Sunday, April 19, 2020

Short Story: 'The Orange Cat'


This is a re-imagining of Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Black Cat,” written in the age of COVID-19. It is entirely fiction, in homage to a great writer and borrowing heavily from the original (as well as Lady Madeline and clues from "The Fall of the House of Usher"... and "Annabel Lee"). I’ve always loved Poe. I’ve read that his wife Virginia slept with a cat on her chest to keep her warm, and that he often wrote with a cat seated on his shoulder. The story ends with his dying words.


---------

The Orange Cat

By Bob Varettoni

"The loss pressed down on her chest and came up into her throat. It was a fine cry -- loud and long -- but it had no bottom and no top, just circles and circles of sorrow." -- Toni Morrrison, "Sula"

This is my ninth life.
I expect to be dead within 24 hours. I am relieved by the hope of being delivered from my pain.
Bed-ridden, I make wild and homely wishes upon the gilt specks in the hospital's ceiling tiles that I pretend are stars.
Pressure grows on my chest. I hear a melody of disembodied sound over the monotonous, dactylic droning of a ventilator.
Perhaps it's the voice of my nurse, a strong woman with an undefinable accent. She's whispering. Or maybe my mother is on her knees beside my bed, many years ago, saying a rosary. Or someone is summoning a cat.
Having no more solace from dreams, I seek now to unburden my soul before anesthesia compels me to sleep.

---------

During my first lives, when I was boy, I particularly, perhaps peculiarly, loved a black cat that followed me everywhere.
My every movement seemed the most important thing in the world to him. I named him Pluto, after a favorite childhood story... and the planet, since I've always loved astronomy.
With Pluto in my daily orbit, I believed I had the tender heart of St. Francis of Assisi, the bedside ceramic statuette that guarded me. I believed I communicated with my cat telepathically.
So it shocked me when Pluto died.
Or, rather, when he was poisoned.
At the time, Mother and I lived alone in the New Jersey suburbs. A disagreeable neighbor -- a fat woman with two bullies for sons -- had doused her property with rat poison. We were given no warning. Pluto simply returned home from play one day, foaming at the mouth.
My mother expressed no anger at the neighbor, nor sympathy for me. She thought it was all for the best and tidily solved the problem of having a black cat around our small house. To her, all black cats were witches in disguise.
I waited seven years, when I was 17, to adopt another cat. Mother had died just 24 hours earlier. I didn't get another cat while we lived together because I didn't want to upset her, and I couldn't hide one from her. She could "always smell a cat." I wanted a pet I could protect.
I named my kitten Jupiter. For several years, we lived with my grandmother by a lake. She tolerated Jupiter, out of pity, and he grew to be as large as Pluto.
The two cats' coloring differed as much as the two planets. Instead of the black mane Pluto and I shared, Jupiter was an orange tabby with jealous-colored eyes and an "M" on his forehead. According to legend, this is the mark of Mother Mary, who initialed the forehead of an ancestral tabby who had been kind to Baby Jesus.
In nature and character, my second cat resembled Pluto in every respect. Whenever I touched Jupiter, he immediately arose, purred loudly, rubbed against my hand and appeared delighted with my notice.
Seven years ago, when I was 24, I met Virginia, and we married three years later.
She always understood how devoted I was to Jupiter. She loved animals too.
"Jupie" grew old in our home – an apartment in The Bronx, near Fordham, where I teach... or taught... basic writing and freshman composition. He led a comfortable indoor life. Recalling Pluto's fate, I feared letting Jupie roam outside in a neighborhood filled with rat poison.
He would have been 14 years old -- and I would have spent half my life's memories with him -- had our ending been as happy as our beginning.
The story of our downfall is, from afar, nothing more than a series of mere household events.

