Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Dreary Are the Raindrops
Dreary are the
raindrops
Dropping in wet dreariness,
Splashing on the pavement
helplessly.
raindrops
Dropping in wet dreariness,
Splashing on the pavement
helplessly.
Thursday, April 05, 2007
Jeff Daniels In BLACKBIRD
I hopped on the train from Huntington yesterday, got out at the last stop, Penn Station and went to 55th Street, home of the Manhattan Theatre Club at City Center. At the box office I bought a ticket for that evening's performance of a play which is still in previews, BLACKBIRD. I went because I wanted to see Jeff Daniels on stage. The play (which has an author whose name I can't remember) is about a sixty-year-old man being confronted by a young woman he sexually abused, years earlier, when she was twelve. It is a well-focused play. Mart Crowley, who wrote BOYS IN THE BAND, wrote a similar one thirty or so years ago, the title of which I can't recall, about a young man confronting the priest who abused him when he was a child. It's in a collection of Crowley's plays. I've not seen that one performed, but it strikes me that Crowley's take on the theme is unironic, and, therefore, perhaps, more powerful than BLACKBIRD, if only because the Crowley play seems to be mournful and BLACKBIRD is, essentially, ironic.
The actress playing the woman confronting her abuser is excellent in the role. She is waiflike well into adulthood. Jeff Daniels, of course, plays the more interesting role. He is cast well because almost any other actor would come across as a monster. Another actor could play this very well, but Jeff Daniels removes the freak factor, somehow.
Crowley's play was deeper. It indicted history, the church, society and the powewrful in general. BLACKBIRD may be more realistic. The two characters are truly postmodern, subject to their own sentiments, whereas, in the other play, the priest feels the pull of his calling and the young man marches with the strength of what was a new phenomenon then called Gay Lib. In BLACKBIRD, clinical detail heightens the reality. But Crowley's play has an apocalyptic feel. In fact, it is a more felt play.
But BLACKBIRD moves briskly. The set, showing the hallways and breakroom of an office-building of the wall-to-wall-carpeted, charcoal gray and chrome sort, reflects the anonymity of the two characters. Indeed, the predator has changed his name and the victim, although speaking her name to another character who appears fleetingly, considers herself "a ghost."
Opening night is less than a week from now, I think. One thing might need working out. I'm not certain the slow fading of the ceiling lights during the monologues of the protagonists helped. The lights are glaring for the rest of the play and I think the revelatory speeches would play better if the light stayed harsh.
Jeff Daniels sold me on this play. It was what I expected it to be. It has an important subject.
But it lacks the anger which made its equivalent from three decades ago profound.
The actress playing the woman confronting her abuser is excellent in the role. She is waiflike well into adulthood. Jeff Daniels, of course, plays the more interesting role. He is cast well because almost any other actor would come across as a monster. Another actor could play this very well, but Jeff Daniels removes the freak factor, somehow.
Crowley's play was deeper. It indicted history, the church, society and the powewrful in general. BLACKBIRD may be more realistic. The two characters are truly postmodern, subject to their own sentiments, whereas, in the other play, the priest feels the pull of his calling and the young man marches with the strength of what was a new phenomenon then called Gay Lib. In BLACKBIRD, clinical detail heightens the reality. But Crowley's play has an apocalyptic feel. In fact, it is a more felt play.
But BLACKBIRD moves briskly. The set, showing the hallways and breakroom of an office-building of the wall-to-wall-carpeted, charcoal gray and chrome sort, reflects the anonymity of the two characters. Indeed, the predator has changed his name and the victim, although speaking her name to another character who appears fleetingly, considers herself "a ghost."
Opening night is less than a week from now, I think. One thing might need working out. I'm not certain the slow fading of the ceiling lights during the monologues of the protagonists helped. The lights are glaring for the rest of the play and I think the revelatory speeches would play better if the light stayed harsh.
Jeff Daniels sold me on this play. It was what I expected it to be. It has an important subject.
But it lacks the anger which made its equivalent from three decades ago profound.
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
My Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem Review
Here I reprint a review I posted on a superfamous book and music selling website which has the name of a river in its address. The review is from 2005. (It's a review of a CD called LUCK OF THE IRISH.)
4 of 4 people found the following review helpful:
Where's the Rest of Their Catalogue?, July 5, 2005
Reviewer: Fred Wemyss (Actual Name) (Huntington, NY United States) - See all my reviews
Chances are that those reading my review already have a concept of the Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem. So, with a nod to the knowing, I'll begin: In the early 60s, more than one musical quartet from across the Atlantic got a boost from going on THE ED SULLIVAN SHOW. When this particular team did the show, the folk-music fans responded positively, but a demographic which had not yet been tapped also suddenly made its spending-power known. The vast Irish-American consumer block wended its way to the record store and Columbia had a fairly unlikely hit. Of course, the Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem had been playing clubs in Greenwich Village for three or four years and had recorded a lot of songs for a label Tom and Pat Clancy had founded, "Tradition." But, by the time they made their first record for Columbia, their singing had become incredibly forceful and distinct. From 1961 (or '62) until 1969, the team recorded at least ten full-length albums for Columbia, some live, many in the studio. Eric Weissberg (who had a hit in the early '70s with "Dueling Banjos") often played on the Columbia recordings and their first Columbia album featured him and Pete Seeger. In short, the Clancies and Makem were in top vocal form here and had the best musicians in the business backing them. Makem's tin whistle was of course at its hypnotic best. These were funny, exciting, moving albums. The bulk of them are NOT available on CD. THE LUCK OF THE IRISH has tracks from various times in the sixties, some of which made it to the albums and some which are either alternate takes or which were never used. "Home Boys Home" is marvelous and sounds like the exact recording on the unavailable-on-CD LP HOME BOYS HOME except that a rhythm guitar has been removed. Like other releases by Sony (which IS Columbia)
the booklet tells you very little about the Clancies progression in the sixties. Is there some taboo on telling the fans which albums came out when? It's as if some Soviet bureaucrat were given the keys to the Clancy vault and caused most of their recordings to vaporize before the wall came down. This is not only really good music, it's important to the Irish folk movement, and it's not on CD. Bob Dylan, thankfully, invited the Clancy Brothers to sing at the Madison Square Garden tribute to him in 1992, so people will, through that CD, run into the Clancy Brothers, but Sony otherwise seems to try to keep them hidden. A bunch of CDs of random tracks packaged for a Saint Patrick's Day audience does no justice to this seminal folk group. Here, off the top of my head is a list of their Columbia LPs. The boldfaced ones are the ones available on CD as of July, 2005:
The Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem
Hearty and Hellish
The Boys Won't Leave The Girls Alone
The First Hurrah!
