The Bridge

I'm a firm believer in the power of movies. Not just the standard power to move the audience while they are in the act of watching the film, but the haunting effect of the afterglow after the credits have rolled and we've all gone home. That's when the real action begins.

About three months ago, I rented a documentary called "The Bridge" because I had read about it in one of the silly trade mags I seek out to keep up on my movie trivia. The movie was actually released to the masses early last year, but I've been working up my nerve to see it ever since that time. The movie's concept sounds like a Faces of Death episode when one first reads about it, but looking deeper, it's a profound idea. The filmmakers set up cameras on either side of the Golden Gate Bridge for one year, and filmed everything. Families taking a Sunday stroll, lovers walking hand in hand, and the other kind of bridge dweller: The Jumper. The vantage points of the cameras gave a visual context to the stories behind these folks' desperate, often last, actions. There were no swells of music as the people jumped. There were no CGI effects to make a caricature of the people as the lost flying Walendas. They just jumped, choosing to die violently rather than go on living under their unbearable pressures. There on that bridge surrounded by horrified onlookers, and in one case a person with fast enough reflexes to stop the jump, they made a decision to end their lives for a spectrum of reasons and then did it.

"The Bridge" not only gives a visual context to the suicides, but seeks out the stories behind the people caught on film. We hear of their backgrounds often marked by depression, masked mental illness, and desperation. We hear of the unimaginable pain the person felt before they decided to jump, and of the enduring pain of their surviving loved ones. It is affecting. It is maddening. And most of all, it is haunting. The film meanders a bit and is not a perfect documentary, by any means, but the makers reach their intent and goals of telling the stories that would turn the people from merely Jumpers #1-24 into flesh and blood human beings with families and histories. And ends.

This movie lives in me now. I can't help but be struck by its echo whenever the Golden Gate comes up, or when I'm thinking of the people in my own life who are or were affected by clinical depression and desperate circumstance. The majority of them decided to reach out for the help they didn't have the tools to provide themselves. Others have made more permanent, tragic choices. When I was 18, one of my close friends decided it would be a better choice to stand in front of a speeding train, rather than face the idea of living one more second. When I first heard of his death, I was angry, enraged really, that he would choose such a selfish option. But I didn't have the knowledge to understand what informed his decision at that time. As time passed, details of his homelife came out that would give a seasoned child services advocate pause. Without context, every suicide appears senseless and meaningless. For me, "The Bridge" was a catharsis 13 years in the making. It's a movie that I'm grateful to have seen, but saddened it had to be made.

I love films for many reasons. They can pick us up off the floor. They can provide an escape route. They can cement a bond between loved ones. And they can help us say goodbye.

Thing 1 and Thing 2 and Thing 3, Etc.

I'm afraid of circus peanuts. Yes, the spongy orange/pink numbers that are made out of sugary insulation and held together by toddler tears. I don't know what it is about them, but I've never been a fan. It's important that you understand that it's not unusual for me to be put off by things that are completely harmless, and that bring joy to many untainted souls. I own the fact that I more than likely have a touch of the ol' OCD, though I've not been diagnosed. Bet you can't guess why I've never been diagnosed? That's right--nonplussed with tongue depressors. Couple that with a serious case of irrational superstitions and you've got yourself a neverending soiree of angst and neuroses.

What follows is a list of the, shall we say, unconventional fears/quirks that I've had or have. If you can make head or tail of them, I'm always up for amateur psychoanalysis. Hell, it's a party game at my house. Anyway, enjoy:

