WATER WORLD

It's pretty simple to get in the pool.

I wave to the the handsome Hispanic lifeguard, Lewis (kind and dim).

"Hey Lewis, I'm here!"

I push the walker to the shiny chrome ladder. I use my arm strength to grip the chrome bars - I manipulate my legs with my hands, the way some women push a ropey ponytail - and slide down to the edge of the pool.

I fall in the water.

I pull off my bike helmet.

Lewis (usually) hands me some borrowed goggles and a foam swim support.

I dive easily and (I imagine) effortlessly, dolphin-like, to the bottom. I push out with my hands and try to match my legs in a scissors movement. I'm in water world. My body works in water world.

I don't push hard. I'm told I should never have to fight for breath. My heart should never race.

I swim the breast stroke. I do headstands. I walk. I do jumping jacks.

I swim on my back and as I swim on my back I can see myself in the reflective window in the vaulted ceiling above me, and I think ... are these images of my final days?

I could stay in the pool all night but my mother is visiting and dinner is ready.

I cue Lewis - "I'm getting out" and Lewis meets me by the ladder with my walker.

I try to get out (the normal way) using the ladder. But when I swing my foot to the bottom rung and try to push up, my leg simply doesn't have the strength.

(When I see other swimmers pop out of the pool, not using the ladder, but by pushing up on the edge of the pool with the flats of their hands and swinging their feet up, all in one unified wet rubbery movement, they appear (to me) as aliens with special powers (or at the very least) living examples of the grace and miraculousness of G-d).

I try an alternative exit. I go to the edge of the pool and scoot myself backward onto the lip.

I am now sitting on the edge. I push myself backward, my legs following flaccidly, like I'm paralyzed from the waist down. Because my arms are beginning to weaken, it's hard to hold this position.

Lewis carries a lounge chair over to the wall where there is long resting area under the window to sit on. The trouble is, how do I get up to that sitting area.

Lewis and I have the same idea. Scoot over to the chrome ladder and use THAT to right yourself. So, with some effort, I make my way to the ladder. But once I get my feet in place and my arms ready to heave me up, I realize my legs can offer nothing and my arms aren't strong enough to do the job.

Lewis is patient, his mind turning over other escape routes. I feel like a fish flopping around on deck, caught and vulnerable. I've bit off more than I can chew and I've dragged poor Lewis down with me. It feels familiar.

This is what resonates, I think.

My mom was a great mother but had funny ideas. When I was a kid my mother would sign me up for classes or groups I wasn't ready for. She assumed her children were brilliant.

I skied every weekend (starting in sixth grade with the YMCA). I'd skied once or twice on family vacations in Vermont, but I wasn't any good.

For the YMCA ski trips, my mother put me in the advanced group. On the first day, I took the lift to the top of the mountain and when I looked down the side, I put my feet in the snow plow position and inched down the mountain as if at any moment, I might lose control and drop to my ten year old death. The fifteen year old instructor had to gently coach me down the mountain. And because she was a kid herself, it didn't occur to her to move me to a less advanced group.

So I associated my first year of skiing with humiliation and terror.

I was over my head. And so tonight, with Lewis, I feel the same way.

I give up on the ladder and scoot back to the wall and bench.

I try to lift myself up to the lounge chair - I can't do it.

Lewis hovers down next to me and puts his hands under my arm pits and tries brute strength to heave me up, but even he starts to shake midway and puts me back down.

I begin to picture a crowd of people coming in from the neighboring gym. They circle me and talk about me like I'm a wounded pigeon on the cold sidewalk. I can't let this happen.

I heave myself to the lounge chair, but just barely. I can't get my butt all the way up and I can't lift my head. I'm facing the ceiling.

Finally, I'm mostly there. I put a hand in the air signalling Lewis to pull me up. From there, I manage to heave myself to the bench by the window, and from the bench to the walker.

"There. I'm up. Took a little time, but I'm up."

And Lewis says with his slight urban spanglish accent, "so you didn't inherit this? It just started one day?" Lewis for the first time since I've known him, is beginning to grasp the implications of my problems.

