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Jeff Stimpson, 39, has been a working journalist for 15 years. He lives in New York with his wife Jill and sons Alex, 3, and Edwin, four months. He maintains a site of essays, Jeff's Life, at:
JEFF'S LIFE
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Monthly Column... |
by
Jeff Stimpson
Lennie dabbled his big paw in the water and wiggled his fingers so the water arose in little splashes; rings widened across the pool to the other side and came back again. Lennie watched them go. "Look, George. Look what I done." - John Steinbeck
An English teacher first handed me Of Mice and Men in ninth grade. First thing I noticed was the cover: a watercolor of two men's faces, one sharp and sad; the other, wearing a hat, happier under a broad-brimmed hat. I also noticed the book was thin, which is the handiest kind of classic to a ninth grader. There was also a lot of dialog, and the book ended with a gunshot. We all loved it. We mimicked Lennie whenever circumstances called for us to act stupid, which is also appealing to a ninth grader.
When I grew up and went into 10th grade, my high school drama club put on the play Of Mice and Men. I wasn't in the drama club because I hated memorizing. I was nonetheless called to fill in for a missing player for one rehearsal. I had to read for Curley, the troublemaking young semi-boxer who gets his hand crushed by Lennie in a fight. I kept messing up my line, which was "You ever buck barley?" I kept saying, "You ever buckle barley?" Isn't that stupid? Yet it set the tone for my stupendous comic moment: when the kid playing Lennie grabbed my hand, I let out a long, falsetto scream and fell writhing elaborately on the stage. Everybody laughed. I like to think they were laughing with me.
If you haven't read Of Mice and Men, the book is about migrant farm worker buddies during the Depression. Next to Elements of Style, it's probably the best short jewel in English. If I ever write anything half as good in twice as many pages, I'll be happy. Professionally, anyway. Lennie gets the kindest, most dignified treatment possible in Steinbeck's tragedy.
He's a hard worker, loyal as the dog who gets shot to a friend and to a dream, gentle, and misunderstood. He knows what he likes -- beans, soft fur, pretty cloth -- and when he kills, it's with deep regret and full comprehension of what it's cost him. At least as much comprehension as any of us show when we do something wrong.
If you have read it, and if you're familiar with my recent feelings about Alex, you may understand why the book still lives for me. I keep noticing other 4-something kids, who pay attention better than Alex, move smoother, and who look in your face. They don't mouth toys. They can talk. Even Ned already picks up on our feelings. Alex fingers a soft, pretty T shirt when he falls asleep.
I know Alex is no Lennie, of course, though he is gentle. I think he's also going to be a hard worker, and loyal. And contemporary New York is a whole lot more understanding toward a person like Alex than hardscrabble California was to a pair of misfit migrant workers. I guess.
My attitude has changed toward most every story involving people who are a little slow. One reason I gave up on "Greg the Bunny" was a simple-minded puppet character. I can no longer watch that "Seinfield" where Kramer is mistaken for "the developmentally challenged" and nabs a ticket to sit at Mel Torme's table at a benefit. It's been a while since I've seen that "All in the Family" where a mentally retarded young man helps Gloria home with her groceries, but I bet I wouldn't watch it the same way I did in 1973. About the only thing I've been able to watch that features the mentally retarded was Something About Mary, and everybody said that was a mean-spirited movie. I didn't think so. I think it portrayed the challenged brother with dignity. I don't know why I think that.
Last night, I pestered Jill into turning off "Friends," as usual, and she switched to an old cat documentary on PBS. We'd both seen the documentary years ago, and as the mice died and story unrolled past the farmyards and the vet cages, I found myself remembering the documentary. All at once I knew what was coming. The final two segments were about how cats cheered up nursing home residents and autistic children. I remembered our own cats and my mom, and thought of Alex. We cried something awful.
"You know a bad book to read right now?" I asked Jill. "Of Mice and Men."
"So what are you reading it for?" Jill asked.
I don't know that, either.
Copyright 2001 Jeff Stimpson, all rights reserved
J
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