The Fran Lebowitz Reader (16 page)

I glanced out the window. It was a clear, starlit September evening. The traffic was bumper to bumper. If there was a police radar car in the vicinity it was probably reading the paper. I offered the chauffeur these observations. He responded by saying that he was finding out what the conditions were fifteen miles ahead of us. I replied that it was Sunday night, that we were on the Merritt Parkway bound for New York, and that ahead of us we would find the exact same conditions as those that currently prevailed except that they would become progressively more cosmopolitan. He ignored this news, preferring instead to resume his muttering. Seeing that this wasn’t the first time I’d been thrown over for a truckdriver, I sat back to listen to what I imagined would be a distinctly lackluster conversation. What transpired, however, was unintelligible in a way I had not expected, for they spoke in a code that seemed totally devoid of meaning. This, I discovered, was CB slang—a special language used by those so inclined. As this was my first encounter with Citizen’s Band radio, I feel justified in having responded with mere distaste. I knew nothing about it. Now more than a year has passed. I know a lot about it. And yes, I am appalled—yes, I am horrified—and yes, I take issue.

I originally planned to take issue in the form of an exchange of letters between Oscar Wilde and Lord Alfred
Douglas written in CB slang. I labored diligently but with little success, for CB slang as a means of communication is irretrievably butch. It is, in fact, safe to say that if the population of the United States was relieved entirely of its girls and its male homosexuals, CB slang would be English.

I am eminently qualified to make this statement, as I studied intensively for the aforementioned project. Thus I am confident in my contention that when it comes to CB slang I am virtually fluent. This surprises me—for I carry with me the memory of a youth fairly teeming with French tutors, all of whom eventually admitted defeat and announced that I had no ear for language. Perhaps, perhaps, but it matters not, for it turns out that when it comes to
lingo
I’ve got an ear and a half. Clearly, my linguistic ability was not the problem. I did what I could. I assigned to Lord Douglas the CB “handle” (or nickname) of “Jailbait.” For Mr. Wilde I chose “Jailbird,” thereby achieving an enviable symmetry. I read scores of their real letters. I ground away at the CB dictionary. I tried full translations. I tried partial translations. I tried footnotes. To no avail. CB slang is, after all, a limited tongue concerned primarily with four-car collisions, radar traps, shifting gears, and stopping for coffee. Mr. Wilde’s and Lord Douglas’s thoughts were elsewhere. There are, for instance, no CB equivalents for the words “gilt,” “narcissus,” “insouciance,” or “honey-haired boy.” And even the most perfect epigram suffers when interpreted in a language that refers to a bed as a “snore shelf.”

Fortunately, I am a plucky sort and more than willing to express my displeasure in another manner:

The very word
citizen
implies a preoccupation with democracy that cannot help but be construed as fanatical. And not without reason, for entree to the world of
CB is wide open to all and sundry—particularly all. It is harder, I assure you, to get into Macy’s.

*   *   *

To the average (and you will look long and hard before finding anyone so aptly described) CB aficionado his radio is his hobby. A hobby is, of course, an abomination, as are all consuming interests and passions that do not lead directly to large, personal gain.

*   *   *

CB radio is a common bond. Any bond that cannot, upon demand of the bearer, be converted immediately into cash is sorely deficient in both refinement and dignity.

*   *   *

CB slang is on the one hand too colorful and on the other hand lacking a counterpart for the words
pearl gray.

*   *   *

Citizen’s Band radio renders one accessible to a wide variety of people from all walks of life. It should not be forgotten that all walks of life include conceptual artists, dry cleaners, and living poets.

*   *   *

CB communication consists almost wholly of actual information. It is, therefore, of no interest to the civilized conversationalist.

For years and years people who had them referred to their girl friends as their girl friends. With the advent of that unattractive style known as hip, many people stole the term
old lady
from perfectly innocent black jazz musicians and began using it in regard to their own girl friends. Then came women’s lib and quite a number of people apparently felt that the word
old
was sexist. These people began to call their girl friends their “ladies.”

Lest you get the impression that I am totally opposed to the word
lady
I rush to assure you that I think it is a perfectly nice word when used correctly. The word
lady
is used correctly only as follows:

As one with a distinct aversion to newspapers I rely heavily for information on the random remarks of others. Therefore my sources are far from impeccable. They are, however, not without a peculiar whimsical charm all their own and thus not to be taken lightly. For example, I was recently informed that the United States Postal Service was considering cutting its deliveries down to three days a week. The informant was a source close to his mother and therefore reliable. My immediate reaction was one of shock and dismay until I remembered that in my neighborhood a week that sees three whole mail deliveries is a thing rare and precious. I began to wonder why it was that my local mail service was so far ahead of that of the rest of the nation and decided to make discreet inquiries.

