California Plush

　　by Frank Bidart

　　The only thing I miss about Los Angeles

　　is the Hollywood Freeway at midnight， windows down and

　　radio blaring

　　bearing right into the center of the city， the Capitol Tower

　　on the right， and beyond it， Hollywood Boulevard

　　blazing

　　——pimps， surplus stores， footprints of the stars

　　——descending through the city

　　fast as the law would allow

　　through the lights， then rising to the stack

　　out of the city

　　to the stack where lanes are stacked six deep

　　and you on top; the air

　　now clean， for a moment weightless

　　without memories， or

　　need for a past.

　　The need for the past

　　is so much at the center of my life

　　I write this poem to record my discovery of it，

　　my reconciliation.

　　It was in Bishop， the room was done

　　in California plush： we had gone into the coffee shop， were told

　　you could only get a steak in the bar：

　　I hesitated，

　　not wanting to be an occasion of temptation for my father

　　but he wanted to， so we entered

　　a dark room， with amber water glasses， walnut

　　tables， captain's chairs，

　　plastic doilies， papier-m?ché bas-relief wall ballerinas，

　　German memorial plates "bought on a trip to Europe，"

　　Puritan crosshatch green-yellow wallpaper，

　　frilly shades， cowhide

　　booths——

　　I thought of Cambridge：

　　the lovely congruent elegance

　　of Revolutionary architecture， even of

　　ersatz thirties Georgian

　　seemed alien， a threat， sign

　　of all I was not——

　　to bode order and lucidity

　　as an ideal， if not reality——

　　not this California plush， which

　　also

　　I was not.

　　And so I made myself an Easterner，

　　finding it， after all， more like me

　　than I had let myself hope.

　　And now， staring into the embittered face of

　　my father，

　　again， for two weeks， as twice a year，

　　I was back.

　　The waitress asked us if we wanted a drink.

　　Grimly， I waited until he said no……

　　Before the tribunal of the world I submit the following

　　document：

　　Nancy showed it to us，

　　in her apartment at the model，

　　as she waited month by month

　　for the property settlement， her children grown

　　and working for their father，

　　at fifty-three now alone，

　　a drink in her hand：

　　as my father said，

　　"They keep a drink in her hand"：

　　Name　 Wallace du Bois

　　Box No　128　　 Chino， Calif.

　　Date　 July　25　 ，19 54

　　Mr Howard Arturian

　　I am writing a letter to you this afternoon while I'm in the

　　mood of writing. How is everything getting along with you these

　　fine days， as for me everything is just fine and I feel great except for

　　the heat I think its lot warmer then it is up there but I don't mind

　　it so much. I work at the dairy half day and I go to trade school the

　　other half day Body & Fender， now I am learning how to spray

　　paint cars I've already painted one and now I got another car to

　　paint. So now I think I've learned all I want after I have learned all

　　this. I know how to straighten metals and all that. I forgot to say

　　"Hello" to you. The reason why I am writing to you is about a job，

　　my Parole Officer told me that he got letter from and that you want

　　me to go to work for you. So I wanted to know if its truth. When

　　I go to the Board in Feb. I'll tell them what I want to do and where

　　I would like to go， so if you want me to work for you I'd rather have

　　you sent me to your brother John in Tonapah and place to stay for

　　my family. The Old Lady says the same thing in her last letter that

　　she would be some place else then in Bishop， thats the way I feel

　　too.and another thing is my drinking problem. I made up my mind

　　to quit my drinking， after all what it did to me and what happen.

　　This is one thing I'll never forget as longs as I live I never want

　　to go through all this mess again. This sure did teach me lot of things

　　that I never knew before. So Howard you can let me know soon

　　as possible. I sure would appreciate it.

　　P.S　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　From Your Friend

　　I hope you can read my　　　　　　　　 Wally Du Bois

　　writing. I am a little nervous yet

　　——He and his wife had given a party， and

　　one of the guests was walking away

　　just as Wallace started backing up his car.

　　He hit him， so put the body in the back seat

　　and drove to a deserted road.

　　There he put it before the tires， and

　　ran back and forth over it several times.