In Ireland!
IN PERSON AT CARNEGIE HALL
Isn't It Grand, Boys (Not to be confused with the boxed set "Ain't It Grand")
Freedom's Sons
IN CONCERT
Sing of the Sea
So, two, count 'em, two actual albums have made it to CD and the other CDs are culled from different albums with many, many tracks left off. May I also point out that at least three of these are concept albums. HEART AND HELLISH, for example, is a truly well recorded live nightclub performance and the audience, roaring with laughter and cheering and, at solemn moments, almost prayerfully quiet, is as much a part of the recording as the group. Did some manager throw this stuff in some legal hell-hole? It's as if only two stories from DUBLINERS were allowed to surface. What gives?
So, if you buy LUCK OF THE IRISH you'll like the songs. But they jump back and forth through the Clancies 60s career. Why not allow the CDs to reflect the albums, as is done with the Clancy Brothers' friend Bob Dylan? And if the answer is "The album's are short," MY answer will be, put two on one disc. But put them in order and let's hear them in their entirety!
4 of 4 people found the following review helpful:
Where's the Rest of Their Catalogue?, July 5, 2005
Reviewer: Fred Wemyss (Actual Name) (Huntington, NY United States) - See all my reviews
Chances are that those reading my review already have a concept of the Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem. So, with a nod to the knowing, I'll begin: In the early 60s, more than one musical quartet from across the Atlantic got a boost from going on THE ED SULLIVAN SHOW. When this particular team did the show, the folk-music fans responded positively, but a demographic which had not yet been tapped also suddenly made its spending-power known. The vast Irish-American consumer block wended its way to the record store and Columbia had a fairly unlikely hit. Of course, the Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem had been playing clubs in Greenwich Village for three or four years and had recorded a lot of songs for a label Tom and Pat Clancy had founded, "Tradition." But, by the time they made their first record for Columbia, their singing had become incredibly forceful and distinct. From 1961 (or '62) until 1969, the team recorded at least ten full-length albums for Columbia, some live, many in the studio. Eric Weissberg (who had a hit in the early '70s with "Dueling Banjos") often played on the Columbia recordings and their first Columbia album featured him and Pete Seeger. In short, the Clancies and Makem were in top vocal form here and had the best musicians in the business backing them. Makem's tin whistle was of course at its hypnotic best. These were funny, exciting, moving albums. The bulk of them are NOT available on CD. THE LUCK OF THE IRISH has tracks from various times in the sixties, some of which made it to the albums and some which are either alternate takes or which were never used. "Home Boys Home" is marvelous and sounds like the exact recording on the unavailable-on-CD LP HOME BOYS HOME except that a rhythm guitar has been removed. Like other releases by Sony (which IS Columbia)
the booklet tells you very little about the Clancies progression in the sixties. Is there some taboo on telling the fans which albums came out when? It's as if some Soviet bureaucrat were given the keys to the Clancy vault and caused most of their recordings to vaporize before the wall came down. This is not only really good music, it's important to the Irish folk movement, and it's not on CD. Bob Dylan, thankfully, invited the Clancy Brothers to sing at the Madison Square Garden tribute to him in 1992, so people will, through that CD, run into the Clancy Brothers, but Sony otherwise seems to try to keep them hidden. A bunch of CDs of random tracks packaged for a Saint Patrick's Day audience does no justice to this seminal folk group. Here, off the top of my head is a list of their Columbia LPs. The boldfaced ones are the ones available on CD as of July, 2005:
The Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem
Hearty and Hellish
The Boys Won't Leave The Girls Alone
The First Hurrah!
In Ireland!
IN PERSON AT CARNEGIE HALL
Isn't It Grand, Boys (Not to be confused with the boxed set "Ain't It Grand")
Freedom's Sons
IN CONCERT
Sing of the Sea
So, two, count 'em, two actual albums have made it to CD and the other CDs are culled from different albums with many, many tracks left off. May I also point out that at least three of these are concept albums. HEART AND HELLISH, for example, is a truly well recorded live nightclub performance and the audience, roaring with laughter and cheering and, at solemn moments, almost prayerfully quiet, is as much a part of the recording as the group. Did some manager throw this stuff in some legal hell-hole? It's as if only two stories from DUBLINERS were allowed to surface. What gives?
So, if you buy LUCK OF THE IRISH you'll like the songs. But they jump back and forth through the Clancies 60s career. Why not allow the CDs to reflect the albums, as is done with the Clancy Brothers' friend Bob Dylan? And if the answer is "The album's are short," MY answer will be, put two on one disc. But put them in order and let's hear them in their entirety!
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
"House" Is "Holmes"
"Why?" you ask.
Because they're both British. (No American could play Gregory House. Hugh Laurie plays him with an American accent, but Hugh Laurie can be seen in many episodes of JEEVES AND WOOSTER, playing a twit straight out of Graham Chapman's twitbook.)
