My Mother, My Lover …

“I thought of you about a month ago,” said Cuzzin. “That broad on Channel 5, what’s her name? Cynthia Twiddlecunt? Whatever. She reviewed your movie.”

“That must have been interesting.”

“Oh, did I say she ‘reviewed’ your movie. She ‘assassinated’ your movie, and you along with it.” Cuzzin laughed. His laugh sounded like someone revving a motorcycle. Artie could recognize this laugh from when Cuzzin was a little nubber. With the benefit of hindsight, he could have predicted his cousin’s future just from hearing the child laugh.

“Why “Twiddlecunt?”

“She’s got one of these hyphenated, British-sounding names that comes across as “twiddlecunt,” but the real problem is her attitude. She acts like her shit don’t stink. She talked about your movie like she was holding her nose. It can’t be that bad! I tried to see it, but there were so many wimps and bitches picketing outside that I decided not to bother.

“And that’s, basically, why I’m here,” said Artie. “I want to lay low for a while and spend the summer at Indian Mound. I want to open up the cottage, and I’ll probably need some help from you.”

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People stayed away from the My Mother, My Lover … in droves. They had to. Despite pre-release awards at the Cannes Film Festival and Sundance, a feeding frenzy was taking place even before the initial release date. It wasn’t the film critics leading the charge, but rather the social activists looking to reenergize the feminist movement.

Seeing the shifting tide, critics, talk show hosts, and other opinion makers climbed all over each other to mount the high horse of moral rectitude. The studio reacted by changing the trailers in the ad campaign to downplay what the movie was about, a naked examination of the changing roles of the sexes in contemporary culture, and to make it appear to be a screwball romantic comedy. This, in turn, so incensed the stars that when they went on their promotional junkets they spent more time ranting about the inanity of studio politics than talking about the film.

My Mother, My Lover became a lightning rod for moral sanctity. Religious groups hopped on the bandwagon to show that they, too, were opposed to rampant moral turpitude. Ethnic groups came forward to protest that they were not equally included in this portrayal of rampant moral turpitude. Theaters and chains reacted to the tsunami of negative publicity by pulling the show with great fanfare. Some outlets even let the screen go dark. Instead of substituting another film, they donated the vacant theaters to high-minded non-profits for sensitivity workshops. The national news showed a battered women’s organization in Albany that staged a fundraiser where people paid $25 for the privilege of sitting for two hours in a dark, silent theater not watching (full-title) My Mother, My Lover, My Ex-wife, and now My Sales Manager. Afterwards, as the cameras rolled, there were the usual spates of pithy statements that CNN reduced to the soundbite of “Arthur Gordon just doesn’t get it.”

All of this occupied the national stage for just over two weeks in March, traditionally one of the dullest news periods of the year. As one anchorperson who interviewed Artie said, “It’s too early for baseball; the snowstorms are old news; the tornadoes haven’t started up; the mass murderers must go on Spring Break or something. We need people like you to fill up the news at this time of year.”

“You can’t stay at the cottage now. It’s unlivable,” said Cuzzin, trying to pop Artie’s balloon.

“I don’t intend to. I just want to check it out to. Then I fly to London and come back next week to move in.”

Cuzzin’s face darkens.

“What?” says Artie.

“There’s no one been living at the cottage since your Mom died. What’s it been, three years? No one’s kept the place up at all. No one’s mowed the lawn, raked the leaves, or kept the squirrels out. Listen, I’ve got some friends you can hire—“

“Nope. I’ve been hiring people to do my work for years so that I could be ‘Arthur Gordon, Director.’ Now, I want to manage my own shit. I’ll stop back after I’ve scoped it out.”

Arthur Gordon drives over the causeway that connects “Indian Mound” to the rest of the world feeling as if it is his bruised and battered body washing up on shore. The ordeal is past, but he’s not yet sure whether or not he will survive, or whether he wants to.

Indian Mound is a small spit of dry land rising from a tidal marsh in Quincy Bay, a shallow subset of Boston Harbor. This was once a tidal island, connected to the Squantum peninsula only at low tide. As he drives over the causeway, the salt air arouses Artie’s earliest memories of walking to The Mound when it was accessible only by foot.

