Why I Don't Write Children's Literature (15 page)

WHAT WOULD YOU GIVE?

Playing on an adjacent tennis court, I heard an old weekend jock holler to his opponent, “I would give my left testicle for a serve like yours.” On my own court, I was busily shoving a dink shot over the net. My opponent, speedy as a hightailing squirrel, raced to scoop up the ball with a desperate stroke. Since he was inches from the net, I did what all evil players do: I lobbed him. He hurried after the arching ball but couldn't catch up with it on his gimpy knees. The ball rolled against the fence; my opponent walked slowly toward it, picked it up, then whacked it back to me — not speedily or accurately but still on my side of the court. Then we remembered that we had to change sides.

During the changeover I reflected, though not deeply, on what I had heard in the next court. Who wants an old man's testicle, and why the left one? Did he mean it? With one nut gone, he would be halfway to eunuch. What if he were forced to barter the other one? He could end up calling out scores as a castrato.

We know the story of Faust selling his soul to the devil. But the soul is ethereal, invisible as air, and routinely sold: in politics, Hollywood, and business — nothing new there. Those familiar with the blues may recall that Robert Johnson sold his soul at the crossroads in order to pick a mighty guitar. And that he did, briefly, before Death called in his chips and Mr. Johnson was no more.

But that tennis player in the next court had offered a piece of his own person, a jest meant to honor the player he was up against. Later, sitting on a plastic chair outside the courts, I chugged on blue Gatorade and got to pondering just what would I part with, and for what. My private parts are not up for barter, and neither is my hair, once thick and black but now in rapid retreat. I'll keep my legs, those getaway sticks, and my hands, trusty pliers for hard-to-open jars. My feet? They stay put. My teeth? They are the grille of happiness. My eyes? They are the seers that get me home when I've drunk too much.

So what would I give up? For an Audi 6, I would give my cuticles. For a boat with a four-stroke engine in the back, I would gladly part with the belt of fat around my middle. For a five-by-seven Joan Miró, I would lose the tartar behind my lower front teeth. For a farm with three acres of heirloom tomatoes, I'd say adios to the hair camping in my ears. In short, I'm prepared to give away body parts that diminish my poetic image — and for which I find no use. Of what value are the skin tags on my chest? Or the fan of wrinkles around my eyes? Those can go for a case of pretentious wine.

Regarding talent and intelligence, what would I part with? I'm no good at math, but am gifted at finding a parking space. I'm not logical, but I'm wise enough to raise my hands in an Oakland stickup. I'm no miracle worker, but I improve the world in small ways — hey, who threw that litter there? I'm aware of my limitations and admit that I can't dink-shot the same opponent every time. We work with what we have, and yet we want more.

I capped my Gatorade and plunged my hand into the ice chest for a beer. I thought of my wife. She is a hobbyist dress designer. She is responsible for my clothes, both bought and sewn, and is envied, I believe, because the girl can make anything. If faced with the offer, “I would give anything to sew like you,” I wondered what she might ask for. I took a long swig and provided my own answer: a handyman husband.

As for the guy in the next court, I was disappointed that his left testicle was all he had to offer. Was he that stingy? Couldn't he have come up with more? Even if he'd said, “I would give a thousand dollars to serve like you,” I would still have considered him a cheapskate. All tennis players know the value of a strong serve — it's priceless.

Perhaps he believed himself so great that his left testicle, wrapped in sweaty pubic hair, really was priceless? That wasn't his tone, though. He was just a regular guy, admiring his opponent's serve, and the offer was the first thing out of his mouth. He couldn't really have meant it. Scrubbed and prone on a surgeon's gurney, he would've panicked and said, “Uh, actually, I don't think that serve is all that great.” He would've giggled and made excuses until the anesthesia overwhelmed him. And what would his opponent do with that severed testicle? Carry it at arm's length then bury it in the yard, I'm sure. Dogs would visit the little grave and howl at the sickle-shaped moon.

I like to play tennis without much banter — and with just enough determination to make my opponent feel that he's in a war. I might say “good shot,” but I never offer body parts with my compliments.

MY TIME AT THE MARSH

In the summer of 2012, I was asked by The Marsh Theater to write a play about undocumented youth — no, I was
commissioned
, a word that sounded like an order I couldn't refuse. Emily Klion, the producer, had mounted my comic one-act
Novio Boy
a year earlier; now she urged me to get political. I agreed and told myself to get serious. However, after a brief debate (also with myself), I opted not for a dramatic play but a musical, an outright spectacle of dance and song. Let's have our say and get freaky too!

