Category: Live! From Paradise!

LB: Live! From Paradise #215 “Love is in the Air”

(The Intro above is from this column's previous web incarnation)

by Larry Brody

Maybe it’s the summer weather, but as I look around I see love everywhere.

Huck and Rosie nibbling each other’s lips.

Belle the Wary and Ditsy Dixie curling up together to share a stuffed pad.

Larry B and Gwen the Beautiful, holding each other and marveling at all we’ve through together.

And, now, Uncle Ernie’s widow, Edda, and Her New Man.

This latest coupling came as quite a shock.

Jimmy Blue and I were at Paradise Pharmacy, where he was picking up a tote bag full of prescription meds. Half of the meds were for the various conditions aging brings on in almost everyone. The other half were for the conditions caused by the meds. As we turned from the counter there she was, the wife of Jimmy Blue’s late and still highly lamented best friend.

She was coming in to pick up her own stack of prescription. And she was beaming.

“Yo, Jimmy Blue!” Edda said with a big smile.

“Edda!”

The two of them hugged. Then, still smiling, Edda gave me her cheek. “‘Afternoon, Larry B.”

“You’re looking great,” I said to Edda because it was true. “Best I’ve ever seen.”

Even though she’s close to 70, Edda blushed. “I’ve been having quite a time,” she said.

“Something wrong?” Jimmy Blue had his Concerned Old Pal face on.

Edda shook her head. “Not at all.” More blushing. Edda was embarrassed about something. I was amazed.

“Out with it, Edda,” I said. “If you don’t tell us what’s going on I’ll get Gwen to call you and call you and call you some more until you ‘fess up.”

“I—I think I’m in love.”

“Love?!” The sound that came out of Jimmy Blue was the sound a kid makes when he’s taken by surprise at the lunch table and milk goes flying out of not only his mouth but his nose.

Edda moved back into one of the aisles so no one else would hear. “I met somebody at church. Well, I didn’t really just meet him, I’ve known him most of my life. But never paid attention. You know how that is. He’s a widower, and the both of us were so lonely….”

She trailed off as though stopping to remember. Smiled again. “It’s so strange, feeling like this now. Makes me think of what it was like when Ernie and I were kids. All those moments we were having for the first time. Those, ‘I never felt like this before,’ ‘I’ve never done this before’ times that make everything seem like magic.'”

“You’re feeling things you never felt with Uncle Ernie?” Jimmy Blue said. “You’re doing things you never did with him?”

“Not really, no. Neither me or my man. I always thought that falling in love again would be a big letdown. All ‘same-old, same-old.’

“But even though if either of us said, ‘I’ve never loved like this before’ we’d be lying, when we’re together, everything feels new anyway. ‘Cause the love is new. There’s no letdown at all.

“There you are. Been looking all through the store for you, Edda.”

It was Calcy the Preacher. “Good to see you, boys,” he said to us, and gave Edda his arm. Edda tossed back her head like a 16-year-old, and they headed up the aisle.

“The preacher! She’s with the preacher! And Uncle Earl ain’t even been dead a year!” This time Jimmy Blue’s voice was a strangled hiss.

We watched Edda and Calcy move around the aisle and out of sight. Which was a much bigger move than it sounds because Edda’s no teeny girl, but a very grown woman with a butt wider than Lou Ferrigno’s shoulders, and Calcy’s a man who if he was driving one of those King Kong trucks with the six foot wheels would still end up scraping the chassis along the ground.

“That’s one big loving couple,” I said. “I understand how you feel, Jimmy Blue. But maybe they’re perfect for each other.”

“Hope so,” Jimmy Blue said grudgingly. “I’d hate to think it’s all just because Edda’s blinded by something new.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” I said. “I think she’s overcome with a kind of wonderful magic. What else can you call it when the old becomes new again?”

“I’m thinking ‘randiness’ might be a good word,” said Jimmy Blue. And the best and most loving friend of the late lamented Uncle Earl shook his head…and laughed so hard that the sound filled the store.

