Monthly Story (May '23): Junior Tyler’s Big Bash

fiction

Everybody needed a break from the icy roads and slush that winter. One-by-one, two-by-two, they slipped away for a few weeks of sunshine and beach weather, coming home tanned and relaxed, ready to get on with it, whatever it might be.

The Olsens, who were older and had been retired for nearly ten years, went to their place in Florida, as usual, and came back with, of all things, a new passion for bocce ball. “It’s a mindfulness game,” gushed Steve. “You absolutely have to be in the moment as you begin your roll.”

Neil Forester took a month in Jamaica to meditate on the beach. He’d been to a monastery somewhere in Japan the year before.

“So smoking dope and zoning out, huh?” Milt Libman assumed. “I mean, you know. Jamaica.”

Neil gave him that Neil Forester look—thoughtful, kindly but knowing—and answered, “No. Meditating.” He shook his head. “Those days are over.”

Neil’s close friend Brenda Rosen didn’t go south. Instead she found an off-season Airbnb in Paris. She needed to go think about an on-again/off-again relationship with an old college crush who had resurfaced with a serious proposal. She stayed in touch with Neil via text and email as they discussed the suiter’s pros and cons.

Milt and Barbara Libman came back from San Miguel de Allende, where it seemed they had bought out 50% of the paintings in Mexico. Barbara owned a gallery. They went someplace different every year.

Junior Tyler, who seldom went anywhere, surprised everyone by pulling together the wherewithal for a hiking vacation in Argentina and spent a couple of weeks renting a room in an industrial section of Buenos Aires, living on coffee and empanadas. He didn’t have a class to teach winter term and could handle a few editing gigs online. Neil had let slip to him, in guarded terms, that Brenda was contemplating the status of a romantic relationship, weighing the yeas or nays. This pleased Junior, who naturally imagined it was himself that she fretted over. When Neil remarked in a long email about other matters that, yes, Brenda had indeed come to yea, Junior couldn’t leave Argentina soon enough. He had to see her.

He and Brenda had been friends since meeting years before in their first meditation class at the Center. Strangers, they found zafus next to one another and then automatically returned to those places ever afterwards. On their first weekend silent retreat, the teacher assigned them to the kitchen as a team. Junior pantomimed Brenda through the making of miso soup and sticky rice. She was a toucher—little finger touches on the shoulder or the hand as she called his attention to this or that or responded—“Oh, yes, I understand,” the gesture said. And she spoke with her face. It lit up with admiring comprehension and shut down with confusion, whereupon Junior acted out his instructions more emphatically. The only sound she made was an involuntary guffaw at his Chaplinesque antics. In those cases, she did that grab-your-forearm-bend-at-the-waste silent laugh that he interpreted to mean “You are the funniest, cleverest man ever created.” Women didn’t flirt with Junior Tyler, so he never noticed that Brenda behaved toward him exactly as she behaved toward Neil and her other friends, even Barb Libman. They took long walks together. He regaled her with stories of his activist father, who he claimed was “Junior Tyler, Senior,” pulling her leg. “And that makes me Junior Tyler, Junior,” he quipped.

He found her a wonderful listener and he opened up as never before. Maybe most of all, she laughed at his jokes.

“We are dharma siblings,” she told him, but he never heard that the way she meant it.

Flying home from South America, he decided to throw himself a party immediately. He’d invite the other tenants in the building and see to it that it started and ended fairly early. He didn’t want any complaints. And he’d overlap his circles. University people from his adjuncting, Stella and Colin and some others from the dance community, a few Occupy friends, a variety that would impress Brenda. Their Buddhist buddies from the Center, of course. That went without saying.

Pot luck? He could never afford to feed that many people at once. Pam Olsen made a dynamite peach pie. He remembered a salad Neil served once at a Center gathering. He thumbed through his memory. He wouldn’t ask Brenda to bring much. She was the sort of person who would stay after to help clean up. In fact, he depended on it. That would be the time to have their conversation. He put fresh sheets on the bed. He emailed possible dates and times to the guest list and suggested contributions during his layover in Miami. Everything was settled by the time he got home.

Before even unpacking, he tackled the bathroom. It had to be spotless. He’d never before cleaned under the claw-footed bathtub. He suspected the grime he found there dated from the Great Depression, but he made the room sparkle. Of his many friends, very few—Neil and a few others—had been to what he referred to as his “Beatnik pad,” his “bachelor hideaway,” with its shelves of books and artwork by friends, work that the wealthy Libmans would appraise at two- and low three-figure prices. He’d always feared that even his kindest friends would judge him for how he lived, for what they would instinctively feel he should have achieved and hadn’t, or worse, that they would feel sorry for him. In that sense, the party was a risk. But, at least, Brenda wouldn’t be coming for the first time.

They’d spent hours in glorious conversation there, over endless cups of tea.

“In my ragamuffin spirituality,” he began a sentence one evening, and she grabbed his arm.

