Portnoy’s Complaint

Which is not the case, Doctor! Not the case at all! Which is an attempt on this sly bitch's part to break me on the rack of guilt-and thus get herself a husband. Because at twenty-nine that's what she wants, you see- but that does not mean, you see, that I have to oblige. "In September, you son of a bitch, I am going to be thirty years old!" Correct, Monkey, correct! Which is precisely why it is you and not me who is responsible for your expectations and your dreams! Is that clear? You! "I'll tell the world about you, you cold-hearted prick! I'll tell them what a filthy pervert you are, and the dirty things you made me do!"

The cunt! I'm lucky really that I came out of that affair alive. If I have!

But back to my parents, and how it seems that by remaining in my single state I bring these people, too, nothing but grief. That I happen, Mommy and Daddy, just happen to have recently been appointed by the Mayor to be Assistant Commissioner for The City of New York Commission on Human Opportunity apparently doesn't mean shit to you in terms of accomplishment and stature- though this is not exactly the case, I know, for, to be truthful, whenever my name now appears in a news story in the Times, they bombard every living relative with a copy of the clipping. Half my father's retirement pay goes down the drain in postage, and my mother is on the phone for days at a stretch and has to be fed intravenously, her mouth is going at such a rate about her Alex. In fact, it is exactly as it always has been: they can't get over what a success and a genius I am, my name in the paper, an associate now of the glamorous new Mayor, on the side of Truth and Justice, enemy of slumlords and bigots and rats ("to encourage equality of treatment, to prevent discrimination, to foster mutual understanding and respect-" my commission's humane purpose, as decreed by act of the City Council)… but still, if you know what I mean, still somehow not entirely perfect.

Now, can you beat that for a serpent's tooth? All they have sacrificed for me and done for me and how they boast about me and are the best public relations firm (they tell me) any child could have, and it turns out that I still won't be perfect. Did you ever hear of such a thing in your life? I just refuse to be perfect. What a pricky kid.

They come to visit: "Where did you get a rug like this?" my father asks, making a face. "Did you get this thing in a junk shop or did somebody give it to you?"

"I like this rug."

"What are you talking," my father says, "it's a worn-out rug."

Light-hearted. "It's worn, but not out. Okay? Enough?"

"Alex, please," my mother says, "it is a very worn rug."

"You'll trip on that thing," my father says, "and throw your knee out of whack, and then you’ll really be in trouble."

"And with your knee," says my mother meaningfully, "that wouldn't be a picnic."

At this rate they are going to roll the thing up any minute now, the two of them, and push it out the window. And then take me home!

"The rug is fine. My knee is fine."

"It wasn't so fine," my mother is quick to remind me, "when you had the cast on, darling, up to your hip. How he shlepped that thing around! How miserable he was!"

"I was fourteen years old then. Mother."

"Yeah, and you came out of that thing," my father says, "you couldn't bend your leg, I thought you were going to be a cripple for the rest of your life. I told him, 'Bend it! Bend it!' I practically begged him morning, noon, and night, 'Do you want to be a cripple forever? Bend that leg!”

"You scared the daylights out of us with that knee."

"But that was in nineteen hundred and forty-seven. And this is nineteen sixty-six. The cast has been off nearly twenty years!"

My mother's cogent reply? "You'll see, someday you'll be a parent, and you'll know what it's like. And then maybe you won't sneer at your family any more."

The legend engraved on the face of the Jewish nickel- on the body of every Jewish child!- not IN GOD WE TRUST, but SOMEDAY YOU'LL BE A PARENT AND YOU'LL KNOW WHAT IT'S LIKE.

"You think," my father the ironist asks, "it'll be in our lifetime, Alex? You think it'll happen before I go down into the grave? No-he'd rather take chances with a worn-out rug!" The ironist-and logician! "-And crack his head open! And let me ask you something else, my independent son-who would even know you were here if you were lying bleeding to death on the floor? Half the time you don't answer the phone, I see you lying here with God only knows what's wrong-and who is there to take care of you? Who is there even to bring you a bowl of soup, if God forbid something terrible should happen?"

“I can take care of myself! I don't go around like some people"- boy, still pretty tough with the old man, eh, Al?- "some people I know in continual anticipation of total catastrophe!"