THIS ISN’T about anything, just me wondering how many great stories would never be told if everyone spoke the truth. I believe in truth, so that’s a tough one.
Imagine a world with no Casablanca. If Ilsa Lund had been honest with Rick in Paris, you could cut 142 minutes out of the movie.
The revised script:
“Rick, I can’t run away with you just ahead of the Nazis and marry you in Marseilles. I just found out my husband, Victor Laszlo, is still alive.”
“Victor Laszlo!? I’m a great admirer of his! He does good work in the cause of freedom. Well, Ilsa (they shake hands), thanks for the swell little wartime romance. Here’s looking at you, Mrs. Laszlo.”
In conversation with the bride, I strive for total honesty. She does, too. It’s been working for us for a long time now. I write these things in my notebook under a standing title: Actual conversation just now. The first line is mine.
“Did you make coffee?”
“Yes.”
“Bring me one.”
“No.”
See?
We’re watching Breaking Bad. I keep up a running commentary, mostly wondering why a guy can’t just break bad and not have to answer 99 questions. His wife’s always on him with the What are you doing—what are you doing!? He can’t very well say I’m hiding a million bucks and a gun in this box of diapers. Give the guy some space.
In this Actual conversation just now, the bride starts out laughing. Soon, the honesty in my tone and steely deadpan reduce her to glances in my direction and a nervous giggle. As always, the first line is mine. (Does that mean I start these things?)
“I should start breaking bad.”
(Laughs)
“I wouldn’t want to sell drugs, though. Maybe murder for hire.”
(Laughs)
“Seriously. I could do well at that.”
“You better not be able to do well at that.”
“Only people who deserve it.”
(Glances, nervous giggle)
“I’d have to get glasses first.”
I pick her up at the train station the other day after she attends a business meeting in Boston. I gripe about losing hours and hours each day to piddling little chores when I need to be carving out more writing time, getting something meaningful accomplished.
“I quit newspapers to become a writer and somehow ended up as Uncle Charlie.”
“No,” she says. “Uncle Charlie cooked.”
I teach my 3-year-old granddaughter a too-cool-for-school move. There are six steps in all including two lines of dialogue. That’s a lot for a 3-year-old to remember, but I need to demonstrate only twice before she has it down.
She takes off her sunglasses, hangs them on the front of her shirt, says “Devil may care,” folds her arms, leans against a wall, and says “Dig it.”
A few minutes after learning the routine, she makes it her own; she adds her own inscrutable cool by changing “dig it” to “shuffle it.”
If shuffle it means anything at all, she’s the only one who knows—and she’s not saying.
I thought, my god that’s brilliant. I officially have nothing else to teach this child.
Tony DePaul, April 20, 2018, Cranston, Rhode Island, USA
I can only hope to shuffle it in my lifetime.
When you find out what it means, tell me.
Casabalanca. That’s my uncle on the right. I also have a very nice bridge for sale if you’re interested.
Your uncles were cooler than mine.