“Honey, he’s worse everywhere.”
“Here” is Jeffersonville, New York, where Randi has found them a place, another nowhere, except this time more so. Up a private drive hewn out of the pinewoods that line the road, their house sits adjacent to an old forsaken creamery, surrounded by acres of wooded land. If their isolation from the outside world seems more complete than before, inside the house there’s a near-total lack of privacy; it’s one big room, with a sleeping loft. It’s a dusty place, void of character and charm, nothing like the Lafferty place. Tania finds dead spiders in the corners. She finds old newspapers on a shelf. She watches moths batter the overhead light. That’s the local color.
And it’s true that here Teko apparently has found much to nourish his authoritarian spirit. These military exercises he undertakes with great seriousness of purpose. Compulsory political study group every evening. The usual running, weight lifting, and calisthenics. He calls Guy repeatedly from town, urging him to supply the SLA with weapons for training, until Guy, ragged with worry about the steady stream of calls to his number from the remote upstate hamlet of Jeffersonville (as he pictures it being phrased in the papers), capitulates, bringing with him on his next visit two old Daisy Red Ryder air rifles, which Teko holds in his hands as if they had been sculpted from shit. Still, he sets up one end of the creamery for use as a rifle range. Guess who gets to pick up the BBs for reuse when practice is over. He plots and schemes toward the day when the group returns to California, the day the Revolution begins, anew.
A breathless day, overcast with occasional zags of lightning crossing the sky followed by the low rolling rumble of thunder, but no rain to relieve things, just the fraught light that passes through the storm suspended above them.
The two pupils sit side by side on upturned milk crates in the old creamery. Teko faces them, arms folded across his chest, Yolanda at his side. It’s the People’s elocution class.
Teko says, “You had this bunch of rules impounded into you. They told you what to do and when to do it. And of course you didn’t notice, but they even told you how to speak. You”—Teko here indicates Tania—“so that you could take your place among the ruling elite. And you”—Teko thrusts a forefinger in Joan’s direction—“because you were at their mercy. A member of a defeated people, you had to learn the language of the imperial oppressor.”
There are plenty of rules here too. According to Teko and Yolanda, the People’s vernacular is the same as Amos ‘n’ Andy’s. Nonrhotic. Dropping of the final g in the present participle and gerundial forms. Lack of definition of final sound in word-ending consonantal clusters. Multiple negation. Omission of word final s and ed. Substitution of word final f for th. Substitution of word initial d for th. Substitution of auxiliary be for first-, second-, and third-person singular and plural present and past indicatives of that verb. Not in so many words.
It is much too uncomfortable to call it a lazy day. Tania moves constantly, freeing herself of her clothes where they adhere to her. She crosses one leg over the other, sits for a moment, and then switches. Though the creamery’s huge door has been left open to allow air to circulate, it does no good. The sounds from outside are muzzy, without definition, except for the thunder, which rolls, enveloping them but bringing no rain.
As usual, Joan is giving Teko and Yolanda shit. Tania wishes that just this once she would go along with these two maniacs. It is so hot. They sit side by side on the upturned crates. If they touch accidentally, the impulse to move is both simultaneous and immediate, and as they peel apart, Tania feels their two skins, every centimeter of the way.
“You’re laughing, Joan, but take the accent, for example. They trained you to retain it, to mark you as an outsider.”
Joan giggles.
“Well, they did!” Yolanda is adamant.
“A lack of consciousness of the purpose of these differences is built into their design,” confirms Teko, somewhat obscurely.
Tania watches Teko prepare for his afternoon jog. Every afternoon the same thing: the same purposeful stretching, the eyeglasses left at the same spot on the porch rail, the same huffing breaths as he strides to the point at which he begins, every day, to run at the same leisurely pace. She checks the kitchen clock: 5:03 today. Teko and Yolanda are creatures of habit, rapidly falling into a pattern anywhere they find themselves, any situation. Naturally, Tania is obliged to share these shifts in behavior.
