Read The Fran Lebowitz Reader Online
Authors: Fran Lebowitz
Should Jane find these departments inadequate for her needs and experience a momentary loss of faith, she has only to remember that her bank offers every possible convenience—a Christmas Club, a Hanukkah Club, and a Bridge Club—in order to regain her former confidence. Thus fortified, even the knowledge that the bank closes two or three days a month for cramps will not deter her from venturing into the area reserved for a more serious business. Here she will be confronted by a neat row of desks, each sporting a dignified oblong nameplate: Madge, Delores, Wilma, and Mary Beth respectively. Jane chooses Mary Beth and sits down. Mary Beth pours Jane a cup of coffee, apologizes for the state of her blotter, and asks Jane what’s bothering her. When Jane asks Mary Beth how she knew something was bothering her, Mary Beth just smiles and says, “Woman’s intuition.” Jane explains to Mary Beth that
she needs to borrow eleven hundred dollars to repair her car, which was severely damaged in an accident resulting from Jane’s attempt to execute a sharp right turn while applying lip gloss. Jane is eager to have the car fixed before her husband returns from his business trip. Mary Beth understands, of course, and an arrangement is made whereby Separate Checks agrees to lend Jane eleven hundred dollars if Jane will lend Separate Checks eight place settings of her good silver for their next board luncheon. Her business successfully concluded, Jane takes her leave—happily reciting the bank’s catchy slogan, “Bottom Dollar: Tops to Match.” She is eleven hundred dollars richer and more firmly convinced than ever that Separate Checks is the permanent wave of the future.
The answer to this question is “An actual trend.” The success of Separate Checks will cause an outbreak of specialty banks, each catering to an extremely specific group.
This institution will be called the First National Piggy Bank. It will offer to its customers a unique service—Banking by Color. It will be fully equipped with high-quality crayons, which will be attached to anchored chains. The bank’s motto will be “Our Checks Bounce Higher Than Yours Do,” and instead of patterns, its checks will be available in a variety of flavors: Red Raspberry, Chocolate Marshmallow, Vanilla Fudge, and Black Cherry. The employees will be kind but firm, and those dealing with the more intricate procedures such as Advance on Next Week’s Allowance Loans will
sit behind desks bearing their nameplates—Uncle Ralph, Aunt Marcia, Uncle Harold, and Auntie Ruthie. Should one of the customers default on such a loan he will be sent to his room without dessert for
6½
percent of each month he is overdue. If this fails to bring about the desired result the bank will have no recourse but to garnishee the debtor’s birthday money until the loan is repaid. Hours: After School and On the Weekend When the Homework Is Finished.
The First National Raving Bank will distinguish itself by being the only bank in town with a two-drink minimum. Special features include the availability of three-dollar bills and checks bearing either a portrait of Ronald Firbank or all of the lyrics to “Somewhere over the Rainbow.” Should a customer of the bank wish to apply for a credit card he need only enter the business area, where he will find Mr. Eugene, Mr. Randy, Mr. Joel, and Eduardo, ready and willing to furnish him with the information that Master Charge isn’t the only game in town. Hours: After.
The New York Bank of Self-Pity will not be housed in a single building but rather in a complex, since nothing is that simple. If one of the customers is overdrawn he can attempt to convince the bank to make good his check, as it was their inability to deal realistically with figures that caused the error. If he is desirous of establishing a more meaningful relationship with his account he is free to lie down and discuss it with one of the self-destructive and immature employees. The pens in this bank are thoughtfully
equipped with ink that blots symbolically. Hours: 10:10—10:50.
Undoubtedly. The telltale signs will be safety deposit boxes filled with expensive baubles, a sultry look, and a tendency to be alone at Christmas. Hours: Tuesday and Thursday Afternoons.
