Et Als

Nina

Hilton Als — Mon, 10 Jun 2013 21:49:18 +0000

Listen here, Nina, who did you belong to? Certainly not to me, or any other critic or journalist who’s limited to and limited by the facts, no matter how admiring, trenchant, or true, they’re flat, and you come from another country altogether, one where interpreting the fictive and the autobiographical, sometimes simultaneously, defined your days, and you literally underscored those worlds at the piano, which talked as you talked, maybe that was the only conversation you could ever really have, in any case, who could get far enough inside that communion, the one between your voice and the keyboard, to say let alone accurately describe who or what you belonged to, certainly not documentary filmmakers like Peter Rodis, who directed an informal-seeming 1969 portrait of you, nor Nadine Cohodas, one of your more earnest biographer’s, and certainly not Stephen Cleary, who co-authored your 1992 memoir, “I Put A Spell on You,” a book rife with landscapes and recrimination, Nina in love and disappointment in Barbados, Nina in love with black power in Liberia, Nina bored in Switzerland, Nina feeling friendless in Los Angeles, Nina changing planes, Nina sometimes jettisoning family members, managers, promoters, musicians to get at or not get at the music in her head, her hands.

Listen here, Nina, who did you belong to? Certainly not to your first name, Eunice Waymons, she who was the sixth of John Davan and Eunice Waymons’ eight children, all of whom were born and partly raised in Tryon, North Carolina, where the industrious John was a barber, among other occupations, and Mama kept house and close to the Lord, He was everywhere in Tryon, a town on the border of North and South Carolina, spit and it would land somewhere near the Blue Ridge Mountains, and I don’t know how much you believed in place as a source of your art, Nina–I do know that after a while you could not live in America for fear that it would murder you just as it murdered the people you loved, people blessed and cursed by racial consciousness, such as Martin Luther King Jr., and Malcolm X–but sometimes, if I close my eyes, I can hear the Blue Ridge Mountains in your voice, I’ve seen them at dawn, a natural wonder that makes one wonder, the edges of the mountain peaks actually are blue and sort of glowing, as if God outlined them with his pinky finger, it’s the same blue you make me see in several of your more well known tunes, such as “Black is the Color,” and “Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood,” and “Be My Husband.” syncopated tunes clotted with the dirt one finds at the bottom of a dirge, as lonely and solid as that, and as true.

Listen here, Nina, who did you belong to? Maybe some to Mrs Massinvotch, or Miz Maizy, as you called her after a while, your beloved English-born piano teacher in Depression-era North Carolina, you met her and began to study with her while you were still a child, about whom you wrote, “The first time I went to Mrs. Massinovitch’s house I almost fainted–it was so beautiful,” which pretty much describes your feelings about Miz Maizy herself, about whom you also wrote, “That first Saturday morning when I walked in my new tutor was standing by the grand piano. I thought then the same thing I thought every time I saw her for the next forty-five years: how could one person be so elegant?,” and how amazed is the talented child when she is recognized, and is made to feel less strange in her various intensities by someone who sees her, especially when it’s another female, not your Mama, Nina, she couldn’t love you properly or enough, where did you come from?, in any case Miz Maizy did see you, Nina, she saw the classical pianist you both thought you’d be, then the musical hybrid you became, you always went back home to see her, which is why the claim that you hated white people always seemed ridiculous to me, what you struggled for was an equality of the soul, it hurt you and perplexed you that human beings could be so shitty, but you stood firm in your belief in the family of man, and that given enough instruction people could get their manners straight, for instance you refused to start playing at one of your first recitals until your parents were moved from the back of the auditorium to the front of the house, a move that I wouldn’t call bold so much as necessary, evidence of your moral rigor when it came to the big issues like mutual respect but a rigor you were less apt to follow in your personal life.

