Never Get Off The Merry-Go-Round! (Pt 2)

   Our flight was announced over the public address system. 

Don’t worry, it being an international flight, we had plenty of time.

“I love you, dad,” I said as I hugged him goodbye. 

Funny how hard it is to say sometimes.

“God bless you son,” said my dad.

“Thanks, dad,” I said, feeling uncomfortable as I always did whenever my dad granted god’s blessings upon me.

As if my dad could tell god whom to bless. 

“I’ll pray for you every night,” he added.

“Okay Dad,” I said. “If you want to.”

My father and I had never agreed about religion.

He had a very strong dose of it. 

I did not.

“Prayer works even when the person you pray for doesn’t believe,” he said good-naturedly for the ten-thousandth time. “God has a plan for you Rusty, even if you don’t realize it.”

“Okay, Dad,” I said, feeling uncomfortable as I always did whenever he started telling me that god had a plan for me. 

I like to make my own plans.

“Take care of yourself, son,” said my dad, changing the subject. “I know you’ll be fine.” He knew enough to stop pushing the god thing after a few minutes. We must have argued about god since I was eight-years-old. He never stopped trying, but search my heart as I may I just couldn’t feel it like he did. He smiled and looked me in the eye as he’d done since I could remember, so I knew something was coming. 

“Here,” he said softly. “I want you to have this. You never know what might happen…” 

He placed a golden ring in my hand. 

“This was your mother’s wedding ring,” he said. “I gave it to her over 35 years ago. I’m sure she’d be happy to think you have it now. It’s pure gold, if you ever need to er, hock it or something…”

I didn’t remember seeing the ring before. I was young when my mother died. I didn’t remember much about her at all.

“Thanks dad,” I said. “I’ll keep it safe and carry it for luck.”

“There’s an inscription inside,” said my dad quietly.

I lifted the ring to the light and read it.

“Rosella and Johnnie,” I read aloud. “Three, fifteen, fifty-two.”

“The day we were married,” said my dad.

“I know,” I replied. By a remarkable coincidence, I was born a year later, on the exact same date.

At least, that’s what they tell me. 

I was very young at the time, so I’ll have to take their word for it.

I hugged my father again and it felt good.

Sure, we disagreed about things sometimes, things big and little, but there was plenty of love and respect to make up for it.

Goodbye we said, good luck, and we hugged again.

Then he excused himself and left with my stepmother.

After waving them goodbye, the rest of us retired to the bar.

We enjoyed a drink and a laugh as our friends wished us bon voyage and happy landings. 

One by one we bid our friends adieu.

They’d still be here tomorrow.

Not us.

We’d be on the other side of the world.

To be continued...

Letter to Santa Pt 4

So I went to New York, Santa, to became an artist.

My world enlarged and opened up.

For an artist must first of all be an observer of life!

Christmas in the city was fun with all the lights and music and shoppers.

But I still didn’t believe in you.

Besides, which one would I believe in? 

You were on every corner!

I suppose most boys and girls outgrow Santa Claus for a portion of their lives… but most of us come back, don’t we, Santa?

Many Christmases came and went.

I worked hard in the city and did well, as they say.

For years I was a carefree bachelor.

Because I didn’t want to fall in love.

I was afraid to.

Then one Christmas I met a girl at the office party.

She was kind and had a great sense of humor. 

She also had nice legs.

I couldn’t help myself. I fell in love and guess what? 

She fell in love too.

We fell in love with each other.

That was my lucky year because guess what again?

She was the boss’s daughter.

We got married and travelled the world on our honeymoon. 

At Daddy’s expense.

Her father said take your time my son and enjoy, then come back and be a better artist than ever.

He loved his daughter very much.

It was easy to see why.

We saw in our travels that the world was a beautiful place, but not always a fair one.

And I filled my artist’s eye with the wonders of the world.

Boy! I must have drawn Barbara at least a million times while we were on our honeymoon! Posing on a rumpled hotel bed, her shapely limbs silhouetted against the sheets, her smile natural yet alluring…

That’s the name of my wife. Barbara. She’s on your Nice list for sure.

