Posts Tagged ‘existentialism’

Live! From Paradise! #257

Monday, May 3rd, 2010

Dwayne the Earth Mover called the other day, and he sounded even more surprised than I did.

“Larry B! How you doing? Why didn’t you say good-bye?”

It’s been almost a year since I saw Dwayne last, so it took me a moment to recognize the voice. That seemed to be fine with him because he plunged right on:

“Here I am, figuring life’s like always and you and Gwen the Beautiful are dancing and loving and living the dream, and then I hear from Brannigan that you’ve gone and departed your Mountain for some flatland that’ll be on the ocean floor any day!”

“It’s just for awhile,” I said. “Gwen told Elizabeth what was happening when we saw her at the bank.”

At the mention of his wife, Dwayne was silent for so long I thought his cell had dropped the connection. Then, with his usual fast-talking effervescence: “So what’s it like, starting over in a new place?”

“Tougher than I thought, that’s for sure. Been here a month and still haven’t found the TV remote. The dogs can’t get it into their heads that they don’t have to announce every visitor anymore. Met the neighbor across the street when she came outside to yell at me for yelling in the neighborhood because I was calling out to another neighbor —”

I stopped myself. Because I realized I was running on about…well, about the same kinds of things every move to a new home has brought to my life.

I remembered when I went off to grad school at the University of Iowa and was stopped for speeding just as I crossed the state line. State Trooper got out of his car and came over to my window with a big smile on his face. “Welcome to Iowa, sir!” he said. “Drivers license, please….”

Then there was the time I whisked Gwen to Santa Fe. We’d just gotten married in Vegas, where an Elvis impersonator walked us down the aisle at the Graceland Wedding Chapel and were about to settle down in a house I’d rented on the Santa Clara Pueblo just north of town.

We were treating the drive like a honeymoon. Until we got to Kingman, Arizona, where my hot new truck got so hot it caught fire on I-40. While a local dealer waited for the new driveshaft the truck needed, Gwen and I drove on in a rental car and got home just in time to learn that, as beautiful and modern as the house was, the builders had neglected to install one necessary ingredient.

A heating system that worked.

And how could I forget the first time I wrote anything in this space? It was about an event our first week in Arkansas. When the horse transporters pulled onto the Cloud Creek Ranch driveway with Huck the Spotless Appaloosa and Elaine the Not So Wild Mustang. And promptly got stuck in the mud. For a good long time there it seemed as though the wranglers were going to be permanent residents of The Mountain with us.

None of these things compare, though with the Biggest Move I Ever Made. The one to L.A.

It was over 40 years ago, but I still can picture every detail of the night I arrived at LAX. I was heading for the baggage carousel when a white-haired old lady collapsed to the floor in front of the chute.

Immediately, her companion, an only slightly less white-haired woman, bent down to help, wailing, “Somebody get a doctor! My friend is dying! Get a doctor, please!”

That’s when the baggage started coming down. As I stood there, not able to make myself move, I saw all the other passengers surge forward, stepping over the two women without the slightest visible hesitation, and getting their bags.

Another passenger from the flight turned to me. “Hey, kid,” he said. “Welcome to L.A….”

Dwayne didn’t say much as I told him all this. When I finished, he laughed but didn’t sound amused. “The reason Elizabeth didn’t tell me you were going was that we don’t talk much anymore. Me working in Little Rock, her in Paradise, we kinda came to a parting of the ways.”

“I’m sorry, Dwayne,” I said.

“Thanks,” Dwayne said. “And for the stories too. But I hope you understand, bud. Way things are, I’d rather be stuck in the worst beginning ever than the ending I’m in now.”

I didn’t disagree.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer. He, his wife and their various animals divide their time between the Ozark Mountains and Puget Sound. The other residents of Larry’s mythical Paradise reside entirely in his imagination and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Live! From Paradise! #256

Friday, April 23rd, 2010

A new environment means adjustment.

