I came to Spiderbread after my ordeal. I’m not really good at talking about it, but basically, I came home late from work one day and found my wife and kids all dead around the dinner table. On the kitchen counter was an empty soup can. I remember staring at that can for about ten minutes like it was some kind of monster. And it was. I found out much later that somebody had made a horrible mistake at a canning factory.
The lawsuit made me rich. Stupid relatives and well-wishers kept telling me, loved ones aren’t really dead if there’s somebody to remember them, but I wasn’t in the mood for pretty words. My house made me too sad, so one day I picked up the phone, tapped in some numbers at random, and asked the person at the other end, “Where do you live?”
An old woman said, “That would be Spiderbread, Iowa.” She paused, then added, “Nice place” and hung up.
So I moved there. Or rather, here.
I didn’t tell the Spiderbakers (that’s what I think of them as) about my ordeal because I didn’t want their pity. But they figured out that something was wrong. Sometimes, one of them would ask me a question, and then realize (maybe by my expression—I don’t know) that he or she had crossed a line. That person would then laugh apologetically, pat my shoulder and say, “Never mind. Talk to you later,” and walk off.
I didn’t make any close friends, but eventually, everyone became a good acquaintance. Sometimes, that’s all you want. The old lady was right: it really was a nice place. Everyone seemed to treat everyone else nicely. Even the school kids I saw hanging out in front of the grocery store all seemed nice, with just enough spirit in them to give them personality. The homemade sandwiches in the store were nice (egg salad or tender roast beef). The drinks in the tavern were nice—not too boozy, but never watered down. Even the dogs constantly running around were nice. They only barked a little, and never at night.
Nice, nice, nice. Nice was what I needed, and what I got.
I didn’t have to, or want to, work. So I watched a lot of TV. Sometimes I made stuffed animals out of my old business clothes and gave them to the kindergartners. Sometimes I just cried from dawn to dusk.
One day, in addition to crying, I also threw dishes around, and tore up curtains. I really made a mess of things.
I remember that day well. It was a Tuesday. I woke up around 7:30 and started crying at about 8. Fifteen minutes later, I started breaking things. Then Alva from next door stopped by. It didn’t help, seeing Alva. She’s plump and blonde, like my wife Valerie was, and she talks with a cute lisp. Like Valerie did.
“I was hanging up some wash out back,” Alva said, “and I heard you. Thought you might like some rice pudding.” She handed me some Tupperware, gave me a worried smile and left.
The pudding was delicious. Lots of cinnamon. I cried, ate pudding, cried some more, broke more stuff, ate more pudding.
Around 10, Alva’s sister Lisa from down the street came by. “Sis told me you needed some cheering up, so I thought I’d give you this video to watch. It’s called Muy Bueno and it’s so funny, it’s about this divorced guy who goes to Mexico, and—Oh, you’re not divorced, are you? Hope that’s not what’s bothering you, because if it is, don’t watch the tape. Anyway, it’s pretty funny.”
I watched about ten minutes of the movie. It didn’t help. Sure, the guy in the movie was divorced, but at least his wife and kids were still alive. They even lived in the same town. He could drop by or call them to see how they were doing.
At noon, somebody’s little girl dropped off a teddy bear. She told me her name but I’ve forgotten it. She reminded me of my youngest, Judith. Red hair in a ponytail and a gap between her two front teeth. It broke my heart to look at her. After she left I kicked in the TV screen.
Twenty minutes later, a kid in his late teens brought me some beers. He told me they were from the fridge in his dad’s workshop. He gave me a big lopsided grin and said, “Maybe these’d help ya chill out, ya know?” He didn’t look at all like my son, but still, I couldn’t help thinking: This stupid boy is alive and my smart boy, my straight-A boy, my Sean is dead.
The townspeople were really going out of their way to make me feel better. But it just wasn’t helping.
My mailman came by at 1:15 and made me some tea. I always have a half-dozen varieties on hand, and he made me a combination of chamomile and green tea. He said chamomile was just what I needed for my nerves. Valerie used to say that.