She was way more fun to draw than a salamander or a horse!

Back in New York, I worked hard at my art and my marriage and my friendships, and life flowed along nicely.

The love Barbara and I shared for each other deepened and matured.

I put out a successful book of Barbara drawings.

You might remember delivering a bunch of them because it sold like hotcakes that Christmas.

Barbara was a bit embarrassed, most of them being nude studies.

But I thought they were pretty good drawings, and nothing to be embarrassed about.

So Barbara talked to my aunt Sissy on the phone about it. Aunt Sissy said the right thing again and we all felt better about publishing nude drawings of Barbara in coffee-table art books.

Art for art’s sake, I always say.

Then came a second volume of Barbara studies, called The Honeymoon Series. 

After that Barbara told me to find another subject.

So today I draw rare axolotls for museums and zoos around the world.

I still draw Barbara too, but I don’t publish those drawings.

Barbara and I had children and taught them to face life with bravery, honesty, and humor.

To treat it all as a bit of a joke and enjoy a good laugh.

As parents we taught our children all kinds of things.

And sometimes they taught us.

When he was sixteen I taught our eldest boy to make the occasional gin and tonic for my wife and I. 

We figured he could start to learn about alcohol that way.

Like I learned from my stepmother, only different.

Because children, as you know Santa, learn all the time from everything they see and hear.

He was very proud of his status as our personal bartender and Danny loved to please.

That’s our eldest son’s name. Danny.

Look for him towards the top of your Nice list.

“Lime or lemon in your G&Ts?” he used to ask.

“Doesn’t matter, son,” I answered. “Either one will be fine.”

“Dad,” he said one day as he handed me a drink, “I think I’m gay.”

“Really?” I said. We talked about it awhile. I never told my children about Boris or the art teacher, not because I was ashamed because I wasn’t, but because I didn’t want to make a big deal about it or change the natural course of my children’s own sexuality with the knowledge of it. Sometimes too much knowledge can be a bad thing to a young heart, like when I overheard aunt Tootsie and the milkman call my father a drunkard that day in the kitchen, so I didn’t tell my son about Boris or the art teacher then either. 

Instead I said, “Doesn’t matter son. Either way is fine. Just remember to respect yourself and when in love… always follow your heart.”

“Thanks, Dad,” said my son Danny and we hugged and something beautiful fell into place.

Well! I really got it off my chest, didn’t I Santa?

Rusty’s life story.

(You’d be surprised how much I left out!)

But I wanted to get in touch again.

And wasn’t sure if that was the real you on Facebook or not.

It looked like you, but I couldn’t be sure.

So I decided to write you a letter.

Didn’t know it would be such a long letter. 

Sorry, but you being Santa, I figure you’ll forgive me.

You wonder why I write, after all these years?

I’ll tell you. 

Because I have grandchildren now.

And they want to believe in Santa Claus.

And funny, but what they want, I want.

Because their laughter means the world to me!

We have an axolotl too, named Shakespeare.

But I don’t think he believes in anything.

I hope Santa you continue to share your gift of generosity and good cheer among people the world over. All the world’s people, please, whoever they are, because if one of us is hurting, all of us are hurting. 

That’s what you teach us, isn’t it?

That it’s better to give than to receive?

That we’re all human beings together, sharing our journey through the natural world towards eternity. That we should try to love and understand each other.

Yes even Boris and my cruel stepmother.

Whose spiritual pain must have been immense.

They’re gone now. Crossed off your Naughty list years and years ago. Dead in a car crash on La Brea down by the In-N-Out Burger. My father was behind the wheel. The car they were in was struck and exploded in flames.

Ironically hit by a drunk driver.

On Christmas Eve.

Life’s funny, isn’t it Santa?

Well, that about brings us full circle.

Say hi to Mrs Claus and the elves for me.

And please remember; 

I’ve been a good boy again this year.

Sincerely,

Rusty

PS. If you’d care to prove your existence by slipping a new iPad under the tree… I’ll leave out some milk and cookies.

Little Stevie

   “Here,” said Mick, tossing me the keys. “You drive.”