Unfortunately, adjustment doesn’t come easily for yours truly, Larry B,

Back in 3rd grade, my teacher, Miss Hinsberger, clued the class in on what separates humans from other animals.

“Animals,” she said, “have to adjust to their environment in order to survive. Humans make their environment adjust to them, and thrive.”

Being young and smart and “maladjusted” (people weren’t throwing around diagnoses like “autism” and “Asperger’s Syndrome” back in that day), and totally crushing on Miss Hinsberger, I took this wisdom straight into my heart, and worked desperately to make my environment adjust to me so I could indeed thrive.

It didn’t work.

You can’t change people, especially if you fear them, and I feared everyone because, in keeping with my Asperger’s, every moment with other people caused me literal, physical pain.

Being with ten thousand people at a baseball game, or a dozen people at a family gathering, or even one person at home, made me feel the way a claustrophobic man or woman would feel trapped in a windowless room.

Absolute terror, distinguished by:

Shortness of breath.

A nose either stuffed fuller than a Thanksgiving turkey or flooding like New Orleans during Hurricane Katrina.

Complete loss of the ability to focus on anything, including relief from the fear.

School was a nightmare. The only positive moments I had during elementary school were when Miss Hinsberger gave me what I saw as a very special smile and said, “Good work.”

No way could I adjust the situation, nor could I adjust myself to it.

Finally, in high school, I found the “cure.”

And taught myself to dance the dance that would let me be like everyone else.

Okay, not everyone. The guy I faked being was James Dean.

James Dean the actor was dead by then, thanks to having crashed his Porsche. But his screen persona lived.

Quiet. Brooding. Untouchable by anything outside himself. Flashing that little smile at a joke only he understood.

On film, James Dean was the coolest guy who ever lived.

In real life, I pushed myself to become as close to that as anyone ever could.

I worked on my new personality for years. Added layers so I could interact with others more comfortably. Became a James Dean who told stories in life and on paper. Who talked quickly and cleverly and shared that little smile with people so realistically they all believed that I, the coolest guy who ever lived, truly was sharing myself with them.

This flattered the hell out of most people, and they became my friends.

The more friends I made, the more successful I became, professionally as well as personally.

The more successful I became, the less painful life seemed. And the more real my grafted-on personality felt to me. The false confidence and ease became genuine. So did the friendships. And loves as well. I continued growing outward, and a terrific thing happened.

I became the person I’d pretended to be. One step beyond Pinocchio, I was a real live man.

As a by-all-available-standards successful man, I was able to design my life to be as nonthreatening to myself as possible.

I was the boss, and what does the boss have to be afraid of? I worked exactly the way I wanted to work, on only the projects that appealed to me, and with only the people I wanted to work with.

I lived exactly the way I wanted as well. In the country — ranches in the L.A. and Santa Fe areas, even the Ozarks. Surrounded by beauty both natural and man-made. With people who loved me. I even had just the right pinch of “celebrity” and so was treated with what to me was the perfect amount of respect.

Then, to make things even more awesome for my family and myself, off I went to a totally new kind of environment. A small town. A street with neighbors who knew nothing about me, and whom I also knew nothing about.

Yikes!

Here I am, on serene Friendly Street, where everyone else knows everyone and says, “Hi!” and hangs together and —

And it terrifies me. The old familiar feeling of being totally out of it, not getting anyone, feeling invaded every time another set of eyes meet mine is back, full throttle.

So here I sit, back in elementary school, completely freaked.

Time to come up with another dance. One that’ll work where I am.

Watch me now.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer. He, his wife and their various animals divide their time between the Ozark Mountains and Puget Sound. The other residents of Larry’s mythical Paradise reside entirely in his imagination and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Live! From Paradise! #255

Friday, April 16th, 2010

It’s been two weeks since Gwen the Beautiful and I moved into our Paradise Sound home, and in the short time we’ve been here we’ve had so many ups and downs that all I can think of is a phrase famously uttered not only by everyone’s favorite detective, Sherlock Holmes, but also by our fave sociopathic infant, The Family Guy’s Stewie Griffin:

“What the deuce?”

