"Enjoy yourself. That's what we're here for."
Tonights homework:
A short story from The Book of Guys by Garrison Keillor
http://www.loveblender.com/prose/giovanni.htmlDon Giovanni Marriage takes too much out of a man, says the old seducer through a
cloud of smoke. Marriage is an enormous drain on a man's time and
energy, it produces continual deficits, it reduces him to silliness and
servility, it is the deathbed of romance. Figaro, my friend, a man owes
it to himself to stop and consider the three advantages of the single life.
One, if you're single, you can think. Two, you can act. Three, you
can feel. Probably there are other advantages, but those three surely
are important, yes?
Think about it. There is no substitute for freedom, and there is no
prison so deadly as a life of unnecessities, which is what marriage is.
A woman takes over a man's life and turns it to her own ends. She heaps
up his plate with stones, she fills his bed with anxiety, she destroys
his peace so that he hardly remembers it.
But even a married man knows what he should have done. You should
find a cheap place to live- who needs a mansion? You put your money in
the bank and you furnish your place as you please, with your own junk and
great bargains from auctions. You come and go, you eat when you're
hungry, you stay up late, you get drunk as it pleases you, and you have
two or three terrific lovers who visit when you invite them and stay
about the right length of time.
Enjoy yourself. That's what we're here for.
Some men should have two lovers, some three, it depends on the man,
said the Don. Never limit yourself to one: monogamy leads to matrimony,
and marriage, my boy, is pure struggle. Of course the single life has
problems- having two lovers is a scheduling problem, and three is a real
test of a man's organizational abilities, and yet those are the very
problems a man hopes for, Figaro. Living alone in a cushy old apartment
with your friendly Jamaican housekeeper coming on Fridays to put a shine
on things, the corner laundry delivering clean clothes on Wednesdays, and
your girlfriends dropping in on various evenings, each of them crazy
about you, anxious to please- you know how accommodating young women can
be when they want to be. Think of having three like that at once, their
eyes alight at the sight of you, their lips moist, the flush of desire on
their cheeks? Sound good? My, yes. The Don smiled at the thought.
"No woman would accept such an arrangement. You would have to lie
to her," said Figaro.
Yes, certainly, said the Don.
"To lie to three women at once? To keep inventing stories about
where you went? Is that nice?"
The girls who share my bed want to share my life, said the Don, and
that would leave me no life at all.
"But to be so selfish- what if everyone were? What if your parents
had been?"
I am selfish, Figaro, because I have a larger capacity for pleasure
than other people do. Pleasure is only a hobby to them and to me it is a
true vocation: the joy of eating a sumptuous meal in the company of a
sharp-tongued woman who secretly adores me- who argues with me and
ridicules my politics and my ideas, the things I don't care about, and
who, in a couple hours, will lie happily next to me, damp and drowsy,
smiling, this to me is the beauty of the male existence. As for my
parents, what they did wasn't my responsibility.
***
Figaro had dropped in to see his old friend at the Sportsman's Bar
in Fargo, where the Don was engaged for three weeks to play the piano.
Figaro had moved to Fargo with Susanna shortly after their marriage, and
he had not laid eyes on the Don since he had attempted to seduce Susanna
on their wedding night- one of those cases of mistaken identity in dimly
lit places, so Figaro bore no grudge.
The Sportsman was an old dive near the Great Northern yards where
the switching crews liked to duck in for a bump of whiskey on their
coffee breaks. It was not a place you would bring a woman, Figaro
thought, and any woman you might find in there you wouldn't want to know
better. The little marquee out front said, "BBQ Beef S'Wich $1.95 Happy
Hour 4-6 Two Drinks for Price of One D G'vanni in Hunters Lounge
Nitely." When Figaro stepped into the gloom, the cloud of beer and smoke
and grease, he heard someone playing "Glow Worm," and recognized the
Don's florid glissandos, the tremors and trills, the quavers and dips,
the big purple chords rising, the mists, the Spanish moss, the grape
arbors in the moonlight, the sighs, the throbbing of the thrush. The Don
sat all big and glittery at the keyboard in the rear of the deserted
room, in an iridescent silver jacket that picked up every speck of light
from the sixty-watt spotlight overhead. The silver threads went nicely
with the Don's flowing bleached-blond hair and the gaudy rings on his
fingers, chosen for maximum sparkle. Six rings and six chunks of
diamond, a ruby-studded bolero tie, a silver satin shirt with pearl
buttons, and silver-and-turquoise earrings.
