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Strout / On Loving John Mayer

Here's the start of a story I love, "Gift," by Elizabeth Strout:

Abel Blaine was late.

A meeting with directors from all over the state had gone too long, and all afternoon Abel had sat in the conference room with its rich cherry table stretching like a dark ice rink down the center, the people around it trying to sit up straighter the more tired they became. A young girl from the Rockford region, who Abel felt was carefully dressed for her first company presentation--he was moved by this--had talked on and on, people looking at Abel with increasing panic--MAKE HER STOP--because he was the man in charge. Perspiring lightly, he had finally stood and put his papers into his briefcase, and thanked the girl--woman, woman! you could not call them girls these days, for the love of God--and she blushed and sat down and didn't seem to know where to look for a few minutes until people on their way out spoke to her nicely, as did Abel himself. Then Abel was finally in his car, on the expressway, then steering through the narrow snowy streets, and pleased, as he so often was, by the sight of his large brick house, which tonight had a tiny white light twinkling from each window. 

His wife opened the door and said, "Oh, Abel, you forgot." Above the collar of her red dress, little green Christmas ball earrings moved.

He said, "I got here as fast as I could, Elaine." 

"He forgot," she said to Zoe, and Zoe said, "Well, you can't eat Dad, we had to feed the kids and we're really late."

"I won't eat," Abel said.

And again, with some notes:

Abel Blaine was late.

A meeting with directors from all over the state had gone too long, and all afternoon Abel had sat in the conference room with its rich cherry table stretching like a dark ice rink down the center, the people around it trying to sit up straighter the more tired they became. (There's a sense of urgency, frenzy. The rambling sentence recreates the panic/disorder in Abel's mind. Form underlines content! Also, Strout wants to revive your sense of wonder in the material world--the collection of stories is called "Anything Is Possible"--so she stops to notice the "rich cherry table stretching like a dark ice rink down the center.") A young girl from the Rockford region, who Abel felt was carefully dressed for her first company presentation--he was moved by this--had talked on and on, people looking at Abel with increasing panic--MAKE HER STOP--because he was the man in charge. (Strout is an amateur psychologist. She is interested in how humans behave. She briefly became a stand-up comic because she admired the "genre"'s way of getting right to the truth. You can't really bullshit and be an effective stand-up comic. So, anyway, the carefulness of the young girl's dress would of course move Abel (as well as Strout), and the fact of Abel's being moved would of course also move Strout. There's a great sense of compassion in Strout's writing. There's also a sense of the Divided Self: Abel wants to support this delicate young speaker, while, at the same time, acknowledging his underlings: "MAKE HER STOP." And do you see how the paragraph is starting to stretch and stretch, the way the sentences stretch, to convey the impression of a mind reeling, nearly out of control--? All signs of smart writing.) Perspiring lightly, he had finally stood and put his papers into his briefcase, and thanked the girl--woman, woman! you could not call them girls these days, for the love of God--and she blushed and sat down and didn't seem to know where to look for a few minutes until people on their way out spoke to her nicely, as did Abel himself. (In his haste, Abel forgets himself and uses mildly un-PC language. Then chastises himself: This is a guy who really wants to do the right thing. Also, Strout is about to send this story spinning into new terrain. It will really be about fighting for your safety in the company of someone who is possibly out of his mind. So, part of Strout's attention to all these minutiae: She's saying, Look how far we have our heads up our asses! We get so caught up in trivia! We are alive! We have a gift! The gift of life! I also like the light perspiration and the crowd's over-effusive-let's-atone-for-our-meanness "spoke-to-her nicely"--little grace notes.) Then Abel was finally in his car, on the expressway, then steering through the narrow snowy streets, and pleased, as he so often was, by the sight of his large brick house, which tonight had a tiny white light twinkling from each window. (A setting: Christmas. The season of gifts.)

His wife opened the door and said, "Oh, Abel, you forgot." Above the collar of her red dress, little green Christmas ball earrings moved.

He said, "I got here as fast as I could, Elaine." (Great dialogue. Of course Abel did *not* forget. Abel doesn't hear or acknowledge the need in his wife's voice; he reaches right for defensiveness, understandably. And so his wife *also* will not hear him. Ah, communication!)

"He forgot," she said to Zoe, and Zoe said, "Well, you can't eat, Dad; we had to feed the kids and we're really late."

"I won't eat," Abel said. (Reparations! Abel had a little too much compassion for a young lady, and now he is paying the cost. I love how smoothly this story moves along. You can find it at the end of Strout's most recent book. Again: recommended!)

***

John Mayer has a bad reputation. I think it's mainly because of the David Duke penis comment. In an interview, Mayer foolishly said, "I'm mainly attracted to white women. My penis is like David Duke." People had a really hard time with this. They thought it was tantamount to a confession of racism. I'm not so sure. It does seem that certain folks have patterns of sexual attraction to other certain folks. (On "Curb Your Enthusiasm," Vivica A. Fox is very clear about whom she would and would not want to sleep with, and her answer has a racial dimension.) Also, Mayer wasn't comparing his *brain* to David Duke; he was comparing his *penis* to David Duke. He was making fun of himself. He was expressing repulsion at his own penis's taste. In a charitable light, this could be seen as a harmless, funny remark. But people really didn't see it that way. And, clearly, Mr. Mayer should have kept his mouth shut. And then there's the suggestion that Mayer did something objectionable to Taylor Swift. She makes hints in "Dear John": "Don't you think I was too young? The girl in the dress cried the whole way home." (But is TS seeding the ground with an overly-simple narrative? Recall her own words in "I Did Something Bad": "I never trust a narcissist, but they love me. For every lie I tell them, they tell me three." We'll never really know what happened between JM and TS.)

I love John Mayer for two songs. First, as context, I'm trying to lose some weight. The thing that inevitably gets me out the door--in my K-Mart sweat pants, wearing my angry mask--is John Mayer's "Say." To me, this song has many qualities of a fine personal essay. Mayer shows some dual-consciousness: his present self is examining his past self, and there's charming, rueful, self-directed mockery throughout. Present John laughs at Past John: "Walking like a one-man army, fighting with the shadows in your head. Living out the same old moment, knowing you'd be better off instead-- if you could only say what you need to say." Present John is saying: Live. Put your foot in your mouth. Better to do that than to bite your tongue. The song is heartfelt, and I like its construction; I like the parallel structure of "Your hands are shaking; your faith is broken; the eyes are closing; do it with a heart wide open." He's saying, you have the opportunity to be the person you wish to be, every day, until your dying day: "Even as the eyes are closing." It's sincere. Who wouldn't feel moved by that?

The other great song: "My Stupid Mouth." Here, again, we have Present John laughing at Past John. Past John was a bit too garrulous on a date. "Mama said THINK BEFORE SPEAKING. No filter in my head. What's a boy to do?" (Perhaps Mayer had been speaking about his penis, and about David Duke.) There's more playfulness; John imagines the date on his arm as a kind of casino operator. "Thanks for playing, try again." The conclusions Present John makes directly contradict the thoughts of Present John in "Say": "I'm never speaking up again. It only hurts me." (And that seems to be the central tension in Mayer's career, and maybe his life: a tension between the desire to share and the fear of over-sharing. Didn't Emerson or some dude say something about consistency being "the hobgoblin of small minds"?)

When people praise Mayer, begrudgingly, they tend to focus on his guitar-playing skills. But I'm here to tell you that Mayer--almost in spite of himself--is also an artist and a writer. He's a natural. Turn up your nose at me now. I can take it!

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