   You drive. Magic words to a fifteen-year-old boy.

   I caught the keys and ran to the driver’s door, yanked it open and slid in behind the wheel. Mick opened the passenger door and got in.

   From the driver’s seat I checked my reflection in the rearview mirror, my eyes aglow with excitement. My hands gripped the steering wheel. I pumped the pedals with my feet. I clenched my buttocks. 

   I was ready. 

   I depressed the clutch and selected first gear. 

   But nothing happened.

   “Don’t you think you had better turn the motor on first?” asked Mick, more patiently than sarcastically. 

   But still with plenty of sarcasm. 

   “Yea-ah,” I replied. “Haha. I thought she was soundin’ pretty quiet.”

   I turned the key and the motor rattled into life. 

   I again depressed the clutch and selected first gear. 

   “Easy,” whispered Mick. “Easy does it.”

   I worked my feet. Gas, clutch. Feather it out. Somehow I did it and the car moved forward.

   “Good lad,” said Mick.

   Good lad. More magic words to a fifteen-year-old boy. 

   “Not so fast!’ Mick ordered. “Slow down! Blast it all! Do you want the blasted wheels to come flying off?” 

   “Okay, Mick,” I breezily replied. “Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing.”

   I felt very grownup to be in command of a car. This was no little kiddy-car either, but a sixteen-foot long, six-cylinder, 4000cc elephantine behemoth with suicide doors, radial tires and chrome-tipped running boards.

   “How’s the brakes?” asked Mick.

   “How would I know?” I replied with a grin. “I haven’t used them yet!”

   “Well, let’s use them now, shall we?” answered Mick sarcastically. He changed his tone and added, “Blast it all! This is supposed to be a test drive!” 

   We were in Mick’s car, a 1951 Humber Super Snipe Mk III, driving it around the block for a test drive after replacing some parts on the brakes. We’d worked on the Humber together all afternoon. Now, with the work done, Mick was teaching me how to drive. Every time we worked on the Humber, Mick gave me a driving lesson. 

   Which, with the Humber, was every weekend. And sometimes more often.

  “Slow her to a stop,” Mick quietly ordered. “Yeah, right here in the middle of the road. It’s okay, there’s no one about. That’s right. Push in the clutch. Easy.”

   I stalled it.

   “That’s okay.”

   “Sorry.”

   “It’s okay. Push in the clutch. Find neutral.”

   Mick gave the appearance of being a rough and tumble workingman, which he was, but inside he was kind and patient and understanding. He was a good teacher, too. He didn’t make you feel like a dunce or a failure, like he knew it wasn’t easy and that you were trying your best, if you didn’t happen to get the hang of it right away. I admired Mick tremendously, and in my eyes he could do no wrong. Eventually, after I married his daughter Ethne, we became as like a father and son as any two men could get.

   But that was in the future. 

   I finished the test drive without much more ado, if one doesn’t count the few moments of ado stalling it twice more or the handful of ado where I lost control a little and allowed the Humber to jump the curb. Or the funniest ado of all when I switched on the lights and the car went totally dead. Just stopped. No power, no lights, nothing. 

   We were stalled in the middle of the road. A car went round us honking and calling out where’s your lights, dumb-ass? 

   I salute you, fellow travelers of the road, responded Mick, only not so politely as that. Mick fiddled with some wires under the dash and soon we on our way again, headlights ablaze, the smell of burning electricity thick in the smoking air behind us. 

   Not much ado about anything, as I said. 

   I even managed to park it right where Mick indicated, or would have if the brakes had continued to work properly after we had foolishly tested them two corners back. 

   When the time came, instead of stopping where desired the giant Humber continued coasting forward, scraping its fender on the neighbor’s wooden boundary fence. 

   That brought out the neighbor’s faithful dog, whose name I later learned was Little Stevie, to see what was up. He darted past in the glare of the Humber’s headlights. 

   Stevie was a Yorkshire Terrier. 

   Seeing his master’s fence in jeopardy, Little Stevie began to madly bark, setting up a terrific noise especially if one considers his size, finally letting loose a prolonged, earsplitting howl. A howl from hell, if ever I heard one. 