---------

Virginia and I always wanted a baby.
We were devastated by a miscarriage in our first years of marriage. Several months ago, Virginia again became pregnant.
That was our happiest time. Miraculous, life-affirming joy filled our lives. I regret I did not fully appreciate those moments.
During Virginia's mid-pregnancy ultrasound, we learned that our baby would be a girl. We didn't throw a gender-reveal party. Instead, we celebrated privately. As soon as we knew we were having a baby girl, we knew her name: Madeline, after my grandmother.
Although I'm not handy and wasn't a great helper, Virginia and I prepared for Madeline's arrival by sprucing up and rearranging our living space. We called our place "our little cottage." In its original state it had two bedrooms: an oversized master suite and a second bedroom I used for writing and grading essays.
Virginia and I converted the smaller bedroom, across a hallway from our own, into Madeline's nursery. We constructed a temporary wall in our bedroom to carve out a private workspace for my desk and books.
Throughout this process, Jupie was not himself.
It started with the shedding.
Some fur always collected on our furniture, and Virginia laughed at the various gadgets I had bought over the years to clean up after my pet. I hated to use a vacuum cleaner, which frightened him, and with only one cat I managed the task easily enough.
Soon after Virginia became pregnant, we noticed more cat hair around the apartment. At first, I attributed this to Jupiter's advancing age, and searched for answers online. Virginia thought I was needlessly worried.
"It's just his winter coat," she said. I think she didn't complain because I had previously expressed nothing but affection for the cat. She didn't want to hurt my feelings.
Pockmarks with clumps of fur appeared on the cushions of our overstuffed living-room couch, where Virginia and I cuddled while watching TV. It was as if Jupie had napped in one spot, shed the entirety of his fur, then moved to a second, third and fourth spot.
Cat hair also accumulated in hollowed-out spots on our bed sheets, then on our tables, on my desk and inside our closets. We needed to brush our clothes before stepping outside.
Virginia’s blithe explanation was that our apartment had been inhabited by "ghost cats."
"I've seen them dart about," she said. "A big black cat crossed my path in the nursery the other day. It had to be a ghost."
"A black cat?" I repeated. I had never told anyone, even Virginia, about Pluto.
"I'm not afraid," she said. "But I'm beginning to see black hairs mixed with all the orange." She touched my thinning head, widened her eyes and melodramatically squeezed my forearm. "Maybe we've been cursed!"
"Stop teasing me!" I protested. But her laugh was infectious, so I laughed too.
It was gallows humor.
Everything worsened by slow degrees, even as Jupiter's orange coat remained as fulsome as ever. He became increasingly needy.
He followed Virginia everywhere. Whenever she sat, he would approach with loathsome caresses, then climb to her lap and fasten his sharp claws to her stomach.
Worse, when Virginia stretched out, the cat would clamber upon her chest, remain motionless and emit an ungodly loud purr. He would not budge.
Jupiter would open just one eye -- his left -- and fix his gaze upon the wall or a baseboard. I called an exterminator when I first saw him do this, but we never found the source.
If I tried to free Virginia, the cat would recoil, pounce to the floor before I could grab him, and snake around my feet to try to trip me.
Jupiter was certainly aware of the unborn child. Whether he was protective or jealous of Madeline, I could not say.
Soon, even Virginia grew weary and distressed. Although we kept our kitchen spotless, we began to find cat hair in our food. That was when Virginia developed a persistent, dry cough.
The more intrusive Jupiter became, the more I developed an aversion to him. I resented the way he made me feel. Why should his "affection" engender in me such a perverse impulse?
Then I resented his very presence. I couldn't help but smell the stench of his litter box, despite my constant efforts to clean up after him.
I grew, day by day, more moody, more irritable. I started to drink scotch in the evenings to calm my nerves.
Virginia, needing rest, began to head for bed earlier and earlier.
In the makeshift office area in our bedroom, an ambitious writing project consumed my attention.
I was documenting everything about our lives leading to Madeline's birth. I had resolved to write every day in this baby diary, throughout our daughter's childhood.
As I typed on my laptop, Jupiter sometimes perched silently on the ledge above my desk, staring, one-eyed, at phantoms over my shoulder.
"How cute!" Virginia said, when she first observed this scene.
"How cute," I mimicked, in an ill-tempered tone. "I think he's sucking the Muses from the air."
"Doing everyone a favor then?" she replied, with a halfhearted smile. "You two behave," she added, heading for bed without kissing me goodnight.
This exchange bored the cat. He half-shut his filmy inner eyelid and drew an untroubled breath, which I felt was only to point out the contrast to Virginia's.
Nothing had really changed, I tried to convince myself. At my desk, I downed a whiskey sour in a tall glass and tried to regain perspective. Virginia and I were still filled with optimism and anticipation about our future with Madeline. That was the main thing. We were blessed, I reminded myself, and very lucky.
I had, after all, documented many happy moments in the baby diary. We had led a blissful life in our little cottage, and in my writing I imagined what life would be like for the three of us many years from now.
Recently, with effort, I wrote deep into the night while the cat nestled against Virginia. When I joined them in bed, exhausted, I dreamt I heard sounds in Madeline's nursery.
In my dream, I crossed the hallway into her room. Girlish laughter reverberated from inside the closet. I paused, then turned the knob.
Brilliant light surrounded me as I opened the door. I beheld, unexpectedly, a much larger room... bathed in sunlight with vaulted windows... and of improbable dimension. It was the size of a city park. In the distance was a brightly colored roundabout... one of those merry-go-round circles that spin when children run alongside and push on the handles.
A girl was at play. She had flowing blonde hair and wore a flaming red dress with decorative white floral print. She was bare-legged, in white bobby socks and white sneakers.
I heard a vague but familiar playground rhyme, but this receded to the background as soon as I realized: It was Madeline! My Madeline!
I ran to her, my heart filled with joy.
Suddenly, something tripped me. I lost balance and began to fall face forward. I woke with a startled cry.
Something fell at the foot of my bed. Claws scurried on the hardwood floor, followed by a galloping sound.
The pain on my ankle was sharp and real. The cat, I grasped, had bitten me as I slept.
This commotion half-woke Virginia. She asked if I was feverish. Our sheets were damp, and I had kicked the covers from my feet.
When I explained what happened, she was groggy and quizzically said, "the cat?" before turning from me when I assured her everything was fine.
"I was dreaming about Madeline," I said a minute later. "She reminded me of a photo of Mother when she was a little girl... I wonder if Madeline will look like her. Did I ever show you her yearbook photo? I loved the caption: 'Blonde and peppy, fresh as paint. Not a sinner, not a saint.'"
I recited this reverie to no one, because Virginia was already fast asleep.
Before dawn, I blinked my restless eyes to find my wife next to me in bed on her back, with the cat lying on top of her chest. It had been watching me sleep with one open eye, luminous and green.
It snarled, hissed at me, then jumped from the bed. Virginia didn't stir.
That's when I knew everything had irrevocably changed.
Horror filled the next three days.