He looked much the worse for wear, Figaro thought, as if he had been
living in these clothes for a number of days, including some rainy ones,
but he was full of beans, as always. He told Figaro he would soon be
back in New York, where a big recording contract was in the offing, a
major label, large sums of cash that he was not at liberty to disclose-
he rubbed his fingers together to suggest the heavy dough involved- the
people were secretive types, *you* understand, said the Don.
"And you? How are you? Have you found a wife yet?" asked Figaro.
The Don laughed. It was their old joke.
***
Marriage looks very appealing until you are in the company of
married people and then the horrors of the institution cry out to you,
said the Don. Marriage is for women, Figaro, ugly women. It makes no
sense for men. It never did.
The married guy has to have an airtight explanation for everything
he does by himself. If he wants to go for a *walk around the block*
alone, he has to invent an excuse for not taking his beloved with him.
To get up out of his chair and go into the kitchen and run a glass of tap
water, he has to announce to his wife, like a Ch*ld in the third grade,
or else she will say, "Where are you going? To the kitchen? For a glass
of tap water? Fine. Why can't you say so? Why do you *always just
wander away without saying a word?* You wouldn't treat anybody else that
way. How do I know if you're going to the kitchen or going to New
Orleans for a week? And it would've been nice if you'd offered to bring
*me* something from the kitchen. But no. You just get up and walk
away. I could be sitting here dying and you'd never notice." Then she
bursts into tears, grieving for herself and her future death. This is
marriage, Figaro.
A single guy can walk around without explaining it to anyone. He
can also go to New Orleans. This gives a man a dignified feeling,
knowing that you could, if you wanted to, drive somewhere. Or drive
*nowhere*, just cruise around with the top down soaking up rays and
laying down rubber. Married guys can't go nowhere. There always has to
be a plan, a list of errands, a system, a destination. Alone, your life
is intuitive, like poetry. With a woman, it's a form of bookkeeping.
***
"So- how long are you in town?" asked Figaro, trying to change the
subject, but the Don had more to say.
***
A home belongs to the oldest woman inhabitant, no matter what.
Every day, a man has to get her permission to come in, to use the toilet,
to draw oxygen from the air, to keep his things in the closet. The
permission is always conditional, and some of her rules are never
explained: some secret rules (No Loitering, No Unnecessary Conversation,
No Putting Things There, No Whistling, No Guests, We Reserve the Right to
Change the Terms of This Agreement) are kept for emergencies.
And a married guy is responsible for *everything*, no matter what.
Women, thanks to having been oppressed all these years, are blameless,
free as birds, and all the dirt they do is the result of premenstrual
syndrome or postmenstrual stress or menopause or emotional disempowerment
by their fathers or low expectations by their teachers or latent unspoken
sexual harassment in the workplace, or some other airy excuse. The guy
alone is responsible for every day of marriage that is less than
marvelous and meaningful.
"Why don't we ever make love anymore?" That is the No. 2 all-time
woman's question in the world. No. 1 is: "Why don't we ever talk to each
other?" Now there's a great conversational opener. You're ensconced on
the couch, perusing the funny papers, sipping your hot toddy, feeling
mellow and beloved, and she plops down full of anger and premenstrual
uproar, and says "Why don't we ever talk to each other? Why do you treat
me as if I don't exist?"
You take her hand. "What do you want to talk about, my beloved?"
