March 23, 2008
I’m standing in front of a red brick apartment building in Chicago. I step inside the building and roam the halls until I find the entrance to a public terrace on a high floor. From my perch on the terrace, I take a moment to survey the grassy area in front of the building.
I find my way back to the exit. As I open the door to head outside, a baby pig wearing a pink tutu scurries out the door and across the grass. A chase ensues, and after a great effort, I catch the pig, who seems to be having a fun time, and scoop him up in my arms.
The little pig and I are now joined by my father at a local bookstore. I’m not quite sure what we’re shopping for when my father spies a poster that he likes. It’s an image of Bob Marley that looks as though it may have been painted by LeRoy Neiman—all color and splotches. My father seems disappointed when there don’t appear to be any copies of the poster left. Holding the pig with one arm, I dig through the poster bin until I find a copy of the Marley poster for my Dad.
Back on the terrace, which now seems to be on the ground floor, I meet Suzanne Pleshette. We talk about death, specifically about how, even though she is dead, she is still around and capable of holding a conversation.
I worry that she won’t be able to care for her children, two small African American boys to whom she introduces me. One is about four years old, the other about two. I pick the older boy up and chat with him as Suzanne steps inside for a moment. The boy seems unfazed by the fact that his mother is not only seventy years old and white, but also dead.
Suzanne returns wearing a green mud mask around her eyes to help keep her skin looking youthful. Before I have a chance to react, we are joined on the terrace by Jodie Foster carrying an armload of books. A few of the books are for the children, but she has brought several for me as well. They are guide books of a sort, manuals on how to communicate and coexist with the dead. I spy a Dr. Seuss book in the children’s pile and make a joke at the Dr’s expense.
“Oh, I like the one about the Hasidic barber, Morton Shears a Jew."
Jodie smiles politely, but I am the only one who is truly amused.
I’m standing in front of a red brick apartment building in Chicago. I step inside the building and roam the halls until I find the entrance to a public terrace on a high floor. From my perch on the terrace, I take a moment to survey the grassy area in front of the building.
I find my way back to the exit. As I open the door to head outside, a baby pig wearing a pink tutu scurries out the door and across the grass. A chase ensues, and after a great effort, I catch the pig, who seems to be having a fun time, and scoop him up in my arms.
The little pig and I are now joined by my father at a local bookstore. I’m not quite sure what we’re shopping for when my father spies a poster that he likes. It’s an image of Bob Marley that looks as though it may have been painted by LeRoy Neiman—all color and splotches. My father seems disappointed when there don’t appear to be any copies of the poster left. Holding the pig with one arm, I dig through the poster bin until I find a copy of the Marley poster for my Dad.
Back on the terrace, which now seems to be on the ground floor, I meet Suzanne Pleshette. We talk about death, specifically about how, even though she is dead, she is still around and capable of holding a conversation.
I worry that she won’t be able to care for her children, two small African American boys to whom she introduces me. One is about four years old, the other about two. I pick the older boy up and chat with him as Suzanne steps inside for a moment. The boy seems unfazed by the fact that his mother is not only seventy years old and white, but also dead.
Suzanne returns wearing a green mud mask around her eyes to help keep her skin looking youthful. Before I have a chance to react, we are joined on the terrace by Jodie Foster carrying an armload of books. A few of the books are for the children, but she has brought several for me as well. They are guide books of a sort, manuals on how to communicate and coexist with the dead. I spy a Dr. Seuss book in the children’s pile and make a joke at the Dr’s expense.
“Oh, I like the one about the Hasidic barber, Morton Shears a Jew."
Jodie smiles politely, but I am the only one who is truly amused.
