New journal- essay- "The Curse"
It's time I got back into the habit of writing on a daily basis. I've advertised around a little bit for this journal, so if you've come here looking for something to read, I shall not disappoint.
The first piece I am going to post is an essay written last week for the New Yorker. I didn't feel it was strong enough to publish, but I thought you all might enjoy it as a starter.
The Curse
I live under a curse. It’s a little curse, though, and as such it doesn’t get a lot of consideration. About yea high to a breadbox, I tell people, while using my hand at various levels depending on what kind of day I’m having.
I would tell you how I came by it, if I knew. Presumably I was less than polite to some budding young student of the dark arts with a stunning victimization complex. I suspect the barista at the Starbucks down the street from my villa; I have never been a particularly good tipper. For all I know, it could have been something I stepped in while out for a stroll. I like to think I was just so bubbly and cheerful that it followed me home, much like a puppy or perhaps a cat, if you carry too many fish in your pockets.
It isn’t particularly devastating, this curse of mine. Yesterday I stubbed the pinky toe (I call it the poky) on my right foot three times while walking down the hall to the foyer. Hopping into the room, I chanced upon our manservant, Lawrence “Larry” Borth. He seemed quite entertained by my one-legged peril. He went so far as to inquire whether I was practicing for an “Ass-kicking” contest! I tersely explained that my right poky had been stubbed nearly into inversion, a ykop, if you will. Then I ordered him to find me one of these contests and register me post-haste, as I felt I was quite nimble and up to the challenge.
Larry is a good man, though he can be somewhat difficult to tolerate at times. “He’s of the Leavenworth state penitentiary Borths,” we tell our guests. A product of those new butler training programs, you know. He still takes to wearing overalls when not on duty, and there’s really not much that can be done about the one eye. He also has this bad habit of licking sharp objects while making eye contact, which we’ve tried to break him of. We tell him it’s somewhat unsettling but so far he hasn’t been able to stop himself. I’m not sure what that says about the training programs themselves, but he’s been ever so helpful, and when the police come around we try as best as we can to convince them that he is out of town, and no, we don’t know anything about three disappearances and a truck bomb at the Canadian border. You have to stick up for your people, you know. He came to us at the very start of this whole cursed mess, and he’s been invaluable.
These days, a lot of people hear the word “Curse” and are immediately in the mood to discuss Harry Potter. I can assure you that an actual curse is a far more subtle thing. Wands may or may not have been waved, I am not privy to such knowledge, but if they were it was in the privacy of someone’s own home. If I had a wand I think I would have a special wand-waving study set up, with any decorations being of sturdy and durable design, in case I grew too enthusiastic. I would certainly not adopt a sobriquet like “Lord Voldemort,” or some such. Did you know that his name means flight of death? I had picked up the “Of death” part on my own, but did not bother to translate the rest. (In truth I just assumed he was a vole of death, and the major reveal in the final book would relate to his proclivities for garden destruction). In either case, with a name conjuring up images as terrifying as a homicidal burrowing creature, or possibly a bad airline movie, it is fairly clear why Voldemort was never big in France.
Of late there have been a few more serious issues with the curse. Today my number three Mercedes slipped out of park and ran over my mother. She’s quite well, don’t worry! I keep telling her that the tread marks across her lower back are quite fetching, and perhaps gravelly shins will make a comeback this season. I did notice that the brake lines had been cut, which is unusually up front for my little curse. Lucky for me I was driving the number two that day!
No, there are no thunderclouds eternally hovering about my head, a cliché of cursedom if ever there was one. This is a decidedly anti-deluvian curse. Full disclosure, though- I did once make the mistake of wandering our grounds at 5pm on a Wednesday, which everyone knows is sprinkler time. Wet loafers, yuck! Honestly it seems as though the poor thing is hardly trying, some days. I wonder if it isn’t becoming a little distracted, or perhaps having seen so much of me it has finally become impressed by my natural wit and charisma.
