T.S. Eliot Was Wrong. January Is The Cruelest Month.
Don't believe it? Check out This Man's January.
New Year’s Day —
Lost a spelling bee to his seven year-old granddaughter Liv. He misspelled camouflage in the seventh round. Irksome.
January 3rd —
Read a fascinating article in Scientific American, in which the author hypothesized that some people are born with an “R” gene. The letter R stands for resilience. After considering how well he has faced some of life’s most daunting challenges, he concluded that if there is an “R” gene, the gene gods had bestowed one upon him. Blessed.
January 4th —
On eve of his 50th college reunion, received letter asking for nomination(s) for a Clark Outstanding Alum Award. Intrigued.
January 6th —
His tennis instructor gave him a PIP (Performance Improvement Plan). He was told if he wanted to keep his coveted Monday 8 a.m. slot, he needed to show up on time, pick up at least 50% of the balls at the end of the lesson, make better eye contact, and stop saying, “I thought I was doing that” after every pointer. The pro told him he was officially on the clock. He had 30 days. Concerned.
January 8th —
During therapy he asked his therapist if he wanted to be added to his Substack mailing list. His therapist enthusiastically said yes. He spent most of the session talking about the PIP. He confessed that, until he was given the PIP, he had never heard of it. His therapist told him PIPs are common in the corporate world.
“Exactly. This is a tennis lesson.”
“Exactly, just a tennis lesson.”
“So, you’re okay with it?”
“I want you to be okay with it.”
Classic therapist speak.
At the end of the session, his therapist told him that his personal time is so very precious he might find the time to read one, maybe, two of his Substack columns. Bait and Switch.
January 10th —
In December, he submitted some Substack columns to a prominent literary agent to consider for a book. When she asked who was the readership, he replied, readers who enjoy David Sedaris. In her email today, she said, “You’re no David Sedaris.”
Ouch!
Her question was about the prospective readership; not asking are you another David Sedaris. He asked himself what would he have answered had she asked him if his writing was on par with David Sedaris.
He laughed out loud when he remembered he had never read anything by David Sedaris. Who cares what she thinks? Confident.
January 13th —
Arrived 5 minutes early for his tennis lesson. Really tried to make better eye contact. Not once did he say “I thought I was doing that.” On his way home, he remembered he was supposed to pick up more tennis balls than his teacher. He couldn’t remember. He concluded, more likely than not, he hadn’t.
He decided the pro had given him a lot to remember. If he was going to prevent the PIP he needed to come up with a mnemonic device. While he was trying to come up with something, his mind wandered to the spelling bee with Liv. What if, in their next spelling bee, mnemonic is one of the words? Could he spell it?
He tried. He couldn’t. He had to ask Siri several times to spell mnemonic before he felt he had it memorized. But how to lock it in. He tried to come up with something. He couldn’t. Ironic.
January 14th —
He nominated himself for the Clark Outstanding Alum Award. Though Clark didn’t say you couldn’t nominate yourself, he was sure that would put him at a disadvantage. His workaround was to have his nomination come thru his newly created Clark University Glencoe Outdoor Adventure Alumni Association. Resourceful.
January 16th —
At his weekly tennis drill, he confided in a buddy that he had been given a PIP. His buddy said he knew. He asked him how he knew. He said everyone knows. When he heard that, he got that a familiar sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. His buddy saw his dismay and said, “Hey, take it up with HR.” Mortified.
January 17th —
While perusing the shelves of Barnes & Noble he came across the book 200 Words You Must Know To Win A Spelling Bee. While skimming, he came across camouflage. That was good enough for him. He bought it. Strategic.
January 20th —
Had a bad dream. Dreamt that he was in college and the chairman of the government department was reaming him out for not writing a tenure letter of recommendation for his advisor.
This had really happened. He was just a sophomore. He wasn’t a confident writer. That was 48 years ago. Why is he having this dream now?
Good question for his therapist. He decided forget that. He knows what his therapist will say. First, he’ll repeat back the question.
“Why are you having that dream now?”
He’ll say he doesn’t know. His therapist will say what he always says. “Do you think we should look under the hood?”
