The Ferrari in the Bedroom
Read The Ferrari in the Bedroom Online
Authors: Jean Shepherd
ALSO BY JEAN SHEPHERD
A Christmas Story
In God We Trust, All Others Pay Cash
Wanda Hickey’s Night of Golden Memories,
and Other Disasters
A Fistful of Fig Newtons
To Frank and Julie Wald
who inspired a helluva lot of this
For the past eight or nine years (I have no idea under what circumstances I began) I have accumulated around me an enormous, flowing collection of published Straws In The Wind. Almost from the beginning I fell into the habit of calling this ramshackle and growing mountain of crumpled, torn, dog-eared bits of paper my Vast File Of Dynamic Trivia. Somewhere behind it all I had a vague idea that one day, when I pass on to my just reward, I would leave this enormous heterogeneous mess to, say, the Smithsonian Institute, or maybe the Rotary Clubs of America, to be preserved for future generations so that one day they will know How It Really Was.
I have never been able to understand those poor unfortunates who turn to Literature, the Theater, the Cinema for universal truths or insights into contemporary life. How can this poor synthetic rubbish ever compare with even the mid-week edition of the average American newspaper, or a typical sampling of Junk Mail that arrives in our mailbox
daily for a genuinely accurate reflection of the gullimawfry, the hilarious High Camp comedy that is Life itself?
H. L. Mencken, back in the Twenties, conducted a monthly column in his magazine
The American Mercury
that he called “Americana.” It consisted of newspaper clippings, etc., gathered from the then 48 states of the Union. Re-reading these collections today is like suddenly, magically opening a window offering a clear vision of an earlier age. It is far more meaningful than any of the novels, the plays, the movies turned out during the same era. It is difficult to read two paragraphs of these columns without breaking out into genuine old-fashioned belly laughs.
It is my thesis that our time too should be preserved in like manner. Too many authors are spending too much time writing about their bruised psyches, their unending search for a beautiful Identity; the eternal undying, unselfish love of a Good Woman or whatever, and not enough bothering to even recognize that something is going on out there.
Commencing with this book, I propose to dip at random into my Vast File Of Trivia to pass them along to the reader for whatever value they might have. Most of them require no comment; others do. I am not intending, however, to limit my exhibits to the U.S., as Mencken did. We live in a time when it is almost universally thought among many highly respected savants that the American and the American way of life are the chief creator and the repository of Idiocy of all forms. This is questionable.
We begin with a little-reported incident that occurred at that great beehive of fantasy, dream, intrigue and connivery: the United Nations:
TAIPEI, FORMOSA, OCTOBER 12
(REUTERS)
Nationalist Chinese legislator Wong Kai-hau today demanded the recall of
one of his country’s delegates to the UN. The delegate reportedly fell asleep during an October 9th speech by an Algerian delegate recommending the admission of Communist China. Wong said Wen Yuan-ning was awakened by the applause of the Communist bloc and joined in the cheering.
Somehow I feel a peculiar sympathy for Wen, as I have had similar occurrences at Sales meetings and other Inspirational gatherings.
Speaking of Inspiration, here is an Educational note received by one of our Spies:
As a graduate of International Correspondence Schools, you will receive Ambition four times a year. So that we may keep our mailing list up to date, please notify the editor of Ambition whenever you have a change of address.
Speaking of the wide world of opportunity, here is a recent advertisment clipped from that venerable grey old lady just off Times Square,
The New York Times:
Wanted. Professional flagpole sitter.
STATE PREVIOUS EXPERIENCE.
Box 438 Times.
Speaking of ads, from the same journal, a Religious note for good Christians everywhere:
An exceptional LP.
2547-Christmas With Ed Sullivan,
featuring Ed’s own Christmas stories including reminiscences of his many Show Business friends; among others Jack Benny, Moss Hart and Cardinal Spellman. A perfect gift.
Which reminds me, speaking of Showbiz, of a frighteningly symbolic note from a recent TV Guide movie listing:
The Giant Gila Monster (TV debut)
After Teenagers disappear from an isolated Midwestern town, a giant Gila Monster invades the local Record Hop.
And dammit, I missed it!
But there is no doubt that we are living in the age of the Monster, in more ways than one. Monster wars, monster Politicians, monster people, Showbiz monsters and just plain Monsters. Here is a flash from the esteemed
Paterson (N.J.) Morning Call:
Mrs. Jane Arnoldi sued for divorce on grounds her husband thought more of Frankenstein and other monsters than he did of her. Mrs. Arnoldi said her husband Charles continuously read horror stories instead of talking to her, and kept dozens of models of monsters such as Frankenstein around the house. The thing that finally drove her out of the house, she said, was her husband’s insistence on describing surgical operations in detail at mealtime and becoming angry when she failed to enjoy them as much as he did.
They’ll want to know about Charles in the twenty-fifth century.