---------

On the first day:
I woke in a foul mood. I trudged to the bathroom to wash my hands and clean up.
While shaving, I saw the cat's reflection in the mirror. The fiend was lounging in the only ray of sunrise in the apartment, and the sliver of light cut right across its neck. The image made me perversely happy.
Dreaming about Madeline had inspired me to write, and I made prolific additions to the baby diary that morning. At my desk in our bedroom, my fingers tapped wildly on the keyboard.
Virginia woke late. She touched my shoulder in passing and said, "Morning, darling," as I kept working. My fake diary had evolved into an account of future days with Virginia and Madeline in our little cottage and, years later, living in a grand house by a lake.
I wrote about a day we went boating, and another day Virginia and I taught young Madeline how to fish. It was always just the three of us; we were always happy.
Hours passed while I was in this maniacal state, until I heard my bride fumbling in the closet of the nursery. I cleared my head to investigate.
I discovered Virginia on her knees, cleaning up cat feces.
"What the hell are you doing?" I cried.
Uncharacteristically rough and intemperate, I pushed her aside. "God damn it! I've got this! Go! Wash your hands!"
Virginia, startled, retreated to the bedroom instead.
The cat came from nowhere and darted between us as I followed her. He jumped to my desk, knocking over a large cocktail glass. The contents spilled on my laptop. He jumped again to the shelf above, as my drink seeped into crevices of the keyboard.
"My diary!"
My soul took flight from my body. I feared my work would be lost.
In frustration and anger, I slammed my hand against the edge of the desk. Virginia came toward us to intervene. The cat flew past my face from the bookcase. I grabbed the nearest thing at hand and hurled it at the diving beast.
I missed. The front of the laptop cracked on the floor, and I heard a sickening thud as the back edge hit my wife squarely on the ankle.
Virginia screamed, then hobbled to our bed.
She gritted her teeth and pressed her palm against her wound.
In desperation, I tried to comfort her. She wasn't bleeding, but I was mortified. Virginia stared at me as if I were a stranger.
"Don't worry about me," she said, pushing away my awkward attempt at a hug.
She turned from me on our bed and, in a fetal position, began to cry. "Have another whiskey sour," she spat.
I lay down by the side of my darling Virginia. I dared not speak or touch her. I stared at the ceiling, where a dome light imitated the full moon.
After a short time, Virginia stopped crying. After a long time, she rolled to her back and, side by side, we contemplated our fate under the fake moon.
"I know you're sorry," she said at last. "I know you didn't mean it."
"Are you OK?"
"I'll live," she deadpanned.
I turned my head to see my laptop in two pieces on the floor. I stretched my arm to where the keyboard had landed and was able to grab hold. It looked beyond repair and stank of scotch. I also noticed a cut from where I had slammed my hand against the desk.
In the bathroom, I washed my hands and bandaged my finger.
"Did you have a backup?" Virginia asked when I returned to the bedroom.
"Only on the hard drive. It might be lost."
"The baby diary?"
"Everything."
I settled back next to her, and she again touched my shoulder. We began to talk about ordinary things.
The cat, we agreed, had become a problem. Was it the pregnancy? Virginia thought it might have more to do with the change in our routines, and the way we were nesting and rearranging the apartment. We had, for example, moved the litter box. Perhaps that explained the cat's "accident" in the nursery closet.
Perhaps, I said, but you have to be more careful. I've read horrible things about toxoplasmosis. She agreed. She hadn't noticed a smell. She said she wasn't thinking clearly lately.
"I'm not crazy," I said. It's not like I was suggesting the cat would detect milk on Madeline's breath and smother her to death in her crib. "I just don't trust the thing."
I told Virginia, plainly, that we couldn't keep a cat around if it refused to use a litter box. Not if it tripped me, or peevishly hissed. How would it treat the baby now that it had started to bite?
She asked to see my foot, and I rolled my pant leg to show her where the cat had bitten me the night before. I positioned my leg next to hers.
We stared in stunned silence. We did not acknowledge what was obvious: The distinct outlines on our ankles mirrored each other. Both bruises were perforated; shaped like a noose.
I bent to kiss the mark on Virginia. "There... Better?"
She didn't answer. So I kissed her stomach. "I'm sorry, Madeline," I whispered.
In bed that night, I kissed Virginia on the cheek. "I'm going to get rid of the cat," I said.
In reply, she mumbled something I didn't understand.
I had a fitful night's sleep. At 3 a.m., I left our bed and wandered to the kitchen. The cat was nowhere to be found. I grabbed what was left of the scotch and poured another drink.