What am I talking about? For openers, this:

Move Ups

Youngest Daughter Amber lives just across the Sound, only an hour and a half away…and that’s when the traffic is bad. Oldest Son Jeb lives straight down the coast in L.A., loves the town, and can’t wait to bring his family here to relax and enjoy.

We’re renting a terrific house. It’s Craftsman-style and was built in the 1930s. It’s also in exactly the neighborhood we wanted. Uptown, a three minute walk from shops and restaurants and smack dab in the middle of the small town Victorian charm that made us love this place when we vacationed here last summer.

Our furniture and other belongings arrived at the same time we did. Intact and ready to use.

Medical services also are just a few minutes away. Even the hospital, located halfway across town, is only a five minute drive.

The restaurants are as good as we remembered.

Our street is famous. Locally anyway. For its friendliness and cohesion. There’s neighborhood this and family that. Our first weekend here was distinguished by a block party. The second by a giant yard sale shared by everyone on the street. If you’re a social kind of person who left your previous abode because it was in the Middle of Nowhere, with the nearest neighbor half a mile away, then the name “Paradise” takes on even more significance than it originally had.

Move Downs

We’re renting a house instead of owning it, and it’s for sale. Which means letting realtors in to show the place. And dealing with a rental agent who means really well but keeps exhausting both of us by working so very hard to make a better impression on me than anyone but my wife and family can. (Hmm, I wonder…If I adopt him, will we both be able to relax?)

Our furniture and other belongings have arrived, but we have no place to put almost half of them. An old house means winding stairs and low bedroom ceilings. Which also means I have to use the downstairs bathroom because I can’t stand upright in the one upstairs. We’re not exactly loaded with closet space either. Most of my clothes are in the guest room. (Luckily, not all my underwear.)

About those medical facilities: I’m even happier they’re close by than I thought I’d be. Because they’re getting way more use than I thought I’d give them. I know I told the world I was coming here to recuperate, but c’mon, Universe, can’t you give me more than two nights in a row when Gwen and I aren’t throwing on our clothes to get me to the E.R.?

The restaurants not only are as good as we remembered, they’re also as expensive.

Our street indeed is loaded with enough friendliness and cohesion for even the most social human. Unfortunately, I chose to live on The Mountain because that description just plain ain’t me. (Gwen, however, is in her glory. People to talk to instead of rocks and trees and animals and spirits! A life that’s real in a way she’s wanted more than she even knew.)

Speaking of spirits, I miss my daily conversations with The Mound in the Cloud Creek Ranch clearing. And nothing in our cute little backyard has said, “I love you” to me yet. Not one dandelion. Nor a squirrel. Nor even one of the zillion bones the dogs have dug up. (Some of which look far too much like they should be yakking away.)

Not that our new digs are entirely without magic. There’s the music that wafts out from within the secret door to nowhere in our bedroom every night. And the sound of a dog that isn’t there barking on the upper deck that should, but doesn’t, connect to the house. Oh, and the nice young Victorian-era couple Gwen can only see out of the corner of her eye….

See what I mean? “What the deuce?” happenings if ever there were any.

Gotta love ‘em.

Hello, Paradise Sound.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer. He, his wife and their various animals divide their time between the Ozark Mountains and Puget Sound. The other residents of Larry’s mythical Paradise reside entirely in his imagination and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Live! From Paradise! #254

Friday, April 9th, 2010

As a result of my recent heart attack and quintuple bypass surgery, Gwen the Beautiful and I have gotten a place in Washington State closer to the rest of our family, along the body of water I think of now as Paradise Sound.

We spent our first night on the West Coast in Seattle, which meant we had our choice of great food and even greater company, Youngest Daughter Amber and Jeremiah the Rugged, who took us for something we’d never been able to get in the Ozarks.

Sushi. Fresh and tasty.

