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Show Cardboard Sky-6 4 Every morning at ten-thirty there was a rerun of Green Acres; my first memories of my son are played back to me in the form of dialogue between Eddie Albert and Eva Gabor. My two sisters make similar reports on their marriages. Both are with their first husbands and both are unhappy; they have enough of our father in them that I predict they're going to stick it out until death does them part. Father died last year without ever having opened the coppertone refrigerator; after it came he sent my mother for whatever he wanted from it, or if she wasn't there he detailed a child or did without. He died surrounded by all of us, in the bed my grandfather bought from a man who brought it from the old country. It was oak, black and smoky, heavy and hard as old iron; my father was propped up against the black headboard; his head hung to one side like a dead flower and he didn't have the strength to raise it any more. To look at us at all he had to roll his eyes up and wrinkle his forehead. The last time I saw Tony Bill I tried to get him to advance me money to write a script I had in my head, about two men who repossess cars cars for a living. One is mean, the other is good. They both fall in love with the same slightly flaky girl from Costa Mesa. The mean one is reborn in her love; the good one doesn't have sufficient character to cope with such joy and turns bad. She loves each of them in turn and wrongs each in turn. Finally she runs off to Texas with the good man who is now thoroughly bad. Tony Bill |