---------

On the second day:
I woke with stale liquor on my breath, so I brushed my teeth and popped a Life-Saver in my mouth. Ironic, I thought.
Enticing the cat by pretending to prepare its breakfast, I cornered it, snatched it in cool blood and trapped it in a case.
The Animal Care Center was a 13-minute walk from the apartment. My prisoner howled all the way, incriminating me on East Kingsbridge Road as we hurried past a cadaverous exchange student wearing a protective mask.
I arrived before the center opened. The lone worker inside saw my plight through the expansive storefront window, unlocked the front door and ushered me to the counter as if she had been expecting me.
"Don't worry," she said, instead of "good morning."
I placed the case next to her lipstick-stained Starbucks cup. A nameplate on a cluttered desk in the background suggested that her name was Rosalie. She had the aura of a protective younger sister.
"I'm not worried," I said calmly. I explained why I was there without looking her in the eye. Something seemed out of place.
"Why aren't there any animals here?" I asked, thinking I would see cages filled with dogs and cats.
"Oh," she started to explain...
"No, wait," I interrupted. "I forgot. People are adopting pets like crazy these days, right?"
"Oh, no, no," said Rosalie, unflustered. "We're not a shelter. We're a pet receiving center. We take the animals in and then transport them to our shelter in East Harlem."
She handed me a standard form, and I filled it out using a dull pencil.
Compassionate Rosalie said she understood about cats and babies, and remarked... without lecturing... that there were a few misconceptions about that.
She added that grown cats of a certain age rarely were adopted, but my cat seemed... well, "I'm sure we'll find a good home for..." (she paused to peer over my pencil and read my upside-down scrawl) "... Jupiter." (The sudden thought that the creature in the box might actually survive filled me with a moment of dread.) "He has beautiful coloring, and such beautiful green eyes," she continued, trying to ease a concern that I did not have in my heart. "I bet children will love him."
That was my cue. "That's the thing," I began. "I mean, I guess I should mention..."
"Yes?" Rosalie tried to look into my eyes, but I again diverted my gaze; this time in false shame.
"You see, it's not only that my wife is pregnant. The real reason I can't keep the cat anymore is because of its temperament. It's turned so... vicious. Just the other night it bit me on the ankle."
"He bit you?" she asked, peeking at the bandage I had forgotten about on my hand.
"Yes," I said, clumsily hiding my finger as if trying not to implicate the cat in yet a second attack. "I don't think I provoked it," I added. "I mean, it bit me while I was sleeping."
I glanced into the box and looked the animal right in its one open eye, causing it to hiss in venomous anger and seal what was left of its fate.
"I see," said Rosalie. "Well, that does complicate..." Her voice trailed into a sigh, and she reached under the counter for a bright yellow card, marked "BITE CASE" in black letters, and taped it to the box.
"Oh, I'm sorry," she said. "Do you want the carrier back?"
"No, don't worry," I said, instead of "goodbye."
When I arrived back at the apartment, my clothes were disheveled. They reeked, as I had noticed in the elevator, from the cat having spilled its bowels and guts in fright during our recent journey.
I brushed past Virigina rudely and began to wash my hands in the bathroom sink. I think she said I looked like the devil.
"I got rid of the cat," I called out. Soap and water couldn't erase the smell. Or the blood.
Virginia stayed in bed for the remainder of the day. I let her sleep. She didn't want to eat. I wanted to be close by, so I read at my desk and spent several hours at peace. I tried to recover the files on my laptop, but all was ruined.
That night, without the cat in the apartment, I finally got a good night's sleep.
I again dreamt I heard a sound from the closet in Madeline's nursery.
This time it wasn't laughter but a cry, at first muffled and broken. The sobbing of a child? It quickly swelled into one long, loud and continuous scream, utterly anomalous and inhuman -- a howl -- a wailing shriek, half of horror and half of triumph. A ghost cat?
In my dream, I flung open the nursery's closet door, expecting to find a vision of Hell.
Instead, I saw young Madeline standing in her red dress. The howling had stopped, and the expansive, sun-dappled playground lay magnificently before us.
Madeline reached out to me, took my hand in hers and we started to run toward the roundabout. The nursery rhyme was clear to me now. We sang it together:
"Ring-a-round the rosie,
A pocket full of posies,
Ashes! Ashes!
We all fall... down."
We playfully pretended to drop to the ground. Before landing, I again woke with a start, covered in sweat.
I was holding Virginia's hand.

---------

On the third day:
Overwhelmed by fever, a dry cough and chest pains, my wife was admitted to Montefiore Hospital.

---------

Was that a lifetime ago?
No. The utter destruction of my home occurred just days ago, in early spring, seemingly overnight.
Bed-ridden, I now strain for breath, with a vast weight upon my heart. When I open my eyes, with great effort I crane my head to glimpse an incarnate nightmare I am powerless to entomb.
The nurse smooths and refolds my bed sheets to placate me. She does not notice the hollow impression of a cat. She thinks the strands of hair in the bed are my own.
She can't explain my agitation at the purr of the ventilator, and she is unfazed by the stench of excrement (what would Mother think?) even though I have been thoroughly cleaned.
I feel her pity as I drift in and out of consciousness. I find no meaning in the wretched stars on the ceiling tiles. An oxygen mask obscures my vision.
In the end, it doesn't matter: this hideous beast is invisible.
Just days ago, the nurse told me Virginia had died of the ghostly virus. Baby Madeline too.
Lord help my poor soul.

END


Related post: Another short story, with another Virginia and another nod to Poe.


Sunday, April 5, 2020

A Change in Perspective: New Jersey from Above

High above Fair Lawn, NJ, on March 2, before the proverbial flood

It's stunning how perspectives have changed over the past few days.

Here, for example, is NewYorker TV critic Emily Nussbaum yesterday on Twitter:


I am particularly haunted by recent views of my home state from drones above nearly deserted places, such as Jersey City:



Paterson and Newark:


Hoboken:



And Montclair:



Even more disconcerting, here's a March 20 video from NBC News showing the long line of cars waiting at a drive-through coronavirus testing area in Paramus:




These God's-eye views of my home state are reminders that life is at once more complex, absurd... and sometimes inspiring... than what we can immediately understand from our own, limited perspective.

How is it absurd? Turning to social media for some connection, my experience has been mixed.

First, I read a thread from Fr. Jim Chern, the Newark Archdiocese's director of Campus Ministry and chaplain at Montclair State University. I know him as thoughtful and devout, with a great sense of humor. Recently attacked by trolls, he felt compelled to respond: "My exposure to 'Catholic Twitter' is, as it turns out, thankfully limited. Kind of stunned at the judgmental and harsh tone: I was accused of abandoning our people because we've been ordered not to publicly celebrate sacraments. It was below the belt, untrue and uncharitable."

Then I joined a Twitter chat about "how to be professional on Twitter during a crisis." One of the guest expert's first posts was this:


"That's it," I exclaimed to no one. "I'm out!"

I drove to Mom's house to deliver some supplies.

The local nursing home; Borough Hall; graffiti along Route 80
Normally a 25-minute drive to Totowa, it took 20 minutes in sparse traffic. It would have taken even less time, but several local streets were blocked by landscaping crews hard at work -- as if Gatsby had dispatched a legion of gardeners to prepare our modest town for a lavish "it was only a bad dream" party.

