Getting it in the Head

by Mike McCormack

  How he began work on ‘The Machine’ no one can remember. All any of us can say is that shortly after signing over the garage he rose one morning at dawn on a sudden inspiration and locked himself into an abandoned workshop at the end of the yard. He stayed there the entire day and emerged only at nightfall, haggard and drawn from some occult exertions upon which he would not be brought to speak. My mom remarked that Grandfather in fact never emerged from the workshop that evening but was replaced instead by some jaded version of himself. And my father agreed, saying drily and to no effect, ‘He was never the same.’

  What happened from then on in the shed was a mystery. There was never any noise or commotion from it but the place was locked and out of bounds. From time to time he would wander out into the main workshop searching absently for an angle grinder or welding rods and retire with them without a word into his lair as if he had never emerged. His routine was now to rise at dawn and after breakfast make towards the workshop, clutching in his fist the mug of tea which would be his sole nourishment until he emerged towards nightfall, spring and summer, grey and distracted, to wolf down a huge feed of milk and spuds and meat. At the table he would make some mechanical enquiries on the weather for the following day, business in the garage or the health of some ailing neighbour. But these were futile enquiries, incapable of bringing this strange, preoccupied old man back into the circle of his family. No sooner would he have uttered his queries than he had forgotten about them, risen from the table and gone to bed where he lay in a sleep so deep and dreamless it might have been a coma. I now know him to have been a man suffering in the maze of an inspiration, the inspiration of his own death. But in those last months he had become such a complete stranger that our house could not have been more discomfited if an Old Testament prophet, crazed and engodded, had come to live with us. Therefore I must shamefully admit to a feeling of relief on that autumn evening when, on his return from the workshop, I saw his thin frame stricken down in the yard by the hammer blow of a heart attack.

  But now and again there were diversions. Some days, instead of going to the workshop, he would ask me to accompany him on what he termed ‘metal forage’. We would raise the generator into the back of the truck and get out two angle grinders, then we would travel into the boglands and up the side roads to where almost inevitably, as if waiting for us, we would come upon the marooned hull of some abandoned Ford or truck. Then, donning our dust masks and goggles, we would set to dismantling it. Towards night we would return and dump these mangled and rusted pieces of metal at the door of the workshop: in the morning he would begin hauling them in.

  One day, a few months before his death, we went on a major expedition. With spare discs for the grinders, a flask of tea and a bag of sandwiches beside us we set off in a northwestern direction, out onto the Erris peninsula, onto a topography where bog stretched away on all sides to the horizon.

  Driving down a side road we came upon a huge resource of abandoned machinery. There was an antiquated diesel engine with its windows smashed and the fuel long since gone plus a stricken bulldozer without tracks looking like a felled beast. A small railway track led off into the bog carrying the skeletons of a few carriages, the timber stripped from their frames. But the dominant machines were two massive turf cutters. They stood there like becalmed ships, the toppled mainmasts of their cutting arms extended out over the bog. They were cloaked in rust and they were obviously what we had come for.

  Grandfather explained to me that this had been a state project which had been abandoned in the late sixties when, after years of cutting away the overlying bog, the granite beneath had suddenly surfaced and put an end to the whole thing. By that time the machines were so rundown and outdated they were simply left there to the corrosion of the wind and the rain and their slowly deteriorating identities.

  I was moved by the place. With its lunar stillness and the rust covering everything like a winding sheet and the heather clawing its way up into the engines, it seemed to me a place of tragedy. My heart ached for these noble and now abandoned machines, left sightless and immobile, sacrificed to principles of efficiency and performance. And yet, despite all this and the birds of prey that hovered overhead, this was not a place of death. These machines had about them the poised and breathless quality of things that waited in anticipation of some momentous arrival, something that would come forth and be so new that it would disturb both the living and the dead – leaving nothing the same ever again. Some fundamental and irremediable adjustment would be affected in the fabric of things when it made its appearance. This was the kind of resonance that was in the air.

  We set to dismantling the turf machines and it was then that I learned the first law of metal forage. I had in mind to amass an impressive pile of gear boxes and transmissions, all complex, three-dimensional structures, when Grandfather came over to me shaking his head: ‘No, no, no, go for the straight lengths and the curved ones, the simple pieces. That’s where the secrets lie.’ He pointed to his own pile, a tidy collection of straight lengths and curved pieces lying within each other. ‘Those pieces,’ he said, pointing to mine, ‘are too used.’

  In our dust masks and goggles we bent over the machines for the rest of the day like surgeons – or was it priests? – and by evening we had a huge pile of corroded metal loaded on the truck. I took a final look at the now ravaged machines and saw that Grandfather was moving among them, stroking their pitted surfaces as if they were living things, offering some compensation for his pillage. I saw him stop and then extend his hands out over the machines in a hieratic gesture. He was intoning softly, as if they had ears:

  ‘Come unto me all you who labour and are burdened and I will give you rest.’

  With that said he climbed into the truck and we journeyed homewards in silence. Things returned to normal the next morning. He was up early unloading the metal into the dark womb of the workshop. I left him to it – he made it clear that my help was no longer needed.

