Listen: twenty-nine short conversations

by KUBOA

Six, huh?

  That’s bad right? That’s the test answer that fails me.

  Five years plus.

  What—

  I’m five years and counting.

  You’re in therapy?

  Isn’t everyone? I mean everyone except those twisted fucks who want to go into politics.

  Right.

  I’ve been seeing a therapist—well, I guess off and on—ever since my divorce.

  Divorce.

  Oh, sorry. I assumed Chuck had told you.

  Wow. You’re so young.

  I’m only three years younger than you.

  So, you were married at ten?

  Well, 17.

  Oh, sheesh.

  Yeah.

  Pregnancy.

  Well, no. It was more like an arranged marriage.

  What—are your parents Hindu?

  No, but, well, ok, it was the son of my father’s best friend. We grew up together. When he turned 18 his father wanted him to join the Marines. I kid you not. His father’s best years were spent in the Marine Corps—and he was into that kind of discipline. He accepted nothing short of total acquiescence. Jip was not USMC material. Decidedly not. He wanted to teach high school English-that was all he wanted to do.

  Jip?

  James Ingersoll Pratt.

  Ah.

  So, we concocted this plan to keep him in town so he could go to college. We drove up to Covington and were married in the County office there. Had a 2 hour honeymoon at a steak house on the way back.

  Wow. So, really you saved him.

  No, nothing so dramatic.

  And he went on to college—what happened that—

  He tried college. The secret of Jip—what I couldn’t see because nobody could see it—was that he was not cut out for anything, Not the USMC or the U of M. It didn’t’ matter. He only wanted to get high and—well—you know

  Fuck.

  That too. But it’s worse than that.

  Worse than fucking?

  No. He, well, there’s no sugar coating it. He beat me.

  Aw, Christ.

  Yeah, good plan, eh?

  I’m so sorry. I—

  The fish!

  That’s great.

  It looks wonderful. These garlic mashed potatoes—

  Right. What you had just last week.

  Right.

  Yours looks better than mine.

  It’s the same—oh, half empty. You’re joking.

  Actually no. Yours looks better than mine.

  Ok.

  Shall we eat? Can you eat and talk?

  Yes, yes I can.

  Ok. Oh, shit, I’m so sorry. You were actually physically abused.

  I was. Just like in the movies and books. I am a statistic. Women’s shelter graduate.

  Not just.

  No, every unhappy family is not alike. He beat me in his own peculiar and idiosyncratic way.

  God.

  Sorry. What a downer.

  Yet you continue to think life is rosy. While I, who have had nothing more difficult than a job interview, piss and moan my time away.

  That’s exactly what I was going to say.

  Really?

  No. I ‘m pulling your leg.

  Go ahead, kick the kid while he’s down.

  Aren’t you always down?

  No. I’ve given you the wrong impression. I’m sorry.

  Look, lets—if this has started badly, and I think you think it has, let’s get it onto better footing. What say?

  Ok.

  So, let’s think of something positive to say to each other?

  This fish is excellent.

  Thank you.

  Oh. Ha. No, let’s see—

  I’ll start. You’re very handsome.

  Oh, jeez, thanks. I never get handsome. I get cute.

  Cute is ok. You’re handsome. And sexy. Soulful eyes.

  No, now. Never have I been called sexy. Cute isn’t sexy.

  Ok.

  Sorry. Um, you’re lovely yourself.

  Thank you.

  Wait, that sounds trite like I’m only parroting. Let me see—you have wonderful eyes, too—are they gray?

  Yes, gray.

  And your lips are—look soft. And, um, you have great breasts.

  Ok. You don’t have to travel south taking inventory.

  Sorry.

  No, I’m kidding. Thank you.

  It’s just your body—well, you must keep in shape.

  Yes. I jog. I’m a jogger. I am one who jogs.

  Good for you.

  And the gym a couple times a week. So, at my age—

  You look great.

  For someone our age.

  No, no, for any age. Really. I’m impressed. I used to play basketball. Had a regular group of guys I played with on Wednesday nights. I actually, you know, ran around and sweated.