• Carraway seeds. When I was little, I would wither inside when my mom made my sandwiches with rye bread. And Mary help us all when she would bring home carraway bagels. I felt like I was eating petrified ticks.
• Representations of elephants. Real ones are just fine, thanks, but elephant statues and paintings, especially trunk down, keep me unsettled 'til the morning light.
• Unwrapped straws in the dispenser at the movie theater or in a cafe. I'm not a germophobe in any other aspect of my life, but when faced with this dilemma, I have to open the top of the dispenser and get a fresh straw, rather than take the one already in the tray. I am well aware that some sweaty teenager who just harvested her acne probably put the straws in the top of the dispenser, but for some reason I've made peace with that.
• Any sort of bug on one of our pets. We declared war with fleas about six months ago. Through vet recommendations and frantic home and pet treatments, we triumphed, but every time I see one of the kitties innocently scratching, I can feel my chest start to turn in on itself and the voices start to whisper sweet nothings about bleach and vet appointments. (Product Placement: Advantage is a miracle treatment for the feline crowd--highly recommend).
• Singing in bed. BAD. LUCK. I can't do it. Not that there's really any cause to do it, but even when I'm babysitting and singing the little one to sleep, it has to be in a chair, not by the places where they sleep.
• "See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil" monkey statues. I will turn my back on you always, you creepy little poo flinging imps.
• Waning moons. Rarely will I start new projects during a waning moon. Example: If I'm in the middle of a book and the moon starts to turn, that's fine, but I'd rather wait the two weeks until the new moon to start one. I've been bothered by the fact that I started this blog on the day after a full moon since I did it, but for some reason that day felt like the right day (another "thing" I have is internal timing--if I feel something is right, that feeling trumps all other things on deck).
  
• The Cheshire Cat. Terrible burden of a beast, that.

And there you have it. This is by no means the full list, but it will do for a starter. I'm lucky enough not to be hobbled by these oddities, but they do affect my choices more than I'd like them to. They're part of me, so rather than fighting them, I've acknowledged that unrelenting sanity is an alternative route to success not paved for my kind.

Our Pixie

My fiance's 15-year-old daughter comes to stay with him when school lets out and she stays until it's time to go back to school, so he gets her about 8-10 weeks out of each year. I get along fantastically with J's daughter, whom I've dubbed Pixie because that's exactly what she looks like. She even went so far as to voluntarily accompany me on a 5K walk for a local non-profit. I think one of the reasons we get along so swimmingly is that, well, we're both weird. Weird in the sense that different drummers march to our beats, and that is a good thing. She's fifteen without all the fifteeniness. She's respectful, smart, quiet, funny, and very shy. She can appreciate a powerful quote, the Bob Saget Roast, and recognize a cool artsy picture all on the same day. These are qualities I look for in a good person. Her mom and dad have already done all of the hard work and I get to reap the benefits of having a small pixie who's fun to hang out with and who likes to eat what I cook. Not once did she make an ill-informed choice that needed correction while she was here, so discipline isn't really an issue for us.

When he and I got serious and then agreed that marriage wouldn't be a bad idea, it dawned on me that I will be her stepmother. To me, the image of a stepmother is a mean and obnoxious bastard person whose only goal is to make her stepchildren's lives miserable and virtually unlivable. I think of Sigourney Weaver's horrible harridan of a queen in the live action, gothic "Snow White" who would eat babies for lunch if they weren't so noisy and full of crunch. That's just not my bag.

I like kids. I do. The cool ones are unintentionally hilarious and curious and creative and they put words together in orders I've never heard before, but should have. I have three nieces and three nephews in my blood family. In my friend family, I have 17 kids who call me Aunt Sheila and mean it. I love them all very much, especially the fact that I can play with them and have all the good parts without any of the worry and late nights and angst about their college education. Yes yes, I realize there's nothing more fulfilling than having a child, and I'll "understand when I have one of my own". I can't tell you how many times I've heard that from glowing mommies and daddies. I know they mean it sincerely without any intent of condescension. I know it's true. I just don't care to hear it again even one more time. Not one more cloyingly heartfelt time.

Being a full-time Aunt, I feel pretty well prepared for this life of a stepmother. I'm an indirect influence and I'm really quite fine with that. That is, at the beginning of the summer when we're looking forward to her.