On the highway, the cars on Route 80 were overly aggressive or overly cautious -- as if caught in an imaginary snowstorm. Mask-wearing drivers were filled with bravado, nerves or fear.

On the return trip through Paterson, I noticed the new graffiti on one of the highway's sound barriers. It's a rendering of the word "CORONAVIRUS."

Back home, my grown daughter asked if we could go for a walk. Some exercise; some diversion.

It was dusk, and our surroundings humbled us. Church doors were locked. The large American flag had been lowered to half-staff in front of Borough Hall; in back, lights were ablaze to discourage teens from gathering in empty playgrounds and ball fields.

Everything had subtly changed, except that the liquor store was still open. Then an ambulance approached the local nursing home, where the virus had already caused at least five deaths.

The ambulance arrived with lights flashing, but no sirens. My daughter explained to me that this likely meant someone else had died.

We walked on in silence after that. We didn't know what to say.

Churches closed; liquor stores open
Later, my daughter and I watched an on-demand movie, "The Invisible Man." It was a makeshift "movie night" like the ones we used to have when she was a little girl. As we watched, she discovered on her iPad that the movie was based on a book, and I explained to her about H.G. Wells.

Before going to sleep Saturday night, I returned to social media on my own iPad to check on the health and safety of family and friends on Facebook and Instagram. I've been happy to see their faces, and the faces of coworkers, on recent video chats.

I woke up and read The New York Times with over 100 others by logging in to the "readalong" hosted every Sunday morning by Sree Sreenivasan. His engaging guest was the author Harlan Coben, and you can view a replay here.

So, in fairness to social media, I have in fact found some comfort there.

---------

I wonder, after all, what the God's eye view of my family is really like.

Perhaps it's a view from above of two people walking down River Road in New Milford, NJ, before dusk: a dad and his daughter.

There's no way to tell, from such a distance, how grateful and lucky we are. How much we love each other. Or how our journey will end.

After a while, the drone would simply move on, and the perspective changes again.

We too become invisible.

April 3, 2020 - video here


Thursday, March 26, 2020

I Miss You, NYC

It's Throwback Thursday, so I posted this photo on Instagram tonight from two years ago, the first time Nancy and I had ever been to baseball's Opening Day (and the first time we ever descended the precariously steep escalator to the Hudson Yards subway station).

We rode one of the MTA museum's 7 Trains to Citi Field that day.

I happily snapped photos of the train's arrival, and we sat in one of the 50-year-old "redbird" cars.

My Uncle Charlie had taken me to my first MLB game on one of those same subway cars, arriving to then newly-built Shea Stadium, across from the World's Fair, and ascending to our seats in the precariously steep nose-bleed section of Shea Stadium.

Hudson Yards station
That first ride on the 7 Train was a rite of passage for me, full of odd and eye-opening sights I had never seen as a boy growing up in the New Jersey suburbs. Things were different in New York, in a profound way.

Just like when I rode the train with Uncle Charlie in the 1960s, on Opening Day 2018 the tinny subway sound system played the hokey song "Meet the Mets" when we arrived at the ballpark station. That was a great day, and Nancy and I bought tickets for the Mets home opener in 2019... and Opening Day 2020 too.

But that game didn't take place today.

New York is on lockdown. No one knows when the baseball season will start, and everyone grimly accepts this fact given the current life-and-death Covid-19 scenarios.

In "an abundance of caution," our New York City office, like so many others, has been closed these past two weeks. I haven't been to the city since Friday, March 13th.

My daughter is currently on lockdown in a Manhattan apartment, but she assures us she's fine. I keep wanting to drive to the city to "save" her, but I really think I want to drive there to save myself.

I'm very much in love with New York. I'm a little worried about how it will change in the coming months.

My Google Photos folder is filled with past images of the city. And, more often than not, these are the photos that Google's mysterious algorithm chooses to "auto-stylize." Here's an example:

St. Patrick's Cathedral

In fact, here's an entire folder of 120 images of New York City that Google has auto-stylized for me (often, nostalgically, editing them in black and white).

When I've worked in New York these past few months, I've taken cell phone photos all the time. The city is full of beauty and life, architecture and art... and still odd and eye-opening sights.

Most recently, on March 11, I posted this photo on Twitter of Times Square and one of my favorite places, Grand Central Terminal:



It was a Wednesday morning (evidenced by GCT's iconic brass and onyx four-sided clock). I was simply struck by how far fewer people there were than usual in pre-lockdown Manhattan.

A BuzzFeed editor saw the tweet and asked to add the Grand Central photo to the end of a story, "24 Shocking Pictures of Famous Places Before and After the Coronavirus Outbreak." All fine... until Complex Media re-posted the photo on Instagram in this way:


In a little more than half an hour, more than 34,000 people had "liked" the post, but the comments were turning rapidly ugly.

Pictures don't tell the whole story, and there was certainly more context to the BuzzFeed post. In contrast, Complex's stark Instagram post looked... odd... showing Grand Central at an obviously different time. People were commenting that my photo was inflaming fear.

Magically, just as the photo began to go viral in a bad way, Complex deleted the post. So ended my brief reign as a perpetrator of fake news.

The lesson: a picture is (possibly) worth a thousand (misleading) words.

That is, unless it's a photo of New York City in the distance, without any words at all:


Monday, March 23, 2020

It's Snowing in New Jersey...


... because things aren't weird enough here on the morning of March 23, 2020.

How are you coping with the new realities?

Working remotely full-time lately, I've been finding and using new ways to use technology to stay in touch with others.

