Judith Fitzgerald (1952-2015) in conversation with Stan Rogal
Where
I come from, I learn to read by letters on billboards, street signs,
and
score cards. Baseball score cards. I like baseball. I love baseball. My
uncle,
I learn years later, does not pitch nearly as well as he (and I)
think/s
he does. And language? Functionally illiterate.
—
from: Rapturous Chronicles
A couple of surprises. Got a phone call from The Toronto Star. Surprise number one. The caller was likely someone low down the command chain as they seemed unsure as to what, exactly, the information was they were meant to convey, ie: “an interview, I think, or an article, it’s unclear, something to do with baseball, the Blue Jays, though not in the sports section, apparently, though maybe, unsure at this point. Um, let me see…what else? Oh, yeah…as you are, it says here, considered trustworthy by the individual in question, a certain Judith Fitzgerald, you’ve been specifically requested by her to meet and discuss, um... Sorry, I have no other details, either about her or the nature of the…whatever…beyond when and where the meeting is to take place, which I’ll text you, if you’re on board. The normal fee will apply.”
Surprise number two, that the caller obviously had never heard of Judith Fitzgerald, didn’t recognize she once was a poet, was unaware that she had died in 2015. You’d think at least that much information would have been passed on, if only as background, in case an issue arose. Though, maybe not. Better to cut to the chase, after that, plead ignorance. Surprise number three, this would be the first dead poet I’d interviewed whom I’d known on a somewhat personal level previously in life. Surprise number four, that she’d asked for me of her own volition, as this was a task generally performed by outside agents. Surprise number five, I guessed, would be how the connection between Judith and the Toronto Blue Jays would manifest itself.
It was the middle of March, still winter-cold, remnants of snow on the ground, regardless of that fact, Judith insisted we meet outdoors, Christie Pitts, at a picnic table located between the basketball courts, the swimming pool, and the baseball field, as she needed to be able to smoke. I wore hiking boots, a heavy coat, thin woolen gloves and a toque. Judith sat hunched over the picnic table, frail, wraith-like, covered in some sort of light burgundy-coloured shawl or poncho with a hood that hung down her back, a cigarette burning between two skeletal fingers. ‘Death warmed over’ might have been an apt description of her, despite its blatantly cruel irony. I plunked myself down across from her. We shared uneasy smiles. Wait, she said, and slid her cigarette pack and Bic lighter off to one side. She leaned over, and, from a cotton bag beside her on the bench, retrieved two plastic glasses and a brown paper bag that held a gin bottle. She unscrewed the bottle and poured, careful to keep the contents hidden from passersby, of which there were none, not even dog walkers. I laughed, and told her that the laws against drinking alcohol in Toronto parks had been relaxed, so no need for the pretense. She made a face and grunted, saying it was probably about time, though it did take some of the adolescent fun out of the activity. I agreed and we raised our glasses and drank. A thought crossed my mind, lines from a poem of hers: We drink gin. I travel over his body. He talks poetry like a water tap. I grinned at this. Funny. Not sure why. I gave my head a shake.
I reached into my coat pocket, withdrew my tape recorder, and placed it on the table. Judith mirrored me. What’s this? I asked her. I recalled hearing from certain individuals that she used to make it a habit to record all her telephone calls, whether for her own protection or out of paranoia, no one ever knew. Her friends described her as vengeful, demanding, and needy, which could account for the mistrust. They also said she didn’t burn bridges after her, she exploded them. Who knew what her enemies — of which there were many, it’s reported — said of her. Nothing kind, I supposed, even considering her childhood, which was rife with abuse and neglect, both from her mother and the string of father figures that came and went. She was officially orphaned at age thirteen and put into foster care. Rather than allow her some slack given her troubled past, and raise this as a possible cause of her chaotic behaviour (a professor-friend described her as one of the most gifted and most afflicted people in the world of poetry, also believing she may have suffered from borderline personality disorder), they simply categorized her as just another crazy bitch poet on wheels. What I appreciated about Judith is that she didn’t use poetry as a vehicle to cry in her beer or wallow in her pain. As one reviewer so astutely put it: “These are intensely personal poems, but they are not confessional in the usual sense, they do not invite the reader’s voyeurism.”
I thought you requested me for this interview because you trusted me, I said. She toyed with the machine. I do trust you, she said. But, should I? She pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows. Besides, it will make it easier for me when I proof-read your interview if I have my own copy of the tape. ‘Proof-read,’ I thought. Fine. Still the same old Judith, and who could blame her? Fair enough, I said. We both hit record.
