The Fran Lebowitz Reader (32 page)

EXTRA SPECIAL FORCES

Being in my absolute latest possible twenties, I am not myself of draftable age. That does not mean, though, that I am entirely without patriotism and the attendant desire to serve my country.

Desire is not, however (at least in this instance), synonymous with fanaticism, and I do feel that those of us who choose to go should receive certain privileges and considerations. The kinds of certain privileges and considerations I had in mind were these: either I go right from the start as a general or they establish, along guidelines set down by me, a Writers’ Regiment.

Guidelines Set Down by Me

a. War is, undoubtedly, hell, but there is no earthly reason why it has to start so early in the morning. Writers, on the whole, find it difficult to work during the day; it is far too distracting. The writer is an artist, a creative person; he needs time to think, to read, to ruminate. Ruminating in particular is not compatible with reveille. Instead, next to each (double) bed in the Writers’ Barracks (or suites, as they are sometimes called) should be a night table minimally equipped with an ashtray, a refreshing drink, a good reading lamp and a telephone. Promptly at 1:30
P.M.
the phone may ring and a pleasant person with a soft voice may transmit the wake-up call.

b. In the army, discipline must, of course, be maintained and generally this is accomplished by a chain of command. In a chain of command you have what is known as the superior officer. The superior officer is fine for ordinary soldiers such as lighting designers and art directors, but the Writers’ Regiment would, by definition, require instead something a bit different: the superior prose stylist. Having a superior prose stylist would, I am sure, be an acceptable, even welcome, policy, and will without question be adopted just as soon as the first writer meets one.

c. The members of the Writers’ Regiment would, of course, like to join the rest of you in dangerous armed combat, but unfortunately the pen is mightier than the sword and we must serve where we are needed.

INTERNATIONAL ARRIVALS

Traditionally, former U.S. Air Force pilots have sought and attained employment with the commercial airlines. Today we can look forward to a reversal of this custom, as the U.S. Air Force becomes the recipient of commercially trained airline personnel:

“Hello, this is your captain, Skip Dietrich, speaking. It’s nice to have you aboard. We’re going to be entering a little enemy fire up ahead and you may experience some slight discomfort. The temperature in the metro Moscow area is twenty below zero and it’s snowing. We’re a little behind schedule on account of that last hit, so we should be arriving at around two-thirty Their Time. Those of you in the tourist cabin seated on the right-hand side of the plane might want to glance out the window and catch what’s left of the wing before it goes entirely. That’s about all for now, hope you have a pleasant flight and thank you for flying United States Air Force.”

T
he poor are, on the whole, an unhappy lot. Ofttimes cold, invariably short of cash, frequently hungry, they unquestionably have grounds for complaint and few would dispute this. In general, the poor are deprived of most of the things that comprise that which is called “the good life” or “the American standard of living.” This state of affairs has been duly noted by both the government and the governed, and much has been done in an attempt to alleviate the situation. Wherever a lack has been perceived a solution has been proposed. No money? Welfare. No apartment? Public housing. No breakfast? Food stamps. No tickee? No washee. No, that’s another story. At any rate, you get my drift. The poor need help. The unpoor are willing—some, excessively so.

For those unpoor genuinely dedicated to good works it should come as no surprise that the dilemma of the poor extends far beyond that of the material. Lest you jump to conclusions, I should like to make immediately clear that I am not about to expound on the universal human need for love and affection. As far as I can tell, the poor get all the
love and affection they can possibly handle. The concept of an unsuitable marriage obviously started somewhere.

No, I am not speaking here of emotional needs, but rather of those of a social nature. Needs of a social nature are perhaps the most complex and painful to discuss; yet they must be dealt with.

In order that you might gain a better understanding of this matter, I offer by way of illustration an imaginary dinner party (the very best kind) given by a member of the unpoor for his peers, you among them. You choose to accompany you a needy friend. He lacks the proper attire. You accommodate him from your own wardrobe. Your host provides ample food and drink. Your friend is momentarily happy. He feels unpoor, you feel generous, your host feels gracious, good will abounds. For just an instant, you toy with the notion that poverty could be completely eradicated by the simple act of including the poor in the dinner plans of the unpoor. Coffee is served. The talk becomes earnest. The conversation, as is its wont, turns to tax problems.

It is at this point, I assure you, that as far as the poor on your left is concerned, the party is over. Suddenly he feels poor again. Worse than poor—left out. He has no tax problems. He is, as they say, disenfranchised, dispossessed, an outcast, not in the mainstream. And under the present system he will remain in this degrading position for the life of his poverty. The double whammy. As long as he is poor he will be without tax problems, and as long as he is without tax problems he will, let us not forget, also be without tax benefits. And they call this a democracy. A democracy, when one man is in a fifty percent bracket and his dinner companion is in no bracket at all. It isn’t enough that a man has no food, no clothing, no roof over his head. No, he also
has no accountant, no investment lawyer, no deductions, no loopholes. And very likely no receipts.

This is, of course, unconscionable, and now that you have been apprised of the situation, it is unthinkable that it go on one minute longer—certainly not if we are to call our society an equitable one. Fortunately, there is a solution to this problem, startling in its simplicity, and one that should be implemented immediately.

Tax the poor. Heavily. No halfway measures. No crumbs from the rich man’s table. I mean
tax.
Fifty percent bracket, property, capital gains, inheritance—the works.

Now, it has probably occurred to the careful (or even slovenly) reader that somehow this doesn’t quite jibe. Something is amiss, you may say. The point you will be quick to raise is that the poor lack the means to be taxed. They cannot afford it. But I am ready for you, and will counter by saying that your inability to accept my solution is a matter of scale, of relativity. Let us examine each point separately.

