Belle.”

“Mommy!” Jamie embraces her mother.

“Hi, Jamie!  How was your day at school?”

“Good.  I did drawrings and glued, and played with Maggie and Olivia.”

“That sounds great.  Go get your things and you can tell me about the rest on the way home.”

“Okay!”

My daughter stands before me.  She rests against the doorframe, exhaling.

“What a day.”

“An hour later than usual, Belle,” I say.

“Yeah, I know, Dad.  I’m sorry about that.  It’s just I had a chance to make some overtime money and so I took it.  She wasn’t too much trouble, was she?”

“You know she wasn’t any trouble.  But I’m just a little worried about you.  You know if things are tough… I want to help.”

“You’re doing enough.”

“You’ve been coming later and later, Belle.  This is the seventh consecutive school day now.  I’ve been counting.  And you never call to let me know.  You should at least call me and let me know.  I worry.”

“I know, Dad.  I’m sorry.  It’s just… I’ve just got a lot to deal with right now…”

“I understand.  But Belle…” I hesitate.

She watches me.

“I can’t help but suspect… that… you are not being entirely honest with me.”  It hurts to say it.  I feel gutted as the words come almost involuntarily.

“Dad,” she moans.  “What are you talking about?”

“I just worry that you may not be working as late as you say.  Normally I would not judge, but… if this is some sort of retrograding… Belle… I cannot support that.  You have a responsibility to Jamie now and—”

“Are you kidding me?” she interrupts, chuckling at my last remark.  “Unbelieveable.”

“You have a responsibility now.”

“Responsibility?  You want to talk to me about responsibility, being a responsible parent?  You want to give me parenting advice?  Dad.  No offence, but you were never ‘Father of the Year’ material.”

“As wrong as I may have been back then, I am still your father, and the grandfather of Jamie, and I care deeply for both of you.  I want to take care of you.”

“That’s great, Dad.  Great.  Better late than never, I guess.”

Belle calls out for Jamie.  I know I should let the thought pass.  I know it is a silly thing to ask, and I have already tested my daughter enough for one day.  But I have to know.

“Belle, is Jamie… sexting?”

“What?” she looks bemused.

“I saw it on Gene Almann today.  Apparently all the youth is getting involved in this.”

“Dad.”  Belle crosses her arms.  She juts her chin out slightly as she looks up at me in disapproving shock.  “She’s five.”

“I don’t know.”

“That she’s five?  Come on.”

“I’m just worried.”

“She can’t even spell.”

“Well that’s good to know.”

“Jesus.”

“She told me you let her text.  On your phone.”

“She plays little games on my phone.”

“You can do that?”

“Dad,” she looks at me, hiding her face in her hands momentarily.  Belle is tired.  I may have done it again.  “I’d love to stick around and tell you all about the advancements in modern technology, but I got to go.”  She calls out for Jaime, who skips her way in.  Her backpack half zipped, the coloring book hanging out and a clustered trail of crayons behind her.  Belle sighs.

“I’ll get them.”

“Honey, how many times have I told you to zip up,”—her mother shows her again—“your backpack before you put it on?”

“Saury, Mommy.”

“Here you go, kiddo,” I go to hand Jamie the crayons.

“I’ll take those,” Belle opens her purse.  “Jamie, get in the car.”

“Yes, Mommy.”  My granddaughter hops away.

“Say bye to your Pappa,” my daughter instructs.

“Bye-bye, Pappa!” Jaime waves.

“Good-bye, sweetheart.  I’ll pick you up same time tomorrow.”  I missed the hug.  The thought to request one comes and goes.  I open my arms for my daughter.  “Good-bye, honey.”

“See you tomorrow, Dad.” 

She provides a curt embrace.

I say my final good nights and good-byes and head back to watch my movie again, where I hope to see Robert turn and tell Helen he loves her.