Authors: Jamaica Kincaid
Talk Stories (13 page)
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A young woman we know writes:
Thirty years ago, Russia got the bomb; the Polaroid Land Camera was introduced, and sold for $89.75; the Methodist Church in the United States and Cuba had eight million six hundred and fifty-one thousand and sixty-two members; Tyrone Power married Linda Christian the day his divorce from a French film actress came through; Mickey Rooney married Martha Vickers the day his divorce from Betty Jane Rase came through; Lucille Ball remarried Desi Arnaz; Lady Astor said women should make the world safe for men; a survey found women in London too tired for social life; Dr. Benjamin Pasamanik was given the Lester N. Hofheimer Research Award (fifteen hundred dollars) for a study showing that Negroes had the same mental capacity as whites; Bill W., co-founder of Alcoholics Anonymous, told some psychiatrists that he had stopped drinking after accepting God; one of the five copies of the Gettysburg Address in Abraham Lincoln's
own handwriting was sold to a Cuban at an auction for $54,000; Emperor Hirohito of Japan wrote a book about sea slugs,
An Illustrated Study of Opisthobranchiata in Sagami Bay
; a Gallup Poll found that the funniest American comedians were Bob Hope, Milton Berle, Jack Benny, Red Skelton, and Fibber McGee and Molly; the lost city of Peshawarun, Afghanistan, once used as a garrison by soldiers of Alexander the Great, was found; a broken plaster statuette of St. Anne, mother of the Virgin Mary, wept when Shirley Anne Martin, eleven years old, kissed it; Princess Margaret Rose of Great Britain and Northern Ireland was appointed head of the Girl Guides Sea Rangers; the Detroit Symphony cancelled its season because its musicians wouldn't take a cut in pay; Ruth Williams, an ex-stenographer from London, joined her new husband, Seretse Khama, Chief-designate of Bechuanaland's Samwangwato tribe; George Bernard Shaw said, “It is useless to go on ignoring the patent fact that Stalin is obviously the ablest statesman in Europe”; I was born.
own handwriting was sold to a Cuban at an auction for $54,000; Emperor Hirohito of Japan wrote a book about sea slugs,
An Illustrated Study of Opisthobranchiata in Sagami Bay
; a Gallup Poll found that the funniest American comedians were Bob Hope, Milton Berle, Jack Benny, Red Skelton, and Fibber McGee and Molly; the lost city of Peshawarun, Afghanistan, once used as a garrison by soldiers of Alexander the Great, was found; a broken plaster statuette of St. Anne, mother of the Virgin Mary, wept when Shirley Anne Martin, eleven years old, kissed it; Princess Margaret Rose of Great Britain and Northern Ireland was appointed head of the Girl Guides Sea Rangers; the Detroit Symphony cancelled its season because its musicians wouldn't take a cut in pay; Ruth Williams, an ex-stenographer from London, joined her new husband, Seretse Khama, Chief-designate of Bechuanaland's Samwangwato tribe; George Bernard Shaw said, “It is useless to go on ignoring the patent fact that Stalin is obviously the ablest statesman in Europe”; I was born.
That I was born thirty years ago doesn't seem to matter to anyone except my mother, my father, their families, and their friends. When I say to someone, “Thirty years ago, I was born,” I can almost hear this running through their minds: “Yes. Yes. So you were born.”
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July 23
,
1979
July 23
,
1979
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Where was everybody at noon on Monday, the tenth of September? At noon on Monday, the tenth of September:
We were at home, reading
The Little Sister
, by Raymond Chandler.
The Little Sister
, by Raymond Chandler.
Don Clay, an interior designer, was sitting on a No. 3 Seventh Avenue subway train on his way to Wall Street. He had noticed, he later told us, that it was a beautiful day.
On the other hand, Edward Koch, the Mayor of New York City, was holding a meeting in his office. The subject under discussion was crime and public transportation. (The next day, the
News
carried a headline that read, “GARELIK FIRED AS TA COP BOSS.”)
News
carried a headline that read, “GARELIK FIRED AS TA COP BOSS.”)
Moreover, Liz Smith, popular gossip columnist for the
News,
sat in her apartmentâtwenty-six floors up, with a spectacular view of the East Riverâfinishing the next day's column. It was due at the paper at one o'clock, and the first paragraph read, “âSometimes I wonder if men and women really
suit each other. Perhaps they should live next door and just visit now and then,' said Katharine Hepburn.”