Listen here, Nina, who did you belong to? Maybe some to those kids who gathered to hear you play at the Midtown in Atlantic City in 1955, you were twenty-one, you took the job to help pay the bills, you treated that dive like a concert hall, and by demanding respect from the audience–you’d stop playingif one of those drunks made a crack–the boozy clientele began to respect themselves, as listeners, and that only intensified after you began to sing, the Midtown’s owner said you’d have to sing, too, if you wanted to keep your job,so you added your voice to your musical conversation, and in that way you developed your way–classical keyboard technique, black voice, superlative acting, and the mystery of style–that expressed itself in I don’t know how many live performances, studio albums, bootlegs, and so on.
Listen here, Nina, who did you belong to? Certainly to my sister, Bonnie (christened Yvonne), who wrote poetry and played the trumpet and wore thrift store clothes in our late nineteen-sixties black Brooklyn world, and one day, while watching our black and white Vietnam infused television, you came on, Nina, and as you played my sister murmured, “She’s so beautiful,” and our mother, looking critical, looked at you, Nina, and said, “Yvonne, that is the ugliest woman I have ever seen,” and I could see my sister collapse into herself, and it took me years to understand that any idea of beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and based on what they themselves feel about themselves, and my mother was not unique among the women of her generation to find Nina ugly, and my sister Bonnie was not unique among the women of her generation to feel otherwise, and to say it, but to still be crushed when our mother’s approval regarding Nina was not forthcoming, couldn’t our mother see she was as much a part of the “Four Women,” story as the next black girl?, and that what Nina was offering up was something extraordinary, pathos that was not marred by sentimentality, and I turned away from my sister and mother as they had this exchange, and their silence was even greater than their words, women oftengo silent in their anger when the conversation turns to beauty, and what other women should and shouldn’t look like, and as a result of their silent about their bodies and another black woman’s body, I didn’t want to think about Nina Simone ever again until, in the late nineteen-eighties, I fell in love with a Dutch man who was a real Nina connoisseur in ways Americans weren’t back then, he had every bootleg, every VHS image, and his interest in blackness frightened me, he treated Nina as a kind of oracle or goddess, which didn’t leave much room for anyone else’s interpretation, let alone mine, in any case why would that Dutch man think that a black woman, self-exiled from her own country for many years and who, in fact, ended up living in the Netherlands for a time, needed to be understood when in fact what she was singing about was her understanding of how we are all misunderstood, wanderers in strange countries, sometimes called ugly, and sometimes revered to the point of no longer being human at all, and this was Nina’s audience for years: women like my sister and too reverential white queens.

Listen here, Nina, who do you belong to? Certainly to Meshell Ndegeocello, who initiated a different kind of conversation with you on her new record, a record that gets at you while deepening her understanding of her own artistry by finding her own notes in between your notes, which is to say this record is a conversation between two women, no matter the other personnel, including myself, a conversation that no doubt began as an homage but if you listen to Meshell’s other albums, you will understand that she’s not taking no for an answer when it comes to eliciting a response from anyone she loves, like you, Nina, on the other hand Meshell doesn’t shut you up by deifying you but by helping to keep you alive in her own way, which includes not defending you against those women who thought you were ugly or wrong by contradicting their respective internal realties, she opens you up to their conversation, and hers, no matter how painful, she let’s you speak, Nina, by encouraging all those complications, complications one hears in her own voice, which is underscored by her famous bass, and her desire for communion, which is her wish, Nina, as much as it was yours.

