Donald Barthelme
Page 4
“Yes. Bessie.”
“What’s the other one’s name? The blond one?”
“Billy. Named after your father. Your Dad.”
“You’ve got to get me an air hammer. To clean the children’s teeth. What’s the name of that disease? They’ll all have it, every single one, if you don’t get me an air hammer.”
“And a compressor,” Brian said. “And a Pinetop Smith record. I remember.”
She lay on her back. The shoulder pads clattered against the terrazzo. Her number, 17, was written large on her chest. Her eyes were screwed tight shut. “Altman’s is having a sale,” she said. “Maybe I should go in.”
“Listen,” he said. “Get up. Go into the grape arbor. I’ll trundle the piano out there. You’ve been chipping too much paint.”
“You wouldn’t touch that piano,” she said. “Not in a million years.”
“You really think I’m afraid of it?”
“Not in a million years,” she said, “you phony.”
“All right,” Brian said quietly. “All right.” He strode over to the piano. He took a good grip on its black varnishedness. He began to trundle it across the room, and, after a slight hesitation, it struck him dead.
Hiding Man
ENTER EXPECTING to find the place empty (I. A. L. Burligame walks through any open door). But it is not, there is a man sitting halfway down the right side, heavy, Negro, well dressed, dark glasses. Decide after moment’s thought that if he is hostile, will flee through door marked EXIT (no bulb behind EXIT sign, no certainty that it leads anywhere). The film is in progress, title Attack of the Puppet People. Previously observed films at same theater, Cool and the Crazy, She Gods of Shark Reef, Night of the Blood Beast, Diary of a High School Bride. All superior examples of genre, tending toward suggested offscreen rapes, obscene tortures: man with huge pliers advancing on disheveled beauty, cut to girl’s face, to pliers, to man’s face, to girl, scream, blackout.
“It’s better when the place is full,” observes Negro, lifting voice slightly to carry over Pinocchio noises from puppet people. Voice pleasant, eyes behind glasses sinister? Choice of responses: anger, agreement, indifference, pique, shame, scholarly dispute. Keep eye on EXIT, what about boy in lobby, what was kite for? “Of course it’s never been full.” Apparently there is going to be a conversation. “Not all these years. As a matter of fact, you’re the first one to come in, ever.”
“People don’t always tell the truth.”
Let him chew that. Boy in lobby wore T-shirt, printed thereon, OUR LADY OF THE SORROWS. Where glimpsed before? Possible agent of the conspiracy, in the pay of the Organization, duties: lying, spying, tapping wires, setting fires, civil disorders. Seat myself on opposite side of theater from Negro and observe film. Screen torn from top to bottom, a large rent, faces and parts of gestures fall off into the void. Hard-pressed U. S. Army, Honest John, Hound Dog, Wowser notwithstanding, psychological warfare and nerve gas notwithstanding, falls back at onrush of puppet people. Young lieutenant defends Army nurse (uniform in rags, tasty thigh, lovely breast) from obvious sexual intent of splinter men.
“Don’t you know the place is closed?” calls friend in friendly tone. “Didn’t you see the sign?”
“The picture is on. And you’re here.”
Signs after all mean everyone, if there are to be exceptions let them be listed: soldiers, sailors, airmen, children with kites, dogs under suitable restraint, distressed gentlefolk, people who promise not to peek. Well-dressed Negroes behind dark glasses in closed theaters, the attempt to scrape acquaintance, the helpful friend with the friendly word, note of menace as in Dragstrip Riot, as in Terror from the Year 5000. Child’s play, amateur night, with whom do they think they have to deal?
“The silly thing just keeps running,” alleges friend. “That’s what’s so fascinating. Continuous performances since 1944. Just keeps rolling along.” Tilts head back, laughs theatrically. “It wasn’t even any good then, for chrissake.”
“Why do you keep coming back?”
“I don’t think that’s an interesting question.”
Friend looks bland, studies film. Fires have started in many areas, the music is demure. I entrust myself to these places advisedly, there are risks but so also are there risks in crossing streets, opening doors, looking strangers in the eye. Man cannot live without placing himself naked before circumstance, as in warfare, under the sea, jet planes, women. Flight is always available, concealment is always possible.
