Telling Tales

I called my father early this week (about topics unrelated to flatulence, I assure you) and he told me this story:

“I was at this new pizza place having lunch, and I had gas. The music there was pretty loud, so I figured I could get away with it. Half an hour later, I’m feeling much better but, when I look around, everyone is staring at me. Then I realized I had my iPod on.”

“You did not!” I replied, giggling.

“No. I didn’t,” he confessed. “But it’s a good story.”

We Bramhalls adore a good story – the best kind being those we can tell on ourselves or our loved ones. And while we appreciate veracity, precise accuracy is optional; humor is king. One time my uncle tried to correct his mother’s telling of a well-worn family tale, and my grandmother waved him off, saying “don’t bother me with the facts; I’m telling a story!” This was an idea the whole family could get behind, because there isn’t a single member of Dad’s family who doesn’t have some ripping yarn about a bear at a campsite, a dog named Lancelot, or the car they called “Leaping Lena”. My father still laughs ‘til he cries telling the story about Uncle Din buying him a $500 surfboard because he thought it cost $5 – and he’s been telling that one since the 1960s.

The characters in these tales become part of a permanent pantheon I’ve been relating to most of my life – take Flossie, for example. When my parents were on their honeymoon, the legend goes, there was a waitress named Flossie at the diner. She was… friendly – my guess is she flirted with Dad. And so it became a running joke that Flossie was my father’s other girl – the woman he’d wind up with if my mother died or left him. (You’ve got to appreciate a family that has honeymoon stories – there’s another one about my father water skiing, then waking up the next day convinced he had Polio.)

So Flossie’s been around longer than I have. I’m rather fond of her, in fact, though it’s true to say she’s a grabby little bitch; my mother has no time for her. “I’m leaving my jewelry to you,” she would say. “For God’s sake don’t let Flossie get it!” On the other hand, I never met my father’s Marine Corps sergeant, but I’ve thought poorly of him ever since I learned he took Dad’s watch off his dislocated arm. Admittedly, some family anecdotes need polishing to bring out the Funny.

The family folklore masterpiece comes from Uncle George’s visit to Bramhall Hall in England. His knock on the door of the stately home was answered by a butler. Uncle George explained that his surname was Bramhall, and he wanted to explore the land from which his ancestors had come. “Yes,” replied a bored and snooty butler as he closed the door on my uncle “many of the serfs took the family name when emigrating to America.”

I once told this tale to an Englishman with a plummy sort of accent and an attitude to match, but I’m not convinced he appreciated it properly. He seemed embarrassed for me, as if I’d told him some great confidence. Mostly, I was patting myself on the back for working the word “serf” into normal conversation. Let this be a lesson in knowing one’s audience. Here’s another:

My father and Ron, a friend from his office, were dropping me off at college. The campus was dotted with charming streetlamps – old-style black poles with a base that rose above knee height and a cross-arm just below the light. As a fire precaution, the lights were built to go off for 5 minutes if the bulb came in contact with the panes surrounding it. As we parked in front of one of these lamps, I was regaling Dad and his colleague with tales of drunken escapades, most of which involve head-butting the lamps.

“Head-butting?” they asked.

“Yes,” I explained. “The base is the perfect height to stand on and grab the cross arm, using it as a handle to propel one’s head into the lamp, knocking the light out temporarily. Here, I’ll show you.”

I got out to demonstrate. Watching me through the windshield, Ron says gravely, “you must be very proud.” As I climb back into the car, he adds “I’m gonna let you tell this one at the office.”

This one's for you, Daddy.

I'm a Big Fan

I used to think being a fan was a bad thing.

Oh, who am I kidding? Part of me still does. I don’t have much patience for glittery signs or women crying “I wanna have your baby!!” I can’t think of a good use for autographs, and I don’t take pictures. Despite being a promising screamer in my youth, I have lost my zeal for high-pitched keening. I considered being tongue-tied around the object of my affection, but my mother informs me he puts his pants on one leg at a time. (I’m meant to fear acrobats, apparently, and to be unafraid of people who don’t leap into their pants. I couldn’t tell you why; I just do as I’m told.)

