The Nearly Complete Works, Volume 1

by Donald Harington

  All roosterroaches are scavengers in the best sense, not of feeding on westered or decaying organic matter, but of cleaning up the leftovers carelessly neglected by other creatures, Man chief among them. But three hundred and fifty million years before Man climbed down out of trees and learned to cook, roosterroaches were finding something to eat.

  The residents of Carlott, though most of them were Crustians and believers in Man, lived on what they could find in the forests, fields, and yard behind and beside Holy House. They never entered Holy House except by invitation from their kinfolk among the Frockroaches and Smockroaches. The Carlott community took its name from the circumstance that its dwellings—rotten logs, hollows in trees and in limbs, concavities beneath old boards and metallic junk—were centered around the rusting hulk of an inoperable automobile, a Ford Fairlane of ancient vintage which was said to have delivered Man to Holy House but was no longer used, and a still operable Ford Torino of more recent manufacture, which Man occasionally drove away and returned in, parking it beside the older car in a small yard in the rear of Holy House. The chassis of the older car was also inhabited by a large nest of Polistes annularis, the paper wasp, who was strictly a daytime creature and never bothered the roosterroaches.

  The family Dingletoon, of whom Jack was paterfamilias, occupied a hollow fallen limb or branch of maple on the weed-forested side of Carlott, within sight of the great ruin of the edifice known as the Three-Hole Privy, long ago abandoned entirely by Man, and the exact purpose of which remains a mystery to modern rooster-roaches, although legends abound, particularly concerning the ancient victuals provided there. Jack Dingletoon remembered as a child hearing Gramp Dingletoon tell wondrous tales of how generation upon generation of Dingletoons were sustained and even nourished by the edibles provided in the cellars of the Privy.

  But Tish Dingletoon, Jack’s eldest daughter still at home, had not cared for these stories of the Privy food; the stories she picked up from her girlfriends concerned the viands available at Holy House and the rumors of incredibly delectable treats consumed at Parthenon, or Partheeny, as it was pronounced. Tish had never tasted a Twinkie, and could scarce imagine it. She was tortured by descriptions of bismarcks, fritters, crullers, Saratogas, danish, and doughnuts glazed, raised, and jellied. The closest she had ever come to sampling any of these was a bit of white fluff given her by a Smockroach swain, Jim Tom Dinsmore, who said it was “Wonder Bread.” Tish had suspected that Jim Tom was simply preparing her with an appetizer, as it were, to entice her to taste the affy-dizzy of his tergal gland, a forbidden and dangerous potion.

  Her mother had taught her always to resist the temptation to lick affy-dizzy, as the exudate of the male tergal gland was called. Some of her girlfriends had tasted it, but Tish had not. To reach it, you practically had to climb up on the boy’s back, beneath his wings, and if you did that, he had you where he wanted you, and might make you take one of his marbles. Taking a marble was supposed to be a right smart of fun, but it also meant you’d soon have to carry a big easteregg sticking out of your rear end for several days before you could drop it somewhere.

  Tonight would be a dance. Now as the near woods and the far fields and even the impossibly distant mountainsides began to echo with both the sound and smell of the Purple Symphony, from every covert cranny and hidden nook of Carlott, and down from the holes of Holy House too, crept forth dozens of maiden rooster-roaches, who gathered into two long parallel snaking lines, sniffwhips to one another’s tail-prongs, end to end, two by two, side by side, and began to promenade all over the glens and glades of Stay More, stepping, nearly prancing, in tune to both the smells and the sounds of the symphony.

  Some of the girls in this double processional tapped their abdomens to the ground to keep a beat for the others to march to; all of them held their heads high and swung their sniffwhips rhythmically to and fro in the air, and their tailprongs from side to side. Their numbers made them into one giant centipede, nay, a millipede, and the authority that towers in numbers frightened off any predator as well as any harmless creature that might stand in the path of this great undulating chain of femininity. Crickets and katydids alike leapt frantically out of their way, and nightcrawlers plowed off the road and into the median strip with cries of “MAYDAY!” and “THIRTY? THREE!” and “BLOOD BOX!” A great warty toad, Bufo americanus, who ordinarily would have made a meal out of several of these girls at one lick, westered of heart failure. Some of the girls giggled at the sight of his hammy legs in the air, still kicking in west.

