Mom used to go to the movies with Aunt Leona. The two of them would plan the day so that they could exploit the senior citizen discount on cheap matinee-priced tickets, then round out the date by splitting a hamburger at the food court. Mom would mention these outings from time to time, especially when the movie was particularly good.
"Oh," she said one day, "Leona and I went to see that George Clooney movie . . . Oh brother . . . ah . . wherefore art thou . . . or something like that."
"Oh yeah?" I said, "How was it?" I really didn't need to ask; when she liked something, her smile made her look like a little kid whose just gotten the bestest Christmas present ever. She smiled like that when she mentioned the movie.
"Oh good Lord," she said, "was it ever funny. It's by those same guys who did Fargo. George Clooney is so good . . . . you've got to go and see it. Leona and I almost wet ourselves laughing."
For some reason, I could never bring myself to trust mom's judgment when it came to movies. I don't know why that is – I can't recall one time where she suggested a movie to me that I didn't love it. Maybe it was because my tastes run to intergalactic space operas and blow-up-the-skyscraper thrillers, or maybe it was just because she was an older lady I wasn't ready to grow up. Whatever the reason, I always felt this strange, instinctual aversion to most movies she suggested. "Yeah," I said, "I saw a couple of trailers for that. It didn't really look like my cup of tea. It was good?"
"You know what I really like about their movies?" she asked. "I mean, the stories are good, but it's always the goofy side characters . . . . They just remind me so much of people I've known in my life. It's really good. You'll like it."
"Oh good Lord," she said, "was it ever funny. It's by those same guys who did Fargo. George Clooney is so good . . . . you've got to go and see it. Leona and I almost wet ourselves laughing."
For some reason, I could never bring myself to trust mom's judgment when it came to movies. I don't know why that is – I can't recall one time where she suggested a movie to me that I didn't love it. Maybe it was because my tastes run to intergalactic space operas and blow-up-the-skyscraper thrillers, or maybe it was just because she was an older lady I wasn't ready to grow up. Whatever the reason, I always felt this strange, instinctual aversion to most movies she suggested. "Yeah," I said, "I saw a couple of trailers for that. It didn't really look like my cup of tea. It was good?"
"You know what I really like about their movies?" she asked. "I mean, the stories are good, but it's always the goofy side characters . . . . They just remind me so much of people I've known in my life. It's really good. You'll like it."
I filed the information in the "probably not" drawer, and went on about my life. As things turned out, I wound up seeing the movie with Gary Gary
Of course, I loved it! Just like I loved "Fargo
She was at the house the next weekend, and I told her that I saw and liked the movie. She was happy I'd seen it, and, as people do, we began recounting snippets of our favorite scenes, and laughed.
About this time, Chris, who was 12, came into the kitchen to dirty a dish or drink Diet Coke out of the bottle. He listened to us laughing long enough to get the drift, then asked "if we were talking about that movie that's based on the Odyssey?"
"The Odyssey?" Mom said. "No, it didn't have anything to do with the Odyssey. It was a comedy."
Chris cocked his head. "You're talking about that new movie with George Clooney, right? "O Brother, Where Art Thou?" He waited until mom and I nodded, then said, "Yeah, it's supposed to be based on "The Odyssey" . . . you know, the Greek legend by Homer."
"I know what the Odyssey is, son; but the movie we're talking about was about as far away from the Odyssey as you can get."
"Wasn't it about a guy named Ulysses?" he asked.
"We. .ll, . . . what was his name in the movie?" I tried to think, but couldn't remember.
"Yeah," said Mom. "I think his name . . . yes. Yes, his name was Ulysses."
"and wasn't about a guy who was separated from his wife for a long time, and was trying to get home?" continued Chris.
"Yeah," said Mom.
"and along the way, he and his crew have all these adventures and stuff?"
Mom and I nodded our heads dumbly in unison.
" . . . and wasn't there a cyclopse?"
Dumb stares.
"Sounds like the Odyssey to me," he concluded over his shoulder as he left the room with a two-liter bottle of Diet Coke under his arm.
Mom and I looked at each other, not quite sure whether we believed what'd just happened.
"He's a suitor," she said in a dreamy voice, quoting a line from the movie.
"They done sirened us up." I cited.
"The cyclopse!" we said together.
"Goodman . ." I said.
"had a patch over his eye," she finished.
We looked at each other for a second, amazed at the evidence, and at how stupid we'd both been for not seeing it earlier. In the next second, we were holding each other up, sobbing with laughter. "Oh God," said mom, drying her eyes. Then we fell to it again, alternately gasping and howling, loving the fact that we'd enjoyed the pretty trees, and that it'd take Chris to point out that we were actually standing in a forest. There we stood in the kitchen, my mom and I, laughing like school kids. We were proud of him, . . . ashamed of ourselves, . . . which made us even prouder of him . . . which made us laugh even more.. It was a belly laugh for the ages . . . one that reminds you how fun it can be to think you're so smart, only to realize that you're really just a complete and utter fool!
