Born To Work

 

[Fred Trump, aged 90, in the throes of dementia,

is greeted atop Fifth Avenue to sign some papers]

 

See I don’t sign it till Maryanne looks it over.

That last one of Don’s codicils she said didn’t

pass the smell test. I told her get—who was it,

Mary, who did my estate last?—I told her—

But I’ve always been careful, always, even

with the kids. They’re yours but they also have

minds of their own. They also want things.

First you want to give them whatever it is

without their asking. Then they grow up and

you start having to negotiate for less. Course

you’re trying to teach them the real value

of something by making it harder to get.

If you’re lucky they’ll want what you have.

But you have to be careful it doesn’t cross a line.

They say the worst betrayals are those against

your own family. That’s the bottom-most hell.

I never let them forget it either. Even Freddy.

I made it clear from day one what I thought of his

drinking and carrying on in that fashion like

some ten o’clock scholar, how it reflected

on all of us. And like Cain in the field he

almost took Donald down with him—Sign

what now? No I don’t sign anything, not

till Maryanne has a chance to look it over—

What was I saying about Freddy? That’s it.

He thought what we had was going to last.

How do you deal with someone like that,

with someone with such lack of ambition?

They pick up on it in the boardrooms like

buzzards picking up a whiff of carcass.

City councils, planning commissions, hearings

from every goddamn government acronym—

He would’ve never made it through all that

because they can always tell whether or not

a man is serious about his work. If he isn’t

he shouldn’t be at the table. With Freddy

I was never sure. I could smell the carcass.

Donald was different—But you know that

already. Here you are with his papers like

an errand boy. What’s your name again?—

Same as his—Is that right? Well you put

those papers down till Maryanne gets here.

I don’t sign it lest she looks it over first.

You can’t be too careful, even with family.

After all, you know Donald—he never made

a lateral move his whole life. This business

with All County, that was Donald and John.

I’d just about said to hell with estate taxes.

Let them take it for all I care. When you’re old

the fight leaves you—doesn’t matter how much

you had before. Old age is cancer on the will.

Besides I fought plenty in my time—won most.

The Henry Ford of homebuilding. That’s what

they used to call me. I built the modern home

for the modern man. Gave them all garages

before they even had cars to park them in.

Those little lawns the size of beach-towels,

those were my idea. So your dog wouldn’t

do his business in the street. I put a roof

over Brooklyn and Queens—A barber’s son!

Son of Elizabeth Christ, God rest her soul,

the bravest woman I’d ever known—dear

sweet Mama—but for our sake you never saw

your Kallstadt again.—Forgive me Mama! for

needing you when father died—I was still just

a boy playing ring-a-levio with the Berghers.

I was scared for you, and you were terrified.

You never cried in front of Johnny or me,

but I always knew when you had—when I

came home from school and saw your eyes

like peppermint candies, your body in chains.

I wanted to lick your wounds, but what

does a child really know about grief? I got

to work instead—caddying, whitewashing,

deliveries and paper routes in Woodhaven,

towing lumber like a mule in wintertime.

I built you homes everywhere in the city—

Say again? What am I supposed to sign?

Christ’s sake can’t you leave a man alone

with his thoughts. I won’t sign, won’t sign!

Where’s Mary? She tells me when it’s lunch.

He’s getting everything now as it stands.

Who? Who do you think. The majordomo.

That’s my son’s name on those papers there.

My name—Or where do you think he gets it from?

Who do you think groomed him? Set him up in

Mannahatta? When you’ve been at this as long as I have

you start playing the long game with everything.

The whole city looks like a floor plan. Your legacy

is something you buy Upstate for the summer.

All the work you’ve done scales up until you

finally see the big picture—It’s all Power Laws.

Course everything starts to seem like work.

You have to know where every conversation

begins and ends. You have to keep an eye on things.

Like with Donald—But I don’t mind. Not at all.