Being a fan can be embarrassing, really. People think you’re just a little bit crazy – like you’re not entirely in control of yourself. This turns out to be true even if you don't paint your face or cry when your team loses. On the other hand, I know plenty of people who can’t control themselves when they’re angry, and they’re less fun to be around. If you’re going to let go, do it in joy.

Despite the protestations above, though, I qualify for the role of fan better than most. While I don’t have the fearless self-confidence required for genuine stalking, I do specialize in showing up – time after time after time – which makes a splash in its own way. I also know all the words and do all the dances; it’s true. But mostly my brand of fandom is about attention and attendance.

See, showing up is the kind of thing I take seriously. Attention is the most important gift we have to give to others. Where I come from, presence *is* love. If we vote with our dollars every time we buy something, then we also vote with our time when we choose what we will attend, to whom we will listen, and where we’ll be present.

And here’s the thing: after I’m done being defensive, I still believe that being a fan of other people is a natural state. It’s being a fan of ONLY famous people that’s worth being embarrassed about. I have a friend named Mo with a smile as big as the sun who can make anyone she admires feel like a rock star. She admires a lot of rock stars, come to think of it, but some of us normal civilians as well. She’s an unabashed fan of people she loves, and I admire that about her. You could say I’m a fan of her fandom…

Shouldn’t we root at least as hard for our friends and family as we do for the Yankees? Shouldn’t we celebrate their victories with at least as much fanfare? Being a fan is about enthusiasm. And if you don’t have that for the people in your life there’s a good chance you need new people in it.

Fiddle, Fiddle

I spent a lot of my early 20s (as I remember it anyway) piling too many friends into some Pontiac P-O-S of considerable vintage, or similar rickety transport. My friend Todd had the prime example: none of the locks worked. None! How does that happen? Shouldn’t one forced entry point be enough? And if this is my ride, what are the chances there’s something you want to steal inside? This ugly brown automobile also sported a non-working heater. And if we, crammed two-people deep in the back seat, forgot and asked Todd to turn up the heat, Todd would do his best to oblige:

“Fiddle, fiddle!” he would sing optimistically, waggling his fingers in the direction of the heater. And then once more, with a bit of doubt in his voice: “fiddle…?” It was more a concerted aspiration to produce heat than any physical attempt to restore the heater to working order. It also had a welcome bit of Gone With the Wind “fiddle-dee-dee” in it.

I loved it then, and still do. I particularly like the sheer cheerfulness in the face of grievous obstacles – as if Todd lives in a world where the heat may in fact respond. (You don’t know; it could happen.) It suggests all the complexity of playing a nimble violin. Still, “fiddle fiddle” is a playful opportunity to do one’s best – it says “I’m game” or, in the words of one of my favorite songs “better to be a rotten egg than to skip the race.” This is an important attitude to maintain if I’m going to participate in the world. The likelihood of failure is high in my life (I put this down to being talentless), but it turns out that’s where the fun is.

Though I’ve since graduated from the era of ramshackle, unheated transport, I continue to find “fiddle, fiddle” the best response to many a daunting challenge. It’s what I do at work when I don’t know what I’m doing – and more often than not it works. It’s even fitting for a bad hair day.

I don’t have a temperament suited to an infinite amount of fiddling, though. If pressed, I will eventually yield a bored sounding “futz, futz,” and this is not the direction in which one hopes to be headed. Futzing lacks the patient hopefulness of fiddling. Futzing may be serious and can lead to annoyance.

Nobody wants that.

Use Your Head

Dateline: 5:15 p.m., Shuttle Train, Track 1, Grand Central Terminal.

I don’t usually go home this early, and the trains are packed full to bursting. The kind of full that means you’re all up in the grille of your New York neighbor – the kind where you’ve already tucked some guy’s shoulder under your armpit in an effort to find something to hang on to.

Here they come – not one but two women who believe they’re exactly what is needed at door 2 of this subway car. And yet there’s no way in. There’s not enough room to push past. There are already people needing to hug their briefcases close as the doors shut. The next train has arrived across the platform. Do they shove off for an empty car, our intrepid pair? No. Instead, without any discussion, they simultaneously turn around to face the platform and try to push their way into the car butt-first. Why? Why, Lord, why?!

They do not succeed. Butt pushing is not the kind of thing New Yorkers succumb to.

