In Which We Begin To See Other People

"Jumping", Gladys Nilsson

Elbows

by KARA VANDERBIJL

When he told me he thought I should see other people, I jumped at the chance to please him. 

I saw, in no particular order: 

— a barber named Lenny with a bald spot between his eyebrows

—  a much older man, but only because we took the same bus every day

— the insides of too many peanut-butter sandwiches

— an accountant, Chris, whose number fell out of my pocket at the same moment I saw him reading Game of Thrones on the Brown Line

— a man who bit his fingernails and then touched his iPhone

— Rahm Emanuel at the finish line of a 5K

— my neighbor’s chocolate lab, the existence of whom we were ordered to vehemently deny

— a person I believed to be Robert Downey Jr

— three waiters at breakfast joints who denied they had Earl Grey

— a gentleman with whom I exchanged no words, only glances, over piles of underthings at the laundromat

— a woman who whispered “Thank you, Jesus” when another woman got off the train

— the Turkish Consul General at Lenny’s barber shop

— a hipster who vocalized the “x” in “xmas”

— Chris, in a bookstore; I pretended I didn’t recognize him

— someone shorter, but only because we were sitting down the whole time

— Lady Chatterley’s Lover

— a small child eating a piece of kimchi

— an ancient hippie listening to a transistor radio outside the public library

— an otherwise educated-looking individual who referred to the store as “Bloomie’s”

— a man who vacuumed and shouted into his telephone at the same time

— five-thirty AM

— two women who mistakenly equated “yes, I live here” with “I know the name and location of every restaurant in the city”

— a woman on a regional train who took off her shoes and put on slippers for the three-hour trip

— Canadians

— a young woman carrying a Target bag inside a beat-up J. Crew bag inside a beat-up Anthropologie bag

— Madonna’s hands on another person

— a man who reached out to touch my elbow although he was surrounded by women and I was trying to ignore him

— someone swimming in Lake Michigan

— an abandoned chicken nugget

— a man who knelt to pray over a homeless mother and child, then stood up and walked away

— no snow

— three Santas near the tree in Daley Plaza

— Lenny’s cousins, all equally bald except for one

— a couple in the bar across the street; I made bets on whether or not they’d hook up

— a person who opened a K-cup and ate the coffee grounds inside as if they were yogurt

—  a row of women with equally straightened hair and identical Longchamp bags waiting for the train at Southport

— a man on the train who poured coffee from his travel mug into a used Starbucks cup

— a banker, a financial advisor

— one of my old French students in a beret (he attributed it to the weather)

— an average number of doctors and lawyers

— two people who made uncomfortable small talk during the entire commute simply because they happened to be acquainted and on the same train

— Chris’ mother buying nylons at TJ Maxx

— a cashier at Trader Joe’s who tapped into the rich inner emotional life of the woman in front of me while simultaneously checking her apples for bruises

— a baritone

— the bottom of two boxes of Raisin Bran

— a man who flossed through an entire episode of Parks & Recreation

— Lenny’s ex, who finished his sentences and his plate of spaghetti

—  a street performer singing carols off key

—  someone else leaving a friend’s party early, although presumably not for the same reason

— drunk boys who could presumably still afford cabs

—  Chris, again, over lunch, but only because he insisted and agreed to stop reading G.R.R. Martin

—  my hairdresser standing in line at the bank with an updo

— the UPS delivery man who left me three notices in beautiful calligraphy

— Lenny, the morning after

— the chocolate lab peeing on the landlord’s roses

Kara VanderBijl is the senior editor of This Recording. She is a writer living in Chicago. She last wrote in these pages about Downton Abbey. She twitters here and tumbls here. 

Paintings by Gladys Nilsson.

"Hunting For You" - Robbie Williams (mp3)

"Different" - Robbie Williams (mp3)

In Which We Visit the Barren Wasteland

Foils

by KARA VANDERBIJL

Downton Abbey
creator Julian Fellowes

In the beginning, we only needed a rudimentary knowledge of geography to differentiate between Downton Abbey's characters: upstairs or downstairs? The social niceties separating the classes were easy, even pleasant, to memorize. Now, halfway through Season 3, those days of ease are just a fond memory.