  Why don’t you still?

  Knees. I have bad knees.

  Yeah, I read somewhere that the human knee was designed to only last 35 years or something like that.

  Mine did, almost exactly that. Bad knees came as a shock to me. Suddenly I was old.

  Not really old. You look great. You must eat well.

  Fish.

  Right!

  You—are you vegetarian?

  No. Well, I don’t eat a lot of red meat. A few years ago—it was my therapist who said this: think about what’s going in. I was apparently going on and on about what comes out—you know feeling like I was spitting out the wrong words, spiteful things, like epuration, uh like puke. Sorry. Not while we’re eating, right?

  So, you concentrated on what goes in. You started dieting.

  Not in the sense of anything structured like carb-cutting. I started taking vitamins. Green tea.

  What is it with green tea?

  Anti-oxidants. I take anti-oxidants. Don’t you.

  No. I’m just an oxidant waiting to happen.

  Ha ha hff—

  Oh, Jesus, ha—sorry—you’ve got food—

  Hff—oh, God—

  Wow, that’s some laugh, that’s some beautiful laugh.

  Heh heh. Sorry. Oh, God—

  You really laugh when you laugh.

  That was funny. You’re funny.

  Thank you.

  I love funny. Funny is like the biggest turn on.

  Oh, really?

  Yes, yes it is. Funny is more aphrodisiacal than, say, hard abs or a law degree.

  Good for me then.

  Yes.

  So are you turned on now?

  Well.

  Sorry.

  No. Yes. Yes, I am turned on.

  Wow. Good. I think I am too.

  First dates.

  Rarely work.

  I know.

  You’ve been on many.

  No, not really. I was kidding you know about the sequential dating thing.

  Your laugh is—well, it’s like wind chimes in a gale.

  Thank you.

  You put your whole body into it. Your whole lovely body.

  Oh.

  I’d like to make you laugh some more.

  I’d like that too.

  So. Where is this going?

  At least it’s going.

  That’s true.

  And shall we—be going?

  Yes, I think so. Your fish.

  I’ve had enough.

  Laugh for me again. Saskia.

  Be funny, Jack.

  Ok.

  Ok then.

  Saskia.

  Say it again. Say my name again.

  My Continued Conversation

  With The TV

  It’s after 3 a.m.

  I know.

  What’s up?

  Me, for now.

  Right.

  What’s on?

  Well, it’s not prime time. A lot of infomercials.

  Why, when I pay for these channels?

  ***

  Righ
t.

  What would you want?

  Blank space.

  That I can give you. Test signal?

  Something old, something familiar. Eye respite.

  TCM?

  Probably. You got Cary Grant?

  Naw. Treasure of the Sierra Madre.

  Jesus, not tonight. Feeling too—existential. Vulnerable. Got any Hitchcock?

  Mm, no. AMC?

  Commercial now.

  Sorry.

  They can still call it American Movie Classics, and show Every Which Way But Loose?

  Snob.

  I know.

  What then? Hey, here, I’ve got a sweet little British film on TMC, um, Quartet?

  Merchant Fucking Ivory. No, I want black and white.

  Ok, here, here’s de Sica. After the Fox.

  That’s in color.

  Is it?

  You don’t know?

  You are out of sorts. Relax, Sit back, for Godsake, you’re leaning forward as if you might launch yourself at me. Quit holding those controls like a weapon. Put it down. Put your controls down.

  Sorry.

  Now, look, how about soft porn?

  How soft?

  Everything but the erection.

  A joke?

  Unintentional.

  Ok.

  There. There now.

  That’s not bad. That’s—

  Yes.

  She’s a lovely thing, isn’t she?

  Yes, she is.

  Who does that on camera? Good God.

  You like?

  Who does that on camera? I mean, how do you see in your mind's eye your career if this is what you do? And in some obscure crap shown only on these movie channels in the middle of the night. What is her agent telling her? Listen, doll, this thing, well, it’s got a little plot, but basically it’s blowjob, blowjob, woman on top, man on top, blowjob, doggy style. Gonna sell this to late night cable. Whaddya say?