If you're bored during your subway ride there's poetry to read, or bunion removal to contemplate. But for a real rival to people-watching, you need the MTA itself -- hands down the best producer of transit signage in the land. To wit,

here’s a tiny placard informing riders that assaulting an MTA employee can result in seven years in prison. Emphasis on the (big, red) seven. But why? How does this prison term compare with the penalty for assaulting a run-of-the-mill straphanger? Or a member of the above-ground NYPD rather than the Transit Police? Is there a lower number of years served that would cause assaults on subway personnel to skyrocket? (See, for four years I woulda kicked yer ass, but SEVEN?? That’s just crazy talk.) Exactly how offensive are the folks at the MTA, if the rest of us need to be reminded regularly not to beat them? I have a lot of questions, and precious few answers.

As if to clarify, the conductor of the 1 train tries to shut the doors at 59th street while there are folks still getting off the train, much to the dismay of those hoping to board. (Those considering retribution are visibly deterred by the 7 year sentence.) As we push on toward 66th street, he makes this announcement:

"Ladies and gentlemen, USE your HEADS! Don't stick your arms, legs, bags or what have you in between the subway doors when they are closing."

Perhaps this is where the butt-pushers went wrong -- they should have used their heads.

Spain: A Gypsy, My Cousin, A Mugger, And Me

Giving the mugger my purse simply wasn’t an option: I was the only one with a wallet.

My travel companion lost her money and credit cards early in our trip to a gypsy woman with a newspaper, a kissy face and some quick hands. In fact she lost everything in her bag, seeing as it was upside down and empty when she checked it next. I escaped with my possessions thanks only to compulsive behavior. Whenever someone bumps into me I open my bag, find my wallet, and close my bag again – this the result of years of up-close subway riding. That’s what I did the first time the woman touched me; Suzanne saw me do it but thought I was going to give the woman money. It didn’t even occur to me to warn her – I was just doing what I always do.

Being moneyless in a foreign country is debilitating, but the wallet was just the first sign that things weren’t going smoothly in Barcelona. I never did get the late nights and siesta schedule working properly for me. We’d be up until dawn, then sleep in. By the time we were fed and showered and ready for the day, the whole country was preparing for a nap. Someone threw water balloons at us one evening as we headed out. It seemed there was nothing on the radio except Cher's comeback hit "Believe." And we were constantly lost, notwithstanding the map of Barcelona clearly marked with an 'X' at the drippy church.

Also, unbeknownst to us, one flies from Barcelona to Madrid; the train is simply not the done thing. On the contrary, it is a long, slow, cigarette-saturated mistake. Madrid itself was an oasis, and my memory of it hazy. I remember a Christmas fair, churros y chocolat at a coffee shop, and dinner with my cousin, in Madrid for a semester abroad. We were rested and refreshed from our stay in the MTV-meets-brothel hotel. We were ready for our next adventure.

On the way back there was a train strike – something to do with political separatism, I think, but then again I don’t speak Spanish. They put us on a bus for the remainder of the route and, while I worried that I’d take an accidental trip to Toledo, we rode through puddles so deep they seeped into the luggage compartment and soaked our clothes. This is why it doesn’t pay to worry; I so rarely get it right.

We weren’t even meant to be in Barcelona the night of the mugging, but the bus arrived too late for us to get the train to Sitges, so we returned to the same hotel in Barcelona. And then we set out to find a bar, tottering down an alley so quiet and poorly lit the people in the movie audience have to be screaming “Don’t go down there, fool!” If I’d had any sense, I would have left my passport, a bit of cash and an ATM card in the hotel room. Sadly, I had no sense.

Honestly, the only scary part was hearing stones crunch and turning to see someone lunge at me. I didn’t know if he had a knife. When I discovered he only intended to snatch my purse, I set about beating him. I called him all walks of names, too. I remember being glad I called him a bastard, as I was confident it translated. Eventually he had enough of being hit, and ran off. (Don’t you wonder how HE tells this story?)

We were probably 50 yards from our destination at the time, and my friend suggested we go in and have a drink. But I had to go back to the hotel immediately, where I could hyperventilate and cry in peace. There, reliving our vacation on our final night, my friend and I came to the conclusion: Spain can eat me.

I’m going to Amsterdam where I can smoke things my mother won’t approve of, and no one will mug me. Then I’m going home to Manhattan, where I don’t have to worry about crime.

