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Frank and Zelda rarely venture beyond the local grocery store these days. When I told the pair that I wanted to interview them for TART, they consented, but recoiled in horror when I pulled out my mini recorder. (I always keep it handy for inspired pieces of poetry and sudden poignant thoughts, such as this gem recorded several months ago in the throws of a caffeinated hysteria, "Proclamation 210: Tread lightly near spiders on hardwood floors.") Disillusioned with modern appliances, they choose to fill their time by mingling philosophies, reading, playing Scrabble, and making up stories to fascinate each other. Sometimes they record these stories, not by audio recorder, not even by pen and paper but in their minds, in the oral tradition of their ancestors. Frank and Zelda are not entirely sure, but they believe they are descendants of one of the Black Mountain native american tribes. I stumbled upon this unique pair by chance, while hiking in the serenity of the northern California woods near my mother's house. Frank and Zelda have no friends to speak of so it's lucky they have each other, since they so perfectly entertain one another with their perfect wits. Frank kowtows to Zelda's ability to create fantastic logic puzzles, ever increasingly illogical. Zelda remains reticent and defers to Frank's expertise in tasteful interior design. He studied feng shui extensively during his college years and believes in it wholeheartedly. Zelda tells me that every few days when his mood changes she finds Frank painstakingly moving the furniture about or fixing a picture just so on the wall. When I visit their home Frank has just arranged all the sofas and chairs in a semi-circle around the coffee table that supports a nearly finished jigsaw puzzle of a congested New York street corner. They play a game of holding out the longest - who will break down and do the dishes, who will write their mother first, who will smoke the last cigarette. A pile of dirty dishes were stacked neatly in the sink, and empty cigarette boxes and coffee mugs lined the outer perimeter of their glass-top table. When the phone rings (their one concession to the battle against modern technology) they stare at each other and move their lips and say nothing. I wonder if this is another game of holding out, but Frank and Zelda seem almost possessed of a telepathic nexus, as I've heard twin siblings are often purported to have. When I mention this notion to them they look at each other and then begin to laugh, not a derisive laughter but the laughter of two children keeping a secret. Sometimes they sleep in the backyard. Sometimes they stand at the apex of their house and bay at the moon, ever conscious of her changing moods. Sometimes they wait out the dawn this way, in near-catatonic stupors, wrapped in matching unicorn blankets and western wear, exchanging riddles that they make up. Copyright 1/99 Jennifer Chung. All rights reserved. They key for quirky people is to find someone as equally quirky. |