Modern Maturity
Apr. 26th, 2004 01:12 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mallorys_cameraRecord heat in Central California – 93 degrees at 11 o’clock in the morning. Murder One weather in Modesto, but here on the quaint and scenic central coast, a cue for the hoards to break out those shorts and halter tops and head for Cannery Row. This is a good thing. This is what my business plan depends on.
So yesterday the Son-Set Jazz ensemble appeared in Steinbeck Plaza at the unconscionably early hour of 10 AM. The Bozos were dressed bizarrely – matching long-sleeved shirts with flared collars and red arabesques.
"What would you call that look?" I asked Max.
He shrugged. "Disco Aladdin? They’ve got that funky feyadeen thing going."
"I’ve always wondered about the night life in Damascus," I said.
Max and Robin had shown up at the store unexpectedly. Max got busted this week for chauffeuring a bunch of lunchtime buddies to Macdonald’s. Leaving campus during class hours: a big no-no. I grounded him for two weeks. I always enjoy grounding Max – (A) Because it’s such fun to pretend I’m a normal parent like Bill Cosby or Florence Henderson and (B) because when he’s forced to give up his social life, I actually get to see Max every once in a while.
Robin scampered down to the beach. Max stuck around to chat.
"So, you working here all day?" he asked.
"Sure," I said. "Ben hates the sounds of cool, mellow jazz. I get tired of hearing him bitch. I actually don’t mind it. I think maybe that’s part of the hormonal thing that happens when you slide that first copy of Modern Maturity with your name on the subscription label out of the mailbox."
"The old guy’s not such a bad keyboard player," said Max. "But, Jesus. That music."
I shuddered at that old guy. Bozo Senior had been in the shop a few minutes earlier, asking about cheap motels. I figured he was younger than me.
"Don’t you think if you could play like that it would hurt your ears to play what he plays?" Max asked.
"There’s a certain honor that comes with being a competent hack," I told him. Max is twenty years away from understanding that statement. Thank God.
"We used to live in Santa Cruz," Bozo Senior had told me. "In a residence hotel.’ He’d laughed. "Actually, it wasn’t so bad. We lived there during the week and when they bumped the rates on weekends, we moved out, camped on the beach, stayed with friends."
"Didn’t the kids mind?" I asked.
"Not that I noticed." Bozo laughed lightly.
What about their mother? I wanted to ask but I figured I already knew.
"So you lived in Santa Cruz –"
"Oh, we lived all over. We were always moving on a whim. I’d wake up one morning and say, ‘I know! Let’s live in Montana!’ And the next morning, boom! we’d be all packed up, heading out on the open highway."
I remembered the moist handshake Bozo Junior had given me when I first went up and introduced myself. Admittedly, in Bozo Junior’s eyes I’d be right up there with Madeleine Allbright on the list of Women You Would Not Like To See Naked. No reason to put any energy into that introduction. But still. That limp fish had been the hand of an unhappy camper.
"Your life could be a lot worse," I told Max now. "I could have started a family band instead of a store. You could be wearing a crushed blue velour jumpsuit with a Nehru collar at this very moment, playing Free Bird on your stand-up base."
Anaconda started to sing.
Anaconda today was wearing a short, tight dress with a visible panty line and four inch heels. The gold glitter makeup was melting from her face. She looked unhappy. She sang pitchier than ever.
"Do you think she’s attractive?" I asked Max.
He made a face. "Mom, she’s old."
It seemed to me that when I was his age I’d been able to see beauty in people who were generations ahead of me but maybe not, maybe I was revising history again.
"They have to find a motel next week because Anaconda won’t sleep in the car," I told Max.
He laughed. "And she won’t wear one of those cool shirts either. What a diva! When we do our family band you’ll sleep in the car, won’t you, Mom?"
"Damn straight," I said.
So yesterday the Son-Set Jazz ensemble appeared in Steinbeck Plaza at the unconscionably early hour of 10 AM. The Bozos were dressed bizarrely – matching long-sleeved shirts with flared collars and red arabesques.
"What would you call that look?" I asked Max.
He shrugged. "Disco Aladdin? They’ve got that funky feyadeen thing going."
"I’ve always wondered about the night life in Damascus," I said.
Max and Robin had shown up at the store unexpectedly. Max got busted this week for chauffeuring a bunch of lunchtime buddies to Macdonald’s. Leaving campus during class hours: a big no-no. I grounded him for two weeks. I always enjoy grounding Max – (A) Because it’s such fun to pretend I’m a normal parent like Bill Cosby or Florence Henderson and (B) because when he’s forced to give up his social life, I actually get to see Max every once in a while.
Robin scampered down to the beach. Max stuck around to chat.
"So, you working here all day?" he asked.
"Sure," I said. "Ben hates the sounds of cool, mellow jazz. I get tired of hearing him bitch. I actually don’t mind it. I think maybe that’s part of the hormonal thing that happens when you slide that first copy of Modern Maturity with your name on the subscription label out of the mailbox."
"The old guy’s not such a bad keyboard player," said Max. "But, Jesus. That music."
I shuddered at that old guy. Bozo Senior had been in the shop a few minutes earlier, asking about cheap motels. I figured he was younger than me.
"Don’t you think if you could play like that it would hurt your ears to play what he plays?" Max asked.
"There’s a certain honor that comes with being a competent hack," I told him. Max is twenty years away from understanding that statement. Thank God.
"We used to live in Santa Cruz," Bozo Senior had told me. "In a residence hotel.’ He’d laughed. "Actually, it wasn’t so bad. We lived there during the week and when they bumped the rates on weekends, we moved out, camped on the beach, stayed with friends."
"Didn’t the kids mind?" I asked.
"Not that I noticed." Bozo laughed lightly.
What about their mother? I wanted to ask but I figured I already knew.
"So you lived in Santa Cruz –"
"Oh, we lived all over. We were always moving on a whim. I’d wake up one morning and say, ‘I know! Let’s live in Montana!’ And the next morning, boom! we’d be all packed up, heading out on the open highway."
I remembered the moist handshake Bozo Junior had given me when I first went up and introduced myself. Admittedly, in Bozo Junior’s eyes I’d be right up there with Madeleine Allbright on the list of Women You Would Not Like To See Naked. No reason to put any energy into that introduction. But still. That limp fish had been the hand of an unhappy camper.
"Your life could be a lot worse," I told Max now. "I could have started a family band instead of a store. You could be wearing a crushed blue velour jumpsuit with a Nehru collar at this very moment, playing Free Bird on your stand-up base."
Anaconda started to sing.
Anaconda today was wearing a short, tight dress with a visible panty line and four inch heels. The gold glitter makeup was melting from her face. She looked unhappy. She sang pitchier than ever.
"Do you think she’s attractive?" I asked Max.
He made a face. "Mom, she’s old."
It seemed to me that when I was his age I’d been able to see beauty in people who were generations ahead of me but maybe not, maybe I was revising history again.
"They have to find a motel next week because Anaconda won’t sleep in the car," I told Max.
He laughed. "And she won’t wear one of those cool shirts either. What a diva! When we do our family band you’ll sleep in the car, won’t you, Mom?"
"Damn straight," I said.
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