  The night, and the air, and the music, not to mention the calendar, conspired to make each of these virginal roosterroaches broadcast her own personal perfume, until the downdrifting dew was thoroughly saturated with pheromones, irresistibly sensual, and the mingling of these vampish vapors seeped into every lair of Carlott and hole of Holy House, and even as far away as Parthenon, and all the male roosterroaches banged their heads against the walls of their hiding places in an effort to give themselves the willpower to keep their tergal glands from leaking all their affy-dizzy. For these maidens were only teasing with their powerful pheromones; they did not mean business; they were not ready for mating…yet. The long double chain wound and wound around the hollers and hummocks of the little village.

  In certain isolated coves of the Ozark Mountains, up until the most recent times, the folk (both humanfolk and roosterroachfolk) still celebrated, particularly in May as the earth began to grow, what can only be called Cerealia, rites in honor of Ceres, the godhead above the god of Roman Man, or rather goddesshead: Mother Earth herself, protectress of all the fruits of the earth and from whom the sacred word “cereal” comes. The young of Man had often conducted their “play-party” as a form of Cerealia, and the roosterroaches, following Man in all things, did likewise.

  This double file of promenading females sashayed up and down the Roamin Road almost as far as Parthenon, almost within sight of the Woman, a substitute for Ceres, who sat on the porch of Parthenon, in Her rocking cheer, not Mother Earth but a sort of Earth Mother although She had never had any children herself. From within Parthenon, through the open screen door behind Her, came the sounds of Her stereo, but it was not the source of the Purple Symphony, and indeed She probably could not hear the latter, even with Her stereo off. Nor could She see the hundreds of roosterroaches turning their train around in Her dooryard.

  As the double file of maidens came prancing back down the Roamin Road, one of the females exclaimed, “The Lord-a-Joshuway! Why, Tish Dingletoon, if there aint yore pappy tryin to ketch holt of the end of our train!”

  Tish Dingletoon turned her head at this exclamation and swung her sniffwhips to try to detect the distant tail of the roosterroachipede, where Jack Dingletoon was staggering along in pursuit, seeking to imitate the sway of the girls’ sniffwhips with his own, and doing an awful job of copying their prance and posture.

  Jack’s head was tilted back and he was singing in cadence to the march: “Hi yoop! I aint no Dingletoon no more! By cracky, I’m a pure dee pure blood Ingledew now, and a squire to boot!”

  All the girls tittered, giggled, and pointed, except Tish, in whom a slow heat rose.

  “He’s had too much Chism’s Dew, is all he has,” she said hastily, “and he don’t know what he’s sayin.”

  One of her companions giggled and said, “Bet he don’t have a Ingledew’s pecker on him! Haw-haw!”

  “Now looky here: I won’t march another inch with you’uns if ye say any jokes about him!” Tish cried, and cast down her eyes and her sniffwhips, afraid to hold them up and see if indeed by some hideous chance her father’s tallywhacker might be extending itself or his tergal gland might be leaking affy-dizzy. She would be mortified beyond hope if he were even involuntarily exposing himself or releasing affy-dizzy in the presence of all these females. Tish could not look, nor smell, and she concentrated upon the steps of her own six gitalongs, lest one of them hit a twig or miss a step, and thus, by ignoring whatever spectacle her s
ire was making of himself (in time she could no longer hear his voice), she managed to continue with the double parade to its conclusion at the Platform, as they called the one door of the Ford Fairlane which Man had removed from its hinges and laid into the weeds, where it served as a pavilion for dances as well as political rallies and an occasional pulpit for Brother Tichborne.

  Tish Dingletoon at this time of her life was not yet a beauty, still retaining some of the awkwardness of her pre-imago girlishness: you could sometimes see her fifth instar in her cheeks, or her third instar sparkling from her eyes, and even her second instar would flit over the curves of her mandibles now and then. She assumed that she was just one more Dingletoon female, no more, no less: an attractive, even “cute” country girl, but not a “looker.”