FIFTY PERCENT

This is, naturally, the easiest to grasp, for it should be quite apparent to all that everyone has half, the poor included. If someone makes even as little as $1,000 a year, this still leaves him $500 for income taxes. Not a fortune, certainly, but still nothing to sneeze at.

PROPERTY

Your difficulty here is undoubtedly conceptual. That is, your conception of property very likely tends toward that fallow acreage, midtown real estate, principal residence sort of
thing. It is true, of course, that these are all fine examples of property, but in a democracy who among us would deep down consider it really quite cricket to limit the definition of property to just the fine examples? After all, property merely means ownership; that which one owns is one’s property. Therefore property taxes could—and should—easily be levied against the property of the poor. Equal freedom, equal responsibility. So no more free rides for hot plates, vinyl outerwear or electric space heaters.

CAPITAL GAINS

Now, this one is tricky but not insurmountable. And not surprisingly, the dictionary comes in handy.
Webster’s Unabridged Second Edition.
The definition of “capital”:
This accumulated stock of the product of former labor is termed capital.
And for “capital gains”:
Profit resulting from the sale of capital investments, as stock, etc.
There, see? Another instance of relativity. Now. Uh. Yes. Um. Uh. Oh, all right, I admit it: it probably won’t come up that often. But the poor would be well advised not to try selling off any leftover Spam Bake without reporting it.

INHERITANCE

Being creatures of habit, we ordinarily associate inheritance with death. Strictly speaking, we need not do so. Once again the dictionary proves most useful when it yields as a definition of “inherit”:
To come into possession as an heir or successor.
Successor is, of course, they key word here. Thus, we can plainly see that while to some the word “inherit” may conjure up images of venerable country estates and
square-cut emeralds, to others—i.e., the poor—quite different visions spring to mind. A hand-me-down pair of Dacron slacks is, of course, no square-cut emerald, but then again, five hundred dollars is, as I believe I mentioned in point number one, not a fortune, certainly.

A
s an answering-service operator, I will make every effort when answering a subscriber’s telephone to avoid sighing in a manner which suggests that in order to answer said telephone I have been compelled to interrupt extremely complicated neurological surgery, which is, after all, my real profession.

B
eing on the short side and no spring chicken to boot, I shall refrain in perpetuity from anything even roughly akin to leather jodhpurs.

C
hocolate chip cookies have perhaps been recently overvalued. I will not aggravate the situation further by opening
yet another cunningly named store selling these items at prices more appropriate to a semester’s tuition at Harvard Law School.

D
espite whatever touch of color and caprice they might indeed impart, I will never, never,
never
embellish my personal written correspondence with droll little crayoned drawings.

E
ven though I am breathtakingly bilingual, I will not attempt ever again to curry favor with waiters by asking for the wine list in a studiously insinuating tone of French.

F
our inches is not a little trim; my job as a hairdresser makes it imperative that I keep this in mind.

G
ifted though I might be with a flair for international politics, I will renounce the practice of exhibiting this facility to my passengers.

H
owever ardently I am implored, I pledge never to divulge whatever privileged information I have been able to acquire from my very close friend who stretches canvas for a famous artist.

I
n light of the fact that I am a frequent, not to say permanent, fixture at even the most obscure of public events, I hereby vow to stop once and for all telling people that I never go out.

J
ust because I own my own restaurant does not mean that I can include on the menu a dish entitled Veal Jeffrey.

K
itchens are not suitable places in which to install wall-to-wall carpeting, no matter how industrial, how highly technical, how very dark gray. I realize this now.

L
arge pillows, no matter how opulently covered or engagingly and generously scattered about, are not, alas, furniture. I will buy a sofa.

M
ay lightning strike me dead on the spot should I ever again entertain the notion that anyone is interested in hearing what a fabulously warm and beautiful people I found the Brazilians to be when I went to Rio for Carnival last year.

N
o hats.

O
vereating in expensive restaurants and then writing about it with undue enthusiasm is not at all becoming. I will get a real job.

P
olite conversation does not include within its peripheries questions concerning the whereabouts of that very sweet mulatto dancer he was with the last time you saw him.

Q
uite soon I will absolutely stop using the word “brilliant” in reference to the accessories editors of European fashion magazines.

Raspberries, even out of season, are not a controlled substance. As a restaurant proprietor I have easy, legal access. I will be more generous.

S
uccess is something I will dress for when I get there, and not until. Cross my heart and hope to die.

T
ies, even really, really narrow ones, are just not enough. I will try to stop relying on them quite so heavily.

U
nless specifically requested to do so, I will not discuss Japanese science-fiction movies from the artistic point of view.

V
iolet will be a good color for hair at just about the same time that brunette becomes a good color for flowers. I will not forget this.

W
hen approached for advice on the subject of antique furniture, I will respond to all queries with reason and decorum so as not to ally myself with the sort of overbred collector who knows the value of everything and the price of nothing.

X
is not a letter of the alphabet that lends itself easily, or even with great difficulty, to this type of thing. I promise not to even try.

Y
outh, at least in New York City, is hardly wasted on the young. They make more than sufficient use of it. I cannot afford to overlook this.

Z
elda Fitzgerald, fascinating as she undoubtedly appears to have been, I promise to cease emulating immediately.

N
ot too long ago a literary agent of my close acquaintance negotiated a book deal on behalf of a writer of very successful commercial fiction. The book in question has not yet been written. At all. Not one page. On the basis, however, of the reputation of the author and the expertise of the agent, the book-to-be was sold for the gratifying sum of one million dollars. The following week the same agent sold the same book
manqué
for the exact same figure to, as they say, the movies.