“What I meant was,” continues friend, animated now, smiling and gesturing, “other theaters. When they’re full, you get lost in the crowd. Here, if anybody came in, they’d spot you in a minute. But most people, they believe the sign.”
I. A. L. Burligame walks through any open door, private homes, public gatherings, stores with detectives wearing hats, meetings of Sons and Daughters of I Will Arise, but should I boast? Keep moving, counterpunching, examination of motives reveals appeal of dark places has nothing to do with circumstance. But because I feel warmer. The intimation was, most people do what they are told, NO LOITERING, NO PARKING BETWEEN 8 AM AND 5 PM, KEEP OFF THE GRASS, CLOSED FOR REPAIRS KEEP OUT. Negro moves two seats closer, lowers voice confidentially.
“Of course it’s no concern of mine . . .” Face appears gentle, interested, as with old screw in Girl on Death Row, aerialist-cum-strangler in Circus of Horrors. “Of course I couldn’t care less. But frankly, I feel a certain want of seriousness.”
“I am absolutely serious.”
On the other hand, perhaps antagonist is purely, simply what he pretends to be: well-dressed Negro with dark glasses in closed theater. But where then is the wienie? What happens to the twist? All of life is rooted in contradiction, movement in direction of self, two spaces, diagonally, argues hidden threat, there must be room for irony.
“Then what are you doing here?” Friend sits back in sliding seat with air of having clinched argument. “Surely you don’t imagine this is a suitable place?”
“It looked good, from the outside. And there’s no one here but you.”
“Ah, but I am here. What do you know about me? Nothing, absolutely nothing. I could be anybody.”
“So could I be anybody. And I notice that you too keep an eye on the door.”
“Thus, we are problematic for each other.” Said smoothly, with consciousness of power. “Name’s Bane, by the way.” Lights pipe, with flourishes and affectations. “Not my real one, of course.”
“Of course.” Pipe signal to confederates posted in balcony, behind arras, under EXIT signs? Or is all this dumb show merely incidental, concealing vain heart, empty brain? On screen famous scientist has proposed measures to contain puppet people, involving mutant termites thrown against their flank. The country is in a panic, Wall Street has fallen, the President looks grave. And what of young informer in lobby, what is his relevance, who corrupted wearer of T-shirt, holder of kite?
“I’m a dealer in notions,” friend volunteers. “Dancing dolls, learn handwriting analysis by mail, secrets of eternal life, coins and stamps, amaze your friends, pagan rites, abandoned, thrilling, fully illustrated worldwide selection of rare daggers, gurkhas, stilettos, bowies, hunting, throwing.”
“And what are you doing here?”
“Like you,” he avers. “Watching the picture. Just dropped in.”
We resume viewing. Role of Bane obscure, possible motives in igniting conversation: (1) Agent of the conspiracy, (2) Fellow sufferer in the underground, (3) Engaged in counterespionage, (4) Talent scout for Police Informers School, (5) Market research for makers of Attack of the Puppet People, (6) Plain nosy bastard unconnected with any of the foregoing. Decide hypotheses (1), (2), and (6) most tenable, if (6), however, simple snubs should have done the job, as administered in remark “People don’t always tell the truth,” in remark “I notice you too keep an eye on the door.” Also
discourse has hidden pattern, too curious, too knowledgeable in sociology of concealment. Cover story thin, who confines himself to rare daggers, gurkhas, bowies, hunting, throwing in this day and age when large-scale fraud is possible to even the most inept operator, as in government wheat, television, uranium, systems development, public relations? Also disguise is commonplace, why a Negro, why a Negro in dark glasses, why sitting in the dark? Now he pretends fascination with events on screen, he says it has been playing since 1944, whereas I know to my certain knowledge that last week it was She Gods of Shark Reef, before that Night of the Blood Beast, Diary of a High School Bride, Cool and the Crazy. Coming: Reform School Girl on double bill with Invasion of the Saucer Men. Why lie? or is he attempting to suggest the mutability of time? Odor of sweetness from somewhere, flowers growing in cracks of floor, underneath the seats? Possible verbena, possible gladiolus, iris, phlox. Can’t identify at this distance, what does he want? Now he looks sincere, making face involves removing glasses (his eyes burn in the dark), wrinkling forehead, drawing down corners of mouth, he does it very well.