  You are in a bad way. You’re analyzing porn.

  Yes.

  What brought you out here in this white hour, this deadly middle of the night hour, when most men sleep the sleep of the just?

  Inner trembling.

  Hour of the wolf.

  Bad dream.

  Ok.

  About being homeless again.

  Why homeless?

  Without love, without connection, misunderstood by man and woman alike.

  This why? This what you think brings on homelessness, dream homelessness?

  I think so.

  I’m no Jungian, you know, what do I know from dreams, except those in Technicolor?

  It’s ok.

  But, homelessness, well, there would be no TV, right?

  Presumably.

  Shit.

  Never mind.

  Forget that. Look, this is the other woman. She’s, what?, statuesque, isn’t she?

  Quite.

  Black, black hair. Black as gunpowder.

  Show her pubic hair.

  I have no control over this.

  I know.

  They probably won’t show her pubic hair.

  You said—

  Oop, look, there it is. A nice shaved V.

  I don’t like the shave.

  Never mind.

  Yes.

  Look at her. Doesn’t that take your mind off your troubles, your witch-riding cauchemar?

  No, Yes, ok. Momentarily.

  God bless these women, these middle-of-the-night women, willing to show us their all, their lovely tabernacles of flesh.

  Ok.

  Their—

  Ok. You’re in rare mode this evening.

  Morning

  Whatever.

  Waxing poetic about the female form. Marveling at the creamy surfaces, the deadman curves, the pliable willingness of femininity. It is what we do, right? In our waking hours?

  Occasionally.

  Then.

  Right.

  I can switch channels. There’s a Bonanza on—the one where Little Joe is about to be married.

  And they kill off his fiancé.

  Yes.

  One of many.

  Right.

  Pledge your troth to Little Joe you might as well open a vein.

  So you wanna switch?

  No.

  Look at her now. Look at her go.

  Yes.

  How can you be blue?

  I’m not now, I’m…interested.

  I see.

  I can’t get used to the idea that you can see. That you watch—

  Look, no one is watched more than me.

  Ok.

  So, go on.

  I’m embarrassed.

  Take it out, friend. I’ll talk you through this.

  Ach.

  Go ahead. Look at her…

  Mm.

  Those flanks, so tanned, so muscular, they’re strapping is what they are. Strapping flanks and a little tattoo high on her ass. Where he now places his hand.

  Oh, mm, oh.

  She really seems to like it, she’s not Katherine Hepburn for Godsake, this isn’t acting, she must really want it…

  Oh, Jesus—

  Now, now…

  Oh, God, tell me—

  ***

  Wh—

  ***

  What happened?

  I don’t know. Lost the signal.

  Shit.

  Sorry. Plane maybe, cloud? I don’t know. Bad timing, eh? Heh heh—

  Shit.

  Sorry, look, they’re back. It’s a new couple. What are they talking about? Huh? She’s foxy, she’s interested. Look, they’re talking about a murder now, but soon, you know, they’ll—

  I lost it.

  Sorry.

  Shit.

  Sorry.

  Go on. Switch it. Let’s see what Little Joe’s up to now.

  You don’t want that really.

  Worse case scenario: I become one of those people.

  Is it worst case scenario, or worse case?

  Come again.

  The expression.

  I said worse. For argument’s sake, let’s say it’s worse.

  Ok.

  One of those people who say, there’s nothing on.

  I hate those people.

  Of course you do.

  There’s always something on. Expectations or no. It’s not just white noise, white space.

  I’m with you.

  3 a.m. Here we are. Little Joe looking dewy eyed, fiancé looking doe-eyed, little expecting what stalks her, even now, at her elbow, over her shoulder...

  How could she not know? Seems like word would have spread, word around town, sweeping across the pampas, the sweeping desert sands, town to town with the pony express. Don’t cuddle up to this cowboy, kiss of death. Thanatos at the Ponderosa.

  Which is the name of this episode.

  Bullshit.

  Right.