Because there's an undeniable Transatlantic thing going on. (Sherlock Holmes may have been a British literary creation, and the actor who played him the way everybody imagines him may have been English -- Basil Rathbone -- but Hollywood was where the classic Sherlock Holmes movies were filmed, and it's where HOUSE is shot.) And speaking of shot:
House dies.
Holmes dies.
Holmes is brought back to life when readers demand his return.
House returns to life at the beginning of the next season.
Both deaths are murders.
House walks with a cane.
Sherlock Holmes carries a cane. Is that similarity too superficial? Get ready for this:
House is a drug addict.
Sherlock Holmes is addicted to cocaine.
Sherlock Holmes merely looks at somebody and deduces extraordinary things about that person.
House merely looks at somebody and deduces extraordinary things about that person.
Sherlock Holmes constantly amazes and exasperates his highly educated assistant.
House constantly amazes and exasperates his highly educated assistants.
Arthur Conan Doyle, who wrote the Sherlock Holmes stories, based Holmes on a doctor he'd worked for as a young man. Therefore, Sherlock Holmes is actually a caricature of a medical man.
Sherlock Holmes is always pissong off the authorities.
House is always pissing off the authorities.
Everybody who likes to read or watch movies loves Sherlock Holmes.
Everybody who watches TV loves House.
Nobody really understands how Sherlock Holmes comes to his conclusions but they read the stories in one sitting if they can.
Nobody really understands how House comes to his conclusions but when HOUSE comes on, they sit watching the show for the whole hour.
I was in a diner tonight getting take-out when I heard the waitress say, "Oh! I'm not going home now. This is a new one!" She was looking at the TV above the counter. HOUSE was on.
When I got home with my take-out, I put HOUSE on.
Back to HOUSE's simultaneous Britishness and Americanness: Hugh Laurie's British show JEEVES AND WOOSTER is based on stories by P.G. Wodehouse, an Englishman who spent most of his adult life in the United States, whose main character, Bertie Wooster, is, by Wodehouse's own admission, based on the American conception of "an English dude." ("Dude" in the sense of a man-about-town, not in the "Do you have some pot, dude?" sense.)
More to the point, Gregory House and Sherlock Holmes both wear tweed.
And they're witty.
Practically superhuman.
And completely entertaining.
Because they're both British. (No American could play Gregory House. Hugh Laurie plays him with an American accent, but Hugh Laurie can be seen in many episodes of JEEVES AND WOOSTER, playing a twit straight out of Graham Chapman's twitbook.)
Because there's an undeniable Transatlantic thing going on. (Sherlock Holmes may have been a British literary creation, and the actor who played him the way everybody imagines him may have been English -- Basil Rathbone -- but Hollywood was where the classic Sherlock Holmes movies were filmed, and it's where HOUSE is shot.) And speaking of shot:
House dies.
Holmes dies.
Holmes is brought back to life when readers demand his return.
House returns to life at the beginning of the next season.
Both deaths are murders.
House walks with a cane.
Sherlock Holmes carries a cane. Is that similarity too superficial? Get ready for this:
House is a drug addict.
Sherlock Holmes is addicted to cocaine.
Sherlock Holmes merely looks at somebody and deduces extraordinary things about that person.
House merely looks at somebody and deduces extraordinary things about that person.
Sherlock Holmes constantly amazes and exasperates his highly educated assistant.
House constantly amazes and exasperates his highly educated assistants.
Arthur Conan Doyle, who wrote the Sherlock Holmes stories, based Holmes on a doctor he'd worked for as a young man. Therefore, Sherlock Holmes is actually a caricature of a medical man.
Sherlock Holmes is always pissong off the authorities.
House is always pissing off the authorities.
Everybody who likes to read or watch movies loves Sherlock Holmes.
Everybody who watches TV loves House.
Nobody really understands how Sherlock Holmes comes to his conclusions but they read the stories in one sitting if they can.
Nobody really understands how House comes to his conclusions but when HOUSE comes on, they sit watching the show for the whole hour.
I was in a diner tonight getting take-out when I heard the waitress say, "Oh! I'm not going home now. This is a new one!" She was looking at the TV above the counter. HOUSE was on.
When I got home with my take-out, I put HOUSE on.
Back to HOUSE's simultaneous Britishness and Americanness: Hugh Laurie's British show JEEVES AND WOOSTER is based on stories by P.G. Wodehouse, an Englishman who spent most of his adult life in the United States, whose main character, Bertie Wooster, is, by Wodehouse's own admission, based on the American conception of "an English dude." ("Dude" in the sense of a man-about-town, not in the "Do you have some pot, dude?" sense.)
More to the point, Gregory House and Sherlock Holmes both wear tweed.
And they're witty.
Practically superhuman.
And completely entertaining.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Answering Service
3:17 pm
Answering Service
[A note from Fred Wemyss: I wrote "Answering Service" twenty-one years ago, in 1986. I turned twenty-five that year. My brother happened to mention this afternoon -- March 25th, 2007 -- that he found something I'd written. I said, "What was it?" He went to a filing cabinet and pulled this story out. I'm copying it onto this site. The copy in front of me is a carbon copy of the rough draft which I'd written using a manual typewriter. The final version, written on a computer after hours at a place where my other brother and I worked, has italics which help the reader figure out who's talking. I don't know where that version is, so, what I've posted is the rough draft the first brother I mentioned found this morning. Good luck figuring out who's saying what. By the way, my brother has a cameo in this story. But which brother?]
Answering Service
by Fred Wemyss
Hope it's for me. "Hello?
"Hello. Am I speaking to Marshall Pepys?"
"No, he's at work. I'm one of his sons. Hank." And not unemployed, as it were. Law School. Home for January.
"I'm so sorry to bother you, but I wonder if you can help me. I'm looking for a Wally Pepys. Are you a rela-?"
"Oh. We're different Pepyses. Sometimes we get Wally's mail." And, of course, I should tell her he's dead.