I try to keep my curse happy, to do little things to let it know I’m thinking about it. Last week I placed a box of hammers on top of a shelf and then loitered for a while, whistling a jaunty tune. It didn’t seem as if my curse had noticed, so after some time I walked outside to the servant’s quarters to find Larry and perhaps get him to saw off one of the corners on the shelf, to make it a wee bit more wobbly (A daunting task, as all our furniture is solid oak). Wouldn’t you know it, there was a rusty nail poking up through the grass, right at the place where I usually stand to rap on his window! We had a good laugh about that one on the way to the hospital, I can assure you.
You learn who your friends are, when you’re cursed. If your house catches fire for the fifth time during a party, well! That’s when true colors start to shine. Only two people stayed for the cleanup that evening. One of them had the bad manners to accuse our poor manservant of arson! I explained that singed cuffs and an odor of gasoline are nothing more than circumstantial evidence at best. Perhaps he had been servicing one of the lawnmowers or burning off the lawn scraps while wearing his three piece suit.
Our best friends, the Chudsby’s, have really risen above and beyond the call of duty during this ordeal. Mr. Chudsby is absolutely convinced that my frequent outbursts about the curse are the unvarnished truth. Nonetheless, he often invites me to drive his car to the airport, or to housesit if he’s going to be in Bermuda for a week. Why, I don’t think there’s a single fully insured item of his that I haven’t been asked to manage! If I were a more misanthropic sort I might suspect fraud, but I try to see it as an expression of trust. “Don’t you worry about that nasty C-U-R-S-E!” He’ll whisper on his way out the door, a merry twinkle in his eye. “We’re paid up! Miss Chudsby’s got her eye on this new SUV- V8, you know.” Luckily for all concerned, my curse seems far more active around my own home than elsewhere.
It’s hard to relate to a concept, in any sort of physical way. It’s a bit like trying to have a relationship with a sentence, or to understand the vagaries of migrant labor laws. They’re just so good with hedges! Every now and again I feel like I catch a glimpse of the curse itself, flitting around in my peripheral vision. Once as I was pushed down our longest flight of stairs I could have sworn I saw a figure in a stately black suit ducking quickly out of sight! For the most part though, even I have to admit that our interactions are purely of the mind. We’ll share a wry grin over a sprained ankle here, a hearty chuckle over the flaming remains of my pet goldfish Lucky there.
Have I tried to get rid of it? Oh, naturally, I mean even if it’s just to be a good sport about it, one has to make some attempt. I’ve called in three separate priests to exorcise the house, but I am beginning to suspect the whole thing is a sham. Perhaps I’ll watch closely if I hire another one- previously I’ve been out on business and Larry has had to show them about. Two have disappeared entirely, no doubt when their fraudulent measures were entirely ineffective. The last one was responsible for another one of those embarrassing police visits, and to this day he won’t return my phone calls.
In a lot of ways it’s actually comforting to be able to place all of one’s problems in the hands of an external entity. It certainly removes the weight of responsibility when something goes wrong! When I’m at the counter at Macy’s and my third straight credit card is maxed out, I just shrug to the people behind me and grin. “Cursed!” I say. “What can you do?” Some of them take this opportunity to tell me exactly what I can do, and with what, and where. I ignore those people. They have obviously never been cursed. Keep going on like that though, and I see an angry barista in their future!
The thing about a curse is, you’ve got a constant reminder that somebody’s thinking about you. When you’re cursed, you’re important. Most of us, waking up with a mild concussion to learn that a brick fell from a third story window onto our skulls, would bemoan our rotten luck. Not me! I just tighten the bandages, wink into the ether, and say “Got me again!” Then I look for a pail and become violently ill. Many people would descend into fits of paranoia, and indeed a few have suggested that some person is out to get me. I always reply “Well, clearly! These curses don’t arrive spontaneously!” The idea that anyone is physically trying to visit harm upon my person is laughable, though. I mean, who could possibly have the time or the inclination? People who live their lives afraid of others are a sad lot.
Really though, I appreciate that something out there is dedicated to me, and me alone. Even if it’s malevolent, that’s a level of attention most people can only dream of. That’s why when I stagger out of bed clutching a bloody rag to my forehead and wondering why the standard size for buckets isn’t upped to five gallons (It would benefit everyone really), I puff out my chest and proudly proclaim to anyone passing by, “Don’t mind me- I live under a curse.”
