Listen: twenty-nine short conversations

by KUBOA

  Mary, in short, we changed together. We were both bird spirits, destined to meet, as inevitable as the unfolding of the lily bud to the sun. She told me her story—it was as fantastic as my own!—a real Bloody Bones and Rawhead tale and we have been together ever since, contented, peaceful, open to amorous happiness. Neither of us returned to our murderous ways—her ‘episode’ is still much discussed in the V—area in Hungary.

  The rest you know.

  Fascinating.

  The rest we know. Larry ended up at Dr. Kluckatt’s eventually, where he was diagnosed with Body Dismorphic Disorder—in essence, his beastly side was relegated to the darkened chambers of his mind. This is not to Dr. Kluckatt’s discredit—really, what else could she diagnose?

  And no one would know any different had it not been for television?

  That is correct. We ended up booking Larry and Syrie on Horrible Creatures Among Us! on Fox. And the couple is as happy as Spirits cleansed, and rich as kings—and, really, they are that—the Royalty of an Ancient Cult, as old as Sibylla, as deep as the River Jordan.

  Well, I think that will do it. Thank you for your time. We’ll be out of your hair shortly.

  Not at all. And don’t forget, Thursdays at 8 p.m. Eastern Standard Time.

 

  Adman

  ‘So we say there’s no caffeine in our toothpaste.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘There is no caffeine in toothpaste.’

  ‘Right. We say that.’

  ‘But there’s never been caffeine in our toothpaste.’

  ‘That’s the pitch. ‘Always caffeine free’.’

  ‘There’s never been—’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And people will think…’

  ‘That other toothpastes maybe, just might, perhaps have just a little caffeine.’

  ‘Which they don’t want.’

  ‘Not in their toothpaste.’

  ***

  The meeting went well. Alan felt the meeting went well. His boss, insecure and blustery, was the perfect boss. Alan spoke to him as if he were a child. His boss, Mr. Sentry, acted like a child. He was grateful like a child. Alan was his star employee. Alan could make the firm, put it in the picture.

  Alan went home that night puffed up with pride. He could not wait to tell Jenna about his new campaign. It was a brainstorm, an epiphany.

  ***

  ‘There is no caffeine in toothpaste.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So where’s the revelation?’

  ‘We say it. We say it like we invented it. We say it like it is a revelation.’

  ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘It’ll sell. That’s the bottom line.’

  ‘I hate the expression bottom line.’

  ‘Ok. I do too. What happens though is that the idea, the revelation, becomes the truth. It will become the truth with very little effort on our part.’

  ‘The truth.’

  ‘We’re selling the truth.’

  ‘Good luck with that.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ***

  ‘Do you think tonight?’

  ‘Alan.’

  ***

  The next morning Alan was a bit deflated. He tried to cling to the original inspiration, what led him to the revelation. The truth. He tried to cling to the truth.

  Mr. Sentry buzzed for him early. Alan took deep breaths. He was searching for the Alan of the day before. Before Jenna minimized him. Jenna did that. She was a minimizer.

  ***

  ‘Alan, this is Spork from legal.’

  ‘Spork.’

  ‘Alan.’

  ‘Spork wants to hear the idea.’

  ‘Ok.’

  ‘Like you told me.’

  ‘We’re selling the truth.’

  ‘Alan?’

  ‘We’re saying we have the truth. We’re saying maybe some other unnamed people do not.’

  ‘The truth?’

  ‘We sell that. We have it and it’s for sale.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘We’re not, decidedly not, selling the truth.’

  ‘Yesterday you said—’

  ‘Yesterday you brought me revelation.’

  ‘Toothpaste.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘We’re selling toothpaste.’

  ‘Now—’

  ‘And our toothpaste is caffeine-free. Always caffeine-free.’

  ‘That’s it, Alan.’

  ‘Huh.’

  ‘We’re saying we care about health issues. Caffeine is bad. We’re selling ourselves as caring.’

  ‘No caffeine.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘And cost-wise, removing the caffeine, is what?’

  ‘Negligible.’

  ‘Better.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Alan, we have a go. I’m telling you, as of today, we have a go.’

  ***

  Alan went home again puffed up. He thought he had explained himself badly the previous evening. He needed Jenna to see the revelation. He needed his wife onboard. Jenna was not a minimizer. Jenna loved Alan. That was the truth. That was the truth that Alan was after. The truth of Jenna’s love. Alan thought that if he just said it better, that was all, he just needed to say it right. He needed to sell Jenna and Jenna loved Alan. That was the bottom line.

  My Continued Conversation With

  The Ghost Of My Father

  I dreamt last night of a family reunion so large you were still alive. And you had a magic Polaroid which took pictures of what should be there. We were all anxious for what developed. Then, suddenly, you were Mark, my brother older by 6 years, a father figure apparently. When I awoke the dream was still there, like something left on my nightstand by the imps of the perverse. I turned it over in my hand and it had changed. I held it to the light, the soft, human light, relishing its newness, a picture, too, of what, Father, I want the world to approximate.