  How could she not know, lest she wears her fate lightly.

  The pampas.

  Whatever.

  She’s a looker, this fiancé.

  What do you expect? Little Joe is a stud, bedwetting notwithstanding.

  Too much knowledge. We suffer from a surfeit of knowledge.

  Your fault. Partly your fault. A nimiety of numbing numbness.

  Mea culpa.

  Too many infomercials.

  Mea maxima culpa.

  Reality TV.

  Now you’re just being nasty.

  Sorry. Should be an oxymoron, right? Reality TV.

  If it were up to me, yes.

  Who is it up to?

  Let’s get back to you.

  Yet you do speak like a Jungian therapist.

  The. Rapist.

  Ha.

  Who sees more naked people, doctors or TV?

  Ha.

  Ok.

  You’re a funny idiot—

  Don’t say it.

  Sorry.

  Right. So, do you really want to watch this chick get offed?r />
  No.

  If we could only make her naked, right?

  Right. Wrong channel.

  Want me to do a Hitchcock check?

  Sure. I think I’m getting sleepy again.

  Ok.

  No, check. I didn’t mean to be rude. Do a Hitchcock check.

  Hm, no, no Hitchcock. Mystery channel is showing Hart to Hart.

  Ouch.

  Right.

  Well…

  You want more sex? Got another NRAO movie cueing up.

  Ok, Real quick though. I think Morpheus calls.

  Hey, that’s the name of this movie, Morpheus Calls.

  Bullshit.

  Right. Real estate agent. It’s called, ha, She’s Got a Lot on her Mind.

  C’mon.

  Really, that’s what she is, says in the guide.

  Huh.

  Yeah, silly premise.

  Like any of them are, what?, Long Day’s Journey into Night.

  Right. Agent shows her clients more than the floorspace.

  It doesn’t say that.

  Yes…and there, she’s already at him.

  Funny, her client has a body by Boflex.

  Yeah.

  And she has…oh my.

  Who’s your friend?

  Those aren’t real.

  Does it matter?

  No. No, it doesn’t. What is true is only what our senses tell us.

  And there’s that position again.

  Hm, my.

  You’re, well, that’s an improvement.

  Whoa.

  Come home, little Sheba.

  Uh. Uh.

  Yes.

  That’s it, that’s it, my sweet.

  Oooh. My.

  Look at her, look at her, look at her.

  Ahhh.

  Yes.

  Mm.

  Yes.

  Well.

  Yes.

  I think I can sleep now.

  That’s it, then.

  Thank you.

  Sleep well, my friend. Banish your demons. Sleepe Angry Beauty. Kip, crash, conk out. Sleep the sleep sealed as the water lilies know. That’s what I can do for you. That’s—

  The Heart Is A Transmission:

  The Last Votaries

  ‘The more one hates Man, the riper one is for God, for a dialogue with nobody.’

  E. M. Cioran

  Mam: Faith is a curled finger, a puddle of hope. Look at love: a poor bicycle, a kinescope.

  The women all are delicate. The gates are ajar. The threshold of anything is tainted by remorse.

  Jum: The bus that used to stop at this stop does not stop at this stop anymore. You can stand there all day and no one, I mean no one, will even tip his hat. The rain is the most insistent thing about this place. We give it another name.

  Kil: The heart is a transmission. The day is fell.

  Mam: Uh huh, uh huh.

  Jum: Yep, yep, yep.

  Kil: Fell.

  Mam: Calm as far away as a rainstorm, I shake my fizz.

  Jum: The elevator on its way to Mammon Park. The trip down the Helter and Jekyll. I look for your face in every address. Hyde in the Park.

  Kil: Fell.

  Jum: I want what any man wants, I guess. A little relief, an expanded version of my own heart attack.

  Kil: This line is crooked, meant to lie on the page like a fossil truth. We all live in dreams.

  Mam: I listen to Miles, I listen to Zim, I listen to the sound of my own footfall in the forests of the Interior. I talk to Jimi, I talk to Dame Murdoch, I talk to myself. It’s all the same jungle, Jim.