"Does he live near you?"
"The family isn't far, I guess. They're one town over from us in Chatterton. We're Greentown. We're only technically Chatterton."
"You don't happen to know his number?"
I've got his number: Dead. But I'm not sure about that. So: "I can find it for you." Should tell her to look it up herself. But I'm that nice."
"Oh, would you? That would be such a help. I called Information and they only listed you. I have to tell you: The number may be unlisted."
Not a chance, with this out-of-date book. Wally's only been dead three months. He's just dead and they disconnected it. "Well, let me give a look." What possesses you, Hank? "It should be in here. When I was a kid I used to look up Pepyses in the phone book, and I remember always seeing his name." Tell her your life story.
"And there's no relation at all? With a name like that your being in the same town is a real coincidence."
She could pass for Scarlet O'Hara with that accent, if Scarlet were real. Even if she were, though, she'd be dead too, by now.
"Can you tell me anything about what he's doing?"
L-M-N-O-P. That's right. Peperino. Pepp. "Well I know he's a dentist." That's the present tense. Can't use it for long. "I think I've heard it's a big family." Peptino. Which didn't visit him in the rest home. Not according to that nurse who attacked Tom. But did she say it was Wally?
"I knew he'd become a dentist. When I knew him in medical school it's all he would talk about. Even when he was dancing. And could he Jitterbug!"
A Jitterbug's best friend, these days. "Could he?" Where do they list Pepys?
"Oh, Wally Pepys was quite something."
This woman almost sounds like Cordelia. But Cordelia was much better at not sounding Southern. What was her full name? There was a "Three" in it.
"You know, it wasn't until this morning that I thought of looking him up. I flew in from Baltimore last night. And I was sitting in the hotel dining room having breakfast, and it occurred to me: Since I'm in the city and not far from Long Island, then I'm not to far from W--
the Pepyses, am I? I hope this isn't an awful bother."
"Oh, no." Just a bore. "I'm just sorry to take so long finding the number for you."
"That's all right. The company pays for this."
Med School drop-out, huh? Cordelia Three Lockwood Whitcomb. No. Cordelia Margaret Three Lockwood Whitcomb. Did she just mention Harry James?
"Yes, dancing, Wally was something. Graceful as a ballet dancer. Not that he would have wanted to hear that, of course. He was quite a man."
Is she laughing? Pepys, W. T. "I found it. Do you have something to write with?"
"Dear me! Let me look in my purse."
Giggling!
"If I'd only been looking through it while you were looking for the number, instead of talking on and on like this."
Keep talking, while I think of how to let you down.
"You know, Wally always said people would think I was just senile when I got to be this age, because I was always so absent-minded, and here I just proved it!"
Again the giggle. The tinkle of a Belle. Habeus Corpus! This could be Cordelia Margaret Lockwood Two Smith or something. Number Three loved to dance, too. But it's radically remote.
"You know I haven't seen Wally Pepys in -- why I'd have to say forty years. Will he be surprised!"
It'll be more the other way 'round, I think. "Wow."
"How the years do pass."
She never danced with her boyfriends. She'd say, Hank, won't you do a dance with me? That hint of an accent. What was she doing in New England, anyway? And there was that time she whispered in my ear, I like dancing with you. You're the only one who doesn't try to make a move on me. The nicest thing a girl ever said to me.
"Yes, it's been almost half-a-century! Ah. Here is is. A stubby little pencil, but it'll do."
What's the dog barking at? Oh. Tom's here. "Excuse me. I have to let someone inside. I'll be right back." Hey! That's what Johnny Carson wants on his tombstone!
"Certainly."
"Spot, quiet. Quiet. Hello, Tom."
"Hank."
I could ask him.
"Have you seen Joe, Hank? I'm looking for him."
"No, he's in the city today. But --"
"Who's on the phone?"
"Come here a second." Living Room. "Here." Out of earshot.
"Who's -- ?"
"Just -- come here. Are you sure Wally Pepys was the Pepys the nurse thought we were related to?"
"Yes. Is that for Wally Pepys?"
"Yeah. It's this old Southern lady."
"Did you tell her about -- ?"
"Shh." So. It definitely is Wally. Of course. That's exactly what Tom said when he said he had a story to tell after visiting Aunt Wanda in the nursing home. 'Hank, remember Pete Munger's sister? Well, she's a nurse there, and she remembered me from high school. She came up to me and started shouting at me. How come you never visited your grandfather before he died? I said Because he died before I was born. She said Then who was that asking for you? I said I don't know. She said Right, you didn't know Wally Pepys? Upon which I was unfazed and said we weren't related.' Then it's Wally for sure. And I have to spring it on this lady after five minutes spent hiding it. Back to the phone. "Sorry to make you wait."
"There's no rush."
"The number is -- "
"He's dead!"
"The number is Four-Two-Three, Six-One-Oh-Five."
"He's dead!"
Better muffle this phone. "I know." Your soul commands you speak. Tell her. "I guess you know the area code is Five-One-Six." What if it HAS been disconnected? No one would answer her. "You know, this is last year's phone book. You might want his address if the number's been changed. For some reason."
"Do you think it might have been?"
"Maybe."
"Well, maybe that's the reason Information only listed you. Would you give me the address?"
"Sure." Where's that piece of junk mail? "Also, if he's moved, maybe, whoever lives there now might be able to tell you where Wally is."
"Well, thank you."
"Hank. Hank, Wally's dead!"
Cover the phone again! "She'll hear you. I know the guy's dead."
"Excuse me?"
"I was just talking to someone else. We have a letter for him that came to us by mistake a few days ago. That'll have the address. I don't think we returned it yet." Hope nobody emptied this. "I'll check our mail pile." Coke cans, Dos Equis bottles, orange peels. Saved! Mister Wally Pepys, You Can Be A Millionaire For Life! "Here it is."