He knows what it means to own something—

It’s yours. You do whatever you want with it.

Did Maryanne say for me to sign these?

She did?—Where’s she run off to now—

Well all right then—Where’s my pen gone.


 

This poem is in the style of one of my favorite poets, Robert Browning (1812 – 89). Browning was a master of the dramatic monologue. By dressing up his thoughts in the voices of famous figures, both literary and real, Browning was able to study the psychological origins of many difficult ideas like morality, art, and religion. Perhaps you’ve read “Fra Lippo Lippi.” I would also suggest “Andrea del Sarto” (also about art) “Caliban upon Setebos” (my personal favorite) and “Cleon” and the “Epistle of Karshish,” both of which deal with Christianity and religion in general.

While these monologues are often long and full of complexity, they never seem boring to me. Browning does such a great job capturing not only voice but movement too. You get the sense that his characters are actively speaking, that they’re thinking through their ideas. They reason, correctly and incorrectly, they prevaricate, they back-pedal, they reminisce, they say things they don’t mean, they reach conclusions. In short, they feel like real people.

The title comes from a chapter in Gwenda Blair’s biography The Trumps, which deals with Trump’s dad, Fred Trump.

Thank you for reading.

 

R. Charboneau

To Will As One Wills

 

The impulse to satisfy an urge has become something different for me as I’ve gotten older.

Aside from your typical teenage proclivity to question authority, growing up I was bookish, timid, apprehensive. I was skeptical of the majority, uneasy towards what was expedient, and always suspicious of the possibility of being sold snake oil. As such, I’ve had a sense of myself as someone who’s selective and cautious about where he puts his attention and his efforts. Something had to really grab me, and keep my interest, and prove itself to me, before I warmed up to it, before I gave it a chance.

Nowadays I find myself indulging more easily, more quickly, in everything new. New experiences, new activities, new people, new ideas. My inhibitions have receded, and in every dimension of my life I find myself wanting to expand outwards in all directions. I’m ripe for the spoils of advertising, ready to throw away money, time, inclination, for anything that piques my interest. Do I want to try that new bar? Do I want to pick up this new hobby? Why not try being friends with this person, or why not date someone I wouldn’t normally date? What do I think about X? Why is it not the same way I think about Y? And what about Z?

I assume this has something to do with getting older, with feeling like one’s time is finite, and if that’s true why not follow my impulses wherever they lead me, even if I don’t end up following them for very long? (As it turns out I don’t like that new bar, I didn’t stick with that new hobby, I couldn’t find that person attractive. They are, after all, impulses.)

I believe I’ve remained healthily skeptical throughout, willing to examine my decisions even as I’ve grown more capricious in making them. What I find most interesting is that, as my apprehensions wane, my tastes become more refined. I become more discerning, more particular, pickier, than I already thought I was. And while I’ve certainly overturned old assumptions and discovered new interests, I’ve also found some assumptions to be more resilient, and some interests even more interesting.

The more people I meet, the more I find my close friends to be good people. The more music I listen to, the more beautiful I find classical and jazz to be. The more books I read, the more thankful I am for those few writers who do inspire me.

The more I open wide my aperture, the more narrow my depth of field becomes. I find that less is truly valuable, and what is valuable becomes practically invaluable.

It’s fascinating that, by making a conscious decision not to limit oneself, one discovers in the process a limited way of being. It reminds me of that quote by Schopenhauer: “A man can do as he wills, but not will as he wills.”


R. Charboneau

 

Artwork: Sattar Bahlulzade – The Desire of the Land (1963)

What’s the Name of That Filter?

 

Your picture is so pretty, perfectly

composed. Books of hershey leather,

a yellowed journal and succulent.

I cannot tell, in your saucer, whether

 

coffee or tea. Morning has found them

on the porcelain flat of your desk

enacting a scene like a museum exhibit,

decorated for observation, set-dressed.

Continue reading “What’s the Name of That Filter?”