 “That’s it!” she said. “Perfect. That’s the perfect description of mine, too!”

“’We are rich,’” he said, “’in proportion to what we can do without.’ That’s Thoreau. It’s a very Buddhist idea.” He’d been saying that to women who didn’t get it for years.

“We’re just a couple of old tree huggers,” she laughed.

“Yes. Druids,” he said.

“Imagine that. You’re a Druid Buddhist beatnik.”

He nodded. Oh, yeah, she got it.

The morning of the party he put the spaghetti together. Two batches. One with meat and one without. At the grocery store, he’d bought three different brands of sauce, a couple cans of tomatoes and tomato paste, plenty of garlic, ground beef, assorted random spices, onions, and lots and lots of spaghetti noodles. Using his biggest pot and a borrowed pot of the same size from the woman across the hall, he put the two batches of sauce on a slow boil, filling the apartment with an aroma to make an Italian grandmother green. It rolled out into the hallway, down the stairs, and lingered to embrace all comers at the front door. As he followed this fragrance down the stairs to dispose of the jars of prepared sauce—the evidence, he called it—he noticed the scuff marks of the building’s walls from tenants moving furniture in and out. That wouldn’t do. He filled a bucket with water and grabbed a bottle of 409 Multi-Surface cleaner and set to work. It took him an hour, but he cleaned all the walls from the front doors to his apartment. That done, he took a fresh rag and Glass Plus to the smudgy windows on the front doors and then changed his clothes to wait for the first guest to arrive. They could start coming, he told them, at 5:30.

Neil arrived a bit after five, while Junior was taking a broom to a stray cobweb that had escaped his earlier inspection of the living room ceiling corners. “I thought you might need help, so I came early,” said Neil. “What can I do?”  He held Junior’s eyes with a quiet intensity as he offered a huge salad bowl. The Neil Forester Look. “I’ve got some green teas you might like in my backpack, too.”

Junior happily took the salad and set it on the desk. This was a 4-by-8 piece of plywood he’d built a frame for, perfect for spreading out papers during grading sessions and set flush with the window sill. Originally built to write the dissertation on he’d never finished. He enjoyed the view of the street below while he marked up student work there. He’d untangled the prose of many a client’s dissertation on it, too. Earlier, he’d moved his orchids and geraniums off the desk and onto the sill to make room for the food. Plastic silverware and cups, napkins, and stiff paper plates and bowls marked the beginning of the buffet line.

“Looks like you’ve thought of everything,” said Neil. “Or almost,” he started to say.

“I guess so,” said Junior. “Brenda’s coming.”

To this Neil said nothing at first. He nodded. Pursed his lips. “Did you think she wouldn’t?” he asked.

“No, no. I knew she would. It’s just that… Well, you know.”

Neil seemed to always have something on his mind. Just working overtime on “Being Here Now,” thought Junior, whose own practice tended to the sloppy. And then the doorbell rang. He jumped. It was like Brenda to come early.

“I’ll be your doorman,” said Neil “You can’t be running up and down the stairs and still play host.” He immediately made for the door. “No worries,” he said.

Minutes later Stella and Colin sailed through the door with their usual flair, Stella waving a bottle of Merlot as if victory in Europe had been announced that very moment. Hugs, kisses, handshakes, and laughter. They loved one another, the three of them. “Oh, what a cute place you have here, J. T.,” sang Stella. “Oh, my God, spaghetti sauce! I had no idea!”

“My grandmother’s recipe,” he grinned.

“You are such a liar,” she went on. “Where are the jars? Come on! Or some woman came in and did it! Where is she! Come on, J. T.!”

He couldn’t help swelling a bit.

 “And you’re taking care of my orchids, I see.” She’d already started for the table.

“What’s to take care of? It’s like you said: They like to be ignored.”

“Yes,” Colin managed to get out. “Unlike Stella herself.” To which they all laughed as Steve and Pam Olsen came through the door.

“Neil told us we didn’t need to knock,” said Pam as she presented the peach pie to Junior. “’Just follow the spaghetti sauce,’ he said”

“No, no need to knock,” he told her and made the introductions.

“So good to meet you,” Pam smiled. “Junior has so many interesting friends.”

The small apartment filled quickly, and after a time Neil re-appeared. Things had become a tad disorganized when Junior decided not to bring the pots of spaghetti sauce to the table, but to route his guests first to the table to get a bowl, then to the tiny galley kitchen for the main course, then back to the table at the other end of the apartment for the side dishes. Seating had become something of an issue, too, since only the meditators from the Center felt comfortable sitting on the floor and Junior lived with minimal furniture. Barbara Libman captured the one upholstered chair and never moved from it. She sat with her plate on a layer of paper napkins spread across her lap, her movements slow and precise to avoid dripping spaghetti sauce on her dress. Milt kept busy running back and forth to find whatever she needed.

