March 21, 2013--Epilogue: Heshy Has the Final Word

“Shameless," Heshy said, "That’s what you are.  Shameless.”

I don’t know why I called.  The last time we spoke I promised myself I would never again do that.  We had drifted so far apart during the decades after I left the old neighborhood that all I had gotten from him in recent years were complaints, criticism, and grief.  But maybe it was because after completing this I needed once more, one last time, to check in and awkwardly seek closure.  And so I called. 

But before I could put two words together, he was again on my case.  I didn’t ask in what ways he thought I was shameless, but as usual he wasn’t shy about telling me—“Because of what you wrote about your long-suffering mother.  You won’t even leave her alone after the life she had and after all her efforts to protect you from what she saw as threats while providing you with the very things that contributed to your having a good life.”

“But I . . .”

“Probing, that’s what you specialize in, always rooting around for dirt about your family and the old days so you can use it in your stories.  A failure of imagination is what I call it.  Why not simply make stuff up?  I know, I know . . .”  I tried to interject, but he talked right over me, “Because you can’t.  It’s as simple as that.”

“That’s not . . .”

“Fair?  I’ll tell you what’s not fair.”  I held back.  “She’s still alive, isn’t she?  It’s even worse that, right?  Not only is she still alive but she’s also fully compos mentis, right, and can read what you've written about her.”  I should have just hung up.  “And in spite of that you ‘killed her off,’ as they say in your business.  Your own mother.  For a cheap effect?  Oh, I know you’ll say because in this so-called novel of yours it’s poetic or novelistic license to do whatever’s necessary for the sake of the story or, as I’m sure you would put it—the ‘narrative.’” 

My mother was in fact very much still alive and fully alert.  And Heshy was right, I did “kill her off” for narrative symmetry.  I would have kept her alive if this were a simple memoir. The subject of an earlier debate with him, which I had no desire to relitigate.  Didn’t he understand any of this?  Though he was a premed and eventually went to medical school he always was a reader.  Of literature.  Not just best sellers.

So I stammered, “As usual you either don’t get it or, in regard to anything having to do with me, don’t pass up any opportunity to trash me and my work.”

“In that case, why the fuck do you keep calling me?

“To tell you the truth I keep asking myself the same question.  If I were still seeing a shrink, that would be the first thing I’d want to talk about.”

“I’m far from a shrink—as you put it, I’m still a ‘dick doctor’—but I did take Psych 101 a hundred years ago and for my two cents I’d urge you to get to a shrink pronto.  In fact, I’d suggest you call 911 and ask them to send one over right away.  I consider you not just a mess but in need of a psychoanalytic intervention.”

Maybe he’s right, I thought.  A lot of this is my attempt to imagine my way into the simple details of my life as I lived it, seeking meaning that is of more general significance. In the hope that . . .

“I know what you’re thinking,” he interrupted my thinking, “You’re feeling good about yourself because you believe you found some universal truths about growing up as we did after the Second World War, how we experienced the echoes of the Holocaust, and the trajectory of you personal experiences, including your more-than-checkered career.”

How did he know?  “And, then there is all the posturing and pretentiousness.”

“About this I have to interrupt your rant.”  He was getting under my skin.  “If anything, I’ve tried to be self-effacing, even ironic and mocking about anything pertaining to myself, I mean my alter-ego—Lloyd Zazlo.”

“Pathetic.”

“No, really, give me an example of what you call my posturing.  You should have one or two handy if you feel so strongly about this.”

“In fact I have one right here, from part three, from the last story—I’m sorry, chapter.  I underlined it so I wouldn’t forget it.”

“Go on.  Shoot.  Or better," I didn't want to encourage violence, "read it to me.”

“It’s right here on page 727, if you want to check if I’m misquoting you.”

“Just read it.  I don’t have all day.”

“You can hang up if you want.  It's your dime.  Remember, you’re the one who called.”

“Just read it would you!”

“About Lloyd Zazlo you wrote, and I quote--

. . . the persona or alter ego I had invented, I hoped he, Lloyd Zazlo, would add at least, perhaps a footnote to what we had learned from Stephen Daedulus or, much closer to my heart, Nathan Zuckerman. 

“If this isn’t posturing I don’t know what is.”

“I knew you’d pick that out.”  I thought I finally had him.  “It’s the opposite of posturing.  It’s self-deprecating.  Did you miss the perhaps a footnote?  How I noted, even made fun of my own insignificance?  I don’t see how anyone would see that as self-aggrandizing.” 

“You’re being ridiculous.  Don’t you see it’s pretentious even to have Lloyd Zazlo in the same sentence as Phillip Roth’s and James Joyce’s alter egos?  But that’s what you did.”  I could hear him take a self-satisfied deep breath.  “Case closed.”

“Well, I . . .  Maybe,” I stammered, “maybe you’re right.”  I heard his familiar guffaw.  It took me right back to our days together on East 56^th Street.  “About that, but . . .”

“No buts, thank you.  We’re finally getting close to the truth you claim so much to cherish.” 

Deflated, I squeaked, “I’m thinking, maybe, if this goes to a second edition, perhaps I’ll edit that out.  My basic point, though still is that . . .” 

“If this sells enough to justify a second edition,” he was chocking from laughing at me, “maybe I’ll consider forgiving you for being such a shit.”

THE END