Squid in Love
Ramona likes Bruno ’cuz he has three arms.
That’s right, three.
Right now, none of the little boys have cars or clothes or good jobs, and they all have good hair, so it probably seems as good a criterion as any for her to use in her search for a soul mate.
***
Not that my Bruno’s a saint; he’s as shallow as the next fellow.
Ramona has a giant raspberry, you see, on her nose. It sits right there on the tip, like a tough little crabapple. Or a rose-colored sight on a rifle. From far away, it seems to glow and guide her. It guided her straight to Bruno.
She thinks it makes her special and so does he. You would think it was a ruby or something, the way that girl runs around, waving it, sticking it in everybody else’s business. Sometimes, after she makes Bruno chase her for a little while, she surrenders in the corner of the sandbox and lets him touch it. He squeezes it gently, right on the red part, and she lets out a little squeak, like a puppy’s chew toy. A chew toy for my three-armed boy.
The reality is that none of the other children will play with them, but Bruno and Ramona don’t know that yet. They think they’ve chosen each other, and chosen well. They’re a regular power couple, those two.
***
Of course, Ramona is going to have that raspberry removed.
Neither she nor Bruno is aware of this either, but this is what Ramona’s mother has been screaming at me silently, via some kind of telepathic disclaimer, from across the sandbox. And that’s okay, I think. I hear you. Just let them fall in love for a little while. Just show me where to sign.
She watches, with a pained expression, as our two children play. Her instinct, I know, is to take her daughter and run-away from us, away from my son. And I don’t blame her. How does she think I felt, I feel like asking her, the first time I watched Bruno play with himself?
But she knows that—for the time being, anyway—she and her raspberry-nosed Ramona have no place to go. To drive this point home, to buy Bruno just a little more time, I’ll do anything. I have no shame. I’ll hum the melody to that song about the reindeer. A few times I do this. I raise my eyebrows and glance over at the other children and then back. To help this other mother understand that her daughter’s no big whoop either. To remind her that beggars can’t be choosers. To beg her not to go—please not yet, just to stay a little longer—so that Bruno has someone. Besides me.
She’s not a bad person, this mother. In fact, she is the closest thing I have, in this competitive little urban playgroup in the park near my house, to a friend. And so we have struck a deal. She stays. Her daughter plays. For now, anyway. With an option to renegotiate terms at a later date.
Trust me; I understand the impulse. It’s a scary thing, that arm. Scared my bum husband right out of our lives; not even Bruno could hold him. I thought about running too, lots of times, but whenever I decided that today was the day, that I was ready to go, go figure, I always found myself packing Bruno. I guess that’s what mothers do: they pack Bruno.
***
Sometimes a new mother, someone who doesn’t know, will join our little circle. Maybe she is trying to escape too. Maybe she will have walked the few extra blocks north, hoping that this sandbox will be different, that no one will know them. That she and her son will be popular.
Seeing my son playing by himself, she will gently push her boy in Bruno’s direction. She will think herself kind. You’re the big kid on campus now, she’ll say. Be big about it and go play with the loser.
But then she’ll see It. Bruno and her son will somehow be holding hands, even though Bruno will also be holding two hands out to his side, flapping like an angel’s wings.
She will frown, squint, confused. She will think her eyes are playing tricks on her, when really it will only be me.
It’s Bruno’s penis, I’ll tell her, that her hotshot son is holding onto for dear life. “As you might imagine,” I’ll say, “his father and I are very proud.”
But Bruno hates it when I tell that joke. He’s warned me that he’s going to get a complex, not to mention the other kid, if I keep it up. So he lets go of his new best friend’s hand and waves at this woman shyly.
It’s a good thing these scenes usually take place in a sandbox, is all I can say. For the other mother’s sake. For all of these other mothers who faint at the drop of a hat. Or the mere wave of fifteen little fingers.
***
The hardest thing to get used to was the way that Bruno hugged.
