Read The Fran Lebowitz Reader Online
Authors: Fran Lebowitz
In order to be a landlord, it is first necessary to acquire a building or buildings. This can be accomplished in either of two ways. By far the most pleasant is by means of inheritance—a method favored not only because it is easy on the pocketbook but also because it eliminates the tedious chore of selecting the property. This manual, however, is not really intended for landlords of that stripe, since such an inheritance invariably includes a genetic composition that makes formal instruction quite superfluous.
Less attractive but somewhat more common (how
often those traits go hand in hand) is the method of actual purchase. And it is here that our work really begins.
Buildings can be divided into two main groups: cheap and expensive. It should be remembered, however, that these terms are for professional use only and never to be employed in the presence of tenants, who, almost without exception, prefer the words
very
and
reasonable.
If the price of a building strikes you as excessive, you would do well to consider that wise old slogan “It’s not the initial cost—it’s the upkeep,” for as landlord you are in the enviable position of having entered a profession in which the upkeep is taken care of by the customer. This concept may be somewhat easier to grasp by simply thinking of yourself as a kind of telephone company. You will be further encouraged when you realize that while there may indeed be a wide disparity in building prices, this terrible inequity need not be passed on to the tenant in the degrading form of lower rent. It should now be clear to the attentive student that choosing a building is basically a matter of personal taste and, since it is the rare landlord who is troubled by such a quality, we shall proceed to the next lesson.
The most important factor here is that you understand that a room is a matter of opinion. It is, after all, your building, and if you choose to designate a given amount of space as a room, then indeed it
is
a room. Specifying the function of the room is also your responsibility, and tenants need frequently to be reminded of this as they will all too often display a tendency to call
one of your rooms a closet. This is, of course, a laughable pretension, since few tenants have ever seen a closet.
A certain number of walls are one of the necessary evils of the business. And while some of you will understandably bridle at the expense, the observant student is aware that walls offer a good return on investment by way of providing one of the basic components of rooms. That is not to say that you, as landlord, must be a slave to convention. Plaster and similarly substantial materials are embarrassingly passé to the progressive student. If you are a father, you know that walls can enjoyably be made by children at home or camp with a simple paste of flour and water and some of Daddy’s old newspapers. The childless landlord might well be interested in Wallies—a valuable new product that comes on a roll. Wallies tear off easily and
can
be painted, should such a procedure ever be enforced by law.
The arrival of winter seems invariably to infect the tenant with an almost fanatical lust for warmth. Sweaters and socks he may have galore; yet he refuses to perceive their usefulness and stubbornly and selfishly insists upon obtaining
his
warmth through
your
heat. There are any number of ploys available to the resourceful landlord, but the most effective requires an actual cash outlay. No mind, it’s well worth it—fun, too. Purchase a tape recorder. Bring the tape recorder to your suburban home and place it in the vicinity of your heater. Here its sensitive mechanism will pick up the sounds of impending warmth. This recording played at high volume in
the basement of the building has been known to stymie tenants for days on end.
It is, of course, difficult for the landlord to understand the tenant’s craving for water when the modern supermarket is fairly bursting with juices and soft drinks of every description. The burden is made no easier by the fact that at least some of the time this water must be hot. The difficult situation is only partially alleviated by the knowledge that
hot
, like
room
, is a matter of opinion.
It is the solemn duty of every landlord to maintain an adequate supply of roaches. The minimum acceptable roach to tenant ratio is four thousand to one. Should this arrangement prompt an expression of displeasure on the part of the tenant, ignore him absolutely. The tenant is a notorious complainer. Just why this is so is not certain, though a number of theories abound. The most plausible of these ascribes the tenant’s chronic irritability to his widely suspected habit of drinking enormous quantities of heat and hot water—a practice well known to result in the tragically premature demise of hallway light bulbs.
The term
stage mother
is used to describe a female parent who, to put it kindly, has taken it upon herself to instill in her child theatrical ambition and eventual success. The entire upbringing of the child has this goal as its basis and has undoubtedly resulted in the creation of more than a few stars.
Ours, however, is an age of specialization and keen competition and it is naive to assume that this sort of childrearing technique is confined to the world of show business. Below are some examples:
The architecture mother does indeed have her work cut out for her. Her days are filled with the difficult task of impressing upon her youngster the need for economy of line and the desirability of wiping one’s feet before coming into the machine for living. Other mothers have children who pay attention, who realize that form should follow function, and that there’s such a thing as
considering the reflective qualities of glass
before
going out to play. Other mothers can relax once in a while because their children listen the
first
time without having to be told over and over again, until I’m sick of hearing myself say it,
“Less, less, I mean it, less.
And I’m
not
going to say it again.”
Here is a job that presents such a multiplicity of problems that relatively few have entered the field. The work is arduous and the hours long, for it is still too soon to tell whether the child will be early morning, midafternoon, or late night. Hardly a facet of modern life can be disregarded. “Vegas, darling, the ‘Las’ is strictly for
them.
Just plain Vegas. That’s right. Now what do we do in Vegas? No, darling, that’s what
they
do in Vegas.
We play
Vegas. We
are playing
Vegas. We
played
Vegas. Let’s not forget our grammar. Let’s have a little consideration for the English language here, please. Now, when we play Vegas what else do we do? That’s right—
kill them. Kill them
in Vegas.
Killing them
in Vegas.
