My Two Cents

                                                                       Doing Good

                It was late on a Thursday afternoon in the middle of January, and April was still in her nightgown and slipper-socks, her hair snarled from sleeplessness.  She’d spent the day hunched over her computer, scouring the Internet for books, holistic remedies, or anything aimed at curing anger, irritability, and/or insomnia.  She stumbled across a book called Are You Mad? written by a Dr. Syng Kwaak.   She found the title intriguing, but was quickly annoyed.  The opening chapter had the caption Forty, Fired and Frightened, and when she read that Dr. Kwaak’s first case study ––Alfred P. –– got a new job, a wife, and complete happiness after three months of therapy, she clicked off the site in disgust.  Nothing was true.

        It had been a tough year.  As a result of the closing of St. Vincent’s Hospital in Greenwich Village, she’d lost her job at the registrar’s office, and that was hard, but at least in that regard she felt connected to the great pile of fired people.  April imagined that a day might come when the unemployed would be required to report to a designated spot –– somewhere central, like the middle of Minnesota –– under the guise of collecting benefits, but instead they’d be burned in a great national bonfire.  She imagined how it would be reported on CNN.  The story would probably run a hundred times.  She could see the smoke twirling up into the sky, and Wolf Blitzer asking an eager young reporter from a small affiliate station what burning flesh smelled like, and if people were saddened.

          April had a fair amount of confounding personal issues.  Her brother, Storge, wasn’t speaking to her but never quite said why, which April found so despicably clever because whenever her mind rested for even a moment, her thoughts would compulsively dart around to wondering why her brother was mad, and so it was, she supposed, a way for them to maintain a sort of closeness.

            Thoughts of her brother eventually led to the nagging worries about her elderly father who lived alone in a retirement condo in Sandy Sunriver, Utah.  April had gotten it into her head that her dad really should have one of those I’ve fallen and I can’t get up devices, but her father vehemently objected, which was enraging to April.  Often when she hung up the phone after one of their conversations, she had the vague feeling that she’d been yelling at her seventy-five year old father –– and what kind of a louse does that?  

         The topper, though, was the breakup with Simon Dester, her boyfriend of six years, who before the final door slam, referred to their relationship as dead meat, leaving April reeling.  The phrase dead meat stuck to her like tape, and continued to initiate short, but violent, crying jags.

           April had a dog –– a small speckled mutt with one green and one blue eye –– and he was curled up on the couch when the doorbell rang.  Doodle exploded with barking, flew off the couch, and ran to the front hall.  April could barely hear the voice on the other side of the door say, “It’s me. Bob.”               

                “Oh, jeez, hold on, I have to pull the dog back, Bob.”   She dragged Doodle away from the door by her collar.  The dog’s two front legs were bobbing up and down as if it were playing the piano.  April pointed toward the living room, and Doodle tore over to the rug and sat upright, shivering with excitement.

               When April finally opened the door, good old Bob was leaning up against the wall in his button-less, tattered winter coat.  Its lining was ripped and hanging below the hem.  His eyebrows were thick and fuzzy, as if a gray and black caterpillar slept above each eye, and his white hair was matted down with what looked like Elmer’s glue.  In order to hold up his khakis, his belt was pulled high around his waist.  He looked thinner than usual.  A brown paper bag from Food Town rattled like a drum skin from the incessant shaking of his left hand.  He tried to take his coat off, and nearly fell over. 

            “Sorry to bother you,” he wheezed.

            “No, it’s okay,” she said, and as she helped him with his coat, she was appalled by the thought that crossed her mind –– what would it be like to let him fall down onto the floor?

            “My oven won’t light, can you come up and try to light it for me?” said Bob.

            “Well…I’m in my nightgown,” April said, trying in vain to straighten out her hair. “Look, come in and have a seat, while I throw on a robe.” 

             Bob shuffled in, unsteady on his feet.  The smell of urine filled the room. 

            “You’re so kind,” he said.  Bob’s voice was like a whisper.

            “Nah, not really,” she muttered, and led him by the elbow to a chair at the dining room table.  Bob sat with a thud.  Doodle came over, and after nosing Bob between the legs, lost interest, and sauntered back to the rug for a nap.

