The Millennium Hotel: The Rider Quintet, vol. 2

BIRTHDAY BLUES

BIRTHDAY BLUES Today's the rider's birthday. I sec you're already lower-casing him . . . Would you rather I. . . What is this "I." You have none. Today's the rider's birthday. Except he's dead. In a contrary mood today? Not in the wayyou'd think. I'm yourfriend, remember'!And I can't hurtyou. I have no body. Neither does Krang. K ? The bodiless brain. The Ninja Turtles' nemesis. The guy who oversees all of theiractivities. And yet you carry him in your pocket like a good luck charm. You perplex your son who can't seethe humor in your perversity because to him Krang is just, toput itplainly, disgusting. Just his brain. On the show and the Nintendo game his naked brain is always safely encased within a robot's body where his stomach and not his head ought to be. 3 Ought? 1thought we had done with the realm ofcould-have-been. The realm ofshoulds. Who is ever done with—anything? Just because I agree with Marie-Louise Von Franz's imprecation "no more shoulds" doesn't mean I'm freed from the actuality. And just becausethe rider is dead doesn 't mean that today isn 't his birthday. April 17. I'm fine, really. I believe you. But the week has been—. T know. But think of it this way:you 're lucky thatyou can break down. I kept scratchingmy brain in imaginationtrying to remember if this was the week when B died a year ago. And J the same week the year before. After each death something went wrong withyour body. All right, all right. Even though I had the flu I dragged myself to the gym to stretch out on the mats and listen to some calming music on my Walkman. This was going well. I had my arms and legs extended as far as possible in the opposite direction and I could feel my lungs release . . . , but when I reached for my toes I ... convulsed and burst into tears. Good thingyou 'd wornyour sunglasses. Yeah. I knew that the tears could have been mistaken for sweat and the groans for . . . and while it was days before the date, as if emblazoned (would stare me down-to-distraction) I just could not stop thinking about the intimate 4 quiet moments we shared; our rare and wonderful moments of true solitude together . . . ; the unforced gentleness and sense of mutuality . . . : Buber. . . That's sounimportant. The point is that he had internalized the lessons; it was in his nature to be that way. I don't see what's so strange. His birthday was approaching. You were sad. That's perfectly normal. But what pierced me at that moment like an ax was the recognition that I never had a conversation with my (blood) father. Don't be dumbfounded. My feelings about the two men are always in dialogue, crissing and crossing. Lying in that relaxed position on the exercise mat listening to theintervals in Ry Cooder's mesmerizingParis, Texas score, it hit me that as my father's birthday approached, or the hour of his suicide neared, that I felt mildly aware, mildly sad, but not remotely devastated and torn that I had lost someone with whom I had an intimacy that could never be repeated. Nothing can—. You know I don't mean it that way. Then beprecise. Someone who, at least at crucial times,communicated a warmth and love and care without 5 competing withyou And undercuttingyou at every instant like your bloodfather. Andyour grandfather—. Thanks. That's what I'm here for. So I was torn by a new perplexity with regard to my real father. I never lived with him but we spent countless hours alone together and he was often, before he hit the bottle, quite friendly, easy-going, low pressure. A companero. We liked to hobo around together. But even looking at clustersof the best moments we had in each other's presence we still never had a conversation. He had his mind made up about me and, with his game-plan fully laid out, chose to employ this or that tactic to edify, or instruct. . . , to lead me onto better paths for I am in no way criticizinghis motivation in trying to help me GROW it was just that he had no EARS He knew in advance anything I could possibly think or say. But...