   (Which of course, I haven’t. But you get my point.)

   A terrible noise it was, causing me to wish that my assaulted ears had ceased to function immediately after they had heard the beautiful blaspheming while brake-bleeding that Mick had brayed from beneath the behemoth earlier in the day. Some hot brake fluid had got him in the eye and he’d cussed without repeating himself for five full minutes. Man, could he curse!

   We didn’t curse in my home. It was particularly frowned upon. I had tried it once when I was a kid and boy, did I get a spanking! Mick’s family probably didn’t have a rule like that because he was an expert curser. His profanity was music to a schoolboy’s ear, and my own cursing had improved tremendously since meeting him. Every Monday the other boys in my class would gather round and see what new imprecation or insult I had learned over the weekend.

  Now the brakes weren’t working at all. Was there some connection, I wondered? What commandment was the one about blaspheming? Wouldn’t you know it, the only time in my life when I could actually use any of the Ten Commandments, and I couldn’t remember even one! Oh, I lamented, why hadn’t I studied harder at Bible School? What punishment did breaking this one, whichever one it was, promise? It couldn’t be death in a car crash, we were going too slowly for that, scraping along the fence as we were. Lightning bolt from above? It had been sunny all day, not a cloud on sight. A devouring by the Hounds of Hell, or more accurately, a devouring by a single little Yorkie from H-E-double hockey sticks?  He was so small he couldn’t possibly eat much, even with Satanic encouragement. It would probably take weeks to consume both Mick and myself. 

   That promised to be a slow, grisly death.

   I never felt a thing, sitting in the giant Humber with both my feet jammed down on the brake pedal, so I refuse to believe that the howling Little Stevie was crushed by one of the Humber’s big, nasty pneumatic tires. It’s a fact that Little Stevie wasn’t seen in the neighborhood for a while after that, giving some credence to the rumor that he had been squashed, but personally I believe that he ran away in terror, his little canine head unhinged by the sight of the elephantine Humber attempting sexual congress with the master’s fence! 

   Little Stevie eventually returned home to the elation of his owners, who loved him dearly and spoiled him terribly. He was none the worse for it they said, except that after that night he would never let a full moon pass without rising up from the warm rug by the fire, trotting purposefully outside to the suburban backyard, sitting his little canine posterior down on the silvery lawn and howling like a hound from hell!

  The Humber scraped to a halt against the fence. I looked at Mick, who nodded at me to switch the motor off. 

   “Should I put on the handbrake?” I asked.

   “Are you joking?” was Mick’s incredulous reply. “We’re jammed against the blasted fence!” 

Goodbye Again

Part 2

   

   Suzie and I stood in Auckland Airport’s Departures lounge, embracing our friends before we left town. We were about to fly to New York City, where we had a Kiwi friend upon whose couch we could crash, to arise and begin a new life in America. 

   It is February, 1987. 

  “Keep in touch, Suzie,” said her old friend Nick, who’d come to see us off. “The place won’t be the same without you.” 

   I could easily believe that. Suzie brought lightness and gaiety wherever she went. I watched her embrace Nick, a smile lighting her face. It was a big smile, beaming out friendliness and confidence and a love of life. Which sort of sums Suzie up in many ways, if I may be so glib. As usual she was dressed impeccably for the occasion, today in hippie style jeans and knitted V-neck top under a ragged little denim jacket all strung together with a long, colorful scarf.

   We’d known each other for many years, Suzie and I, had lived together in many places. Africa, Australia, New Zealand.

   Now, we wanted to try America.

   “What’ve we got to lose?” we said. This was in a way idle boasting, because as artists whose entire possessions fitted into just three suitcases, we really didn’t have much to lose. 

   I was a film animator. Over the years I’d learned all I could in New Zealand about making animated films from my father, himself a former Disney animator, and from the other two New Zealand animators then working, and of course from the mistakes and experiences of the dozens and dozens of short films, mostly TV commercials, that I’d made. So I knew a lot about making animated movies, but I’d gone about as far as I could go in New Zealand.

   It was time to pack up my pencils and my dreams and head to America.