I charged ahead with the pen of conviction, for the subject was — and is — both timely and life-changing for many people. I worked from the transcripts of undocumented youth born in the Philippines, Indonesia, Mexico, and El Salvador, stories that were true and, because they were true, told from the heart. These young people spoke as they felt. They had no one to fool.

To further understand the issue, I met with students of the
AB
540 Club at a high school in Richmond, a school with 65 percent undocumented youth. In a mobile classroom, we beamed at each other in trustful ways. I brought a box of See's candy and broke the ice by asking if they could provide me with the names of musicians and rock groups, names that I could use in the play. I learned of Bruno Mars, P!nk, Luis Fonsi, Jenni Rivera, Alejandra Guzmán, The Fray, Usher, One Direction, Maná — unfamiliar names all. One jokester mentioned Justin Bieber —
LOL
from the students. Then we began to speak to each other. Students told me their stories, mostly familiar. A few cried when deported parents were mentioned. One student was pregnant; although she herself was undocumented, a part of her — the baby she was carrying — was lawfully here.

I confess that I am not a playwright, but a poet, essayist, and — in a previous life — author of works for children and young adults. But I have written two other plays for young people and knew enough about structure to pull this one off. I was nervous, yet not nervous. I wrote twelve drafts over a five-month period, without complaint. Twice a week, I talked by telephone with the producer.

“How's it going?” Emily might ask.

“Not bad,” I'd answer and, since I had an educated person on the line, might continue with my own questions, asking things like, “How do you spell ‘Cezhslovacika'?”

As I wrote the script of
In and Out of Shadows
, I left spaces where I would fit the lyrics of the songs — or most of the songs. (Some of the lyrics were written by Emily Klion, who also created the music with her saxophonist husband, George Brooks.) Of the seven songs, two stand out: “Clouds” and “Just Fourteen”; Emily described the latter as a showstopper. I savored the implication of that word:
showstopper
, a song that would leave the audience gawking in silence. (My greatest compliment would come from the theatergoers searching with their iPods, looking to buy and download that song.)

The scene involves fourteen-year-old Vanessa, stopped by U.S. Customs at the San Francisco International Airport. Separated from an adult companion and questioned by immigration authorities, she breaks down. The immigration officer circles her in silence, then remarks that he has a daughter Vanessa's age. Upon hearing that, the emotional Vanessa scolds the officer, “I bet you treat her nice!” She steps forward and begins singing, “I'm just fourteen. I haven't even had my
quinceañera
. . .”

I first heard the song performed at Emily's house. Hearing the first tinkle of the piano keys, coupled with my lyrics, I nearly wept. I was surprised that four quatrains, followed by a refrain, could call up a sadness so deep.

In and Out of Shadows
, ninety minutes in length, played to sold-out crowds in February 2013. Lines formed early. The theatergoers were led to chairs — some cushioned, some non-cushioned — or, if you were a child, to the floor. The program consisted of a single page, folded in half, listing the twenty-plus cast members, along with the producer/director, set designer, choreographer, costume designers, band, and lighting technician. On the back, we acknowledged our San Francisco-based sponsor, The Creative Arts Fund. (The good people from their office got dibs on the cushy seats.)

When I heard the beginning of “Just Fourteen” on opening night, big baby me wept in the dark. The audience wept too, dabbing at their eyes. I knuckled away my own tears and stared at the floor, so moved by Vanessa and the chorus of undocumented youth.

After the show I met a youngish middle-grade teacher and her jock boyfriend. When he left to buy her a cookie, she told me that he had been reluctant to attend, had even clucked his tongue at the prospect of a musical — hell, the Warriors were on television. Nevertheless, he'd come along to sit in the dark and, when Vanessa sang “Just Fourteen,” he'd covered his brow to hide that he was crying.

During its three-weekend run, over nine hundred people saw my musical. I got calls for interviews. I became the headline topic of one weekly newspaper, with a photo of me grinning and wearing a T-shirt that read “In and Out of Shadows.” In my honor, Laura Malagón, parent-leader of Los Falcones de Modesto, arrived with her troupe of ten
folklórico
dancers. They traveled eighty miles by car,
BART
, and their dancing feet to a Saturday matinee. The girls, ages ten to sixteen, danced for me on the sidewalk, daughters of parents who themselves were — or remain — undocumented.