Generally speaking, laws are designed to protect the public from harm. Generally speaking, harm is seen as physical peril: Generally speaking, physical peril is not a particularly interesting subject. True, there are those laws which endeavor to shield the public from financial disaster. Truer still, financial disaster occurs anyway. And truest of all, the public is not a particularly interesting group.
Thus our system of law is something less than captivating, for it consistently fails to deal with the three questions of greatest concern. The three questions of greatest concern are:
One can see at a glance that these three questions not only encompass all contingencies covered by the present system but, more importantly, they confront without flinching the genuine hazards of modern life. They
are therefore the only possible basis for any reasonable system of justice. And henceforth they shall be regarded as such. If you must reply in the negative to any of these questions you are committing an illegal act. For the purposes of clarity I shall consider each question separately, although it should be quite apparent that they are all three as brothers.
When I was in grammar school it was customary at the beginning of each year for the teacher to explain the principle of individual freedom in a democracy by stating: “Your right to swing your arm ends where the other person’s nose begins.” An admirable sentiment—unquestionably. But one somehow lacking in that little something extra that makes it all worthwhile.
Quite simply, it misses the point. I, for one, would much rather be punched in the nose than in the sensibility. And so I offer this in its stead: “Your right to wear a mint-green polyester leisure suit ends where it meets my eye.” Should you choose to disregard this dictate you shall be arrested for bad taste.
In order to administer to all of the worms that will come crawling out of this hitherto unopened can there will be appointed a Commissar of Good Looks who shall issue a manifesto detailing the following offenses:
A.
The Construction of Buildings That Look Like Gigantic Electric Shavers.
B.
Television Commercials and Magazine Advertisements That Use Real People Instead of Models.
C.
Cigarettes That Come in a Choice of Colors: If White Ones Were Good Enough for Edward R. Murrow They’re Good Enough for You.
D.
Ice Cubes That Come in a Choice of Shapes: Flowers Belong in One’s Lapel, Not in One’s Bourbon.
E.
Airports That Have Fallen into the Hands of Graphic Designers with a Penchant for Bold Simplicity.
F.
Furniture Made to Resemble Objects That Were Played with by Small Children in the Nineteen-Forties.
G.
Long-sleeved T-Shirts Stenciled to Look Like Dinner Jackets and Invariably Worn by Those Who Would Have Occasion to Wear a Dinner Jacket Only While at Work.
The penalty for those responsible for any of the above-mentioned crimes shall be ninety days spent in the company of the inventor of the male centerfold or seventy-two months in Los Angeles—whichever comes first.
Once upon a time, long, long ago, people wanted to be well spoken. Those capable of an elegant turn of phrase were much admired. Wit was in great demand. It was the day of the epigram.
Time went on, and by and by it came to pass that people were chiefly interested in being well liked. Those capable of a firm handshake were much admired. Friendliness was in great demand. It was the day of the telegram.
Presently it appears that people are mainly concerned with being well rested. Those capable of uninterrupted sleep are much admired. Unconsciousness is in great demand. This is the day of the milligram.
Far be it from me to make noise while you’re asleep but I should like to notify you that you are under arrest for being boring. The Commissar of a Way with Words suspects you of one or more of the following:
A.
Rather Than Attempt the Art of Conversation You Prefer to Communicate with Your Fellow Man by Hugging Strangers Who Are Reliving the Bad Parts of Their Childhood While Immersed in a Swimming Pool Filled with Warm Water.
B.
You Think That the Women’s Liberation Movement
Does
Have a Sense of Humor.
C.
You Use in Conversation Phrases That Appear on T-Shirts.
D.
You Share David Susskind’s Apparently Inexhaustible Interest in the Private Lives of Deservedly Unknown Homosexuals.
E.
You Feel the Need to Discuss Your Innermost Thoughts on a Weekly Basis with Six Other People, One of Whom Is Being Paid to Listen.
F.
You No Longer Feel the Need to Discuss Your Innermost Thoughts on a Weekly Basis with Six Other People, One of Whom Is Being Paid to Listen, Because You Feel That Erica Jong Has Said It All for You.
