yustyoking

            Robert F. Kennedy’s grandson Joseph Kennedy III is running for the U.S. Congressional seat recently vacated by Barney Frank. Kennedy’s platform is rather unique. “I believe this country was founded on a simple idea: that every person deserves to be treated fairly, by each other and by their government.”

            I don’t think the 31-year-old Kennedy realizes how revolutionary his concept truly is. America, home of free enterprise, is based on everyone competing with everyone else. Nowhere does it say in the Constitution that we need to treat one another fairly, kindly or well. That’s not America. Buddhists believe in spreading kindness. Americans believe in getting ahead.

            God only knows if Kennedy can get elected on the fairness ticket. If he does, he intends to focus on “a fair job plan,” “a fair tax code” and a “fair housing policy.” Great!

            Good luck with that.

                                                       *

            When I left the Army, one of the first things mom and I did was go on a cruise. In the last twelve years, we’ve taken six cruises. I don’t want to say “living with my mom has aged me,” but I certainly no longer resemble the snot-nosed kid who resigned his commission. I look at my face in the mirror today and I see dried bark. After this last cruise, I told my mom, “No more cruises!”

           We sailed on The Scotch-Irish Line to the western Caribbean. It should have been a snap.

           So what happens?

           As I pass the Sergeant-of-Arms on the third morning, he stops me right there in the corridor below-decks and says, “Eh, mate! We don’ want no trouble!”

            “ ‘Scuse me?”

            “People’s afraid of you. You look like a fellah who can handle hisself in any situation.”

            He doesn’t mean this as a compliment.

            “It’s a cruise,” I tell him. “I’m a passenger. It’s a cruise ship.”

            “All’s I’m sayin’s is, people be wary of you, is all. T’ain’t good!”

            “Have I actually threatened anyone? Have there been any incidents?”

            “Not yet, there ain’t.  Listen, I fought inna Falklands. Ya don’ have t’ tell me where ya comin’ from.”

            “So what do you want me to do? Give up the cruise? Jump ship?”

          “I dunno,” he admits, looking a little embarrassed. Not much, but a little.

            Each night, virtually every passenger goes to the show. Late diners see the early show. Early diners enjoy the late show. Watered down numbers from Broadway musicals, glitzy dancers, these onboard shows are not my meat. I never go. One evening they’ll have the ship comic telling us how small his cabin is, another night features a magician.

             Boring!

             I watch a movie on cable in my cabin.

            “At this evening’s late show,” I suggest, “let me perform. People will see me make an ass of myself and stop being afraid of me. You introduce me as Kevin the Juggler.”

            “Can you juggle?” he asks, interested.

            “No. That’s the point! I tell a few jokes and when I actually try to juggle, the audience realizes I’m as totally clueless as they are.”

            “Wha’ if someone in th’ audience is a professional juggler?”

            “Fantastic! I invite him—or her— onstage and they show me how it’s done! It’s a win-win situation.”

            Since the captain is so unhappy with the rampant fear onboard, he agrees to let me do my thing that very night.

            “En nauw, fer yer indescribable edification,” the old-fashion emcee drawls over the loudspeakers, “har is awr viry own Kayvin the Joggler!”

            The lassies backstage have dug up some ridiculous pantaloons, clown shoes, a frilly shirt, firehouse red suspenders and a top hat. People laugh at my get-up. Then there’s an eeerie silence. You can actually hear the gasp as 500 people recognize me. “Blimey!” some Brit exclaims. “It’s him! ”

            The suspense is incredible.

            “People call Obama a liar,” I say sweetly into my hand-held mike. “He’s not! He’s just a Kenyan!”

            A few lopsided chuckles.

            I continue: “When asked about his smoking habit, Obama claims he never inhales.

            “You know all those zombie movies? Those zombie programs on television? The Democrats wanted to let zombies vote, but the Republicans cried ‘Foul!’ A situation like that would give the Democrats an unbeatable majority.”

