Flying to America

by Donald Barthelme

  I saw this morning that the building at the end of the street’s been sold. It stood empty for years, an architectural anomaly, three-storied, brick, but most of all, triangular. The street comes to a point there, and prospective buyers must have boggled at the angles. I judge the owners have decided to let morality go hang and sold to a ménage à trois. They’ll need a triple bed, customized too, to fit those odd corners. I can see them with protractor and Skilsaw, getting the thing just right. Then sweeping up the bedcrumbs.

  She telephones again.

  “It doesn’t have to be the best bed in the world. Any old bed will do. Sam’s bitching all night long.”

  “For you, dear friend, I’ll take every pain. Not less than the best. We’re checking now in Indonesia, a rare albino bed’s been sighted there . . .”

  “Tom, this isn’t funny. I slept in the bathtub last night.”

  “You’re too long for the bathtub.”

  “Do you want Sam to do it?”

  Do I want Sam to do it?

  “No. I’ll do it.”

  “Then do it.”

  Why does this business bother me? I jumped ship long ago. What mix of memory and perversity ties me to this lady still? Is it true that furniture music is the sweetest music, that purchasing the towels, the cups and saucers, the wastebaskets and wine racks is what it’s all about? That cables spliced from plant food, paint samples, throw rugs, and wire whisks maintain an underground connection? The thought is sinful, still I think it.

  In the morning comes a letter:

  Dear Tom,

  It is clear that you understand nothing. Once I thought you sensitive and fine, but you are not sensitive. No one who was sensitive could persistently misunderstand my sleep needs as you do, and always have. Surely the great number of sleep aids you have seen me employ in the days when we were cohabitating — the mask, the record of sea sounds, the electric back scratcher — would have suggested special needs even to the dimmest brain. And as I know that the words “dimmest brain” do not accurately describe you, I can only conclude that it is your malice that makes you throw obstacles in the path of my happiness like this. Tear yourself away from your own tiny concerns for a moment (are you still seeing that skinny fishlike Icelandic, girl, Margaret?) and try to focus upon mine. Malice is not nourishing for long. You will choke on it if you persist in this path. Why don’t you want me to get a solid eight hours a night, with the companion of my choice? I implore you to come to your senses, and bedraggle yourself to one of our fine local department stores immediately. You have, after all, promised.

  Love,

  Honoria

  I have, after all, promised. But not to suffer abuse. In the heat of the moment, I fire off my own brief:

  Dear Honoria,

  Listen, baby, are you trying to make yourself something that you are not? Like a bloody martyr? That is not necessary, dear Honoria. We already love you, in the past tense — not only me but all the other members of your former community, Paul, Jacques, Ramona, etc. There is a danger in mythologizing the self-image, especially the image of the self as put-upon, outraged, bedreft. This simply does not square with the facts. Take a little care to be careful of the sensibilities and psychic determinants of the Other — the person to whom you are speaking, that is to say, me. Just as the white snow on the ground is loved and applauded by everyone, but would be derided if it pretended to be vanilla ice cream, so the human persona can stand only so much artificial enhancement, for instance by lies. Instant gratification is not as good as that gratification which comes dropping slow, over the sere seasons. Picture yourself a withered crone of eighty, at the warm hearthside, or at least close to the thermostat, and surrounded by withered grandchildren and friends, to whom your integrity has been a rock, these sixty years. And picture to yourself the alternative: a Honoria similarly withered, but cuffed and spat upon, and hurled into the gutter, candy bar wrappers and crushed aluminum beer cans being dropped on your head by uncaring strangers, simply because you have visualized yourself as something you were not, some kind of heroic figure, a Jeanne d’Arc of the bedroom, who will not be satisfied until she exacts from the whole male world the tribute of a lustrous king-or-queen-sized bed? I am a former husband, remember? Not much can be expected of me.

  In extremis,

  Tom

  But these letters are not serious. We are playing with one another.