Female Security Guards, Metropolitan Museum of Art

Hilton Als — Wed, 29 May 2013 15:05:03 +0000

Daddy

Hilton Als — Tue, 14 May 2013 13:54:23 +0000

Let me tell you something about Daddy. He was very handsome, a lady killer who buried two partners while he lived in his own isolation. You could not reach him except by telephone; he was inviolate, the chief citizen in his own word filled world. Daddy didn’t like to share. He had a room in his mother’s house, but he preferred his children visit him in a cinema, a restaurant, any place that helped him preserve the sanctity of his own skin and fears. On the rare occasion that one visited him in his room, one saw it was stacked high with newspapers. He read newspapers obsessively; the facts helped feed his nihilism and terrors. It occurs to me now that Daddy’s fright–he was only alive to disaster–was, in the end, about his own body, that is, tabloid words reflected his out of control skin–he had eczema on his hands, his elbows; I now have eczema on my hands and elbows–and his Tourettes, which no one ever talked about, even as he talked and talked. He repeated words and phrases, and touched objects–lamp posts, trees–as he passed them, sometimes over and over again. What kind of man was this? His masculinity was at war with itself. I saw him realizing that. And I saw him wondering this: Was he a man, or a series of sick thoughts in a sick skin? Or did I wonder all that? As a child I was already a writer–an occupation where you imagine closeness between characters, or yourself and others, but you can only achieve this by being alone. Like father, like son. As a child, as a teenager, the experience of visiting with my father was exhausting because he could not separate his harmed skin and out of control trying to be controlled self from your gender; your illness was his illness and then because he was frustrated by the limits of his mind and body–this included his race–he either exploded when you said something or pretended you hadn’t said something. That was all I knew about fathering, or, more accurately, what I knew about being a son, and for a long time, until I began to see other experiences: one young man I know filling up with a joy so complete when he showed me his baby’s son beautiful face, and curly hair, that he could barely speak, and then there were other fathers who understood their sons as being different than themselves. It has taken this long for me to understand that love doesn’t have to be exhausting, a job, played out in a restaurant or a cinema. There’s pleasure to be had in mentoring, and love for no reason at all. Let me tell you something about Matthew Barney and what I learned about Daddy tonight as I looked at Barney’s game changing show at the Morgan library. It’s called “Subliming Vessel: The Drawings of Matthew Barney,” and it’s a profoundly good exhibition for a number of reasons, including this: it’s an unequivocally interesting show. If I had to say it was “about” anything, it would be a kind of exhausted masculinity, or masculinity that has run up against the brick wall of itself, leaving, in one room, dismantled weights, scrawled messages and graphs–science as male, logic as the game of men–and in the main rooms, display cases filled with drawings, sketchbooks, postcards and other ephemera relating to the late Norman Mailer, whose practically unreadable–but I’ve read it–1987 novel, “Ancient Evenings,” is the source for Barney’s still-being-worked-on opera pieces and films that proceed under the title, “River of Fundament.” In the first case, before entering the show in the main room proper, there’s Diane Arbus’ portrait of the novelist (Mailer: “Giving Diane Arbus is like giving a kid a hand grenade.” Power recognizes power) and, with it, postcards referring to the book, and, moving on, Barney’s small drawings of Mailer’s head, which, in other cases, becomes a satyr head, the satyr being a creature Barney bought to life in his famous “Creamester” film series (1994-2002) where masculinity becomes something else entirely. The body, male or female, what to do about it as the balls drop, and the flesh becomes hard or soft, and the ass becomes a neutral, “genderless,” place of pleasure or power–the ass as object of desire, and controlling object: how long can you hold your shit? This finger? This tongue?–and then there’s the mind and desire as a glob of Vaseline inviting all extremities in but not out, certainly not unchanged, look at how sticky they are, now, and how they glisten, like succubi in the terrible garden of one’s imagination. Also in the cases: paperback novels drawn on, magazine covers drawn on, postcards, “reference” material showing football players, or Houdini, another shape shifter who used to hang from his ass, and then Mailer again and what have you: books as drawings, men as drawings, lives as drawings. If I could draw Daddy for you now, what would he look like? Something composed of many lines and bumps on the skin, a Vaselined tic moving toward and moving away from his own progeny whose collective genderless ass he sometimes beat with a belt in a bid to discipline them and let his presence be known, after which he would talk, talk, talk, on the telephone waiting for someone’s forgiveness, all the while living like a mixed metaphor, like an electric jellyfish, sucking and feeding and sucking oxygen out of its own blue ocean, struggling to survive.

History and the Typewriter

Hilton Als — Wed, 01 May 2013 14:38:38 +0000

This photograph was taken outside our apartment in the Flatbush section of Brooklyn, around the corner from Barbra Streisand’s high school, and next door to a gas station (a fact that inspired the book reports I wrote about ecology and pollution that year). Our flat was in a two family house owned by Mr. and Mrs. Schwartz–Holocaust survivors who gave me my first typewriter, a manual Olivetti “their son, the doctor,” had used in college. To get to our place, you had to climb a steep flight of stairs; when I went to Amsterdam for the first time, I understood the houses, the steps: they were in the architecture of my feet and memory. I loved the Schwartzes, and the mysteriousness of their flat–the Sabbath candles, not turning the electricity on, sitting quietly in the heat. Sometimes, when we didn’t have a TV that worked, the elderly couple invited us downstairs to watch television with them. “The Brady Bunch.” In the TV glow that reflected a laugh track family I did not know, I tried hard not to stare at Mrs. Schwartz’s tattoos–the blue numbers on her arm. Who had done such a thing to her, and in what world? I had yet to see piles of the dead in ditches in strange countries with strange names. Treblinka. The Schwartzes had survived. That’s what our mother said. Survived. That was more than a word. I loved my brother and sometimes, when our mother was at work, we’d cook. I read recipes in books. We tried everything, mostly bread. Sometimes it didn’t rise, but we made it anyway. Because I loved and admired the Schwartzes so much I wanted to be Jewish. Once, not understanding, I blew a sputtering sabbath candle out–I thought I was protecting them from potential fire and harm. Mrs. Schwartz looked away, while her husband lit the candle again. I have yet to forgive myself. When the Schwartzes moved to Florida, our building was taken over by terrible people who shoved us out–the inevitable rejection of the poor–but I held on to that typewriter.

