by KUBOA
‘You’re dubious, you mock.’
‘We’re a little old for this.’
‘This is gonna keep us young. Out there. Cutting edge.’
‘Hey, I just flashed on a great name for the band.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Jism.’
‘See, I knew you’d get aboard. Fucking Jeb, I told Whit. He’ll get aboard.’
‘Whit is…’
‘He wants to play drums. He’s the only one with money enough to buy a set.’
‘Gotta have a drummer.’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘For a band, a punk band.’
‘Yes.’
‘Can he play?’
***
‘Right.’
Conversation With The Headless Man
First off, I feel like I should apologize. I mean, I haven’t, that is, since the accident, well, I’ve been busy, sure. Katie is pregnant again but you know that and I’m not using it as an excuse. It’s just that the world seems too much with us, I’m sure you understand. And it’s not that I didn’t know what to say to you—
Are you comfortable? Sorry, I didn’t even ask. That chair, is it ok? I mean—well, it’s not your ass that’s injured, is it? Heh. Sorry.
So, anyway, Katie’s feeling not altogether great. She’s having morning sickness which she didn’t have with either of the other kids. And now she’s worried that that means something has gone wrong, cosmically wrong, that she’s carrying a defective zygote, a freak, a monkey baby. You see? You understand women, I’m sure, but, you see how that gets twisted? Just a simple basic body mechanics thing, as natural as retching or spitting. Morning nausea when pregnant. But to Katie, my Katie, it means we have gone beyond the pale, we have left behind crucial, primal human understanding and have ventured into an area, I don’t know, it’s like science fiction, or something supernatural, or something so outré there are no words for it. This is my stable Katie, my earth-bound love. The woman who has thrown me the lifeline so many times that I guess I just take for granted that she will always be there, upright, strong. This is bad, isn’t it? This is selfish. I admit that, I understand that. I am selfish. But, something in me believes this is Katie’s payback. There it is. This is how she’s saying to me, look, it’s your turn to be there. And let me hasten to say, yes, yes, I fully intend on being there for her, no matter what. If she feels that we need to see a specialist just because she feels so rotten every morning, I will go with her. I will pay the bill. I will hold her hand when he looks her over and pronounces that she is simply pregnant, that nausea sometimes happens and sometimes doesn’t. C’est la naisance.
Listen, this isn’t what I meant to say. I didn’t come here to tell you about my marriage, honest to God. I know, I know, it’s just that you know Katie, perhaps better than I do even. I mean, you did have her first, heh, you know, and back then, well, she was better than all of us, wasn’t she? She was the one we called when we were in trouble, when we felt panic welling in us like bile. She was the phone number we all had memorized.
That was Katie then. She was a rock. She was our rock. When we wanted succor, when we wanted conversation, when we just needed someone to nod and smile at us, needed that simple human thing of touching and being touched, Katie was there. We were so tight back then. Do you feel that that’s been lost? Does it bother you to think of that as lost? It bothers me. We’re not as close as we used to be. You and I, I’m speaking of now. You were like a brother to me, more brother than my brother. Once, once you were. You were my sounding board, my moral compass, if you’ll accept that. You were the other voice when I talked in my head, you were who I was talking to. And we practically shared Katie, didn’t we? She was yours, then ours, and now, well now she is mine. She is all mine. But the loss of you—was it because of Katie or was it just the random drift of the universe, the ebb and flow that takes things away but rarely brings them back? I miss you, there it is. And, somehow, I feel that your not being there is a judgment on me, a finger pointed, that I have been found wanting, found morally corrupt. Is this too much for you, to take this on? You never had to, you know? You never had to be what I made you, the one who was the most upright. You were so pure, so unsullied by the desires and distractions that took me to places where compromise meant failure, moral failure. Do you understand? Do you know that you were that for me, that pillar of virtue? No matter, no matter. It’s not that which corroded our friendship. So what was it? What took you away? Is it indeed some failure of mine? I gotta tell you, I dream about you. And in every dream you are disgusted with me. You only want to walk away from me, far away from me. And I wake—every damn time—and feel crappy, feel that my life is bereft and it’s my fault. That I have already been convicted. And, goddamnit, it makes me mad at you and I never wanted to be mad at you. How can you help what I dream? Except that—well, you could, you know. You could show me more consideration, give me your attention, show me more of the old give and take between us, the conversation that I counted on, that made me, really, it’s not overstating it, what I was. At least morally, at least in my own self-assessment. What I was. Note the past tense.
Wait. No, wait. This is not what I came here to talk about. Even Katie. I didn’t mean to talk about her as if she were a debatable subject. My Katie. No, no, what was I saying? She. No, wait. Katie. She’s—that’s it—she’s expecting our third child. This is good. This is good. We are happy, we really are. Katie—well, the whole monkey baby thing—forget that, forget it. Katie is gonna be ok. We’re good, we’re solid.
