Gumbo

by E. Lynn Harris

  —EDWARD GIBBON, The Decline and Fall of The Roman Empire

  I will say to you this: Melancholy, that wretched cousin to Sorrow, is, without a doubt, a parasite of the soul that devours its host until spirit and body are inspired to divide. For those of you who consider this hyperbole, I would argue that you have never truly known blue, gray, or black—colors of the river through which flows despair . . . And since this condition (your ignorance) means that you are among a privileged few, I shall, despite envy, so that you might at once become familiar with the sentiments I profess, bring to you this adventure, in which is contained the horrors of the spectrum.

  FEAR OF FLOATING

  (VARIATIONS ON A THEME BY CERVANTES)

  To whom this may concern (specifically, to the good and fair people of Promenade management):

  In this complex I have lived twenty-one years; I am, therefore, especially knowledgeable concerning the history of this dwelling, more so than yourselves, who have worked here for way less than half that time. Needless to say, I am aware of the recent tumult our establishment has suffered, for I, too, have endured its fall.

  As I am mostly confined to my apartment (due to a debilitating illness), I seldom venture beyond the security of my front door; however, on one such occasion, having exited the first-level entranceway, I was accosted by three youths who, I believe, also live in this complex (and as a result of Section-8*1)—youths who, because of their previous environment no doubt, still find it necessary to behave like the inhabitants of a zoo, the place from which they were rescued by our wretched benefactors, the city.

  Understand: I am not writing to bemoan my molestation, but to proclaim—both for myself and for my fellow cooperators (men and women who lead exemplary lives, and have done so without interruption)—that further desecration of our homes must not, and will not, go unpunished; for if it does, if the usurpers are continued to be allowed here, then, like Rome before us, which foolishly permitted to sully their regions the barbarian Goths, our dwelling, as did the empire, will most certainly perish. And so to prevent this, I have gathered here a few suggestions which should, if followed strictly, aid in the dismissal of the pillaging few:

  (1) Our enemies: Unlike most, I believe, absolutely, in Swift's contention that man is an unreasonable brute who sometimes, on occasion, behaves reasonably. From this we must conclude there is but one way to deal with our foes: to treat them not as thinkers (higher man) but as actors (lower man), who know nothing of discretion, modesty, or subtlety—for all these require thought, which, as you know, they can perform only on occasion. A speedy justice must be exacted; families of the villains expelled; and announcements—many announcements—discharged to responsible officials, warning them that the Promenade is not a haven for the haplessly low, nor a shelter for the neglected multiudes, by this I mean, savages, who, because of ill birth, have risen no further than the lowest rungs of life.

  (2) Our allies: Living here for many years I have come to know my neighbors; though personal contact has been scarce (due to my condition), I have, nevertheless, learned that most are industrious employees, diligent pupils, loving parents, and caring friends; and, because of this, I no doubt believe they would gladly sacrifice a few dollars to maintain our tranquillity. This suggests the obvious: Rally the legions, secure the boundaries, display the purple (and the pride therefrom), and at once move against the uncivilized, who will know, and for all time, the Promenade is not a place for them.

  (3) Our benefactors: Being that we are here and they are not, it shouldn't be too difficult to understand their apathy regarding our decay; for our triumph or fall affects them not in the least. And so we alone must wield the sword, inflict the wound, shed the blood; for if we delay, or, even worse, fail to act at all, then I fear the Promenade will be lost to the vulgar and the plain, as occurred on the final days of a once great empire.

  Sincerely,

  A Concerned Citizen

  This was the epistle sent to the uninformed, by a man who feared that he would someday fly away.

  Imagine your life this way: Each day, and so each month and year, alone, afraid, consumed by a thought—that Gravity, a phantom whose cause is to maintain the heavens (and the creatures within), was a monster, lurking perpetually, and preparing for your doom!*2—And though this life may seem a ridiculous one, and remote, you should know that not too long before this day lived a man whose curse it was to live it. His name was *****, and as was revealed in his letter, he suffered an illness which kept him mostly from the world.

  In his pockets he carried stones; on his wrists and ankles the heaviest weights; and against his skin layers of dense fabric that, while indoors, kept him safe from the sky and stratosphere; for he was terrified of gravity, that it would one day disappear, pushing him above the clouds, into space, and towards the fires of a star. How he came to be this way no one knows, and I, the author, can only dabble in conjecture, so my opinion will stay where it belongs, in a dark and quiet place.

  To continue then: In his home he stayed; and in that space was born a child named Loneliness, whom he spoke to often, but never for as long as he would have liked. While isolated he read and studied, and in the shadows he listened to Chopin, whose genius moved him to record these words:

  Let us talk of Chopin—specifically, Sonata No. 3, in B minor:

  There are very few artists who endeavor to achieve the impossible, and in this magnificent work the master does just that; for here, within precise and immaculate keystrokes, Chopin does something I once thought unattainable: he actually makes beauty . . . palatable.

  One day, when courage had come to move him so, *****, for reasons of necessity, escaped his home to be amongst his fellow men, who, though free of his psychosis, were still just as disturbed; for not moments from the doorway, just seconds from the home, ***** was harassed and beaten; and though in his pockets were the weapons of hard stones, he dared not touch them, for of floating.