Like he was pulling you closer and pushing you away, all at the same time. Great, had been my first reaction: he takes after his father.
But, of course, unlike his father, Bruno can’t help it. That third arm’s just there, smack dab in the middle of his chest. It’s connected to his heart, and some kind of major vein or something. That’s why they can’t remove it entirely. It’s like Bruno’s holding his own heart, holding it out to the world.
They offered to chop it off at the shoulder, to amputate. It would look like a big rib, they said, or—at worst—a breast. A breast in the center of his chest.
I thought about it; the doctors insisted I go home and think about it. But all I could think about, no matter how hard I tried to think about the other things, was how from the beginning, that third arm seemed to be connected to Bruno’s favorite fingers. How it was a perfectly good arm. How he was a perfectly good little boy.
I said no way.
***
Someday it will be better, I think, as this mother takes her son out of the sandbox and whisks him away, so that it’s just me and Bruno again.
Someday, maybe Bruno will even be a ladies’ man. The ravishing Ramona will have tried the rest, but then come back to the best—the only boy, she’ll say in their wedding toast, who could ever make her squeak.
Bruno looks at me, worried that I’m upset, that he’s done something wrong, so I smile at him and make a funny face and tell him his new friend just had to go home.
Then both of us watch as his mother makes a liar out of me and takes her kid to the jungle gym, just across the park, where she is embraced by some of the other mothers, and where the other kids hang on the monkey bars like silent, solemn monkeys, witness to a kill by the watering hole.
I see something move out of the corner of my eye. At first I think it is Bruno giving the departing newbies the finger. Which I will privately cheer but, of course, publicly disapprove of, for the sake of his social development.
Or maybe it is for me, I think, that finger. And I will accept it, with my head bowed, having expected it since the day I told them to leave it on.
But it isn’t either of those things.
Bruno gives me the thumbs up.
That’s right, three.
© Tania Zamorsky 2002
This story was first published in Prima Materia Volume 2: Home, Family and Other Mixed Blessings.
Ramona likes Bruno ’cuz he has three arms.
That’s right, three.
Right now, none of the little boys have cars or clothes or good jobs, and they all have good hair, so it probably seems as good a criterion as any for her to use in her search for a soul mate.
***
Not that my Bruno’s a saint; he’s as shallow as the next fellow.
Ramona has a giant raspberry, you see, on her nose. It sits right there on the tip, like a tough little crabapple. Or a rose-colored sight on a rifle. From far away, it seems to glow and guide her. It guided her straight to Bruno.
She thinks it makes her special and so does he. You would think it was a ruby or something, the way that girl runs around, waving it, sticking it in everybody else’s business. Sometimes, after she makes Bruno chase her for a little while, she surrenders in the corner of the sandbox and lets him touch it. He squeezes it gently, right on the red part, and she lets out a little squeak, like a puppy’s chew toy. A chew toy for my three-armed boy.
The reality is that none of the other children will play with them, but Bruno and Ramona don’t know that yet. They think they’ve chosen each other, and chosen well. They’re a regular power couple, those two.
***
Of course, Ramona is going to have that raspberry removed.
Neither she nor Bruno is aware of this either, but this is what Ramona’s mother has been screaming at me silently, via some kind of telepathic disclaimer, from across the sandbox. And that’s okay, I think. I hear you. Just let them fall in love for a little while. Just show me where to sign.
She watches, with a pained expression, as our two children play. Her instinct, I know, is to take her daughter and run-away from us, away from my son. And I don’t blame her. How does she think I felt, I feel like asking her, the first time I watched Bruno play with himself?
But she knows that—for the time being, anyway—she and her raspberry-nosed Ramona have no place to go. To drive this point home, to buy Bruno just a little more time, I’ll do anything. I have no shame. I’ll hum the melody to that song about the reindeer. A few times I do this. I raise my eyebrows and glance over at the other children and then back. To help this other mother understand that her daughter’s no big whoop either. To remind her that beggars can’t be choosers. To beg her not to go—please not yet, just to stay a little longer—so that Bruno has someone. Besides me.