"You and your utter lack of interest in communicating with me,
that's what," she snaps, yanking her hand back.
"My love, light of my life, my interest in you is as vast as the
Great Plans. Share with me what is in your heart so that we may draw
close in the great duet of matrimony."
But she didn't want to converse, of course, she only meant to strike
a blow. "Humph," she says, standing up. "I know you. You are only
saying that."
That is marriage, Figaro. A boy's constant struggle to maintain his
buoyancy.
"Some of what you say, I suppose, is true," said Figaro, "but a guy
needs a wife, someone who cares if you've collapsed in the shower with
your leg broken."
Well, your chances of collapsing in the shower are sharply improved
by being married, the Don said. Helpless rage is a major cause of falls
in the home.
No, marriage is a disaster for a man, it cuts him up and broils his
spirit piece by piece, until there is nothing left of him but the hair
and the harness.
An unhappy man with heavy eyelids appeared in the doorway to the
Lounge, hands on hips, chewing a mouthful of peanuts. He appeared to be
an owner or manager of some sort. "You on a break right now, Giovanni?
Or is the piano busted?"
The Don turned with the greatest disdain and said, "Oh. Cy. I
*thought* it was you."
"I hired you as a piano player, Giovanni, not a philosopher. I'd
like to hear less thinking and more tinkling. A word to the wise." The
man turned and disappeared.
The Don looked down at the keyboard, plunked a couple of notes, got
up from the bench, and motioned to a table in the corner. "We can sit
there," he said.
***
"A life without a woman is the lonesomest life I can imagine," said
Figaro with a sigh. "I would be miserable without Susanna."
Life *is* lonesome, said the Don, and lonesome isn't bad, compared
to desperate. But of course a man should not live without women.
Luckily, marriage is not a requirement. Nobody needs monogamy except the
unenterprising. Hungry women are everywhere! Lonely housewives who
advertise on recipe cards pinned to a bulletin board in the
Piggly-Wiggly- wistful ladies at the copier, putting flesh to class,
faxing themselves to faroff officedom- fervid women sending out E-mail
invites- hearty gals working out on the weight machine who drop a note in
your street shoes- cocktail joints along the freeway, wall-to-wall with
women whose lights are on and motors are running!- Figaro, they're out
there! Free. No legal contract required. What could be better?
Figaro shook is head. "The life of a libertine ends badly," he
said. "You get old, your teeth turn yellow, you smell like a mutt, and
you have to pay women to look at you. Much better to marry, to be
faithful, to build a deeper partnership that will hold together through
the terrible storms of old age."
My dear Figaro, seduction is an art, to be learned, practiced,
adopted, and improvised according to the situation, and, like other arts,
it will not desert you late in life.
"Seduction is a lie, and as we get older, we get tired of lies,"
said Figaro. "We know them all and they're not amusing anymore."
Seduction is a sweet story, and if the listener wants so much to
hear it, then it is no lie. Seduction is a mutual endeavor in which I
conspire with a woman to giver her an opening to do what she wants to do
without reminding her that this goes against her principles. A woman's
principles and her desires are constantly at war, and if there were no
one to seduce a woman, she would have to figure out how to do it
herself. Her principles call for her to remain aloof and uninterested
until she meets a man who makes her faint. Her desires are otherwise.
She wants to say, "That man, there. Unwrap him and send him over here so
he can love me." She cannot say this. So I try to help her. I say,
*Zerlina, I would like to hold your hand for two minutes and then you
could shoot me and I will die a happy man.*
She laughs, but she does not turn away. She rolls her eyes. She
says, "Oh, phoo." She gives me her hand.
I say: *The greatest tragedy is to be cut off from intimacy, from
touch, which is the most human of languages, Zerlina, and the most
honest. There is no lie in a touch, a caress, never. The language of
the body is the language of the purest truth.*
She is amused. I put my other hand on her shoulder. She turns and
leans against me. "You're something," she says.