            “Where’s your husband?” asked Bob, rubbing his leaky nose.

            “I don’t have a husband, remember?”  Bob probably had her confused with Elsa in 5F.  She and Elsa had the same green coat.  For all April knew, Bob went around ringing doorbells on every floor until someone opened up.

            “What’s in your bag?” she asked, buttoning her nightgown, when she realized one of her breasts was exposed.  Something about the combination of Bob and her breast made her feel awful, worse than she should.

            “Dinner.  It’s a Swanson’s Frozen.  Meatloaf and peas.  Won’t be able to cook it without an oven.”

            April bit her lip, and sighed,  “Do you want me to heat it up for you? “

            “That would be nice.”

             She grabbed her robe  –– roughly –– from where it was hanging on a nail in the closet, as if whatever was happening was the robe’s fault.  She went into the kitchen, popped the frozen meal into the microwave, and poured some apple juice, setting it on the table before him. 

            “Got a straw?” Bob asked.  April made a face to the wall, for all his feebleness, there was something very demanding about Bob.  “You’re still in your pajamas,” he said.  “Are you sick?”

            “No, I’m not sick,” she said, but she was irritated, and she couldn’t bear it, as this was exactly the type of thing she’d been looking up a cure for.  She put some silverware in front of him, and slipped a straw into his glass. “Can you help me with my sock?” asked Bob.

        He shook his foot until his shoe fell off, and April could see that a thin gray sock was not pulled over his heel. 

            She got down on her knees, and again the smell of urine blasted her.  She lifted Bob’s warm flaky foot into her hands and tried to pull his sock up to his ankle.  “No wonder, this sock is too small for your foot.”

            “Musta shrunk,” he said.  “Hey, don’t you do nothing all day?” he asked.

            “I got laid off, Bob,” she said.

            “Oh, well…it happens.”  He shrugged, looking around the apartment.  After a moment he said, “Your husband’s a nice guy.”

            “Right,” she said.  April went into the kitchen and squirted soap onto her hands, scrubbing off the residue of Bob’s sock and foot.  The microwave dinged and she took out the Swanson’s, peeled the foil top off, and set the sizzling tin of food and a paper napkin down in front of him. 

             Bob’s swollen fingers were impossible for him to straighten, and his hands shook comically, as the silverware clinked all over his plate.  April felt bad.  “Would you like me to cut the meat, Bob?”

            “Yes, you’re very kind.”  Bob sat patiently, as if he was seated at a fine French restaurant.  He’d even put the napkin in his collar.

            She cut the square of beef into tiny pieces, and pushed his dinner back in front of him, hoping that she herself would never have to eat a Swanson’s Frozen, which smelled to her like dog food.

            “Got a spoon?” he asked. 

April marveled at his nerve. She flashed on the many things she wanted and couldn’t ask for, like just the other day, when she was at a bank function –– some kind of check account opening promotion –– and they were serving fudge cake.  She wasn’t exactly opening a checking account, but she had kept a small savings account at the bank for quite some time.   Still, she had stood by the coffee cups, watching woman after woman take a white plate of cake from the nice waiter in the red vest.  She wanted a piece but never stepped up, and she went home –– still wanting –– only to buy a box of sugar dusted donuts at the corner store.  The Korean man at the cash register had smiled and wagged his finger at her saying, “You addicted.”

 April noticed that even with a spoon Bob couldn’t scoop up the peas, so she stood up over him and fed him his dinner, as if he were a toddler, waiting for him to swallow before she raised another spoonful to his mouth.  “You’re a good neighbor,” he said, which made her want to scream.  She lifted the glass of apple juice and let his lips catch the straw.  Heat began to spit up from the radiator across the room, and they fell silent as it clunked and clanked against the slow, steady ticking of the clock.

 Outside her apartment window, the light in the sky was dying over Manhattan and a streak of orange cloud spread far beyond the skyline.  April was caught by surprise.  The sinking sun, the end of the winter day, and just Bob himself, came down on her in a splendor she did not anticipate.  She felt her eyes fill, and had the thought that this was all there was, and all that there would ever be.   April slid into her existence, like a chunk of a mountain that falls into the sea.  She saw, felt, and actually was –– absolutely nothing –– and for the first time in months, she felt okay. But the moment passed, her tears dried, and she began to wish that Bob would hurry up.   When the meal was done, they sat in silence, but the beast of irritation quickly stirred in her again.

