you how lonely I am. And it goes beyond friends — when you’ve been using them like I have for so many months. And yes, they’ve used me too. To fill the void. The void left by no theatre, or events, or life! (I put an exclamation point at the end of ‘ life!’ because that is how I somewhat vaguely remember it to be.) I am like Bette Davis in The Old Maid. They spray her with that de rigueur Hollywood grey that means old — the same makeup used in Now Voyager (interesting detail, Davis had the same name in Now Voyager — Charlotte — and the child had the same name too — Tina). I can’t stand Miriam Hopkins (neither could Bette Davis apparently) -- she always looks old to me. But not Bette Davis, she is quite youthful even when all uglied up. Little did she know what she would actually turn into? You’re probably too young to have seen her in what appeared to be the advance stages of cancer (she was so thin) on Johnny Carson -- being witty and mean -- smoking like a chimney. The Old Maid brought up all this for me, and more. It’s a real chestnut —based on a short story by Edith Wharton, transformed into a play by Zoe Akins. The original story was published in 1922 and yet even in 1939 (due to censorship) it’s never completely clear what the movie is about (i.e. Bette Davis birthed a little girl ‘out of wedlock’ with George Brent — the girl was raised by Miriam Hopkins — and Hopkins then pretended to be the girl's mother). Hence the final confession doesn’t really make sense. Instead of telling Jane Bryan she is her mother, all Davis is allowed to say is something like: ‘I gave you to my sister.” Wow, what a revelation. Edith Wharton is responsible for anything of any value here; she was a feminist way before it was fashionable. (Wharton hated the institution of marriage almost as much as I do. The horrific death by sled in Ethan Frome is perhaps the most ghastly revenge against marriage every conceived by a writer; every time I think of getting married I think of the sound of that sled hitting that tree.) But this watered down film version of one of Wharton’s last diatribes against matrimony has its rewards — watching Bette Davis act, and her daughter screaming at her -- “You were never young!” and later screaming at Miriam Hopkins --“She’s old and hideous and dried up and has never known anything about love!” While of course Bette Davis has known everything there is to know about love, she threw herself at George Brent for one thing, and she’s obviously carrying a torch for him. All that silent, martyred longing, was, and is, irresistible — then and now — we all wish we could be her, or rather we are her. For if we are feminine in any way we like to imagine that we have experienced an excess of tragic love that no one knows about, love that was ripped away from us by fate. And no one has any idea of the vast, awe-inspiring depth of our emotional experiences. Then there is Davis’ pragmatic acceptance of her daughters feelings about her: “If she considers me an old maid it’s because I’ve deliberately made myself one in her own eyes.” This is a kind of willingness to be old, to masquerade as such, whether one is or is not. This is what I’m struggling with right now. Speaking of infirmity is boring, so I’ll be brief: there is something wrong with my feet and lower legs, and has been for a long time. It seems chronic and no one knows what to do about it. So I may end up with a cane. I have toyed with the notion of a ‘bull penis cane’ (yes such things exist, you can have them shipped in from Alabama or some other redneck place — if you can buy a car online, you certainly can get a bull penis cane!). I saw one when I was young, at university — a student in one of the writing classes I took had one. Bulls’ penii are apparently extremely long, and when they are dried out they — but I don’t really understand? Are they dried out after the bull is dead, but in a permanent state of erection? Anyway the cane is impressive, and appropriate. But is it enough to convince me that being old is a busload of fun? This is one of the reasons I’m so afraid of this COVID-19 thing — not that I will die of our over-glamorized flu but rather that the world will start up again and I will suddenly be too old to participate. And it’s not that anyone wants me (only occasionally am I really wanted) it’s just — if I wish to imagine I am a part of it all again — I need something happening that I can at least imagine I am in. I think of the coat check guy at Woody’s. His name is Fred (is he still around?). He had a German accent, and was completely butch and sexy and from Texas. I miss him so much — yes the coat check guy. I do. He had a black lover who I never met — but if felt like he and I were close friends. One night last fall when the bars in Toronto were open briefly he grabbed me and suddenly confessed “My uncle is going to die because of COVID.” I asked him if his uncle had the disease and he said -- “No, his cancer operation has been postponed because of the pandemic.” And then he let loose with a string of curses. I was glad that he trusted me enough to tell me. I’m hoping we can take a moment between honouring the service of front line workers, etc., to remember all the people who have died — not of COVID-19 but of ‘friendly fire” during this pandemic. No one cares about the ones who are gone because their operation was cancelled, or who expired of a drug overdose, or from being abused by some alcoholic Dad they were locked up with — or just from depression. In exactly 10 days I will be in Montreal! I'm ecstatic! Montreal will be open. I will be get drunk on a patio and imagine I am flirting. I don’t know what will happen. I think I'll explode! Or I’ll explode the day before I go! I can’t describe to you what it all means. Life again! I’ll plunge in, and the water will be freezing cold, and it will either kill me or I’ll come bursting out — refreshed, and alive again, quite the same as before. We’ll have to see.