She’s not a bad person, this mother. In fact, she is the closest thing I have, in this competitive little urban playgroup in the park near my house, to a friend. And so we have struck a deal. She stays. Her daughter plays. For now, anyway. With an option to renegotiate terms at a later date.
Trust me; I understand the impulse. It’s a scary thing, that arm. Scared my bum husband right out of our lives; not even Bruno could hold him. I thought about running too, lots of times, but whenever I decided that today was the day, that I was ready to go, go figure, I always found myself packing Bruno. I guess that’s what mothers do: they pack Bruno.
***
Sometimes a new mother, someone who doesn’t know, will join our little circle. Maybe she is trying to escape too. Maybe she will have walked the few extra blocks north, hoping that this sandbox will be different, that no one will know them. That she and her son will be popular.
Seeing my son playing by himself, she will gently push her boy in Bruno’s direction. She will think herself kind. You’re the big kid on campus now, she’ll say. Be big about it and go play with the loser.
But then she’ll see It. Bruno and her son will somehow be holding hands, even though Bruno will also be holding two hands out to his side, flapping like an angel’s wings.
She will frown, squint, confused. She will think her eyes are playing tricks on her, when really it will only be me.
It’s Bruno’s penis, I’ll tell her, that her hotshot son is holding onto for dear life. “As you might imagine,” I’ll say, “his father and I are very proud.”
But Bruno hates it when I tell that joke. He’s warned me that he’s going to get a complex, not to mention the other kid, if I keep it up. So he lets go of his new best friend’s hand and waves at this woman shyly.
It’s a good thing these scenes usually take place in a sandbox, is all I can say. For the other mother’s sake. For all of these other mothers who faint at the drop of a hat. Or the mere wave of fifteen little fingers.
***
The hardest thing to get used to was the way that Bruno hugged.
Like he was pulling you closer and pushing you away, all at the same time. Great, had been my first reaction: he takes after his father.
But, of course, unlike his father, Bruno can’t help it. That third arm’s just there, smack dab in the middle of his chest. It’s connected to his heart, and some kind of major vein or something. That’s why they can’t remove it entirely. It’s like Bruno’s holding his own heart, holding it out to the world.
They offered to chop it off at the shoulder, to amputate. It would look like a big rib, they said, or—at worst—a breast. A breast in the center of his chest.
I thought about it; the doctors insisted I go home and think about it. But all I could think about, no matter how hard I tried to think about the other things, was how from the beginning, that third arm seemed to be connected to Bruno’s favorite fingers. How it was a perfectly good arm. How he was a perfectly good little boy.
I said no way.
***
Someday it will be better, I think, as this mother takes her son out of the sandbox and whisks him away, so that it’s just me and Bruno again.
Someday, maybe Bruno will even be a ladies’ man. The ravishing Ramona will have tried the rest, but then come back to the best—the only boy, she’ll say in their wedding toast, who could ever make her squeak.
Bruno looks at me, worried that I’m upset, that he’s done something wrong, so I smile at him and make a funny face and tell him his new friend just had to go home.
Then both of us watch as his mother makes a liar out of me and takes her kid to the jungle gym, just across the park, where she is embraced by some of the other mothers, and where the other kids hang on the monkey bars like silent, solemn monkeys, witness to a kill by the watering hole.
I see something move out of the corner of my eye. At first I think it is Bruno giving the departing newbies the finger. Which I will privately cheer but, of course, publicly disapprove of, for the sake of his social development.
Or maybe it is for me, I think, that finger. And I will accept it, with my head bowed, having expected it since the day I told them to leave it on.
But it isn’t either of those things.
Bruno gives me the thumbs up.
That’s right, three.
© Tania Zamorsky 2002
This story was first published in Prima Materia Volume 2: Home, Family and Other Mixed Blessings.