Ordinarily Tania is a person who takes comfort in the familiarity of habits and routines. Forms them quickly, adapts to those of others. Those of her parents. Those of the church. Those of her schools. Even those, God knows, of Eric Stump. She’d felt, with him, in that apartment on Bienvenue, as if the steadiness of their lives together would either stave off the death of love or slow its approach. Their habits hardened them into their apartness from each other, though the change was barely perceptible, evolutionary and profound, so that eventually they became two different creatures, divergent but both superbly adapted to the conditions of their common environment, who might chance to look up and gaze at each other with passing interest. All she’d wanted to do was to sit opposite the man: two laps, two books open in them, two glasses of wine on the coffee table. She might have made a life out of that. She could have. Even in its most difficult aspects it would have been the easiest thing to do.
But then came the habit of the closet. A routine that was irresistible, a cocooning, and when her chance to exit first arrived, on the day when she had sat in the VW van, sweating just like this and waiting for Teko and Yolanda to return from Mel’s, she realized that she couldn’t because for the first time in her life she had achieved the habit of novelty, every day, with Cujo—with all of them, really. So she’d picked up the machine gun and fired, pow!, to maintain unobstructed the steady flow of the untried. Of course, if the theft of the socks/bandolier hadn’t been enough in itself, that act had sealed Cujo’s fate. But even the grief was new, as transfiguring as anything she’d ever endured. And was it her fault? She’d spent a lot of time working on that one, idly, picking the problem apart and studying it.
It was Teko who’d left the van illegally parked so that it was ticketed,
Teko who’d gotten caught stealing,
Who’d dropped the gun Yolanda had registered in her real name,
Yea, and it was Teko who’d left the parking ticket in the van when they ditched it.
She’d decided finally that wherever the blame lay, she didn’t regret firing that gun. Pow!, into the new; pow!, into the forefront of things; pow!, into the unknown.
They huddle, is the only word for it, around the radio, draw close to one another from opposite ends of the big room and then stand gaping at the device. Twelve days after the House Judiciary Committee votes to adopt the First Article of Impeachment, three days after the president (another self-incriminating packrat) releases the transcripts of what will become known as the smoking gun tape, inducing eleven Republican members of the committee who voted against impeachment to announce that they will change their votes, the [expletive deleted] himself is on the air to offer up a farewell to the nation.
“To continue to fight through the months ahead for my personal vindication would almost totally absorb the time and attention of both the President and the Congress in a period when our entire focus should be on the great issues of peace abroad and prosperity without inflation at home,” he says, “Therefore.”
There is a lengthy pause, and each of them leans forward, straining to hear. When the voice resumes, falteringly, it doesn’t even attempt to conceal its bitterness and unfocused loathing: “I shall resign the Presidency effective at noon tomorrow. Vice President Ford will—”
They whoop, leap into the air.
Teko hugs Yolanda.
Yolanda hugs Tania.
Tania hugs Joan.
“Ding dong,” cries Teko, “the witch is dead!”
Now what?
The group has taken to traveling to the nearby town of Youngsv
ille for occasional recreation, usually ending up at the One-Step, a tavern where they drink cheap pitchers of draft beer and play shuffleboard and pool at coin-op tables. On one outing Teko is standing at the bar waiting for the bartender to pull his beer when he eavesdrops on a nearby conversation.
“I find it completely unacceptable,” says the man.
“So you’ll call the agency when we get back to the city.” The woman tends to her two small children, who sit dangle-legged on barstools, drinking Shirley Temples. “You want your cherry? Mommy wants your cherry if you don’t.”
“I could make an issue of this. Damages are involved.”
“What, damages? The car broke down. It happens. Don’t blow bubbles, Richard.”
“We didn’t put down a deposit?”
“So we’ll get there a little later.”
“What if we lose the room?”
“He says the Grossinger’s bus leaves in a half an hour.”
“I still can’t believe there isn’t a taxi in this town. What else do they have? Party lines? Outhouses?”
“Shhh.”
“I expect any minute now to hear the theme from Deliverance.”
“Shhhhh!”
“This is why, you ask me why I never want to leave the city. This is why I never want to leave the city.”
“It’s ten miles. Don’t kick, Sylvie hon.”
Teko pays for the pitcher of beer and carries it into the back room. He puts it on the table.
“Ever hear of Grossinger’s?”
“What’s that?” asks Tania.
“Big Jewish resort. Lots of rich doctors and whatnot, coming up from the city. It’s just down the road, it turns out.”
“So?” asks Yolanda.
“So? So, purses and wallets left by the pool. Room keys. We could clean up in one afternoon.”
Cash is an issue, again.
“There’s a bus,” Teko continues. “I’ll take it up and see what there is to see.”
“Funny,” says Joan, “you don’t look Jewish.”
“We can work around that. I’ll bring Tania with me. We’ll blend in.”
“Aww,” says Yolanda.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea for the two commanders to accompany each other on a dangerous mission,” he explains.
“Don’t be an idiot,” says Yolanda. Turns out she’s not objecting, just giving him necessary advice.
The bus is nearly empty, with Teko, Tania, and the aggrieved householder and his family from New York the only passengers. They disembark at the Ferndale depot, where several cabs await to take passengers on the last leg of the trip to the famous resort. Teko is digging in his pocket to count his change when they are approached by a middle-aged man who seizes Teko by the wrist.
“Joshua.”
“Excuse me?”
“Joshua. As in, Joshua and Beth, the new staff. Right? Your mother called to tell me that you would be taking the later bus. I had just about given up on you but for your mother’s sake I decided to wait, and here you are. Well, come on. We are very shorthanded and there’s no time to waste. If we hurry you can start helping get the Pink Elephant ready for the first dinner service.”
“The Pink Elephant?”
“You’re a restaurant critic? The ambience falls short in your opinion? Look, the way business is, we’d serve dinner in the parking lot if that’s what the customers wanted. People want to drink, eat, and see a show all at once.”
“OK.”
“So what are you waiting for?” He pulls a little, and Teko takes a step forward. The man keeps his grip on Teko’s arm until they arrive at a big Chrysler. He turns. “Beth, what are you waiting for?” Well, cheaper than a cab. The man unlocks the door, and they get in. On the backseat are cardboard boxes full of grass skirts, garlands of paper flowers, plastic tiki figurines, and paper umbrellas.
“Don’t ask. All right, go ahead. What it is, we’ve discovered that our target customer is on account of lowered airfares and more frequent departures heading for Hawaii. I don’t see the big thing, personally, but the place has a certain charisma right now that you can’t deny. We keep hearing about clean beaches, pleasant weather, warm buoyant water, half-naked women, and breathtaking natural scenery. It has all the earmarks of a total fad, but as a trend it is bleeding us dry. So we thought we’d institute a Hawaiian Night. Kosher luaus and fruity drinks out of fishbowls. I know a girl who’s half Puerto Rican and half Chinese and does exotic dancing who I figure she can give a few hula lessons to interested parties. Worth a shot, right?”
The car enters the grounds of the resort, rolling up a long wooded drive toward the main cluster of buildings.
“Now, Joshua, we’ll start you in the kitchen. You’ve done prep work—chopping, peeling? No? There’s nothing to it. But Beth, honey.” He grabs her knee. “You, you I’m putting out on the floor.” He gives a little squeeze. “Now,” he says briskly, “we got to get some uniforms on you. There’s not a minute to waste. You can just leave your bags in my car for now.” Tania casts a sidelong glance at Teko. Apparently their host hasn’t noticed that they carry nothing with them.
The man steers them up a gravel pathway that leads to the kitchen door, which is propped open with a battered old hubcap. Two young people, dressed in whites, drop cigarettes and grind them underfoot into the gravel.
“Come inside, everybody,” says the man cheerfully. “Show Josh and Beth how hard we work around here.” They step into the enormous kitchen. “Here’s Josh and Beth. They’ve come to save the day.”
A desultory cheer goes up in the kitchen.
“Attaboy. Now let’s get some uniforms on you.”
They stand before a group of lockers in a brightly lit passageway linking the kitchen to several dining rooms.
