fredbubbers.com

Part 1:

This essay was originally published three years ago in Seeker Magazine.  When I began writing it, my only intent was to document a family story that was going to be forever lost due to the passage of time.  As what sometimes happens when writing personal essays, they start out about one thing, but in the process of writing them, they turn out to be about something else.  In this case, I discovered, over twenty years after they were gone, the impact my grandparents had on the person I became.

Tomorrow, Christmas Day, 2009, a new epilogue to this essay.

My grandparents, John and Frieda Bubbers, or “Oma” and “Opa,” came to America some time after World War I. Opa had been a soldier during the war and for a brief period after the war was over, during the social and economic chaos that was Germany during that time, he had been a police officer. He never spoke much about those experiences, but when he was in Astoria General, near the end of his life, he struggled and had to be restrained when the nurses attempted to place an oxygen mask over his face. He was having flashbacks of trenches and gas masks.

The young couple settled in a small German community in Lawrence, Massachusetts, probably around 1920 or 1921. He never told me what he did for a living, but I imagine that he worked in the textile mills that were still operating all over the northeast at the time. During my time with Computer Associates, a software company based on Long Island, I traveled quite frequently to our office in Andover, just a few miles from Lawrence. I took several trips to Lawrence and saw a poverty stricken area that didn’t seem to have ever recovered from the great depression; the mills still standing like red brick carcasses, crumbling, abandoned and overgrown for over fifty years.

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When Jay McInerney’s Bright Lights, Big City was published in 1984, it took the publishing world by storm and ushered in a new era of edgy young writers.  Bright Lights, Big City chronicles the emotional, psychological, and spiritual downward spiral of a young would-be writer in the fast-lane of the mid 1980’s Manhattan club scene.  His wife has left him, his job oppresses him, and he lives in a cocaine-addled twilight zone.  The first chapter, entitled “It’s 6 AM, Do You Know Where You Are?” begins:

You are not the kind of guy who would be at a place like this at this time of the morning.  But here you are, and you cannot say that the terrain is entirely unfamiliar, although the details are fuzzy.  You are at a nightclub talking to a girl with a shaved head.  The club is either Heartbreak or the Lizard Lounge.  All might come clear if you could just slip into the bathroom and do a little more Bolivian Marching Powder.  Then again, it might not.  A small voice in side you insists that this epidemic lack of clarity is a result of too much of that already.

Confessional stories about people on the descent, whether into madness, depression, dissipation, alcoholism, or any other form of self-destruction are a genre unto themselves that was not invented by McInerney.  In The Catcher in the Rye, Holden Caulfield tells us about his own drive toward that cliff he hopes to protect all the children. In The Bell Jar, Sylvia Plath’s Esther Greenwood descends into suicidal depression.  In John O’Brien’s Leaving Las Vegas, Ben Sanderson literally drinks himself to death.

What makes McInerney’s novel so unique both then and now is that it is entirely written in second person.  “You,” the reader, are character in the story.  It is a testament to McInerney’s talent that he wrote a whole book in this unusual still and managed to pull it off.  I am as amazed by it now as I was when I first read it.

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Four families old she stands against the rain
Green shutters with wooden flecks
And a porch gently warped and peeling

The broom-clean foyer stands behind the oak and glass door,
A common mosaic in black and white tile beneath our feet
As we stand before the hallway hand-crafted and cracking in plaster and lathe.

The staircase that rises before us to the second storey
Is covered with thread-bare carpet of a later vintage:
Deep-green seventies shag.

“That’s got to go,” you say, and I laugh.

In the empty sitting room stands a tarnished brass floor lamp with a tilted shade.
I turn the key-shaped switch and there is a brief flicker of light
And then we are back in the gray window light

On your knees, you take the ceramic plug in your hand and squeeze the prongs together
You press it back into the socket and the yellow-tinged light returns

We hear a gust of wind in the trees outside
Again the light flickers and finally takes hold
Casting our shadows across the room.

