by Dana Jerman

This essay was written in tribute to Mr. Carl Ray Kasell: born April 2, 1934. Died April 17, 2018.

—

If my mental magician of a husband did not remember the date: October 3rd, 2013, I would have to go back, find the picture, and check it for a time stamp.

A Thursday night. As I am wearing an breezy slate-grey cut-out dress, so its a mild one, if the weather is something I can actually recall.

A week or so before, a gal pal invites me to a show. “It’s a weekend NPR vehicle called “Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me!” I’ve heard of it, and there’s a studio audience live taping of it in a theatre in the basement of a bank, and it sounds to me, because I’m a bit of a culture snob, like something the plebes are into, but she’s real excited and, as I figure out later, we have front row seats! So I go.

I go because I want to be somewhere doing something. I really like trying new things. But more importantly at this time, I’m lugubrious and lonely and I feel hollow all the time. My heart seems to have perpetually taken on the shape of a wrenched gut, and I live with a hoarder.

I go because my dear friend is dating one of the writer/performers. She first met him at a theatre where we both worked as counter girls slinging cokes & beers during pre-show and intermission.

In our seats, we snap a selfie. She is kind of star-struck, but mostly just happy to be on planet Earth, and I am pleased in the presence of her enthusiasm.

Now, if you had told me, at that same time the following year I’d be married to someone I would be in the same room with that night, someone who ended up in the background of the photo she and I took, I probably would have laughed in your face to keep from crying, and told you to quit fucking with me.

That it would end up being the man wearing black jeans and a black vest with silk backing. The one who called my friend’s last name along with a group of other last names. The one who led us downstairs, pausing on the landing to turn with a flourish of open arms and a smile. A big, genuine grin that said “I hope you’re glad to be here. Because I am. You’re in for a treat.”

The show starts and it is effortless fun. The first words I heard Announcer Carl Kasell, Scorekeeper Emeritus, say on stage was the punchline to a joke about a cat: "You go girrrl!" Just like that. Laughter exploded out of me. After that joke, I immediately understood the appeal of the show. And I was very glad to be there.

—

Show’s over. Ladyfriend and I go across the street to a bar where we are meeting the writer/performer. A short time after that he arrives, and Carl is in tow. Carl is amiable, but tired. He looks tired, anyway. A few weeks from now, he will retire. He doesn’t want to, but his memory is fading. I don’t think I exchanged many words with him that evening. I didn’t say much at all myself, really. The interaction was all about my friend and her writer. However, I sat beside Carl. Or at least I think I did. My memories have faded, too.

I’m going to quote one of my favorite song lyrics. From “This Country” by Fever Ray. The whole song is great, but the outro goes: “This country makes it hard to fuck.”

Because the “business” of the internet is turning the wild, wide open world of humanity and truth into a washed-out, walled-up wasteland of trash talk and gatekept code, the social contract is in deep decline. Collectively we seem to be having an increasingly harder time interpreting and translating into meaning, our own culture and our own standing and place within.

So no wonder it is getting harder and harder to cultivate the kind of righteous graciousness, presence, and ease of care that Mr. Carl seemed to exude in spades. We all know persons like this, and want to better ourselves by either finding ways to simply bask in their nearness, or learn their secret, so we can be it ourselves. Books about this are being written and read all the time. Carl’s book included.

But all on your own you’ve probably figured that to become this means a lot of time alone.

Slowdown Time- to reconnect with the self and get away from the world of “knowing” and “certainty” with its dull, unblinking eye.

It means a lot of thinking. The meditative kind. Just letting the thoughts come and go. Feeling the world spin.

It means a lot of fucking. Fucking around. Fucking off. Finding your personal country. Being free.

—

Carl Kasell was 84 years old in 2018. Someone else died at 84 in 1918. And it was a feat then. That kind of longevity was incredible. You deserved multiple decorations if you made it that far. Now it’s nearly expected. Maybe someday we’ll get to roll the dice for ourselves. Each of us alone will get to decide when we’re born, and how long we live. Our time will truly be ours, because it will be chosen time.

I don’t know what kind of a people this makes us, except that it probably makes less of us. A whole lot of us will choose not to choose.

But now… gosh. How do people make it to 84? How do they make it beyond that? Some don’t. Most don’t. I sure hope my husband does, though.

Not too long ago the last known human to have been born in the 19th century passed away…

I obsess about this: I’m not great with time. I have problems with time the way other people have problems with the weather. And death. Probably the only death I’ll be totally fine with will be my own. You feel this way too, right? No one teaches you how to grieve, anyway. And nothing else quite shows you what you’re made of like loss.

Really, death kinda just makes me think of aging. Aging comes first after all. 

I’ve got lots of longevity in my family, so if you are going to try and tell me I'm going to make it to 84, I won't laugh in your face this time. But I will cry. I'd rather make it to half that and call it. From this far off, to your classic Gen-Y misanthropic nihilist, 84 sounds like life without parole. Plus I want to die young and hot and hope my spirit is around long enough to watch someone else hot fuck my corpse one last time…

It's only a dream, people.

—

Anyway…

When I chat with the Carl in my mind, he says “Yes, It was hard. Especially on my loving Mary Anne. But I got to see many people I cared so much about. So many who were so dear came near and made this world I was growing ever more estranged from in my mind, somehow still real.”

He says: “Stephanie you are a beautiful girl and Don loves you very very much, and you love him too, and nothing ever fixes anything for long except love. When you call it love, it makes nothing at all into something special.”

And I say: “That's great Carl but my name’s not Stephanie. It’s Dana.”

Then he says: “Oh. Oh that’s right, Dana, yes, very sorry. Always nice to see you Dana. You have a very nice place here.”

Then I say: “Thank you very much, Mr. Kasell. It is the inside of my head, so I try to keep it tidy.”