Narrated by Tania Zamorsky
Narrated by Tania Zamorsky
POST RECITAL
TALK
BR: Hi Tania. Welcome to The Strange Recital.
TZ: Thank you so much for having me.
TN: “Squid in Love”... an unpredictable but evocative title for this story. How did you come up with that?
TZ: Well, I feel like I'm always collecting interesting word combinations or phrases. I scribble them into the margins of books or on to scraps of paper and tell myself that I'm going to write something with them and usually don't but in this case I did. I was at lunch with a friend at a Thai restaurant, and this was a menu name, an entrée name. Apparently it's quite a common one.
BR: When I first published this story in my literary journal years ago, I didn’t realize that it was ahead of its time… it fits very well into today’s zeitgeist of fighting for tolerance of those who don’t fit old stereotypes of what is so-called normal. What was your initial inspiration?
TZ: Well, I mean that's so interesting and thank you. I'm honored to fit into that zeitgeist. I think we should all be fighting for tolerance and I can only hope that I would be as fierce an advocate as Bruno's mom was for her son. But I think one of my literal inspirations was the birth of a friend's baby. She was just a beautiful little girl, just full of such a life-force and such confidence and she also happened to have a very Ramona-esque birthmark on her face. It was not on the tip of her nose. I did that to her I think, and I think I always assumed it was going to be removed. It certainly wasn't a big deal either way but I do remember thinking that if she did not have it removed, that there would probably come a time in her young life when somebody did her the great favor of informing her that she was not quite as fabulous as she thought she was. And I'm sure that that did in fact happen to her in other ways, for other reasons but it happens to all of us I think, as we grow up and walk through the world. But it got me thinking and it's something that I think about quite often--that we are all flawed and we all have something that makes us ashamed, or whatever it is--some third arm, and I think we also all have a choice about how we can respond to that. We can rail against it and let it make us angry and weary, or we can do what Bruno's mom did, which is to adopt this very defensive stance—dukes up, ready to take everybody on, or we can do what Bruno did, which I think is more to remain soft in the face of that and try to cultivate optimism and even a little joy. So...yeah. It's easier said than done, I think.
TN: Yeah, yeah. Well you know, you’ve achieved a tone that includes both humor and pathos. Was that a conscious aim, using writerly technique, or just good luck?
TZ: I wish that it was a conscious aim. I think sadly, or perhaps not so sadly, those are just my raw ingredients. I do try to push the pathos portion down but the two tend to re-establish themselves at about a fifty-fifty level and maybe that's okay.
BR: It is. Now one way I read this story is that Bruno is the inner child of the narrator. No one has a perfect childhood; each of us feels flawed in that hidden place inside. So to meet someone else whose flaw is visible makes us feel less alone. I happen to think this is true for everybody, whether they’re aware of it or not. So do you have any thoughts on that subject?
TZ: I would definitely agree with you. I think that we all strive for perfection, or we think that we do--in ourselves and in others but if we were ever to truly encounter it, I think it would probably make us very uncomfortable. Yeah, I think that there's no true intimacy without some vulnerabilities, showing each other our flaws --whether you're talking about a friend or a lover, and somehow surviving that, I think, is the definition of being close to someone.
TN: I understand you’re a lawyer and you run your own PR agency. There must be a lot of writing involved there, but of a very different kind. What else have you done, or what are you working on now, in the area of fiction?
TZ: Well I am a lawyer. I haven't formally practiced in quite some time however. I've always much preferred to write than fight, so about fifteen years ago I segued into doing PR and corporate communications, a lot of website work and what they call content marketing. I enjoy it very much. As you mentioned, I have just launched my own consultancy. So I hope to do a lot more of it. You are quite right that it involves a great deal of writing, and a very different kind of writing. You, as the author, tend to fall away—sort of necessarily as part of that process, almost like a rocket launcher. Your focus is not yourself, or your voice, or your own byline but rather your client and sort of helping them to express themselves most effectively and... you really sort of lend them your voice. In the case of ghost writing, which I also do quite a bit of—you literally lend it to them. So... very different.