Remember when you could tell a member of the family and a servant apart by the cut of their coat? No more, no more. Sons-in-law come disguised as revolutionaries, distant relatives as poor drunkards or promiscuous teenage flappers. You can tell their worth by comparing them to each other in a certain light, usually right around the time the bell rings for dinner.

Lord Grantham (Hugh Bonneville) has suddenly become important to Downton, as if by being absolutely useless he has made himself into the most useful character. Everything can be blamed on him. The assassination of the Archduke in Sarajevo. Why the eggs are overcooked in the morning. Dark days for Sybil. Why after Season 3 the show's ratings dipped dangerously low. Now, midway through, his most redeeming feature is his adorable dog.

Grantham has always been the secret point of the show; with Lady Mary, his shadow, he is the measure by which we see how quickly and drastically the world changed after the Great War. As the way of life at Downton proves more and more ridiculous, Lord Grantham and his eldest daughter begin to melt into the background like a pair of antique armchairs that you occasionally, and painfully stub your toe on. They’re a bit obtuse, but you could never bring yourself to get rid of them.

Granted, neither has had much of a chance to be exposed to the wider world — if they’ve seen anything of the struggles of the past decade, it has been within Downton’s walls, where it has undoubtedly been easier to control. While Matthew was off fighting in the trenches and miraculously jumping out of wheelchairs, Lord Grantham was busy... moaning that he couldn’t fight. And while her sisters were stitching up the wounded, Lady Mary spent her time trying to snag Sir Richard Carlisle. This is no longer just a matter of being out of touch with reality; Lord Grantham and Lady Mary live in an alternate universe.

Poor Matthew. He could not have known that by wedding Lady Mary he was jumping straight into bed with her father. Their lovers’ quarrels, tender at the beginning, have a sharper edge now that Matthew’s tensions with the Lord of Downton have increased regarding the management of the estate. He pleads with his wife to love her father but “believe in me!”, a phrase Mary cuts off by kissing him. Whenever they’re in bed together, it feels like it might be the last time.

They’ve been married for roughly five minutes, but the question of when they will produce an heir has already put a desperate damper on their relationship. Matthew nobly takes responsibility for their failed attempts, given his accident during the War, but we secretly suspect that Lady Mary’s uterus has been the barren wasteland all along.

When doctors in London confirm this fact and “fix” it, we’d expect an apology would be in the works — “Hey, honey, sorry I’ve let you feel awful about yourself for the last month or so, my parts were broken!” — but she’s already too focused on getting knocked up. Knowing, as we do, that Lady Mary isn’t given to gushes of maternal instinct, her rush to produce an heir points to ulterior, perhaps even subconscious, motives.

It is only a matter of time before the battle lines being drawn come into effect. Between those who have doggedly chosen a side and those who waffle between sides depending on how much it benefits them, the house is in considerable disarray. Sybil’s death cast a long shadow. Everybody looks at her and Branson’s baby as if they cannot imagine a being so pure, so free of intentions.

Downton Abbey is the social experiment par excellence, answering the pressing question, “What matters most to me?” Many viewers will admire the family upstairs — their hair, their games, their elegant ways and “flapper flair”. How can we help it, we’re shamelessly pinterested in such things! What we feel for those below might be an indulgent humor, perhaps pity; this we will find virtuous, as if pity had anything to do with compassion. Nevertheless, the social upheavals and injustices affected hired help the most. What the war had done to unite them only death can accomplish now, striking them all equally and without preference.

It ruins the cathartic effect if we demand too much of our entertainment, but Downton Abbey must provide a few things if it is to keep our attention through any more tense dinner gatherings.

First, Matthew must be soiled somehow, even if that would be more painful to watch than anything. I suspect being caught masturbating somewhere on the grounds would do the trick, which would also do us a favor by rendering Lady Mary mute forever. We should allow Lady Edith to be happy for the length of an entire episode. Mrs. Crawley should wear bloomers. The stock market should crash a few years early, or else Downton should burn to the ground, whichever smokes Lord Grantham out first.

Recent developments do beg the question, however: what will happen next? Fellowes had a good thing going when he threatened his characters with removal from Downton, a plot twist all too easily avoided by Matthew's money. Bates and Anna have been reunited, and Matthew and Mary are wed. At this point, it seems that most roadblocks have been sidestepped or overturned, which can only mean one thing: "winter is coming."

Bates is exonerated of his crimes once Anna finds proof that the late Mrs. Bates committed suicide in order to incriminate him. When he returns to the house, it means trouble for Thomas, whose position as the lord’s valet is immediately called into question. O'Brien's elaborate plan to rid Downton of Thomas nearly succeeds when Alfred catches him trying to kiss the new footman, Jimmy, and all hell breaks loose. It appears that nothing will be able to keep Thomas at Downton any longer. Threats of a bad reference make his future prospects grim, at which point Lord Grantham intervenes for no conceivable reason other than the House's big cricket game is coming up and Thomas is the best pitcher. Once again, the lord of the house has unknowingly assisted in either its ruin or salvation. We won't know for sure until next month.  

You can't help but feel for Thomas. He's a selfish opportunist, but he has shown more consistently than any other character that he will spare nothing, not even his reputation, in the quest for his own happiness. That gives me hope for Downton.

Kara VanderBijl is the senior editor of This Recording. She is a writer living in Chicago. She last wrote in these pages about living near Vasquez Rocks. She tumbls here and twitters here. You can find an archive of her writing on This Recording here.

"You Believed" - Corrinne May (mp3)

"Just What I Was Looking For" - Corrinne May (mp3)

In Which Henri Takes Us Back

On Location

by KARA VANDERBIJL

We lived near Vasquez Rocks for a while. Do you have a place like this? To me, it was an obvious choice for elementary school field trips, for post-midterm hikes. One day we arrived at the gate and there was a guard. “They are filming on the premises,” he explained. We turned around, tires stirring up dust. It was easy, up until that point, to believe that the daily function of Hollywood was as fictional as the fictions it propagated.

Southern California Octobers are fiery. The blaze is on the other side of the freeway, people say to reassure themselves, even though vehicle fires have been known to melt overpasses. Paramount opened up the set to visitors during the filming of a Dr. Quinn: Medicine Woman episode. We wanted to take a Canadian cousin to see it, but the road was closed due to fire.

“Did you ever meet someone famous?” asked the French in school courtyards, chewing forbidden gum.

I am waiting for the day when they will extract Vasquez Rocks, like the bandit for which it was named. They’ll throw that boulder bouquet south to frame some distant red carpet. Just kidding, they’ll say, it’s been a cardboard backdrop all along.

We never met a movie star. We visited a tiny Dutch grocery store in the valley to buy spices for Indonesian fried rice and also dark chocolate hagelslag. The Honda Accord my mother drove we named Henri. “Where’s Henri?” we’d cry, perusing parking lots. Other people’s mothers thought we’d lost a sibling. When El Nino passed through, we went out nonetheless in the early afternoon, walking single-file shortest to tallest (I was in the back) across flooded sidewalks in bright yellow Mickey Mouse rain ponchos. We were on the front page of the local newspaper.

“Where have I seen you before?” Compartmentalization is key to survival. The illusion is broken when we sit through the credits. It’s a big joke now to see Vasquez in anything, which is why the characters in New Girl spent almost the entirety of the first season’s finale among the rocks. Irony begets irony. Zooey Deschanel fights off a coyote; I don’t remember the circumstances. Vasquez Rocks is to Hollywood what the inside of Monica’s apartment is to New York City. It’s a location for key moments, for outdoor voices.

Vasquez Rocks is a goldmine. Not literally, although I think one of my childhood excursions involved a metal detector. It is possible that I am confusing this with an episode of Star Trek. I’d like to see a short video chronicling all the films that have taken place at Vasquez using nothing but iconic props, wigs, facial expressions, and the rocks. I’d like to act in this, perhaps even direct it. There is no other way I could conceivably link the cultural Vasquez Rocks to the Vasquez Rocks of my youth.

As a child, I did not watch as much television as my peers. I don’t think I missed as much in popular culture as I missed in opportunities to connect with other people. But doesn’t that seem shallow? My mother was (is?) a Trekkie. My brother and I were obliged to follow suit. We watched it purely for the marvelous cliffhangers. If the cliffhanger involved someone actually hanging off Kirk’s Rock, we got extra points.