   America! Where the movies were big and anything could happen! 

   My father was proof of that. In the 1950s he had dared to dream and take his chances in life as an artist, and he had accomplished what I now set out to do. He had worked as an animator on feature films for Walt Disney. Then as now, no small achievement. Especially for a poor boy from Texas who’d done two hitches in the US Navy and started a family even before attending art school. From there he was selected to work for Walt Disney. After seven years at Disney, my father (and my mother too, for she and he were partners in many ways) decided to leave California and emigrate with the family to New Zealand.

   My father left America in search of artistic growth in New Zealand.

   (That, and a better life for his family.)

   Now, twenty years later, I was leaving New Zealand in search of artistic growth in America.

   Ha! Ha! How the gods love a laugh! 

   Here I was thinking that I was a true antiauthority bohemian artist, when all the time I was merely following in my father’s footsteps.

   In exactly the opposite direction!

***     

   I was started along in my father’s footsteps as an animator, it may interest you to learn, not by my father or by another person or event, but by a ghost.

   A very real ghost.

   It was 1970, two and a half years after we’d arrived in New Zealand and a year since I’d left school and gotten married. I was married to Ethne, my first great love. Our baby was born in November the year before. He was healthy and fat! And smart too just like his father. Ethne and I and the baby were living in Mairangi Bay and life was good. We even had a car. Sometimes the car worked and sometimes it didn’t. I was still working at Northcote depot for the Ministry of Works, helping to build Auckland’s Northern Motorway. It was a rough and tumble world of working men and earthmoving machines, but I’d made friends and was growing up. I’d been promoted out of the ditches and in with the surveyors over a year before. 

  It was a dreary winter’s day, with squally gusts of rain blowing through. A lot of the men had come back to the depot for smoko; it being payday, they could collect their wages. We’d gathered in the tearoom to play cards and share a few laughs. The weather was miserable and nobody wanted to be outdoors. It being winter, the earthworks machines weren’t running, so the pace around the depot was more relaxed, and smoko breaks were sometimes extended affairs. Just keep a low profile and don’t let Pat, the foreman, catch you goofing off. The card game was breaking up. I was about to leave the tearoom to collect the Thames wagon and be off to Sunset Road with Peter, the chief surveyor, when:

   “Rusty! Hey! You’re wanted on the blower!”

   It was Roy, the office manager, calling down from the landing at the top of the stairs that led to the offices. Apparently, I was wanted on the telephone.

   “What?” I called. “Me? Are you sure?” 

   “It’s probably another cock-up,” muttered Buck seated at the card table, and the gathered workers laughed. Nobody ever got calls, except Pat and the big bosses. Maybe this was another joke? How the men loved a joke, at anybody’s expense! You couldn’t leave your leg unattended for even a second at our depot, someone was always there, ready to pull it for you. I looked around at Pat and Buck and the other workmen in the tearoom, some of whom I knew quite well, but they all appeared innocent enough. You couldn’t tell by appearances, though, for I was still young and a very poor judge of what was in the hearts of men by the looks on their faces.

  “Yeah, you! You’re wanted on the blower!” repeated Roy, who then turned and retired to his office, where the telephone was.

   “Blast it all!” I now said, mimicking Pat’s usual grumble as I trotted up the stairs. Pat was the foreman of the depot, well liked by the men, whom he ruled like a benevolent king. He always grumbled loudly and mightily, as he trotted up the stairs that led to the office to take his telephone calls, about the ineptitude of the big bosses and how they couldn’t get along without him. In this way he reminded us how important he was and how lucky we were to have a foreman as good as he.

   Which is true, he was a good foreman. 

   “Can’t they even wipe their own blasted backsides up there,” I grumbled, mimicking Pat, “without it blasted raining blasted showers of crap on us down here …”

   The men, Pat included, found my joke funny and I enjoyed the sound of their laughter in my ears. “Good one, kid,” they laughed. “Ahaw haw haw!”

   It was no joke, though. It was my sister on the telephone.

   That morning, Mom had collapsed and been rushed to hospital, could I please come right away.

   To be continued…