My Point...And I Do Have One

it’s kind of funny, isn’t it?
    Yeah, hilarious
.
    As soon as I graduated from high school, I moved back to New Orleans. I had no plans to go to college and no idea what I was going to do, but I don’t remember caring either. After all, it was the 1970s, and the country was tapping its platform shoes to the sounds of K.C. and the Sunshine Band.
    I worked at a series of places including a restaurant (where I shucked oysters) and a law firm (where I shucked lawyers). A friend of mine during that time was Rita Bangs, an aspiring coffee importer. I interviewed Rita at a Renaissance Faire called “Ye Olden Dress Up in Funny Clothes Thymes” where she was employed as a wench.
    When you think of me in New Orleans during the 1970s, what comes most to mind?
    Your older sister was prettier than you and a lot more popular. But you were smarter.
    I don’t have an older sister. I have an older brother
.
    Whatever. Anyway, your father took your family on a trip to a resort. You were his favorite. He always called you Baby.
    Really?
    Oh yes. The waiters at the resort were all these good-looking college guys. But you fell in love with the dance instructor, even though your father hated him because he thought he got some girl pregnant. But your father ended up liking him when he saw the two of you dance at the big show at the resort.
    That’s not my life. That’s the movie
Dirty Dancing.
    No, I’m pretty sure it’s your life.
    Really?
    No. But it was a good movie.
    Do you even know me?
    Not in so many words. But I’m a big fan. Do you know how I can meet Patrick Swayze?
    No. Thanks for meeting with me. You were no help at all
. You’re welcome.
    The last person I spoke to was Dr. Max Fenetre. He wouldn’t say how I knew him but assured me he could supply a missing piece of the jigsaw puzzle that is my life. We spoke at his Beverly Hills office once he was assured that I had health insurance.
    So, what would you like to tell me about myself?
    I’ll tell you, but only if I can be the person in italics.
    No. The person who asks the questions is in italics. That’s how it’s done
.
    But I’m a doctor and therefore have much more authority than you. Ergo, I should be in italics.
    I did all the other interviews in italics. I’m not going to change now
.
    HOW ABOUT IF I’M IN BOLD AND ALL CAPITALS, LIKE THIS?
    No, it would be too distracting
.
    That’s it, interview’s over. Get out of my office, you italics hog.
    YEAH, WELL GOOD-BYE TO YOU, TOO. HA, HA, HA .
    Hey! I just remembered my first memory. I’m eating eggs and toast and feeling a little bit grumpy. Then I take a sip of strong black coffee and read my horoscope in the newspaper. Wait a minute. That was just an hour ago at breakfast. I guess it’s possible that that’s my first memory. Perhaps my philosophy is “Don’t hold on to things, it will only bring you pain.” Or that might not be my philosophy. I just don’t remember.

a letter to my
friend
or

a frog in a sombrero does not a
party make

    I n digging through my old photos and letters for this book, I’ve discovered correspondence that brings back wonderful old memories. And, well, some not-so-wonderful memories.
    Dear Morgana,
    I just wanted to drop you a quick note to thank you for inviting me to your party last week. I’m not very good at parties. But I guess you know that by now. I feel awkward at them and tend to overcompensate by acting in a way that others who don’t know me well might consider a tad weird. However, you know me well and besides, you’re a very perceptive and, I might add, very
forgiving
person.
    I guess what I’m trying to say is I’m really really really sorry for what happened. Maybe it was good, though. Maybe this will be one of those things that a little while from now you’ll look back on and laugh at. Okay, maybe it will be longer than a little while. Eventually, though, after at most a few decades, there’s bound to be some laughter. Isn’t there? Oh God, I’m so sorry.
    I know that we’re good enough friends that I could just call you on the phone, but I thought a letter would be preferable for two reasons. One, often it’s easier to say things in a letter than it is to say them in person. And two, you don’t seem to be answering my phone calls anymore.
    Sometimes nobody answers the phone—even if I let it ring over five hundred times (I’ve counted). At other times, somebody who sounds like you (but I’m sure isn’t) answers and asks who it is.