Marilyn Singer

Tarantulas on the Brain

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(excerpt from Chapter One)

Aunt Minnie is always telling me the story of the ugly duckling.  You know the one–it’s about this funny-looking duckling that everyone laughs at and then it has the last laugh because it grows up to be a big, beautiful swan.  The reason she keeps telling me this story is because I’m pretty funny-looking–I’ve got long legs and humongous feet, and buck teeth, too–and Aunt Minnie hopes I’ll grow up and become a swan.  But I keep telling her I don’t want to be a swan because swans are nasty, mean birds that can break your leg with one swat of a wing if they want to.  You see, people are always misjudging animals because of their looks.  Take spiders, for instance.  Especially tarantulas.  People look at tarantulas and see their long, hairy legs and their fat, fuzzy bodies and they scream and yell and say how horrible tarantulas are.  But they don’t understand tarantulas at all.  Tarantulas are soft and gentle and they never bite–well, almost never–unless they’re attacked first.  I’d rather become a tarantula than a swan any day.  I told Mom and Dad that, but they said, “Oh Lizzie, honestly!” They’re just as bad as everybody else.

But my sister Rona is even worse.  She says the only thing spiders are good for is to be stepped on, and that only a brat could like them.  “Lizzie, you’re a brat,” she says.

Once, I asked her why she thinks I’m a brat, but she just said, “Well, if you don’t know, I won’t bother to tell you.”

“That’s a very unscientific answer,” I said.

“You and your science!  Science won’t get you a boyfriend,” she sneered.

I told her she’d make a good black widow spider when she grows up.

Then she got real mad and said a remark like that proved I was a brat and she stomped off to call her friend Judy and talk about boys.

I think if Rona spent more time studying science than looking in the mirror to see if her breasts are growing, she’d know a lot more about life and spiders.  And maybe even boys.

The First Few Friends

by
The First Few Friends

(excerpt from Chapter One)

August, 1968

My ass really hurts.

I’ve been on this damn plane for nearly fourteen hours.  It’s almost midnight.  Five a.m. in London.  We were supposed to have arrived at five p.m. Eastern Daylight Time.  It figures that just when I’m coming home after being in England for a year, there’d be an airport strike.  We circled Kennedy Airport for three hours, flew to Toronto to refuel, flew back to New York and have been circling for almost three hours again.  Any more circling and I’ll have permanent vertigo.

Oh God, there goes another poor slob staggering to the loo.  That’s toilet in English.

Come to think of it, I’m not feeling so well myself.  I don’t think that Scotch and soda helped.  I hope my parents don’t smell it on my breath.  I can hear the comments already–“You went to England a teetotaler and came back a wino,” “Our daughter a boozer!” et al.

Was it really just yesterday Gwyn killsed me good-bye in Victoria Station?

“Don’t see me off at the airport,” I’d begged.  “I couldn’t bear it.  It’s too final.”

“Nothing’s final.  I’ll come to the States within a year.  I promise you I will,” he answered seriously.  Then he got that mischievous glint in his eye that I love so much.  “And I’ll thrill your friends with my British charm and perfect manners,” he said and pinched my bum–or ass, as Americans call it.

Oh Gwyn.  Oh God.

Why do I have to come back to New York?

“Please fasten your etceteras.”

I must have dozed off.  I wonder who’s waiting for me at the terminal.  My parents, of course.  What will they think about me now?  I’ve changed a lot in a year, a year spent at Reading University learning about literature and life.  A hefty hunk of life.  I’m twenty (almost).  A grown-up.  So my parents can’t pretend I’m their little girl anymore, can they?  Things have to be different A.E. (After England).