I loved that laugh with her.
I'll never forget it.
Mom died a couple of weeks later. I called her the day before, just to check in and say hello. We talked a little about the kids, laughed a bit, talked a bit more and then said goodbye. She died quickly and, we think . . . I hope, without pain.
When the funeral was over and all the guests had gone home, the kids and I were alone together in the house. None of us spoke. It was dark. The walls seemed longer somehow . . . seemed to stretch just beyond the far side of gloom. I became obsessed with the gloom, and went around the house turning on every light I could find. When I was finished, the light made things worse – it seemed cold and flat, bouncing back at me from every surface like a sick, optical echo. I turned the lights off, happy to have the gloom back. What to do? What to do? What do you normally do on a Thursday night? I knew that sooner or later, one of the kids would turn on the television. I didn't want that. Oh God no, not that. The idea of sitting with my children, our faces bathed in the moronic blue glow of a TV screen as my mother lay across town rotting in a box seemed obscene. Silly, but the thought of it, the normalcy of it, made me sick.
What to do?
An idea hit me. A good idea. An idea that would get us out of the house, away from the long walls and gloom and the unnatural light. An idea that might cheer us up. An idea that might cheer me up. I bolted upstairs, found the newspaper and checked movie listing – I wanted to take the kids to see "O Brother Where Art Thou". When I'd seen it, it was only playing on one screen at the Cineplex and by the time of mom's funeral it had stopped running in theaters entirely. I poured through the paper, hoping it might still be playing at one of the few second run theaters inLong Beach
Of course, I loved it! Just like I loved "
She was at the house the next weekend, and I told her that I saw and liked the movie. She was happy I'd seen it, and, as people do, we began recounting snippets of our favorite scenes, and laughed.
About this time, Chris, who was 12, came into the kitchen to dirty a dish or drink Diet Coke out of the bottle. He listened to us laughing long enough to get the drift, then asked "if we were talking about that movie that's based on the Odyssey?"
"The Odyssey?" Mom said. "No, it didn't have anything to do with the Odyssey. It was a comedy."
Chris cocked his head. "You're talking about that new movie with George Clooney, right? "O Brother, Where Art Thou?" He waited until mom and I nodded, then said, "Yeah, it's supposed to be based on "The Odyssey" . . . you know, the Greek legend by Homer."
"I know what the Odyssey is, son; but the movie we're talking about was about as far away from the Odyssey as you can get."
"Wasn't it about a guy named Ulysses?" he asked.
"We. .ll, . . . what was his name in the movie?" I tried to think, but couldn't remember.
"Yeah," said Mom. "I think his name . . . yes. Yes, his name was Ulysses."
"and wasn't about a guy who was separated from his wife for a long time, and was trying to get home?" continued Chris.
"Yeah," said Mom.
"and along the way, he and his crew have all these adventures and stuff?"
Mom and I nodded our heads dumbly in unison.
" . . . and wasn't there a cyclopse?"
Dumb stares.
"Sounds like the Odyssey to me," he concluded over his shoulder as he left the room with a two-liter bottle of Diet Coke under his arm.
Mom and I looked at each other, not quite sure whether we believed what'd just happened.
"He's a suitor," she said in a dreamy voice, quoting a line from the movie.
"They done sirened us up." I cited.
"The cyclopse!" we said together.
"Goodman . ." I said.
"had a patch over his eye," she finished.
We looked at each other for a second, amazed at the evidence, and at how stupid we'd both been for not seeing it earlier. In the next second, we were holding each other up, sobbing with laughter. "Oh God," said mom, drying her eyes. Then we fell to it again, alternately gasping and howling, loving the fact that we'd enjoyed the pretty trees, and that it'd take Chris to point out that we were actually standing in a forest. There we stood in the kitchen, my mom and I, laughing like school kids. We were proud of him, . . . ashamed of ourselves, . . . which made us even prouder of him . . . which made us laugh even more.. It was a belly laugh for the ages . . . one that reminds you how fun it can be to think you're so smart, only to realize that you're really just a complete and utter fool!
I loved that laugh with her.
I'll never forget it.
Mom died a couple of weeks later. I called her the day before, just to check in and say hello. We talked a little about the kids, laughed a bit, talked a bit more and then said goodbye. She died quickly and, we think . . . I hope, without pain.
When the funeral was over and all the guests had gone home, the kids and I were alone together in the house. None of us spoke. It was dark. The walls seemed longer somehow . . . seemed to stretch just beyond the far side of gloom. I became obsessed with the gloom, and went around the house turning on every light I could find. When I was finished, the light made things worse – it seemed cold and flat, bouncing back at me from every surface like a sick, optical echo. I turned the lights off, happy to have the gloom back. What to do? What to do? What do you normally do on a Thursday night? I knew that sooner or later, one of the kids would turn on the television. I didn't want that. Oh God no, not that. The idea of sitting with my children, our faces bathed in the moronic blue glow of a TV screen as my mother lay across town rotting in a box seemed obscene. Silly, but the thought of it, the normalcy of it, made me sick.