"Nope, I didn't inherit it. At least I don' think so."

Lewis has a child-like expression of concern on his face like he should say something more, but what?

And I escape with my walker to the locker room. Busy and determined, my expression and demeanor saying - "that didn't happen. If you saw that, forget it. It didn't happen. I'll be back."

(I think).

UNDER WATER

The Spring air wafts through the taxi's windows and I think about the paradise that New York will soon become. I wonder if I'll crumble.

My mom and I get out of the cab in front of a nondescript building at east 38th and Second Avenue. We take an elevator to the basement to a (brace and prosthetics) supply company.

The office is windowless, the carpeting foul.

I see chalk white hallways leading to a dozen identical examining rooms. The place looks abandoned except for one bored receptionist. I hear talk radio in the distance. I smell dry erase board - the place stinks of magic marker.

I stink too.

My mother tells me I need I need to bathe. "Honey, you need to bathe, you stink!"

"Mo - ther! I have a fatal disease. Leave it alone!"

The receptionist leads us to a tired examining room. We sit. I notice the ceiling is falling down.

The brace salesman enters. He approaches my eighty year old mother.

"Good afternoon, I just need you to fill out some forms before we begin."

"Whoops! Wrong person. You're looking for me. I'll be filling out the forms."

The salesman seems slightly surprised and hands me the forms.

The salesman looks like an old John Travolta.

He's tall and slim with thick dark hair, sad blue eyes -tired polyester clothes.

He removes my shoes to measure my leg. I'm not wearing socks. I can't get them on anymore. The salesman begins to lecture me on the perils of athlete's foot (and even with my sloppy tired ALS voice) I out talk him, like certain black women do - I over-speak him.

"Yup! I'm well aware of the dangers of Athletes foot. I've had terrible athlete's foot a couple of times in my life. Yes, I should wear socks. But you see, athlete's foot is pretty low on my worry list right now. It's difficult for me to dress as it is and nearly impossible to get socks on my feet and this appointment at one in the afternoon? (believe it or not) this is really early for me. I'm just happy to be here on time. So, think we can move on?"

"Sure... I just had to say something." He half smiles. He got it.

"Yup, and so did I. Let's get me a brace."

I often find myself receiving lectures.

I want to say, GREAT! Come on over, put my socks on for me (or) order that walker with the breaks (or) find me organic cinnamon? Send it on over - here's my address - (or) massage?... hmm.... massage! Hadn't thought of that!!! (or) the Chinese MD who told me that I could possibly live five years because I'm showing such gumption. She grinned at me- like this was good new! And yes, (apartment neighbor) -I know Jesus loves me.

So when a prosthetics salesman begins a lecture on athletes foot, I've got to make an offensive move. I got to cut it off.

__________

We choose the appropriate brace. The (John Travolta look-alike) tells us he'll have to go to a warehouse, a few blocks away, to retrieve it.

While he's gone, I play a game on my iphone and my mother reads an article on her Kindle about Shakespeare's true identity.

She asks me, "Do you think Shakespeare really wrote all those plays? Because this guy, he says that it could have been Christopher Marlowe or even Queen Elizabeth. What do you think? Do you think he could have written all those plays?"

I answer vaguely that I have read something about how Shakespeare didn't own books or educate his daughters... that it could have been someone else, but I'm uncommitted because I'm really focused on my iphone game. I'm really trying to make strides with "Doodle Jump".

The salesman returns, I'm fitted with the leg brace and my mother asks him if he thinks Shakespeare wrote all those plays.

My mother enjoys collapsing the walls of formal discourse with strangers. She speaks with random intimacy to ticket-takers, cab-drivers, receptionists, like they were longtime neighbors or friendly cousins. (It's disarming). And I'm not sure why she does it. Maybe it's to make the big world feel small town.

My mother's question changes the salesman's demeanor and expression.

His voice relaxes and he drops his professional distance.

My mother's tactic (if she has one) works.

The salesman risks some personal information.