  Because you dream of me I am still alive.

  The poems, the father poems, the ones that sit in folders, the ones that grow in the dark, The ones that sit out all night, the ones I find in the morning and deny, the poems that speak your name forty times forty times, the ones the air went out of, the poems that are odes, the poems that are not odes, the churchyard poems, the organic Poem, the one like Leaves of Grass expanding outward, swallowing all other poems. All saying Dear Father, Dear Father.

  Because you write of me I am still alive.

  Little by little I die. In the red hours between midnight and dawn I wake with it all over me, inside me like incubi, the fear, the jagged fear, the little boy who only wants to be picked up and held. The hour that stretches me out, thins me like a color fading. Hold me like a prayer, Father.

  Because you are always dying I am always dying.

  Father, the song in me, the song.

  Because you cannot sing it.

  The words, the sticky words.

  Because you cannot say them.

  I rest, Father, I go back and rest. The morning approaches with its supple possibilities.

  Because it comes.

  The weak light, the sounds from the other room, the voice of Chloe, my daughter. The day engaging.

  I rest.

  The silence, Father, I don’t know if I can live in the silence.

  I am cold.

  Father. You were a good man. I want that too. I want to be a good man.

  I am cold.

  Amen, Father.

  The Plot To Kidnap

  Stonehenge

  I

  Randolph—Good morning, Sir.

  Merlin—Morning? Hmph, is it?

  Randolph—Indeed, Sir.

  Merlin—Breakfast then.

  Randolph—Yes, Sir. Soft-boiled quail eggs, dry toast, a banger.

  Merlin—Quite.

  Randolph—I’ll let you eat in peace.

  Merlin—Wait,
Randolph. Mm, this quail’s egg…um, tell me, what’s on the agenda today?

  Randolph—Full day, as usual. Perhaps moreso than yesterday or tomorrow, as the case may be.

  Merlin—This living backwards.

  Randolph—Yes, Sir.

  Merlin—What’s up first?

  Randolph—Let’s see (rattling pages)…9 a.m., the King’s mandolin lesson.

  Merlin—Poor Wart. He’s horrible, of course. Well, that shouldn’t take long. He gets frustrated quickly, smashes instrument and we have to send for another. Ok. Then?

  Randolph—You have an eleven o’clock with Mordred, Sir.

  Merlin—Oh, hell. That little eelshit.

  Randolph—Yes, Sir.

  Merlin—Do you have any idea what that’s about?

  Randolph—No, Sir. No idea. He seemed quite hot to see you.

  Merlin—Of course, he did. Why doesn’t he take this up with Wart, er, Arthur? I’m not the fucking king.

  Randolph—No, Sir.

  Merlin—He’s afraid of Arthur, of course.

  Randolph—So it seems.

  Merlin—Well, see if we can wiggle out of that one, eh?

  Randolph—Um, yes, Sir.

  Merlin—Problem?

  Randolph—Mr. Mordred, Sir. He can be so unpleasant.

  Merlin—Oh, fie and damnation. All right.

  Randolph—Yes, Sir.

  Merlin—What else? Give me something to look forward to today, Randolph. Mm, this banger is especially succulent.

  Randolph—There’s Guinevere at 1, Sir.

  Merlin—Ah.

  Randolph—Yes, Sir.

  Merlin—She is one spicy little queen, isn’t she, Randolph?

  Randolph—I’ve heard tell, Sir.

  Merlin—A regular nymphomaniac.

  Randolph—I cannot speak so plain, of course.

  Merlin—Just between us, eh? Randolph? Have you ever seen a better ass?

  Randolph—(blushing) No, Sir. No, I haven’t.

  Merlin—She fucks like a wild animal, Randolph.

  Randolph—Indeed, Sir?

  Merlin—Gets on you and moves that great behind around. Ah.

  Randolph—Yes, Sir.

  Merlin—Well, that’s something to look forward to anyway. Lancelot must be away?

  Randolph—No, Sir. He’s about.

  Merlin—And she still wants Old Merlin, eh? That little minx.

  Randolph—Yes, Sir.

  II

  Merlin—Come in, Mordred. How are things in Cornwall?

  Mordred—(bowing) Quite satisfactory, Merlin. Rain, lots of rain.

  Merlin—What is one to do, eh? Everyone talks about the weather—

  Mordred—Of course, you could do something about it.

  Merlin—You sweet-talk.

  Mordred—Not at all.

  Merlin—So, what’s on your nefarious, little mind this morning? Why so passionate to see Old Merlin?

  Mordred—Off the record?

  Merlin—If you wish.

  Mordred—I have a plan. A monumental plan. Something that will make Camelot great.

  Merlin—Camelot is already great.

  Mordred—Well, the word on the street (here, Mordred lays a finger beside his nose) is that the whole Round Table idea is old hat. There’s talk of the Queen’s concupiscence. Many say Arthur isn’t the King he used to be.