But.

Yesterday, we spent over 18 hours in a car to meet her stepdad halfway, say goodbye, and come back home to a house void of pixies. We were so busy with the drive and customs (she lives in Canada) and food and rest stops that we didn't have much time to dwell on the fact that she's gone for another ten months. And I can't tell you how much that sucks. If this is the kind of sadness one feels merely as an indirect influence, then take me off the short list for the direct job. I've seen what the leaving does to her blood parent, and while I may be prepared for Aunthood, and even Stepmotherhood, right now Motherhood sounds about as pleasurable as punching a sleeping bear in the face.

For whom the phone rings

My dad had a "thing" with death. I don't know if he loved it or hated it, but he spoke of it often. By the time I was ten, he'd taught me that you can kill a man with a rolled-up newspaper and good old fashioned panic. He demonstrated with the funny pages insert from the Sunday Flint Journal. I learned two things that day: How to locate the soft palate quickly on a lunging man, and that Cathy and Snoopy carry Hell in their eyes.

Any activity we kids did would elicit the inevitable story about a kid a couple counties over who died doing that very thing. It didn't matter what it was either. I could be tying my shoes or flying a kite, but I'd hear all about that ill-fated kid. I still fly kites and tie my shoes, but I'll be damned if I travel to that county down the way.

Dad's death obsession was most evident when I got older and moved out of the house. Almost every time I called home, he would say "You remember so and so from high school?" "Sure, yeah, he was a nice guy, why?" "Oh he died in a fiery wreck a couple days ago. Your mother saw it in the paper." It got to the point when he would ask if I remembered whomever the poor soul was and I'd start flushing the memories of them so I could truthfully say "No. No, I don't remember her." It didn't matter. He'd finish it with "Sure you do. She sat behind us in church at Christmas. Well anyway she died after a bout with lurgy last week. Thought you'd wanna know." DAMN. IT.

Sadly, this preoccupation with the otherworld is catching. Point of note: I have an e-mail alert that lets me know when celebrities die. Not just A-list folks either. I'm more of an admirer of lesser-known character actors like Elaine Stritch and Billy Barty, so I made sure that all celebrities with even one listing on the International Movie Database are included in the alert system. I swear when Bea Arthur or Mel Brooks kicks it, those will be sad sad days in my household. Until then, I'll monitor the unexpected departures from the security blanket of my inbox.

The Captain

My nephew has taken to subscribing to catalogs online. The catalogs are delivered to my sister's house and neither she nor her husband ever ordered products or services from the places contacting them by mail. They'll find the magazines or product booklets on their stoop and look at each other with puzzlement until it dawns on them who must have ordered them. The best part of all of this is he doesn't just subscribe in his name, or even his parents' names. No no no. He subscribes with aliases like Major John Schumacher II or Captain Hugh Birkshire, easily cementing his place in my Top Ten Favorite Bullshitters of all time. Just fantastic.

This is the same kid who's been spitting insults that would make Don Rickles blush since he was about 4. In answer to his brother's smartass remark, "Knowledge: It's contagious, Dad" at Christmas dinner last year, the good Captain Hugh shot back "And clearly you're immune." Tears ensued.

Each of my nieces and nephews (and they are Legion) has righteous qualities that keep us smiling when they're acting like jackasses on fire at bedtime, but for now, Major John and his cache of catalogs and AARP newsletters have a place of honor and admiration from one BS'er to another.

Chitty Chitty --OH MY GOD!

Two words: flying monkeys. Few images from kids’ movies hold as much universal dread as these disturbing creatures from the children’s classic, Wizard of Oz. That’s not to say they are the only ingredient in our nightmares that started as innocently as watching a film filled with overall joy, but that continue to stir the dark part of us that keeps our inner child’s eyes closed and ears covered. Now, the movie scars I’m talking about come from shows that are intended for children as the primary audience—not the fleeting glimpses of Freddy or Jason we caught after we snuck into our older brother or sister’s rooms after bedtime.