He tells us his grandfather was an immigrant from Russia with no real education. His grandfather was brilliant. He could barely read, spoke little English, but he was a genius at creating fake legs and arms. He was the very best in his field.

"I don't think you need an education to create great works of art. Some people, like Shakespeare, or my grandfather say, were born for great things."

I think... how odd, this salesman's life in prosthetics and braces was predestined by his grandfather.

_____________

Somehow the dinginess of the place compels me to speak freely. The place makes me feel bad. They should know it.

As I pay for the leg brace, I tell my mother (loudly, so the salesman and receptionist can hear)

"these kind of places, medical offices and examining rooms, these kind of places should be in beautiful places, like parks. They should be in the woods or in a rose garden."

But the salesman isn't offended. He responds with enthusiasm that he just read an article about this Japanese architect.

"Where did I see that article? Oh yeah, that free paper they hand out on the subway. This Japanese architect is building an office park halfway underwater. It's gonna be all glass. So when you're filing or doing data entry say, you'll be able to look at the fish swimming by!"

__________________

After I pay, I ask the salesman how to exit to the street but the he doesn't really answer me. He continues to go on about this Japanese underwater office building.

I really got him started.

And it occurs to me he missed his calling. He should have been an environmental architect, not a fake leg salesman.

Arpegio @ Lincoln Center

Arpegio @ Lincoln Center
Originally uploaded by Charlie Roberts

KEEP IT SIMPLE

My feet are cold and swollen and blue.

I sit at my desk (a mass of papers, stamps, mess) and ignore them.

JD appears in my apartment. My front door is open. JD comes to force pills down the cat's throat. It's his third day medicating the cat. The cat spots JD and he quietly slips beneath the bed - a delinquent losing a cop.

"Aro0 -oooo!" JD grins. "I'm here!" JD is channeling Jack Nicholson in "The Shining" and

it's pretty funny to watch the poor cat slink away vulnerable and scared.

JD corners the cat in the living-room. I remain at my desk in my bedroom. I hear the muffled noises of an easy mugging. It's quiet and creepy. (What we creatures must go through! Animal and human! Fear and medicine forced on us by the stronger and dominant). This is life.

JD is done - two pills and some liquid medicine - now he is back for me.

"I don't like the way your feet look. How long have they looked like that?"

"I don't know. I don't look at them any more."

"Let's get them up above your head."

"I did that today! For a half hour!"

"Well, lets do it again."

JD instructs on the proper method and I am compliant. I lie on the bed and put my feet flat on the headboard. I stare at the Manhattan skyline as JD swivels the desk chair next to the bed and sits.

I am tumbling. My life has become formless days. People arrive to deliver instructions and machines and things and I have given into it.

I lie and let go.

"How are you?" I ask JD.

"Well, it's funny you should ask. I'm having quite a day. I feel funny complaining to you with your blue cold feet but I was in the dentist chair having my front tooth worked on (JD - oddly enough, broke his front tooth around the same time I did) when I got a call from my tax guy. The dentist was taking a break so I took the call. He said, 'Are you sitting down?' And then he told me that I owe many thousands this year."

"Who wants it?"

"Federal and I don't have it. We only have a little in checking. Ross took her pension early this year and she also made a lot on a few commercial spots. I made some, but it all goes back into the company (JD owns a design and construction company) and we got taxed at 25%. I'm sixty two years old and I've never paid attention to taxes because we never owed much. I just handed it to my tax guy and didn't pay attention. And now I'm learning. The hard way. I don't know Charlie. I really think I want out of this business."

"Finance and money and real estate is so stressful!" I lament.

"You're telling me. We've been riding a wave. We've had a lot of success. We're the best in our area. But with the economy tanking ... this is the second time I've been in the building business. I think I might go back to acting and teaching yoga full time. I want to live in Costa Rica for a while. I'm stressed. But then I look at you and your blue swollen feet and it puts things in perspective."