What to do?
An idea hit me. A good idea. An idea that would get us out of the house, away from the long walls and gloom and the unnatural light. An idea that might cheer us up. An idea that might cheer me up. I bolted upstairs, found the newspaper and checked movie listing – I wanted to take the kids to see "O Brother Where Art Thou". When I'd seen it, it was only playing on one screen at the Cineplex and by the time of mom's funeral it had stopped running in theaters entirely. I poured through the paper, hoping it might still be playing at one of the few second run theaters in
I'd grown attached to the thought of getting out. I needed to get out. It wasn't good for me there, and my mounting weirdness wasn't good for the kids.
What to do? What to do?
Then I had my second idea, and started making phone calls.
The Holiday Inn next to theLong Beach Airport
I confirmed my information with the desk clerk, provided a credit card and took the kids to our accommodations on the 8th floor. The lights in this room glared too, but by opening the curtain to the nice-but-not-quite-so-fantastic view of the city and dimming all but one bedside lamp, the glare softened to a pleasant glow. The kids investigated the room, noted the complimentary shampoo and hand lotion, and asked what would happen if we took home the ironing board they found in the closet. We checked the menu and ordered up some hamburgers, hot fudge sundaes and cokes. After the food arrived and everyone was settled and happy, I turned the television on and began to work though the on-screen menu. After a minute or so I found what I was looking for, confirmed my understanding that a room charge would result, and, with a kid under each arm, started "O Brother Where Art Thou" on the hotel's pay-per-view.
Every family has there own ways; a Christmas tradition, a Thanksgiving meal, a time to talk, a look to share, a sigh to remember, a vacation to take or a chore to do. Whatever it is, it is yours; a unique gift to carry always from those who raised you. Our way is not to obsess about gloom or the blue glow of a television screen. Our way is not to fret about quiet or think about corpses in a box across town. Our way is to laugh . . . always to laugh. No matter how bad things are, regardless of decorum and blind to consequence, laugh. The motto goes something like – if you can't see something sublimely stupid in this situation, you're just not thinking about it right.
I enjoyed the movie the second time – this time, alert for allusions to the Odyssey. What I enjoyed more, however, was the kids. They laughed. Sometimes giggles, sometimes a smile, and a couple times, gut rolling heaves punctuated by snorts and heads buried deep in a pillow. Mom loved to hear them laugh like that; loved that they could so abandon themselves to laughter that tears flowed and legs ceased to function but as clubs to beat at a mattress with impotent joy.
That evening my kids and I sat in a hotel room, watched a movie and laughed until we hurt. It was a good way to end the day. Mom was not in a box. She was under my right arm sobbing with laughter, and under my left, gasping with joy. It was a good way to say goodnight.
What to do? What to do?
Then I had my second idea, and started making phone calls.
The Holiday Inn next to the
I confirmed my information with the desk clerk, provided a credit card and took the kids to our accommodations on the 8th floor. The lights in this room glared too, but by opening the curtain to the nice-but-not-quite-so-fantastic view of the city and dimming all but one bedside lamp, the glare softened to a pleasant glow. The kids investigated the room, noted the complimentary shampoo and hand lotion, and asked what would happen if we took home the ironing board they found in the closet. We checked the menu and ordered up some hamburgers, hot fudge sundaes and cokes. After the food arrived and everyone was settled and happy, I turned the television on and began to work though the on-screen menu. After a minute or so I found what I was looking for, confirmed my understanding that a room charge would result, and, with a kid under each arm, started "O Brother Where Art Thou" on the hotel's pay-per-view.
Every family has there own ways; a Christmas tradition, a Thanksgiving meal, a time to talk, a look to share, a sigh to remember, a vacation to take or a chore to do. Whatever it is, it is yours; a unique gift to carry always from those who raised you. Our way is not to obsess about gloom or the blue glow of a television screen. Our way is not to fret about quiet or think about corpses in a box across town. Our way is to laugh . . . always to laugh. No matter how bad things are, regardless of decorum and blind to consequence, laugh. The motto goes something like – if you can't see something sublimely stupid in this situation, you're just not thinking about it right.
I enjoyed the movie the second time – this time, alert for allusions to the Odyssey. What I enjoyed more, however, was the kids. They laughed. Sometimes giggles, sometimes a smile, and a couple times, gut rolling heaves punctuated by snorts and heads buried deep in a pillow. Mom loved to hear them laugh like that; loved that they could so abandon themselves to laughter that tears flowed and legs ceased to function but as clubs to beat at a mattress with impotent joy.
That evening my kids and I sat in a hotel room, watched a movie and laughed until we hurt. It was a good way to end the day. Mom was not in a box. She was under my right arm sobbing with laughter, and under my left, gasping with joy. It was a good way to say goodnight.
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