Will the Whole Sick Crew be waiting too?  I hope so–at least then I’ll have some people to talk to.  We had a lot of good times before I left–Aviva, Dorrie, Nancy and me, the Whole Sick Crew.  I remember how Aviva dubbed us that.  We were going out to Nathan’s on Long Island to consume large quantities of hot dogs and Cokes and to show off Dorrie’s bike to the Rebels, a motorcycle gang we heard hung out there.  That was Avi’s latest craze–motorcycles.  Avi had lots of crazes–poker, blues clubs (for which we made trips to strange corners of Manhattan), learning and riding the entire New York City subway system, and Tolkien.  And we went through all of the crazes with her.  After all, they were fun.  The one thing she’d always stuck with was singing (even though the type of music changed), just as I stuck with my writing, Dorrie with her sculpture and Nancy with her violin.  Anyway, this time Avi’s craze was motorcycles.  She was too young to own a bike, so Dorrie bought one instead, a used BMW that ate up most of her savings.  Dorrie looked great on that cycle, with her strong, hard-muscled arms, crash helmet and dark shades.  And Avi looked good too, sitting on the back.  Sometimes Dorrie let her practice driving it.  Nancy and I couldn’t afford motorcycles–or drive them for that matter–so we just followed along in my old Chevy.  When we reached Nathan’s there were the Rebels and their girls in their jeans and black leather jackets with the chains and the studs and the name Rebels written in bold red letters.

The Rebels were knocked out by Dorrie and Avi and offered us beer and rides on their bikes.  One of them, Tiny, who was 6’5″ and 280 pounds or so, as a supreme compliment lifted up Dorrie and Avi together as if they were two little birds, set them on his bike and told them to take it for a spin.  Dorrie and Avi loved it.  We all did–even though rounding those sharp corners and heading through those dark streets made me and Nancy a little nervous.  When we finally left, beer bloated, exhilarated and slightly woozy, a silent gloating passed between us.  We were tough, it said.  We were any man’s equal.

Then, back in Dorrie’s room, we shared some leftover rice pudding and exchanged imitations of the Rebels’ pungent speech until we collapsed laughing.

“Look at us.  The Whole Sick Crew?” Aviva said.

“The Whole Sick Crew?  Did you make that up?” I asked.

“No, I got it from this weird book called V.  The Crew is a bunch of lethargic, decadent romantics.”

“That’s us, all right,” Dorrie said.

“There’s a character in it, Benny Profane, who hunts alligators in the sewers of New York.”

“Are there really alligators in the sewers of New York?” Nancy asked.

“Sure, but they’re disguised as rats,” Dorrie answered.

“The Whole Sick Crew.  I like that,” I said.

And so that’s who we became.

The Crew made life at Queens College bearable.  Maybe they can make this year bearable too.  If anyone can.  Anyone besides Gwyn.

The Fanatic’s Ecstatic, Aromatic Guide To Onions, Garlic, Shallots And Leeks

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The Fanatic's Ecstatic, Aromatic Guide to Onions

(excerpt)

HISTORY AND LORE

What would civilization be without the onion?

A French Chef

Pick up an onion.  You are holding a universe in your hand.  You may not realize that, but an Egyptian living four thousand years ago would have.  In ancient Egypt, the onion was considered, and possibly worshipped as, a symbol of the universe–round and layered in concentric circles, as the Egyptians pictured it.  Looking at an onion–or a head of garlic, a leek, a bunch of chives–is like looking at the history of the world.  So have another look and let’s time-travel.

The onion and its relatives were born approximately five thousand years ago, probably in the Mid-East or the Mediterranean region.  Moslem legend says that when Satan left the Garden of Eden in triumph after Adam’s fall, onions sprang up in his right footprint, garlic in his left.  Whether or not that’s true, garlic, leeks and onions are mentioned in the oldest of written history–Assyrian and Babylonian tablets,  Egyptian papyri, Chinese books–as well as in ancient paintings.  In Sumer, where writing was perhaps born, archaeologists unearthed a tablet bearing a citizen’s complaint against the ishakku, or local bureaucrat, who took everything for himself, as politicians are sometimes wont to do.  “The oxen of the gods plowed the ishakku’s onion patches, the onion and cucumber patches of the ishakku were located in the gods’ best fields.”  Chives also most likely came from the Mid-East; they were introduced to China at least two thousand years ago. And shallots, a form of aggregate onion also known as Allium ascalonicum, which have never been found in the wild state, may or may not have come from Ascalon, a city in Judaea where they were cultivated.  However, they probably date back to the beginning of the first century, A.D.