Junior surveyed the room for a glimpse of Brenda. Apparently she had not yet arrived. Stella held court on one end of the couch. She sat directly under a large nude her former lover—Pre-Colin—had painted of her and directly across from Barbara Libman, who stared back and forth between Stella and the painting with a strenuously neutral expression. Colin and two friends from the Center sat at Stella’s feet.

These latter two were the targets of the sort of interrogation Junior recognized. “Have you studied Japanese flower arranging?” Stella asked in a tone that suggested that they should have. “I understand that, too, is a popular form of meditation.”

No, neither of them had. They only did simple sitting meditation.

But perhaps they knew someone who did?

Again, neither did.

Barbara Libman made to stand up and come closer to examine the nude, but then settled again, not daring to give up her comfortable seat or spill her plate. Stella noted this and tried unsuccessfully to make eye contact, then shifted to listing all the reasons that her two new friends needed to study Japanese flower arrangements, hinting without any real knowledge of the subject, that their meditation practice would be incomplete without doing so.

The doorbell rang while Junior was trapped in a conversation in the kitchen. When he turned to head for the door, he saw that Neil was already there, heading downstairs. Must be Brenda, at last, he thought. He watched the door for her entrance. All the napkins on the table had run out, somebody said. How had he not put enough out? Junior dug into the bottom cupboard to find a fresh package, ran it out to the table, and used a handful of what he’d brought to mop up a wine spill on the hardwood floor next to one of the bookcases.

“Don’t you think that’s right?” he heard Stella say.

Who was she talking to?

“J. T.,” she said again. “Don’t you think that’s right?”

“Don’t I think what’s right, Stell?”

“Meditation and flower arranging,” she said. “Like butter and bread, don’t you think?”

Any other time, this would have been hilarious. Stella knew nothing about meditation or Buddhism. Flower arranging, yes. She owned a flower shop, after all. Standing there with a soaked glob of spongy napkins in his hand, he recognized Barbara Libman’s disapproving gaze and a snatch of Steve Olsen’s going on and on about the Zen of bocce ball. Somebody said “Trump” and half the room laughed. “But I mean it,” the voice said. “We’re starting to look like a Third World country.”

He looked up and down the two front rooms of his apartment. Still no Neil or Brenda. It seemed like ten minutes already. What kept them?  But he had to dispose of this mess in his hand and smiled and nodded his way back to the kitchen, where Milt Libman had opened all the drawers looking for the corkscrew. After a search that included two other guests in that tiny space, they found it on top of the refrigerator. “Now, who would put it up there?” wondered Milt. Junior didn’t bother saying he’d put it there for some reason and then forgotten about it.

One of the women had flushed the toilet and Junior could hear it was running. He went in and closed the door behind himself and lifted the lid off the tank, gently placed it on the stool cover. That damned stopper hadn’t sealed again. He rolled up his sleeve and reached into the cold water and nudged the rubber plug aside and listened as the draining-water sound stopped. He replaced the lid, washed and dried his hand and arm, rolled his sleeve back down, and returned to his party. It seemed to be going well. Brenda stood holding a glass of wine and talking to the Libmans. She didn’t see him yet. She held herself in what Junior had come to call “the Brenda Party Stance.” Weight on left leg; right heel touching floor for balance. Right arm folded under her breasts. Left elbow propped on right fist. Left hand, holding drink, at approximate chin level. Chin raised listening or making a point.

It wasn’t like Brenda to be so late, though.

Before he could go and say hello, Neil found him. He wore that thoughtful, knowing expression. “How are you holding up?” he asked.

“Just busy busy,” said Junior. “I guess that’s the way it is when you throw a bash, huh?”

He patted his friend’s shoulder and moved into Brenda’s peripheral vision. He caught it just right, and she turned away from the Libmans, placing her glass on a window sill as she came to hug him. “Oh, my dear friend,” she whispered into his ear. “I’m so happy to see you.”

But he felt something different on his shoulder. Her hand wasn’t the same. What was that? He rocked her in his hug. Kissed her cheek just as always after an absence. “I’ve missed you,” he said.

He saw it, of course, as they talked, and as she made her way around the room. Every little cluster exploded in collective happiness for her. So many warm questions.

Junior noted Stella watching him from time to time. She knew him better than he wanted to admit. Brenda accepted an early ride with the Libmans. Stella and Colin lingered after everyone but Neil had gone. Colin patrolled the room filling a garbage bag with paper plates and dirty napkins. Stella collected plastic utensils and empty bottles for recycling. Finally, they stood at the door to go, watching him, but he watched back with the clear message, “Please, don’t say it.”

Both hugged him. Stella planted a kiss on his cheek.

Neil found an opened bottle of wine and poured what was left into two glasses. “Remember that story about the two monks?” he said as they settled into chairs. “One of them carried the pretty girl across the creek and the other got mad at him for breaking his vow?”

Junior nodded. Sure, he remembered. “One carried her for real, the other in his mind. Sure. I remember.”

“Well,” Neil said, “drink up. You’re entitled to carry her a little longer before we start out again for where we’re going.”

*****