  When the small catastrophe of his death had subsided and his will had been read out I went to the workshop to appraise my inheritance. Switching on the light I first reacted with awe and disappointment. At this point it may be of some use to enquire what I thought lay behind the great timber door, for surely I must have had some preconceptions. Yes, I did, I had long been familiar with the strange fruit of Grandfather’s errant imagination, but this time my preconceptions were without definite form. All I could think of was some strange and utterly unprecedented machine that would perform a function no one had ever dreamed of, but as to the shape this machine would take I had no idea. And now that I was faced with it finally I felt both awe and disappointment; awe at the sheer size of the thing, for, from a base of ten feet square, it rose to a jagged pinnacle the full height of the workshop, a good twenty feet; disappointment in that it conformed in no way to any previous machine I had ever encountered. Roughly speaking – very roughly, for it defied, and still does even now, any descriptive ability or category that I can lay my hand on – it was a skeletal structure of pyramidal shape, a welded structure of rusted metal and jarring colours that was so big it was possible to climb inside it, rather like an elaborate and decrepit child’s climbing frame. Within its structure were recognizable all the component parts we had collected.

  What I am describing is obviously not a machine but a work of art, a thing of craftsmanship and, most of all, inspiration. But even in those first moments, I knew that this was to simplify it, to reduce it to the lowest form of its identity and meaning while allowing its greater truth to remain concealed. Oh yes, even then I knew that it was much more than a work of art. It was then that my mother came in behind me and raised me towards some insight when, wringing her hands in a mixture of grief and exasperation, she said simply, ‘Whatever it is it’s not natural.’ Then she pointed towards an outcrop of suspension near the base upon which lay a sheet of paper covered in my grandfather’s tight script. It was headed ‘MACHINE: PART II’ and it continued:

&
nbsp; Dear Peter,

  I will set you straight from the beginning since you have been led astray by the relevant clause in my will. What you are looking at is not my life’s work but is in fact something much more important: it is my death’s work. The inspiration for it came to me slowly over all the years I have worked in the garage and seen all those limping and broken machines come to me for repair. It came to me slowly that, like ourselves, these machines were essentially religious beings who exist as we do ourselves according to religious principles. As we live in accordance with those laws of love and worship that have been revealed to us, so we have handed to these machines the principles of efficiency and performance. And like ourselves, being both fallible and finite, they will fall from these principles into obsolescence, disrepair and breakage. And so they were brought to me for a form of redemption. With a few repairs, a spot weld here, a new gasket there, I would restore them to the principles of their rightful being – I was in fact offering a form of forgiveness.

  As time went on and the number of machines increased, I realized that what was needed was not this grudging and piecemeal form of forgiveness but a lavish gesture which would rescue these machines for all time, such a gesture as we ourselves had been rescued by. Having found my obsession my mind was set. Now all I had to decide upon was in what realm I would work out and achieve this forgiveness. It would obviously have to be in some field of human endeavour since we were responsible for these machines and their ultimate failure as God is for ours. When the idea came to me finally, I was pleased with its symmetry and irony, its general fitness for the task. Working within the realm of art, I would erect a symbol of forgiveness, a symbol of God’s love for all his creatures and artefacts, a symbol in which those to whom it was addressed would have participation. Thus, a piece of sculpture which would incorporate the very things it was meant to save. As for the necessary sacrifice, God in his own time and wisdom would provide.

  It worked better than I had imagined. There was no shortage of material and after a few exploratory models to perfect the design the sculpture flourished beneath my hand. And so too was a sacrifice provided. As I worked I felt the strength draining from me. Day by day it ebbed till towards the end I feared I would not be granted enough to finish the task. But now that I have finished I see God’s wisdom and economy and realize that I was granted strength enough and no more to finish and provide this explanation. I know that when I walk out of here tonight it will be for the last time. At this moment my work and my life are completed. Therefore, Peter, forget the structure and the design, it is after all only the visible symbol. Focus instead on the suffering and the intention, for it is there that its true identity lies. And finally, remember one last thing: it is no accident that your name is Peter and such a name is a density.

  Your grandfather,

  Christopher Monk

  And that is how I was left with this mysterious, corroding symbol, this symbol which I have never moved nor altered, and how also I received my vocation as a mechanic. A few days after reading the script, I got in the truck and travelled out once more to the abandoned bog project on the Erris peninsula. When I got there everything had changed – there were no machines, just bogland stretching in a continuous vista with nothing but blue sky overhead. In the middle of the bog a new metal sign had been erected by the authorities: THIS AREA HAS BEEN CLEARED AND PRESERVED AS A WILDLIFE SANCTUARY BY THE BOARD OF PUBLIC WORKS. DUMPING STRICTLY PROHIBITED.

  That made me smile because deep in my soul I know it is a lie. I know that those machines were not simply cleared away to municipal dumps to disintegrate and die among other machines, but that they and others like them were reconciled with their saviour, Christopher Monk, my grandfather, in the new kingdom of heaven.