"Oh, good. I'm ready with the pencil this time."
"Okay. You do know that even though we pronounce it 'Peeps,' the name is spelled P-E-P -- "
"Y-S. I could never forget it."
Cordelia knew how to say it right away when she read it.
"Do you often get people spelling it wrong? Wally got that all the time when I knew him."
"We get P-Y-P-S a lot of the time. And people say Peep-iss or Pipp-iss." It was in Expository. First day I met her. During the paper swap. She corrected mine, handed it back and said, 'Here, Hank Peeps.' Freshman year. She couldn't have heard of me. She just knew.
"We had a professor who called him Wally Pipes. Can you imagine?"
"Oh, all too well. Well here's his address."
"Come here, Hank."
"But -- " Yanked from the phone!
"Hank -- "
"I know all about it."
"But you haven't done anything about it."
"I'll tell her."
"Oh, really?"
"Listen, she's waiting to finish talking to me."
"You have to tell her he's dead."
"Well, I'll ease her -- "
"Do you give a damn?"
Tom is right. "Sorry."
"Sorry?"
"To her, to her I mean. See? I'm speaking into this."
"Pardon me?"
"Nothing." Hope she couldn't make that out. "I mean -- "
"You know, with my own name I get the most drastic mistakes. It almost comes out Cord of Wood sometimes. And you know what it really is? Cordelia."
"Cordelia!"
"Yes, and people just can't meet that name at eye level. Even my best friends would rather call me Margaret."
This isn't happening.
"Tell her about Wally, Hank."
Cordelia Three Margaret Three Lockwood Three Whitcomb. Her blue eyes and silky hair. She'll seek me when I'm old. "Do you happen to have a granddaughter named Cordelia Whitcomb?" Or when I'm dead.
"I'm sorry for the interruption, Mrs. Smith, but I have a call for you from Mr. James. Shall I put this call on hold?"
"You don't mind, do you? I'll only be a minute."
"No. I don't mind."
"Yes, please."
"Very good. One second, Mrs. Smith."
"Hey, Tom, this is pretty slick. They put me on hold. She's at Trump Plaza or some place. She could have said to give her the address right now so she can take this other call. But she wants a conversation. She wants all the recent Wally facts."
"You're afraid to break the news, aren't you?"
"I'll break it. I just have to find out something from her, first."
"Yes, I heard you asking, and couldn't believe you. Who is Cordelia Whitcomb?"
"She's a girl I knew at Cotton Mather. This lady might be related. She has two of her names. They're both Southern."
"The names, or them? Well, before you make the small talk, inform her of the big Wally fact. It's bizarre to keep her in the dark like this."
"Yes." I should have asked Cordelia out, at least once. She might have been willing. I was invited to her parties. What a family that was. Actually printing up invitations with her full name on them. And the house had a name. Couples and worshipers only need attend. I was a worshiper; one of the Ashley Wilkses. Cordelia will ignore appointed boyfriend on Saturday, April Second, between the hours of eight-thirty P.M., at Cloverleaf. R.S.V.I.P. And there were the artistic pictures of her in the hall. Condescending to Santa at the age of six; at fifteen smiling admiringly at Great Uncle Thurmond as he relates a tedious stock market anecdote. But then, the lassie, leaning on a picket fence, resting on an oak, holding a Lily-Of-The-Valley. They hired the best. Not photogenic. Absolutely glowing in real life, though. Thou art a beauty, daughter, and no scholar. The Thurmond Agency needs ads for five-hundred-dollar egg cups; look charming for the crystalware people; grin, please, if you can't look natural. She saw through the photogs. They never used her in an ad. She committed heresy at her parties. Allowed her humor and common sense to shine. Counteracted the impossible colonial furniture. And worse: She managed to share laughter openly with the accepted escort. The parties were fun. And all of this with a first name out of Hell, twice borrowed. Of course, she once asked me to take a Polaroid of her and Howard at the Halloween dance. She saw through me.
"I'm back."
Yes, end on a happy note. You are Ashley, and care. Tell her the sad stuff first. But first: "Well, this envelope says Wally Pepys lives at Seventy-four Bridge Street, Chatterton, New York, One-one -- "
"He WILL be amazed. I'm really looking forward to this. Put yourself in Wally's shoes, and just imagine not hearing from some of the girls you knew -- why I daresay you're about the same age he was when I knew him -- imagine not seeing one of those girls for forty years and then hearing from one."
Or imagine never agin being able to talk to someone you've always wanted to talk to again. I'll tell her now. "That would be something, all right. But -- "
"You've been such a help to me, and I do thank you. Now did you say the name Cordelia Whitcomb before?"
First thing's first. "Yes, but -- " Now that I've assured you that you can rekindle a forty-year-old flame -- "I think I should tell you, though, I heard that he might have -- " become as nothing, become dead, dead -- "passed away two or three months back."
"Oh. Well, then I'd better tone down this enthusiasm a bit when I call him. Thank you."
"You're wel-" Did she -- That's it? That's it. I'll always wonder. Hang up the phone, Tom Dooley, hang up the phone and cry...
"Well, Hank?"
"The lady missed the boat with Wally Pepys on board. He's dead."
"You don't say?"
Answering Service
[A note from Fred Wemyss: I wrote "Answering Service" twenty-one years ago, in 1986. I turned twenty-five that year. My brother happened to mention this afternoon -- March 25th, 2007 -- that he found something I'd written. I said, "What was it?" He went to a filing cabinet and pulled this story out. I'm copying it onto this site. The copy in front of me is a carbon copy of the rough draft which I'd written using a manual typewriter. The final version, written on a computer after hours at a place where my other brother and I worked, has italics which help the reader figure out who's talking. I don't know where that version is, so, what I've posted is the rough draft the first brother I mentioned found this morning. Good luck figuring out who's saying what. By the way, my brother has a cameo in this story. But which brother?]
