The Viewing Room

THE PROBLEM OUTSIDE

[the problem outside] It was a hot, muggy day with the stifling kind of heat one would expect in Manhattan, New York, but not in Manhattan Beach, California . The heat started the morning slowly like a transient, loitering outside the etched-glass seashell-motif double doors of the exclusive boutique hotel Sea Star. The blast of scorched air shocked the wealthy tourists as they walked out, mocking their five-hundreddollar -a-night vacation habit. All day long the heat slid up and down the cobalt-blue-tiled streets, leisurely sucking up every snatch of ocean breeze as it went, and then after sunset, laid down flat across the chilly waters of the Pacific. There it stayed sulking steamily through the night, making the round aquarium building at the end of the pier look like a constantly boiling-over teakettle. The high-end property sales of the mansions in all three sections of prime Manhattan Beach real estate were suffocating. There was the Hill section with panoramic ocean views, the Sand Section with white water views, and the Tree Section with no views, and no trees either for that matter, just streets named after lovely leaf-bearing trees, like Magnolia, Dogwood, and Pine, all grown elsewhere. They gave nostalgic value to the human transplants from parts of the country where the namesake trees stay rooted in their native soil. It would have made more sense to name the streets after the various types of local palm trees. However, names such as Pygmy, Cabbage , and Fishtail, although botanically accurate, would have done little to promote the elegant landscape of that oxymoronic advertising myth, the Mini-Estate. [70] the problem outside Despite the vast quantities of cash poured into the foundations, very few of these cavernous, overbuilt homes were air-conditioned. This was not due to lack of foresight or planning but entirely due to inflated pride, the bragging rights to cool sea breezes in perpetuity . The homeowner’s ego springs eternal. A cool sanctuary awaited the wives of these hot houses, however. They could break out from under the tyranny of the relentless sunshine into the cool darkness of movie matinee land. Tree Section, Hill Section, and Sand Section mothers united and rebelled against the common enemy of the midday heat. They also came together to satisfy secret cravings for giant boxes of candy and greasy buckets of popcorn and to swallow huge gulps of artificially sweetened iced tea with artificially preserved air. Today was Monday, so they came in shifts according to the ages of their children because Monday was nanny’s second day off. The nannies, live-in or not, must always stay over Saturday night because it is the parents’ obligatory romantic-dinner-date night. Even after returning home, the couple sneaks stealthily down the hall without checking on their sleeping children. Then, following the prescriptive advice of the best marital therapists, they lock the master bedroom door, bribing the nanny with double-time pay to respond to any whimpering voices crying out in the wilderness of the children’s wing of the house. By Monday morning, after twenty-four hours of sweltering air drenched with the separation anxiety tears of infants, every family member was eager to run out the front door. First, the fathers escaped to work in air-conditioned buildings on the West Side. Next, the older kids biked their way down to the beach, to surfing or Junior Lifeguard camp, heeding the seductive siren’s call of the waves. And, finally, the mass exodus was completed when the mothers and babies rushed off to that cash cow of entertainment—the Monday Morning Mommy Movie. They flocked to the most recently released tear-jerking chick flick, or whatever was playing, not even bothering to check the title. the problem outside [71] They huddled down together, flesh-filled front packs worn proudly across their puffed-out chests like battle medals for heroism on fivestar generals. These swaddled forms, wrapped in neon-bright summer colors of lime green and hot pink, actually glowed in the dark, squirmy phosphorescent cocoons, while the bodies of the mothers , covered in the stain-resistant mommy uniform of dark-colored cotton, soft, stretchable, recycled yoga and Pilates clothes, faded into the dark. The mothers luxuriated in the invisibility, settling down into it, grateful for the warm comfort of tantrum-tolerant company. They staked birthright claims to that theater for the next...