“Tell me exactly what it is you hide from,” he drops, the Enola Gay on final leg of notorious mission.
Bomb fails to fire, Burligame reacts not. Face the image of careless gaiety, in his own atrocious phrase, couldn’t care less. Bane now addresses task con amore, it is clear that he is a professional, but sent by whom? In these times everything is very difficult, the lines of demarcation are not clear.
“Look,” pleads he, moving two spaces nearer, whispering, “I know you’re hiding, you know you’re hiding, I will make a confession, I too am hiding. We have discovered each other, we are mutually embarrassed, we watch the exits, we listen for the sound of rough voices, the sound of betrayal. Why not confide in me, why not make common cause, every day is a little longer, sometimes I think my hearing is gone, sometimes my eyes close without instruction. Two can watch better than one, I will even tell you my real name.”
Possible emotions in the face of blatant sincerity: repugnance, withdrawal, joy, flight, camaraderie, denounce him to the authorities (there are still authorities). And yet, is this not circumstance before which the naked Burligame might dangle, is this not real life, risk and danger, as in Voodoo Woman, as in Creature from the Black Lagoon?
Bane continues. “My real name (how can I say it?) is Adrian Hipkiss, it is this among other things I flee. Can you imagine being named Adrian Hipkiss, the snickers, the jokes, the contumely, it was insupportable. There were other items, in 1944 I mailed a letter in which I didn’t say what I meant, I moved the next day, it was New Year’s Eve and all the moving men were drunk, they broke a leg on the piano. For fear it would return to accuse me. My life since has been one mask after another, Watford, Watkins, Watley, Watlow, Watson, Watt, now identity is gone, blown away, who am I, who knows?”
Bane-Hipkiss begins to sob, cooling system switches on, city life a texture of mysterious noises, starting and stopping, starting and stopping, we win control of the physical environment only at the expense of the auditory, what if one were sensitive, what if one flinched in the dark? Mutant termites devouring puppet people at a great rate, decorations for the scientists, tasty nurse for young lieutenant, they will end it with a joke if possible, meaning: it was not real after all. Cheating exists on every level, the attempt to deny what the eye reveals, what the mind knows to be true. Bane-Hipkiss strains credulity, a pig in a poke, if not (6) or (1) am I prepared to deal with (2)? Shall there be solidarity? But weeping is beyond toleration, unnatural, it should be reserved for great occasions, the telegram in the depths of the night, rail disasters, earthquakes, war.
“I hide from the priests” (my voice curiously tentative, fluting), “when I was the tallest boy in the eighth grade at Our Lady of the Sorrows they wanted me to go out for basketball, I would not, Father Blau the athletic priest said I avoided wholesome sport to seek out occasions of sin, in addition to the sin of pride, in addition to various other sins carefully enumerated before an interested group of my contemporaries.”
Bane-Hipkiss brightens, ceases sobbing, meanwhile film begins again, puppet people move once more against U. S. Army, they are invincible, Honest John is a joke, Hound Dog malfunctions, Wowser detonates on launching pad, flower smell stronger and sweeter, are they really growing underneath our feet, is time in truth passing?
“Father Blau took his revenge in the confessional, he insisted on knowing everything. And there was much to know. Because I no longer believed as I was supposed to believe. Or believed too much, indiscriminately. To one who has always been overly susceptible to slogans they should never have said: You can change the world. I suggested to my confessor that certain aspects of the ritual compared unfavorably with the resurrection scene in Bride of Frankenstein. He was shocked.”
Bane-Hipkiss pales, he himself is shocked.
“But because he had, as it were, a vested interest in me, he sought to make clear the error of my ways. I did not invite this interest, it embarrassed me, I had other things on my mind. Was it my fault that in all that undernourished parish only I had secreted sufficient hormones, had chewed thoroughly enough the soup and chips that were our daily fare, to push head and hand in close proximity to the basket?”