*Zerlina*, I say, *there's a bottle of champagne waiting on ice at
the Olympia Hotel, and a couple of dozen oysters. When we get there,
we'll order up a big salad in a wooden bowl, with basil and spinach and
fennel and cilantro and radicchio, and we'll have it with live oil and
vinegar and pepper and garlic. Then a steak tartare, with chopped onions
and an egg yolk. And then we'll undress quickly without shame, as
adults, and jump into the big bed and amuse each other as only adults can
do. And afterward, we'll eat an omelet. And then do it again.*
Her hand twitches in mine, and I guess that I have touched a chord-
"This is the best time of year for oysters," I say in a low voice, "and
one should never eat them without erotic plans for later."
She tells me to be real, but even so, she is reaching for her purse,
putting on her coat, checking her lipstick. "You're outrageous," she
says, and now we are almost to the hotel, and then in the room, she says,
"I can't believe I'm actually doing this." But she is. She is. A
wonderful occasion, Figaro. The sort of evening that someday, as you lie
dying, you will remember and it will bring a smile to your lips.
"You *slept* with her? Zerlina? But she is married to Maseppo,"
said Figaro, "I can't believe this!"
I may have slept with her, I may not have slept with her, I only
mention her as an example. Zerlina, Marilyn, Marlene- what's the
difference? A *woman*.
"Having an affair is not the same as marital happiness," said Figaro.
You are right. Marital happiness is briefer and it has a sword
hanging over its head. The happiness in marriage is fitful, occasional.
It is the pleasure one gets from the absence of the pain of not
conforming exactly to the wishes of your wife. A married man walks into
a room and his wife looks up and smiles- he is dressed and groomed
exactly as she has trained him, his gait is perfect, his personality is
champion quality, and he is prepared to converse on topics of her liking,
a neat trick it took her years to teach him- and for the duration of her
smile, he is happy. But her smile is brief. She spots the flaw: the
spiritual emptiness in his eye. She has warned him against emptiness,
but there it is. "Why are you looking at me like that?" she hisses.
"You look as dim as a dodo." And his happiness is now over for a while.
He must think of a way to fill up his spirit.
The man with the heavy eyelids reappeared in the door, an envelope
in his hand. "Time to go, Giovanni," he said, setting his big hand on
the table. "Yer outta here. You broke the deal. Yer history. The job's
over. Move it."
The Don sneered. What a relief to be out of this mausoleum, he
said. I am, he said, the greatest romantic pianist of all time. But a
romantic pianist in Fargo is like an All- Star shortstop in Paris. Not a
priority item.
"Go to hell," said the man, and he stamped his foot on the floor.
Figaro looked down. The man had hooves instead of shoes.
The Don stood up. *Gladly*, he said, *it would be better than
looking at your ugly face*.
The man strode to the back door by the piano and opened it, and
Figaro saw the orange glow of flames in the basement, fingers of flame
licking the doorsill.
"Stop!" he cried. "No! Giovanni! Repent!" He took the Don by the
arm. "It's not too late. *Repent!*"
The Don put a hand on Figaro's shoulder. "Believe me," he said,
"it's easier simply to go. And compared to marriage, it isn't that bad.
Farewell, *mon ami*." And he took off his great silver jacket and gave
it to Figaro and walked to the stairs, put his hands on the door frame,
and then, with a mighty cry, plunged down into the fiery abyss.
"Your hair smells of smoke, " Susanna said to Figaro when he arrived
home. "Where were you? In a bar? You stopped in a bar on your way
home? I thought you had outgrown that, darling. And what are you going
to do with that hideous jacket? My gosh. You can put it in the garage.
It reeks of shellfish. I don't want it in the house. Go on. Take it
out of here."
So he did. He put the silver jacket on a hanger and hung it on a
nail next to the rakes and shovels, and it stayed there for years. Twice
she threw it in the trash and twice he retrieved it.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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