I know what you want to ask, is the baby mine? Am I sure it’s mine? You’ve heard the talk. I know you’ve heard it though you and I haven’t spoken in—in a while. You’ve heard about Katie. Well, like everything else, it’s only partially true. She left me, briefly. You perhaps know the other party. Perhaps you know him better than I—heh, perhaps so. No matter. The baby is mine. I assure you of that. And this—this oddity, this incongruity on her part—this thing of imagining the baby as a freak, as some kind of monster—it’s not born of guilt. It is not. Katie, well, you know her. She’s not one to dwell on actions as either good or bad. She is able to move on—quickly. She skates away. Katie does that. So, though we spent that time—apart—she assures me of the sanctity—yes, that’s the word—the sanctity of our relationship and of our unborn child. It’s just these mornings of black bile—these times she is down on her knees—she finds the religion of the emetic. The prayer that says, make it stop. Make it all stop. And afterwards she is still in the power of that spell—that dreamstate—that hypnosis. And she imagines that the baby is—a troll, a monkey baby.
Our baby. Our offspring. Our little one.
Wait. No. Never mind. I wanted to ask you. That is, that is what I came to say. And I am, I am sorry that it took me this long. I mean, I heard about your accident and—I thought—well, that’s neither here nor there. What does it matter what I thought? But, I stayed away. I did, I admit that. I stayed away on purpose. Because. Because I feared—that is, I feared that perhaps, just because of everything, because of our estrangement—and yes I have used that word to describe it, worse really than a divorce—this estrangement—that I fear that we would have nothing to say to each other. Not opprobrium but silence. I feared the silence. Can you understand that?
What does one say to one’s best friend if he has lost his head? I don’t know. Except, I came here to say, that is, I came today to say, just this. I love you. Ok? Can you accept that? It doesn’t stand for anything else, any reclamation on my part, any demand that our old relationship be resurrected and admired and put up to scrutiny. I just wanted you to know—and not just because you are now—how you are—but because of our history—because it’s right that I say this to you, it’s all I have left. I love you. And Katie—well, never mind. Kate loves you, too.
Ok. So. Can I get you anything? That chair—sorry. Can I? I mean—do you—can you drink something? I mean, I don’t know, it’s not
my fault, I just don’t know and I can be honest about it. I don’t understand everything. Everything about you now, how it is now. I’m not looking for forgiveness, for absolution. Can you hear me? That’s what I mean—now, can you hear me?
What Lemmy Found In
The Woods
What’s that?
I’m not sure. I found it in the woods.
Lemme see it.
Be careful, it’s fragile.
Heh. It looks like a bird skeleton.
Except for the head. What is that?
I don’t know. It looks—
What?
It looks pasted on—no, what’s the word?
Grafted?
Yeah, grafted on.
It does. But it doesn’t. It’s kinda scary.
How scary?
I don’t know. Like I wasn’t supposed to pick it up. That kind of scary.
What’s the big deal? It’s just—what? bones?
That’s just it. What is it? Is that bone?
I think so.
We could go ask my brother. He takes science in high school.
Yeah, that’s a good idea.
But what if he doesn’t know what it is?
He’ll help us. He’ll know something.
I’m not sure.
C’mon. What’s the worst that could happen?
Maybe it’s wicked, or cursed.
How cursed?
I don’t know. Maybe it’s not an animal of this world. Maybe it’s something that was accidentally left here. Like left behind.
You’re spooking yourself.
It is spooky—don’t you think?
Let’s ask Mark. Mark’ll know.
Ok.
Be careful with it. It almost looks like it moved.
Crap.
What’s wrong?
Nothing. I just—
What’s wrong with your hand?
Barbra And Chuck Said
We’d Like Each Other
First dates, huh?
Yes.
Barbra and Chuck tell me you work at The Med.
Yes.
Ok.
Sorry, yes, I work in Medical Records.
I see.
I see, as in, how boring? Or, I see, as in, I’m being polite but I have no idea what that is?
Ha. The latter.
Right.
So, what is it?
Not worth explaining really. Self explanatory, I guess.
Ok.
And you’re—
Oh, I assumed—never mind—I work for the newspaper.
Delivery?
Funny. No, I am a sports columnist.
Oh, I don’t follow sports much. Tennis.
Yeah, we don’t do much tennis.
Oh, wait, I like poker!
Poker is not a sport.
But, your paper—
I know. It makes me grind my teeth.
What do you cover? Is cover the right word?
Well, I do columns, that is commentary. You know, pithy observations about the state of the game, the age of the millionaire athlete, that sort of thing.
Hm.
Not up your alley.
Oh, I don’t know. That’s it, I don’t know. I’ve never really—
It’s ok. Read me tomorrow. Tomorrow the think piece is about whether the Grizzlies’ recent trades made the team wiser and older or just older.
Ok. A sports think piece.
You’re thinking oxymoron. For morons.
No.
Sorry. Boring you. Let’s talk about, uh—
Medical transcription.
Ha, no. Let’s see, do you read?
Since I was 8.
Books?
Yes. Actually I’m a voracious reader. Definition of a reader: someone who is always in a book. You ask them what they’re reading and they know—just like that.
Good.
You?
I guess I’m a reader.
And you’re reading?
Oh. The Last Season.
I don’t know that.
Phil Jackson’s book about the Lakers.