Nothing to Wear

I generally don’t wear words. When I did time in the Preppy Handbook hell they call an all-girls academy, this was largely in opposition to the initial-ridden handbags that had just become popular, as well as Benetton sweaters knit with a giant ‘B’. Ah, the ‘80s. Why would I want a wallet with someone else’s initials stamped all over it? Reluctantly, I put away my “I’d rather be watching General Hospital” baseball shirt with the lavender sleeves and matching, braided headband.

In young adulthood, I took to heart the words of Fran Lebowitz: “If people don’t want to listen to you, what makes you think they want to hear from your sweater?” A worthy question, I think. By now the ban is mostly left over habit, though I can’t think what I would have the urge to say to each and every passerby, nor am I likely to find such a communiqué printed on a T-shirt.

I’m also allergic to animal prints. I grew up prejudiced against them the same way I was against tattoos. It simply isn’t done, insists the voice in my head snottily. My friend Scarlett is the first person I ever saw who made an animal print look classy and fabulous, in a Jackie O sort of way. I still admire her for it. There’s no chance I could pull it off; I just look like trailer trash, and the cheetah-print leggings are not helping.

These days there are more quotes, sayings and words as tattoos than ever before, which triggers an exaggerated form of my dissatisfaction with T-shirt slogans. Tattoos are for truck drivers and tramps, my mother told me. And Popeye. That’s clearly no longer the case. Still, I don’t have the courage for that kind of commitment. I imagine, though, if forced to choose I’d have “DNR” tattooed over my heart. It seems like the right mix of practical and amusing.

I don’t wear socks (except with sneakers and snow boots), and haven’t for decades. I know this because I’ve had the same five or six pairs of socks in all that time. Let’s chalk that one up to an affinity for Miami Vice. Plus my feet like to breathe. Worse, I can’t wear hats, though I very much wish I could. I have a preternaturally large head. I also have friends who take me to hat stores purposely to perch the things on my prodigious pate and giggle at the result.

With all these rules and prohibitions related to clothing, you’d think what I have left to wear wouldn’t be all that complicated. Indeed I thought of myself as having a low-risk wardrobe – right up until the day I picked up the keys to my new apartment. There I was, chatting among new neighbors and other blameless bystanders, when an important safety pin gave up the ghost and my skirt fell to the floor.

If you’re going to drop trou’ in public, I say shoot for Manhattan during rush hour: go big or go home. The leasing office for Stuyvesant Town / Peter Cooper Village is housed in one of the few strip-malls in the city, complete with wide, sunny plate glass windows which maximize the opportunity for public humiliation in a swirl of fabric and spring fashion colors.

What does one say in such circumstances? There must be proper etiquette when one’s trousers are suddenly, unexpectedly, publicly around one’s ankles. I never got that far. I panicked and was in little control of what came out of my mouth. And what came out of my mouth, as I crouched down to pick up the bottom half of my suit, was:

Goodness GRACIOUS!

Telling, isn’t it? If I’m honest, it’s not what I expected. I’d figured myself for a swearer. But there you have it – in the heat of a stressful moment I sound just like Nonnie, my grandmother.

I’ve decided that’s not such a bad thing. It’s also clear to me now that one cannot, in reality, die of embarrassment. More’s the pity, really, as I expect my tattoo would come in handy in the event.

Confessions of a Little Sister

My first memory of my brother is of him breaking me out of jail. (When you’re old enough to walk, cribs count as prison.) Having dropped the side of the crib to the floor, he would hug me and fall backwards; I tumbled out of the crib on top of him and we went off to eat M&M and Smartie sandwiches and then to pit my Snoopy-on-wheels against his latest wind-up racecar.

It’s always been Moose’s job to look after me. Perhaps shockingly, he has lived up to the responsibility with earnestness and hard work so long and so well I sometimes forget to be scared of life. THAT’s how much I take him for granted.

For example, in the early years I wasn’t allowed to cross the street alone, but that’s where our cousins lived. He’d be over there playing and I would scream and scream for him until he came to get me. (That’s how I first learned to be loud.) He responded well to “Moosie, draw me an angoo” in the time before I could draw my own triangle. I made him rescue me when my car ran out of gas late at night, and he had to get out of bed to do it. In college I once drunkenly picked a fight with a hotel manager, and left Moose to finish it. (His parting shot was “one day, buddy, you’re gonna mow my lawn,” which I find riotously funny even today.) He’s still the person most likely to change the oil in my car.