  So I’ll buy a bloody bed. I know how it’s done. I’ve been there before. When I was young and easy under the apple boughs, in all the Bloomingdales’ they knew my name. There! The thing’s accomplished. And now the problem of transport, from my portal to her portal. The U-Haul place is giving me a busy signal. Must be mounds of people moving beds today. We’ll form a caravan like bedouins and wind our ways to diverse addresses. Will my bicycle be equal to the task? I’m sick. A fever. I should be put to bed. Or laid to rest. Don’t joke. One lays a ghost, that’s routine enough, I’ve entertained a shade myself a time or two. There were bold bed-springing moments, I don’t deny it, but lastly it was . . . ghostly.

  I posed as a good man, wise, supporting, ardent, sucked her in, had a better schtick than Sam’s (remember Sam?), her routine was also nicely done, we were content for quite a while, not long enough, it’s ended, I was right and wrong, she taught me what she’d majored in, a lovely Romance tongue, we visited the country and when I’d walk into a drugstore and ask for razor blades, they’d give me sanitary napkins. Tom! Your malice has run wild. That’s not the way I feel at all. The bell is ringing. United Parcel’s here, two men and a mattress. I wish you well, dear bedlamite, I really do — sleep, lust, luck, impostures new.

  The Discovery

  I’m depressed,” Kate said.

  Boots became worried. “Did I say something wrong?”

  “You don’t know how to say anything wrong.”

  “What?”

  “The thing about you is, you’re dull.”

  “I’m dull?”

  There was a silence. Then Fog said: “Anybody want to go over to Springs to the rodeo?”

  “Me?” Boots said. “Dull?”

  The Judge got up and went over and sat down next to Kate.

  “Now Kate, you oughtn’t to be goin’ round callin’ Boots dull to his face. That’s probably goin’ to make him feel bad. I know you didn’t mean it, really, and Boots knows it too, but he’s gonna feel bad anyhow —”

  “How ’bout the rodeo, over at Springs?” Fog asked again.

  The Judge gazed sternly at his friend, Fog.

  “— he’s gonna feel bad, anyhow,” the Judge continued, “just thinkin’ you mighta meant it. So why don’t you just tell him you didn’t mean it.”

  “I did mean it.”

  “Aw come on, Katie. I know you mean what you say, but why make trouble? You can mean what you say, but why not say something else? On a nice day like this?”

  The dry and lifeless air continued parching the concrete-like ground.

  “It’s not a nice day.”

  The Judge looked around. Then he said: “By God, Katie, you’re right! It’s a terrible day.” Then he took a careful look at Boots, his son.

  “I guess you think I’m dull, too, is that right, Pa?” Boots said with a disarming laugh.

  “Well . . .”

  Boots raised himself to his feet. He looked cool and unruffled, with just a hint of something in his eyes.

  “So,” he said. “So that’s the way it is. So that’s the way you, my own father, really feel about me. Well, it’s a fine time to be sayin’ something about it, wouldn’t you say? In front of company and all?”

  “Now don’t get down on your old man,” Fog said hastily. “Let’s go to the rodeo.”

  “Fog —”

  “He don’t mean nothin’ by it,” Fog said. “He was just tryin’ to tell the truth.”

  “Oh,” Boots said. “He don’t mean nothin’ by it. He don’t mean nothin’ by it. Well, it seems to me I just been hearin’ a lot talk
about people meanin’ what they say. I am going to assume the Judge here means what he says.”

  “Yes,” the Judge said. “I mean it.”

  “Yes,” Kate said, “you have many fine qualities, Boots.”

  “See? He means it. My own father thinks I’m dull. And Katie thinks I’m dull. What about you, Fog? You want to make it unanimous?”

  “Well Boots you are pretty doggone dull to my way of thinking. But nobody holds it against you. You got a lot of fine characteristics. Can’t everybody be Johnny Carson.”

  “Yes, there are lots duller than you, Boots,” Kate said. “Harvey Brush, for example. Now that number is really dull.”

  “You’re comparin’ me with Harvey Brush?”

  “Well I said he was worse, didn’t I?”

  “Good God.”