And I resent JD for using me as a way to calm his own anxiety. I understand it. I'd do the same thing - 'I think I've got it bad - look at Charlie!' - but this kind of thing is exactly why I stay so remote. I've no desire to be a lesson for the rest of the world. Call me if you want to hang out. Don't call me out of pity or because I'm on your list, or to gain perspective. I think JD truly cares about me but it's hard to be the one in the worst place. Always.

JD's cell phone rings.

"I got to take this, this is the guy who owns the bank. This is the guy I owe millions to."

I lie on my fluffy high bed and stare at the brand new neighboring high-rises. I consider sitting up to make dinner or grab a glass of red wine. (It's almost seven). But I stay, seemingly paralyzed, and listen to JD's call as if it were a radio play.

JD is in full focus and form. He treats the banker like they are best buddies.

They won a prize together for restoring an historic ice house.

I listen.

JD's is to sincere and appreciative and overly confessional.

The phone call is taught and dramatic. JD comes off as a guy talking to the mob - trying to make everything family and comfortable - a last attempt before he gets whacked.

JD has several ambitious real estate projects but the economy has turned. There is no money. JD reveals too much to the banker (I think) like he's the loser in a Mamet play. He talks for a half hour.

When he gets off the phone I say, "Well I'm disappointed"

"So am I."

My mind calculates trying to access the best way to approach life and money. Renting a plain jane apartment in a full service building seems to make sense to me all of a sudden. The tables have turned. I use JD to count my own blessings. No banks breathing down my back.

I can see that living humbly without distractions is the better way to go. Men (and women) are drawn to get the golden apple. But in terms of daily life satisfaction all you get is bragging rights. There is little pleasure in owning things or taking on projects or entangling yourself with people who cause happiness -threatening- stress.

I have a list of things I want JD to do

But a doorman from the lobby knocks on the door to tell JD to move his car.

"Will you be back?"

"There's no where to move it."

"JD."

"Yes."

"You need to get in a calm place. Don't react. My tendency is to react to problems that are presented to me, with - 'well if that's the case, then I'm going to do this or that'. I clutch and grab for things. Don't do that. Reacting is bad for you. It's a basic principal of kabalah. Remain calm and focused. Listen. Don't react."

JD listens hard.

He nods.

"Thanks. Thanks for that," and he leaves.

TONY JUDT

As many of you know, I am afflicted with amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS)-better known as Lou Gehrig's disease. For the past year now I have been wheelchair-bound and dependent on a breathing apparatus. This has not prevented me from working, but the disease is progressive and deadly-and there is no known cure.

ALS is a degenerative neuromuscular disorder of the motor neurons: it is related to Parkinson's and Alzheimer's, as well as lesser-known neurological disorders. A cure for it will almost certainly come from research in the field of cell genetics-whether via stem cell research or molecular biology. But the science is complicated and expensive. In order to attract funding we need to draw the widest possible attention to this deadly disease and its impact.

I am writing to you today about Move for ALS. My former student and young friend Saul Goldberg is planning to cycle with Augustin Quancard from Seattle to New York City to draw attention to ALS and to raise money for Project A.L.S ., which supports scientific research seeking a cure to this disease. I am very enthusiastic about Move for ALS, both because I keenly second its objectives and because I am hugely impressed by the professionalism and seriousness of the two young men involved. They have established a substantial campaign Web site (www.moveforals.com) that has already attracted the attention and backing of Web and print media, as well as the support of professional medical organizations.

I am fully supporting this venture and urge you to join me. If you access the Web site you will see how easy it is to make a donation to the cause, with attractive gifts on offer to substantial donors. Or you could simply send a check with clear reference to Move for ALS to: Project A.L.S ., 3960 Broadway, Suite 420, New York, NY 10032, USA. I would be grateful and take it as a sign of support if you would be good enough to forward this letter to any interested parties. If you have direct access to media or Web outlets (e.g., blogs) where you could give further publicity to our campaign, this would be especially helpful to us. Saul is making a huge personal contribution to the challenge posed by this catastrophic disease: please do anything you can to support him.

Tony Judt
New York City