LB: Live! From Paradise #214 “Different Worlds”

(The Intro above is from this column's previous web incarnation)

by Larry Brody

Our Ford pickup spent a few days at Steve’s Body Shop recently, and when Gwen the Beautiful and I retrieved it, lo and behold! I found myself very happy about a couple of things.

The first thing that brought a smile to my face was the sight of the truck in all its renewed glory. Steve had done a great job of getting rid of all the dents, dings, and scratches caused when a tree fell down onto our camper shell during the ice storm. And there was even an added bonus: The paint matches perfectly.

The second joyful moment came with the realization that Gwen and I didn’t have to drive around in the stripped down mini-vehicle that the insurance company had rented for the 4 days the truck was gone. I don’t like kicking anyone while he’s down, but, come on, Dodge…do you really expect humans to ride in a Caliber?

As Gwen and I were deciding who would drive which vehicle while we headed over to the car rental agency, a couple of Good Ole Boys we didn’t know drove up. I don’t intentionally listen to other people’s conversations, but that doesn’t mean I don’t overhear them. Maybe it’s a survival thing—or, more likely, a writer one—but I’m usually pretty well attuned to what’s being said around me.

The topic of conversation between these Ole Boys wasn’t the car one of them was picking up. Instead it was his wife.

“Whew,” one of them said. “We’re picking up this baby just in time. I’ve got to go to Jonesboro tomorrow, and Edie’ll need the ride.”

“How long you gonna be gone this time?” I heard his friend say.

“Three weeks. Not long enough.”

“You two having trouble?” the friend said.

“What? No, no, I don’t mean it that way. I mean that I can’t make enough money in three weeks. Last time I made the Jonesboro run I had six weeks of ten-hour days. Made out pretty well.”

“Hey, this’ll be better’n nothing, won’t it?”

The friend’s voice sounded a little troubled, almost sad. The first man spoke up quickly. “There’s a job for you somewhere, Matt, you’ll see.”

They went into the office, so I didn’t hear Matt’s reply, if there was one. Didn’t see his face. But I understood his situation. And that of Edie’s husband as well.

The economy had struck again.

Gwen has the gift of being able to stick to a subject. Of being in one conversation at a time. Her conversation. She looked at me closely.

“Larry? Sweetie, what happened to your smile? Do you know you just went blank?”

I answered her question with one of my own. “Have you talked to Rachel lately? Her husband still out of town?”

“As far as I know. Working construction in Springfield. He’s been gone a couple of months.”

“How does she feel about that? About him having to be away in order to earn a living?” I said.

“The way I would,” Gwen said. “Or so I imagine. She’s never said anything except that there’s nothing here and they’ve got a mortgage to pay.”

“Dwayne the Earth Mover’s been working out of town for years. He and Elizabeth only see each other every other weekend. I’ve never heard him complain either.”

“We’re not in Hollywood anymore, honey,” Gwen said. “Nobody’s giving out golden statuettes and big paychecks for farming or driving a bulldozer. Diva behavior gets a person nothing but a kick in the pants.

“Our neighbors do what they’ve got to do” she went on. “They learned long ago to do it without complaining”

“And you know this because…?”

“Because I’m from Oklahoma, where it’s the same life.”

“Hey, I met you in Santa Monica, you know.”

“Where I was miserable. But you didn’t hear me complaining.”

Gwen pulled herself up into the truck. “Meet you at the car place,” she said and started the engine.

Couldn’t let her get too far ahead. I hurried back to the little Caliber, fumbled for the key. The time might come when, like too many other couples, we had to be apart in order to survive, but the thought of that ever happening made me want to do everything I could to stay as close as I could for now.

I’m not complaining, not now. But if life ever takes us that way, then, by all I believe in, I swear I’m going to make one hell of a stink!

LB: Live! From Paradise #213 “Tenure, Anybody?”

(The Intro above is from this column's previous web incarnation)

by Larry Brody

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 forty-five 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 thoughts of teaching college fly off into the past.

