J. Lennon - The Funnies

“Excuse me,” I said, and walked out.

I found a men’s room in the hallway, pushed the door open, and locked myself into a stall, where I sat down on the toilet and ripped open the envelope. Inside was a handwritten letter. It read:

Tim—

Well, I imagine you’re pretty pissed off right now, being as you didn’t get any money from me. Of course if you can pull this off you’ll get all the money you’ll ever need and then some. Not that money’s important to you. Or is it?

We both know that what you’re doing is a lot of bullshit. I tried the genius painter thing when I was in college, and I wasn’t any better at it than you were. Actually, I was probably a little better. But that’s not the point. The point is that it isn’t right for you and never was, and you only did it to get away from your mom and me and that house. Can’t say I blame you for that. I was a real asshole sometimes, that’s for sure, and your mother was too. But now you’re thirty years old (maybe more, depending on how quickly I knock off) and it’s time to get your act together, like it or not. God knows what a pain in the ass that is, so here’s your chance to do it the easy way.

Why me? you’re thinking. Of course you are. Look at your brothers and sisters, Tim. Bobby’s already got his little chunk of the pie, Lindy’s told us all to go to hell, Bitty is married (we’ll see how long that lasts), and Pierce, of course, is hopeless. It’s the same old song, Timmy, you’re not living up to your potential. You’re the only one who can still make yourself a decent life. You’re down in West Philly with that little girl of yours, but she’s not any good either, and besides, you don’t like her. Face facts! Say what you will about me, but I did whatever in hell I wanted, when I wanted, and I’m happy I did. Mostly, anyway.

I’ve included a list of the supplies I use. If you’re going to do it, do it right. Finished cartoons go on 2-ply Strathmore plate; you stick a week’s worth in an envelope with cardboard and ship them to New York. Do your prelims in pencil on 16-lb layout bond. Sketch with a Wolff “B.” Finals with a Globe Bowl point and letter with a Speedball B-6 round. Brushes are MORALLY WRONG, got that? This isn’t art school, it’s the strips. The other stuff you need’s on the list, along with the product numbers for all the important things. Also, I’ve got you set up with Brad Wurster, out in New Brunswick. He’s a real genius, he gives lessons to all the young punks who can afford it. He’s the best there is. You’ll go to him five hours a day, five days a week. When you make your decision, call him at 224-8935. He’s always home. You think FF is a joke, but it sent you to art school, so you’ll keep it the way it is.

I said I was mostly happy I did what I did. The only problem was your mother. We tore into each other like nobody’s business. Don’t do that, all right? That’s what’ll happen between that girl and you if you don’t watch it. Your lives will go on being boring until one day you’ll wake up and blame her for it, because you won’t want to admit it’s your own damn fault. And she’ll do the same thing. And there’ll be fights and drinking and all the stuff that ruined your mom and me. Now I’m sounding like a sap. But that woman was my one great failing. I bet she’d say the same about me. We screwed up and probably screwed all of you up too.

You won’t want to do this at first, but you’ll come around. There’s more to it than meets the eye.

Dad

The accompanying list was long as my arm: sandpaper, palette, rubber cement, kneaded eraser, etc., etc. I shouldered out of the stall, crumpled the papers and hurled them into the trash can, screamed, spun around, kicked the door so that it gonged on its hinges. Then I stood perfectly still, breathing heavily, for several minutes.

Gathered, I went to the trash can and pulled the papers out. Did he think he could get away with this pop-psychological semi-apology for all the heartlessness and gloomy self-indulgence he’d inflicted on us over the years? But of course he had, and he was doing it right now. I smoothed the letter out against my leg, fresh sweat breaking out under my arms and on my back. I’d keep it as testament to my enduring patience. Someday, when I’d made my own fortune without him, I’d read it and laugh at what a supercilious twit he was.

I smoothed back my hair in the mirror — for once, I noticed, I didn’t look like a penitent awaiting the lash — and flung open the men’s room door. I almost knocked over Susan Caletti. She brought her arms up before her face, as if I were about to sock her.

“Jesus!” I said. “Sorry.”

She backed up a step. “That’s okay.”

“Where is everybody?” The hallway and conference room were empty.

“They left. You were in there a while.” She smiled, pushing a wavy clot of hair away from her face. She looked terribly uncomfortable — her dress was navy blue and heavy-looking, with her ankles popsickle-sticking out of it, sunburned to a lurid pink.

“So I guess you’re giving me a ride home?”

“I guess I am.”

* * *

Susan Caletti drove a tan Subaru station wagon that looked to be from the early 1980s. It was in great shape. I told her this as we wended our way out of Trenton, the air conditioner gusting clammy warm air into our faces.

“Yeah, I had a boyfriend who waxed it every weekend, so I sort of caught on. It feels a little funny doing it out in the street, but whatever.”

“Where do you live?”

“TriBeCa,” she said, and added — with a practiced, muted jubilance—“rent-controlled.”

“There’s no rent control in West Philly.”

She took her eyes from the road to offer me a surprised glance. “No?”

“Our rent’s gone up something like four times in the past two years.”

“Too bad.”

Her driving was quietly competent, a rare thing. She seemed even to be enjoying herself. As if reading my mind, she said, “I like driving in cities, especially non-New York ones.” We were getting on Route 29 via a narrow entrance ramp. She paused to jockey for position against a pickup with wooden fence rails. The pickup backed off and let her merge. “It’s funny, I don’t really think of it as a part of real life. It’s like a video game or something.”

“That could get you into trouble,” I said.

“Hmm. I suppose it could.”

We rode in silence for some minutes, watching trees and houses creep by. Susan didn’t turn on the radio. We were coming into Washington Crossing when she said, “So have you given it some thought?”

For a second I didn’t know what she meant. I had been thinking about Amanda’s car, and began to look for the service station where I’d left it. Then I remembered. “Oh, sure,” I said.

There was the station, up ahead. The Chevette was parked outside in the sun, all the windows clamped firmly shut. “So?” Susan asked.

I turned to her. “Are you kidding me? Of course not!”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure! That strip has been the bane of my existence my entire life! It’s stupid!”

“Okay, okay,” she said.

“Sorry.”

“All I’m saying is don’t be hasty. Your dad…”

“Don’t tell me about my dad, please.”

“Right, okay.” She opened her mouth, closed it again, then sighed. “Just let me say this. From the standpoint of publicity, it’s preferable for us to keep it in the family. It’s a family thing, you know?” We were on a straightaway past a meadow, and she took a moment to look at me. I kept my eyes out the windshield. “And the other thing is that it’s easy. There’s really not much you have to do. Your dad didn’t really do much except draw his daily strips. We just send you your checks.”