We love hanging with our daughter and sorta-son-in-law. They’re young, intelligent, talented, and, best of all, eager and excited about the myriad possibilities stretching out from this point in their lives.

We didn’t have them all to ourselves for very long, though. Not after I heard a familiar voice just a couple of feet away.

The last time I saw Pete the Wild Man was during the ’90s. He was one of the most in-demand composers in television, scoring three different hit shows and providing theme songs I’m sure many people remember.

Before that, Pete had been a guitarist with a major rock band and, after his over-indulgences became too much even in the days of rockers trashing hotel rooms, limos, and private jets, he’d become a successful session player in L.A.

That’s when he met Madeline. Maddy was an aspiring actress, one of what were known as “those girls,” beautiful young women who frequented all the right places in all the right ways.

What I remembered most about Maddy wasn’t her beauty but her intelligence. In an era where the Rocket to Stardom opened its hatch readily for well-shaped and agreeable ditzes, Maddy was a contrarian with a brain.

Instead of bending over backwards to be what the sugar daddies wanted, she stood her ground, and got what she wanted anyway.

Pete’s first words to me about her said it all. “Some people go along for the ride. Some live like chess players, planning strategy two or three moves ahead. But Maddy’s a general who sees not just the outcome of the battle but how both sides’ll come out of the occupation 20 years down the line.”

(Yep, Pete may have been an insane rocker, but that’s how he spoke.)

Kind of the way Maddy thought.

They were perfect for each other and knew it. Theirs was a love so true that it made Pete over into the hard-working, dedicated, go-to kinda guy with whom I loved working. Maddy changed too. No more cattle call auditions. No more clubbing. She was the Queen of the Mulholland Drive house Pete shared with her, and together they made it a magical retreat.

I’d always been sorry we’d lost touch, so there at the sushi place I was thrilled when I heard:

“Harry Connick Jr. tickets are going for how much? Are they insane? The promoter must be Canadian. Only a Canadian would think @$#ing Harry @$#ing Connick @$#ing Junior had soul.”

I knew that indignation well and leaned over to the speaker. “Hey, he’s got more than Michael Buble.”

“Michael Buble’s not fit to carry Connick’s toiletries—”

And then Pete got it. “Larry B! You survived!”

I can’t remember when I’ve felt a bigger hug. Pete and I held each other tightly. Then he was turning to Gwen, and I was looking at Maddy.

“Gwen!”

“Maddy!”

More hugs. Introductions to Amber and Jeremiah. Happiness all around.

It was a wonderful welcome to a new place. An evening of catching up and celebration. The best part was how clear it was that Pete and Maddy still loved each other like crazy, and how good that made the rest of us feel.

Finally, Pete and Maddy had to go. Pete stood up and went around to Maddy’s chair. He did more than give her his arm. Very carefully, he helped her to her feet and handed her a pair of canes that had been leaning against an empty table nearby.

Maddy secured the canes to her wrists, one at a time. The process seemed to exhaust her, but she just smiled and accepted our surprise. “M.S.,” she said. “Going on year 13 and I’m still mobile. Sometimes anyway.”

Six people exchanged kisses in various combinations. “You’ve got my number now,” Pete said. “If you don’t call after you’re settled in on Paradise Sound I’ll make the place look like the Hollywood Holiday Inn the morning they banned me.”

I watched as Pete slowly helped Maddy outside. Turned to Gwen and the kids. “I always thought of them as the world’s luckiest couple,” I said.

Gwen and Amber replied with the same words at the same time.

“They are,” they said.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer. He, his wife and their various animals divide their time between Marion County, Arkansas and Puget Sound. The other residents of Larry’s mythical Paradise reside entirely in his imagination and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Live! From Paradise! #253

Friday, April 2nd, 2010

It never fails. As soon as you’ve got your plans made and future organized, wham! The Universe comes up with something that changes everything.