            Uneasy laughter. Some stage boo’s, but I sense people smiling beyond the lights.

            “The greatest concentration of nuclear weapons in the world used to be along the River Clyde in Scotland. No wonder birthrates are down!            

            “I don’t normally come on cruises, but my mom said I should come on this one or she’d beat me with her broomstick.”

            …

            “I went scuba diving yesterday. They pair you off. You always dive in twos. My partner and I were examining a starfish we found on a rocky ledge. You’re not supposed to touch the wildlife, but we picked it up, examined it and put it back. Our instructor swam over, wagged his finger at us and moved the starfish two inches to the right. Such a stickler for detail!

            “My server thinks just because I’m Swedish, I expect meatballs at every meal. In the morning, he serves me eggs Benedict with meatballs. For lunch, I get steak and meatballs. At dinner, he serves me escargot and meatballs. I think the guy’s a meatball!”

            Pause. I’m really wowing them! There’s a veritable cascade of boos!

            “I guess I’d better shut up and juggle…”

            “You got that right, mate!” someone shouts from the audience.

            And, of course, I know nothing about juggling. I keep throwing the three cloth balls in the air and desperately lunging as they fall to the floor.

           Suddenly, I am joined onstage by Lance, the male work-out instructor, dressed in his usual sweatpants, tennis shoes and string shirt. Grinning from ear to ear, he snatches up the three balls and, facing the audience, proceeds to juggle, while executing bows and pirouettes.

            “Ladies and gentlemen,” I call out. “I GIVE YOU… Lance! ”

            Major applause.

            The next morning, no one is afraid of me anymore. People talk to me!

            Some cruise.

            When I retired from the military, I spent the first year biking. I take the local bike path to Beach Drive, bike along the C&O Canal, cross Key Bridge and cycle out west to Leesburg. Forty miles each way, I could only make that trip three days a week. Using a 25-pound, single gear White Russian bicycle from Minsk in Belarus, that was as much exercise as my 50-year-old body could take. The other days, I zoomed around the environs of Oxburg.

            One morning, by the washing machine in the basement, Mrs. Rose Feingold had a total meltdown. “You get a job!” she screamed. “You’re too young to retire! Nobody in this house gets to loaf! You live here, you work!!!”

            Arbeit mach frei, as they said in the concentration camps, “Work Will Make You Free.” I looked in the Jobs Section of The National Herald and landed a position as a sales clerk at the Ethnology Museum downtown. After making my bosses crazy, over-achieving for a year and a half, I and the museum parted company. I drove taxi. Then I got hired by a Brazilian airline. After a year and a half with them, they packed up and moved back to Sao Paulo. (No, I didn’t drive them away! They tired of federal regulations in the American market.) Now my buddy Boopsie and I write Hollywood screenplays. Yes, yes, in the 1930’s, you had to relocate to the west coast. Internet Age telecommuters, we work out of an office in a derelict shopping center on Rockville Pike in Maryland.

                                                        *

            About the time I was driving taxi, one of mom’s bridge cronies began talking about her problems getting sufficient Social Security credits. You need 40 credits by the time you turn 65 if you want full Medicare benefits. Never having worked in civilian life since college, I had about 10 credits. NOW Mrs. Rose Feingold had a cudgel with which to hit me over the head! “You need your Medicare quarters!” became the daily chant at the dinner table.

            Explaining that the military provides me with full medical coverage changes nothing. That just makes me a party-pooper. She has a bee in her bonnet that I need to become eligible for Medicare and nothing else will do!

             The Social Security Administration used to call them “quarters.” They allowed you to earn four a year. Since they are actually a monetary unit, they have re-christened them “credits.” You can still only earn four a year. The amount has been going up over the years, based on inflation and the cost of living, but, basically, you earn one “credit” for every $1,200 in income. I don’t have to work all year; if I work seasonally and earn $5,000, I get my four “credits” for that year.