  Any day now, any day.

  It’s going to happen any day now and when it does I’m going to be there, pouncing on him from the shadows, my teeth bared and my claws spread. I’ve been watching him these last weeks like a hawk and, as he’s predicted, all the signs are falling into place. All the signals point to a massive breakdown of his whole psyche, the collapse of his weak, attenuated soul. And when it does I’m going to be there, sleek and poised, my muscles straining. The minutes are falling like knives, this time of waiting is at an end. My instruments are clean and ready to hand – I am ready.

  He’s in bad shape. He who was such a tower of strength, I wouldn’t have thought he could sink so low. He now inhabits the house like a revenant, blundering from room to room with no purpose in mind. He can’t sleep, he hasn’t eaten in four days and he bears all the signs of it. A blue, almost translucent hue has entered his skin and the veins of his temples stand out like purple knots. There is an inconceivable tension within him: when he moves I can hear the plexus of his entire nervous system chime like a mis-strung harp. Every ashtray in the house is full and sometimes in the middle of the night I hear him sitting here in the darkness carrying on a monologue with no one but himself. These are bitter times.

  And it’s not as if he doesn’t have labour enough to occupy and distract him. Each day new tasks pile up to either side of him and each day he is stricken in disbelief. Each morning I find him transfixed in terror, clutching his hair, marvelling aloud that the world can be so lush with vexations.

  Yes, I could do something for him. After all he is closer to me than my own brother. I could extend a helping hand, make speeches of reassurance, bolster his confidence and self esteem but that is not my job. My job now is to bear witness, to idly stand by, to harbour him silently into his ruin.

  There is no telling what form it will take or how it will leave him. A gibbering wreck or a blade-wielding psycho, all that is in the gift of the future. There is no past form against which it can be anticipated, he has no previous history of anything like this – he was always so quick to boast of his spiritual health. Consequently I have taken no precautions or protective measures.

  Without shame or guilt I assert my moral right. I have been granted salvage rights over him and I will exploit them to the full. I will pick through the rubble and debris and I will single out those pieces which are mine. My instincts will not betray me and it is not in his nature to disappoint: I trust him completely. He only asks that I stay by his side and never leave him alone. He is committed to meeting the calamity head on. I am humbled by his courage.

  He is moving again. I must follow.

  Five months into my mom’s second pregnancy Dad began working out the details of my sister’s immortality.

  On the evening of the amniocentesis which confirmed finally that I would at last have a sister, he arrived home from town joyously drunk. In the sitting-room where Mom and I sat watching telly, he stood clutching a bottle of Bushmills in one hand and a glass in the other, swaying back and forth in the middle of the floor like a man bracing a small boat. He gulped back a mouthful of whiskey and began to treat us to a long speech dealing with history and the state of the world. He touched on several apocalyptic themes – the dwindling ozone layer, the pillage of the earth’s finite resources, the declining western economies and the continuing population boom among others. Finally he tied up the threads of his discourse by slopping more whiskey and announcing boldly that, as of this moment, he was renouncing the procreative urge; after the birth of my sister and his daughter there would be no more babies in the Monk household. There was a pause here for more whiskey before he continued. His life had been enriched by marriage to a beautiful woman who had borne him a fine son – his words, I swear – and now fortune had seen fit to extend to him the daughter he had longed for. He had his health and a roof over his head and all in all it would take the fingers of both hands to total up his blessings – a man could ask for no more. He paused again for more whiskey and continued on a cautionary note. Yes, it was true, a man could ask for more and the sorry state of the world was testimony to the fact that more men were asking for more every day of the week, but he, Christopher Monk, would countenance no such greed in his own heart.
He had consequently decided to burden the world with no more expectations. In short, to use his own phrase, he was going to tie a knot in it. He continued swaying and slopping the whiskey as he refilled his glass. He then proposed a toast, heedless to the fact that he was the only one in the room with a drink.

  ‘Life,’ he said, raising his glass. ‘And plenty of it.’

  He then nearly keeled into the fire before Mom grabbed his hand and both of us dragged him off to bed and took off his boots. His fifteen stone bulk rid us of any notion we might have had of trying to get him beneath the covers. We threw a quilt over him and left him there, sprawled out diagonally on the bed, snoring like a felled giant. For the first time in her marriage Mom slept alone in the spare room.

  Next day Dad returned from town with a box of Solpadeine and a new telescope. He announced that he was going to examine the heavens. We took the announcement in our stride: Dad had always been a dabbler. Once it had been local history. In a rush of enthusiasm he had compiled a neat index of all the Neolithic and megalithic monuments in our parish, marking them out on an Ordnance Survey map that had covered an entire wall of the kitchen. This map became a major talking point among the men who came to our garage to get their cars seen to. Then this historical map had been replaced by a geological one that mapped out the rock formations of Clew Bay and the surrounding Mweelera mountains. His immediate interest had been the news that these mountains were yielding up six ounces of gold to a ton of limestone, the richest strike in Europe since the Bohemian mines of the seventeenth century. Dad was worried.