  Soon after this assault was written the letter previously disclosed, which contained both genius and contempt, but left anonymous the penman's name; but few who read it were unclear of the work's composer: for many had seen his mugging, and had quickly spread the news of its having occurred, and to everyone but the authorities, who would have done their best to do nothing, I'm sure. Be that as it may, having read *****'s epistle, many were so moved by his sapience, so impressed by his profundity, that, shortly after its publication, knowing who he was and where he lived (for such is the ability of gossips)—I say, shortly after this, envelopes began to appear beneath *****'s door, cluttering the foyer, containing requests for the inhabitant's wisdom.

  At first he left them to gather dust, feeling no need ot entertain his attackers, whom he mistakenly believed were responsible for the parcels; but eventually, overtime, curiosity provoked him to open one, then all of the correspondence; and though some were unintelligible pros written by lowborn scoundrels—neighbors who hadn't liked being called savages—most were concise, well-written appeals for prudence that was uniquely his own. And so, moved that he had touched so many, and elated that his acumen could aid his fellow man, ***** acquiesced, and responded to his neighbors. Of the letters he chose these, which most concerned him:

  Dear Sir—

  I am seventeen, nearing my eighteenth year, and am with child. I am desperate for your words. I do not want to kill my baby, but I do not want to kill my future either (for all will be lost if the child is born). My question to you is this: Being that I am only in my third week of pregnancy, and since the thing inside me as yet resembles a boy or girl, or anything close to these, if I choose to abort, would it in fact be killing? For so early is my condition can whatever is inside me truly, and accurately, be called human?

  Most sincerely,

  A Troubled Soul

  And to this he answered:

  To Troubled Soul—

  Your concerns are dear, and your circumstance dire; but do not transform concern into sophistry. The question you a
re asking is a simple one: When is a baby a baby?—and I shall respond in this way (for doing so will guarantee your understanding me): When making a cake, one, usually, follows a recipe containing a list of ingredients—flour, sugar, vanilla, eggs, etc.—and none of these, before they are combined, can be said to be a cake, only a maniac would dispute this. Moreover, all of these components, and whatever else it requires to make a cake, if gathered together, side by side, but remain unmixed, are nothing but parts, parts which may, possibly, become a greater whole—nothing more. However, when these ingredients are combined—either sufficiently or haphazardly—even in this primordial, gelatinous state (for how else does one describe batter), I say, what you will have is cake; for no other purpose are these ingredients combined, for no other utility would they serve; and indeed, no matter how you choose to bake it, when or where, trapped in tin foil or dispersed in a muffin pan—what you will have, once put into the oven and baked, I repeat, what you will have is cake—maybe malformed, possibly burnt and crispy, but, nevertheless, cake. And what makes reality even more potent than my analogy is this: one could argue (and their are some who will, I'm sure) that only in the oven does baking begin, and it is ultimately through this process that a cake is truly born. And, for reasons of amusement, let us say I agree with this (and do so alacritously, because in their argument is found the greatest truth): Would you not, then, concede that our baby, our cake—whether he be angel or devil food, lightly sweetened or saccharine laced—begins baking as soon as sperm punctures egg?*3 and that in his mother is found the most glorous oven ever designed by Nature?

  Troubled Soul, I burden you with my pros only to belabor this point: that you not diminish the act you are considering, which, because it so violently impacts your life, and more so than anyone else now capable of opinion—because of this, you, and you alone, must decide your embryo's fate, and then live, and perhaps suffer, with the choice you've made.—I hope that I've been helpful.

  Sincerely,

  A Concernced Citizen

  The second note was as follows:

  To Occupant:

  I observed your letter as it was printed in the Promenade, and was so impressed by your correspondence that I was moved to send you this note, which has taken me forever to compose.

  I am a husband and a parent, and love dearly my wife and daughter; but yesterday (a few days before your receiving this), I cheated—at least, I think I did; for never did my genitals touch another's, which means, in the literal sense, there was no sex; and if there was no sex, then, I believe, as does my favorite President, I did nothing wrong, for what is mere petting but harmless play? Indeed, I go to sleep at night free from guilt because I know—as you do, I'm sure—that nothing I did can be interpreted as cheating. Still, I would very much like your opinion on the matter.

  Thank you,

  Friend of the President

  Which inspired this response:

  Dear Friend:

  Being that I, like you, am a man, and therefore know well your desires, I can truly empathize with your position; for we are sadly, loathsome creatures driven towards monsters more loathsome than ourselves. Be that as it may, what you are suggesting is ridiculous, and for this reason: A man sticks his tongue in your wife's ear—how do you feel? He then puts his pinkie on each of her butt-cheeks (which she allows free from guilt, for what is mere petting but harmless play?)—again, how do you feel? And then, simply because it thrills him to do so, he places a toe between her breasts—once more, how do you feel? . . . My point is simply this: Intimate contact of any kind, with someone—anyone!—beyond your significant other is cheating, and wherever the placement of genitalia; I'm sure your anger, given life by my merely proposing such debauches, is proof enough that I speak true. Admit to this now, and, maybe, possibly, I'll remove my toe from between your wife's tits.