The salty dog inside me shed even more tears.

DANCE WITH ME

A tow-headed Keith Richards pushed an amplifier across Mason Street at Geary, in the direction of the Biscuits & Blues nightclub. He was moving sluggishly, but picked up the pace when a dinky Miata didn't slow for him. True, the driver had the green light, but she might have downshifted into first gear for a spidery-legged legend in the crosswalk. Couldn't she see the large silver belt gleaming in her headlights? Keith sneered at the car, while Mick Jagger mumbled, “Fuck.” Mick was carrying two guitar cases and he, too, had to sail across the road, his white bellbottom pants wagging in surrender. And was that Jagger's second wife, Jerry Hall, coming up from behind? The woman was tall and wearing a pencil skirt. Her long hair, which looked dyed, swayed like a skirt itself. And the purse on her arm was imitation Chanel — two big gold Cs attached to the zipper.

Bill Wyman, pushing a tall amplifier like a shopping cart, had no trouble crossing the street, nor did Ronnie Wood, who was lugging two microphone stands and a small case that I assumed contained the microphones. Ronnie wore a wig that lay lopsided on his head, or perhaps his head was lopsided from the effort of carrying his equipment. He trekked across Mason during a green light.

But where was Charlie Watts, the drummer? Maybe he was circling the block, in search of parking — or maybe he was already upstairs, setting up his drums. The gig was at eight o'clock; when I pulled up my sleeve, my moonfaced watch glowed 7:20. I had time for a quick snack before climbing the two flights to the club, paying twenty dollars, and presenting my hand for a stamp.

I snagged a chicken burger and fries from the Jack in the Box around the corner. On a tall stool, I sat at a window facing the American Conservatory Theatre, darkened that evening. A doo-wop foursome was singing “My Girl” in its doorway. In their late twenties, these young entertainers hadn't been present on this dirty planet of ours when the radio first played that song, a slow-dance anthem that has no doubt fathered many a child. They next sang “Under the Boardwalk” and “The Lion Sleeps Tonight,” then executed a little shuffle that had me assessing their talent as, in the vernacular of my time,
groovy
. Meanwhile, pedestrians passed by without much interest, other than the occasional quick head turn. By the time I'd devoured my burger and fries, the doo-wop singers had grown silent as toads. Business was not good, the hearts of men cold to street performers. In the darkened doorway, I could make out the coals of their lit cigarettes. One of the singers bent over to tally the coins and bills in the box they'd set out.

At ten to eight, I climbed the stairs of Biscuit & Blues, paid up, and found a table where a card read “Two Drink Minimum.”
Of course
, I thought. A thirsty poet requires
at least
two drinks, especially for a tribute band that would bring back memories — both good and bad. At the bar, I ordered a Stella from a gaunt chap whose throat was ringed with tattoos the color of week-old hickeys — ­yellowish and blue. I gave him a dollar tip, which he didn't bother to glance at. What did he expect?

I returned to my seat and sized up the crowd: twenty or so of us, some of whom wore that tongue-lapping T-shirt that says “The Rolling Stones,” that says
I'll lick you
, that says Mick Jagger's lips, that says sloppy kisses. Most were couples — as in girlfriend and boyfriend, as in husband and wife — though there were a few single men bedecked in jeans, baggy sweatshirts, and tennis shoes. But there were no single women, and no groups of women out on a Thursday night together. Was this a comment about the music of the Stones?

Keith was at the microphone. “Show time, show time,” he half-sang, in an American accent. “Volume,” he muttered, then stepped away to fiddle with a knob on his amplifier. He strummed a series of chords that reminded me of an early Stones song, then exercised his fingers with a vigorous lead-guitar riff. He looked at Ronnie Wood, who had an unlit cigarette in his kisser (the cigarette would remain unlit: house policy, state policy). Although his wig had been properly squared on his head, his mouth was now crooked. Still, he sounded British when he asked Bill Wyman, “Gotta pick?”

The boyish Charlie Watts, peering out from behind his drum kit, was wearing a blond wig. To my surprise, he was Latino. Charlie was pressing a nervous foot on the traps of his cymbals, creating a sound not unlike the shear of metal being torn by machinery. He tapped a stick against the snare drum, then against its metal rim. He was ready, just as all Latinos are ready.
Let's get to work
, his body seemed to say.

