George Saunders - Tenth of December - Stories

Leslie’s mom: So guess who ended up feeding the llamas?

Leslie (sharply): Mom, don’t you remember back then I always had yoga?

Leslie’s mom: Although actually, honestly? It was a blessing, a chance for me to rediscover what terrific animals they are, after school, on days on which Les had yoga.

Leslie: Like every day, yoga?

Leslie’s mom: I guess you just have to trust your kids, trust that their innate interest in life will win out in the end, don’t you think? Which is what is happening now, with Les and horses. God she loves them.

Leslie: They’re wonderful.

Pam: Our kids, we can’t even get them to pick up what Ferber does in the front yard.

Leslie’s mom: And Ferber is?

Me: Dog.

Leslie’s mom: Ha ha yes, well, everything poops, isn’t that just it ?

Though is true we cannot keep yard picked up, even with recent attempt at schedule, did not like Pam sharing this with world, as if our kids, in addition to less nicely dressed than Leslie, also less responsible, as if dog not perfectly good pet relative to llama, horse, parrot (parrot in upstairs hall says “Bonne nuit!” as I pass to pee) etc., etc.

After dinner, strolled grounds with Emmett, who is surgeon, does something two days a week with brain-inserts, small electronic devices? Or possibly biotronic? They are very small. Hundreds can fit on head of pin? Or dime? Did not totally follow. Asked about my work, I told. He said well, huh, amazing the strange arcane things our culture requires some of us to do, degrading things, things that offer no tangible benefit to anyone, how do they expect people to continue to even hold their heads up?

Could not think of response. Note to self: Think up response, send on card, thus striking up friendship with Emmett?

Returned to house, sat on special star-watching platform as stars came out. Our kids sat watching stars fascinated, as if no stars in our neighborhood. What, I said, no stars in our neighborhood? No response. From anyone. Actually, stars there did seem brighter. On star platform, had too much to drink, and suddenly everything I thought of seemed stupid. So just went quiet, like in stupor.

Pam drove home, I sat sullen and drunk in passenger seat of Park Ave. Kids babbling about what a great party it was, Lilly especially. Thomas spouting all these boring llama facts per Emmett.

Lilly: I can’t wait till my party. My party is two weeks, right?

Pam: What do you want to do for your party, sweetie?

Long silence in car.

Lilly, finally, sadly: Oh, I don’t know. Nothing, I guess.

Pulled up to house. Another silence as we regarded blank empty yard. That is, mostly crabgrass and no red Oriental bridge w/ancient hoofprints and no outbuildings and not a single SG, but only Ferber, who we’d kind of forgotten about, and who, as usual, had circled round and round the tree until nearly choking to death on his gradually shortening leash, having basically tethered himself to the ground in supine position, and was looking up at us with begging eyes in which desperation was combined with a sort of low boiling anger.

Let him off leash, he shot me hostile look, took dump extremely close to porch.

Watched to see if kids would take initiative and pick up. But no. Kids only slumped past and stood exhausted by front door. Then I knew I should take initiative and pick up. But was tired and knew I had to come in and write in this stupid book.

Do not really like rich people, as they make us poor people feel dopey and inadequate. Not that we are poor. I would say we are middle. We are very very lucky. I know that. But still, it is not right that rich people make us middle people feel dopey and inadequate.

Am writing this still drunk and it is getting late and tomorrow is Monday, which means work.

Work work work. Stupid work. Am so tired of work.

Goodnight.

(Sept. 7)

Just reread that last entry and should clarify.

Am not tired of work. It is a privilege to work. I do not hate the rich. I aspire to be rich myself. And when we finally do get our own bridge, trout, treehouse, SGs, etc., at least will know we really earned them, unlike, say, the Torrinis, who, I feel, must have family money.

Today at work, at lunch, was Fall Fling. Down we all went, perhaps a thousand folks streaming out. Little trio playing. Someone had distributed orange and yellow mini-flags stamped “FF,” which soon nearly covered ground. Fake river runs through courtyard, many assholes had dropped their mini-flags into fake river. Filtering device at one end soon clogged with mini-flags, maintenance man with several mini-flags sticking out of rear pocket crossly going around attempting to dislodge mini-flags from filter with yardstick.

As always they served these flat little dry sandwiches. By time our group got down, many sandwiches already on ground around serving table, with heel marks.

Threw ourselves down on berm, ate hurriedly.

Sat thinking of Eva. Such a sweetie. Last night, after party, found her sad in her room. Asked why. She said no reason. But in sketchpad: crayon pic of row of sad SGs. Could tell were meant to be sad due to frowns went down off faces like Fu Manchus and tears were dropping in arcs, flowers springing up where tears hit ground. Note to self: talk to her, explain it does not hurt, they are not sad, but actually happy, given what their prior conditions were like: they chose, are glad, etc.

Very moving piece on NPR re. Bangladeshi SG sending money home: hence her parents able to build small shack. (Note to self: Find online, download, play for Eva. First fix computer. Computer superslow. Due to low memory? Possibly delete “CircusLoser”? Acrobats run all jerky, due to low memory + elephants do not hop = no fun.)

Soon was nearly one, we returned to work. In elevator, some still holding our little dry sandwiches, stood all of us red-faced men in ties, making jokes about enough Fall Flinging, the Fall Fling has been Flung, etc., etc. Then the embarrassed silence as we, in our minds, resaid the things we had just enthusiastically heatedly said, as if vying for some sort of Stupid Utterance Prize.

Then brief period during which we each surreptitiously cut eyes up at mirrored ceiling of elevator to check bald spots etc., etc., see what we looked like “from above.”

Anders said: I must appear pretty weird to birds.

No one laughed, all just made that sound that is like laugh placeholder, so Anders wouldn’t feel bad, as his mother has recently passed away.

(Sept. 8)

Just now returned from long walk in Woodcliffe.

All over up there, men my age reading in big chairs under orange affluent lights. Where is my big chair? Orange light? No big chair, no affluent lights, no book-lined room. Why is art on our walls so lame? We have only one of old-time cars got at Target and one of generic beach w/Ferris wheel, from garage sale. What are we doing wrong here? Where our expensive framed original art, signed by artist? (Note to self: Befriend young artist? Young artist comes to house, is so impressed with family, paints portrait of family gratis? Still, expensive to frame. Maybe artist so impressed with family, frames it himself, i.e., frame = part of gift?) In Woodcliffe, everything lavish. Beautiful flowerbeds, night-time smell of cedar mulch, speedboats on lawns in moonlight. Behind big turreted house on corner of Longfellow + Purdy Way, yard slopes down to 200 yards of perfect grass. There in the dark, fifteen (I counted) SGs hanging silently, white smocks in moonlight. Breathtaking. Wind picks up, they go off at slight angle, smocks and hair (long, flowing, black) assuming same angle. Incredible flowers (tulips, roses, something bright orange, long stalky things of white clusters) shaking in wind with paper-on-paper sound. From inside, flute music. Makes one think of ancient times and affluent men of those times building great gardens, roaming through while holding forth on philosophy, bounty of earth having been lassoed for the pleasure of etc., etc.