While researching this subject of movies from childhood that continue to unconsciously inform our fears and actions, I had a long talk with my brother. He is a happily married 37-year-old father of two and a productive business owner. However, no amount of maturity and success can keep him from having what he refers to as “daymares” about the Child Catcher in the movie Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Every once in a while, when he is alone in his restaurant’s kitchen, he’ll find himself stopping what he is doing to remind himself that it was only a movie. Why is it that a movie he saw 32 years ago still has this sort of influence over him? Is it the imagery? Is it the inherently frightening idea that a mean-spirited person would take him away from his family? Is it his inability to control the daymares? I couldn’t understand what could cause him to have such a reaction. This struggle to relate caused me to look into my own experiences with childhood movie scares and I realized that we’re not so different, he and I.

For me, it is the imagery that has long outstayed its welcome. I am still unable to comfortably watch Alice in Wonderland in any of its incarnations, Disney or otherwise. Animals who walk upright and wear people clothes are not on my guest list. Additionally, the Wheelers from Return to Oz are what make me look twice when I hear a skateboarder behind me. And finally, if a boat I’m on rides through a tunnel or under a bridge, I will without fail hear Gene Wilder’s Willy Wonka singing “There’s no earthly way of knowing which direction we are going…” Our parents meant well. The movies I’ve mentioned were rated no higher than PG and the scenes that had such effects only lasted about two or three minutes, but oh how they lingered in our minds. Which leads me to ask, what movies are we innocently showing our children now that will stop them in their tracks when they’re 37? There’s no way to tell as each person responds on such a unique level, but the shivers and bumps in the night make for a thrilling guessing game.

A trip to the movies...

Hi, I’d like a ticket for “The Godfather 6: Fredo’s Revenge”, please. I’m sorry, did you say $10 for one person? No problem. I have a pass here for –what’s that? You don’t take passes for new releases. I see. Well, no big deal, right? Okay. I’d like a popcorn, a small Coke—no really, just the small. I understand the medium is only 50 cents more, but I really just want the small. You’re not going to let this go, are you? Okay, I’ll have the medium, then. And what’s the total? But I don’t have a firstborn. If I guess your name can I go sit down? Thanks…Tim? Right on.

Oh good. The theater’s pretty much empty. I’ll just sit over here and enjoy my delicious…Oh hello. No. No one is sitting next to me. Sure, you can sit there, I guess. I’m sorry, sir, but could you please not lean over the arm rest onto my lap? Thanks. Is that your son? He’s very cute, yes. How old is he? Two-years-old. Right. So, has he seen the other 5 Godfathers and just couldn’t wait to find out what happens? Just the first four, eh? No no I’m sure he’ll still be able to appreciate Fredo’s wrath. Oh we better be quiet now. I don’t want to miss Front Row Joe and his creepy dancing horde selling me discolored goody bits.

What the hey? I distinctly remember this Coke in its liquid form. I guess it gave in to the Tundra conditions in here. They must house penguins between shows to supplement the theater income. No problem. I’ll forget all about it when the movie starts. Great Gatsby that preview’s loud! Who does their sound check? A Metallica roadie circa 1987?

Okay, Kid, I know you’re busy reading Call of the Wild by the light of your cell phone, but when you’re done, if you could quit kicking my seat, that would rule. And seriously, you don’t have to read it out loud to your gum-smacking friends. They’re gonna miss the good parts anyway because that’s their fifth trip to the bathroom and the movie’s opening credits haven’t even finished.

And to my left…Slurp! Gobble! Ring ring! Hello? Yes, I took the chicken out of the fridge. It’s on the counter. IT’S ON THE COUNTER! Sorry, my reception isn’t great in here. I’m in the theater. Yeah, it’s started. You totally shoulda come! Shhhhhh! You shhhhh!

Man, I love the movies. *Exhausted sigh*