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BACK NINE
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The Art of Conversation
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It
had been 57 years since Major Saul V. had
initiated a conversation. He found that ample came his way, he need not
generate any. The only time he really needed to start one up was
because he had
a question, and he preferred not to reveal so much of his interests to
the
other guy right from the get-go, which any question is bound to do. Oh, he had read
the book Getting to Yes, and he did
agree that it is important to be clear about your interests in order to
bring a
negotiation to a mutually satisfactory conclusion, but just not as an
opening
gambit. Saul’s mode was to
sit placidly on the verandah overlooking the implausibly green 9th
fairway at the Austin Golf Club, staring into the wide open spaces
before him,
with only the occasional reaching into the pocket to retrieve the
little spiral
notebook to jot the odd observation. To David Byrne’s
(perhaps rhetorical) question, “What good are
notebooks?”, Saul’s
reply was, “To write things down in.” He thought Byrne
was probably being ironic. In 1980, there was a lot of that about,
among the
hip white youth, Saul had noticed. (Saul had little insight into the
matter of
what the hip black, brown, yellow, or red youth of America were up to
in 1980.)
Or maybe Byrne’s
meaning was that he himself was so frustrated over the uselessness of
his own inability
to impact his world, that writing things down in a notebook was
depressingly
fruitless. Or maybe Byrne meant to evoke a more generalized
hopelessness, akin
to Sartre’s nausea, the existential impossibility of everything (other
than the
individual’s largely involuntary will to exist). Or maybe it was a
throwaway
line and Byrne got the last laugh because punters like Major Saul V.
sat around
trying to parse the damn thing. For his part, Saul
preferred to reserve his irony for those moments when he had absolutely
no
other recourse because he had been thoroughly trumped, and irony was
his only
refuge. He wondered whether the hip white youth of 1980 were so often
thoroughly trumped, or maybe they were pretending to be thoroughly
trumped, as
though to make ironical fun of the idea that they might so often be
thoroughly
trumped? This was possible, but my lord, what a lot of work! Why not
just state
your business and get on with things? Maybe they didn’t have much else
to do.
Yes, that was probably it, ruminated Saul as he began to become
conscious of a
gentle tugging at his pants leg that may have been going on for some
time. He
sighed, reluctant to leave the fecund year of 1980 and its swirling
vision of
indolent hip white youth and the question of their true motives, or
lack
thereof. “Uncle Major?”
said a high-pitched voice as Saul refocused his vision from distant to
near and
tipped his head down to see whence the voice emanated. Egad, it was
6-year-old Brevity Fox, one of the two fatherless sons of the recently
deceased
Officer De Selby Fox! Brev and his
4-year-old brother Longevity had become regulars at the Club that
summer,
because Janine the barkeep had stepped in to help out the boys’ mother
Annaliese von Hoffentlich, who was an indifferent parent in the best of
circumstances. Since the death of her ex-husband Fox, Annaliese had
suffered an
alienation syndrome that threatened to drive her mad with lack of
filial
feeling. It was a strange thing, but there it was. The opposite of what
you’d
expect from a mom. Well, that was Annaliese for you. Tough on the boys,
though.
Janine and a few others from their circle were pitching in to try to
fill in some
of the large gaps in the boys’ homelife. “Eh, my boy? Come
on up here,” Saul said, grasping Brev under the armpits and hoisting
him
awkwardly up into the Major’s bumptious lap. “Uncle Major, what
were you thinking about?” Brev asked. It was not a typical question for
any
6-year-old to ask of an adult, but there was something puzzling and
slightly
frightening about the look on Saul’s face as he had been gazing
dreamily out
over the landscape. Brev was curious, and yes, he was rather in need of
adult
male companionship. Saul hesitated as
he tried to remember what he’d been thinking about.