Thanks especially to Sree Sreenivasan 谢斯睿, Steffen Kaplan (their mantra and challenge is to "Always Be Creating") and to this past Saturday's virtual Social Media Weekend conference sponsored by Pace University and Muck Rack.

I've also traveled around my home state of New Jersey, partly in efforts to care for Mom. For me, stopping along the way to take photos has been a source of joy.

Above are images that Google Photos' algorithm randomly auto-stylized over the past two weeks. It's an interesting theme. (Context/captions are posted on my Instagram sites: @bvarphotos and @foundinnj)

This morning's springtime snow isn't sticking to the ground. So I don't have any photos to prove it.

Instead, I'll sign off with this image of street art or graffiti or word from the prophets written on this sound-barrier wall along Route 80 yesterday in Paterson, as I was returning home from Mom's:


PS - Let me know if you want to talk or (remotely) visit: bvar@verizon.net

Thursday, March 5, 2020

3 Days in Florida: What I Saw at Spring Training

Jacob deGrom's first pitch in 2020

Ever since spring training began, my fancy has turned lightly to thoughts of baseball.

This past weekend, I attended three Grapefruit League games, two won my favorite team, the New York Mets:

  • Rays vs. Nationals this past Friday at FITTEAM Ballpark (the Washington/Houston home stadium in West Palm Beach, Florida)
  • Mets vs. Astros on Leap Day Saturday, also at FITTTEAM
  • Nationals vs. Mets on Sunday at Clover Park (the Mets home stadium in Port St. Lucie, Florida)

I’m posting these thoughts about my first-ever spring training visit on March 5 – the infamous day, 48 years ago, that Jim Fregosi broke his right thumb during a workout. The Mets had obtained Fregosi in an off-season trade months earlier for Nolan Ryan, and their careers subsequently took very different turns, with Ryan winding up in the Hall of Fame.

So the life of a Mets fan, like life in general, is not always easy or fair. Still, I am eager for the arrival of the 2020 season and happily took photos of FITTEAM field as soon as I arrived…

Scenes from FITTEAM (Jalen Beeks, lower left)

My wife gently nudged me and asked if it was a good idea to be seen in an Astros ballpark with a camera pointed toward the batter’s box.

One theme of the weekend was the Astros cheating scandal. Fans everywhere chatted constantly about it. During the Mets/Astros game, fans were especially vocal, chanting “Beat the Cheats!” to the tone and rhythm of “Let’s Go Mets!” It’s anyone’s guess how long this hostility will last, but I wonder whether it will demoralize or galvanize the Astros players as the season progresses.

Another weekend theme was how nice people are to you when you wear Mets gear. No matter where we were -- at the ballpark, airport, hotel, in bars and restaurants, or walking the streets of West Palm Beach -- people would nod, smile, wave, or say “Let’s Go Mets!”

One Rays fan, an older gentleman, saw my Mets cap and bemoaned how much he’ll miss Marcus Stroman, who left the Blue Jays to join the Mets last year. As he kept talking, he revealed a schoolboy crush on Nikki Huffman, Stroman’s personal trainer, who he will miss even more.

Scenes from West Palm Beach (Clematis Street, lower left)

Watching the Mets players interact up close gave me a hopeful feeling for the future. The players seem to genuinely enjoy each other.

The day before we left for Florida, mlb.com’s Anthony DiComo posted an endearing story describing how a group of Mets players have formed an impromptu “Cookies Club,” meeting up regularly after road games to eat peanut-butter cookies, drink 2% milk, and talk about baseball and life.

I saw evidence of this refreshing decency with my own eyes: Jacob DeGrom joked with the home plate umpire after leaving the pitcher’s mound following three innings of work. I’m guessing it was about the five strikes the ump had given the Nationals’ Michael Taylor in a previous at bat. And when muscular, fan-favorite Tim Tebow pulled back from barreling late into second base during a meaningless, late-game double play, Nationals middle infielders gave him a respectful, appreciative nod.

Even though today’s culture is so divisive, and cheaters evidently do sometimes win, I refuse to believe that nice guys always finish last. Give me Luis Rojas over Leo Durocher any day. I’ll take my chances.

Scenes from Clover Park (immortal Tom Seaver, lower right)

Niceness is contagious, even if it isn’t yet a global pandemic. It’s amazing how friendly the Mets vendors and support staff are when we attend games in New York. That vibe extended to Clover Park, which has been newly renovated and mirrors some of the best features of CitiField (cheers, Jim Beam Bourbon Bar!).

Clover Park was more fan-friendly and comfortable than FITTEAM. Upon entering on Sunday, the guards let my wife through with a friendly wave despite problems with a wonky metal detector. We joked that had the same thing happened at Yankee Stadium, I would have spent the afternoon bailing her out from a Bronx detention center.

Scooter and the Big Man warm up to face the Astros

My Dad, a great amateur ballplayer in his own right, used to observe that, however old he was, he always felt he was younger than the major leaguers he watched on TV. In real life, that conceit is hard to maintain. All the players look young… and younger than on TV. They also seem bigger in real life; not like actors, who always seem smaller.

Today’s baseball players are in terrific shape and are the most talented in the world. I chuckle to myself when people claim that Babe Ruth would be just as effective today as he was in the 1920s. Back then Ruth’s opponents came from a small, sometimes out-of-shape, homogeneous talent pool who did not have the benefit of all the advances over the past century in health, nutrition and sports science.

Strolling past the left-field bullpen during the Rays-Nationals game, I heard what sounded like a gunshot, only to look down to discover it was the pop of a Jalen Beeks fastball hitting a warmup catcher’s mitt. Young Beeks’ stats suggest he’s so far been an average big-league middle reliever, but I wonder if Ruth had seen or heard anything like him.