  Nothing more was seen, heard or sniffed of Jack Dingletoon in his sportive conduct at the end of the train, and when the parade entered the glade of the Cars, its allotted and magic space (all creatures having a space their very own, wherein they are safe from harm or molestation), the dancing began. The maidens climbed the Platform and formed themselves into “squares” of four and eight for a play-party dance, without partners, or with girl partners, at least in the beginning. Later, when the fumes of the pheromones had settled down, and a virile male could appear without leaking affy-dizzy, the braver, bolder, more self-possessed youths among the idlers and pedestrians might venture to join the girls.

  There was an old story, nearly a year old, that Man had appeared in Carlott one night while a play-party was in progress, had violated the magic space of the roosterroaches, had tripped over the Platform, westering several roosterroaches in the crush of His falling, and then, standing up again, had urinated all over the Platform and environs, westering a few more. But that was long ago, almost a whole year, and none of this generation of girls had been born then. They had been told of it by their mothers as a warning always to fear Man, to obey His commandments, to live righteously in reverence of His wrath. Since lowly Carlotters could not enter Holy House and subject themselves to the possibility of Rapture by bullets, this memory of Man’s violation of the Platform gave some Carlotters the hope and expectation of Rapture by piss.

  Several squares of the play-party were danced by the girls alone, including “Pig in the Parlor,” “Frog up a Stump,” and “Possum Trot,” before the first males appeared as lookers-on. Among these first brave watchers were several sons of the Frockroach preacher, Brother Tichborne, and one of these, a bold swain named Archy, was the first male to climb the Platform.

  “What you fixin to do, Archy?” asked one of his brothers.

  “I got a hankerin to jine the dance,” Archy declared.

  “You’re out of yore fool haid,” said the brother. “What if Paw was to find out?”

  “You aim to tell ’im?” Archy challenged. “Come on, Felix, and the rest of you boys too. Let’s us have us some fun.”

  But none of Archy’s brothers would join him. He turned to choose a partner. The girls waited breathlessly to see which of them he would pick. Tish Dingletoon took notice of him, a fine strong handsome boy, and she told herself that her chances of being chosen as his partner were slight, and thus she did not, as some of the other girls were doing, primp and pose and prettify herself.

  Sure enough, he did not even seem to notice Tish but selected Spicy Bourne, another Carlotter, like her sisters a feisty beauty and, also like her sisters, rather conceited and smug, but a vivacious dancer.

  Archy’s appearance emboldened several other males, who climbed the Platform and joined sniffwhips in a ring for the singing and dancing of “Skip to My Lou”:

  Flies in the buttermilk, two by two,

  Flies in the buttermilk, shoo fly shoo,

  Flies in the buttermilk, two by two,

  Skip to my Lou, my darlin.

  This was not a “square” so much as a circle, everyone ringing around the dancing couple, who one by one drew others into the center of the circle. Tish hoped she would be drawn by Archy, but she could only stand at her place in the ring, all six of her gitalongs tapping expectantly to the beat of the dance, and fix her eyes and her sniffwhips steadily upon him while he danced with Spicy Bourne. Like most males, he did not devote his attention to his partner; in fact, he seemed to ignore Spicy with his eyes and sniffwhips, which kept roaming around the circle in search of another girl, but the girl he picked was not Tish but Rosa Faye Duckworth. Tish could only wait until he was once again through with his partner and chose a new one.

  The play-party is meant to be an innocent frolic. Compared with the more adult and more exciting square dance, the play-party is supposedly a chaste gathering, approved by the most hidebound Crustians, but still the occasional incident of unrestrained lust will occur, off in the “brushes,” the forest of weeds on the edge of Carlott. The couple abandoning the Platform and giving in to their desires do not reappear during the whole night, for the act of sexual congress is a complicated congeries of anatomical hookups, end-to-end splicings and interconnections, from which the couple cannot extricate themselves until the male’s marble has been thoroughly enthroned within the female’s chamber, a process, literally, that takes hour upon hour.

  Thus, tonight, while Tish was still waiting for Archy to take notice of her, and the repertoire of games had gone from “Skip to My Lou” to “Shoot the Buffalo” to “Humpin the Santa Fe” and “Spinnin the Spider,” the party was suddenly silenced by the abrupt appearance of Brother Chidiock Tichborne, who was dragging into view the still-conjoined bodies of a youth and maiden whom he had discovered “making the beast with two heads” off in the brushes.