Killed them
in Vegas. And what do we do when things get interesting? Well, yes, we can bleep sometimes, but that’s not what pays allowances, is it? That’s not what buys bicycles. No. We sell a little something. We cut to a commercial. We have a word from our sponsors and we break the stations. Good. Now, here’s a book. What do we do with books? No, and I don’t want to have to say it again,
we
don’t read books. You want to read books or you want to be a television talk show host? You can’t have it both ways. We don’t
read
books. We
mean
to read books. And where do we mean to read books? That’s right—
on the plane. We meant to read it on the plane.
And why didn’t we? Come on, we’ve been through this a thousand times. I’ll give you a hint—but
this is the last time. O.K., here’s the hint—it starts with
D.
That’s right, Duke. We meant to read it on the plane but we ran into the Duke—Duke Wayne. Very good, darling, terriffic. I think that’s enough for tonight. Just a minute, young man, where do you think
you’re
going? To bed? Really? Without a quick rundown of tomorrow night’s guests? That’s how you leave a room? Very nice. Excellent. Eighteen hours a day with this and you just leave the room without a quick rundown of tomorrow night’s guests. That’s no way to be a television talk show host and if you don’t learn now you’re going to find out later the hard way. I
mean it.
I don’t like to say it—I
am
your mother—but you’re going to be canceled, I mean it. What? Who? Cloris Leachman? Gore Vidal? Shecky Green? Dr. Joyce Brothers and Jim Bouton? That’s my baby. You’re a beautiful guy, darling. Good night.”
The burden borne by the mortician mother is not an easy one. For she must spend virtually every waking hour policing the behavior of her child. Is that
giggling
she hears? Wearily she must go to his room and admonish him for the ten thousandth time, “Could you look a little somber, please? I mean, is that too much to ask? A little dignity? A little sorrowful understanding? Other kids manage to look somber without having to be told every twenty seconds. Other kids can be trusted alone for ten minutes without a lot of laughter. Other kids don’t shrug their shoulders and walk away when their mothers ask for a little opinion on how they look—other kids say, ‘Very lifelike’ in a nice hushed tone the first time they’re asked. Other kids can wear a carnation a whole day without it wilting. I don’t know where I went wrong with you. I don’t know where you got this taste for simplicity, not even simplicity: just ordinary cheapness
if you ask me. Oh yes, don’t think I don’t know about that plain pine box you’ve got in here. I’m not stupid. Well, let me tell you something, Mr. Know-It-All. There is such a thing as solid mahogany with real brass fittings and satin lining and the sooner you learn that the better off you’ll be.”
Few appreciate the problems that beset the mother of the aspiring headwaiter. Not only has she to contend with the difficulty of instilling in him a passion for the unnecessary flourish but she must also curb his every naïve instinct for friendliness. “How many times have I told you not to answer the first time you’re spoken to?
How many?
And what is this
helpful business
all of a sudden, may I ask? Where did you pick
that
up? Is
that
what you want to be when you grow up?
Helpful?
Fine. Wonderful. Go, be helpful. Be a Boy Scout for all I care. Yes, a Boy Scout—because that’s how you’ll end up if you don’t stop fooling around.
I’m
not the one who wants to be a headwaiter. I’m not the one who said, ‘Oh, Mommy, if you mold me into a headwaiter I’ll never ask you for another thing, not ever.’ So I’m not the one who’ll suffer. You want to be a headwaiter?
Act
like a headwaiter. A little ignoring, please. A little uncalled-for arrogance. You want to be obsequious? Believe me, there’s a time and a place. Princess Grace comes in, David Rockefeller, Tennessee Williams, O.K., fine, good,
then
be obsequious—you have my blessing. But I don’t want to see it all the time. I don’t want to see it for some expense account jerk who’s out on the town. I don’t want to see it for every leisure suit with two on the aisle for
A Chorus Line.
Understand? A little more influence peddling and a little less with the warm welcome, O.K.? Your father and I aren’t going to be here forever, you know.”
The restaurant critic mother is a proud woman. So proud, in fact, that those who know her have pretty much had it up to here with listening to what a picky eater she’s got on her hands. But her pride is understandable, for she has earned it. For years she has asked, “How was lunch, dear?” only to be answered with a terse “O.K.” Over and over again she has drilled her little charge until the happy day when her question elicits this rewarding response: “Mommy, the sandwich was superb. The Wonder Bread softly unobtrusive, the perfect foil for both the richly poignant Superchunky Skippy and the clear, fragrant Welch’s grape. The carrot sticks were exquisitely sweet, yet asserted their integrity in every glorious crunch. The Yoo Hoo was interesting—adolescent but robust—and the Yankee Doodle, a symphony of snowy creme filling and rich, dark cake; the whole of it bathed in a splendor of chocolate-flavored icing that verged on the sinful.”
Not so long ago, in Manhattan’s fashionable East Fifties, there appeared an institution called the First Women’s Bank. This prompted me to speculate:
I have mulled this over and have been successful in formulating answers to all three questions. My original intention was to answer these questions in order, but I eventually chose another plan of action. Lest you get the wrong impression, I hasten to assure you that this in no way constitutes a flamboyant display of perversity. It is simply that I changed my mind—which is, after all, a woman’s prerogative.
Rather than attempt to answer this question by utilizing the methods of the investigative reporter—legwork, research, and digging for facts—I decided instead to employ those of the irresponsible wag: lying on the sofa, talking on the phone, and making things up. This procedure proved quite satisfactory and has resulted in the following report.
The First Women’s Bank is called the First Women’s Bank only in deference to convention. It is not the real name. The real name is Separate Checks. When a typical customer (for the purposes of clarity we’ll call her Jane Doe) enters the bank she has three windows from which to choose: