TheBanyanTree: Life Stories 37

[Tobie Shapiro]

October 23, 20000006


Dear ests,

	I've gotten a list from my lawyer of 
things that villainman says were missing from the 
house when he moved his things out last Monday 
night and Tuesday.  He was incensed of course and 
wants me to go to the storage unit and fetch them 
right away.  These are things like a CD, a 
painting, a glass bowl, tiny glass cups he hand 
blew himself when I'd given him glass blowing 
lessons.  All these things wound up in storage, 
somehow.  The movers messed up and took some 
things that should have been left behind. 
Everything that went to storage is stored in 
vaults, and I pay per vault per month.  There 
were 450 boxes!  Four hundred fifty boxes.  What 
are the chances that I'm going to go back to the 
vaults, pay them the fifty clams they require to 
open up the vault for me, and go through 450 
boxes to find him a CD, a painting, a glass bowl, 
a few glass cups?  I told my lawyer that 
villainman left abruptly nearly three years ago, 
never came back to collect so much as a pair of 
pants, and has done nicely without any of these 
things for all that time.  He can wait a while 
longer.  The lawyer wrote a letter to the 
opposing lawyer and worded it rather succinctly. 
It ought to stick.

	Stick this.



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Getting Melvin's Attention

	Melvin had hated his name, he told me, 
until he found out from his mother that he was 
named after the very famous actor, Melvyn 
Douglas.  I saw Melvyn Douglas in, "Being There", 
Peter Sellers' last movie.  He played the wealthy 
and powerful man who advised the President on 
important matters.  He had the President's ear, 
as they say.  Melvin was telling this to me in 
front of his mother who interrupted him and 
corrected his memory.

	"No, Melvin.  You weren't named after the 
very famous actor, Melvyn Douglas.  If we'd named 
you after Melvyn Douglas, we would have spelled 
your name with a "y" like Melvyn Douglas spells 
it.  But we didn't.  We spelled your name with an 
"i".

	Melvin's jaw fell open.  He asked, "So who DID you name me after?"

	"No one," his mother replied.  And there 
went the myth and the self respect in one fell 
swoop.

	Melvin was one of my lovers.  He holds 
the record for slob, and for confused.  The poor 
guy was blessed with a balding head and tufts of 
hair around the ears and circling the pate, 
sticking out here and there like Bozo the Clown. 
Once, we were watching television and some film 
clip  of Bozo the Clown came on to illustrate 
something hilarious.  He turned his face from the 
screen, saying, "I hate that look!"

	Melvin's house was chaos.  His mind was 
chaos.  In Melvin's house, it was hard to tell 
which room was which, because pots and pans might 
just as well appear in the bedroom as the 
kitchen, a pile of bed sheets might just as well 
appear in the living room as the bedroom, and a 
sofa cushion might just as well appear in the 
kitchen as the living room.  Melvin had a cat, 
Piglet, whom I called, Giblet.  Giblet was the 
only cat I've ever met whom I disliked.  He would 
rush in front of me, and suddenly squat on the 
stairs at my feet, tripping me.  I'd fall on my 
face every time Giblet pulled this stunt, and I 
hotly detested this.  Then, I realized that 
Giblet was just doing what was necessary, because 
the only way to attract Melvin's attention was to 
trip him, level him, bonk him in the head hard, 
so that he'd notice you.  Melvin rarely noticed 
anything.  He was on his own distracted mission, 
off someplace that we other humans dare not go. 
We'd never return with our minds in order.

	Once, Melvin and I had arranged to meet 
at 6:00 at his house.  In the morning, we parted, 
and then I got a communique that made it clear I 
couldn't possibly be back there by 6:00.  It 
would be more like 7:30.  So I was forced with 
having to write a note and make sure to place it 
somewhere he couldn't miss it when he returned 
from work in the late afternoon.  I wrote my note 
in all capital letters, boldly, on a full sized 
sheet of paper.

	"MELVIN.  I CAN'T BE HERE AT 6:00.  I 
HAVE AN APPOINTMENT THAT I CANNOT MISS.  DON'T 
WORRY.  I'LL BE BACK HERE BY 7:30.  LOVE, TOBIE."

	Then I had to find a place to post the 
note, someplace in the midst of that fine chaos 
where he couldn't fail to see it and read it. 
But in the pandemonium of his house, how was I 
going to place this note and be sure he'd find 
it?  I selected a large overstuffed armchair, and 
taped the note to the back cushion.  Then, with 
great effort, I pushed the chair into position in 
the path of the front door, so that when Melvin 
opened the door, it would be stopped by the 
obstructing chair.  Right there in his way.  He 
would have to take the chair and move it to the 
side at least a couple feet in order to get into 
his own house.  He couldn't miss the note.  He'd 
be staring it in the face.  That ought to do it.

	When I returned at 7:30, he greeted me 
anxiously.  "Oh, there you are!  I was so 
worried.  What happened?"

	"Didn't you see the note I left you?"

	"What note?"

	"The one on the armchair.  The one on the 
armchair that was positioned to stop the front 
door from opening."

	"Oh.  I wondered why that chair was there."

	And there, shoved off to the side of the 
door, was the armchair, with the note still taped 
to it.  Giblet had the right idea.

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-- 




Tobie Helene Shapiro
Berkeley, California   USA

tobie at shpilchas.net