 “I don’t mean to rush you, but I should get myself dressed before it’s time for bed,” April said, attempting a joke.  As Bob stood to leave, he fell back down onto the chair,  “God!” said April, as she rushed to help him up.

“God?” said Bob, looking around as if he expected to see someone, and then he added, “My best to your husband, I’ve always liked him.”

“No, no husband,” she said sharply, but he paid her no mind.  As she opened the door he paused for a moment and with just the hint of a smile, he said, “You know I’m dying, right?”  Their eyes met, briefly.  April said, “Oh, come on, Bob, you’ll outlast the whole building, I’m sure.”  “No,” he said, and then, again, “I’m dying, and you’ll die too someday, so I guess that’s the way the cookie crumbles.” He laughed a little.

And with that she decided to walk him back to his apartment. “Come on, Doodle,” she said, and the dog was up in a flash.

            “You’re very kind,” he said.

            “I wish you’d stop saying that,” said April. She took him by the elbow, and they walked slowly to the stairwell.  Each step was an enormous strain for Bob; his body shook with effort.  They had many stairs to climb, and she held Bob’s elbow tightly as his foot found each step.  April could feel the dog brushing up against the side of her leg, and the three of them rose as one entity. When they stopped to rest on the third stair, Bob was breathing hard, and he issued a loud trumpeting fart.  “Huh,” he whispered, “Almost there.”

          “We’re doing good,” said April.  The stairwell filled up with his stink, and the three of them continued on, in silence, upward.

                                                                        The End

      On Saturday I flew home from Minneapolis to New York City.  As I walked from the plane to the baggage claim area I became aware that the corridor was empty, and I wondered, “Jeez, where did everybody go?”  The plane had been packed and the airport seemed to be its normal bustling self.  It was odd. The hallway narrowed and I found myself alone.

        But not really.

        Suddenly I was five years old again.  No joke.  Five years old.  I was waiting for my father to return from a trip.  My whole family was there.  We were excited to be at the airport, there was something thrilling about watching the planes pull in and out of the gates.  La Guardia Airport was spiffy then, and my father had told me it was named after the mayor of New York City.

          I saw him ~ I was him ~ as I walked.   For a few minutes I could remember Jack Roche clearly: young, confident and happy to see us all.  He had black hair and wore an overcoat.  He held a briefcase.  I have no idea where he was coming from, what business he might have had.  In those days, flying was a big deal, as a little girl, it was a wondrous mystery.  

           I haven’t thought about my father in a while, which is shocking to me.  He would be a hundred and one years old.  When he died, almost twenty years ago, I didn’t know how I would live without him.  He was the only one who really loved me, I thought.  Death is strange ~ I suppose that’s an understatement ~ life really does go on.  But I’ve had these visits from him, once in a while in a dream, sometimes it’s a fleeting moment, and when I do it’s as if he’s very much alive in me and around me.

               My dear father.  I love you Dad, and always will.  Thanks for dropping by.  You remind me that life is a circle, a spiral, and your soul echoes again and again through mine. 

www.suzzyroche.com          

         I swore I wouldn’t shop this year.  Surely, the gifts I’d like to give couldn’t be found in a place called Uniqlo.  And yet, I’m embarrassed to report, I actually went there ~ all the way to Thirty Fourth Street no less ~ and I went TWICE. Believe me, I was not alone.

     For those who haven’t been to New York City, Herald Square is where the grand old Macy’s is. And these days there’s an H&M, a Forever 21, a Victoria’s Secret (I remember when that one was a risqué shop for dirty old men), and every other store you’ve seen in countless malls across America.  Usually, I’d do anything to avoid these places, but I charged forth.

     Lo and behold, I bought something.  When I got home, I lit a candle and lowered the lamp, ready to wrap my gift in the rosy light of my living room ~ with my incredibly warm and generous heart ~ I nearly sprouted angel wings. 