Answering Service
by Fred Wemyss
Hope it's for me. "Hello?
"Hello. Am I speaking to Marshall Pepys?"
"No, he's at work. I'm one of his sons. Hank." And not unemployed, as it were. Law School. Home for January.
"I'm so sorry to bother you, but I wonder if you can help me. I'm looking for a Wally Pepys. Are you a rela-?"
"Oh. We're different Pepyses. Sometimes we get Wally's mail." And, of course, I should tell her he's dead.
"Does he live near you?"
"The family isn't far, I guess. They're one town over from us in Chatterton. We're Greentown. We're only technically Chatterton."
"You don't happen to know his number?"
I've got his number: Dead. But I'm not sure about that. So: "I can find it for you." Should tell her to look it up herself. But I'm that nice."
"Oh, would you? That would be such a help. I called Information and they only listed you. I have to tell you: The number may be unlisted."
Not a chance, with this out-of-date book. Wally's only been dead three months. He's just dead and they disconnected it. "Well, let me give a look." What possesses you, Hank? "It should be in here. When I was a kid I used to look up Pepyses in the phone book, and I remember always seeing his name." Tell her your life story.
"And there's no relation at all? With a name like that your being in the same town is a real coincidence."
She could pass for Scarlet O'Hara with that accent, if Scarlet were real. Even if she were, though, she'd be dead too, by now.
"Can you tell me anything about what he's doing?"
L-M-N-O-P. That's right. Peperino. Pepp. "Well I know he's a dentist." That's the present tense. Can't use it for long. "I think I've heard it's a big family." Peptino. Which didn't visit him in the rest home. Not according to that nurse who attacked Tom. But did she say it was Wally?
"I knew he'd become a dentist. When I knew him in medical school it's all he would talk about. Even when he was dancing. And could he Jitterbug!"
A Jitterbug's best friend, these days. "Could he?" Where do they list Pepys?
"Oh, Wally Pepys was quite something."
This woman almost sounds like Cordelia. But Cordelia was much better at not sounding Southern. What was her full name? There was a "Three" in it.
"You know, it wasn't until this morning that I thought of looking him up. I flew in from Baltimore last night. And I was sitting in the hotel dining room having breakfast, and it occurred to me: Since I'm in the city and not far from Long Island, then I'm not to far from W--
the Pepyses, am I? I hope this isn't an awful bother."
"Oh, no." Just a bore. "I'm just sorry to take so long finding the number for you."
"That's all right. The company pays for this."
Med School drop-out, huh? Cordelia Three Lockwood Whitcomb. No. Cordelia Margaret Three Lockwood Whitcomb. Did she just mention Harry James?
"Yes, dancing, Wally was something. Graceful as a ballet dancer. Not that he would have wanted to hear that, of course. He was quite a man."
Is she laughing? Pepys, W. T. "I found it. Do you have something to write with?"
"Dear me! Let me look in my purse."
Giggling!
"If I'd only been looking through it while you were looking for the number, instead of talking on and on like this."
Keep talking, while I think of how to let you down.
"You know, Wally always said people would think I was just senile when I got to be this age, because I was always so absent-minded, and here I just proved it!"
Again the giggle. The tinkle of a Belle. Habeus Corpus! This could be Cordelia Margaret Lockwood Two Smith or something. Number Three loved to dance, too. But it's radically remote.
"You know I haven't seen Wally Pepys in -- why I'd have to say forty years. Will he be surprised!"
It'll be more the other way 'round, I think. "Wow."
"How the years do pass."
She never danced with her boyfriends. She'd say, Hank, won't you do a dance with me? That hint of an accent. What was she doing in New England, anyway? And there was that time she whispered in my ear, I like dancing with you. You're the only one who doesn't try to make a move on me. The nicest thing a girl ever said to me.
"Yes, it's been almost half-a-century! Ah. Here is is. A stubby little pencil, but it'll do."
What's the dog barking at? Oh. Tom's here. "Excuse me. I have to let someone inside. I'll be right back." Hey! That's what Johnny Carson wants on his tombstone!
"Certainly."
"Spot, quiet. Quiet. Hello, Tom."
"Hank."
I could ask him.
"Have you seen Joe, Hank? I'm looking for him."
"No, he's in the city today. But --"
"Who's on the phone?"
"Come here a second." Living Room. "Here." Out of earshot.
"Who's -- ?"
"Just -- come here. Are you sure Wally Pepys was the Pepys the nurse thought we were related to?"
"Yes. Is that for Wally Pepys?"
"Yeah. It's this old Southern lady."
"Did you tell her about -- ?"
"Shh." So. It definitely is Wally. Of course. That's exactly what Tom said when he said he had a story to tell after visiting Aunt Wanda in the nursing home. 'Hank, remember Pete Munger's sister? Well, she's a nurse there, and she remembered me from high school. She came up to me and started shouting at me. How come you never visited your grandfather before he died? I said Because he died before I was born. She said Then who was that asking for you? I said I don't know. She said Right, you didn't know Wally Pepys? Upon which I was unfazed and said we weren't related.' Then it's Wally for sure. And I have to spring it on this lady after five minutes spent hiding it. Back to the phone. "Sorry to make you wait."
"There's no rush."
"The number is -- "
"He's dead!"
"The number is Four-Two-Three, Six-One-Oh-Five."
"He's dead!"
Better muffle this phone. "I know." Your soul commands you speak. Tell her. "I guess you know the area code is Five-One-Six." What if it HAS been disconnected? No one would answer her. "You know, this is last year's phone book. You might want his address if the number's been changed. For some reason."
"Do you think it might have been?"
"Maybe."
"Well, maybe that's the reason Information only listed you. Would you give me the address?"