            This was not how I intended to spend my retirement— supposedly the best years of my life— working for wages in a fucked-up effort to accrue 40 of these mystical “credits” before I turn 65. In 2008, the Social Security Administration sent me my yearly statement. As usual, IT DID NOT TELL ME HOW MANY CREDITS I ACTUALLY HAD. Instead, it used their weird formulation: “Your record shows you have at least 28 credits at this time, including assumed credits for last year and this year if you continue to work.”

            Assumed credits?

            28 credits.

            Strange language.

            I didn’t work in 2007. Zero. Nada. If I work zero this year, I’ll have 28 credits, right? Wrong! What they meant was, if I work and earn four credits in 2008, I will then have 28 credits. The closer I get to the mythical “40 credits,” the farther away the Social Security Administration moves the goalposts. 

             I was burned out in 2007 and took the year off, while the Boob and I planned our little joint venture in the movie business.

            “Pie in the sky! Whoever told you that you could write?” mom ranted, ever helpful.

            “This really has nothing to do with you,” I told her, barely controlling my impulse to physically beat the crap out of her.

              Since my mom is a neurotic enthusiast of Everybody Loves Raymond, it’s worth mentioning that the show’s creator, Phil Rosenthal, has taken it to Russia. He’s helping adapt the show for their market, including auditions, characters and dialogue. Surprise! I always wondered why the claustrophobic, masochistic “humor” of the show seemed so Jewish. Considering who we are, Russia is a perfect fit.

           I found that the way to deal with my mom’s neuroses was to starve them to death. “My business” became my business. I no longer brought home what was happening at the office.

            “You spend all your time having fun writing. Five days a week, you write! That’s your fun time! When you are home in this house, I expect you to work! “

                                                          *

            In 1999, I agreed to move in with my mom. “Oh my God,” her friends said, “you’re grown son is moving in with you, Rose? He’ll regress to a teenager! You’ll have to run his washes, serve his meals… Oy vey! “ We had many a good laugh about that. Independent, I do my own stuff. Whenever household repairs came up, she always offered to hire a contractor. That’s how she did it after my dad died. She had her list of handymen, carpenters, plumbers and electricians. Considering myself a Jack of All Trades, I learned to repair toilets, did the woodworking, cleaned the gutters, washed the windows, the cars, handled the usual gardening and repair that go with owning a house.

             She already had a lawn service cutting the grass. She’d been using them for 20 years. She watched the owners grow up, marry and have kids. They were still charging her a very nominal rate. Rose Feingold was part of the history of Ace Lawn Care. They were friends of hers. I didn’t intervene until the Latino crew began driving a tractor mower around the back yard, leaving truck-size ruts. “Hola! “ I said and asked them not to do that. The next week, same thing. And the next. “Listen,” I told Mike, one of the owners, over the phone. “They are nice guys, but they are destroying our backyard. The ground is too soft, too moist, for a tractor mower.”

              He said he’d talk with them.

              Nothing changed.

              Mom and I agreed I’d buy a Toro and take over mowing the lawn. I called Ace and cancelled. Five hours later, I get a call from Jimmy, the other owner.

               “Is it something we’ve done?” he asked. “ ‘Cause we never expected Rose Feingold would cancel the contract.”

               I told him what had gone down.

              “Well, uh, do you want to give us another chance?” he asked.

               “No! I hate doing lawns. I’m allergic to grass pollen and I’ll be forced to wear a mask. You guys didn’t listen the last three times I called, so I’ll take over. It’s a little late now to discuss it, our backyard looks like a mud bath.”

               “Well, gee, we’re really sorry.”

               “Thank you for those kind sentiments.”

               My point is, my mom has gotten used to me doing the brunt of the household chores. I don’t do painting because my military career left me allergic to paint. But the hedge trimming, lawn mowing, window washing, caulking, gutter cleaning, woodwork and toilets are my bit.

                In addition to earning my “Medicare quarters.”