  Merlin—Blasphemy.

  Mordred—Yet, there it is. Covetousness, perhaps, but the word on the street…

  Merlin—Right, right. What is this plan?

  Mordred—Well. (Mordred moves slightly closer while Merlin unconsciously moves slightly away.) Perhaps you’ve heard of the Irish Giants?

  Merlin—So.

  Mordred—They’re Giants. And they live in Ireland.

  Merlin—Get on with it.

  Mordred—Well, word has it that they have built something. Something miraculous, full of marvel and portent.

  Merlin—The clock thing.

  Mordred—(after a pause) Perhaps. A clock? Perhaps.

  Merlin—An astrological clock.

  Mordred—You continue to impress.

  Merlin—I hear things.

  Mordred—This is no ordinary clock. It is mammoth, built of bluestone and hand-carved sarsen-rock. And it stands a full ten men high, with lintels weighing 5 tons.

  Merlin—Indeed. Well, there are wonders in the world. What has this to do with us, Mordred? (Merlin is impatient thinking of the afternoon tryst with the Queen.)

  Mordred—We can make it ours.

  Merlin—(Surprisingly taken aback) Ours? Well, that wouldn’t sit well with the fucking Giants, would it?

  Mordred—They wouldn’t know what hit them. You spirit it away. Whoosh! You can do it, Merlin, only you can do it.

  Merlin (hand to chin, rubbing furiously)—As much as it pains me to say this, I’m interested in what you propose, Mordred.

  Mordred—Thank you, Sir. It will be greater, more mystifying than your Cerne Abbas Giant.

  Merlin—A good jape, that.

  Mordred—That it is.

  Merlin—Fucking Giants, eh? What?

  Mordred—Exactly.

  Merlin—Where would we put the damn thing?

  Mordred—Well, there’s this nice space on Salisbury Plain. Lots of ground, slight promontory, nice long path for an entranceway. Some shrubbery.

  Merlin—Salisbury, yes. Yes, that might work.

  Mordred—Thank you, Sir.

  Merlin—What’s in it for you, Mordred?

  Mordred—The pride of Camelot.

  Merlin—Don’t bullshit a bullshitter.

  Mordred—Well, I would want a finder’s fee.

  Merlin—Ah.

  III

  Merlin—My Queen.

  Guinevere—Are we alone?

  Merlin—Quite, my Queen.

  Guinevere—Ok, drop the ‘My Queen’ crap and undo that robe.

  Merlin—You little minx. (He opens his voluminous gown.) Where is Lancelot?

  Guinevere—Jealousy doesn’t become you, my Naked Necromancer.

  Merlin—It’s only that, well, never mind.

  Guinevere—Never mind, indeed. That’s quite a stout birch-branch, you’ve got there, Magician.

  Merlin—You’ve never complained before. Unclothe thyself, my dear.

  Guinevere—Make yourself young first.

  Merlin—Oh, stuff and incense. Here then.

  Guinevere—Yipes. I love those pecs, my Lothario. (She slips out of her silks.)

  Merlin—And you turn around and let me see it. The Royal Rear.

  Guinevere—You rascally conjurer. (She turns and bends slightly at the waist.) Here ‘tis.

  Merlin—Holy cats, My Queen. That is a formidable fundament.

  Guinevere—And that is a thick staff. Is it legerdemain or tribute to my pallid backside?

  Merlin—Ah, Guin. It’s all for you, my pretty. As round as Norval’s shield, as white as Albion moonlight, as alabastrine as the cliffs of Dover.

  Guinevere—Flatterer. Bring that bludgeon here.

  Afterwards

  Guinevere—Ah, Merlin, no one quite fucks like an archimage.

  Merlin—You’re not bad yourself, Toots.

  Guinevere—That part where you turned briefly into a bull.

  Merlin—Unintentional.

  Guinevere—Inspired.

  Merlin—Thank you.

  Guinevere—Now, my horny magus. What is this I hear about a granite moon-mirror?

  Merlin—Bah! Are there no secrets in Camelot?

  IIII

  Randolph—Good morning, Sir.

  Merlin—Morning? Mmmph. What day is it?

  Randolph—Thursday.

  Merlin—Thursday. (He shakes his hoary head.) What happened to Friday?

  Randolph—You slept through it, Sir.

  Merlin—Indeed. It’s very confusing.

  Randolph—It is. You were powerful tired, my
Lord.

  Merlin—Indeed, I was.

  Randolph—Well, anyway, Sir. Light schedule today.

  Merlin—Fine, fine.

  Randolph—The King at 10. He wants to congratulate you on the piece of art you erected on Salisbury Plain.

  Merlin—It’s not a fucking piece of art.

  Randolph—Yes, Sir.

  Merlin—It’s a timepiece. An astrological wonderment—oh, never mind. If you have to explain magic it loses its, its…

  Randolph—Luster, Sir?

  Merlin—Precisely.

  Randolph—At any rate, it is the talk of the town, Sir.