Our plan for my horse brother, Huck the Spotless Appaloosa, had been in place for months. Gwen the Beautiful and I would go to Port Paradise with Emmy the Bold, Decker the Service Dog, and Ditsy Dixie, and Huck would remain on The Mountain with the Landry family, which was coming to stay at Cloud Creek Ranch while the rest of us were gone.

The Landrys were cool with this. They’re bringing half a dozen of their own horses anyway, as well as various children, grandchildren, and, as I understand it, a couple of dogs and a rooster. (And if that doesn’t keep the property hopping while Gwen and I are gone, I don’t know what will.)

As usual, Huck was curious about the arrangement. “How many horses?” he said when I told him the plan.

“Well,” I said, “they’ve got about a dozen, but I don’t know if they’re taking them all.”

“How many mares?” Huck said.

“About half of the herd.”

Huck’s ears twitched. He looked concerned. “The rest are stallions? I’m not too sure I like those odds.”

“Mostly geldings, I think,” I told him. “Maybe a couple of young studs.”

Huck isn’t a stallion. But he’s no ordinary gelding. In fact, it’s safe to say he’s the very proudest of “proud cuts.” So when he heard this, he whinnied loudly. Pounded the ground. “I’ll have to show them who’s boss.”

“It’ll turn out fine,” I said.

“Sure,” Huck said. But he didn’t sound sure at all.

I wasn’t that confident either. Huck and I have been together a long time, and to say he’s been spoiled doesn’t begin to do justice to just how spoiled he is. He’s the only horse I’ve ever known who really behaves like the star of a kids’ horse book. As a result, we’ve treated him more like a family member than, say, livestock.

Obviously, that was going to change.

Here, though, is where what Albert Camus called “the benign indifference of the Universe” clearly manifested itself. Just as I was starting to worry about the situation, up drove Marcia Helm.

Marcia’s a dog trainer, first and foremost, and she’s been doing the usual dog trainer things with the Cloud Creek pack, with excellent results. She’s also had her eye on Huck. (Hey, he’s pretty much irresistible to women anyway. Sorrel coat, white blaze, cream-colored mane, big eyes that look right into your heart.)

Marcia has great rapport with most animals, and every time she came over she’d spend a lot of time with Huck, giving him carrots and scratching his chin. “I really miss having horses,” she’d say. “I’ve got just the perfect area to fence in for one or two. How does he ride?”

Marcia stopped in our clearing, got out of her car. “Hey, Ms. Dog Whisperer,” I said. “Want to go for a ride?”

She knew I wasn’t talking about cruising down Main Street. A few minutes later, Marcia had all of Huck’s tack ready to go and was brushing and picking and getting him ready to roll. A few minutes after that, she was on his back —

And Huck was bucking.

Not a lot. Just enough to say, “Wait a minute here. It’s been a long time.”

Marcia was no novice to be easily thrown. She did better than just hold on, she let Huck know who was in charge…in a smooth, confident way that also showed him he was respected and loved. Huck trembled, then totally relaxed. Off they went together, around the clearing and down the driveway.

An hour later, when they came back, it wasn’t as horse and rider but as one beautiful being. A centaur. Contentment and exhaustion exuded from both.

“He wants to come home with me, ‘Dad,’” Marcia said. “Is it okay? Huh? Huh?”

I eyeballed Huck. “That what you want, My Brother?”

“Well, she’s not much of a listener,” Huck said. “And bossy? Whew!”

“I heard that,” Marcia said. She stepped out of the saddle, lighting on the ground.

“She is tall and blond,” I pointed out.

Huck blew out of the side of his mouth, the equine equivalent of a Happy Face. “And she’s got gentle hands,” he said.

“Heard that too,” Marcia said, and she hugged him.

The two of them beamed.

This weekend, Marcia’s fencing in a corral.

The Universe strikes again.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer. He, his wife and various animals divide their time between Marion County, Arkansas and Puget Sound. The other residents of the mythical town of Paradise reside entirely in his imagination and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Live! From Paradise! #247

Friday, February 19th, 2010

It’s been four weeks since my quintuple heart bypass surgery, and the most difficult aspect of the situation to deal with has been just that — the four weeks.