TN: That's... you know, you might have hit on something quite profound, because when you say you have to... you know--doing the work you're talking about--it's not your voice, you're launching rockets. So actually there's always this thing about how every writer has got to develop their voice but maybe every writer has to lose their voice. That way you could be totally in the heads of other characters.
TZ: That's interesting.
TN: Anyway, I don't know.
TZ: Another thing what that reminds me of--another thing that I have been doing since this story was published--it is fiction but it's also a little bit different than fiction, is that I've done a couple of children's book adaptations of classics in the public domain. So that hearkens back to what you just said Tom, just working with someone else's voice. When you do adaptations you are not the author exactly. There is a certain level of original contribution involved but there's also a lot of re-organization and editing. You basically just serve as an escort in a way and you're taking someone else's baby, someone else's voice forward and trying to present it, hopefully very carefully and respectfully to a future audience for a different purpose.
BR: I think those are all really good tools to serve fiction writing, actually.
TZ: I hope so. I recently celebrated a big birthday and moved back to the Hudson Valley and it was one of my New Year's resolutions to really carve out a little more time to focus on my own voice again and my own writings. Though I hope the fact that I've stated that out loud on your podcast will hold me accountable.
TN: Yeah. To find your voice, first you've got to lose it.
BR: Right, right. Well in terms of your story, I’m going to reveal something now… you may be wondering why I always wear a hat. Well it’s because of this bony protuberance like a little rhinoceros horn that sticks up from the middle of my head. See?
TZ: I knew I liked you. Kindred spirits, kindred squids.
TN: Wow. I never even wondered why he always wears a hat, but you’ve got to forgive Brent. Sometimes he gets a little, you know…
BR: But it feels good to finally let the world know! Anyway, thank you Tania for joining us on the podcast!
TZ: Thank you so much
TN: Yes, thank you.
TZ: This was fun.
TN: So you identify with unicorns.
BR: Hmm.
TN: What else don't I know?
BR: Hi Tania. Welcome to The Strange Recital.
TZ: Thank you so much for having me.
TN: “Squid in Love”... an unpredictable but evocative title for this story. How did you come up with that?
TZ: Well, I feel like I'm always collecting interesting word combinations or phrases. I scribble them into the margins of books or on to scraps of paper and tell myself that I'm going to write something with them and usually don't but in this case I did. I was at lunch with a friend at a Thai restaurant, and this was a menu name, an entrée name. Apparently it's quite a common one.
BR: When I first published this story in my literary journal years ago, I didn’t realize that it was ahead of its time… it fits very well into today’s zeitgeist of fighting for tolerance of those who don’t fit old stereotypes of what is so-called normal. What was your initial inspiration?
TZ: Well, I mean that's so interesting and thank you. I'm honored to fit into that zeitgeist. I think we should all be fighting for tolerance and I can only hope that I would be as fierce an advocate as Bruno's mom was for her son. But I think one of my literal inspirations was the birth of a friend's baby. She was just a beautiful little girl, just full of such a life-force and such confidence and she also happened to have a very Ramona-esque birthmark on her face. It was not on the tip of her nose. I did that to her I think, and I think I always assumed it was going to be removed. It certainly wasn't a big deal either way but I do remember thinking that if she did not have it removed, that there would probably come a time in her young life when somebody did her the great favor of informing her that she was not quite as fabulous as she thought she was. And I'm sure that that did in fact happen to her in other ways, for other reasons but it happens to all of us I think, as we grow up and walk through the world. But it got me thinking and it's something that I think about quite often--that we are all flawed and we all have something that makes us ashamed, or whatever it is--some third arm, and I think we also all have a choice about how we can respond to that. We can rail against it and let it make us angry and weary, or we can do what Bruno's mom did, which is to adopt this very defensive stance—dukes up, ready to take everybody on, or we can do what Bruno did, which I think is more to remain soft in the face of that and try to cultivate optimism and even a little joy. So...yeah. It's easier said than done, I think.