The metaphor drives him crazy. He’s not a car guy. Except for the engine, radiator and window washer fluid, he has no idea what is under the hood.
He perseverates all day about about the dream. Guilt ridden.
January 22nd —
When he wakes, per usual, he reaches for his iPhone and activates it with the facial recognition software. The phone doesn’t activate. He sits up in bed and tries again. Still doesn’t turn on. Mildly puzzled. He turns off the phone and then restarts it. He plugs in his six digit code and the phone activates.
He opens up his NYTimes app and goes straight to the Spelling Bee. He likes to start his day finding the pangram. According to him, 80% of the time he can find it in less than 30 seconds. The real the number is closer to 25%.
Mid morning, he opened up his iPad. Again the facial recognition software didn’t work. He successfully plugged in his code. He returned to The Spelling Bee. The letters were l-i-e-k-m-o-b. After 10 minutes he was still stumped.
He closed his eyes and pictured the letters. This technique has worked many times in the past (rarely).
He still couldn’t get it.
At dinner, he asked W if she got today’s pangram. She said, “bookmobile.”
He shouted, “I didn’t want to know what it was. I just wanted to know if you found it!” Discombobulated.
January 24th —
For the third day in a row, his Apple facial recognition software didn’t recognize him.
He asked Chat GPT if it was possible for one’s looks to change overnight. Chat GPT said, “Yes, your appearance can noticeably change within a day due to factors like sleep deprivation, hydration levels and facial expressions.”
When he got ready for bed that night he gulped 24 ounces of water (really 10-12) and made hundreds of different facial expressions (maybe 8). To insure a good night’s rest, he went to bed at 10 (more like 11:15). Anxious.
January 25th —
When he woke, he grabbed his phone and looked directly in the camera with a relaxed expression (if you call a look of constipation relaxed) and waited for his phone to, well, recognize him and open. It didn’t. He said very loudly “fuck.”
Moments later, when his iPad didn’t recognize him he said even louder, “fuckety-fuck.”
He thought about going to the Apple store and having one of the geniuses at the Genius Bar check things out. He decided not to go because he was afraid they would tell him nothing was wrong. Then what? Distraught.
January 26th —
He had the dream again.This time, the chair of the department was reaming him out over Zoom. In the background, he could see a banner with the letters C.I.A.. The C.I.A. part made sense because the rumor back in the day was that the chair was a C.I.A. operative.
For the seventh day in a row, the facial recognition software didn’t recognize him.
That afternoon he got a note from Clark University asking about the Clark University Glencoe Outdoor Adventure Alumni Association. How long has it been in existence? Does it have regular alumni events? Are there any other members than himself? How old were you when you saved that little girl from drowning? Double Fuckety-Fuck.
January 27th —
When he got to his lesson, his tennis pro terminated him. Really. He walked him off the court and took him into the closet where the pros store their baskets of tennis balls and closed the door.
“You’re about to fire me.?”
“Yes, I am.”
“I was on time today.”
“The first time.”
“I’ve been picking up more balls.”
“Not as many as me.”
“But, I thought —
“There’s that.”
“How about my eye contact?”
He shook his head.
“Now what?”
“The walk of shame.”
As he made the walk of shame to the parking lot, he knew it would be the last time he would see the inside of the club. He knew that no other pro would want to teach him. He couldn’t go to the drills because his drill buddies would give him endless grief.
When he got home W asked him how the lesson went. He told her he was terminated. She asked if he had been crying. He lied and said no. Devastated.
January 30th —
On the way to therapy, he thought about all the things that had gone wrong this month. The spelling bee with Liv, the Sedaris crack, the PIP firing, the dream/nightmare, losing the Clark Alum award, the pangram debacle. And, yes, he was still invisible to his own iPhone and iPad.
So, so very much. Where to begin?
“You know,” he said. “This might be my worst January ever.”
“April is the cruelest month of the year.”
He looked at his therapist like he didn’t have a fucking clue what he was talking about. That’s because he didn’t have a fucking clue.