The first piece I am going to post is an essay written last week for the New Yorker. I didn't feel it was strong enough to publish, but I thought you all might enjoy it as a starter.
The Curse
I live under a curse. It’s a little curse, though, and as such it doesn’t get a lot of consideration. About yea high to a breadbox, I tell people, while using my hand at various levels depending on what kind of day I’m having.
I would tell you how I came by it, if I knew. Presumably I was less than polite to some budding young student of the dark arts with a stunning victimization complex. I suspect the barista at the Starbucks down the street from my villa; I have never been a particularly good tipper. For all I know, it could have been something I stepped in while out for a stroll. I like to think I was just so bubbly and cheerful that it followed me home, much like a puppy or perhaps a cat, if you carry too many fish in your pockets.
It isn’t particularly devastating, this curse of mine. Yesterday I stubbed the pinky toe (I call it the poky) on my right foot three times while walking down the hall to the foyer. Hopping into the room, I chanced upon our manservant, Lawrence “Larry” Borth. He seemed quite entertained by my one-legged peril. He went so far as to inquire whether I was practicing for an “Ass-kicking” contest! I tersely explained that my right poky had been stubbed nearly into inversion, a ykop, if you will. Then I ordered him to find me one of these contests and register me post-haste, as I felt I was quite nimble and up to the challenge.
Larry is a good man, though he can be somewhat difficult to tolerate at times. “He’s of the Leavenworth state penitentiary Borths,” we tell our guests. A product of those new butler training programs, you know. He still takes to wearing overalls when not on duty, and there’s really not much that can be done about the one eye. He also has this bad habit of licking sharp objects while making eye contact, which we’ve tried to break him of. We tell him it’s somewhat unsettling but so far he hasn’t been able to stop himself. I’m not sure what that says about the training programs themselves, but he’s been ever so helpful, and when the police come around we try as best as we can to convince them that he is out of town, and no, we don’t know anything about three disappearances and a truck bomb at the Canadian border. You have to stick up for your people, you know. He came to us at the very start of this whole cursed mess, and he’s been invaluable.
These days, a lot of people hear the word “Curse” and are immediately in the mood to discuss Harry Potter. I can assure you that an actual curse is a far more subtle thing. Wands may or may not have been waved, I am not privy to such knowledge, but if they were it was in the privacy of someone’s own home. If I had a wand I think I would have a special wand-waving study set up, with any decorations being of sturdy and durable design, in case I grew too enthusiastic. I would certainly not adopt a sobriquet like “Lord Voldemort,” or some such. Did you know that his name means flight of death? I had picked up the “Of death” part on my own, but did not bother to translate the rest. (In truth I just assumed he was a vole of death, and the major reveal in the final book would relate to his proclivities for garden destruction). In either case, with a name conjuring up images as terrifying as a homicidal burrowing creature, or possibly a bad airline movie, it is fairly clear why Voldemort was never big in France.
Of late there have been a few more serious issues with the curse. Today my number three Mercedes slipped out of park and ran over my mother. She’s quite well, don’t worry! I keep telling her that the tread marks across her lower back are quite fetching, and perhaps gravelly shins will make a comeback this season. I did notice that the brake lines had been cut, which is unusually up front for my little curse. Lucky for me I was driving the number two that day!
No, there are no thunderclouds eternally hovering about my head, a cliché of cursedom if ever there was one. This is a decidedly anti-deluvian curse. Full disclosure, though- I did once make the mistake of wandering our grounds at 5pm on a Wednesday, which everyone knows is sprinkler time. Wet loafers, yuck! Honestly it seems as though the poor thing is hardly trying, some days. I wonder if it isn’t becoming a little distracted, or perhaps having seen so much of me it has finally become impressed by my natural wit and charisma.