  The unfortunate couple were embarrassed beyond all mortification, not simply for having been surprised in the act by the minister but also for their inability to separate, to unclasp, to unlink, to undo all the various latches, clamps and sphincters that linked them together, tail to tail in opposite directions. The girl was weeping piteously, and the boy was growling in helpless rage, with their faces so downcast as to make them unrecognizable.

  “Looky here!” shouted Brother Tichborne in a voice that surely carried all the way to Holy House. “Sinners! Afore the sight of the Lord! All of y’uns bow down on yore knees!”

  The assembled crowd of young folks, or at least all the Crustians among them, knelt, or crouched, in attitudes of fear and submission. A few remained flagrantly unbowed at first, but Brother Tichborne’s voice and his lashing sniffwhips soon stunned them into prostration.

  “These here play-parties and dances has got to stop!” the minister boomed. He expatiated on the temptations of the flesh, the pitfalls of dancing, and the teachings of our Lord Joshua Crust, who had expressly forbidden any activity that might exalt physical pleasure. But he held his ultimate censure for the end of his sermon:

  “And who do we have here?” he thundered, and kicked the offending boy under the chin, and then moved along the length of their conjunction to kick the girl also. “Hold up yore heads!” he yelled at them. “Raise yore faces and let all the world and Man see who ye air!” He kicked them again, and the boy and girl slowly raised their eyes to look woefully at the congregation, who, however, did not need this proof of their identity, having already identified them by smell through trembling sniffwhips. The boy was clearly Isham Whitter, a Carlotter, and the girl was just as obviously Lucy Whitter, his sister.

  “IN-CEST!” shouted Brother Tichborne. “He that lieth with his own sister is damned to eternal shame! She that lieth with her own brother shall bear monsters as children! Cursed be them both! No sin is more worser in the eyes of Man!” Brother Tichborne began tripping over his own tongue: “The insectuous incest—the incestuous insect is the low-downest, unmanliest, kickworthiest sinner in the world!” And he kicked the couple again.

  The minister could have used the awful example of Ish and Lucy Whitter to harangue and exhort the multitude for the rest of the night, but behold! a sudden blinding light flashed upon the scene from the open rear do
orway of Holy House, and there stood the towering silhouette of Man Himself!

  If the assembly had not already been overwhelmed by Brother Tichborne, they were petrified by the appearance of Man, and all of them crouched as low as they could get. Then when He moved, they all found their gitalongs and scurried in every direction until they were hidden from the sight of Man, either beneath the Platform or into the deepest forest of the grass and weeds.

  Brother Tichborne alone, or rather alone with the offending incestuous couple, who still could not unjoin themselves and flee, or were attempting to flee in opposite directions and thus canceling each other’s attempts, remained on the Platform. The minister genuflected into most devout prayer and worship.

  A thousand—nay, two thousand, for everyone has two—sniff-whips and four thousand eyes watched warily as Man came stumbling down the back steps of Holy House and staggered out into the direction of Carlott. Man was not carrying His terrible swift revolver. His hands were empty, and free to swing through the air, grab at the air, to balance Himself, to grope His way out into the darkness.

  As He approached the Platform, Brother Tichborne raised his head and clasped his touchers and his fore-gitalongs together in abject entreaty. “Lord, if it be Thy will,” he prayed, “piss upon me!”

  But Man did not reach the Platform. He stopped, and held His great hands to the sky. “SHARON!” He called in the most deafening voice, and two thousand tailprongs were lowered away from the sound. Even louder He called again, “SHAY-RONNNN!”

  Then He pitched forward and fell headlong into the grass of Carlott, where He lay inert and seemingly lifeless for the rest of the night.

  Brother Tichborne announced, “The Lord but sleepeth. Let us pray.” He led them in an unenthusiastic prayer, and then he made a few routine announcements: the Crustian Young People’s Fellowship would hold a sunset-to-sunrise hymn-sing Saturday night. And at the Sunday night worship service and prayer meeting, open for the first time to Carlotters, who were free, for the duration of the service, to enter Holy House, there would be a special call to Rapture, right before the very eyes of the Lord Himself. Everybody welcome!