News,
sat in her apartmentâtwenty-six floors up, with a spectacular view of the East Riverâfinishing the next day's column. It was due at the paper at one o'clock, and the first paragraph read, “âSometimes I wonder if men and women really
suit each other. Perhaps they should live next door and just visit now and then,' said Katharine Hepburn.”
Enid Hunter, proprietress of Enid's, an antique-clothing store on Spring Street, stood in the doorway of her bedroom and looked around. “Today,” she said to herself, “I will clean up and redecorate. I will hang some new pictures here and I will change around the chairs there. Todayâthat's what I will do today.”
Brooke Norman accompanied her mother, Marsha Norman, to the hardware store to buy some tulip bulbs and to pick up some photographs of Brooke wearing her new one-shoulder bathing suit. She heard her mother say that she would try to force the tulipsâred and yellow onesâto bloom indoors by Christmas. Then she accompanied her mother around the corner to the bank to deposit the church receipts from Sunday's service. Brooke Norman is almost two years old.
The attendant at the parking lot at Spring and Hudson Streets sat calmly in his shed. He looked out the window and waved to a woman passing, who did not wave back. A number of large trucks rolled by. Across the street, men went in and out of a topless bar that had a sign reading “Private. Members Only.”
Vince Aletti, an A. & R. man for R.F.C./Wamer Brothers Records, walked into the Strand Book Store. He went downstairs and stood in the section where they keep new books that are bought from book reviewers for a small fraction of the list price and offered to the general public at half the list price. Vince Aletti looked at the new half-priced books in stock. He looked at them for a long time, and then he said to
himself, “The last thing in the world I need is another new book.” He then walked out of the Strand Book Store. (Later, he couldn't remember if the sun had been shining or not.)
himself, “The last thing in the world I need is another new book.” He then walked out of the Strand Book Store. (Later, he couldn't remember if the sun had been shining or not.)
On the other hand, again, Reid Boates, the publicity manager for Doubleday & Company, was at a private luncheon in the company's private dining room. The private luncheon was held in honor of a woman who is writing a book about Ruth St. Denis. (Later, Reid Boates said “Let me see” when he was asked by a friend to give an account of the luncheon.)
A man walked into an auto-parts store and asked the salesman for a positive crankcase vent valve for his car and instructions for installing it. (Later, the salesman remembered that the customer had said he was taking a long trip and had heard that a positive crankcase vent valve would help with gas mileage.)
A young woman was lying on the shag-carpeted floor of a house on Canal Street. As she lay there, she closed her eyes and listened to an old song by Rick Nelson called “That's All She Wrote.” When the record came to an end, the young woman got up and placed the needle back on the record so that she could hear the song over again. Then, opening her eyes before getting up the next time, she saw a large dark-gray mouse hopping and running only about three feet away from her. The mouse hopped because his little feet kept getting caught in the shag carpet. The young woman screamed loudly once; she screamed loudly again; she screamed loudly a third time. She later told us that no one, absolutely no one, heard her.
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September 24
,
1979
September 24
,
1979
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A young woman we know writes:
This morning, I was listening to the radioâI mean, I was ironing my shirt and the radio was onâand the disc jockey said that the Beatles were getting back together, that they were going to give a benefit concert for some important cause or other, and how great that would be. He said, “Can you imagine the Beatles back and playing together?” I imagined that, and while I was at it I imagined a number of other things. I imagined that I was in love with the man who discovered the principle of hydrogen bonding and that he was in love with me, too, and that it was all almost wonderful; I imagined that my favorite color was red and that my favorite words were “vivid,” “astonishing,” “enigmatic,” “ennui,” and “ululating”; I imagined that even though I hadn't died I was in Heaven; I imagined that all the people I didn't like were gathered up in one big barrel and rolled down from a high mountain into a deep, deep part of the sea; I imagined that all the
books on my shelf had long legs and wore flesh-colored panty hose and that their long legs in the flesh-colored panty hose dangled from the bookshelf; I imagined that the trains in the subway had all the comforts of a private DC-9; I imagined that I had the most beautiful face in the whole world and that some men would faint after they got a good, close look at it; I imagined that I had different-colored underwear for every day of the year; I imagined that it was a real pleasure to be with me, because I was so much fun and always knew the right thing to say when the right thing needed to be said; I imagined that I knew by heart all the poems of William Wordsworth; I imagined that it rained only at night, starting just before I fell asleep, so that the sound of the rain would lull me to sleep, and that it stopped raining just before I woke up every morning; I imagined that I could run my tongue across the windowpane and not pick up, perhaps, some deadly germ; I imagined that all the people in the world were colored and that they all liked it a whole lot, because they could wear outlandishly styled clothes in outlandish colors and not feel ridiculous; and then I again imagined the Beatles back and playing together. None of it did a thing for me.