Irony…existentialism…the
‘80s… “Notebooks. I was
thinking about notebooks. Let me see your notebook!” “It’s at home,”
Brev replied after a moment’s consideration, not being sure which of
his many
notebooks Saul was referring to. “Want me to bring it next time?” he
asked
shyly. “Absolutely! But
not any of the school ones!” This confirmed
Brev’s suspicion that Saul had been referring to the private notebook
in which
Brev drew pictures of animals real and imagined, and worked on spelling
his own
name in a style that would measure up to his own sense of distinctive
majesty. “You want to see
me write my name?” Brev looked up hopefully. “Have you got a
pencil?” “Yes!” Brev
proudly
produced a number two from his pocket. “Nice eraser on
that thing! I guess you never have to use the eraser. Never make any
mistakes,
eh Brevity old man?” Brev regarded his
pencil quizzically. He had no idea why the eraser looked like it had
never been
used. He couldn’t remember using it or not using it. He looked up at
Saul, as
it began to occur to him that Saul was teasing. A grin dawned across
his face
as he formulated a riposte. “What good are
erasers?” he said slowly, making sure not to blow the line. “Hah! Good one.
You read my mind,” Saul said approvingly and with wonderment over the
unconscious connections that conversation could bring. “Are you
ticklish?” A couple of
minutes of tickling, writhing, and giggling ensued, before Saul cut it
short. Tickling
is too easy, he thought, but, in small measure, not an unduly cheap
laugh for a
6-year-old. “Uncle Major, can
you help me write my name?” “You already know
how to write your name. You told me.” “But I’m still
working on it. It needs to get better.” “It will be
impossible to make a better name than the one you’ve already got.” “Nooooo! I mean
writing it!” “Oh! The
penmanship! The artistry! The flourishing script embellishing the
tyranny of
the small selection of the limited 26 members of the alphabet that one
must
repeat over and over for the entirety of one’s mortal life! The SIG-NA-TURE! An essential accoutrement
for every gentleman, young, old, or in between—“ “Yeah! Lemme show
you!” Brev wielded his pencil and began carefully inscribing a cocktail
napkin.
When he finished, he looked up at Saul to offer him a glimpse, and to
invite
comment. “Hm, very
distinguished indeed. Singular, in fact. What can I say? It is perfect.
It is
you to a B. The official autograph of Brevity T. Fox. People will pay
thousands
for this napkin one day. May I keep it? It could finance my later
years, should
I ever reach them.” “But it’s lousy!” “Lousy? Nothing
lousy about it, that I can see.” “No, it IS lousy!
It’s just a bunch of square blocks! Did you ever see my daddy write his
name?
It was so good, you couldn’t even read it!” “Well, his – bless
his dear departed soul – his was honed over decades to become ever more
indecipherable until it achieved that degree of impenetrability that
could only
betoken extreme intelligence. Do not set your sets so high so soon.
First,
establish a firm foundation, then gradually migrate toward high art.
Let’s take
your E for example. A fine specimen, but could the top bar perhaps be a
mite
straighter?” “Why should I
learn how to do it right? That’s boring! I want to do it COOL! Like
Daddy’s.” The Major
hesitated.
“Your daddy was a good man. First-rate in every way. Strong and brave.
I can
see him in you and Gevi. It’s a terrible loss. But you lads will do
just fine.” “What do you see
in me that’s like Daddy?” “Strong and brave.
You’re not afraid.” “How do you know?” “I just know. I
can tell about these things.” The Major thought for a moment. “Like
when you
came up to me just now. You didn’t wait to be asked. You had something
to say
and you said it. Something was on your mind and you came right up to
me, and
you demanded attention. I like that. And you said clearly and directly
what you
wanted. Just like your daddy. Clear and direct. You can stick your nose
in
first, which can get you into a little trouble, but you’re a man who
knows his
own mind and knows how to go about his business. You don’t need a cool
signature. Just write your name and be done with it.” “I gotta write my
name better. It’s gotta be cool.” “Ah, I see. Well
well, a cool signature. This reminds me of my old friend The Notary
Public.
Fifty times a day he had to sign his name –“ “I think I already
heard this story. Aunt Natalie told me.” “Your Aunt
Nathalia couldn’t possibly tell this story. If she told it, she got it
wrong.
Trust me, this story exceeds Nathalia’s storytelling powers. Now, where
was I?” “I need to go to
the bathroom.” “It’s not a long
story.” “Can I get a glass
of water?” “I thought you
needed to go to the bathroom.” “Either way.