     Momentarily, I realized that the wonderfully perky checkout girl, who had referred to me as a guest, had forgotten to take that “thing” off the item ~ you know what I mean, right? ~ the device that explodes ink all over your item if it’s not removed. 

     In seconds I morphed.  I went from being a jolly little Christmas elf to the worst kind of Scroogy crankpot.  I was in a rage when I realized I had to go all the way back up to the store in order to get the “thing” off.

       I decided that if I were going to do it, I’d really do it.  I mean, I’d really experience Herald Square at its holiday peak, not just put my head down and run like a crazed quarterback down the Christmas football field.  So I lingered in the most annoying spot, right outside of Macy’s, where cops were shepherding the weary flocks of pedestrians across the street.  A melismatic version of “Oh Little Town of Bethlehem” blared from a brassy speaker as hordes of us carried our bags through the square.  

     As soon as I stopped to have a look, I was amazed.  I couldn’t believe what was actually happening around me, and in no time I felt like a scrawny Santa, mustering up the courage to look right into people’s eyes.  Not everyone, but most returned my smile.  Every face was different, every gait was quirky ~ all ages and races rushed along ~  I encountered countless set of eyes, and heard the sound of many languages.  It was chaos, but it was so human!  Full of ornery cheer.

     I wound up hanging out with a homeless vet who was sitting on the ground with a sign that said HELP.  He was singing along to the carols that were resounding across the mall.  He told all about his three tours in Iraq. I gave him five dollars, saying, “I wish I could do more. He said, “Aw, come on, thanks for talking to me, made my day.”  I said, “You’re the one who made my day.”

     When I finally arrived at the store to get the ink device removed, three checkout girls gathered together, like a small group of carolers, and said, “We’re so sorry, ma’am!”  And it seemed as if they meant it.  My heart softened up a bit.  “No big deal,” I said, “No big deal at all.”

      I know it’s a weird time of year.  There’s an awful lot of sadness in the air. But the bells still ring and it’s the little things, the little things, the tiniest little things.

      Happy Holidays to you and yours, my friends. 

www.suzzyroche.com   

Dear Friends,

First, let me say thank you for your wonderful comments and encouragement as I make my way through the publication of my first novel - a rockin’ mother/daughter love story -WAYWARD SAINTS.

Nowadays one’s publisher asks you to urge your community of friends and supporters to “pre-order” the book, by Amazon (or your favorite retailer).  Seems the other retailers look to these pre-orders to see if the book will soar in the marketplace.  

This is a bit awkward for me, but I may as well do what I’m asked and suggest to you - my friends - that if you think you ‘d like to read WAYWARD SAINTS, please consider pre-ordering it.  I hope you enjoy it!  (might make a good gift, too)

LINK TO PRE-ORDER:

 http://www.suzzyroche.com/www.suzzyroche.com/Wayward_Saints.html

 Oh, and you can click below to read an excerpt from, Wayward Saints, and get a free download of Song for Wayward Saints, a duet with my daughter, Lucy Wainwright Roche.

  http://www.hyperionbooks.com/waywardsaints/

www.suzzyroche.com

         I’ve been onstage all my life it seems.  Odd, because I was one of those excruciatingly shy kids who couldn’t even say her own name out loud.  I never dreamed of being a star, or a person in show biz, and it’s a good thing because I never became either.  Instead, I’ve been a working artist, and though I’ve made my living by the seat of my pants, the skin of my teeth, and have hung by the barest thread, I consider myself to be lucky – beyond belief.  

        Last night I had a gig with my sister in a tiny Pennsylvania town.  You show up at these places not knowing quite what to expect.  After thirty-five years, let’s face it, some of the petals have fallen off the rose.  Many venues are practically out of business, and most of the upcoming acts on the marquee have been banging around for decades, just like us.  

       We come stumbling through the door for a sound check– middle-aged, doddering, and bespectacled – who knows what’s going through the young soundman’s mind?  He’s patient as we work to get used to the sound and fix the levels in our monitors.  I think he even says “Yes, ma’am” at one point.