  “Why don’t you go inside and read your letters from that girl in Brussels?” Kate suggested.

  “She doesn’t think I’m dull.”

  “Probably she don’t understand English too good neither,” the Judge said. “Now go on inside and read your mail or whatever. We just want to sit silently out here for a while.”

  “Goodbye.”

  After Boots had gone inside the Judge said: “My son.”

  “It is pretty terrible, Judge,” Kate said.

  “It’s awful,” Fog agreed.

  “Well, it’s not a hanging offense,” the Judge said. “Maybe we can teach him some jokes or something.”

  “I’ve got to get back in the truck now,” said Kate. “Judge, you have my deepest sympathy. If I can think of anything to do, I’ll let you know.”

  “Thanks, Kate. It’s always a pleasure to see you and be with you, wherever you are. You are never dull.”

  “I know that, Judge. Well, I’ll see you later.”

  “O.K. Kate,” said Fog. “Goodbye. Drive carefully.”

  “Goodbye Fog. Yes, I’ll be careful.”

  “See you around, Kate.”

  “O.K., Judge. Goodbye, Fog.”

  “So long, Kate.”

  “See you. You know I can’t marry that boy now, Judge. Knowing what I know.”

  “I understand, Kate. I wouldn’t expect you to. I’ll just have to dig up somebody else.”

  “It’s going to be hard.”

  “Well, it’s not going to be easy.”

  “So long, Kate,” said Fog.

  “O.K., goodbye. Be good.”

  “Yes,” said Fog. “I’ll try.”

  “’Bye now, Judge.”

  “O.K., Katie.”

  “Wonder how come I never noticed it before?”

  “Well don’t dwell on it, Kate. See you in town.”

  “O.K., adios.”

  “Goodbye, Kate.”

  “It’s terrible but we’ve got it into focus now, haven’t we?”

  “I’m afraid we do.”

  “I sure would like to be of help, Judge.”

  “I know you would, Katie, and I appreciate it. I just don’t see what can be done about it, right off.”

  “It’s just his nature, probably.”

  “You’re probably right. I was never dull.”

  “I know you weren’t, Judge. Nobody blames you.”

  “Well, it’s a problem.”

  “Quite a thorny one. But he’ll be O.K., Judge. He’s a good boy, basically.”

  “I know that, Kate. Well, we’ll just have to wrestle with it.”

  “O.K., Judge. I’ll see you later, O.K.?”

  “Right.”

  “Behave yourself, Fog.”

  “Right, Katie.”

  “I’ll see y’all. Bye-bye.”

  “Goodbye, Kate.”

  “You all right, Judge?”

  “I’m fine, Katie. Just a little taken aback by what we’ve found out here today.”

  “Oh. O.K. Well, take care of yourself. You too, Fog.”

  “I will, Kate.”

  “O.K. See you two.”

  “Goodbye, Kate.”

  “You sure you don’t want to come into town with me? I’ll make you some tamale pie.”

  “That’s O.K. Kate we got lots of stuff to eat right here.”

  “Oh. O.K. ’Bye.”

  The truck moved off into the dust.

  “Look!” said the Judge. “She’s waving.”

  “Wave back to her,” Fog said.

  “I am,” said the Judge. “Look, I’m waving.”

  “I see it,” said Fog. “Can she see you?”

  “Maybe if I stand up,” the Judge said. “Do you think she can see me now?”

  “Not if she’s watchin’ the road.”

  “She’s too young for us,” the Judge said. He stopped waving.

  “Depends on how you look at it,” said Fog. “You want to go on over to the rodeo now?”

  “I don’t want to go to no rodeo,” said the Judge. “All that youth.”

  You Are Cordially Invited

  I am cordially invited. I have nothing else to do. So I go. Men and women standing on a terrace holding drinks. The date is Thursday, the twenty-fourth of May. The time, 6:32 P.M. The quality of the air, acceptable. Similarly the quality of the whiskey. A ferocious vivacity amidst the green-painted iron garden furniture. A kind of harvest festival. A publisher’s cow has calved, and we are celebrating that. The host’s barns bursting with cocktail onions and potato chips. At the finish we will fall many floors to the street, where we will all join hands and dance around a taxi. The boldest dancer making it into the cab with a bruising hip check to the lady on his left.