books on my shelf had long legs and wore flesh-colored panty hose and that their long legs in the flesh-colored panty hose dangled from the bookshelf; I imagined that the trains in the subway had all the comforts of a private DC-9; I imagined that I had the most beautiful face in the whole world and that some men would faint after they got a good, close look at it; I imagined that I had different-colored underwear for every day of the year; I imagined that it was a real pleasure to be with me, because I was so much fun and always knew the right thing to say when the right thing needed to be said; I imagined that I knew by heart all the poems of William Wordsworth; I imagined that it rained only at night, starting just before I fell asleep, so that the sound of the rain would lull me to sleep, and that it stopped raining just before I woke up every morning; I imagined that I could run my tongue across the windowpane and not pick up, perhaps, some deadly germ; I imagined that all the people in the world were colored and that they all liked it a whole lot, because they could wear outlandishly styled clothes in outlandish colors and not feel ridiculous; and then I again imagined the Beatles back and playing together. None of it did a thing for me.
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November 19
,
1979
November 19
,
1979
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One day recently, at about half past twelve, some people with disparate professional interests gathered at the site of the first City Hall in New York City, on Pearl Streetânow a vacant lotâand waited for Mayor Koch, the city's Landmarks Preservation Commissioner, and an archeologist to say a few words about archeology, Old New York, immigrants, the Dutch, the city today, archeologists, the original shoreline of Manhattan, archeological digs in Jerusalem, archaeological roots in old Greece, and other things along those lines. The people were there at the request of the Landmarks Preservation Commissioner, a large man with large, very white teeth, which anyone could see when he smiled, and he smiled a lot. The Mayor was late, and these people whom the Landmarks Preservation Commissioner had invited to hear him, the archeologist, and the Mayor speak wandered around almost aimlessly when they weren't signing a piece of paper that said if they fell down and hurt themselves they wouldn't sue anybody. Then
the Mayor arrived, and suddenly all these people, with their disparate professional interests, and maybe even disparate personal interests, found a common ground: all attention was now focussed on the Mayor. He walked over to the Landmarks Preservation Commissioner and the archeologist and greeted them. Then, while the Landmarks Preservation Commissioner and the archeologist made their speeches, the Mayor stuck his hands deep in his trouser pockets, glanced up and down, knit his eyebrows, made creases in his forehead, unmade the creases in his forehead, turned to look at what the people behind him were doing, looked up at the blue sky, looked down at his shiny black shoes, rubbed the area above his left cheek and just underneath his lower eyelid with the tip of his left index finger, put his left hand back in his left trouser pocket, pursed his lips, unpursed his lips, rocked his head from side to side, turned again to look at what the men behind him were doing, squinted his eyes, unsquinted his eyes, pressed his lips tightly together, then stretched them out in a Cheshire-cat smile, looked up at some pigeons flying by, took his left hand out of his left trouser pocket again, and rocked his head from side to side again. Later, we asked the Mayor what was going through his mind during the time the Landmarks Preservation Commissioner and the archaeologist were making their speeches. Without missing a beat, the Mayor said, “I was thinking how proud I am to be the one-hundred-and-fifth Mayor of the City of New York.”