I kept on crying, and more people kept stopping by. Finally, at about 4, three old women arrived and led me to the town’s nice little park, and there everybody was, the entire population of Spiderbread. They’d all stopped whatever they were doing to come and see me. Chubby housewives with bright neon curlers in their thin hair. Redfaced farmers in coveralls spattered with mud and cow poop. Teenage boys with greasy bangs and forehead zits. Teenage girls who smelled like bubble gum. Some old guy with dark teeth and two fingers missing on his left hand. A skinny, mildly retarded middle-aged man carrying a puppy. In each of the townspeople, I saw some sad, quirky detail that reminded me of Valerie, of Judith, of Sean.
But of course, they had no way of knowing this.
They meant well. They really did. They all took turns comforting me, stroking my face, saying good things, right things, nice things, over and over and over.
“It’ll be okay. We’re here for you.”
“We all love you. Whatever it is, we can help.”
“Don’t be afraid. Don’t be sad. Just tell us what we can do.”
“We all want to help. Really. No trouble at all.”
“What can we do?”
“We love you. What do you need?”
“Say the word. We can help.”
“There’s nothing we wouldn’t do for you.”
That went on for about three hours. People kept bringing me tissues, and I had a huge pile of them crumpled around my feet. I felt like an awful mess, a complete baby.
I couldn’t stop crying. And they kept trying and trying to help, help, help.
It was more than I could handle. Finally I just screamed, “Stop it! Get away from me! I just want to be alone!”
My outburst suddenly cleared my mind and I looked around at all the surprised Spiderbakers. They all had the same look in their eyes—a sad, sad look that whispered sorry.
Then I passed out. From exhaustion, I suppose.
* * * *
I woke up around noon the next day, on the couch in my own house.
I soon discovered that I couldn’t open the front or back doors. And, the windows were all boarded-up from the other side. They’d brought in dozens of boxes of books and clothes, as well as a couple more refrigerators, filled with food. The phone didn’t work. They’d hauled out the broken TV but didn’t bring in a new one. My hammer was gone—I guess they didn’t want me to pound my way out. Or, maybe they thought I’d hit myself over the head with it. I banged my fists on the front door, but no one came to open it. So I decided to wait. And—
I’m still here.
I think they somehow soundproofed the house, because I can never hear any noises from the outside—no barking dogs, no car horns. They enter the house while I’m sleeping to replenish the refrigerators. I haven’t been able to find any surveillance cameras or peepholes, but I’m sure they look in on me. How else would they know when I’m asleep? I have no idea how long they are going to keep me like this. They wouldn’t have been able to gain access to my money, so I guess they are paying for my food and the utilities.
I used to worry about this situation. What if a tornado swept through town? What if the furnace broke down in the middle of winter? What if I became sick and needed medicine, or an operation? I had to keep reminding myself: they wouldn’t let anything bad happen to me. They are good. They are caring. They are nice.
And, perhaps they know best. The firs
t three or four decades by myself were pretty tough, but in the past few years, I’ve begun to feel a real sense of peace creep over me. The quiet has a therapeutic quality, I think. It would be hard to go back to a life of noise and bluster. By now the world’s probably filled with spaceships and jetpacks and noisy junk like that. I suppose Spiderbread looks like some sort of future-world nightmare, with robots and bug-eyed aliens wandering all over the place.
Well, as far as I’m concerned, they can take their time opening that door. I’m far from lonely. Folks used to tell me that loved one’s aren’t really dead if there’s somebody to remember them, and at last, I’ve come to realize—they were right.
Valerie and Judith and Sean are here with me, here in the loving, healing silence, and I’ve never been happier.
ASCLOSEASTHIS
From “Cinephilia,” a review column by Cameron Raske, Associate Editor, in MetroShock Magazine (Fall 1991 issue):
Oh, But You Will, the last work of independent filmmaker Erik Hofman, defies classification. The themes/icons of horror, avant-garde, film noir, and even pornography blend to create an intensely personal vision of pain and dark sensuality.
