Arbitrary Stupid Goal
3.5/5
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About this ebook
One of The New Yorker's "Books We Loved in 2017"
“Arbitrary Stupid Goal is a completely riveting world—when I looked up from its pages regular life seemed boring and safe and modern like one big iPhone. This book captures not just a lost New York but a whole lost way of life.” —Miranda July
In Arbitrary Stupid Goal, Tamara Shopsin takes the reader on a pointillist time-travel trip to the Greenwich Village of her bohemian childhood, a funky, tight-knit small town in the big city, long before Sex and the City tours and luxury condos. The center of Tamara’s universe is Shopsin’s, her family’s legendary greasy spoon, aka “The Store,” run by her inimitable dad, Kenny—a loquacious, contrary, huge-hearted man who, aside from dishing up New York’s best egg salad on rye, is Village sheriff, philosopher, and fixer all at once. All comers find a place at Shopsin’s table and feast on Kenny’s tall tales and trenchant advice along with the incomparable chili con carne.
Filled with clever illustrations and witty, nostalgic photographs and graphics, and told in a sly, elliptical narrative that is both hilarious and endearing, Arbitrary Stupid Goal is an offbeat memory-book mosaic about the secrets of living an unconventional life, which is becoming a forgotten art.
Tamara Shopsin
Tamara Shopsin is a graphic designer and illustrator whose work has been featured in The New York Times, Good, Time, Wired, and Newsweek. She has designed book jackets for authors including Jorge Luis Borges, Charles Lindbergh, and Vladimir Nabokov. Two volumes of her drawings have been published under the titles C’est le Pied! and C’est le Pied II. In her spare time she creates and sells novelties and cracks eggs at her family’s restaurant in New York, Shopsin’s. She is currently a 2012 fellow with the nonprofit Code for America.
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Reviews for Arbitrary Stupid Goal
32 ratings4 reviews
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Do you have to be a New Yorker to love this book? Maybe. And you have to enjoy stream-of-consciousness storytelling and coming of age tales for sure. Mara Shopsin is the daughter of parents who run a legendary market-turned-restaurant in the West Village, and her story is chock full of incredible personalities, especially Willy, a building super and super lover of all women. It's got a great little map from 1925 where there actually was a Minetta Brook (now only the lane remains). The saga of Morton Street is told with overwhelming affection and nostalgia for the days when poor people actually lived in the area and rescued each other from eviction and starvation on a daily basis. Mara makes good use of the E.B. White quote of the three New Yorks: the born there native, the commuter, and the ones who are born elsewhere and come in quest of something. And it's the third that has made so much of the difference, good and awful.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5A beautiful half-portrait of Shopsin's childhood, this book completely drew me in. General knowledge of new york city's history would help a reader feel connected, but I think that anyone who likes memoir would be charmed by this work. Easily weaves threads, brings people in and out, shows glimpses of everything in a way that hangs a perfectly aligned memory all together. After I finished reading it I felt as though I had just been listening to the stories of a close friend.
- Rating: 2 out of 5 stars2/5I didn't like this very much, the writing was good and some parts were OK, but it was just too disjointed, a bunch of little stories about neighbors and customers it was hard to identify with any of them. I finished it because it was so short but if it was any longer I'd have dropped it.
- Rating: 2 out of 5 stars2/5What did I even just read?
Book preview
Arbitrary Stupid Goal - Tamara Shopsin
A SYMPHONY
The imaginary horizontal lines that circle the earth make sense. Our equator is 0°, the North and South Poles are 90°. Latitude’s order is airtight with clear and elegant motives. The earth has a top and a bottom. Longitude is another story. There isn’t a left and right to earth. Any line could have been called 0°. But Greenwich got first dibs on the prime meridian and as a result the world set clocks and ships by a British resort town that lies outside London.
It was an arbitrary choice that became the basis for precision. My father knew a family named Wolfawitz who wanted to go on vacation but didn’t know where.
It hit them. Take a two-week road trip driving to as many towns, parks, and counties as they could that contained their last name: Wolfpoint, Wolfville, Wolf Lake, etc.
They read up and found things to do on the way to these Wolf spots: a hotel in a railroad car, an Alpine slide, a pretzel factory, etc.
The Wolfawitzes ended up seeing more than they planned. Lots of unexpected things popped up along the route.