“Mick,” Ronnie called, without the British accent. He was shorter than the real Ronnie and chubby as a teddy bear. A guitar was strapped to his chest, and armpit hair sprouted from his tank top like untrimmed bushes. While waiting for Keith to twist another knob on his amp, Ronnie sipped from a Spiderman squeeze bottle, then capped it.

Mick turned and smiled vaguely at the crowd, then grinned at Jerry Hall. Even with her back to me, I could tell that she was proud of her man/boyfriend/husband/ex-husband/business partner. The tribute Mick actually resembled the real Jagger: broomstick thin, loopy mouth, sort of handsome. He wore a longish scarf similar to the one Mick wore at Altamont.

The men in the audience turned their heads when we heard female laughter and the sound of high heels, tapping like door knockers against the wooden floor. Three women, in fake fur, entered with sparkle. For a psychedelic moment, they reminded me of penguins — but tall penguins, in platform shoes. One of them waved a jeweled hand at Ronnie. As the threesome clip-clopped toward a table, one broke formation and headed to the bar.

My attention turned back to the band, which kicked into action with “Not Fade Away,” an early hit that I remembered listening to on a four-transistor radio, circa 1963. Mick moved his dainty hooves, caught and kept our attention, and wailed on the harmonica. I lifted my beer to my face — this was going to be good.

When the song ended, Mick bowed, pocketed his harmonica, and pushed his long hair out of his face. He untangled himself from his scarf and heaved the banner-length attire at Jerry Hall, who caught it, reeled it in, and wrapped it around her own neck. “We're here to rock you, good people!” Mick sang to us, in a British accent. As soon as he reached for a tambourine, I knew what the next number was going to be, proud of my familiarity with the music. On cue, the band began to play “Satisfaction,” that world-charting number from 1965, with its buzz bass, its signature repetition of guitar chords, its chorus which argues that, for successful rockers, satisfaction never arrives. Unable to help themselves, the audience joined in: “I can't get no . . . hey, hey, hey.” Already loopy from drink, their spirits were now leaving their bodies — this was way fun.

There was loud applause, a few whistles, and then one of the penguin girls asked for “Emotional Rescue.” She covered her mouth with a hand and laughed, while her girlfriends laughed without restraint, their faces opening like time-lapsed flowers.

The Stones played “It's All Over Now” followed by “Jumpin' Jack Flash,” two songs that you can't help but try to lip-synch, even if you don't know all the words. Like me, you've probably heard these songs a hundred times — one hundred being the magical number for lyrics to become memorable. But because most rock songs — these Stone classics included — are sung with no enunciation over loud guitars, the precise lyrics can remain an unfathomable mystery. You catch a word or a phrase, but just what are they
really
saying? My wife told me that, for years, a classmate of hers thought The Beatles' “Hey, Jude,” was “Hey, Jew.”

More applause and whistles, then a shout: “ ‘Mother's Little Helper'!” “No, wait a minute,” the bloke continued, “How 'bout ‘Gimme Shelter'?”

Ronnie Wood adjusted his wig, swapped his electric guitar for an acoustic one. He strummed once, then fiddled with the tuning. I anticipated “Wild Horses,” a number I consider too slow and too long and too similar to being dragged by
old
horses.
Come on
, horses, just put me out of my misery — round the corner and let me die from street scrapes. I got up to visit the john while Mick strained to sound country-western. Upon my return, I eyed the penguin women: they were having a good time. Two men in sweatshirts, seated near them, glanced sheepishly in their direction. These penguin babes were young, beautiful, and unattainable, and the two unfortunates knew it.

I ordered a second and third beer at the bar, doubling up so as not to miss more of the ninety-minute act. I carried one drink in each hand, a gunslinger weaving between the tables, which were mostly unoccupied. Then I sat at my table and swigged.