The grotesque imagery of Hofman’s first work, Candy Box (1965), drew international critical attention. Positive attention, which is surprising, considering the blatantly misogynistic content of the wedding/nightmare sequence. How else could one interpret thirteen minutes of a wolf-headed bride tearing her groom and the priest to shreds? The theme of lover-as-predator appears in most of Hofman’s works—Skeleton Sun (1967), Three Scars (1972), Tears of Flame (1977), and The Poison Flowers (1980). Hofman completed Oh, But You Will in October of last year. Two months later, he was found dead in the meeting hall of a controversial private society in Stockholm—a scenario seemingly lifted straight from one of his films.
In Oh, But You Will, Hofman explored the mythical aspects of the lover/predator theme. The image of Morla (played by newcomer Ingrid Thel), the harelipped art collector, is juxtaposed with statues of the Sphinx and the Medusa. Morla shapes her nails with a variety of implements: emery boards, small scissors, a tiny hooked blade, even her own teeth. Many critics have made much, much, entirely too much of the fact that Hofman died the victim of violent crime (true, his belly was slashed to ribbons, but he made the film before he died, n’est-ce pas?). Still, it is intriguing to note that Ms. Thel, Hofman’s lover off-camera, is currently being sought for questioning.
Oh, But You Will is not for the faint of heart, but then, so little of today’s quality cinema is. Morla’s romance with the blind poet Zendo is a celebration of parasitism, the truest form of love. The scene in which Morla feasts on Zendo’s useless eyes is poetry in itself, and a startling new manifestation of the Oedipal theme. And what of Morla’s constant references to Azu, Lord of Fleshy Appetites? A delicious metaphor: Morla is a disciple of desire, a priestess of dark lust incarnate.
In the dream sequence (what is a Hofman film without a dream sequence?), Morla eviscerates a department store mannequin with her wicked nails. Instead of entrails, the mannequin pours forth endless coils of film. Here Hofman effectively explored new territory in the eroticism of textures: the velvet skin of the mannequin, the oily sheen of the film. Again, critics have made laughable attempts to contrast this scene with the director’s actual death. Surely Hofman was providing sly commentary on his own industry: most filmmakers have no guts!
I imagine Ms. Thel is the prime suspect in Hofman’s death. Granted, I’m no criminologist, but I doubt that this slim reed of a girl could have gutted the barrel-chested Hofman. I only hope this singularly beautiful actress will be able to return to the screen. Her compelling presence in Oh, But You Will brought feverish life to Erik Hofman’s savage obsessions.
* * * *
A letter received by Cameron Raske on Feb. 14, 1992 (the next morning, a package wrapped in pages from MetroShock Magazine was left on his fire escape):
Darling Boy,
Your latest column took my breath away. “Singularly beautiful”! What a precious dear you are! Of course, you are lovely too. Whenever I pass this way, I drop by some of the finer clubs. And so often I have seen you, dancing, laughing, just being delicious.
I’ve read every issue of MetroShock. Only recently, when they ran your picture with your column, did I realize that the so-clever columnist was also the so-lovely dancing boy!
Your praise has shown me that you are truly discerning. Certainly we should get to know each other better. You have no idea how hard it is to find lovely playmates who know how to have fun.
No return address, I’m afraid. Moveable feast and all that. You’ll be receiving a little art film, made just for you. You can give me your review when we meet.
With love,
Ingrid
* * * *
From the journal of Cameron Raske:
2/15/92—Went uptown, dropped by Alexis’s (cab $8). I wanted to show her the video Ingrid Thel sent me. The harelipped fugitive, in love with me! Can it be? She missed the irony in my use of the word “singular”—but then, so did Alexis when I explained it all to her. So I’m oblique. That’s what they pay me for.
And the video! Ingrid and three masked studs! Alexis is such a size queen. She kept going on and on about the mega-hung stud with red hair. And she used the word “PECKER”! I couldn’t believe my ears! Delicate little Alexis, She of the Pencil-thin Heels, talking like chainsmoking white trash! I laughed so hard I fell off the couch.