Moon River: The Genius of the Parent

Hilton Als — Tue, 09 Apr 2013 15:06:22 +0000

When I was a little boy, I loved to sing. I don’t think I associated it with being a performer; singing was an extension of the music I loved, and words, and the singers I loved–Dionne Warwick, that kind of thing. Dionne on Scepter Records, all those 45s stacked up on the record player in my cousin’s bedroom, Dionne didn’t want to be made over. In addition to all that–my first lesson in philosophy–Dionne knew the difference between a house and a home. The Dionne album cover I stared at and stared at in my sister’s collection was 1964′s “Make Way for Dionne Warwick.” I was as fascinated by the sequence of photographs on the cover as I was by the music; each still showed a different Dionne mood; her body was a series of gestures, and sparkles, and legs, and a wig. No living woman had hair like that but Dionne convinced us that that hair was possible–she could convince you of anything–because of her voice, which not only told stories so convincingly, especially the abstract ones–a house was not a home, did I know the way to San Jose?, things long to be close to you when the longing lover perceives it as such–because of her nuance and tone, which was not inseparable from what she said and how she said it. Dionne’s tone was always calm. Her emotional drama on those records was just beneath the surface, though, which made her storytelling all the more real. No one–unless they are crazy or desperate for attention–sounds dramatic all the time; Dionne sounded like the adult women I knew growing up. Their voices said things had been bad but they could be worse–or better. One non-Dionne song I loved growing up was “Moon River.” It said so many things and filled me up in ways I can’t explain even now. (I don’t remember how I first heard the song. Did a teacher choose it for me?) A school recital was to take place, and I was asked or asked to sing “Moon River.” I practiced and practiced and felt no embarrassment as I practiced: “Moon River,” would be me, just as “Make Way for Dionne Warwick,” was Dionne Warwick. On the day of the recital, I stood on that stage, my parents in the audience. I had on a white shirt, and tie. (Ties were mandatory at elementary school back then.) How old was I? Five? Six? I can’t remember, but if I close my eyes now I can feel my little chest and heart beating against that white shirt, and my voice rising up: “Moon river/Wider than a mile/I’m crossing you in style, one day.” Music took a lot. You had to push out to get your voice out, all the while dealing with cadence and that magical element: tone. What was the world feeling as I sang that song? Where was the world? As I sang the world receded, and there was just my voice and my vibrating chest, and my white shirt. After I’d finished: applause. But that meant less to me than the feeling of the song–it had filled me up with its own meaning. (Years after this happened the singer Rickie Lee Jones told me that singers loved to sing sad songs in particular because of the way those songs filled you up.) I left the stage. My mother rushed up to me. “You were wonderful!,” she said, embracing me, while my father stood by, out of reach or out of my reach. “I couldn’t hear you,” he said. Years passed, and, except for a brief stint in a small musical group made up of a number of friends I haven’t seen for years, I never sang again.

