Bruce Wagner - Memorial

“You know why I love you, Joan? You’re the only person angrier than I am.”

Just now, he knew she had every right to be.

“Have you read the magazines, Barbet? I’ve done a lot of research— as you know —and I’ll tell you! Here’s what’s on the covers, every month: Robert Thurman Robert Thurman Robert Thurman, Pema Chödrön Pema Chödrön Pema Chödrön. Robert Thurman in conversation with Robert Thurman in conversation with Pema Chödrön in conversation with Robert Thurman eating out Pema Chödrön. Sharon Salzberg! Sharon Salzberg in conversation with Pema Chödrön! Pema Chödrön in conversation with Sharon Salzberg! Jack Kornfeld on a panel with Jack Kornfeld on a panel with Jack Kornfeld sucking his own dick while Pema Chödrön blows Rudolph the red-nosed Rinpoche!”

“The Aristocrats!”

“Richard Gere Richard Gere Richard Gere! bell hooks bell hooks bell hooks! Oh! And the big controversy —the letters to the editors — are these pathetic assholes who try to distinguish themselves in the hierarchic pecking order by declaring how they think things should be spelled. Barbet, I am serious.” She began to sing, “You say nirvana, I say nibbana, you say the dharma, I say the dhamma — nirvana, nibbana, the dharma, the dhamma —let’s call the whole thing—”

“ ‘Nothingness,’ ” Barbet interjected, arching an eyebrow. She ignored the comment; he grew secretly glum when she didn’t acknowledge a bonafide witticism.

“They even spell tao D-A-O. Like that idiot woman who just had to recycle Swann’s Way: The Way by Swann’s. Dumbshit!”

“You mean ‘The Shit by Dumb.’ ”

“And what is up with the Dalai Lama? Did you hear he said Katrina happened because of people’s karma?”

“Their khamma—”

“Now he’s Pat Robertson! Then I read something about how ol HHDL sat— just sit! —”

“Is that like DHL? UPS? FedEx?”

“—His Highness the Dalai Lama sat with this guy who set himself on fire because of the way the Chinese treat Tibetans. The guy sets himself on fire and goes into prayer position, OK?”

“I do that after sex.”

“But he lived. So Lord Lama comes a-callin! The guy has 4th degree burns and His Holiness gives him a lecture on why he shouldn’t hate the Chinese! The piece of toast tries to sit up — just sit! — out of respect, but keels over! At least His Holiness got his shot in! His parting fucking shot!”

Barbet was howling.

“You know,” said Joan, with a minxy smile. “You’re a pretty good straight man. And you’re straight. We should have had a baby.”

“We tried.”

“Yeah, we did.”

“Besides, I’d be too raged out.”

“I still think you should help me raise it.”

“Help you rage it.”

“Fine, help me rage it. But just help me.”

“That’s a given.”

They gave their 2 miscarriages a moment of silence.

“There is something far out that I saw in the Times,” said Barbet. “You could send it to Freiberg. It’s really interesting. They found 2 fossils fused together, fucking. 65,000,000 years old. In some state in India. Insect lovers or whatever. Now it’s just microscopic fungus, but you can actually see them in the act. Died in the Paleolithic saddle. How’s that for limbic dissonance? Not too bad. I think you should send it to Jew — I mean Lew. You know, the whole Sam and Esther shticky: the Way We Were.”

Another quiet moment.

“So: will you come to the Amma thing?”

She threw back her head and laughed as the waitress brought a pile of calamari.

“Sure.”

“You have to take a number for a hug — seriously, Joan. We need a ‘token.’ Sometimes this woman hugs, like, 9,000 people.

“Sign me up. But can’t you reserve? You know: ‘Dial 777-HUGS’?”

The Treo rang.

It was the PI.

Joan mentioned her price and he said he would find her mother within 24 hours.

HE showed BG the deposit slip from the account, with both their names: Raymond Rausch or Ghulpa Ksemankari. After attorney fees and sundry expenses, the balance was $488,383.51. Ray joked that “it would buy a lot of Pampers.”

Ghulpa was glad, but having bad dreams again.

A tiger was killing her Raj, her Bapu bled in fields of thousand-foot mangroves, searching for honey in forests of Sundarbans, from his blood and plasma sprang ordinary demons whom Durga and black Kali (jumping from their puja pandal as Little Gulp’s schoolfriends led them to the Hooghly River) lapped up like thirsty whores, then shook as did palm fronds in a storm, quivering with delight while they decapitated and quartered the old man, stuffing him down their gullets. The honey, redolent of oak and lavender, poured like ice wine; amber at dusk but saffron-colored in the day, and so very sweet — yet human flesh was sweeter! A single drop on a newborn’s tongue would keep it healthy for years. BG wanted that drop for her child, even if the price (how it wrenched her heart!) was to be paid with the death of her husband — she’d finally acceded to his proposal though they hadn’t set a date; there was talk of a consecration of conch shells, knotted scarves and ghee, of how the darker the hand-henna wedding day designs grew (and the longer they remained), the better the augury — but the raucous cats from Bangladesh showed no mercy, and would not let her near the nectar.

The cousins selflessly, cheerfully, efficiently, assiduously, comically rushed to and fro, as their Ghulpa became engorged with a sleepwalker’s dread. She called out Bapu! it seemed every few minutes or so, asking him to enter the room so she could see him in the flesh. The human flesh!

The old man couldn’t ride the shuttle with the Friar anymore (the dog was down to twice-a-week visits to the Center), couldn’t even leave the house because BG was afraid that something terrible would happen and he wouldn’t return.

The tigers.

That is what her dreams kept telling her.

She stopped watching television because the news frightened her, nor did she watch the DVDs that Ray and the others procured. Tech-savvy cousins brought a thin black Nano jukebox but she only listened to radio. One night, Ghulpa closed the door and lowered her voice in great secrecy to ask Ray if he’d pick up a “golden oldie” that mesmerized her (weirdly, a song he had wooed his ex with) and her enjoyment of it sorely perplexed; his mind stammered. Might Joan have told her about it? No — Joan and Ghulpa hadn’t actually met. Where had she heard it? The radio, of course…but still, so strange.

— don’t fear, my darling, the lion sleeps tonight.

AFTER BG fell asleep, he called his daughter’s cellphone.

She sounded a little frantic.

“Did I catch you in the middle, Joanie?”

“No — it’s fine. It’s just — I have — there is so much stuff going on right now.”

It sounded like she was outside, and out of breath.

She had a busy life. And wasn’t used to getting calls from her daddy.

“Hi, Ray!” she said, as if starting over. “It’s really nice to hear from you.”

“I’m sorry if I got you at a bad time.”

“No, no! It’s cool — it’s fine —go ahead.”

“Well, it’s been a little rough but I think we might have seen the worst of it. The City of Industry came through, and I wanted to ask”— could he need money? no no no could he be asking —“and I wanted to know if there was anything that you or your brother Chester…may I inquire how you’re ‘fixed’?”