Can I really remember that? Or have I created the memory from retelling the story so many times. So much has changed. So much is the same. Every house but mine is now winterized. This doesn’t even pretend to be a summer community. The skyline of Boston seems close enough to touch. I remember when the John Hancock was the tallest building. We looked at the light for our weather forecast. The second tallest was the old Custom House. With a telescope you could read the clock. It wasn’t enough for a building to be a building. There had to be a higher purpose. Now, it’s enough to be a magnificent building.

The time was. The time is. Snot-nosed Artie, eight years old, barefoot for the entire summer still exists. Indian Mound still exists as a place that doesn’t need satellite dishes or SUVs clogging its three narrow streets. It doesn’t need video games or designer water. It needs clams and summer breezes and greased watermelon fights. It needs campfires and marshmallows and night games from Kansas City.

Kansas City was the westernmost city in the American League back then. It was as if the country ended there. Sure, Los Angeles and San Francisco and Seattle existed, but they were too new for major league baseball.

“Oh God, I am old,” mutters Artie as his rental car reaches the end of the causeway and officially enters The Mound.. “And I am living in the past, and I am thinking all the thoughts of an old fart.”

I don’t know if I can do this. I can stop right here, right now. Do a U-turn, go back to Logan, catch the first flight back to LA. Go first class, because I can. I am still Arthur Gordon, Hollywood poohbah. I can still take a good shot to the body and that’s what this is, a good body shot. I just made an unpopular film, that’s all.

Two boys are shooting baskets listlessly on a mobile, adjustable backboard. Both are dressed in oversized replica jerseys bearing the names of NBA stars. Their court is the street, forcing Artie to stop. Even with the backboard adjusted to its lowest level, the boys are unable to reach the rim without the assisted boost from a strategically-placed stump. They are in no hurry to move the stump so that the car can pass.

No, for chrissakes. You don’t play basketball on Indian Mound. And if you do, your jersey better be green and white and say “Bird” on the back. Basketball is for winter and city. You play baseball or some facsimile thereof. You make up games with a tennis ball and you use your hand for a bat. If you don’t have a tennis ball you make a ball out of rolled up socks and rubber bands. You draw the bases in the sand with your toe, and then when they are obscure you argue about every single call so that everyone can claim victory. You don’t need to dunk and you don’t need to wear a $65 logo jersey with the Nike swoosh.

Artie flashes on himself less than a month ago, attending a Lakers game, acknowledging Jack Nicholson with a nod and seeing who else is in the front row tonight. Jack comments that Artie looks “shorter, fatter, and balder” than the last time he saw him and adds that the “Asian Swede” looks as good as ever, a reference to Meiko, Artie’s girl friend. Artie takes it in stride. Hey, when Nicholson treats you like a locker room buddy, you roll with the punches. People notice Meiko, with her Asian features and blond, almost white hair. When people notice her, they notice him, as well. He’s the guy trashtalking with Jack. He’s the Who? That’s what it’s all about, right? Being famous enough to act like a normal person.

The first time he attended a Lakers game, he was offended by the sideshows and that trivialized the actual game. This wasn’t Boston Garden, with its parquet and dusty rafters with the retired jerseys of champions. The Garden had dignity. It was a cathedral. In L.A. you spend the first quarter seeing who else is there. Then, you spend the second quarter figuring out what to eat. Then, at halftime, it’s a mad rush to shake hands with everyone above you in the pecking order. In the third quarter, you leave to beat the traffic. If you’re a real fan, you find out who wins on the radio so that you can mention it to anyone who watched from home.

As time passed and Artie’s status rose, and his seating improved to four rows behind the bench, he came to enjoy the ritual. Now, instead of spending his time tracking down the other celebrities in attendance, he lets them find him.

Now, he is smiling beatifically at two boys taking their sweet time about rolling the stump out of the way so that his rented Lincoln can pass. “This fuckin’ sucks,” he mutters through lips pursed in an utterly false display of patience. “Little twerps.”

The Lincoln stops. Artie gets out to stare at the forlorn little cottage. Even the brightness of the day is diminished by the overgrowth. So, this is what three years of neglect will do. Artie walks to the front door, “climbs” is more like it, reaches up over the light and finds the key still in its familiar place. The windows are boarded. The paint, as on Cuzzin’s Bait & Tackle, is peeling.

The lawn hasn’t been mowed in three years. Three years of leaves have accumulated. The bushes are three years larger. Three years is a long time in the world of a small cottage.