Life went on and things happened. Someone I was very close to in college and after college–he died in 1992; AIDS–said once: “You know, you should sing what you write.” And when I protested with, But I don’t know how to sing! He said: “Dylan doesn’t know how to sing!” It’s a conversation that always comes to mind when I get into a cab in New York these days. More often than not the Middle Eastern men, or Latin men, who pick me up in taxis when they pick me up at all, ask, after hearing me speak, if I’m a singer. I can’t hear my own voice, but I’m always moved when people react to it, and it occurs to me now that my father–who couldn’t bond with either of his sons–knew, in an instinctive way, the intuitive way of the resentful parent, that I had a voice, and if people responded to it, I would exist in ways he did not feel he existed, and if he shut me up I would be more like him, or no better than him. But my father didn’t count on me becoming a writer, and, in a way, my writing has become a kind of long form singing, particularly when I read aloud. I feel the words filling me up, and isn’t it amazing how children who are given a “You were wonderful!” boost can take another parent’s hatred and make it something else? Another friend told me once: “You were lucky to have your father,” and I didn’t know what he meant for a long time until I thought about it, and realized that what my friend was saying was this: A negative parent can help create a determined child. A parent who is unwilling to praise a child, or look at them with love, may help produce his or her worse nightmare: a child who can sing. Did my father want to sing? No. He wanted to be involved with words, though; he was an obsessive reader of newspapers, of the specious truth. When I was first starting out as a writer, I worked at a newspaper, but I was incapable of making my voice conform to the editorial voice; various editors tried to make me do so, aggressively, resentfully, but, in the end, they would have to take what I said and how I said it, or leave it, even after they tried to marginalize my voice by saying: I can’t hear you. Say it this way. Speak this way. But it was already too late. Dionne Warwick and my father had said otherwise.

Toni

Hilton Als — Sat, 23 Mar 2013 14:47:18 +0000

These photographs are by Jill Krementz, and were taken of the author Toni Morrison while she was an editor at Random House, in the nineteen-seventies. On Fridays, the esteemed author taught a class at Yale, in the African-American studies department (at the time it was in a basement somewhere). When I asked her then employer, former Random House director, Jason Epstein, why Morrison taught at the end of her week, he said: Random House paid five cents then. The photographs kill me, being, as they are, a rare glimpse into what a working writer’s life is actually like, free of the usual Jane Addams sentimentality. The pictures say, You do what you need to do to make your life. I am particularly struck by Morrison on the Metro North–picked up in Grand Central–on her way to New Haven. Her briefcase on her lap, she’s making notes–perhaps on a student’s paper, perhaps for her talk, perhaps for one of her books. The light illuminates her as she writes; again, we’re given a real glimpse into the writer living in the every day. At the time these photographs were taken, I was a student at SUNY Purchase; to get home to Brooklyn from Purchase, I took a train that stopped in Grand Central. One day, making my way through the terminal, I saw Morrison’s then just out third novel, “Song of Solomon.” I spent every cent I had on that book, and couldn’t put it down: she had created a world. But what did it take to create a world? I wanted to create a world. That meant not living in the world, right? You sat in a room and shut the world out. How did you do that? Imagine, then, how amazed and gratified I was when I read, in a 1981 Newsweek cover story by Jean Strouse on Morrison, descriptions of Morrison’s daily life in Upper Nyack, her work as an editor, her life as a mother. I recognized her; I had a brother and a single mother, too. Years passed, and I started to teach at Yale, while working for a company that was owned by the man who owned Random House, for a time. In any case, while at that company, I ended up writing a profile about Toni Morrison. Our conversations took place in Morrison’s home, and in a restaurant nearby. As we talked, what struck me most was how much the writer had allowed her life; that is, she had allowed herself the space to create, and to nurture, and to be lauded. I didn’t know many women let alone women or people of color who managed to do that and the question hung in the air: How did you allow yourself to become yourself? One day, as we sat in her studio, she complimented me on a pair of shoes I had on; I told her I’d had them made, and that I’d been encouraged to do so by Jason Epstein, who not only introduced me to the boot maker, but sat with me while I had them designed and fitted. Morrison said: That’s right, my shoes. And it was then that I understood something more about the Krementz pictures (which I didn’t see until last year): portraits are only interesting when the subject can say, simply and complicatedly, but owning it: I.

“20,000 Years in Sing Sing.” Film Forum. 2.27.13

Hilton Als — Wed, 27 Feb 2013 14:26:46 +0000

The Watts Towers. 1.20.13 Los Angeles.