Judith Fitzgerald: I gather no one mentioned this when you were contacted? That I would have the final word of any media coverage before it went out to the public?
Stan Rogal: (It seemed that my verbal agreement was not enough assurance, she wanted it on tape, fine). Let’s just say that my original correspondence with The Star was bare-bones, at best.
JF: But it’s not an issue?
SR: No.
JF: Good. (She took a large swallow of gin). In that case, I’d like to clarify a point. (She eased her elbows and forearms on the table and stared at me through squinted eyes). Did we ever, you know, the two of us, ever, fuck? At any time. I mean, my memory is not as sharp as it once was, and I am painfully aware that at certain points in my life I went through men the way some women go through Kleenex, so, I’m asking. To set the record straight and to avoid any unnecessary awkwardness as we proceed. (She took a long drag from her cigarette and blew smoke out the side of her mouth).
SR: Sure. That would be a no. Not even friends, really. More literary acquaintances. You gave me one or two excellent book reviews, early on.
JF: Yes, I remember. I pronounced you an intellectual redneck, one of The Watchables, Hell-Raiser division.
SR: Uh-huh. You were very kind. And flattering.
JF: Until I wasn’t. (She wiggled her glass in one hand).
SR: (I shrugged). Blood under the bridge, as they say. (I had, unbeknownst to me at the time, made a faux pas, in that, I hadn’t gone out of my way to thank her enough, or in the proper manner, or whatever, and so, after that, out came the daggers for my next publication, followed by years of silence. It was only before she died — and the publication of her final book, Impeccable Regret, that she contacted me ((and numerous other outcasts, I gathered)) out of the blue, to extend a metaphorical olive branch by way of apology). Now, hopefully, it’s time for me to return the favour.
JF: Hm. All right. And…you’re otherwise well, yes? You look well. And still writing?
SR: Yes, and yes.
JF: Good. To the business at hand, then. (Again, we raised our glasses and drank. She sucked back the last of her cigarette, ground the butt under her heel, and lit another smoke). Did anyone give you any details as to why I’m here and what I’ve been asked to do?
SR: None. Nada. Zilch.
JF: I see. Maybe that’s for the best, as…I have strong doubts that the event will ever occur. Or that I’ll participate. Very strong doubts. Which means that this meeting and our interview are, possibly, probably, totally pointless. I hope you don’t feel put out. I’ll make sure you get paid. It’s the least I can do. (She topped up our drinks). For the good times, whatever, whenever.
SR: I hope you’ll at least satisfy my curiosity. What sort of event?
JF: A dog and pony show. A public display of embarrassment, my own.
SR: (I recalled when I was coordinating a reading series at the Idler Pub and had invited Judith to be a guest speaker. She arrived in a state of terror, her body shaking visibly, her voice dry and quaking, saying she wasn’t sure she’d be able to present her work to a live audience, that she felt sick to her stomach and was afraid she’d collapse on stage. After much gentle coaxing on my part, plus a beer and several cigarettes, she managed to pull herself together enough to complete her performance — wonderfully, I should add, clear, calm, confident, brimming with amusing banter, even — to the applause of the crowd. Afterward, slumped in her chair, she confided to me that this was her final public reading, she couldn’t stand the pressure, or the stress). Have you been asked to do a presentation of some sort? A reading of your poems, maybe?
JF: Worse. I’ve been resurrected in order to toss the Blue Jays’ season-opener home game ceremonial first pitch baseball.
SR: (Bingo. Surprise number five. I could hear the panic in Judith’s voice. I attempted to make some kind of connection, loose, or otherwise). I see. Didn’t you write a column for a baseball magazine called Innings, back in the ‘80s?
JF: Yeah. I was even assigned to interview Dave Stieb. The trainer sent out Jimmie Key as a joke, intending to trick me. Because I was a female reporter, you understand, haha. I didn’t bite. I knew my baseball. I got my interview with the proper pitcher.
SR: You also had an uncle who pitched for the Toronto Maple Leafs, in the Intercounty Baseball League, right?
JF: Right. They played right here in this park, on that diamond across the way. (She shook a hand to her side and tapped the ash from her cigarette).
SR: (I thought the question was more than a stretch, but I asked it anyway). Do you think that’s why you were asked? Your baseball writing background, and, maybe, your love of the game?
