Cash, Philip Roth & July in Latin America

The July 2016 Letter

— the bedlam in macondo —

about this part of the world during the month of july, 2016

A British friend put it like this. “I think lots of people outside your country look at Donald Trump and see the American id,” he told me. I was in the U.S. for about two weeks in late-July and early-August and couldn’t believe how many conversations ended with a huff of pessimistic desperation that went something along the lines of, “…then again, if Trump wins the presidency, who knows what’s going to happen?!”

It provoked me into wondering if the same distress is running through the currents of Latin American power. Mexican president Enrique Peña Nieto answered to Trump’s stance that he would make Mexico pay for a wall along the US-Mexico border, saying he would work with whomever is elected, but was adamant that Mexico would not pay for a wall.

In a rebound from socialist populism that dominated many countries over the past 10–15 years, Latin America is increasingly electing moderate-to-right-leaning technocrats to lead. Think Argentina’s Mauricio Macri, Colombia’s Juan Manuel Santos and Peru’s Pedro Pablo Kuczynski. Washington has always felt threatened by Latin American populist leaders who forge socialist, authoritarian states. But it would be interesting to ask how this new, emerging generation of Latin American technocrats views the prospect of a populist like Donald Trump winning the presidency. Peña Nieto’s reactions could be setting precedent with the US’ next leader.

— provocative ideas —

Almost Everyone in Buenos Aires Is in Therapy — Quartz

The Surprising Decline in Violence — TED

— long reads —

The Ballad of Rocky Rontal by Daniel Alarcón — California Sunday

She’s the Governor With the Hardest Job in Latin America by Wes Tomaselli — OZY

La Milonguera by Tamzin Baker — Guernica

— reactions —

Portnoy’s Complaint by Philip Roth

Did Roth’s 1969 novel give me a hard on? Surprise! It did. (OK, not in the literal sense.) But in the literary sense — totally. And it makes sense, because the neurotic power of Alexander Portnoy’s monologue is still just as heavy today as it was nearly fifty years ago during America’s sexual revolution. The repressed Jewish boy Portnoy is burdened with having to reconcile his sexual impulses with mounds of shame piled on by his mother and father. “Doctor,” he says, “these people are incredible!… These two are the outstanding producers and packagers of guilt in our time! They render it from me like fat from a chicken!” What’s really going on here is what has become Roth’s signature: the link between sexuality and mortality, as this review in The Guardian observes. “As with Roth’s recent novels, in which elderly protagonists rage against their dwindling virility… Portnoy’s Complaint asserts that to be sexual is to be fully alive — while to have that denied is a form of living death.” So when Portnoy has his way with a piece of liver reserved for the family’s dinner, one might think he’s gone too far. But what other choice did he have? Sit at that mundane dinner table, eat it, say thank you and excuse himself like everyone else? Boring. That liver needed some life.

— straitjackets —

fiction_______________________________________________________

Cash

I was in Los Angeles for a story that month and this is the last thing she wrote to me: September is chilly Boo. I go to Central Park on Sundays. You know it’s the only day I really have off. I like watching the people, especially the grumpy old men. The wind is starting to make the leaf piles dance. I take the 7 train back and then transfer to the G to get home. Last night it stopped between Flushing and Myrtle Willoughby. It just stopped there and didn’t move, and I realized I was probably sitting right beneath where we used to live. Later that month on September 27th, she jumped in front of the G train. It killed her instantly. The police said they were investigating if she got pushed. Except I know for a fact that no one pushed her. She jumped. I just know it. She waited until one day after my birthday.

That first check I cashed? I thought I would do it just once, but it became habit. A nasty habit. The first check, I booked a table for two at Babbo. This is celebrity chef Mario Batali we’re talking about. You have to book about two months in advance for this place because so many want a table. I showed up at 9:50pm, 10 minutes before my reservation. It’s one of those places where you take two or three hours to dine. They turn the tables just once. My table opened up early they said. And I sat down and ordered a Negroni and looked at the menu. The Negroni came and the server noticed a vacancy in the seat across from me. You’re waiting for someone? he asked with almost perfect charm. I am. But she’s not coming, I told him flatly. Give me a couple more minutes. I pulled out a flask from the inside pocket of my blazer and emptied about half of it into the Negroni. Gin. Cheap Gin. I looked around to see if anyone was eyeballing me. I was alone.