“I’m in a bad dream,” says Artie. Then he opens the front door. “The dream just got worse,” he says as he surveys a dark, cobwebby room, with all the furniture covered in plastic. The place is in shambles. Animals have gotten into some of the overstuffed furniture and made nests. The critters reign. Artie blows the dust off a family photo and picks up a small sailboat, one that was his as a boy.

I can turn around right now. In one half-hour I can be checking in to the Ritz and calling room service to send up a Beefeater Gibson, straight-up. I can be on the telephone to Meiko. I can check my emails.

Arthur Gordon’s Signature Gibson
Store a bottle of Beefeater Gin in the freezer. Approximately ten minutes before you serve drinks, invert stemmed martini glasses in the freezer to chill. Put cracked (not crushed, not cubed) ice made with distilled water into a stainless steel beaker. Add 3 ounces of gin for each Gibson. Shake like hell. Place beaker on counter. Take out glasses and add 4 small cocktail onions to each glass. Strain gin into frosty glasses. Take out dry white Vermouth bottle (any brand) and hold near to glasses. Make a wise-ass comment like “Eat your heart out, sucker” or “Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.” Replace Vermouth bottle in liquor cabinet. Under no circumstances even open it. Drink no more than one of these, or you are asking for trouble.

“Otty. Hiyo, Ot-tee! You in there?” Artie comes back out into the sunlight. He sees a police officer, wearing his blues. He is about Artie’s age, but bigger all over. He peers through thirty years and sees Tubby Tropiano.

“Oh, sweet Jesus, do I have to call you ‘Officer?’”

“You can call me ‘Asshole.’ I heard you was down here! I had to come see for myself. Hey, you’re looking good. Old, but good.” The two men shake hands, then embrace. Artie stands back to take in the whole spectacle.

“Officer Tropiano. How did this come to pass?”

“I got outta the service and didn’t know what to do. I’ve been doing this for fifteen years, retire in five. Where you been? Off in Hollywood making movies”

“Making lousy movies.”

“I like your movies, but I didn’t get to see this last one. Seemed too much like a chick flic. What are you doing here?”

“I’m here for the summer.”

“You’re kidding! We hardly see you for thirty years and now you’re here for the summer? You staying in the cottage.”

“That’s the idea.” Officer Tropiano reacted with a wince.

“Needs a bit of work.”

“Yes, it’s primitive, but that’s part of the appeal.”

“You want to stay with me and the missus. You know we live right over on Sea Shell Road. Remember the Donovan Place?”

“I do. Let me give this a try, and if it’s too bad, it’s good to know you’re there.”

“You know who I married?”

“No, who?”

“Kathleen Sullivan.”

“Kathleen Sullivan? She gave me my first hand job!”

And in an instant, Officer Tropiano became a twelve year old Tubby, swearing and mock punching at Artie Gordon just as they had many years ago.

Codfish Cakes—A Recipe from Lucille Gordon (Artie’s Mom)

This recipe evolved back in the days when a cheap source of protein was needed to nourish the slaves working the sugarcane plantations in the Caribbean. Codfish from the Grand Banks were dried and salted on the shores of Newfoundland. The desiccated flesh was then packed into wooden barrels and shipped south

Even as a kid we always kept a wooden box of salt cod from Canada in the cupboard, either for rainy days or that special Sunday morning breakfast. The codfish cakes were always served with baked beans.

Now, however, the cod fishery has collapsed, overfished by generations and nationalities. This was the resource that truly seemed limitless, but we proved once again that the greed and voraciousness of the human species cannot be denied. Salt cod is now a delicacy that cost more per pound than fresh lobster. Even worse, the little wooden boxes that remind you of days gone past are products of China.

Codfish cakes make no sense at all anymore. But they do remind me.

Soak 1 pound dried cod overnight. Drain.

Peel and boil six medium potatos

Finely dice one medium sized cooking onion

Mash potatoes in mixing bowl. Add other ingredients.

Salt and pepper to taste

Add two heaping tablespoons of grated horseradish.

Cut 4 ounces of salt pork into small, ¼ inch cubes. Render in a cast iron frying pan until pork bits have browned.

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On his way out of town, Artie stops at Cuzzin’s Bait & Tackle.

“Change your mind on hiring some help?”

“No,” says Artie. “I’m pretty determined to do this myself, but I do have a deal for you.”

“When I get back in a week, how about we swap vehicles for a while. I’ve got a feeling I’ll be making a few trips to the dump.”

“I always pictured myself in a Lincoln,” says Cuzzin.