The band played “Get Off of My Cloud,” “19th Nervous Breakdown,” “Honky Tonk Women,” “Start Me Up,” and Chuck Berry's “Carol.” When they asked for requests, the audience screamed their favorites. But Mick didn't listen; and the band didn't listen. Mick did his Mick thing, clapping his hands over his head and shouting “Come on, come on” while strutting on his chicken legs from one side of the small stage to the other. When he spoke to the audience between songs, his accent was mostly American but sometimes British, as if he had trouble remembering who he was supposed to be. Still, I was charmed by him, a youngish man who had probably listened to his father's
LP
s as a teenager and one day, standing in front of a hallway mirror, decided, “Hey, I could be Mick.” He danced and sang with heart, hit after memorable hit, then gave it his all on the last number: “Let's Spend the Night Together,” which had the entire crowd, including old geezer me, up on our tired feet. I say “tired” because the audience consisted mostly of workers with day jobs, out on a Thursday night. None, I suspect, could forget that the day shift was ten hours away.

More applause, more whistles, then two guys shouted together, “What 'bout ‘Street Fighting Man'?” They high-fived each other at this suggestion, the coolest guys on the warehouse dock.

According to my watch, the set was not quite ninety minutes. “Tidy,” I whispered in a British accent,
I say, so tidy
. The band bowed, Ronnie and Charlie holding onto their wigs. Everyone in the crowd clapped, while a few raised their beers in tribute, all of us agreeing to believe, at least momentarily, that the band on stage was The Rolling Stones, circa the mid-seventies.

With the concert over, the band began to unplug their instruments. The wigs came off and Keith unbuckled the large silver belt that had threatened to shimmy off his skinny hips. The three penguin babes smiled red, red lips and waved at the band.
What lucky stiffs
, I moaned silently. The two men next to them remained seated and sad.

I was exhausted, as if I had been on stage myself. This had been money well spent. I was still reveling in my evening out when my eyes narrowed on Yoko Ono — was this possible? She approached Bill Wyman, reaching out to him with open arms, the bangles on her wrists chiming. She gave him a smooch; he smooched back. I looked at my three beer bottles, like large chess pieces on the square table, their labels peeled off by my absent-minded fingernails. I hadn't drunk enough to distort time. I rose, pushing my chair out of the way and then —
hey
, who was that man with the pouty baby face, crowing with Ronnie Wood? Had Sir Paul McCartney really been in the audience?

And then Jimi was at the bar, his signature Afro reflected in the room-length mirror. After three mild-mannered beers, the rockers of my youth had returned. I wasn't upset that Charlie Watts was now Latino because the
original
Charlie Watts, a jazz aficionado, would have acknowledged that Latinos know their way around percussion.

But where was John Lennon? Where was Jim Morrison? And John Lee Hooker, would you please come back — and bring Bo Diddley with you?

Eventually I left the club, but not before visiting the loo, where Brian Jones stood next to me at the urinal. I didn't dare raise my face to ask, “Brian, why did you have to drown?” I washed my hands and left, lamenting that I'd learned only five chords on the guitar. I would've loved to have been a member of a tribute band. How the adoring young women would have screamed above my awful guitar work.

* * *

I read in the local newspaper that a Beatles tribute band would play a free concert at Orinda Theatre Square.
Why not?
I thought. My wife loved — and still loves — their music; the quartet's catchy, jingle-like melodies were part of our youth. But how would we dress? My wife's peasant dresses and mod-squad skirts no longer hung in the closet, while my bellbottoms and Nehru shirts were long gone. In the end, we opted for swank, but not real swank: jeans and a blazer, with loafers and argyle socks, for me, and an Empire dress with sandals for Carolyn. We figured that we had to play it up at least somewhat. My wife even debated whether to go braless.

That evening we drove to Orinda, parked our car, and found the tribute band. They were set up fifty feet behind the Orinda Theatre, in a corridor of restaurants that was nearly empty on a Wednesday evening. There was no crowd of people around, only a single pigeon eyeing a threesome.

Threesome?

“Oh,” my wife cried quietly. I could read her mind: John must be the missing one, John, assassinated thirty-plus years ago, before the foursome could settle their bickering, regroup, and write more jingly tunes. If not for his murder, the whole world would have stopped fighting and listened.

The tribute Beatles were all in their sixties, white-haired and carelessly dressed. Ringo was short and chubby; Paul was short and sort of chubby; George was tall and chubby enough to rest his guitar on the globe of his belly. Still, for the moment, they were the Beatles — or most of the Beatles.

When my wife waved, George smiled. He was young enough to still have his original teeth. His hair, though, was thin, revealing a lobster-pink scalp. He was not wearing Sgt. Pepper attire but a bulky windbreaker with an emblem of a fishing club. His socks were white!