JR: Ha! Fat chance, no! (She tossed back her gin and poured another three fingers). Do you follow baseball? (I shook my head in the negative). The Jays have signed up a young hot shit pitcher. Strong, well-built, good-looking, twenty-two-year old Puerto Rican kid. Throws mainly four seam fastballs in the upper nineties that he’s able to locate up and down the strike zone, plus a three-finger changeup, a hard-breaking curveball, and a nasty slider. Furthermore, he’s sensational with a bat, meaning, the brass will do anything to make him happy.
SR: Okay. (I was still confused, so sat, listened, and sipped my gin).
JF: Turns out, the kid is also a bit of a poetry freak. Can you believe it? Not only does he read the stuff, he writes it. Even self-published a book of poems when he was nineteen.
SR: Any good?
JF: Mm. (She scrunched her face, flicked her smoke across the mud, and lit a fresh one). He’s no Arthur Rimbaud. Then again, who is? To be fair, what he writes is from the heart and he does come up with the odd nice image or phrase. Sentimental juvenilia at this point, so, to be expected, but, who knows? Anyway, here’s the story. A pro baseball player walks into a used book store… (She let out a laugh). Sounds like the opening to a joke, right? Except, that’s the entire joke, including the punch line. ‘A pro baseball player walks into a used book store.’ Hilarious. But wait, there’s more. He goes to the poetry section, pokes around through the usual small selection, pulls out a copy of my very own Rapturous Chronicles, opens it and sees the dedication, “In memory of Juan Butler.” (She leaned toward me and threw out her hands). And whaddya know? The kid’s name is — if you can believe it — Juan Butler. He’s understandably amazed and slightly tickled, so flips the pages at random and sees: “Juan, you cannot believe the cold white room, a symphony of light… My eyes won’t let you go. I miss your heart in my pocket, your hand under my dress.” Well, the poor kid, according to my sources, got an immediate boner. He keeps skipping through the book, just picking up random lines here and there, until he gets to: “Let us stand baseball brave against the clipper evening… A diagrammed analysis complete with sacrifice bunts.” Wow! Sex, baseball, and poetry, what could be a more exciting and stimulating combination for this kid? He can’t disassociate himself from the character in the book. He begins to see himself as the Juan Butler of the poems. He can’t control himself. He craves more. He jumps to the author photo at the back. He’s impressed; more than impressed. He grabs a copy of Habit of Blues, seeking another author photo. He finds it. I’m staring longingly out at him, smiling, wearing a buckskin jacket. He’s over the moon ecstatic. Thinks I’m the most beautiful woman he’s ever laid eyes on. He’s like that detective in the movie Laura who falls in love with a photo of the assumed murder victim. The kid’s insatiable. He reaches for a copy of Lacerating Heartwood. He reads: “He creates crystal out of my body. Semen crystals. Fast. I cling to some healthy gratification. He kneels between my legs and thinks he’s god.” Next, he reads: “We’re fucking a lot. We’re fucking like animals in heat in the hot nights and tent canvas smell.” Then, the kicker: “you knew me / where creases of cunt ended / and breast began.” He’s never experienced poetry like this before. He’s never known a woman like me before.
SR: (At that instant, Judith’s face took on an almost youthful radiance. Writer Rosemary Sullivan had once described Judith in this way: “She was exceedingly beautiful, with long red hair and this physical frailty — quite an eye-catching figure, irreverent, funny, and sometimes outrageous.” I could imagine this being the case). Have you met with him? Personally?
JF: Are you kidding? No. Everything’s been second-hand or the internet. (She placed a hand over my recorder). Some of what I’ve just mentioned is probably a bit much for The Star, and the Blue Jays, you understand?
SR: Totally. Don’t worry, we can edit. Make it fit material for a general audience. (I said the words, though I wasn’t quite sure how I’d make it happen, or if).
JF: Uh-huh. More about baseball and less about…you know…
SR: Sure. Still. But, I mean, he must’ve been aware of your…situation…right?
JF: Oh, yeah, absolutely. Thing is, it didn’t matter. In fact, it made it worse. It was tearing him up inside. He couldn’t concentrate. It was affecting his game. Couldn’t pitch, couldn’t hit, had no control. He was like one of those Beardsley characters out of Lysistrata, doomed to a state of constant priapism. He was, in basic terms, unable to function without tripping over his own dick. And, of course, it had an effect on everyone around him, his team mates, the trainers, the coaches, management… Everyone tried to reason with him; everyone tried to come up with ideas as to how to help him. (She tipped the gin bottle towards me). Another shot? You look like you could use one. (She didn’t wait for an answer, just splashed both glasses half-full).
