FireVaney

The wallpaper as you go up the stairs was fraying, so Pop called up Martin to pull it all off. Pop wanted new wallpaper, but he didn’t want to choose, so he told Martin to paint all the wallpaper-less walls “buff.” Martin and his wife did the job over two Saturdays. On these two days, unless you were Martin or Martin’s wife, you weren’t going up or down the stairs. The planked apparatus that Martin had rigged up made it possible to reach the highest parts of the walls that flank the staircase. Martin propped open the front door, which is several feet from the bottom of the stairs; he also opened the window several feet from the top of the stairs. He’d done it to let out the paint flumes. [Indeed, the flumes, if any, but especially the fumes .] But doing it also let in the horseflies. Or maybe they were only houseflies. Whichever sort they were, they were eager to pester me, all of these flies were. But just me. Martin painted nearly every room on the second floor of the house, save for...

“Arthur makes coffee by putting eggshells and cinnamon sticks and an old nylon stocking into the coffee pot. His coffee tastes like a very spicy old foot.”  – From Nora Ephron's Heartburn

You love her face because her face belongs to a cartoon. Her expressions belong to a cartoon. Her voice, though? It belongs to a motorcycle gang. And her body? It belongs to Victoria’s Secret. She throws up a Great Wall of China between anyone and what she really feels, or what she really thinks. At least, that’s what you suspect. And before a single try, you’ve given up trying. At least you got the hug she gave you. Better to leave little enough alone. You watched all the cartoons (when you were a kid) because they never got better (or rarely ever did), but you knew they couldn’t get any worse. And though you’re convinced that motorcycles are insane—rather, those who operate them are —you think you’re ready for one yourself. ‘Cause Kassi, she’d find it cool. She’d want to go for a ride and, in so doing, hug herself to you for dear life. You love her because her face belongs to everyone but you.  31 May 2005 

ME: You're right, Nate. *  NATE: I've been right before.  ---  DICK: What do ya know, Howie? †  ME: Not much. You?  DICK: Less.  ---  Pop hoists himself out of my car and into the February night.  He proclaims, "It's cold out here."  I nod.  Pop shuffles over to the house, unlocks the door, and enters.  He proclaims, "It's warm in here."  I nod. ---  BETTY: Howie, what do you put in the trashcan to make it smell so good?  ME: Trash. I put in trash.  BETTY: But it smells so good.  ME: Perhaps you should move next to a landfill, Betty.  ---  Whilst strolling the trail…  POP: The sun is hot today.  ME: We'd be in trouble were it not.  ---  Whenever Pop says he's going up to "wash" his teeth, he means he's going to brush them.  Late 2003, Early 2004  * [Nate was Pop’s youngest brother.]  † [Dick was a semi-retired CPA in Pop’s old accounting firm.] 

He lies there – on the bed or on the sofa – with one hand to his forehead as if in deep contemplation of some serious matter, or as if suffering a painful migraine. Or both. He’ll lie in this way even when he’s asleep. Thing is, he’s not a deep thinker. He doesn’t suffer from migraines, either. Rarely does he complain of having a headache. He is troubled, however. He’s troubled by things beyond his control. For some reason he felt that he had control over such things years ago – although I don’t see how. Very few (if any) law-abiding investors have control over the ups and downs of the stock market. And, likewise, with one’s own health, one can do little to guard against a stroke. You can exercise and diet and dope, but, ultimately, it’s out of your hands. So why dwell on it? Why waste the time and energy? All you can ever really do is enjoy those things you are able to enjoy. (And, believe me, the simpler those pleasures, the better.) But he doesn’t know what he enjoys. He hasn’t (and...