“Take any locker you want. If you don’t have a lock it doesn’t matter because you kids can always sort it out amongst yourselves in the unlikely event of a misplaced personal belonging. That is to say it happens rarely if at all around here. Now get dressed, go see the captain, and give your mother my very kindest regards when you call her first thing tomorrow.”
For the next two hours neither Teko nor Tania sees anything resembling a purse, a wallet, or a room key. She sets tables, hand washes spotty glasses, rolls silverware, folds napkins, fills cruet sets, fills monkey bowls with Parkay pats and single-serving creamers, vacuums, polishes chrome and brass, evens stacks of coasters, straightens barstools. He fillets chicken and fish, peels and chops vegetables, washes lettuce, prepares trays of desserts and salads, schleps beer kegs up from the storeroom, sterilizes and stacks dishes. For the first time since the Marines he is doing the work of the People, though in this case the People mostly are boys and girls speaking of Columbia Law or the dentistry program at NYU.
By the time the diners begin to enter the room Tania is exhausted, and she stands with Sarah Horowitz, a psych major at Sarah Lawrence and a veteran of five weeks at Grossinger’s, on the gravel path outside the kitchen door, smoking and drinking black coffee.
“You look sort of familiar. Where you from anyway?” asks Sarah. She looks her up and down. “The Upper West Side, or something?”
“California,” Tania answers promptly. She drags hard on the cigarette.
“California!” exclaims Sarah. “Westwood or the Valley?”
“Bay Area, actually.”
“Didn’t know they had Jewish people in the Bay Area.”
“What about Levi Strauss?” They laugh a little.
“You better hope he’s funny, Beth.”
“What? Who?”
“The comic tonight.”
“OK, I hope he’s funny.”
“Ha. Seriously. He’s not funny, they don’t tip.”
“Really?”
“You kidding? Everything’s our fault.”
“What’s funny up here?”
“Take a look at the house.” She shrugs. “Strictly Geritol.” She tosses the cigarette. “We better get inside. It�
�s about to go bananas.”
They duck inside, Tania kicking the hubcap and allowing the kitchen door to slam behind them.
“Get out there, twatlick,” explains the chef. “I’m not taking shit because your section’s orphaned.”
Tania steps into the dining room in time to see their driver from this afternoon, wearing evening clothes, stride out onto the stage. Apparently he is the show’s compere as well, his right hand placed strategically over a small gravy stain on his left lapel so that he assumes a pious or patriotic mien.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we are so happy to have each of you here with us as our guests tonight, to see you having such a good time. And so you should. Many of us work too much, too hard, too often. We are terribly pressured every day and often can’t find any time for ourselves, for contemplation, for recreation, for some peace from the rat race and the endless demands. Some do this—they go to the shul or synagogue or temple of their choice on Shabbat. They sing, they read Torah, they listen to a sermon. Some talk to their friends. Some visit with their grandchildren to play and dote and incidentally to strike a lasting family bond with their son- or daughter-in-law as the case may be. And some come up here to our beautiful Catskill region, for a weekend or with our special family rates for a stay of a week or of even longer duration, circumstances permitting. Not anymore the most fashionable destination maybe but still a place for family togetherness and the company of like-minded people getting away from it all like yourselves. Forget the daily grindstone for a while and cut yourself off from the everyday tsuris that besets us all. Relax, forget the stock market, the clients, the customers, the patients, the students, the office politics, and all the other concerns that nag at a person. It’s better than golf, though here we have a quality golf course that visitors with a professional involvement in the game have showered with the highest praise. It’s better than canasta, though here a willing partner is always to be found. It’s better than watching your favorite television programs, though here each of our comfortable rooms is equipped with a famous maker seventeen-inch color set. So live a little. As they say in the antacid commercials, try it, you’ll like it. And that reminds me, incidentally, the chef has asked me to mention that our specials tonight, the baked halibut and the apricot-glazed chicken, are very fresh and still in plentiful supply. These each come with a lovely cauliflower kugel in fresh tomato sauce, as well as your choice of tossed salad or the soup of the day, of which we happen tonight to have two, which are cream of asparagus or a delightful gazpacho.”
Trance Page 32