SR: (I lifted my glass and took a healthy swig). I’m still not getting the whole ceremonial pitch thing.
JF: The kid was desperate and said he had to find a way to contact me. Turns out he was raised in a background of Puerto Rican Espiritismo, an indigenous religious movement that believes you can get in touch with the dead. He began seeking out so-called mystics and shamans in the Toronto area, attending seances, participating in prayer circles and various other pagan rituals — even the wife of one of his team mates showed up one day in the locker room with a Ouija board. Nothing worked, until someone got wind of someone who knew someone who had a friend, and so on, who had personally witnessed a medium not only speak with the dead, but raise the dead. Since the ball club was at its wit’s end in terms of what to do, and since money was no object, the medium was summoned, a price was set, and a date and time were arranged — correct alignment of the moon and stars and whatever. (She took a long drag on her smoke, pulled at her lower lip, and gave a snort, ha. Her attention suddenly shifted to her cigarette pack. She gave it a slight shake and inched it toward me on the table). Speaking of tripping the light fantastic… (She tapped with a finger). This pack never runs out of cigarettes. I mean, never. Amazing. (She returned her attention to her story). Anyway, seeing he had the brass by the short and curlies, the kid makes the outrageous demand that if I do indeed return from the dead, and am truly resurrected in the flesh, he wants me to throw the first pitch. What could they say? Nothing, except fine, of course, no problem. Especially since they didn’t believe it was going to happen anyway. Who in their right mind would? Maybe hoping this would be the final straw, the last vain attempt, and when it failed, he’d snap out of his funk and get back to what he was hired for: to play baseball. It was either that or send him to the looney bin. What could they lose? (She blew through her lips). As it turned out, abracadabra, bim, bam, boom, look out world, I’m baa-aack, boo! (She grinned and smoked).
SR: Uh-huh. So, if you were brought back at the séance, or whatever it was called, he must’ve been there, must’ve seen you.
JF: You’d think, except that once I began to materialize, the kid was so fraught with this recent roller coaster ride of emotions and testosterone that he fainted straightaway. Meanwhile, a couple of beefy security guards whisked me off to a private clinic where I could be investigated and tested to see if I was the real McCoy or not.
SR: What did they decide?
JF: What they decided was that, against all logic, it seemed real, and they didn’t care. So long as the kid was happy and able to throw strikes, I could be the Queen of bloody Sheba. To that end, they decided it was best to keep me under wraps until game day.
SR: Well, sounds exciting. Though you mentioned to me earlier that you had your doubts whether the event would actually occur or not.
JF: That’s right. Are you familiar with the story of the cat’s paw?
SR: Sure. An older couple are in possession of a cat’s paw that’s supposed to grant its owners three wishes.
JF: Correct. The first two wishes are a total fuck-up, then the wife rashly wishes their dead son were here with them. There’s a sudden knock on the door and the pair realize that their son was killed and his body badly mangled by a piece of factory machinery. (She leaned back and widened her eyes). Don’t you get it? I’m that son. That fucking medium didn’t bring me back the way the kid visualized me, young, attractive, sexy, no! I was brought back old, ugly, wasted away after years of suffering osteoporosis, cervical cancer, celiac disease, repeated falls, respiratory distress syndrome which required the use of an oxygen tank for months on end, and being beaten up and left for dead on the side of a road by three asshole pricks because I owed one of them a few bucks for work he said he did on my house, which he didn’t. Or, at least, didn’t do to my satisfaction. I mean, look at me! I look like shit. I weigh about 80 pounds soaking wet. I’m not sure I can lift a baseball, never mind toss one across a plate at any distance. (She threw her arms in the air and rocked her head, bird-like). I was brought back March 15, the Ides of March. That should have been the first fucking clue, yeah? (She chewed her lower lip).
SR: I understand what you’re saying. And while I can’t begin to understand how you’re feeling, I empathize with your situation. I do. But, what’s the alternative? If you don’t go out there and try, I mean? The kid is crushed. The team suffers. The season looks lost before it’s even begun. Any chance of maybe making the playoffs, maybe even winning a World Series again, is shot to hell. All because you, a poet of all things, who loves the game of baseball, loves the Blue Jays, and was requested personally, by name, to throw the ceremonial first pitch of the season, was unwilling to answer the bell. Didn’t you once write: “And Destiny, don’t you miss me, miss dancing with this star-crossed comet?”