I try to keep my curse happy, to do little things to let it know I’m thinking about it. Last week I placed a box of hammers on top of a shelf and then loitered for a while, whistling a jaunty tune. It didn’t seem as if my curse had noticed, so after some time I walked outside to the servant’s quarters to find Larry and perhaps get him to saw off one of the corners on the shelf, to make it a wee bit more wobbly (A daunting task, as all our furniture is solid oak). Wouldn’t you know it, there was a rusty nail poking up through the grass, right at the place where I usually stand to rap on his window! We had a good laugh about that one on the way to the hospital, I can assure you.
You learn who your friends are, when you’re cursed. If your house catches fire for the fifth time during a party, well! That’s when true colors start to shine. Only two people stayed for the cleanup that evening. One of them had the bad manners to accuse our poor manservant of arson! I explained that singed cuffs and an odor of gasoline are nothing more than circumstantial evidence at best. Perhaps he had been servicing one of the lawnmowers or burning off the lawn scraps while wearing his three piece suit.
Our best friends, the Chudsby’s, have really risen above and beyond the call of duty during this ordeal. Mr. Chudsby is absolutely convinced that my frequent outbursts about the curse are the unvarnished truth. Nonetheless, he often invites me to drive his car to the airport, or to housesit if he’s going to be in Bermuda for a week. Why, I don’t think there’s a single fully insured item of his that I haven’t been asked to manage! If I were a more misanthropic sort I might suspect fraud, but I try to see it as an expression of trust. “Don’t you worry about that nasty C-U-R-S-E!” He’ll whisper on his way out the door, a merry twinkle in his eye. “We’re paid up! Miss Chudsby’s got her eye on this new SUV- V8, you know.” Luckily for all concerned, my curse seems far more active around my own home than elsewhere.
It’s hard to relate to a concept, in any sort of physical way. It’s a bit like trying to have a relationship with a sentence, or to understand the vagaries of migrant labor laws. They’re just so good with hedges! Every now and again I feel like I catch a glimpse of the curse itself, flitting around in my peripheral vision. Once as I was pushed down our longest flight of stairs I could have sworn I saw a figure in a stately black suit ducking quickly out of sight! For the most part though, even I have to admit that our interactions are purely of the mind. We’ll share a wry grin over a sprained ankle here, a hearty chuckle over the flaming remains of my pet goldfish Lucky there.
Have I tried to get rid of it? Oh, naturally, I mean even if it’s just to be a good sport about it, one has to make some attempt. I’ve called in three separate priests to exorcise the house, but I am beginning to suspect the whole thing is a sham. Perhaps I’ll watch closely if I hire another one- previously I’ve been out on business and Larry has had to show them about. Two have disappeared entirely, no doubt when their fraudulent measures were entirely ineffective. The last one was responsible for another one of those embarrassing police visits, and to this day he won’t return my phone calls.
In a lot of ways it’s actually comforting to be able to place all of one’s problems in the hands of an external entity. It certainly removes the weight of responsibility when something goes wrong! When I’m at the counter at Macy’s and my third straight credit card is maxed out, I just shrug to the people behind me and grin. “Cursed!” I say. “What can you do?” Some of them take this opportunity to tell me exactly what I can do, and with what, and where. I ignore those people. They have obviously never been cursed. Keep going on like that though, and I see an angry barista in their future!
The thing about a curse is, you’ve got a constant reminder that somebody’s thinking about you. When you’re cursed, you’re important. Most of us, waking up with a mild concussion to learn that a brick fell from a third story window onto our skulls, would bemoan our rotten luck. Not me! I just tighten the bandages, wink into the ether, and say “Got me again!” Then I look for a pail and become violently ill. Many people would descend into fits of paranoia, and indeed a few have suggested that some person is out to get me. I always reply “Well, clearly! These curses don’t arrive spontaneously!” The idea that anyone is physically trying to visit harm upon my person is laughable, though. I mean, who could possibly have the time or the inclination? People who live their lives afraid of others are a sad lot.
Really though, I appreciate that something out there is dedicated to me, and me alone. Even if it’s malevolent, that’s a level of attention most people can only dream of. That’s why when I stagger out of bed clutching a bloody rag to my forehead and wondering why the standard size for buckets isn’t upped to five gallons (It would benefit everyone really), I puff out my chest and proudly proclaim to anyone passing by, “Don’t mind me- I live under a curse.”