My neighborhood is located in Greenwich Village, a quarter of the city well known for its interesting artistic qualities. These qualities are to be found not only in its atmosphere and residents but also in its public servants. There is, in fact, not a single local postal employee who does not possess a temperament of such lush moodiness that one assumes that only an unfortunate lack of
rhythm has kept them from careers devoted to the composition of tragic opera. Exhaustive research soon established that this was no accident but a carefully planned effort to bring the post office closer to those it serves. The Greenwich Village Postal System is a separate entity dedicated to the proposition that nowhere on earth are men created more equal than downtown on the West Side. Thus its offices exhibit a clean Bauhaus influence. The wanted posters refer to desires more personal than federal. Uniforms are chosen on the basis of cut and fabric. And they have punched up the official motto with the Greenwich Village Addendum so that it reads as follows: “Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night can stay these couriers from swift completion of their appointed rounds.
However
, offended sensibility, painful memory, postman’s block, and previous engagements may stay the courier for an indefinite period of time.
C’est la vie.”
Closer examination of this motto reveals these inner truths:

1. Architecture of unpleasant proportion.
   
2. An excessive number of conceptual artists. The official definition of “excessive” in such cases is stated as “More than two if dead, more than one if alive.”
   
3. Musicians who are awake.
   
4. Dandyish house pets.
   
5. Ethnic restaurants featuring interesting food.
   

1. He has had an emotionally satisfactory but physically crippling sexual encounter.
   
2. He consumed a carelessly prepared shrimp curry.
   
3. He was snubbed.
   

The Greenwich Village postman does his best to keep his working hours free but he is, of course, not immune to the killing pace of urban life and frequently discovers that he’s booked up pretty solid. This is not surprising since he is a firm believer in the adage “finders keepers” and so is caught up in the dizzying whirl that is the social and business life of others. A look at a page from his appointment calendar reveals the following:

Major cities are not infrequently afflicted with strikes and demonstrations by doctors, garbagemen, firemen, and police. There is always a public outcry, as those concerned with public safety are quick to envision a city full of burning garbage and contagious murderers. However, garbage in the street, flames in the bedroom, killers on the loose, and spots on the lungs are merely physical inconveniences. Far more serious work stoppages can occur, and politicians and citizens confronted with the more traditional problems can comfort themselves with the thought “Well, it’s a hell of a mess but thank God it’s not the writers.” Because, believe you me, compared to the writers even the Teamsters are a piece of cake.

Imagine, if you will, a rainy Sunday afternoon in New York. All over town, writers are lying in bed, their heads under their respective pillows. They are of varying heights and builds, races, religions, and creeds, but they are as one: whining. Some of them are whining to themselves. Some to companions. It matters not in the least. Simultaneously they all turn over and reach for the
phone. In a matter of seconds every writer in New York is speaking to another writer in New York. They are talking about not writing. This is, next to who’s not queer, perhaps the most popular topic of discussion among writers in New York. Ordinarily there are variations on this theme and one reacts accordingly:

You can’t write. You call another writer. He can’t write, either. This is terrific. You can now talk about not writing for two hours and then go out to dinner with each other until four o’clock in the morning.

You can’t write. You call another writer. He is writing.
This
is a great tragedy. He will talk to you only as long as it takes for him to impress upon you the fact that not only is he writing but he thinks that
what
he is writing is quite possibly the best thing he’s ever written. Your only alternative to suicide in this situation is to call a rock musician. This makes you feel smart again and you can get on with the business of not writing.

You are writing. Another writer calls you to talk about not writing. You announce that you
are.
Masochistically he inquires as to what it is that you are writing. You inform him modestly that it’s just a little something vaguely reminiscent of, say,
An Ideal Husband
, perhaps a bit funnier. Your behavior at his funeral the following day is marked by enormous dignity and grace.

There are other variations on this theme but I think you get my drift. Now, on this particular Sunday afternoon
a phenomenon has occurred. Every single writer in the city of New York is not writing. Once knowledge of this has spread throughout the entire non-writing writing community, a tremendous feeling of mutual relief and well-being is experienced. For an exquisite moment all the writers in New York like each other. If
no one
can write, then it is obviously not the fault of the writers. It must be
their
fault. The writers band together. They will have their revenge on the city. No longer will they lie abed not writing in the privacy of their own homes. They will not write publicly. They will go on strike. They decide to stage a sitdown in the lobby of the Algonquin Hotel and not write there.

It takes a while but about a year and a half later people begin to notice that there’s nothing to read. First they notice that the newsstands are quite empty. Then it begins to get television news coverage. There is still television news, mostly lip sync—some ad lib. People begin to get annoyed. They demand that the city take steps. The city assembles a group to go in and negotiate with the writers. The group consists of a fireman, a doctor, a sanitationman, and a policeman. The writers refuse to negotiate. Their reply to a city on its knees? “Call my agent.” The agents refuse to negotiate until they can figure out a way to sell the movie rights. The strike continues. The Red Cross is allowed to cross the picket lines to dispense royalty statements and cappucino. The situation becomes more desperate. Adults all over the country are sitting in bus stations playing jacks. Old copies of
People
magazine are auctioned off and sold at Parke-Bernet for incredible prices. Librarians begin to take bribes and are seen driving lavender Cadillacs with quilted vinyl roofs and page-shaped rear windows. A syndicate is formed by a group who own several back issues of
The New Yorker.
They open a membership-only after-hours reading bar, which is fire-bombed by a radical organization that believes that Donald Barthelme belongs to the people.