My wife wore her “Scooter and the Big Man” T-shirt to Sunday’s game, which happened to be scheduled on Michael Conforto’s 27th birthday. The E Street Band reference in this case refers to “Scooter” Conforto and “Big Man” Pete Alonso.

deGrom warming up
It also happened to be deGrom’s first start of the spring that day (we were doubly lucky: having witnessed Stephen Strasburg’s first spring start on Friday).

It was quite a sight to see “Jake” warm up on the third-base sideline (I wonder why the Mets dugout is on the third-base side of Clover Park; isn’t the home team always on the first-base side?). All the other Mets pitchers gathered around to study/watch/admire deGrom’s seemingly effortless delivery. Catcher Wilson Ramos, who looks to begin the season in top physical condition, was squatting closer to the ground and setting a lower target than he did during the 2019 season.

Once the game started, deGrom made short work of the first three batters he faced: a great sign for the season ahead. Not only that, but Scooter and the Big Man came through: Alonso getting his first hit of the spring and Conforto hitting a birthday home run.

It was a memorable Sunday. Only one thing was missing: Where was Mr. Met?

My only sighting of Mr. and Mrs. Met at Clover Park

Other things of interest?

  • FITTEAM Ballpark has no clock on its expansive scoreboard, as if time had stopped… or we were in Las Vegas.
  • The hawkers in spring training are especially entertaining, although the “very, very cold beer / if I were you I’d order a beer” guy met his match when a high school baseball team sitting together all jokingly stood, shouted and raised their hands when he passed.
  • The between-inning amusements are sweetly reminiscent of scenes from “Bull Durham.” Games at both parks were interrupted by an urgent plea from the PA announcer for the owner of a certain car. The centerfield scoreboard then displayed said vehicle, and the announcer enthusiastically informed the crowd that it had won that day’s “Dirtiest Car in the Parking Lot” contest, awarding the owner a free wash.
  • Florida is filled with palm trees and churches and concrete utility poles.

In the end, my wife and I enjoyed our stay in West Palm Beach very much. It features inviting bars and restaurants, street art and musicians, and people who like to dine outdoors on Clematis Street in shorts and short-sleeve shirts in 53-degree weather.

We crossed the bridge to moneyed Palm Beach only once. I felt claustrophobic there, finding the architecture imposing and ostentatious.

Perhaps that’s where the owners of the Yankees live.


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Postscript, from my Instagram account in March 2021:

Saturday, February 29, 2020

Hey, Google, Show Me the Odds of a Miracle



As February comes to a close, I’m still thinking of Google’s “Loretta” Super Bowl commercial, which has so far been viewed more than 61 million times on YouTube.

The ad was a discussion topic at a recent event sponsored by the New Jersey chapter of IABC (International Association of Business Communicators).

Newhouse’s chief marketing officer, Jason Blake, and Sandy Becker from Rutgers Business School delivered a great post-game review of the Super Bowl advertising winners and losers.

IABC NJ event in Montclair, Feb. 11
To Blake and Becker, Google’s Loretta ad “humanized tech better than anything in a long time.”

Those in the room nodded in agreement, and a few said the ad had moved them to tears.

Less than two weeks following the “Big Game,” Blake and Becker noted that this year’s ads, with few exceptions, hadn’t been as memorable or as entertaining as the half-time show. Many advertisers desperately attempted to cram celebrities into vignettes with confusing messaging.

Upon further review, I’ve discovered that not everyone felt the same as our IABC focus group. On the positive side, I was even more moved to learn that the ad is based on a true story.

On the negative side, tech guru Shelly Palmer called it “the most evil advertisement” he’d ever seen because Google doesn’t disclose that it uses the information provided by the widower in the ad -- and by all of us in real life -- simply for marketing purposes.

Similarly, Joelle Renstrom wrote about “The Sinister Realities of Google's Tear-Jerking Super Bowl Commercial” on Slate. And then there’s this parody ad produced by Gardiner Bryant, with its coda that calls out Google’s “creepiness”:



It seems the world is divided in two: many who accept the ad at face value, and many -- like my wife -- who wonder about the implications and unintended consequences of letting technology supplant real human interaction.

I think, after all, that I still share the view of my friends at IABC.

I don't think the ad shows the extent of Google’s power; I think it shows Google’s limits.

Something that happened last Sunday explains why, and I wanted to post about it tonight because I fear my reasoning is as ephemeral as the waning hours of Leap Day.

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Last Sunday, family and friends celebrated the 90th birthday of my uncle, a retired priest.

As my wife and I drove to the party at Enzo’s Ristorante & Pizzeria in Budd Lake, NJ, I thought a lot about Fr. Julian’s life.

Not to “Loretta” him here, but I remember a conversation I had with my grandmother -- who would have been 97 at the time -- one summer, years ago.

As we sat on the front porch of her (now Julian’s) house in Budd Lake, Nonna told the story of the days following Fr. Julian’s birth: he had been so sick that the best doctors were convinced he would die within days.

Nonna said she prayed to Mary to keep him alive. She vowed to always take care of Julian, no matter what... believing, even if he survived, he would require 24/7 care for the rest of his life. She promised God that if only Julian would live she would never ask for anything else for herself ever again.

She never did. She never had to. She considered herself the luckiest mother in the world.

Julian grew to be the strongest of the Varettoni boys (and both his brothers were athletes and Navy officers). He always took care of Nonna, just as he has helped countless others throughout his life.

The miracle of Fr. Julian’s 90th birthday party is something Google could never have predicted. He, like Loretta and her husband, have had wonderful lives.

