On Christmas Eve, a friend posted a Facebook status about her home’s plumbing catastrophe. We had a little exchange about it, including what she had to pay the plumber to take care of the problem. I don’t know how long the plumber was there, but let’s just say he had a nice Christmas bonus.
“I should have taken my mother’s advice and become a plumber,” I commented.
Once, my mother did tell me I should become a plumber. It was a Sunday family dinner. I was in my early twenties. I may have been finishing up college, or I may have graduated already and been working a retail job, one of those jobs you take at that age to buy some time.
The conversation turned to my future. My mother dispensed her advice and her reasoning “They make good money.”
My father said, “He doesn’t want to become a plumber!” My father was right about that.
It’s not that my mother didn’t know I had artistic aspiration. She bought me my first 35mm still camera — pack rat that I am, I still own it, though it doesn’t work; she had heard me practice guitar in my room for hours a day; she saw the stacks of paper that piled up on my desk near the Smith-Corona electric typewriter. She just wanted to make sure I could make a living. I think, too, she wanted to protect me from the disappointments she imagined awaited me if decided to pursue a life in the arts.
This memory had me searching my file cabinets for an essay I saved from The New York Times Magazine, written by playwright and actor Sam Shepard in 2000. The theme of the issue was “My First Year in New York City.” (Shepard’s first year in NYC was 1963.) Rather than give a synopsis, I will mention two things: I brought a copy of the essay with me across the country to Playa and it is the first thing I put on the corkboard;
and here’s the last sentence, which will not spoil it.
“That’s the only thing that makes any sense.”
The essay is short, 500 words maybe, and well worth reading. If you do, let me know what you think.
Jane Rashdan
I really enjoyed reading this essay (and even checked out a couple of Sam Shepard short story collections from the library). His descriptions are so vivid you can practically taste the White Castle burgers and feel the griminess of the blood donor office. And you can sense the awe and inspiration he felt listening to those jazz greats and how he suddenly knew what he wanted to do with his life. That must have been a wonderful feeling.
I still have a giant hole in my living room ceiling, by the way. It’s kind of growing on me, though. I find the exposed wood beams and copper pipes much more interesting than the boring old sheetrock that was up there.
David Licata
Well, at least the pipes aren’t leaking, right.
I like Sam Shepard’s style. Simple yet vivid. You don’t need to go running to a dictionary to get what he’s saying, you just need to pay attention to the words.
I could taste the burgers too. There was a time my mouth would water at that. Not anymore.
As always, thanks for the comment, Jane.
Eleni
Fantastic essay. Thanks for pointing it out.
David Licata
Thanks, Eleni! Glad you like it. Hope to see you around these parts again soon.
Bill
While I agree with the sentiment, I can’t help but think “Where are the Sam Shepards of today?” And then I think, “Well, where could they move to and make it selling blood and working as busboys anyway. “
David Licata
True. It’s a different world, for sure.