When they came back from the vacation, they felt really good. It was easily the best vacation of their lives, and they wondered why.
My father says it was because the Wolfawitzes stopped trying to accomplish anything. They just put a carrot in front of them and decided the carrot wasn’t that important but chasing it was.
The story of the Wolfawitzes’ vacation was told hundreds of times to hundreds of customers in the small restaurant that my mom and dad ran in Greenwich Village. Each time it was told, my dad would conclude that the vacation changed the Wolfawitzes’ whole life, and this was how they were going to live from now on—chasing a very, very small carrot.
The relation that the name Wolfawitz has to Wolfpoint is about the same as Greenwich, England, has to Greenwich Village.
The Greenwich
of Greenwich Village came from a Dutch village on Long Island called Greenwijck (aka Pine District).
A man named Yellis Mandeville lived on Long Island near Greenwijck. In 1670, Yellis moved to Manhattan, bought a plot of land, and gave it a familiar name.
Copying your old neighbor is an unimaginative way to name a place. I feel this, but I also come from a family that nicknamed their family store The Store.
The Village
part came from the fact that in 1670, New York hadn’t spread past the lowest tip of Manhattan. Above what is now the seaport and stock exchange were farms, meadows, swamps, woods, and a stream full of trout.
Me or my twin sister on The Store’s stoop
The stream full of trout was called Minetta Brook. It was actually called a lot of things, but Minetta is what stuck. The stream wound across downtown Manhattan from what became Gramercy through the future Washington Square Park and dumped out in the Hudson.
Beginning in the 1640s, some freed slaves of the Dutch settled along the Minetta and set up farms and homes.
When yellow fever swept through the crowded tip of Manhattan, people escaped to the village of Greenwijck and the clean waters of the Minetta.
Most of this factual history comes from The Village, by John Strausbaugh.
My father says Indians settled Manhattan thanks to antibodies that were found in the Minetta, and that the river is the true source of life where we know it.
This was not mentioned by Strausbaugh. No one calls it the river of life besides my dad.
Well, I call it the river of life, but only in my head.
I am pretty sure my brothers and sisters believe it as well.
= Minetta Brook’s original course
Eventually, as Greenwijck became Greenwich and New York grew, the Village became part of the city. A city that paved over Minetta Brook in 1820. Some streets were shaped and named by it.
The street called Minetta Lane became a subdistrict of the Village known as Little Africa and continued to be settled by freed slaves, now from American owners rather than Dutch. The district had a progressive school and churches, though it was full of poverty, murder, and diseases.
Little Africa was also home to bars known as black-and-tans. Black-and-tans were one of the only spots in the city where white and black people mixed. They were debauched places, with drugs and gambling. Interracial coupling was on the PG side of the place, but they were a heaven for a certain type of person.
As the Village grew, its early acceptance of all people and proclivities continued. Blacks could screw whites, whites could screw blacks, men could screw men, musicians could play whatever noise they liked. Things the rest of the country found odd or disgraceful were welcomed with open arms in the Village. It became a symphony of oddities, and acted as a magnet for the country’s fringe people.
But that wasn’t what drew my dad.
He answered an ad from a Jewish newspaper that he found in the bathroom of his father’s paper factory.
DOWNTOWN — Fully furnished, custom designed, apt for rent. Laverne Properties: WAtkins 4 - 0481
My dad went to see the apartment, which happened to be on Christopher Street.
He loved it.
And was about to sign on the dotted line when he realized how much money it cost.
There was a signing fee, furniture charge every month, rent, and a rug tax.
He backed out.
Mr. Laverne was not happy. As my dad was leaving, he saw a sign in the building next door.
Room for rent.
It was a shithole.
But the place was a straight rental with no signing fee or rug tax. And that is how my dad moved to the Village.
WIDE WORLD
My family still owns a restaurant and we still call it The Store,
but it is not The Store
in my heart.
The one in my heart has a Dutch door and a tiled stoop, surrounded by the sound of roll-down gates with locks and pegs being thrown in a bucket. I am small and dirty with hair my mom calls the rat’s nest.
My twin sister, Minda, has an identical nest.
We step barefoot on tables and take naps in vinyl booths. Charlie, Danny, and Zack, my three brothers, spin on stools and crawl on the floor. Two ceiling fans whirl above covered in dust clumps held together by grease.