     Then we’re led across the way into another building. Brrrrrr. Two ladies (upwards of 55) step into stage frocks in a freezing cold bathroom (back behind a broom closet), tremble in a frigid dressing room, and gratefully get served a slice of warm pot-pie, while waiting for the 8PM curtain. We’re laughing!

         Time to scamper back across the windy parking lot – guitars in hand, buttoned up in scarves and winter coats – through the back door of the club, where lo and behold, a full house is there to greet us.  We take off our coats and throw them on the stage. 

         Let’s sing. 

        And this is where I become overwhelmed with a mishmosh of feelings.  Sometimes I’m afraid I might even bust into tears.  Who ARE  these people in the audience?  I can’t believe they’re there.  They have also braved the chilly night, parked their cars, paid for tickets (in a recession) and they’re glad to see us.  It’s as if we’re all old friends.  And in a way we are.  We’ve shared a lifetime of concerts together. The music belongs to them. The ones that still come to the shows seem to accept whatever we offer, glad to hear their old favorites and interested in the new songs, too.   I would have never had a career without them, and yet, I don’t even know their names. 

         Last song.  Come on up on stage everybody and sing a Christmas carol! 

         And they do, and it’s fun, and it’s genuine.

         After the show, we shake hands and sell a few CDs.  There’s a sense of gratitude that goes both ways:  somebody met their husband at one of the concerts, two people drove down eight hours from Toronto, a few brought their grown children, one guy says he’s a brand new fan.  I scribble my name on CDs that are nearly impossible to tear the plastic off of.  We shake hands, or even hug.  One person asks, “So, do you have a retirement plan?” and I say, “HUH?”  Somebody else says, “You’re music has meant the world to me.”  

         I say thank you for listening to the music, thank you for coming to the shows, thank you for keeping in touch.  After all these years, it means so much.

photos courtesy of Ed Calhoun                  www.suzzyroche.com

         Last night I sat by the window of a café in Greenwich Village in the pouring rain. I guess I had the blues, but slowly the strangest, most wonderful feeling came over me as I looked out at my neighborhood.  Traffic lights turned from red to green, cars slowed, their headlights blurred by the rain, people hurried by holding umbrellas against the wind.  Everything seemed to slow down for a minute.  Drops of rain rolled across the window of the café, and in the street it was really coming down hard.  My friend said, “It’s crying outside.”  And it seemed true! 

        This has been a tough year, one thing and another.   Aside from my own intermittent (blah, blah, blah) despair, dear friends have had heartbreaking hardships, much of the world seems to be gripped by anger and blame, a bad economy has spread fear and poverty.  Everyone seems terribly worried about something. So, why I was all of a sudden overwhelmed by a feeling of wellbeing and gratitude?

       For a little while, my own preoccupations were mysteriously lifted, and I was awed by the beauty that is literally everywhere ~ free for all.  We’re in this thing together, strangers, friends, cities, countries, neighbors, families, animals, and enemies.  If the world is crying, I’m crying too. 

       More and more I think about dying.  Makes sense, I’m older now.  The life I’ve lived has already faded, I can hardly remember who I was!  Most of what I used to crave is meaningless to me now.  But there is something that still interests me.  Whenever I get a glimpse into the bigger picture, just the sheer beauty of it, I am alive as if for the first time.  One thing I suspect is that whatever is giving me grief is just a tiny piece of the big fat it.

      Tomorrow I’m cooking for a small group of people who have had their share of troubles this past year.  I hope I can create a few hours of good cheer and peace for my guests.  Guests are God.  I just read that in a book.  

      Happy Thanksgiving everybody!  (I hope this isn’t too corny.)

www.suzzyroche.com      

     I can’t believe I wrote a novel and it’s being published. 

     I’ve made many recordings, cds, lps, whatever you want to call them, and I’ve held my breath as they were tossed out into the public eye (or ear), but I’m finding myself surprised at the level of anxiety I’m having about releasing a book. 

     Maybe it’s because I’m older now ~ my skin in thinner ~ I’m not as tough as I used to be. Am I afraid of reviews, what people will say?  Ugh, I guess so.  Shouldn’t I know better by now?  In my lifetime my work has been received favorably and unfavorably, I’ve been kicked around the block a bit, ignored, praised, and at this stage of the game, I realize it hardly matters. It’s been my  experience that projects have a way of seeping into the world and finding their audience.  I’ve been blessed in that sense, for sure.