Time.

Recovery is a marathon, not a sprint, and I’ve always been a sprinter. An instant-gratification kind of guy.

“I want —”

“I need —”

And zap, I go out there on the hunt and I get.

I know I’m not the most virtuous man on the planet, but as the days of discomfort have crawled by it’s become increasingly clear that the virtue I most lack is patience.

I can’t go out and hunt for health. I can’t force my new arteries to mesh smoothly and perfectly with my heart. Can’t grab my incisions by their scruff and holler, “Heal, damn you!”

All I can do is take my meds and eat my veggies and rest in the new recliner and engage in the kind of exercise I would’ve mocked just a month ago (“Oh, boy, I’m walking around the house for six and a half minutes. S-l-o-w-l-y. Oh wow.”), and wait.

And, man, do I ever stink at waiting.

All together now. Let’s hear it for Larry B.:

“Sigh …”

I’m furious at myself for handling things as I’ve been. For trying to get way too much work done. For cursing at every twinge. For constantly telling my body, “You can do this. You can step over the doggy gate. You can stretch way up there to the back of the closet shelf and take down that old pair of shoes. You can toss that garbage can around like a popcorn-stuffed stocking, no problem.”

Because I can’t.

Stepping over the doggy gate or stretching my arms to the back of the closet or schlepping the garbage means losing my balance. Means catching myself by pushing against the wall. Means flexing stiff chest muscles and making myself wonder for a terrifying second if I’ve totally undone a month of breastbone healing.

“Ouch!”

That’s me.

“Take it easy, sweetie. I’ll get it for you.”

That’s Gwen the Beautiful.

“I don’t want to take it easy. I don’t want you to get it for me.”

Me again, of course.

“I know that, honey. I understand.”

Gwen again, naturally. “But I want to be there for you. The way you’ve always been there for me.”

I always thought it would be easy — more than easy, it would be wonderful — to be taken care of. To let others attend to my needs. Used to joke about how I’d married a woman substantially younger than I was “so she can push my wheelchair when the time comes.”

I was wrong.

Being a caregiver when Gwen had her “early” stroke was a walk in the park, psychologically, compared to being taken care of by her now. Helping someone I loved was the most natural thing in the world to me. But being helped, ah, it’s alien, icky, wrong.

A voice inside my head keeps crying out. “I can do it. I can do it. I’m really okay!”

A voice created by pride.

By habit.

By fear.

Fear of revealing weakness.

Fear of revealing fear itself.

Fear of becoming too demanding, too difficult to deal with. And, because of that, of pushing away my Team Brody partner.

Of losing her love.

Physically, I’m so much better than I was a week ago that I can barely remember what that old feeling was. I’m out. I’m about. In fact, at fifteen pounds lighter than before the heart attack, I’m most amazingly fit. Most of the time, my body feels like me again, only even better.

Actively good.

Hearty.

Sound.

Psychologically, though, I’ve become my own whipping boy. Talk about a self-defeating state of mind!

My doctors, my friends and family who’ve been through this same surgery, and Web site after Web site tell me that what I’m experiencing is normal. “They’ve got meds just for this,” they say. “Take ‘em.”

I dunno about that. For most of my life, my way of controlling my emotions, of handling the blues, has been to move into the moment and appreciate the highs and the lows as the transient miracles they are.

And to write about them. Share ‘em. Own them by giving ‘em away.

Hey, what do you know? In the words of that immortal songstress, Britney Spears, “Oops, I did it again.”

Thanks for listening.

Couldn’t carry it off without you, y’know.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer . He, his wife and their dogs, cats, horses and chickens live in Marion County. The other residents of the mythical town of Paradise reside in his imagination, however, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Originally published February 19, 2010

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Live! From Paradise! #214

Friday, June 12th, 2009

Usually, the drive from Paradise to Little Rock National Airport and back is a big pain. Two hours of winding, mostly two-lane roads followed by 45 minutes of crowded, speeding interstate. Then the whole thing in reverse, just to pick up or drop off a visitor.