Anyway I already heard this story.” “It was about how
to do a cool signature?” “Well, um, no, it
was about, um, I don’t remember, but it had a rotary niblick in it.” “That’s a
completely different story. Not a bad story, itself, but nothing to do
with
cool signatures. Now, Brevity my man, calm down, and I will share with
you the
rare insight borne of deep experience. As I was saying, my old friend
The
Notary Public—“ “But I really do
have to go to the bathroom.” “Ok I’ll come with
you.” The two rose and
toddled off into the clubhouse. Brevity went into the men’s one-holer,
and
Major Saul stood outside the door and began the story, speaking loudly
enough
to be sure that he could be heard through the door. “So The Notary
Public, this poor fellow sat at his desk all day, just waiting for
someone to
come in with their legal document in need of a witness to its
execution,
plotting his next private joke. For each time he signed his name, he
made it
different, and tried to inscribe his own name but at the same time
forming the
letters so as to simultaneously spell out some completely other
message. For
example, if his name were Thomas Smothers (which it wasn’t, but I’m
sworn to
protect his privacy in this matter), he would form the letters in such
a way as
to spell out Hey Jude if you read it in a mirror and jumped up and down
while
you read it.” The door swung
open and Brevity marched out. “That’s not cool,”
he pronounced. “No, but the
story’s not over!” “Oh.” The stooped
eldster and the slightly wound youth ambled towards the bar, where Brev
clambered up onto a stool while Saul leaned back against the bar in a
well-practiced posture. Janine sidled over to listen in. “So The Notary
Public—" “Oh, that one,”
Janine said, and turned away toward the sink to wash some dishes. “No! This is a
different one!” Saul assured her, and she turned back around, not
without
skepticism. “—The Notary
Public signed his name hundreds of times per week, which gave him
plenty of
opportunity to explore a multitude of themes over the decades. I think
it was
in his 30th year of Notary Publicizing that he hit upon his
ultimate
method of signing his name.” Brev squirmed in
his seat, reluctantly allowing himself to become interested. Janine
dried beer
glasses and waited to see if there would be much of a punch line. “Now here it would
be helpful if I were able to tell you his name, because the genius of
his
innovation would be easier to convey. But I will do my best to get it
across.
Brev, my fine fellow, you have already shown a perfectly respectable
signature,
earlier today. Would you mind repeating this, for Janine’s benefit, and
to help
me to conclude this story?” Janine handed Brev
an official Austin Golf Club scorecard pencil, and an official Austin
Golf Club
page of letterhead (also known as the back of a bill). Brev repeated
the blocky
version of his name. Brevity T. Fox. “Very well done. A
fine fine name, very well rendered. Now let’s take a look. What do we
notice
about this name? Brevity T. Fox. What if we sing it?
Bre-vi-tee-tee-fox. Brevy
Tee Tee. Hm. I wonder if we could do something with that?” “Hey, there’s two
tees in a row!” Brev exclaimed. “By george I
believe you’re right! How about that!” “I could do Brevi
T.T. Fox! Or just Brevi T. Fox! Or Brevi-tee-tee Fox.” “Say,” Janine
interjected, “what does that middle T stand for, anyway?” Brev looked down
and clamped his mouth shut. “Come on, my lad,
you use the middle initial in your signature, you must be proud of it.” “It’s stupid.” “That starts with
an S, not a T. I’m sure your middle name is not Stupid.” Brev frowned. “Shall we guess?” “That’s stupid.” “Thompson?
Tisdale? Tarantula?” Brev shook his
head and kept his head down. “Trampoline?
Tweetybird?” “It’s not that stupid.” “Twombly?” “Tristan?” “Thunderdome?” Brev twitched.
Janine and Saul paused. “Thunderdome?” “It’s
Thundercloud,” Brev mumbled. “Thundercloud!
That’s fantastic! What a great name!” “My mom’s part
Indian.” “But of course she
is!” “Say…” Brev picked
up the pencil and spelled out Brevity T. Fox, and then he began shading
in a
big, dark cloud above the letters. He looked up at Janine and Saul,
then back
down at the paper. He added a sharp, slashing lightning bolt from the
cloud to
the letters. “Cool,” he muttered to himself. Then he wrote his
name again, but this time he made the middle T into a lightning bolt,
thinking
he could do that with or without the cloud. Or he could do Brevi T. T.
Fox and
make lightning bolts with both of the Ts. And he realized he could
figure out a
way to draw a picture of a fox using the letters F-O-X. Or he could do
a cloud
that looked like a fox using the letters. Brev went back to
work on the paper. Janine went to look for more bills. Major Saul still
leaned
back against the bar, but his head had drooped forward. The Major was
asleep. ©
Craig Van Dyck
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