"Sure." Where's that piece of junk mail? "Also, if he's moved, maybe, whoever lives there now might be able to tell you where Wally is."
"Well, thank you."
"Hank. Hank, Wally's dead!"
Cover the phone again! "She'll hear you. I know the guy's dead."
"Excuse me?"
"I was just talking to someone else. We have a letter for him that came to us by mistake a few days ago. That'll have the address. I don't think we returned it yet." Hope nobody emptied this. "I'll check our mail pile." Coke cans, Dos Equis bottles, orange peels. Saved! Mister Wally Pepys, You Can Be A Millionaire For Life! "Here it is."
"Oh, good. I'm ready with the pencil this time."
"Okay. You do know that even though we pronounce it 'Peeps,' the name is spelled P-E-P -- "
"Y-S. I could never forget it."
Cordelia knew how to say it right away when she read it.
"Do you often get people spelling it wrong? Wally got that all the time when I knew him."
"We get P-Y-P-S a lot of the time. And people say Peep-iss or Pipp-iss." It was in Expository. First day I met her. During the paper swap. She corrected mine, handed it back and said, 'Here, Hank Peeps.' Freshman year. She couldn't have heard of me. She just knew.
"We had a professor who called him Wally Pipes. Can you imagine?"
"Oh, all too well. Well here's his address."
"Come here, Hank."
"But -- " Yanked from the phone!
"Hank -- "
"I know all about it."
"But you haven't done anything about it."
"I'll tell her."
"Oh, really?"
"Listen, she's waiting to finish talking to me."
"You have to tell her he's dead."
"Well, I'll ease her -- "
"Do you give a damn?"
Tom is right. "Sorry."
"Sorry?"
"To her, to her I mean. See? I'm speaking into this."
"Pardon me?"
"Nothing." Hope she couldn't make that out. "I mean -- "
"You know, with my own name I get the most drastic mistakes. It almost comes out Cord of Wood sometimes. And you know what it really is? Cordelia."
"Cordelia!"
"Yes, and people just can't meet that name at eye level. Even my best friends would rather call me Margaret."
This isn't happening.
"Tell her about Wally, Hank."
Cordelia Three Margaret Three Lockwood Three Whitcomb. Her blue eyes and silky hair. She'll seek me when I'm old. "Do you happen to have a granddaughter named Cordelia Whitcomb?" Or when I'm dead.
"I'm sorry for the interruption, Mrs. Smith, but I have a call for you from Mr. James. Shall I put this call on hold?"
"You don't mind, do you? I'll only be a minute."
"No. I don't mind."
"Yes, please."
"Very good. One second, Mrs. Smith."
"Hey, Tom, this is pretty slick. They put me on hold. She's at Trump Plaza or some place. She could have said to give her the address right now so she can take this other call. But she wants a conversation. She wants all the recent Wally facts."
"You're afraid to break the news, aren't you?"
"I'll break it. I just have to find out something from her, first."
"Yes, I heard you asking, and couldn't believe you. Who is Cordelia Whitcomb?"
"She's a girl I knew at Cotton Mather. This lady might be related. She has two of her names. They're both Southern."
"The names, or them? Well, before you make the small talk, inform her of the big Wally fact. It's bizarre to keep her in the dark like this."
"Yes." I should have asked Cordelia out, at least once. She might have been willing. I was invited to her parties. What a family that was. Actually printing up invitations with her full name on them. And the house had a name. Couples and worshipers only need attend. I was a worshiper; one of the Ashley Wilkses. Cordelia will ignore appointed boyfriend on Saturday, April Second, between the hours of eight-thirty P.M., at Cloverleaf. R.S.V.I.P. And there were the artistic pictures of her in the hall. Condescending to Santa at the age of six; at fifteen smiling admiringly at Great Uncle Thurmond as he relates a tedious stock market anecdote. But then, the lassie, leaning on a picket fence, resting on an oak, holding a Lily-Of-The-Valley. They hired the best. Not photogenic. Absolutely glowing in real life, though. Thou art a beauty, daughter, and no scholar. The Thurmond Agency needs ads for five-hundred-dollar egg cups; look charming for the crystalware people; grin, please, if you can't look natural. She saw through the photogs. They never used her in an ad. She committed heresy at her parties. Allowed her humor and common sense to shine. Counteracted the impossible colonial furniture. And worse: She managed to share laughter openly with the accepted escort. The parties were fun. And all of this with a first name out of Hell, twice borrowed. Of course, she once asked me to take a Polaroid of her and Howard at the Halloween dance. She saw through me.
"I'm back."
Yes, end on a happy note. You are Ashley, and care. Tell her the sad stuff first. But first: "Well, this envelope says Wally Pepys lives at Seventy-four Bridge Street, Chatterton, New York, One-one -- "
"He WILL be amazed. I'm really looking forward to this. Put yourself in Wally's shoes, and just imagine not hearing from some of the girls you knew -- why I daresay you're about the same age he was when I knew him -- imagine not seeing one of those girls for forty years and then hearing from one."
Or imagine never agin being able to talk to someone you've always wanted to talk to again. I'll tell her now. "That would be something, all right. But -- "
"You've been such a help to me, and I do thank you. Now did you say the name Cordelia Whitcomb before?"
First thing's first. "Yes, but -- " Now that I've assured you that you can rekindle a forty-year-old flame -- "I think I should tell you, though, I heard that he might have -- " become as nothing, become dead, dead -- "passed away two or three months back."
"Oh. Well, then I'd better tone down this enthusiasm a bit when I call him. Thank you."
"You're wel-" Did she -- That's it? That's it. I'll always wonder. Hang up the phone, Tom Dooley, hang up the phone and cry...
"Well, Hank?"
"The lady missed the boat with Wally Pepys on board. He's dead."
"You don't say?"