Some things are eternal, though, and I’m sure in that far away future that a few of our Literary efforts will survive. For example, a Cultural bulletin as released by the Associated Press from Zrenjanin, Yugoslavia:
Radivoje Mominski won an important International prize in 1938 for writing the world’s shortest book. The title was WHO RULES THE WORLD? The answer, in the book, is just one word—“Money.” The book was printed in English, German, French, and Serbo-Croat, and recently in Urdu. All four previous editions are sold out. Mominski has decided to print a fifth edition, with the one word text unchanged.
The truth will always have a market.
Perhaps just as unchanging are the great, swelling tides of human passion. Tennessee Williams has never written anything as searingly revealing as this brief, enigmatic cable from Tokyo, via AP:
Arrested for breaking into the home of movie starlet Sayuri Yoshinaga and shooting a pursuing policeman, Kenji Watanabe said he only wanted to tattoo his name on the actress. “I’m a great admirer of Miss Yoshinaga. I’ve seen every movie she’s made and I wanted to tattoo my name on her arm or leg,” said the 26 year old factory worker. Police say Watanabe was caught carrying a home-made pistol and a tattoo set.
The Silver Screen has always attracted crawling hordes of autograph hunters, but damn few autograph
givers.
But then, who can explain the inscrutable Oriental? For example:
YOKOHAMA (AP)
The Cosmic Brotherhood Association of Yokohama has declared June 24th Flying Saucer Sighting Day. Boys and girls out on dates on that evening are urged to watch for space ships and send out “A friendly telepathic invitation.”
A Zen flying saucer nut is almost as exotic a bird as a Hollywood TV Writer Karate Kook. Both are highly symbolic of our day. Here is a meaningful report of a devilish incident that occurred in Los Angeles (where else?):
FIGHT—
A
TV writer who has been studying Karate for six years and has been awarded all the belts that certify him Expert last week had his first chance to try Karate in actual battle. While leaving the freeway in Los Angeles, another
driver cut across his path twice. They exchanged insults and challenges, and both pulled up. The other man leaped from his car and rushed toward the Karate expert. Before the Karate expert could unsnap his seat belt and wreak his devastating fatal blows, the other man, who was considerably smaller, hit him, knocked out three teeth, and drove off.
It isn’t always easy to remember Pearl Harbor and to have the right diploma or the proper degrees. More often than not, quick footwork and a hit in the mouth will settle everything.
These are unsettled days and it’s hard to know which side you’re on, particularly among the New Wave of unbridled young, as nicely illustrated by this dispatch from N.A.N.A.
According to
This Week In Tokyo,
the latest game sweeping Japan is “Demo.” Youngsters particularly play this game. This is how it is played. Two sides are chosen. One side is the Police and the other side the Demonstrators. They push and shout, oftentimes becoming violent and causing severe injuries. One of the most popular slogans is: “We Oppose Homework.” The children do not like to take the side of the Police, so they toss and the losers become the “Police.”
People are playing “Demo” everywhere:
ST. LOUIS, MO. (UPI)
Street Commissioner J. E. Gibbler of suburban Pagedale complained yesterday that just as he finished posting a NO LITTERING sign, a passing motorist “Threw a sack full of beer cans, coffee grounds and lettuce leaves at me, laughed loudly and drove away.”
Well, at least somewhere, someplace people are still living the simple, honest, basic life. We wish to report at this time a tragic incident which recently occurred in a simple peasant village in Portugal.
BRANGANCI, PORTUGAL (UPI)
Jose Antonio, a 78 year old farmer was trampling grapes barefooted in a barrel yesterday to make wine. He was overcome by the fumes, fell into the juice and drowned.
The hectic pace of modern life, the age of the emerging Machine, of rampant Automation, of mind-boggling space shots, of brain-numbing traffic jams, not only takes its toll of us, the hapless human beings who created the monster of Technology but also those simple innocents who have the bad luck to inhabit a planet also populated by Man. We are in the midst of a giant struggle that goes on day and night all over the world. One day the battle will be over, the machines will have won, and few will remember the early days when the victims were falling.
FORT WORTH, TEXAS (AP)
The telephone rang as Mrs. F. A. Farnum was vacuuming her canary’s cage. She wheeled to pick up the phone and-whoosh-up the vacuum cleaner nozzle went Joey Boy with one desperate “cheep!” Mrs. Farnum jerked the bag open, grabbed out her canary and desperately shook off a little dust. Joey Boy was still unrecognizable, so she put him under the faucet. Then, to be sure the bird didn’t catch cold, she put him under her electric hair dryer. “He hasn’t been singing since then,” Mrs. Farnum said, “he just sits hunched over and stares a lot. But he’s eating well.”
Ah, how like us all, hunched over, sitting, staring. But eating well. Not much singing, but a lot of staring.
JEAN SHEPHERD
NEW YORK
SEPTEMBER,
1972