And for the record: I’ve seen bigger. Done bigger.
Alexis told me about this new club she went to a few nights ago. Some drunken fish kept calling her “Sir” just to be funny. The place sounds like a pit. These days, every tacky fool is tossing up streamers in some old warehouse and calling it a club.
Alexis goes in for the snipjob in two weeks—everyone’s thinking she’ll get pre-op jitters and back out, but really, the sooner she unloads that baggage (that pecker!) the better. Ah, well. Boys will be girls.
Alexis said I should give the tape to the police. I’ll think about it.
Later we went for drinks with some of Alexis’s friends (cab $12). A Japanese student (bleach-blonde—a hot look for him) bought all my drinks. His parents own a VCR factory. He wanted to take me home but I didn’t like his teeth. Too pointy and way too many.
I keep looking up at the spots where I used the “p”-word (I’m not going to write it down again!). I’m tempted to cross them out—I hate bowling alley lingo—but that would be self-editing, that would be wrong, why keep a journal if you’re just going to censor yourself?, blah blah blah. I read too many self-help books. Still, it’s the kind of word Mom used to say.
Memo: answer letter from that Australian mag.
* * * *
2/16/92—Received two hang-up calls. Ingrid?
Had lunch with Alexis (cabs $14, lunch $35). She did her nails right at the table. I found myself trying to imagine her with fur.
I watched Ingrid’s tape again today. I think one of her toyboys has pointed ears. It’s hard to be sure. I try pausing the picture, but that only made everything fuzzier. It’s funny, though: when the show is in action, none of them are looking into the camera. And yet when I hit pause, they are all staring straight at me.
I’m not going to give the tape to the police. They’d never give it back.
* * * *
2/17/92—Four hang-up calls today. I walked to the drugstore for some magazines ($12) and twice I saw someone pale dressed in solid black. Out of the corner of my eye.
Alexis must have given the Japanese student my address because he stopped by around noon with a sack of pastries. I was a little embarrassed since I’d forgotten his name, but he just laughed and told me to call him Sam. He stayed for about an hour. We’re going to see Lobster Salad later this afternoon. I’ll be meeting him at the Ci
neplex. Perhaps I should dress like a slob, or not comb my hair or something. I don’t want him thinking it’s a big date. But who knows? I never really like anyone the first time I meet them. Six months from now I’ll probably be aching for him, and he’ll have moved on to someone else, and I’ll be whipping myself. Same sad story, every time.
Sam is utterly into clubs—pish-poshing the old ones, alternately fawning over/trashing the new ones—but for me, that’s all getting old hat. But what else is there? Poetry readings? Oh, I’m sorry: spoken word readings, rantings, whatever. And could I possibly see more movies? Maybe I’m just getting old (The “o” word! Almost as bad as the “p” word!). I need something new, but I don’t know what.
*
Later. Just got back from Lobster Salad (admission $8, snacks $14, cabs $19) and I don’t know what to think. I really don’t. It’s this insipid big-studio monstrosity about a struggling actress/waitress (Leela Holly) and a rich playboy (Rex Dennis) who for some stupid reason wants people to think he’s a busboy. The lighting was bizarre—in one shot, a thin shadow bisected Holly’s lip and she looked just awful. And I kept seeing long crawling shadows in the background, even during scenes when everyone in the audience was laughing! The sound was poor, too. There was this constant rumbling, like a little engine, or a dog growling. For a while I thought the director must have been a Hofman wannabe—so many lingering shots of long-nailed hands. But when I was talking in the lobby to that culture vulture who writes for The Paperboy, I mentioned the hands and she said, “What movie were you watching?”
During the movie, Sam reached over to stroke my hand with his fingertips. I’m looking at my hand now and it’s covered with scratches.
Hideous Faces, Beautiful Skulls: Tales of Horror and the Bizarre Page 20