“T. S. Eliot. The Wasteland, certainly you know it or have heard of it.”
“Yes.”
“April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and—”
“Stop, you’re killing me.”
“You’re the one who insisted I stop saying, ‘Shall we look under the hood?’ To come up with something new. You’re a writer. Let’s give poetry a chance.”
He looked at his therapist and remembered something else horrible that happened to him. That day his therapist said yes, put me on your Substack mailing list but, no, he wouldn’t have time to read it.
Why not? Because his free time is so rare and precious.
His therapist could have kept his bullshit excuse to himself. He could do what his friends and family do. Not read the column but say he did. What compelled his therapist to say something so hurtful?
“Let me ask you this: if I were to win the National Book Award for fiction, would you read the book?"
“I don’t know. I’d have to think about it.”
“Try this. I win the Nobel Prize for literature. Would you read my books then?”
“The Nobel Prize. That’s quite an achievement. When I think about the grandeur…” He really does pause to consider the grandeur. “My answer is ‘yes’ I most definitely would read your books.”
His therapist looks very pleased. As if he actually has a client who won the Nobel Prize.
“Guess what? If I won the Nobel Prize I would no longer be seeing you.”
“Why is that?”
“I would be seeing the therapist that all the Nobel Prize winners see.”
His therapist replies, “Touché.” Pyrrhic Victory.
January 31st —
A shit day. His granddaughter Liv was at the house. Shortly after arriving, she spots his book, Two Hundred Words You Absolutely Must Know To Win A Spelling Bee. You know where this is going. The kid also owned the book and was soon challenging him to another spelling bee.
He asked his daughter if Liv had memorized all two hundred words. She nodded “yes.” As for him, he hadn’t cracked the book since the book store.
It went fast. His first word was “camouflage.” Ha, ha. He quickly spelled it. Liv spelled “lachrymose.” His next word was “granddaughter.”
“Very cute.”
Per the rules, he said “granddaughter” aloud and then spelled it.
“Wrong!”
He immediately realized his mistake. He left out the second “d.” Not Liv. That was that.
You would think if you were going to lose a spelling bee to a seven-year-old you could find some comfort if that seven-year-old was your granddaughter.
Not him. Not after the month he’s had.
He couldn’t wait for them to leave. They wouldn’t. They were there for dinner and dinner they had. And dessert. Liv prides herself as the world record holder for slow eating an ice cream bar. 47 minutes is allegedly her personal best.
While she slow- licked her orange Creamsicle, his thoughts turned to the The Wasteland. He didn’t know the poem. Yes, he had heard of it. Yes, he thought Eliot was spelled with two l’s and possibly two t’s.
There’s no way he thought April could be crueler than his January.
After Liv and his daughter finally left, he went straight to his iPad, plugged in his six digit code and Googled “The Wasteland.” This is what he read:
April is the cruellest (sic) month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
He read those four lines over and over. Here were some of his thoughts. Ok, ok the man can write poetry — if you like that sort of thing. He can’t spell cruelest to save his life. In a spelling bee, Liv would knock him out in the first round.
My god, weighing all the horrible things that happened to him the last 31 days against Eliot’s lame ass case for April, it’s not even close.
If Eliot were alive today, he would tell him straight to his face, “You’re so wrong, man. January, not April, is the cruelest month. Idiot!”
Yes, that would make him feel so much better.
Postscript
When he woke up yesterday, his Apple iPhone recognized his mug and came to life. As it did this morning as well. Make of that what you will.
As for believing he has the speculated “R” gene. You remember “R” for resilience. Nothing happened in January to dissuade him. Just the opposite. To be PIP fired by your tennis pro and live to tell the tale… well if that isn’t resilience, what is?
Do You Know This Man?: An Irreverent Memoir is an ongoing exploration of the one character who eludes, confounds and mystifies. Me. Right now, it’s available for free, including being able to listen to some of my plays and dive into the best of Sportscape Magazine.
Current premium content available for free:
Listen to the original cast recordings of Persistence of Vision and Tops or Bottoms.
Watch a complete performance of Botanic Garden.
That’s the scoop!