the Mayor arrived, and suddenly all these people, with their disparate professional interests, and maybe even disparate personal interests, found a common ground: all attention was now focussed on the Mayor. He walked over to the Landmarks Preservation Commissioner and the archeologist and greeted them. Then, while the Landmarks Preservation Commissioner and the archeologist made their speeches, the Mayor stuck his hands deep in his trouser pockets, glanced up and down, knit his eyebrows, made creases in his forehead, unmade the creases in his forehead, turned to look at what the people behind him were doing, looked up at the blue sky, looked down at his shiny black shoes, rubbed the area above his left cheek and just underneath his lower eyelid with the tip of his left index finger, put his left hand back in his left trouser pocket, pursed his lips, unpursed his lips, rocked his head from side to side, turned again to look at what the men behind him were doing, squinted his eyes, unsquinted his eyes, pressed his lips tightly together, then stretched them out in a Cheshire-cat smile, looked up at some pigeons flying by, took his left hand out of his left trouser pocket again, and rocked his head from side to side again. Later, we asked the Mayor what was going through his mind during the time the Landmarks Preservation Commissioner and the archaeologist were making their speeches. Without missing a beat, the Mayor said, “I was thinking how proud I am to be the one-hundred-and-fifth Mayor of the City of New York.”
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November 19
,
1979
November 19
,
1979
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Tammy Wynette, popular country-and-Western singing star, was in one of those large, supermarket-type bookstores on Fifth Avenue the other day autographing copies of her just published autobiography, called
Stand by Your Man
, which is also the title of one of her songs. She was sitting at a table, and in front of her on the table were stacks of the book. Tammy Wynette's husband, a man named George Richey, stood near the table. To one side of her were many people standing in a line and holding copies of the book, or record albums, or pieces of paper. Some of the people, when they got to her, said that they liked her jacket, which was purple. Some of the people, when they got to her, said that they liked her blouse, which was green. Other people said that they liked her jewelryâa gold chain worn around her neck and some rings on fingers of both hands. Still other people looked at her with smiles on their faces and said, “Your pictures don't do you justice.” One man said to her, “You are absolutely gorgeous.”
She said to someone who asked her if she had just got into town, “Well, no. I did
Good Morning America
, I was on WHN, and I did the
Arlene Francis Show.
” A man came up behind her and said, “You are the wildest woman in New York City,” and she looked behind her and recognized the man and they hugged. She introduced him as a television interviewer from Nashville. She told a woman, who had asked, that her children listen to Elton John and Donna Summer. A woman told her that reading her book made her feel young again. Tammy Wynette shrugged and laughed. In the books she autographed, she wrote, alternately, “Thanks for asking. Love, Tammy” and”Hope you enjoy the book. Love, Tammy.” Some of the people who asked her to autograph their books were named Don, Christian, Gillian, Paul, Bob, Dick, Paulette, Trixie, John, Regina, Lynn, and Mabel. Finally, she autographed a Xerox copy of a picture of herself standing near her swimming pool at her home in Florida, and autographed a copy of Lattimore's translation of the
Odyssey
, and then autographed some more books. After much prompting from her husband, she got into a car and was driven away.
Stand by Your Man
, which is also the title of one of her songs. She was sitting at a table, and in front of her on the table were stacks of the book. Tammy Wynette's husband, a man named George Richey, stood near the table. To one side of her were many people standing in a line and holding copies of the book, or record albums, or pieces of paper. Some of the people, when they got to her, said that they liked her jacket, which was purple. Some of the people, when they got to her, said that they liked her blouse, which was green. Other people said that they liked her jewelryâa gold chain worn around her neck and some rings on fingers of both hands. Still other people looked at her with smiles on their faces and said, “Your pictures don't do you justice.” One man said to her, “You are absolutely gorgeous.”
She said to someone who asked her if she had just got into town, “Well, no. I did
Good Morning America
, I was on WHN, and I did the
Arlene Francis Show.
” A man came up behind her and said, “You are the wildest woman in New York City,” and she looked behind her and recognized the man and they hugged. She introduced him as a television interviewer from Nashville. She told a woman, who had asked, that her children listen to Elton John and Donna Summer. A woman told her that reading her book made her feel young again. Tammy Wynette shrugged and laughed. In the books she autographed, she wrote, alternately, “Thanks for asking. Love, Tammy” and”Hope you enjoy the book. Love, Tammy.” Some of the people who asked her to autograph their books were named Don, Christian, Gillian, Paul, Bob, Dick, Paulette, Trixie, John, Regina, Lynn, and Mabel. Finally, she autographed a Xerox copy of a picture of herself standing near her swimming pool at her home in Florida, and autographed a copy of Lattimore's translation of the
Odyssey
, and then autographed some more books. After much prompting from her husband, she got into a car and was driven away.
â
December 3
,
1979
December 3
,
1979
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