All of the early civilizations used the alliums medicinally–something we’ll get into in a later chapter–but onions, garlic, leeks, and all had other important uses, too.  The Egyptian pyramid-builders (and, in the fact, the Egyptian populace in general, except possibly for the priests, although they too probably indulged) ate onions as a wholesome, inexpensive, stamina-providing food.

It Can’t Hurt Forever

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(excerpt from Chapter One)

Mom promised me I won’t die.  So I’m trying very hard to believe her, which is not the easiest thing in the world when every five minutes somebody or other comes in with a big smile and sticks a needle in your arm or a thermometer in your you-know-what.  And it’s especially not easy to believe when you’re feeling perfectly fine, ready to climb trees and run races, but everybody tells you you have to be in the hospital because something just happens to be wrong with your old ticker.  On television, when something’s wrong with your heart, it is not a very encouraging sign.

Dad says what’s wrong can be fixed; it’s pretty common, he says.  There’s this little tube (they call it a “duct”), between two arteries (those are blood vessels) leading from the heart, which is supposed to close after you’re born, only mine didn’t close and that means some of the blood isn’t flowing where it should.  So the doctors have to close it off, which means I have to have an operation.  And that’s weird because I’ve never even had my tonsils out!  Also, I have to be here about twelve days, which wouldn’t be bad if I were missing school, but the doctors said my operation wasn’t an emergency so I could wait until summer vacation.  So here I am, lying in bed on a perfectly beautiful July day when I should be swimming in my friend Maggie’s pool.

The Pickle Plan

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The Pickle Plan

(excerpt)

Nobody cares about me.

I think about a lot of things.

Like why my dog’s nose is always cold and mine isn’t.

Or why some flowers smell good and other don’t.

And why Billy Michaels has pickles every day in his lunch box, but I never do.

But nobody is interested.

Nobody at all.

Mom says people who are different get lots of attention.

So I’m working on a plan.

I call it THE DIFFERENT PLAN.

 

No Applause, Please

by
No Applause Please

(Excerpt from Chapter Two)

“Did you get rid of your relatives?” Laurie grinned when she answered the door.

“No, they got rid of me.  It was Ruthie-sing-us-a-song time again>”

“Speaking which, we ought to rehearse.”

Laurie and I ae going to sing in the school show.  I am very nervous about it, having written the songs.  I am also nervous because, as I said before, I really haven’t performed since I was a kid–and even then I couldn’t take it being, well, formal.  I remember when I was really little–around three, I think–and we went to a summer resort in the Catskills.  Every day I went into the dark, musty auditorium and climbed onto the stage.  Behind the curtain were cases of seltzer and chocolate syrup.  I never knew why or how they always managed to disappear for the evening shows featuring singers, impersonators, and cartoons.  I was scared of the cartoons.  I think I couldn’t stand cats being blown up and dogs bopped on the heads and some villain or another being shot in the pants. Anyway, I’d step out on the dark stage and sing into a dead mike.  The only people who saw me were the handyman and my parents.  How was I to know the handyman had a big mouth?

One Saturday night, we assembled for the dreaded cartoons.  Rick Bissell (Mom says that was his name), smiling M.C., stepped out.

“Tonight.”  Grin.  Grin.  “We have a special surprise for you all.”  Teeth.  Teeth.  “We have in our audience a little miss who can sing up a storm.”  I sat there wondering who was going to make a fool of herself.  “Please give a big hand to our own Ruthie Zeiler.”  Loud applause.  I didn’t move.

“Go on, Ruthie, it’s you.”  Mom nudged.