“You could have faked a sprained ankle,” Bane-Hipkiss says reasonably.
“That was unfortunately only the beginning. One day in the midst of a good Act of Contrition, Father Blau officiating with pious malice, I leaped from the box and sprinted down the aisle, never to return. Running past people doing the Stations of the Cross, past the tiny Negro lady, somebody’s maid, our only black parishioner, who always sat in the very last row with a handkerchief over her head. Leaving Father Blau, unregenerate, with the sorry residue of our weekly encounter: impure thoughts, anger, dirty words, disobedience.”
Bane-Hipkiss travels two seats nearer (why two at a time?), there is an edge to his voice. “Impure thoughts?”
“My impure thoughts were of a particularly detailed and graphic kind, involving at that time principally Nedda Ann Bush who lived two doors down the street from us and was handsomely developed. Under whose windows I crouched on many long nights awaiting revelations of beauty, the light being just right between the bureau and the window. Being rewarded on several occasions, namely 3 May 1942 with a glimpse of famous bust, 18 October 1943, a particularly chill evening, transfer of pants from person to clothes hamper, coupled with three minutes’ subsequent exposure in state of nature. Before she thought to turn out the light.”
“Extraordinary!” Bane-Hipkiss exhales noisily. It is clear that confession is doing him good in some obscure way. “But surely this priest extended some sort of spiritual consolation, counsel . . .”
“He once offered me part of a Baby Ruth.”
“This was a mark of favor?”
“He wanted me to grow. It was in his own interest. His eye was on the All-City title.”
“But it was an act of kindness.”
“That was before I told him I wasn’t going out. In the dark box with sliding panels, faces behind screen as in Bighouse Baby, as in Mysterious House of Usher, he gave me only steadfast refusal to understand these preoccupations, wholly natural and good interest in female parts however illicitly pursued, as under window. Coupled with skilled questioning intended to bring forth every final detail, including self-abuse and compulsive overconsumption of Baby Ruths, Mars Bars, Butterfingers, significance of which in terms of sexual self-aggrandizement was first pointed out to me by this good and holy man.”
Bane-Hipkiss looks disturbed, why not? it is a disturbing story, there are things in this world that disgust, life is not all Vistavision and Thunderbirds, even Mars Bars have hidden significance, dangerous to plumb. The eradication of risk is the work of women’s organizations and foundations, few of us, alas, can be great sinners.
“Became therefore a convinced anticlerical. No longer loved God,
cringed at words ‘My son,’ fled blackrobes wherever they appeared, pronounced anathemas where appropriate, blasphemed, wrote dirty limericks involving rhymes for ‘nunnery,’ was in fine totally alienated. Then it became clear that this game was not so one-sided as had at first appeared, that there was a pursuit.”
“Ah . . .”
“This was revealed to me by a renegade Brother of the Holy Sepulcher, a not overbright man but good in secret recesses of heart, who had been employed for eight years as cook in bishop’s palace. He alleged that on wall of bishop’s study was map, placed there were pins representing those in the diocese whose souls were at issue.”
“Good God!” expletes Bane-Hipkiss, is there a faint flavor here of . . .
“It is kept rigorously up-to-date by the coadjutor, a rather political man. As are, in my experience, most church functionaries just under episcopal rank. Paradoxically, the bishop himself is a saint.”
Bane-Hipkiss looks incredulous. “You still believe in saints?”
“I believe in saints,
“Holy water,
“Poor boxes,
“Ashes on Ash Wednesday,
“Lilies on Easter Sunday,
“Crèches, censers, choirs,
“Albs, Bibles, miters, martyrs,
“Little red lights,
“Ladies of the Altar Society,
“Knights of Columbus,
“Cassocks and cruets,
“Dispensations and indulgences,
“The efficacy of prayer,
“Right Reverends and Very Reverends,
“Tabernacles, monstrances,
“Bells ringing, people singing,
“Wine and bread,
“Sisters, Brothers, Fathers,
“The right of sanctuary,
“The primacy of the papacy,