  Sincerely,

  A Concerned Citizen

  The third correspondence went this way:

  To a wise and knowledgeable fellow:

  Please answer this (for your doing so, quickly and promptly, will at once alleviate a tremendous load which threatens, daily, my bones and extremities): What's the deal with the Fed?*4 and moreover, its chairman, Alan Greenspan? I ask this because over the past year Fortune has blessed me, and I have, aided by her keen advice, acquired lots of things—money, car, clothes, women—and enjoy each immensely; however, I am quite fearful of the Joker at the bank, whose tinkering promises to deprive me of all these.—What say you?

  Impatient for your reply,

  A Restless Neighbor

  Which was answered thusly:

  To Restless Neighbor:

  Being that I am a simple man, I am uncertain how to respond to your note; of its parts, the first is too vague, but the second, however, is a matter I myself have contemplated often, and can best answer thusly: A man in his car is on a road headed for “Prosperity”; every mile takes him closer to where he wants to be, and each mile seems (and is) smoother than the one before it, making his ride a joyous one; but for fear of an accident which has yet to occur, caused by an oil-spill he has yet to see, the man slows then stops his motion, allowing the car no progress beyond its passing through time (which cannot be altered by deceleration). So afraid is he of the “might” and the “maybe” that the traveler doesn't dare go further, even reversing the car so to move away from impending doom, which, of course, he has only imagined. Eventually, over time, when he determines it safe to continue, the car, for whatever reason, stalls, though ultimately progresses, but only after much coaxing from its driver. Still, when it does go the vehicle moves much slower than before, and its handling isn't nearly as steady: the road has changed, as has the car, for on this journey time is the only constant; and so the driver, for lack of speed, finds “Prosperity” to be much farther away.

  On Alan Greenspan I say to you this: When traveling, no matter the distance or destination, one should, one must, have courage—and Greenspan lacks this.

  Having written thusly, I trust my anecdote was readily understood; for you are, it seems, a very shrewd man; one does not amass the sums you have on simple good fortune. Still, beyond your query, there is a more relevant question before us, one which, upon my asking, should help alleviate your fear concerning Greenspan's actions: Why does having “things” matter to you?—and what are you without them? I ask the latter because: when a man is himself nothing, he requires additions to make him whole, i.e., money, car, clothes, women—anything that might bring to him greater visibility—by this I mean, relevance. Ponder this, answer this, and learn from that result; for only then will you have something which, it appears, Fortune has yet to grant you . . . peace.

  Sincerely,

  A Concerned Citizen

  The fourth:

  Kind Sir—

  My boyfriend and I argue incessantly, and always about the same thing: My clothes. Being that I am young, beautiful, and shapely—and will be none of these forever—I feel it is both my right and duty to display to the world my magnificence; for is not beauty meant to be shared, adored, and admired?—Am I not doing, by wearing clothes that reveal to lesser eyes my glory—I say, am I not doing only what is right?

  Without shame,

  Venus

  Which inspired this:

  Dear Venus—

  I agree: Beauty is a thing that should be shared and admired; nevertheless, you got to have class with that ass.

  The fifth:

  To whomever is capable of answering this:

  My dilemma is a desperate one; for it deals with the heart, a broken heart, and one belonging to me.

  Three years ago I broke up with my dearest love, a woman whom I cherished more than anything or anyone, in this world or the one beyond it. Nevertheless, despite my affection, I, using faithful logic, one day determined that this woman—this angel!—though fulfilling all my emotional and sexual needs, was my lesser intellectually, and could never placate that part of me which requires more than simple hugs and kis
ses. Still, as I have said, it has been three years since my leaving, and my soul screams for her, as it did when we were lovers. Because of this I cannot sustain a relationship beyond a few months, so long is the shadow she casts, so black is my heart, which dies form lack of sun, its peddles . . . wilting. and so I have chosen to remain alone (for circumstance will not permit our reuniting). I hate being this way, but what am I to do? I ask you: Will I ever love again?

  With reverence,

  Anteros

  And to this he responded:

  Anteros:

  Know this: The question is not will you ever love again? but will you ever stop loving? For it is only when you no longer love this girl will you be free to love another.

  Sincerely,

  A Concerned Citizen

  The Sixth:

  To you who would quell my sorrow; at least, to you who would try–

  On the 15th of May was born my only child—the sweetest melody, the loveliest portrait, the finest poem has yet to be which could describe to you the boy, who was from God, who was . . . mine.—On the 18th of May, three days' following his eleventh year, was born my gravest sorrow, my darkest day . . . it was then . . . when Ian was no more.

  I write to you now not for pity but for relief; it has been four years since Ian's departure, and my tears come just as quickly as the day when first he left. I cannot eat or sleep, and every child I pass—boy or girl—reminds me of him. Even now I cry . . . even not I see his face. I ask you: When shall there be sleep? When shall there be peace? When shall I not know pain? . . .