Otto: La Vie En Rose
My father’s serious side was, I believe, based on a profound understanding of history and philosophy, and his childhood experience of uprooting, loss, and flight typical of German Jews fleeing the Nazis. It was countered by a surprisingly self-deprecating sense of humor and willingness to try new things.
In my late teens when Otto was fifty, I routinely encouraged him to accompany me on a jog, often up an agonizingly steep set of stairs, followed by an even steeper hillside. Not a regular jogger, he would gamely grab some shorts and a shirt better suited to a siesta in a lawn chair, and follow me out the door. It was difficult for him, and he stopped often to catch his breath and walk. I jogged in place beside him or ran ahead and circled back, egging him on (“C’mon dad!”). He was stalwart and never complained, just laughed at how challenging it was. I couldn’t understand why he had so much trouble. Now, nearly a decade older than he was at the time, I find it challenging to walk up those stairs and that hill, let alone jog, and I understand.
Otto visited often and brought a bare minimum of luggage. Thus, he frequently needed to borrow a sweater, an umbrella, or a jacket. The borrowed items carried a hint of aftershave when Otto returned them, and I always felt nostalgic when the smell dissipated weeks later. One summer morning we decided to have breakfast on the back patio and Otto requested a bathrobe. I offered him what I had: a long silken emerald green kimono with bold purple and maroon paisley. He happily donned the kimono and I took a photo, the sun slanting across him, his smile as if sharing a favorite joke. I look at the photo often and wish I could imbibe a dose of that devil may care, joie de vivre.
In my late teens I took a quarter off from college and moved in with Otto. He was living in a small adobe bungalow in suburban Menlo Park. It was mind numbingly boring. We took a lot of bicycle rides together, impressed by the unendingly flat landscape and the lack of interesting activities. The nearby food coop was a frequent stop for us. It was tiny, and crammed with dried fruit and grain bins, a grinder where you could watch peanut butter slowly extruding into the container you’d dutifully brought from home, and local honey you had to be careful not to let drip from the spigot onto the already sticky floor. It was insufficient distraction for both of us. Thus, I was thrilled to discover a dance class on offer, and promptly enrolled us both.
Otto donned his velvety sweatpants and matching jacket. It was the late seventies and the music was driving electronic disco with repetitive, unimaginative, and suggestive lyrics. The front of the studio had floor to ceiling mirrors. The dance teacher, facing us, enthusiastically demonstrated her choreography to “Disco Inferno.” We sang along breathlessly as we danced: “Burn, baby burn, disco inferno…” Otto was next to me. Every time the class moved left, he moved right. When we turned to the right, he turned to the left. Otto had trouble remembering the sequence of claps and steps, shimmies, and jumps. He would invariably look over at me or at the teacher, check the mirror, and frowning, try to replicate what he saw. The class, meanwhile, would have moved ahead and he would bump into me, or catch himself facing the rear of the room when everyone else was facing front. I would watch him in the mirror, trying to control my laughter, as he danced off in the opposite direction from the rest of us. Despite his difficulties, he was surprisingly graceful and unselfconscious, and his enthusiasm for the class never dwindled.
Last month I went to Alameda to a pleasant outdoor shopping area where tattooed couples mixed with families and retirees. I was struck by two parties who crossed my line of vision simultaneously, moving along an inexorable path: an elderly man in a wheelchair, swathed in a blanket and hat, being pushed by an older woman and, in parallel, a baby in a stroller being pushed by his mother. It made me think of beginnings and endings and my father in his last days, when I wished so fervently I could assuage his pain and rescue him from his impending death. I could not fathom what I should say or do as I watched him ease his suffering with a jolt of morphine. I massaged his dry feet and hands as he shifted uncomfortably in his hospice bed, barely able to turn his shrunken body.
Several months before he died, when he was still working, but feeling unwell and puzzled at his apparent clean bill of health, he left an upbeat message on our phone machine. He had been relentlessly questioning his physician, requesting tests and scans, seeking answers from specialists to help him identify what felt amiss, why he was so bone tired and not quite himself. “I thought you’d like to know, I have the results of my brain scan… (long pause). The good news is, apparently I still have one.” I could hear him smile. I saved the message for years, but could not bear to play it.