G.
The Letters est Have Meaning for You Beyond Eastern Standard Time.
H.
You Are the Host of a Television Talk Show Who So Firmly Believes That Everyone in the Whole World Is Just About to Play Las Vegas for Two Weeks That You Introduce Your Next Guest as “Dr. Jonas Salk—a Beautiful Guy.”
Should you be found guilty you shall be sentenced to a one-year subscription to
Psychology Today
or seventy-two months in Los Angeles—whichever comes first.
Under the jurisdiction of the Commissar of What Is Appropriate the adage “A place for everything and everything in its place” has been broadened to include “A place for everyone and everyone in their place.” You are not in your place or are responsible for something not being in
its
place if you are to blame in any of these instances:
A.
You Are a Man Who Attends Consciousness-raising Meetings.
B.
You Are a Woman Who Attends Consciousness-raising Meetings.
C.
You Are a Dog and You Live in New York, Probably in My Neighborhood.
D.
You Are an Army Camouflage Combat Uniform Being Worn by Someone Who Is Not a Soldier in Southeast Asia.
E.
You Are Wall-to-Wall Carpeting and You Are in the Bathroom.
F.
You Are on Your Way over to My Apartment and You Have Not Called First.
G.
You Write Poetry and You Are Not Dead.
Those convicted of any of the above-mentioned crimes shall be subject to being either a dessert served in a brandy snifter or seventy-two months in Los Angeles—whichever comes first.
The addition of the prefix
natural
to the word
childbirth
assumed that there was such a thing as unnatural childbirth. Advocates of this concept pointed out that for thousands of years people had babies in the privacy and quietude of their own homes or rice paddies simply by lying down and breathing deeply. This business of rushing to the hospital, being shot up with drugs, and attended by doctors was wrong. It was not meant to be. Some listened. Some did not. Some of those who did not, did not arrogantly, with a strong, pure belief in the righteousness of their unnaturalness. They liked rushing to the hospital. They loved being shot up with drugs. They adored being attended to by doctors. To them unnaturalness was the way of life. Secure in their commitment to artificiality, they greeted each other with knowing looks and bade each other good-bye with a whispered “à rebours.” They were content and they believed themselves to be as sophisticated as was possible under the circumstances, which were undeniably heterosexual and therefore limited.
Then little by little there began to circulate among
this group an unsettling rumor. Dark mutterings were heard. The fast crowd was seen less and less frequently in the better waiting rooms. After months of hushed speculation the truth was uncovered: a certain chichi element had found a way to have children that made mere unnatural childbirth look like eating your own placenta. This set had entirely dispensed with bodily function and were obtaining their children in bars.
The most popular of these bars was called Chicken Little and was located in a brownstone on a fashionable street near the East River. Prospective parents on the prowl would arrive at this establishment by taxi or private car, knock smartly on the lacquered chocolate-brown door, and present themselves to a deceptively kind-looking septuagenarian known only as the Grandmother.
Upon passing muster, they either sat at small tables or leaned against the bar and tried to look loving as they cruised the children. They talked very little and then only to remark on the quality of the trade with such comments as “Think he looks like me?” “There’s a student council president if I ever saw one,” and “Do you think she’ll make her bed?” The most aggressive were known to sidle right up to promising-looking tots and murmur, “Like to play catch, fella?” Or to take particularly blond little girls aside, slip them homemade chocolate chip cookies, and let them know in no uncertain terms that there were plenty more where those came from.
The children were not without ploys of their own and some of the little tykes would stop at nothing. As the evening wore on and most of the really permissive-looking adults had been picked off, it was not uncommon for the desperate unadopted to be seen furtively applying calculatingly cute arrays of freckles across the bridges of their little noses with cleverly concealed brown eyebrow pencils, or announcing in loud, bound-to-be-overheard
voices that when they grew up they wanted to be doctors.