A dried rosebud sits atop a brittle stem in a church bazaar vase
Beneath the kitchen cupboards’ streaked panes and the frames
Covered with layers of pearly enamel.

The steps creak under our feet and echo through the empty house
As we climb the stairs to our room
With the balance of time still in our favor.

Originally published in the Loch Raven Review

Loch Raven Review – Four

Jim Doss. Loch Raven Press 2009, Paperback, 316 pages, $14.95

“They were careless people, Tom and Daisy– they smashed up things and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness or whatever it was that kept them together, and let other people clean up the mess they had made.”

F. Scott Fitzgerald

These words of F. Scott Fitzgerald from The Great Gatsby, are the ultimate judgment of the beautiful and  rich by Nick Carraway, and presumably Fitzgerald himself.  Today’s bankers, stock traders, car company executives, and hedge fund managers prove that nothing much has changed.  Gene Mirabelli at Critical Pages offers this brief profile of F. Scott Fitzgerald.

The Crack-Up (Reissue)

Edmund Wilson (Editor). New Directions 2009, Paperback, 352 pages, $9.38

The Great Gatsby

F. Scott Fitzgerald. Scribner 1999, Paperback, 180 pages, $6.75

The price war that erupted this week among Amazon, Wal-Mart, Target, and Barnes & Noble has authors, publishers, and independent booksellers nervously speculating about what the future holds for them.  Ironically, Barnes & Noble, whose sheer size gave it pricing leverage with publishers and threatened to drive independent booksellers out of business, is now finding itself threatened by the even more predatory pricing practices of Amazon, Target, and the notorious Wal-Mart.  B&N is fighting back with its own eBook reader and it looks like a serious threat to Amazon’s Kindle.  Unfortunately,  as discussed in this Slate article, no matter how successful the device is, B&N’s brick and mortar business is likely to shrink.  While B&N may be able to take some business away from Amazon in eBooks, pricing pressure from its brick and mortar competitors on physical books will lower their margins.  Target and Wal-Mart can sell books as loss leaders to get people in their stores where they are likely to buy more than just books.  Bookstores, no matter how big they are, can’t do that.  One can hope that the book departments in Target and Wal-Mart will be just as crappy as their other departments and offer a pitiful selection of popular dreck and the value of true bookstores will not be lost.

These current-day price wars conducted by giant retailers remind me the the transformation of the business my father was in for forty years.  He was, by profession, a pharmacist.  He was also a businessman.  He owned the neighborhood drugstore in our section of Elmhurst, Queens.  After working his way through pharmacy school, serving in the Army during the Korean war, and then working in other people’s stores for a couple of years, managed to buy the neglected and rundown business in his own neighborhood.  From the time he bought the business in the early fifties until he modernized it in the early sixties, the store looked very much like the one in Edward Hopper’s painting.  Hopper is perhaps best known for his handling of light and the thing that strikes me about this painting is the light streaming out of the store into the darkened street.  It’s 10 PM and everything is closed but the drugstore.  The doorway in the shadow next to the store leads to the stairway up to the second floor where the druggist’s children are sleeping and his wife is waiting for him to close the store and come home.

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Last week when I was at the Baltimore Book Festival browsing through the titles at Daedelus Books’ tent, I came across new copy of an old favorite book about writing, John Gardner’s The Art of Fiction: Notes on Craft for Young Writers. I still have my original copy, purchased in the early eighties.  It’s showing its age.  It’s in the mass-market paperback format that was common to that era, inexpensively bound pages of paper that is clearly not acid-free.  The pages are yellow and crumbling.  My new copy is of a more recent printing in a sturdier trade format, and the paper is hopefully less susceptible to entropy.

American novelist John Gardner (not to be confused with the British author of thrillers by the same name) is probably best known for his novels Grendel, a retelling of Beowulf from the monster’s point of view, and October Light, a story about a family and a rural community in Vermont, which won the National Book Critics’ Circle Award in 1976. He died at age 49 in 1982 in a motorcycle crash.

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