They were gone without a trace before we reached the Interstate and sped back home to Paradise.

At least, for now.

LB: Live! From Paradise #212 “Old Billionaire Hell”

(The Intro above is from this column's previous web incarnation)

by Larry Brody

This morning when the telephone rang, I heard a familiar voice over the answer machine.

It belonged to the Old Billionaire.

For the last several years, the O.B. has been a very important part of my life. We were each other’s friend, teacher, and student too, minds meshing as though together we were one.

But the last time I’d talked to my friend he was on a dementia-induced rampage, furious at me for reasons no one could understand. So instead of answering right away I stood and listened to the message he was leaving:

“Hey, Larry B, it’s me. I read what you wrote about not knowing if you were living or dead, and it hits ‘way too close to home for me not to chime in.”

When I heard this I smiled. He sounded like the man I’d known before his illness. Quickly, I snatched up the phone.

“O.B., is it really you?”

“‘Really’ me? Talk about a tough question. We can spend hours chewing on that one, don’t you think?”

“You’re back!” I said.

“Maybe,” the Old Billionaire said. “Don’t know for how long. I’ve got these new meds. They don’t do anything for my memory, but they keep me from getting so mad.

“I’ve been in a fury,” he went on, “about stuff that’s real and stuff that’s not. About not knowing which is which. About remembering my kindergarten girlfriend—Ethel, her name was, and she always wore the same polka-dotted dress—but not my sister who died…well, I don’t remember when she died.”

“I’m sorry about that, O.B.—” I stopped. Couldn’t think of what more to say.

“Not as sorry as I am,” the Old Billionaire said. “But sorry’s better than angry. At least, I think it is. Can’t recall.

“But that’s not what I wanted to say. According to this index card in my hand, I wanted to tell you how you’re onto something, wondering whether this life is real or not.

“I wonder about that too. A lot of folks lose their way now and then. Misplace their values, or their ideals. But I’m in a fog all the time. Not just about what I ate for breakfast, how to put on my sock. About everything. Especially the big stuff.

“I’m sure I stood for something in my life,” the Old Billionaire said, “but I don’t have a clue what it was. And if I’m not what I always believed in, then what am I? Who am I?”

“I don’t have an answer for that one, O.B.”

“Nobody does. But I’m working one out. Way I see it, if I’m not who I was, then it doesn’t matter whether this is life or death or heaven or hell. Because if I’m not who I was, then my soul is gone. Kaput! Not part of me anymore. And I might as well be dead.”

He stopped. I heard him take one breath. Another. The breaths were weak but even. He was steady. He began talking again.

“And if that’s the case, wouldn’t I be better off in my ‘How’re You Doing, Mr. President?’ Suit, the one I wore on all my rich person occasions? Yep, that’s it. I should be in my expensive finery right now, lying in my fancy box six feet underground.

“You’re worried about whether the place you’re in—the psychological place, the spiritual place—is heaven or hell?” he went on. “At least you know it’s you doing the worrying. For me that’d be heaven. But this not knowing, this ache I’ve got inside me that keeps crying, ‘Who are you, old man? Are you you? It’s pure and simple, boy—that’s hell.”

The Old Billionaire’s words reminded me of something. “There’s a play by Jean-Paul Sartre where he said ‘Hell is other people.’ O.B., you ever see that?”

“Can’t say. Don’t know. But I beg to differ with your writer pal. Hell’s got nothing to do with other people. Hell’s all about being alone…and not knowing the first thing about the old gomer you’re alone with.”

Now his words reminded me of something else. “O.B.,” I said, “I don’t know if this’ll mean anything to you, but everything you’re saying, everything you’re wondering–it’s what you’ve always said and wondered. It’s the real you.”

The Old Billionaire’s voice caught. He stammered. Then: “Knew I could count on you, Larry B. Have yourself a great day!” and he hung up with a whoop.

And so here I am, having a great day indeed. My best friend is back.

At least, for now.