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Now We Come To The End Of Life's Journey
I had the day off yesterday and, after dreading oncoming twilight, I got on the phone and ordered a ticket to the eight o'clock performance of JOURNEY'S END. I hopped on the LIRR, got out at Penn Station, walked a block to Stage Door Deli, ordered the Stage Door Sandwich (corned beef, pastrami and roast beef on rye) followed it with some cherry pie and walked to 111 West 44th, address of the Belasco Theater and picked up my ticket. It was for a balcony seat. I walked to the outdoor entrance, which is the only one leading to the balcony and the ticket-taker told me the balcony was closed, so I could sit in the mezzanine. Not bad for thirty-six bucks!
This play was what I expected: a powerhouse.
It was originally staged in 1929. It's about stiff-upper-lip British officers in a trench in the Great War (Dub-a-yuh Dub-a-yuh One) and, for all the repressed emotion in the dialogue, the nuanced acting strikes every human chord.
I've seen plays I liked better. (August Wilson's JITNEY is the most moving thing I've ever seen.) I've seen more profound plays. (THE GLASS MENAGERIE, for example.) But JOURNEY'S END may be the most noble play I've ever seen. How many Broadway shows can you call noble? One. This one.
JOURNEY'S END came to Broadway without bally-hoo. None of the large magazine spreads HISTORY BOYS got in advance. No big-ass American stars.
Just the right play at the right time for a public clamoring for depth.
This play was what I expected: a powerhouse.
It was originally staged in 1929. It's about stiff-upper-lip British officers in a trench in the Great War (Dub-a-yuh Dub-a-yuh One) and, for all the repressed emotion in the dialogue, the nuanced acting strikes every human chord.
I've seen plays I liked better. (August Wilson's JITNEY is the most moving thing I've ever seen.) I've seen more profound plays. (THE GLASS MENAGERIE, for example.) But JOURNEY'S END may be the most noble play I've ever seen. How many Broadway shows can you call noble? One. This one.
JOURNEY'S END came to Broadway without bally-hoo. None of the large magazine spreads HISTORY BOYS got in advance. No big-ass American stars.
Just the right play at the right time for a public clamoring for depth.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Friends En Masse
This Saturday at work many of my patrons were people I've worked with or known anyway.
First, a guy from a book store where I used to work came in, saw me and said, "You work here?"
Then a friend of a friend came in and talked to me for about ten minutes. Then a co-worker from another book store said hi. She's just moved to town and had told me months ago she'd become a patron. Then a guy I worked with twenty years ago came in. He recognized me right away. I knew he was a patron because I'd seen a few books on hold for him last week. I'd been hoping he'd come in when I was on hand. Another friend came in earlier and we talked about Peter Sellers. (This is because he was borrowing THE PARTY, a Blake Edwards/Sellers thing done between the two clusters of PINK PANTHER movies.)
Last night a friend from childhood came in and said, "You work here?"
Best of all, during my break I went to the bakery across the street. A girl behind the counter whom I'd never seen before appeared to be offering to help me before other people who'd been waiting. I wasn't sure if they were ahead of me or not, so when she said "Can I help you?" I dropped my scruples and ordered. Her co-workers gave her the look that says, "What are you doing?" She got me the tea and the scone I'd ordered and said to me, "Did you read a story at the open mike at the library recently?"
"Yes," I said.
"I thought so. I was in the audience. You were great."
Now I was sure she'd let me cut in line. For the first and probably the only time in my life I was being given the preferential treatment celebrities get.
The story I'd read at the library was LAW ABIDERS, which is on this blog as a fairly recent entry. Ever since reading it my co-workers have been coming up to me saying they enjoyed my reading or that they wish they'd been there to hear me. That is very nice indeed, and not something I'm at all used to. But that a person with no connection to me would have singled me out just to say she liked my story is really thrilling.
Before all these nice people encountered me today I had a moment of shared hostility with a patron. I was in the wrong and apologized to him about twenty minutes later as he was walking toward the door. He was graceful about it and I'm grateful. I am not quite the stereotypical Civil Service worker I've been afraid I might become.
First, a guy from a book store where I used to work came in, saw me and said, "You work here?"
Then a friend of a friend came in and talked to me for about ten minutes. Then a co-worker from another book store said hi. She's just moved to town and had told me months ago she'd become a patron. Then a guy I worked with twenty years ago came in. He recognized me right away. I knew he was a patron because I'd seen a few books on hold for him last week. I'd been hoping he'd come in when I was on hand. Another friend came in earlier and we talked about Peter Sellers. (This is because he was borrowing THE PARTY, a Blake Edwards/Sellers thing done between the two clusters of PINK PANTHER movies.)
Last night a friend from childhood came in and said, "You work here?"
Best of all, during my break I went to the bakery across the street. A girl behind the counter whom I'd never seen before appeared to be offering to help me before other people who'd been waiting. I wasn't sure if they were ahead of me or not, so when she said "Can I help you?" I dropped my scruples and ordered. Her co-workers gave her the look that says, "What are you doing?" She got me the tea and the scone I'd ordered and said to me, "Did you read a story at the open mike at the library recently?"
"Yes," I said.
"I thought so. I was in the audience. You were great."
Now I was sure she'd let me cut in line. For the first and probably the only time in my life I was being given the preferential treatment celebrities get.
The story I'd read at the library was LAW ABIDERS, which is on this blog as a fairly recent entry. Ever since reading it my co-workers have been coming up to me saying they enjoyed my reading or that they wish they'd been there to hear me. That is very nice indeed, and not something I'm at all used to. But that a person with no connection to me would have singled me out just to say she liked my story is really thrilling.
Before all these nice people encountered me today I had a moment of shared hostility with a patron. I was in the wrong and apologized to him about twenty minutes later as he was walking toward the door. He was graceful about it and I'm grateful. I am not quite the stereotypical Civil Service worker I've been afraid I might become.