                                                         *

                Whenever mom is in the kitchen, her 11-inch, $99 drugstore television is blasting away: “Hello there, erectile dysfunction man! Yeah, you! Don’t look away! Check out your lady. Curvaceous, her clothes tight in all the right places, she’s ready to go! And you a no-starter! It’s not like Little Pinkie is jumping up on the counter top! Remember when you were a teenager and how embarrassed you got when your dad had that frank discussion about sex? Well, well, Contraception King, maybe it’s time to nudge Little Oscar back into action. It’s not like we’re interested in little boys, are we?

                “Put the fun back in your life with Jackup C S !

                “Ask your doctor if Jackup C S is right for you! Jackup Chemical Stimulator isn’t for everyone. A prescription drug, it should only be taken in consultation with a medical professional. Side effects may include dizziness, eyestrain, hairy palms, salivating, stroke or death. Jackup C S should not be taken in a wild fraternity party atmosphere or in conjunction with alcohol or other chemical stimulants.

                “Driving a vehicle is not recommended after taking Jackup C S since you may encounter difficulty keeping your hands on the wheel and your eyes on the road. The active ingredient in Jackup C S is based on an entirely natural compound found in Spanish Fly.

            “Jackup C S !“

            In Senate testimony, a priest has called Obama’s health care plan “zirconian.” He meant to say “draconian.”

            When she tires of the networks, mom switches to South Yemeni Television, who announce an upswing in the downgrade of the Euro. At least they’re not as deadbeat as Russia Today.

                                                           *

              “I’m 90 years old. I want to see my Israeli cousin Orly before she moves back to Israel. We can go out to San Diego, see her and take a cruise.” She shows me the Scotch-Irish Line brochure. This may be her last chance. I decide to be a sport. I agree.

                The Scotch-Irish Line is very special. They are incredibly cheap. Unlike the other cheap cruise line who charge you for everything à la carte, Scotch-Irish actually give you full-service at an extremely low price. But you have to put up with their peculiarities. Having gotten hassled by travelers about delays, over-bookings and other screw-ups in the airline industry, the anal-retentive people at Scotch-Irish insist on knowing everything regarding your pre-boarding and post-boarding flights. They want the seat number!  Since passengers’ credit cards  couldn’t always cover the cost of what they bought on ship during the cruise— the spa treatments, the gym workouts, the high-end perfume and tailor shop tuxedos— the cruise line now takes $520 out of the account before the trip and refunds whatever we don’t spend. Scotch-Irish Line doesn’t intend to get stiffed.

                 Visa requirements! They refuse to let anyone on the ship who doesn’t have the necessary visas. Fortunately, Mexico and most countries in the Caribbean don’t require Americans to have a visa, but still… Such a misagosh.

                 You read Scottish history, you see the British weren’t exactly kind to the Scots. Mary Queen of Scots getting beheaded. William Wallace defeating the English at Stirling Bridge. Robert Bruce defeating the English at Bannock burn. And then Cromwell crushing Scottish independence in ten years of war. The Brits clearing the land of tenant farmers to make room for sheep. A history like that leaves scars.

                 What goes around comes around! David Cameron, British Prime Minister, is now beseeching the Scots to forego their intended referendum in 2014 on whether Scotland should secede from dear Auntie England and declare its independence. After 300 years of subjugation, the Scottish National Party is getting feisty.

                  And, of course, the Irish have been even more belligerent. These tensions make for an unusual cruise line.

                   Between Gouge Airways hitting us with a $150 fine for booking less than 21 days before our flight and the demands of Scotch-Irish Line, I get pretty steamed. “Give me your goddam passport!” I tell mom one morning. “I asked you last night! Where is it?!” I want to go online and get done with our cruise registration once and for all.

                  Furious, she throws the passport at me.

                  “This goddam fucking cruise!” I shout. “I told you, ‘No more cruises!’  No more fucking, goddam cruises!”

                   “There’s such a thing as verbal abuse,” she replies.