They, like the rest of us, are also among the rabble who share general similarities that can exploited for commercial gain. We’re the same rabble who do all the working and playing and living and dying -- but we all have individual stories that Google can’t get its fingers on.

Our lives are not algorithms. Love and death are unfathomable mysteries. We’re all miracles in our own way.

Not even Google can commoditize our souls.


Sunday, February 9, 2020

Celebrating 49 Years of Teaching Photography at Montclair State

Klaus Schnitzer at the podium.
I stumbled upon a great tribute last night: the new exhibit at the George Segal Gallery on the Montclair State University campus.

It's an installation showcasing the work of photographer Klaus Schnitzer, and the influence he's had on pupils throughout his 49-year tenure as an Art and Design professor.

The exhibit runs through Saturday, April 4, 2020. It includes work by 54 of Schnitzer's students, and you can read more information and details here.

I was there last night to show support for a school my wife and oldest daughter both attended. My daughter -- who I am so proud of -- graduated there with a teaching degree. She's currently a special ed teacher, and she's also currently studying to obtain her master's degree at Montclair State.

Susan Cole, the university's president, introduced herself to us last night, which was very sweet. She said something important and true about this state school.

Schnitzer's photography on display.
She proudly noted that while many other schools strive for diversity and inclusion, Montclair State is already diverse and inclusive.

Just like the best parts of New Jersey itself, I'd add.

I was delighted and amazed by the gallery's current exhibit. Consider stopping by before April 4. I think you'll be delighted too.

This is a wonderful testament to a productive and meaningful career, to the profound influence one life has on so many others, and to the enduring legacy of art.

George Segal's "Summer Cabin."

Thursday, February 6, 2020

Poetry Trumps Politics in Ginsberg’s Paterson

Grand Stairway at the Hamilton Club.
Of all the political theater I've witnessed over the past few days, none took me by more surprise than Congressman Bill Pascrell's performance this past Saturday at the historic Hamilton Club in Paterson, NJ.

The occasion was the 40th anniversary of the Poetry Center at Passaic County Community College. You can read about the center, and its legendary founder and executive director, Maria Mazziotti Gillan, here and here.

I attended the event on a lark -- because I love poetry, and I wanted to hear the poets who had won this year's Allen Ginsberg Awards. I was expecting to be among perhaps a dozen attendees. In fact, there were many, many more.

Including Rep. Pascrell.

He said he was a lifelong fan and writer of poetry. At the event, he read a poem he had written many years ago. It was scrawled in a script reminiscent of my grandfather's handwriting. Here's the 90-second video:


Witnessing a politician's simple and unapologetic ode to wanting to live life as a doorman was an unexpected blessing.

Perhaps appreciation for poetry can repair our losses, since we've otherwise seen the best minds of our generation destroyed by madness.

Other highlights from Saturday included:

  • Gillan's story about Ginsberg passing notes to her at a reading many years ago.
  • All the wonderful snippets of language I heard (I'm looking at you Marc Harshman, poet-laureate of West Virginia, and your "angel words" and the people who lived on the mountaintop and kept rocks in their pockets so they wouldn't blow away).
  • The sheer variety of poets, with a special shout-out to Elizabeth Marchitti who, like my Mom, is 88 years old and lives in Totowa (the next town over from Paterson, where Ginsberg grew up).

The historic Hamilton Club itself was a surprise and wonder. As were the displays by Gaetano Federici throughout the building. Here's more about the sculptor, and here's his bust of David in front of a window overlooking downtown:


The charm of the event even extended to the catering, provided by an opera singer (Sheldrake Lukas, left) and a poet (Xandt Wyntreez):


Finally, I walked away from the event with a bag of swag, including a print of the event poster, featuring a beautiful image of Hamilton House by photographer/poet Mark Hillringhouse. At the event, Mark said he sought to take an image of the building "that seemed to glow from the inside... the same way poetry makes us feel."


The swag also included a 40th anniversary t-shirt and a thick, bound copy of The Paterson Literary Review (2012-2013).

If anyone would like that copy, drop me a line at bvar@verizon.net, and I'll mail it to you for free.

Feb. 1 was also the deadline for next year's Allen Ginsberg Awards. I submitted one of my poems previously posted here.

Considering the quality of the competition, it will be difficult to get enough votes for an honorable mention. Harshman -- one of two first-prize winners this year (Francesca Maxime and her poem, "Pleather," was the other) -- prefaced his reading Saturday by noting that he had long-ago "graduated from rhyme."

I never did. With apologies to Mr. Ginsberg, epic free verse is not my style. I blame Mr. Poe for that.

Monday, January 27, 2020

Here's a Bright Idea: Visit a National Park


140 years ago today -- Jan. 27, 1880 -- Thomas Edison's received his patent for the light bulb.

I learned this fact on Saturday on a visit with some photography friends to the National Park Service's site in West Orange, NJ.

This is one of my favorites of all the national parks in New Jersey. Like the Great Falls in Paterson, the Thomas Edison National Historical Park is close to home... and very photogenic.

You can take a virtual tour using the National Park Service's great online resources, including this picture guide

To me, our national parks always manage to provide enlightening perspectives. I mean, you'd think light bulbs would older than 140, considering all the advancements since, right?

Here's a short slideshow with some of my images from this weekend:


I hope this encourages you to visit and take in some history. The rangers there are friendly and helpful.

And photos, including selfies with life-sized Edison cutouts, are welcome (provided you don't use flash).

This is in contrast to the now-closed J.D. Salinger exhibit I recently visited at the New York Public Library, where all photography was prohibited.

I suppose, though, that was on-brand for Salinger, who provided his own enlightening perspectives in his own way... and who, alas, died 10 years ago today, 130 years after the invention of the light bulb.