　　When he got out of Chino， he did，

　　indeed， never do that again：

　　but one child was dead， his only son，

　　found with the rest of the family

　　immobile in their beds with typhoid，

　　next to the mother， the child having been

　　dead two days：

　　he continued to drink， and as if it were the Old West

　　shot up the town a couple of Saturday nights.

　　"So now I think I've learned all I want

　　after I have learned all this： this sure did teach me a lot of things

　　that I never knew before.

　　I am a little nervous yet."

　　It seems to me

　　an emblem of Bishop——

　　For watching the room， as the waitresses in their

　　back-combed， Parisian， peroxided， bouffant hairdos，

　　and plastic belts，

　　moved back and forth

　　I thought of Wallace， and

　　the room suddenly seemed to me

　　not uninteresting at all：

　　they were the same. Every plate and chair

　　had its congruence with

　　all the choices creating

　　these people， created

　　by them——by me，

　　for this is my father's chosen country， my origin.

　　Before， I had merely been anxious， bored; now，

　　I began to ask a thousand questions……

　　He was， of course， mistrustful， knowing I was bored，

　　knowing he had dragged me up here from Bakersfield

　　after five years

　　of almost managing to forget Bishop existed.

　　But he soon became loquacious， ordered a drink，

　　and settled down for

　　an afternoon of talk……

　　He liked Bishop： somehow， it was to his taste， this

　　hard-drinking， loud， visited-by-movie-stars town.

　　"Better to be a big fish in a little pond."

　　And he was： when they came to shoot a film，

　　he entertained them; Miss A——， who wore

　　nothing at all under her mink coat; Mr. M——，

　　good horseman， good shot.

　　"But when your mother

　　let me down" (for alcoholism and

　　infidelity， she divorced him)

　　"and Los Angeles wouldn't give us water any more，

　　I had to leave.

　　We were the first people to grow potatoes in this valley."

　　When he began to tell me

　　that he lost control of the business

　　because of the settlement he gave my mother，

　　because I had heard it

　　many times，

　　in revenge， I asked why people up here drank so much.

　　He hesitated. "Bored， I guess.

　　——Not much to do."

　　And why had Nancy's husband left her?

　　In bitterness， all he said was：

　　"People up here drink too damn much."

　　And that was how experience

　　had informed his life.

　　"So now I think I've learned all I want

　　after I have learned all this： this sure did teach me a lot of things

　　that I never knew before.

　　I am a little nervous yet."

　　Yet， as my mother said，

　　returning， as always， to the past，

　　"I wouldn't change any of it.

　　It taught me so much. Gladys

　　is such an innocent creature： you look into her face

　　and somehow it's empty， all she worries about

　　are sales and the baby.

　　her husband's too good!"

　　It's quite pointless to call this rationalization：

　　my mother， for uncertain reasons， has had her

　　bout with insanity， but she's right：

　　the past in maiming us，

　　makes us，

　　fruition

　　is also

　　destruction：

　　I think of Proust， dying

　　in a cork-linked room， because he refuses to eat

　　because he thinks that he cannot write if he eats

　　because he wills to write， to finish his novel

　　——his novel which recaptures the past， and

　　with a kind of joy， because

　　in the debris

　　of the past， he has found the sources of the necessities

　　which have led him to this room， writing

　　——in this strange harmony， does he will

　　for it to have been different?

　　And I can't not think of the remorse of Oedipus，

　　who tries to escape， to expiate the past

　　by blinding himself， and

　　then， when he is dying， sees that he has become a Daimon

　　——does he， discovering， at last， this cruel

　　coherence created by

　　"the order of the universe"

　　——does he will

　　anything reversed?

　　I look at my father：

　　as he drinks his way into garrulous， shaky

　　defensiveness， the debris of the past

　　is just debris——; whatever I reason， it is a desolation

　　to watch……

　　must I watch?

　　He will not change; he does not want to change;

　　every defeated gesture implies

　　the past is useless， irretrievable……

　　——I want to change： I want to stop fear's subtle

　　guidance of my life——; but， how can I do that

　　if I am still

　　afraid of its source?