June 27, 2003
tactics
Things I learned while driving in New York.
1. Lanes are for pussies.
2. Sidewalks are not obstructions. They're opportunities.
3. It's only red if it's not about to turn green.
4. Your horn isn't an accessory. It's an appendage.
5. The more languages you can speak, the better you can swear.
6. Potholes are the 51st state in the Union.
7. Just because you see someone leaving a parking spot, doesn't mean it's a parking spot. It just means he wasn't caught.
8. The shortest distance between two points is not always a straight line.
9. There are only two seasons. Winter, and Construction.
10. Your belief in reincarnation is directly proportional to your skill in driving.
There've been plenty of things to write about in the last two months, which hasn't stopped me from ignoring them altogether. Milestone moments are so much more interesting when you're experiencing them than writing about them. I'll write about the baby at another time, maybe.
Today, I want to talk about my sister.
There's a cornucopia of stories about my sister that I have never shared, just as there are bushels of strange little tales about my mother that I've never shared. To be honest, I can't remember all the stories I've already told, though I'm inclined to think they weren't too many. I tend to talk about them when they've either figured largely in my life lately, or they've done something to tick me off. My mother falls into the latter category more than my sister.
On the other hand, my sister has had her own share of ulcer-inducing moments. For instance, there was the time -- stop me if you've heard this one -- when we went out for dinner to a nice restaurant with a special guest. His name was Martin Beaver, and he was passing through town to teach a masterclass. He was the son-in-law of a family friend, Hiroko Primrose, now sadly lost to cancer; Hiroko, for those musician geeks out there, was the widow of the violist, William Primrose.
Musicians like to wrap all celebrations around food and applause, in both cases considering quantity more important than quality. This is not unreasonable, given that most musicians are at any given moment A) hungry; and B) desperate for attention. Having given Martin the latter already, we moved on to taking care of the former. With Dr. Yuko Honda, another friend of my mother's, and a few other musicians, we went out for Japanese food, at a restaurant that we knew would provide both quality and quantity.
The food was, of course, outstanding. At the end of the meal there'd be the inevitable tussle between Dr. Honda and my mother about who would get to pay the bill; Martin, not being a bloody-minded little Japanese woman, wouldn't get to play that game, being hopelessly outmatched. That, however, would be later.
My sister and I kept our heads down and our mouths full. The world of high-caliber musical politics was not something we were old enough to get involved in, though we listened -- well, I listened -- avidly to stories about famous musicians and people I knew only through other stories. The conversation ran the gamut, from concerts that had been flopped, to pieces that were being practiced, to students that needed encouragement, and instruments that had been played.
When I say 'gamut,' I meant the musical gamut, of course. The classical musical gamut.
Eventually, the subject of exercise came up. Well, why not? A musician who spends four to six exhausting hours practicing every day and spends the hours in between teaching, touring, or performing, can often find it difficult to engage in any meaningful athletics. For that matter, simply being a musician can eliminate a much of the available options in sports. Weight-lifting, for instance, can ruin the flexibility of fingers, wrists, arms, and shoulders. Volleyball can lead to damaged fingertips and joints. Tennis, racquetball, and badminton can lead to elbow and forearm injuries. Soccer can lead to falling down and breaking open your head.
"...I try and exercise as much as I can," Martin said almost apologetically. "Swimming's good exercise."
Mom and Dr. Honda listened politely. Being small, active little Japanese women, they had the metabolisms of hummingbirds and didn't quite comprehend activity for the sake of activity. It must be a white person's thing.
"I jump," offered my sister, suddenly entering the conversation.
"Jumprope?" asked Martin.
"No, jump." Masako mimed taking a dive off of something with her hand. "Off of things."
I blinked. My mother blinked. "Eh?" I said.
"What sorts of things?" Martin asked curiously.
My sister's eyes slid off my blank face towards the wall, and grew suspiciously unfocused. "Oh, stuff," she said, vaguely. "Buildings, bridges, that sort of thing...."
I blinked again. So did Martin. So did Dr. Honda. My mother's pleasant smile started to congeal. "Buildings and ... bridges?" someone said, I'm not sure who.
"Into water," my sister assured the wall. "It's perfectly safe."
"How ... high do you jump from?"
"Mm. Just a few stories."
"Into water."
"Mm hm."
"How do you know it's safe?" I demanded, my voice rising. Mom was looking decidedly frozen behind that determined smile.
Masako blinked and refocused just long enough to look reassuring. "Oh, someone jumps first, to make sure the water's deep enough. And it isn't like anybody's ever died doing it." And then she suddenly looked doubtful, which wasn't lost on me or my mother. "On purpose," she amended.
It might have been lost on Martin, however, who was starting to look like he'd hurt something if he didn't let himself laugh. "And, er, where does the exercise part come in?" he asked, still perfectly polite. "You swim to get out?"
My sister glanced at him, pleased to find a sympathetic spirit. "No, we jump pretty close to shore. The exercise," she explained, "is when you run to get away from the police chasing you."
There was a small silence. Martin quivered. Dr. Honda looked baffled. Mom turned white. Out of deference to her feelings, Martin hastily changed the subject.
Heading back to the parking lot with me later, in the middle of a conversation about Beethoven, Mr. Beaver broke off and whispered, "You have to admire your sister."
"For jumping off of buildings?" I asked a little incredulously.
Martin's teeth flashed white in the dark. "For telling your mom in front of guests so she couldn't kill her," he explained and sounded, indeed, almost reverent.
Of course, he had a Japanese mother-in-law, so he knew.