  I am spoken to by the lady on my left — a very old lady, seventy if she’s a day.

  “Hey!” she says. “Wake up!”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You were exhibiting the gaze vacant. Dangerous in a man your age.”

  She has a beautiful smile and her eyes are very bright. “Things are not that bad!” she says.

  “They’re not?”

  “Listen! I have something to tell you. There is a new eight-cent U.S. postage stamp honoring Copernicus, the great astronomer. Copernicus is wearing a fur-trimmed robe and looks, on the stamp, struck dumb with terror. Can you explain this?”

  “No,” I say, for I cannot.

  “Of course you can’t,” she says with satisfaction. “That is a minus. But I can give you a plus. Listen! The membership rolls of the New York Architectural League for the year 1912 list a Franz Kafka. Kafka was born in 1883. Could he have been moonlighting as an architect in New York in 1912? If so, which buildings are his? Have any survived? Have you wondered about that?”

  I shake my head.

  “We are wondering for you,” she says. “We wonder well. We wonder efficiently and constructively. We are on your side. I have to sit down, my legs are killing me. There’s a bench in the corner.”

  I am led to the bench and seated there. She does not stop talking.

  “Listen!” she says. “We bring you hope. Your head hurts but we know that your head hurts and we are working on it. Everybody’s head hurts. Our organization is on top of the situation, not in the sense that we have it licked but in the sense that we can see the outlines.” During all this she has been feeling me, shoulder, elbow, back of the neck, as one feels a child who has been lost but now is found.

  “My name is Cornelia,” she says, knocking back a good fifty percent of her drink. “Pay attention. This is very important. I saw, on Saturday the twelfth, a young woman walking confidently. I immediately wondered: What does it mean to walk confidently? How is it possible? The good news I bring you is that I have seen it done. [Emphatic squeeze of kneecap here.] And our people are now hacking away at the problems of analysis, replication, quantification. You, too, may someday walk confidently.”

  “Are all your people, uh . . .”

  “Old ladies?” she says maliciously. “Damn right. Old ladies are solid gold, young trooper, and don’t ever forget it. Listen! On Thursday the tenth I saw a woman wearing platinum I.U.D. earrings on behal
f of Zero Population Growth. This joyous sight, a definite plus, was of course balanced by the news that attack cats are now being trained for the defense of small households in Queens. But —”

  “Where do you get your funding?”

  Cornelia looks, for a moment, a little glum. Then she takes hold of my belt buckle, a firm grasp, and continues.

  “Our work is proceeding under great handicaps. The feds don’t like to give money to bunches of old ladies not under the umbrella of an officially certified O.K. institution — Harvard, for example. We flirted for a while with M.I.T., where there is a certain openness of mind, but finally the trustees got cold feet. Old men,” she hisses. “Sale of homemade lemonade from a card table on the sidewalk outside the office netted $67.50 for the quarter. But was probably counterproductive in terms of staff hours lost. You didn’t by any chance write this abomination, did you?” she asks, holding up a copy of the book we are theoretically celebrating.

  “No.”

  “I’m pleased,” she says. “I will give you two pieces of advice. Always talk to the oldest lady at the party — then you will have the best time. And when you wake up at three o’clock in the morning, never light a cigarette, because if you do you will think about your crimes for the next two hours. Those are the only two pieces of advice I ever give anybody and they are both solid gold.”

  “Thank you,” I say. I notice across the room a nymph talking to an editor. The nymph appears to be naked to the waist and, from the waist down, clothed in the purest gossamer.

  “You can get me another drink,” Cornelia says, “and have a closer look at that quite beautiful girl while doing so. You don’t drink enough. Make it quick.”

  I fetch us two more of the same, not neglecting to take another look at the girl, who is in fact quite beautiful.