     As soon as something is being “sold” it changes what it is.  Throughout my life, starting at an early age, my creations have been set in a commercial context. I’m not complaining.  Many people ~ much more talented than I am ~ have never had that experience, and that comes with a whole other set of challenges.  After all, these opportunities to “sell” seem to be based largely on luck.  The flip side, of course, is that if you have never been spewed out into the public marketplace, you’ve never been fed through the meat-grinder of public opinion. 

      When I sing for an audience, it’s a communal experience.  We’re all in it together.  There’s a sense of a shared creation, at least I’ve always felt that way.  But writing a book is a solitary pursuit.  You do it in private, you dream it, you live with a whole set of characters who, in the end, don’t actually exist. It’s odd!  I mean, creating anything is weird and strange, but writing a novel is mysterious in a whole new way. I’ve always been in awe of novelists, but now, especially, I understand the particular vulnerability they’re up against.

     I’m trying to wrap my head around the concept of celebrating.  I’m working with my fears, I’d like to say ~ hey little book ~ be on your way.  It’s a little like dropping a kid off on the first day of kindergarten; you realize they’ll never be the same again, you hope they don’t get bullied in the playground, you know they’re on their own, that you can’t go with them.  You want them to do well.  

     Recently, someone sent me this picture of myself as a kid.  I look at the picture and say, who is this person ~ I don’t recognize her at all.   But I do remember the first day of kindergarten, I sobbed when they dropped me off.

www.suzzyroche.com

you are love, i kiss your black feet, smell the rims of your ears, your eyes like oily olives, never have i seen them cry, you don’t have a single word, faithful silence pulls me beside your skinny bones, hanging on your wordless world, you are always asking at my pockets, i turn them inside out for you, you accept disappointment with a hopeful eye, you want all my food but none of your own, i think i make you mad, but what can i do when you forgive me all the time? at night we curl into our dreaming like two orphans remembering the night of being left behind, i could say i rescued you, but you could say you rescued me, i kiss your feet, you are love named sadness, what name do you have for me in the whimpering and barking of your great concern…

copyright www.suzzyroche.com

I just got home from a drive across the country with my daughter Lucy, and a Mystery Guest. We saw the full moon rise over the Colorado River, and we made a special stop at a ghost town, where one man lives.  In the desert, on the way through Tuba City we met a dog who wanted us to take her along, but we left her at the gas station, worried that she belonged to someone else. She seemed so sure that we should take her, it was hard to say goodbye, and for at least a hundred miles we thought about going back to get her. I learned a lot, but not enough, about the complicated situation all around the Navajo Nation.  And, in case you’ve never been, the Grand Canyon is most definitely enormous. It has a way of inviting you to jump right in.  Someday I’d like to get to the bottom of it on a mule and visit the Havasupi ~ the people of the blue green water. We felt like Thelma and Louise at times, and even picked up a hitch hiker, his name was Johnny, and luckily he didn’t steal our cash. A weird thing happened at a hotel, though.  I walked into an open room, thinking it was mine, and took somebody else’s car keys by mistake.  It was awkward because I had to figure out how to put them back into the person’s room without being noticed.  I enlisted the help of our brave Mystery Guest. On the way back home it snowed in the Rocky Mountains ~ whoa!  October is a little early for snow. Did I mention that the music flowed on ipods, radios, and jeez, this pod cast craze is something else.  Lucy keeps me abreast of all the latest trends.  Okay, I admit that the drive through Kansas seemed long, but I did something I haven’t done in over forty years ~ had a sundae from Dairy Queen ~ with chocolate sauce and whipped cream, too.  Don’t get me wrong ~ Kansas, Missouri, Indiana, Illinois, Ohio, Pennsylvania, and New Jersey were all beautiful, but I was having a little tailbone ache by then, and I think we were all glad to see the New York City skyline rise up in the distance.

 So, if you ever get invited to go on a trip with your daughter and a Mystery Guest…go for it.