But yesterday, when Gwen the Beautiful and I made the trip, it was worth it. We were picking up Darlene the Philosophy Teacher, a good friend of Gwen’s who’s hanging here on The Mountain for a few days on her way home to San Diego from New York City.

Darlene’s warm, funny, and just insecure enough to make her genius intellect forgivable. She teaches courses like “Aristotelian Logic,” “18th Century Rationalists” and “Secrets Behind Hegel’s Dialectic” at a major West Coast university but has been looking for a change.

“It’s been so long since I’ve seen the different seasons or even been aware of the weather,” Darlene said as we headed out of the airport. “I forgot how much I was missing. But now that I’m divorced, I’m seeing a lot of things that slipped away. Especially things that might take me out into a new way of life.”

“So you’re looking to completely escape the old and teach on the East Coast?” Gwen said.

” ‘Looking’ is the right word,” said Darlene. “Things aren’t going to pan out in New York.”

“I thought they were begging you to join the faculty,” Gwen said.

“Well,” Darlene said, “there’s begging, and there’s begging. The Department Head called and asked me to tour the school, meet the Dean and the faculty, and keep an open mind about working in Manhattan.

“But when I got there he greeted me a little more warmly than I was comfortable with. It wasn’t just the hug, it was the whole feeling that emanated from him. A kind of ‘Oh, you’re just what I want. I need you so much!’ ”

“He said that?” said Gwen.

“No, he — I don’t know — he demonstrated it. And it’s not like I’m a hot young thing.”

Hearing this made me feel a little uncomfortable myself. “What about the rest of the faculty?” I said.

“Nice people. Smart people. Highly regarded scholars. I’ve read a number of their articles. They’ve read mine. We had a good time. One of them, though, a woman who’s the Expert On German Existentialism in the 1930s, asked a lot of questions but interrupted every answer I gave.

“I’d reply as honestly as I could about how I feel about, say, the place of traditional philosophical inquiry in our modern world, and she’d gasp and say, ‘Remember, this is an interview. We’re judging everything you say.’ As though I was saying too much.”

“You’re a woman who speaks her mind,” Gwen pointed out.

Darlene shrugged. “The second day there, they asked me to make a presentation to show how I teach a class. If there’s one thing I’m always ready for, it’s holding forth to a class, so I did it like I always do. With all the energy and love I feel for those great old-time thinkers.

“After the class, the Dean told me he was impressed by the way I spoke. That he and the students found me inspiring. Then he told me how unimportant it was to be inspiring because today’s world didn’t really need more philosophy instructors, and certainly couldn’t support more philosophers.

“Everyone looked at me expectantly. As though everything hinged on my response to what he’d just said. All I could do was speak my mind.

” ‘This is an interview,’ I said. ‘Just as you’re judging everything I say, so am I judging you. And I’m sorry, but you’ve failed the test.’ ”

“So that’s why you’re here a day early!” I said.

“I’ve been sick about those words since they left my mouth,” Darlene said. “So much for getting the chance for a change.”

Gwen twisted in her seat to hug Darlene. “I don’t know if it’s any consolation, but you passed my test many years ago.”

Darlene burst into tears. Hugged Gwen back.

Me, I kept driving. Teaching college had always seemed an interesting life, and I’d been toying with the idea of looking for a gig like that.

Unlike Darlene and Gwen, I never judge — but still, as I looked into the rear view mirror, I saw my idea fly out the back of the truck into the past.

It was gone without a trace before we reached the interstate and sped back home to Paradise.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer and creative director of Cloud Creek Institute for the Arts. He, his wife and their dogs, cats, horses and chickens live in Marion County. The other residents of the mythical town of Paradise reside in his imagination, however, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Originally published June 12, 2009

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