And Willoughby stands by the door. He looks cool, even with roast beef hanging from his mouth.
The Store is on the corner of Morton and Bedford Streets in Greenwich Village. And it is still a village.
Everyone knows who we are. Teachers let us say shit
in class and show up an hour late. It’s not Zack’s fault,
the real teacher advises the substitute teacher. He is a Shopsin.
We drag cups across the plastic levers of our family soda fountain and make murder cocktails that contain every flavor.
Customers bring our parents candy and toys from all over the world. The customers are matter-of-fact the best people in New York. New York is matter-of-fact the best place on earth.
Barely 8, my brother Charlie had the day off from school. He told my mom that he wanted to go to the Museum of Natural History. She gave him ten dollars and explained how to take the train to 81st Street.
Charlie crossed the avenue and made his way to the subway.
At the West 4th Street station he paid his token and went to the uptown platform.
But he caught the A train and it didn’t stop at 81st.
It didn’t stop at 86th or 96th or 103rd.
Charlie got off the train and found a payphone on the platform. It cost a dime.
Hey, Mom, I’m in Harlem. I’m on 125th Street,
Charlie said.
My mom didn’t freak out. She told him to go to the downtown side and catch the local C train.
And that is what Charlie did.
At the museum he saw dinosaurs, ran the ramps of the carpeted gem room, ate lunch at the cafeteria, and bought a ruler in the gift shop.
And then he took the train home.
Home was The Store. My mom was not waiting on a nervous edge for Charlie. She was waiting on tables.
When me and my twin sister were older, maybe 11, we would cover shifts for my mom; say, if she needed to go for a parent-teacher meeting. This was always because she had five kids.
Minda was much better at waitressing than me, but we got to split the tips evenly. The tips were huge. We had passbook checking accounts and credit cards.
Whenever my mom was pregnant she’d rub her belly and sing that The Store was about to get a new dishwasher.
On TV I saw kids complain to their parents about doing the dishes and I’d think: fuck, they’re only washing one cover, two at most. My brother Danny never complained and he worked whole shifts, whole summers.
He never complained even though I cleared tables like a thoughtless prick, throwing half-full glasses in the bus tray, filling it with a mix of soda and beer.
He did spray me.
None of us thought of working at The Store as a chore.
My dad was the cook. Customers came to talk to him and my mom as much as to eat. It was a forum of philosophy and hot sauce.
Then there was Willoughby, Willy, whose mystery is the reason for this book.
On Mother’s Day Willy would poke his head in The Store’s double door, a hanger wrapped around his neck. This was his way of celebrating the holiday.
Tic-tac-toe was a quarter a game. Me and Minda were allowed to go into my mom’s tip cup for it. Sometimes Willy would let me win, but usually we tied. We played it every day until he taught me craps.
Willy taught my father to curse. If you ever met my dad you know what an achievement that is.
My dad
Albert was a communist, a sailor, and a superintendent. He and my dad were friends and would hang out at a diner on Sheridan Square called Riker’s. They’d do the crossword puzzle and eat pastries. This was before The Store and before my mom.
My dad was lost.
Albert suggested he become a super because you didn’t have to do much and you got free rent.
So my dad became the live-in super of 38 Morton Street.
In New York at the time, if you had more than five units in a building you needed a live-in super. There was a loophole. You could hire a super that lived within five hundred feet of the building, known as a traveling super. So my dad picked up two more buildings—one on Seventh Avenue and another on Morton Street.
Willy hung around Riker’s, too, but at that point, Dad didn’t really know him.
It was hard to really know Willy.
He was black, but his skin was silver-white. As a graphic designer now, I can see it as a 10% tint of black. He had a deep voice made for singing without a microphone, and always wore a newsboy cap. He was a senior citizen by the time I was born.
When my oldest brother, Charlie, was little, Willy dubbed him The Reverend Chuckie Joe
and tried forever to turn him into a boy televangelist.
But, Willy, I’m Jewish,
Charlie would say.
That’s better, you a sinner but you seen the light, Willy would reply.
The weekly deposits for The Store were made by Willy. He’d set off with a wad of twenties wrapped in a rubber band and a deposit slip. If there were more twenties than the amount on the slip, Willy got to keep the money.
My mom and dad would mess up now and then. Willy would come back from the bank singing and buy me and my twin sister scratch-off Lotto tickets to