Fragment #10
Come over, we’ll have Champagne, I said, and strawberries dipped in chocolate. All the bells and whistles.
All the bells and whistles.
Bells and whistles.
The frills, the furbellows; the tassels and the trim. Bells and whistles are the rickrack on the jumper; the pom-pom on the beanie. In computing jargon, says the Google, they are “attractive but superfluous facilities.” In the ordinarily fancy-free language of financial products, they’re a set of special features added to plain-Jane instruments to entice investors and alternatively known, to financiers, as “kickers,” or “wrinkles.” On an automobile, they’re the heated leather seats. And if you plug “bells and whistles” into the urban thesaurus you get a full saucepan of glorious nonsense: “ginger bread”; “sweetbait”; “carribean handshake”; “mouse warming.”
But none of these functions entail actual bells and whistles, though I’d for sure buy the dress that did. Though sometimes ascribed to train culture of the mid-nineteenth century, the most commonly accepted origin story for this odd little idiom drops a dime on the calliope—that unfailingly jaunty organ common to carnivals and circuses. Powered, like the train, by steam (and later, compressed air), the calliope makes music that edges on cacophony by forcing air through its clutch of – wait for it – whistles tuned by bells. The calliope is loud—they were often commonly found on steamboats, their music audible to people on the shore—and edging on dangerous, dependent as they are on the mechanical manipulation of forced hot air.
Like a car or a financial package, the bells and whistles of the calliope were used to attract people—and their disposable income—to the fair. Come one, come all, their song enticed, come see the bearded lady, witness astonishing feats of strength, marvel at the derring-do of the flying trapeze. Forget your cares and troubles for a day and lose yourself in magic.
In other words, bells and whistles are, above all else (and according to Websters) “items or features that are useful or decorative but not essential.”
Not essential.
You see where this is going, right?
In the past few weeks the newspaper where I work has been approached to participate in two separate projects organized around the notion of “essential work” – efforts to uplift the stories of bus driver and electricians, nurses and teachers and farmers. These are honorable projects. And yet, I keep coming back to the things left behind in the rush to pare our world back to the bare bones of survival. The live music and theater, for sure; the chance to gather in a group without knowing who would be there or what magic might happen. The four-course, gloriously plated, meticulously sourced meals I would treat myself to once in a while, sometimes alone at the bar at Lula, sometimes with a friend. The circus and the intimacy it offers with the bodies of relative strangers—it is entirely possible that I will never again fly from the wrists of another aerialist, or lift her high with a foot on the small of her back.
My mom was complaining that she was sick of her masks, they were so ugly and not comfortable. So I bought her some new ones made of silk charmeuse, with blowsy floral prints. They were expensive and she loves them. On Monday I’m going to go get a massage, outdoors in the plain fresh air, and this in itself feels like reckless excess, even though it feels clinically necessary as my wrists throb with repetitive stress and my peroneal tendons are give me debilitating cramps.
What constitutes “essential” anymore? Is it frivolous to lay hands on someone in pain? Is it pointless to put on lipstick no one will ever see?
Since mid-April we’ve been running an online game of Veggie Bingo via the Hideout’s website. Usually bingo doesn’t start til mid-June but desperate times call for ridiculous measures. We’ve had anywhere from 30 to 100 players on any given night and it’s been a real learning adventure as we try to navigate this weird platform and figure out new ways to foster community and joy and connection in this very peculiar way. At its best it is gently demented, barely managed chaos, it is utterly inessential, and it is one of the high points of my week. You should come!
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After I extended the offer of Champagne and strawberries to a few friends, we gathered in my backyard one Friday evening and celebrated … what? The seven-month anniversary of a birthday party I had missed due to a death in the family? The year-anniversary of a wrenching breakup? The simple fact of sharing each other’s company? All of the above.
To thank them for coming out, I gave them each some ribbon, and a bowlful of little bells. Take some, I said – but you’ll have to make your own whistles. These are DIY times and the whistle shelf at Target is bare. If you’re feeling sad, or lonely, or ground down by duty, jingle them, and do something inessential: sing, juggle, bake cookies, blow someone a kiss. And when you hear them ringing you can also know that somewhere out there those of us gathered here are doing the same.
I can't invite 100 people to my yard, for obvious reasons, but I have a lot of bells left. If you’d like me to send you some, shoot me your address and I’ll pop them in the mail.
xo