                   “God damn you! ” I rant. “Do you know how fucking tired I am? I am still employed, you know! I work five days a week, trying to get my Medicare quarters. Then you’ve got me doing all these household chores. And now I’m expected to book and make all the arrangements for this trip. Don’t you get it? I am thoroughly, fucking fed up! How dare you do this to me?! How dare you fuck up my life like this?!”

                  “You mean it’s my fault?” she asks, stunned. Always the victim, she has spent a lifetime convinced she was right. Everyone else misbehaved.

                   “You’re the one who’s always bitching about the Medicare quarters. You’re the one who thinks she’s living with a lazy teenager and loads me up with household repairs. And now you dump this shit on me! I told you, no more cruises! “

                   “We’ll cancel the cruise!” she shouts. “Forget about your Medicare quarters! If you have to use all your money to pay your medical bills later in life, that’s your problem! Forget it! But I still expect you to work around the house!”

                    “We are not canceling. We are going on the cruise. It’s already destroyed our home life, we may as well get some pleasure out of it. I signed on to this Medicare circus and I will continue to earn wages until I’ve acquired my 40 credits. Just stop feeling sorry for yourself if I scream my guts out on occasion. You’ve made your bed, now you can sleep in it! You’re the one pushing three of my buttons simultaneously— work, chores and cruise. It’s a little much, don’t ya think?”

                    “What do you want, to be fully retired and become a vegetable?!” she rants.

                    “YOU ARE FULLY RETIRED AND YOU’RE NOT A VEGETABLE!”

                    We’re having this argument on Tuesday, February 14. Shattered, mom goes up to her bedroom and crawls into bed. Behold! Her son Kevin has turned out to be another ungrateful little bastard!

                   When I put her passport on her desk, I see a pretty Valentine’s Day card and a pastel green envelope.

Love, affection, commitment,

Nothing beats…

The bond between a boy

And his mother!

it says. 

                  Well, I blew that one to smithereens!

                   The next morning, a chemical smell in the house is killing my sinuses and giving me a constant headache. I keep opening doors and windows, but I can’t imagine what she must have done.

                   Turns out it wasn’t her. Paper perfume samples enclosed with the newspaper ads in The National Herald are to blame. Three different scents are competing for our attention. They get my attention all right, I trash the newspaper!

                   Taking a day off from the studio, I spend my time trimming the hedges, as instructed, to three feet in height. I also caulk the ground floor shower. By then, I can’t stand doing any more chores, although I still have plenty on my to-do list: repairing the basement ceiling, booking shore excursions, booking a rental car and our motels, buying mom a new vacuum cleaner and a new battery for her cordless phone.

                    I figure: To hell with it, if she wants to throw me out of the house, that works, too.

                    The town road crew have again driven their Hurley six-nozzle truck down the hill, spraying salt crystals the size of gum balls. Worst is the liquid salt spray they use, coating street, cars, sidewalk and grass in crystalline white. Since this incredibly caustic chemical spray can eat through steel, my neighbors and I are outside washing our cars. In February. Weather in the 60’s!

                   “Look at what they did!” Patricia LeClerke shouts, hose in hand.

                   “The weather forecast said snow. They over-reacted.”

                    “Ya think?! “

                                                        *

                      Playing Camille, mom sleeps all day and all night. Except she gets hungry and goes into the kitchen to eat soup. Like me, she needs to use the bathroom four times a night. So, even taking to her bed, she’s not really “dying.”

                     When she angrily gets up the next morning, I let her know that I completed our cruise registration and we’re set to go.

                    “I thought we were canceling!”

                    “I told you,” I calmly reason. “This trip has already caused us huge grief. You’re unhappy, I’m unhappy. We may as well get some enjoyment out of it. If we cancel, then it is a total disaster. We’re better than that. We’re winners. We’ll go and we’ll have a good time. I’ve already signed up for scuba diving.”

                   “It won’t be a vacation for you if you’re taking care of me,” she suggests.

                   “Six of one, half dozen of the other! I wouldn’t want to go alone. C’mon, let’s just go!”

                    That’s where we leave it. Broken hearts, but we can live with one another.

                                                       *