Oh.
Ok, what are you reading?
Never mind.
C’mon. Really. What are you reading?
Susan Sontag’s The Volcano Lover.
Sounds hot.
Funny.
It’s egghead literature.
Not at all. She’s a very good—plotter. Her novels have shape and—weight.
Ok.
We’re not hitting common ground here, are we?
Sure. No, it’s ok. We don’t have to love the same things.
If what?
If what?
To be on a date? To like each other?
Oh. Yeah. First date. I guess if Barbra and Chuck thought we’d hit it off we’d better.
Ha. I know. Yeah.
Have you eaten here before?
Well—
You have and it sucks?
No, no. I ate here just last week.
Oh.
On another blind date. Sorry.
Oh, damn. I’m sorry. This is awkward.
Not really. Barbra—
You bit your tongue. They tried someone else out first. I’m second string.
I don’t know what second string means but, well, it was someone Barbra worked with—you know a librarian. So, the books and—
A better fit probably. I suddenly feel deeply inadequate not to mention inappropriate and probably a few other ins if I were better with the language like I imagine your other blind date was—
Slow down, Cowboy. It didn’t work out. Obviously.
So you’re not here to weigh the pros and cons of each of us, to compare and contrast.
No, not at all. It didn’t work out.
Because?
First, I don’t think he really liked me. And second I think he’s gay.
Really? Gay gay?
Yeah, is there another kind? Almost gay?
No, it’s just—why did Barbra?
I don’t know. She doesn’t know. I think he’s in denial. Or in the proverbial closet. Maybe the library system frowns on alternative lifestyles.
I wouldn’t think so. Lot of gay librarians.
Yeah, probably.
I don’t know. So, Barbra and Chuck are officially your procurers?
Right. They feed me men as if I were a lion in the zoo. I am a man eater.
I’m frightened.
Be afraid. Be very afraid.
Ha. Really, though. I feel, I don’t know, I feel unable to compete. I think this situation is fraught with danger and possible disappointment and I don’t know what all. Suddenly there are snares and snakes, pitfalls and pratfalls.
***
What? You’re looking at me the way Phil Jackson looks at Kobe Bryant.
I’m thinking you’re maybe a half empty kind of guy. You see a half-full glass—
Sweetheart, you don’t know. I see a full glass of water and I call it half-empty.
Really?
Everything diminishes. Everything dissipates. Nothing lasts.
Things fall apart.
More like things run out. Toilet paper, food, relationships.
Wow.
I know.
So, this—this situation to you—is really already over. You’ve already failed?
If this is a test, yes.
Ok. Now we know.
Forewarned is four-armed. Like Shiva.
Is Shiva the one with four arms?
I don’t know.
Sorry. I’m sounding like a librarian, right? Like a know-it-all.
Oh. Hi. Yes, um, you go first. Saskia.
Thanks. I’ll have the fish.
Me, too, the fish.
Good.
Saskia. I’ve just discovered I like to say your name.
Many people do. It’s an odd name, isn’t it?
Well, I don’t know any others. Saskia. Where does it come
from?
Company my father works for.
That’s the name of the company?
Yes. Art historians.
A company of art historians? Doing what?
Providing images—art for—heck, you know, I’m not sure I can explain it.
That’s ok.
They license images. Jack.
Ok.
Right. What do your parents do, Jack? Are you from here, Jack?
Born in Niagara Falls, New York. My father worked for E. I. DuPont and was transferred to Memphis when I was five. A sort of Southerner. My accent falls somewhere along the highway between New York and Tennessee. An Ohio accent maybe.
And your mom?
Does your mom work?
She’s a college professor.
Huh.
Why?
Mine’s a homemaker, through and through. Her generation.
I think my parents are a little younger than yours.
Probably. What does your mother teach?
Russian studies.
Huh.
What were we saying—before the waiter—I had something—
Shiva.
No—oh, half empty. Are you really that downbeat or are you being ironic? This is the age of irony and sometimes I don’t always get it. Not that I’m dense. It’s
No, I wasn’t being ironic. I don’t think. I mean, really, I just think—well, that things are serious, that being serious is a, in a way, positive approach to the world.
And if you’re a half full kind of person? You’re not taking things seriously enough?
Well, I’m not judging, mind you.
Aren’t you? Aren’t you saying that if you are light-hearted you’re not paying attention?
Yes. I am. I am saying that.
Well, I’m lighthearted and well-informed.
Then you’re the exception.
I don’t really think so. I think that your ilk have your heads in the sand, not me. I think to see the world as nothing but shadows and cobwebs is really selling yourself and everyone else short. You can hate the problem and at least attempt to see a solution.
But that’s so empirical. It’s like Star Trek. When all else fails short out the energy source and you conquer evil.
I’m not sure—
I’m saying—I’m saying that there are problems without solutions. There are ways in which things are just plain fucked up and we’re better off seeing it for what it is.
Ok.
Sorry, language.
No, you can say fucked up. I’m just—well, I’m not sure how to respond. This seems to be warp and woof for you. Deeply ingrained.
I guess so. And this after 6 years of therapy.