“Get up there, honey.”  Dad smiled.

I looked at both of them.  They knew all along I was going to be “introduced.”  I would have yelled “traitors” at them, but I didn’t know the word.  So instead, I shouted “No,” burst into tears, and ran out of the hall.  So much for my singing career.  As I said, I performed all the time for relatives, maybe even strangers. But that was offstage.  Then I stopped.  I think I decided it made people think I was precocious.  Now I only sing for Laurie–but that’s about to change.  Once again, I’m going public.  And I’m scared.

Laurie isn’t scared at all.  She is a terrific strong soprano (I am an alto–or maybe a tenor), and she sings all the time, anywhere, at a moment’s notice.  Funny, nobody has ever called her precocious.  Of course, I haven’t told her how good her voice is.  I figure she’s conceited enough about her voice, with all the compliments she always gets.  i just say we sound good together.  Laurie also plays guitar well–something I just can’t seem to do.  But she can’t write songs at all, so I guess we make a good team.

“Yeah, we’ll rehearse–but let’s continue The Dream first.”

“No, we’ll rehearse first.  Work before pleasure.”  Laurie often speaks in clichés. And besides, rehearsing is pure pleasure for her.  “Have you figured out what you’re going to wear yet?”

Now if there’s one thing I don’t think about, it’s clothes.  I gave Laurie one of my disapproving glances.  “I am not a fashion show.”

“I know, stupid, but we still have to look good.  My mom says I can wear some of her eye shadow and liner.”

“You planning on wowing the boys in the front row?”  I was being nasty, but I couldn’t help it.  My songs are about being yourself, being natural, and here was Laurie talking about makeup and stuff.

“There might be an agent in the audience,” she said haughtily.

“Sure, just dying to take two fourteen-year-olds under his wing and book them into the hottest clubs in town.  Is this another one of Sylvia’s bright ideas?”

Sylvia is Laurie’s mother.  I have called her Sylvia since I was five because she asked me to.  She is always pushing show biz at Laurie.

Laurie ignored my remark about her mother and said, “Who said anything about two fourteen-year-olds?”

That did it.  I wasn’t in such a hot mood to start with–what with my relatives and all.  And now Laurie was being rotten.  I felt tears forming, but I didn’t want Laurie to see how much she’d hurt me.  So I said in a calm voice, “If that’s the case, you don’t need me to rehearse.  See you some time.”  And I dashed out of the house.

I couldn’t go home and face the relatives again, so I headed for a little playground I always go to when I want to be alone.  It has a slide, a sandbox, a basketball court which gets all icy in the winter, and a couple of swings shaped like horses.  A few little kids were playing in the sand when i got there.  i went and sat on one of the horses; if I looked funny, I didn’t care.  I used to sit on the horses all the time when I was little and pretend I was a knight riding to save a lady in distress.  I never pretended I was the lady because her part was so boring.  I sat still and tried not to cry, but it didn’t work.  I bawled like a baby. Fortunately, the little kids ignored me.  Finally, I wiped my eyes and decided to go home.

I am not going to make up first with Laurie this time.  I am always the one to make up–even if I haven’t started the fight.  Laurie can just need me first this time.  And The Dream can wait.

The Dog Who Insisted He Wasn’t

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(excerpt)

Konrad was a dog–but he refused to believe it.

His mother had told him, “Konrad, you’re such a handsome dog.”

“Hmm-hmm-hmm-hmm-hmm,” sang Konrad so he didn’t have to listen.

One day he was adopted by a family who wanted a dog.  They treated Konrad just the way a dog should be treated.  He had two bright plastic dishes–one for dog food and one for water.  He had a comfortable piece of rug, a shiny collar, a long leather leash.  He was walked and brushed, patted on the head, and given chewy biscuits.  For any dog, it was a wonderful life.  But not for Konrad.  As far as he was concerned, it was a dog’s life and he wasn’t a dog!

So, he ran away.