JF: Oh, God, now you’re hitting below the belt. I trust you’re not going to bash me over the head with the term “poetic justice” at any point, which would have me gagging.
SR: No, a bit maudlin, even for me.
JF: And what about the kid? Better or worse off if I drag my old skinny ass out there, onto the field, for the world to gawk at?
SR: No idea. Does he want to see you?
JF: ‘Course he wants to see me. I’ve been putting him off, saying I’m not fully recovered yet; I’m still acclimatizing to the situation.
SR: Uh-huh. Well, I don’t know what to say. I suppose, in a case like this, one can only trust that everyone tried, everyone gave it their best effort in the end, with the best of intentions. After that, it is what it is.
JF: Let the chips fall where they may, is that it? Easy for you to say, pal, you’re not the one going to make a fool of yourself in front of the multitudes. Ha! Plus — in case you’ve conveniently forgotten — Juan Butler…my Juan Butler, put a gun to his head and pulled the fucking trigger (she formed a gun with one hand and aimed it at her temple), pow! (She twisted her face and jerked her head).
SR: Strange, I was always under the impression he hung himself.
JF: Same difference, fool. Dead’s dead. (She took a puff). You’re so fulla shit Rogal. (She grinned at me and lifted her glass). But it’s okay, I still like you. Don’t worry. And, who knows? Maybe I’ll get lucky and turn to dust before the big day arrives. I was told there was no guarantee how long I’d last. Now, how many times have I heard that before? (She crushed her butt on the table and swept away the debris with a hand). Hoo, boy! Down the hatch. (We knocked back the remains of our drinks). Now, my handlers await at the top of yon hill. (She turned her head slightly and gave a wave over her shoulder to two uniformly dressed people wearing ear pieces). Time for you to make like the wind and blow. Don’t worry, they’ll come down to collect me. Don’t forget to send me a copy of your interview. I look forward to seeing what you make of it.
SR: I will. And good luck with whatever decision you make. I’ll keep my eyes and ears open.
I moved off in the opposite direction of the handlers, up a paved slope and past the pool. To be honest, I wasn’t sure what I’d do with the information I’d gathered. At this point, it didn’t seem to fit any section of The Star, being neither fish nor fowl, beginning with the joke: a pro baseball player walks into a used book store, and would they get it? Would anyone get it? I stopped at the top of the incline and took a quick look back. Judith was being eased into a wheelchair by the uniformed pair. I grit my teeth and shivered. Suddenly, I recalled a photo from 1974 of then-opposition leader Robert Stanfield. He had joined a group of fellow Tories on the tarmac in North Bay, tossing a football around. A photographer had taken several pictures of Stanfield catching the ball and one of him dropping the ball. It was the dropped ball that made the headlines and won an award for the photographer. The Globe and Mail caption read: “A Political Fumble?” News quickly followed that Trudeau had won the election. Goes to show there are no guarantees in this world, and a hero one day can be a bum the next, for little or no apparent reason. About all one can say is, embarrassing, yes, but, no one died, and life goes on. As for Judith, whatever decision she makes will be judged either yay or nay by forces well beyond her control, regardless of her intentions or ambitions, meaning, sometimes you’re hung as a sheep as for a lamb, and, perhaps an occasion to recall her own words, taken from her book Beneath the Skin of Paradise: The Piaf Poems, where she wrote: “Nothing / I regret nothing / I opened my heart / and it all poured in / Nothing / I regret nothing / and Paradise is exploding / just beneath the skin.”
I stood at the crest of the hill, unsure. I don’t know whether to kill myself or go bowling. Judith, as well. Her words. I decided to turn and mosey on home, what else? And The Star interview? Yeah, I’d write it, of course I’d write it. And I wouldn’t be sending it off to Judith for her approval, no way. I got the call, it was my interview. And if she didn’t like it, and The Star didn’t like it, and the Blue Jays’ organization didn’t like it, well, they could put their several heads together and write their own damn interview, fine by me.
It’d turned considerably colder. I zipped my jacket and started walking.
Adios, Judith, so long, sayonara, farewell. Thanks for the gin and the talk. It was fun. Whatever else happens, happens, take care. Adios, adios.
Stan Rogal lives and writes in Toronto along with his artist partner Jacquie Jacobs and their pet jackabee. His work has appeared almost magically in numerous magazines and anthologies. The author of several books, plus a handful of chapbooks, a 13th poetry collection will be published in March 2025 with ecw press. Co-founder of Bald Ego Theatre and former coordinator of the popular Idler Pub Reading Series.