We lived on the edge, in a cul-de-sac with two other houses. The air conditioning frequently let out in the summer. When my father opened the breaker, a giant brown spider was stretched out over the switches. My mother found dead black widows in the washing machine with our clean clothes. We celebrated our neighbor’s bat mitzvah, played with a cat who couldn’t jump straight after a brick fell on its head. Watering the plants in the backyard, Mom stepped over a baby rattlesnake three times before hearing its warning. Safely inside the house, we watched it coil in on itself, flick its tongue. Its siblings curled around the tires of my father’s yellow Dodge van, hid in the deep grass. Death by shovel.

“Don’t go outside without shoes,” Mom warned, as if the rubber flipflops we lived in would deter venomous fangs. It was easy to believe that going outside would result in someone’s death. More often, we just came home sunburned, intensely dehydrated.

Near the spot where we parked our bikes my brother drowned an ant colony with a garden hose. Three baby birds fell out of a nest in the big oak out front, Dad wouldn’t let us look. When I was invited to go hiking on location in Vasquez, I wore ballet flats. I didn’t own socks or the shoes to go with them until I moved to Chicago.

Two weeks ago I looked out the train window at the snow on the sidewalk. I was between the Southport and Belmont stops where the Brown line curves away from Roscoe Street and begins shadowing Sheffield Avenue to the east. This snow was as unmarked as the 2013 page for January, pure, excited powder. I took a long second look and fished in my bag for forgotten gloves. Wait, it’s October. Early October. I’d still been running in the mornings, crossing my arms across my chest as I walked a half mile to warm up my muscles. I’d seen my breath three times. Five other times it had been too windy to focus on anything except walking from Washington and Wells to my office in the West Loop, resolving with every unseasonal shiver not to take the second train until there is snow on the ground. Long stretches of 100 degree weather turns the blood thin. Snow?

“They must be filming something,” said the man next to me when we stopped at Belmont, while other commuters wedged into the train.

I had not even considered it. To me, the transplant, Chicago is a cold city. It is a winter city. Other seasons occur but all tend towards winter, as if preparing for a legendary play. White powder, check. Chapped lips, check. Winter sends her love. Postcards, ice. My mother asked if I’d bought long underwear, but it’s still October. The whole year is spent stocking the larders for hibernation. It’s a precious naivete, but even the natives will talk about the weather in the elevator. Rite of passage, like buying a thicker coat, a second pair of boots, warmer socks — socks at all. They’re more expensive than you might imagine.

Earthquakes ended almost as soon I realized I was experiencing one. We came to California immediately after the ‘94 Northridge quake, like we were hungry for gold a century too late. On the 405, two of our sofa cushions blew out from under the ropes holding them to the pickup. We returned later with Henri to retrieve them, the slow-moving traffic a gift for slow-moving eyes. Mom washed the cushions and put them back on the sofa.

Henri took us back to the Pacific Northwest a couple of times. On the Grapevine, he came dangerously close to overheating. Mom explained that her father used to place bottles of cold water in the engine to prevent this, then turned off the air conditioning and rolled down all the windows. The roar of the big rigs shifting down on the grade was deafening. Burnt rubber, tired brakes. Mom sat hunched forward in her seat, shirt plastered to her back with sweat. We didn’t sit easy until we were in Oregon.

Vasquez Rocks is visible from the CA-14 freeway, and it makes me think: aren't most things visible from this vantage point in Southern California? Henri barrelled in one direction or another, and we observed, as if we were standing on a moving sidewalk in an airport as images and lights flashed above our heads. I picked up the habit of being quiet in the car, watching for  familiar landmarks to predict the ending of the show.

Kara VanderBijl is the senior editor of This Recording. She is a writer living in Chicago. She last wrote in these pages about Meredith Goldstein. She tumbls here and twitters here. You can find an archive of her writing on This Recording here. 

"Wolves (Black Cab session)" - Phosphorescent (mp3)

"Hej, Me I'm Light" - Phosphorescent (mp3)