Little Casino

This valley of tears

THE DAY HIS MOTHER DIED WAS A COLD DAY. The day his mother died was a wet day. The day his mother died was a raw day, a snowy day. The day his mother died was a gray day, the gray of death.

The day his mother died was a dark day, a day of cheap chow mein, of Lucky Strikes, of somber faces, of silent relatives, of soothing clichés, a day of sadness.

The day his mother died was a day of revelations, bitterness, a day of sudden understanding, of ignorance, of mysteries and confessions, of trips and trips and trips through sleet and freezing rain in cars and cabs and subway trains, in the Hudson Tubes, in Public Service buses, on foot through slushy streets.

The day his mother died ended some things and initiated others.

The day his mother died was a day of memories, of old movies, of yellowing books and brittle pages and of bad poems, blurry television screens, of new kitchenware, of policemen anddoctors and oxygen and anesthesia, of stupid articles and vapid stories in tattered magazines.

The day his mother died was a day of copulation, fellatio, masturbation, cunnilingus, it was a day of girdles and hats with half-veils, of high heels and dinner rings.

The day his mother died was a day of insanity and hamburgers, of perversions, of good clothes and fur coats and bank accounts, of booze and quiet saloons, of surrogate court and legal forms and leaky ballpoint pens.

A day of undertakers and morgues, of helplessness, of sheer stockings, dresses cut on the bias, lipstick, perfume, mascara, eye shadow, of rouge and neckties and embarrassment. Of formaldehyde.

A day of children in patched clothes, windy empty lots, bad jobs, pitiful salaries, cruel and stupid bosses, of rickety furniture and basement apartments, of drunkenness and false friends, of hopeless misunderstandings. It was a day of coarse and vulgar infidelities, instant violence, reckless fucking, crazed parties, insincere smiles, of error and sin and betrayal. It was a day of unwanted confidences and cynicism.

The day his mother died: of death: a day of negation: of finality.

Mourning and weeping. In this valley of tears.

“The phrase, ‘the day his mother died,’ has an intentionally incantatory quality, of course, but may it not be considered self-indulgent?”

Death strolls down the road and asks if we might care to sit in the shade of a tree with him. An old elm, what else? A cool breeze blows across the overgrown churchyard and the old church is piercingly white in the bright sun. “Smoke ’em if you got ’em,” he says. He seems like a reasonable man, for a corporal. Of course, he’s got a job to do.

It is very difficult for a young man to select the clothes that his mother will be buried in. Let the women do it, for Christ’s sake, let the women do it.

He sits in the dim light of the shabby living room, watching the snow pile up against the badly seated windows. “I really liked her,” the woman says. “God, she was just here a month ago.” A marvel, a masterpiece, a chef d’oeuvre of cant.

He sees her clearly, ‘deed he do. “That’s a fucking jewel of fucking phoniness,” he says. “Do we have any whiskey in this fucking hateful dump?”

A day of bad movies, of the silver screen filled with the paralyzing stupidity of self-adoration. “These swine will never die!”

Snow snow. Snow.

She whom no one ever found, death found, in Jersey City.