TN: Yeah, yeah. Well you know, you’ve achieved a tone that includes both humor and pathos. Was that a conscious aim, using writerly technique, or just good luck?
TZ: I wish that it was a conscious aim. I think sadly, or perhaps not so sadly, those are just my raw ingredients. I do try to push the pathos portion down but the two tend to re-establish themselves at about a fifty-fifty level and maybe that's okay.
BR: It is. Now one way I read this story is that Bruno is the inner child of the narrator. No one has a perfect childhood; each of us feels flawed in that hidden place inside. So to meet someone else whose flaw is visible makes us feel less alone. I happen to think this is true for everybody, whether they’re aware of it or not. So do you have any thoughts on that subject?
TZ: I would definitely agree with you. I think that we all strive for perfection, or we think that we do--in ourselves and in others but if we were ever to truly encounter it, I think it would probably make us very uncomfortable. Yeah, I think that there's no true intimacy without some vulnerabilities, showing each other our flaws --whether you're talking about a friend or a lover, and somehow surviving that, I think, is the definition of being close to someone.
TN: I understand you’re a lawyer and you run your own PR agency. There must be a lot of writing involved there, but of a very different kind. What else have you done, or what are you working on now, in the area of fiction?
TZ: Well I am a lawyer. I haven't formally practiced in quite some time however. I've always much preferred to write than fight, so about fifteen years ago I segued into doing PR and corporate communications, a lot of website work and what they call content marketing. I enjoy it very much. As you mentioned, I have just launched my own consultancy. So I hope to do a lot more of it. You are quite right that it involves a great deal of writing, and a very different kind of writing. You, as the author, tend to fall away—sort of necessarily as part of that process, almost like a rocket launcher. Your focus is not yourself, or your voice, or your own byline but rather your client and sort of helping them to express themselves most effectively and... you really sort of lend them your voice. In the case of ghost writing, which I also do quite a bit of—you literally lend it to them. So... very different.
TN: That's... you know, you might have hit on something quite profound, because when you say you have to... you know--doing the work you're talking about--it's not your voice, you're launching rockets. So actually there's always this thing about how every writer has got to develop their voice but maybe every writer has to lose their voice. That way you could be totally in the heads of other characters.
TZ: That's interesting.
TN: Anyway, I don't know.
TZ: Another thing what that reminds me of--another thing that I have been doing since this story was published--it is fiction but it's also a little bit different than fiction, is that I've done a couple of children's book adaptations of classics in the public domain. So that hearkens back to what you just said Tom, just working with someone else's voice. When you do adaptations you are not the author exactly. There is a certain level of original contribution involved but there's also a lot of re-organization and editing. You basically just serve as an escort in a way and you're taking someone else's baby, someone else's voice forward and trying to present it, hopefully very carefully and respectfully to a future audience for a different purpose.
BR: I think those are all really good tools to serve fiction writing, actually.
TZ: I hope so. I recently celebrated a big birthday and moved back to the Hudson Valley and it was one of my New Year's resolutions to really carve out a little more time to focus on my own voice again and my own writings. Though I hope the fact that I've stated that out loud on your podcast will hold me accountable.
TN: Yeah. To find your voice, first you've got to lose it.
BR: Right, right. Well in terms of your story, I’m going to reveal something now… you may be wondering why I always wear a hat. Well it’s because of this bony protuberance like a little rhinoceros horn that sticks up from the middle of my head. See?
TZ: I knew I liked you. Kindred spirits, kindred squids.
TN: Wow. I never even wondered why he always wears a hat, but you’ve got to forgive Brent. Sometimes he gets a little, you know…
BR: But it feels good to finally let the world know! Anyway, thank you Tania for joining us on the podcast!
TZ: Thank you so much
TN: Yes, thank you.
TZ: This was fun.
TN: So you identify with unicorns.
BR: Hmm.
TN: What else don't I know?