I ordered everything on the menu. And yeah, I know, you’d think they wouldn’t let me. You’d think they’d say, No Mister, I’m sorry. You’re just one person. We have a maximum limit here at Babbo. But they didn’t. The server gave me a weird look and asked me if I was sure and I said I was and then he went over and gossiped a bit with the sommelier. The sommelier came over and I ordered wine with every course. Five bottles. Sir? the sommelier said, raising his eyebrows. One at a time, I said. And I stuffed a one hundred dollar bill in his breast pocket. And another Negroni. Please.

Our story isn’t anything extraordinary. We met at college in Upstate NY. Right when I graduated, I moved to Brooklyn. Then two laters she did too. Ten years later, we got married. Five years later, we tried to have kids. We tried and tried. Sex was like this strange assignment, where the pregnancy tests were like our University professors. We tried for one whole year and then we quit. I didn’t want to quit. She did. She always joked, Whatever, I only want to live until I’m 40 anyway. And I would laugh, thinking it was stock sarcasm. It wasn’t. She was 39 years and 8 months old when they scraped her off the tracks and bagged her. She was in six pieces. Or was it seven?

My sommelier shaped out to be one of those people I’d probably hate in real life. I could tell he was a nuisance, probably one of those New York University film school grads who always thought he was better than everyone and had a portfolio of excuses for why this industry sucks and a whole line of BS about how I’ll probably head out to LA soon. But this wasn’t real life. This was my fantasy. So I accepted him. Jason. That was his name. Pour me some more Tignanello, Jason. Have you ever had the 97? How about the 98 or the 99? Well tonight’s your lucky night. Because those are the next three bottles you’re going to open up. Not for me. For us. For us, Jason. It was like playing Super Mario. Can I beat my high score? I invited him to have a seat and since this was a Tuesday night around 11pm now, and Babbo was winding down, he said why not? and got a glass. Of course, after a couple of drinks, it only made sense that he wanted to know why I was dining alone, getting drunk, at one of New York City’s favorite Michelin three star Italian bistros. I just laughed and changed the subject. And then I got really drunk, so drunk I vomited all over my lap. Sure, I probably got some on Jason. Oops. Whatever. I wanted to dance. On the table. Was that the mint gnocchi I stepped in?

It was about two weeks after she got to New York City, when everything was ahead of us, when I actually didn’t even know if we were going to stick together, and I remember singing in her ear on the subway. Almost like a folksy half-whisper that no one else could hear. She told me she loved it. This is my favorite thing to do in the world, I told her. Then I asked her what her favorite thing in the world was. And she said, I don’t have favorites. I kept singing until we got off at Flushing and walked back to our apartment. I could never hold it and so I always ended up pissing behind this one tree after we got off. She never minded. She kicked at the leaves and usually found one she liked and picked it up and added it to her collection. She always had a pile of leaves on her desk. From September to December, the pile grew and grew. And then on New Year’s Eve, she through them out. I loved watching her build that pile of leaves.

My new friend Jason. I tell him everything. He’s not listening though. He’s horrified. The whole restaurant is horrified. It’s a blurry awareness. But I don’t care that they’re horrified. I’m beyond shame. Two servers come over and try to help me out of my seat. Come on sir, let’s get you out of here. they say, some how maintaining their well-trained politeness. Why all this politeness though? Call me the bastard I am! Call me an asshole. Tell me the truth! I think about screaming this, but I’m still drooling. Wait, I gotta pay, I mutter. I resist them and spot the bar. I’m huge, by the way. Do you know how much weight I’ve gained since she died? 60 lbs. I charge the bar like a raging bull, totally out of control with all this new weight. But it’s kind of fun. Maybe I will be a pinball in my next life. Tonight though, I’m not a pinball. Tonight I have more cash than you can imagine. I pull out the envelope and fling it on the bar and say, Eat this! And that includes tips for everyone! The bus boys too! The bartender snatches it up and looks inside. Jesus Christ man, he says. Where did you get all this cash?

I don’t tell him. I just leave because I know everyone wants me to.

It’s a habit now. Every time I do it, I think of those leaves getting piled up on her desk, piling up just like the life insurance payments we started making on one another when we got married. Every time I do it, I find a dumpster or an alleyway where I can collapse and sleep until morning. I always wake up swimming in piss. But there’s usually some garbage close by and I can probably find some used toilet paper or take-out napkins to mop up the spill. Or some leaves, but they’re usually too dried out and dead to be of any use.

— The Viscerealist