Hootenanny Pancakes
By Sarah Moon
-------------------------------------
And the door swings open. And the door swings open and open again and never shuts all the way. All sorts of things come in through the door. All sorts of people. Ideas. Gifts. Tombstones. R.I.P. this. R.I.P. that. Give to the poor, say the young men in white suits and purple hats with feathers. It’s not that they aren’t welcome, but there’re so many of them. There are women wringing their hands because their husbands lost their jobs and they have two kids and a dog. And they’re wondering if they could borrow laundry detergent. They’re wearing aqua sweatpants. That’s during the day. At night there are people who want to have sex with you. They dance around you with scarves and it embarrasses you. You’re turned on, but you don’t know what to do. They try to teach you, but you can’t stop laughing and sticking your tongue out in all the wrong places. There are fathers and mothers who come in and cook you meals. Barbecued pork and new potatoes. Wine. Apple pie for dessert. It seems excessive, but they take pleasure in feeding you, so you eat. Sometimes you have cravings for bowls of crunchy salads and sometimes the opposite, macaroni and cheese with lots of butter and mayonnaise. Sometimes pancakes.
You were sitting down to coffee and the newspaper when music began playing very loudly. A troop of folk singers were slowly filing into your kitchen. You thought immediately that you must hide the carelessly piled recycling and the greasy meatloaf pan that your roommate had let sit and coagulate for three days. You do not question the folk singers’ presence, you just wish you were better prepared to receive them.
They are as they would have been forty years ago - wearing worn dungarees, button-down work shirts and fisherman caps. They are pouring their hearts out. They are strumming and clapping. And holding hands. When they finish you applaud and ask if they like pancakes. You’ve always wanted this. Friend/musician/artist/bohemians sitting down to breakfast in a sun-filled kitchen. Luckily you have a full pot of coffee and you fill a mug for everyone. It’s not so strange. They’re all well-known musicians, particularly to you. You notice that Joan Baez and Bob Dylan are on opposite sides of the room. Someone strums a guitar quietly and everyone chatters. They ask you questions about what you like to do, what your plans are for the summer. You notice for the first time that Richard Farina is holding a skeleton on his lap and using him as a puppet to ask all the questions. So you ask him, “Richard, how’s your novel going?” And the skeleton answers, “What novel?” “I understand,” you say. Really, he wanted everyone to know he was writing a novel, but he wanted everyone to think he didn’t want them to know. Where Bob Dylan felicitously executed his mystery, Richard Farina poured gasoline on his body, set himself on fire then hid his burning body from you with a sheet. He was the most relentless provocateur. When you glanced up from the griddle, his skeleton was smoking a cigarette.
You set a steaming plate of pancakes piled high on the table. Everyone took a fork and stabbed at them. Some of the pancakes tore in half, some tore into pieces and there was a near food fight. By the time the plate was empty, you had fresh pancakes to pile back on it. You felt like you could keep them in your kitchen forever as long as you kept making pancakes. Richard requested a plate for his skeleton and put one perfectly formed pancake on it. You took a break from the stove and sat down next to him. You flashed him a big grin to let him know you were friendly. Not that he wouldn’t have gotten that already, but you wanted to be sure. “Stop” you told yourself, “you’re trying too hard.” You were trying too hard. You should have been playing it cooler. You decided to play with Richard a little so you asked him what the skeleton’s name was. “Franz” he told you. You asked if Franz was German. “Could be, though I have no way of telling because he’s a skeleton.” “Why do you give him food?” you asked. You didn’t know if he would pretend to be offended because you weren’t willing to take the ruse at face value. Or would he come up with a joke, something absurd? Something absurd, you thought, almost definitely. So you were very surprised when he took a moment before answering. “Tell her, Richard” said Bob. Another moment. Then Richard turned to you and said, “Some people make offerings of the food they eat to their god first, to show appreciation and respect to God for providing for them. I don’t worship a god. I think of all humanity as holy, the dead are most holy because they came before us and they have something to teach us. So I offer food to Franz as a show of respect for humanity, for our ancestors.”
Joan burst out laughing, “Jesus Christ, Richard” and leaned over to me, “He stole him from the NYU biology department. He thought it was the best prank ever. He took a picture of himself and Franz eating a candle-lit dinner together and sent it to the head of the department! What did you write on the back, Richard?”
“I was being serious, Joan.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, but what did it say on the back of the picture?”
“It said ‘He’s in a better place.’”
Joan laughed loudly and clapped her hands together. Bob smirked and took another drag of his cigarette. It was at this moment that you realized Bob hadn’t taken any pancakes. He hadn’t eaten anything. You hadn’t spoken to him yet and you were very nervous. But you lifted the plate which still held two pancakes and said, “Bob?” He waved his cigarette-smoking hand at the plate and smiled. “Bob don’t eat,” Richard grinned, “he just pop amphetamines.” “Fuck off Richard,” and Bob stood up to look out the window.
You didn’t know that Richard would die in a motorcycle accident when he was still barely a newlywed. You didn’t know that Joan would ash away, her voice turning from richness to smoke. You didn’t know that Bob would change a hundred times, so that you would never know him. You felt, though, that you knew him. In that moment. As he stared out the window. You knew what he was staring at. It was that time. Every day at that time. The little old neighbor woman walked out her screen door with a very small dog in her arms and set it down on the top stair. She watched as it scampered down. Then, slowly, straight arm bracing the railing, she followed it, looking ahead as she descended. Performing this final duty of love, so weary, almost unable to walk, but alive because she had to.
---------------------------------------
Sarah Moon lives in Carroll Gardens with her roomate Nick and cat Jasper. She teaches writing at Baruch College and Fordham Univeristy where her students are always making up fabulous stories...to explain their absences. She received her MFA in playwriting from Brandeis University where her play Losing the Game was produced in the spring of 2004. Her poetry has been published in Rosebud Magazine.
© 2005 Me Three