It can’t be easy to be an older sibling, what with all the learning-to-share required. As a toddler, I wanted whatever Moose had and to do whatever he did. He was, after all, the coolest thing moving – capable of feats of magic like riding a Big Wheels or crossing the road without holding a big person’s hand. I could throw a fit and my mother would make him give me whatever toy of his I coveted.

Such generosity was true punishment – when I was eight I drove his brand new go-cart into the stone wall of our house only days after Christmas. I also toppled his prized possession – his moped – on more than one occasion (once when it wasn’t even moving). I don’t usually drive his cars, but with my track record who could blame him? The first time I visited his fantastic new house, he said he could hardly believe it was his: “I keep expecting Dad to say, ‘OK, give your sister a turn.’” How’s that for deep-seated psychological trauma?

Moose received this sisterly abuse with equanimity. I used to throw everything in my playpen at him – including the mattress. He would calmly roll out of the way, then roll back to continue watching his TV show. Indeed, unflappable tolerance is one of my brother’s defining characteristics. He’s got a live and let live policy some say stems from not giving a shit about others. He is a self-styled “fastidious prick,” which does an admirable job of encompassing in one tidy package his nearly compulsive distaste for messes and his tendency to make smart-ass remarks.

Despite its usefulness, I’m not a fan of the term. To me it just seems like a mean way to describe both his skill in ironing a perfect shirt and the promise that he can make me giggle at the most inappropriate times. More importantly it does no good at all at exposing him as an excellent caretaker (not just of me but of pools, lawns, guests, etc.) and a sucker for family.

I believe my brother would respond to even the most heart-rending personal confession with something along the lines of “OK… Want a beer?” This not because he wasn’t listening but because you’re still the same person, and if he were you in this situation he’d want a beer. It’s his own brand of sympathy, surely, but it works (unless, presumably, you’re telling him you’re an alcoholic).

And although he occasionally ran me over with his bike or threw me on the floor so hard I got a rug burn on my face, I was usually allowed to tag along to whatever fun was being had. When he left me behind to start school I had no idea what to do with myself; eventually I started doing his homework. I followed him from school to school – even to boarding school and college. And everywhere I went people were thrilled to have another Bramhall around, though I was never quite what they expected.

Growing up, we split responsibilities. In theory, I was the smart one and he the funny one. In truth, not only could he sucker his baby sister into giving him half my candy, he went on to graduate from Princeton without breaking a sweat and built an amphibious vehicle while he was at it. He was the outgoing one everyone on campus knew and loved; I was… an above average speller.

I believed my big brother could do anything (except, perhaps, grasp that what you do to one side of an algebraic equation you have to do to the other). At various points in his youth he played football, baseball, lacrosse, and rowed on a crew team. He played the saxophone and designed lights for the theater. At boarding school he was president of his class, editor of the yearbook, and head of the largest organization on campus. In his spare time he could whistle, golf, or wax a car within an inch of its life. He’s the best driver I’ve ever been in a car with. He even sorted out algebra and wound up an engineer.

Despite the ridiculous name he was saddled with before birth, Moose is refreshingly normal – married to his college sweetheart with two delightful children. He’s close to both his family and his wife’s, is still friends with buddies from high school and college. He has the right job, and the right house, and the right tie, and the right hair. I, of course, have the wrong hair. Together we are a John Hughes movie (He’s more Judd Nelson in St. Elmo’s Fire; I’m more Ducky from Pretty in Pink).

He’s intimidatingly successful in just about every way you can measure such things. I haven't the slightest idea how he does it. I suppose I should be jealous if I weren’t so busy cheering for his team.

I was an adult before I realized that not everyone got as lucky as I did in the big brother sweepstakes. In fact, I’m still pretty jazzed for boys who are expecting a little sister in the family. I tell them this: “Your mother or your wife may love you more, but no one will EVER think you’re as cool as your little sister thinks you are – until you have a daughter of your own.”

Happy Birthday, Moose. Sorry about pulling your hair all those times.