Hilton Als — Sat, 26 Jan 2013 21:40:32 +0000

Yesterday, on my mother’s birthday, I went with two friends to the Watts Towers–one of the more significant spiritual journeys I have ever had in the company of other people, let alone a neighborhood. Poverty in LA (unlike poverty in NYC or the West Indies) always confuses me, since many people who live in houses often have gardens and NYC poverty sends you OUT to gardens–the Botanical Garden, etc. But, if you’re paying close attention in places like Watts, you begin to see deprivation–the outsized desire for “more,” while living with less–i.e. an enormous truck that’s bigger than the structure housing a family; suspicion and dogs. In any case, our tour of the extraordinary towers, which were never defaced or anything by Rodia’s neighbors (he was the only white man in the neighborhood and he was often referred to as Don Rodia), cast a pall of quiet joy in my soul if those words and feelings are possible together. It felt like writing to me–this architecture of invention and all made by hand, scrap after scrap, like words piling up in one’s head, or on the page. The tour was conducted by the handsomest man with the most beautiful voice–sonorous–and when I was a kid and would meet black people from California, I was always struck by the accent–a Western lightness or flatness?–that didn’t sound like “us.” In any case, it was impossible to tell the tour guy’s age (I called him, in my heart, Daddy Watts) and the beautiful play of upper body muscles as he talked and gesticulated and told stories about Rodia did nothing to betray that, either: he was our authority for the day, and also a kid-as-wit. To wit: while telling the story of Rodia, and his obsession with getting his work done, Daddy Watts–who works at the art center attached to the towers; it’s called the Charles Mingus Art Center, I believe–pantomimed Rodia’s first wife giving him the boot because he spent most of his time making his work and drinking than being married and at home. (He eventually stopped drinking.) But Mrs. Rodia how marvelous to be married to such a person, with an evangelical vision, poking around along the railroad tracks, bending metal and so on to make a third dimensional dream even more so. In the little documentary we saw afterwards, we saw Rodia at work, and his little croaky voice–he stood about 4’11–along with his felt hat warding off the sun was so moving to me, especially when he said things like: “I couldn’t hire someone to work with me. No money! I also could not tell them what to do because I do not know what I am doing.” He also said: “I am awake all night!,” as he described trying to understand his work, his life. The language of the artist. Prior to watching the film, as the tour began to wind down, Daddy Watts came up to me, on the side, and said, regarding my shoes: “Brother, where did you get those saddle Oxfords?” And when I told him New York, he said: “Nah, I ain’t going there.”

The Beauty of Hello, the Gorgeousness of Goodbye

Hilton Als — Wed, 02 Jan 2013 04:47:12 +0000

2012 becomes 2013 with these words from Maurice Sendak. My mother shared his sentiment: Let me say goodbye first so I will miss none of you in your complications and loveliness.

The Shoes

Hilton Als — Tue, 01 Jan 2013 21:48:22 +0000

Moments after the memorial they stepped out into less complicated air. It was warm for an early winter day; the atmosphere was grey and humid and still, despite the traffic sounds, and the people movement beyond. Clutching his friend’s hands, the man said: I’m glad you were there. They looked at one another. One man was chewing gum, and the one who wasn’t longed for some of his own, so, they decided to cross the avenue to get a stick. But before that, the man who wasn’t chewing gum was stopped by another man. He was as tall and brown as the gumless one. He said: Excuse me but are you–. The man without gum nodded. His interlocutor continued: You may not remember me. But I’m –. We met many years ago, through –. And it was maybe twenty years ago and you were wearing the same shoes. I just have to say how much I like them, and what you do. The man without gum, but with the shoes, looked down at them. They were saddle shoes, the first he had ever bought for himself. And he knew the man who complimented him was referring to his previous pair of saddle shoes, a gift from a friend. Looking back as he looked at the man who had admired them–remembered how, after his friend had presented him with the saddle shoes, he sat at another desk at the newspaper they both worked at then, and polished them. Such was the work and emotion of that day. Years later, the backs of those shoes broke down, and, as he crossed 8th Street one day, the always grateful and shy recipient of his friend’s largesse saw a variation of those saddle shoes in a shop window, and put them out of his mind, almost at once: he could not replace the memory of his friend slowly rubbing oil into those first pair of shoes, ever, despite the fact that he hadn’t seen his friend for many years. He went to the organic food shop and thought about the shoes; they would not leave him alone. What was he supposed to do with his memory of love and care, and the necessity of new shoes? Would he buy his own shoes forever? Why did buying new shoes feel as though he was cheating on the old? His friend–the man who bought him his first pair of saddle shoes–was sacred, and yet he needed new shoes, shoes that reminded him of his friend, and yet carried him into the future. He bought the new saddle shoes and as he crossed the avenue in search of his stick of gum, he realized that the person he and his present friend had just memorialized was one of the few people who knew something of his old saddle shoes, and already hope and death stuck to the soles of the new pair, like gum.