Donald Barthelme

by Donald Barthelme

  “Maybe you’re mistaken?”

  “No, I got ears. I’m not mistaken. Hideo Yamaguchi is the new king of jazz.”

  “You want to be king emeritus?”

  “No, I’m just going to fold up my horn and steal away. This gig is yours, Hideo. You can pick the next tune.”

  “How ’bout ‘Cream’?”

  “O.K., you heard what Hideo said, it’s ‘Cream.’ You ready, Hideo?”

  “Hokie, you don’t have to leave. You can play too. Just move a little over to the side there—”

  “Thank you, Hideo, that’s very gracious of you. I guess I will play a little, since I’m still here. Sotto voce, of course.”

  “Hideo is wonderful on ‘Cream’!”

  “Yes, I imagine it’s his best tune.”

  “What’s that sound coming in from the side there?”

  “Which side?”

  “The left.”

  “You mean that sound that sounds like the cutting edge of life? That sounds like polar bears crossing Arctic ice pans? That sounds like a herd of musk ox in full flight? That sounds like male walruses diving to the bottom of the sea? That sounds like fumaroles smoking on the slopes of Mt. Katmai? That sounds like the wild turkey walking through the deep, soft forest? That sounds like beavers chewing trees in an Appalachian marsh? That sounds like an oyster fungus growing on an aspen trunk? That sounds like a mule deer wandering a montane of the Sierra Nevada? That sounds like prairie dogs kissing? That sounds like witchgrass tumbling or a river meandering? That sounds like manatees munching seaweed at Cape Sable? That sounds like coatimundis moving in packs across the face of Arkansas? That sounds like—”

  “Good God, it’s Hokie! Even with a cup mute on, he’s blowing Hideo right off the stand!”

  “Hideo’s playing on his knees now! Good God, he’s reaching into his belt for a large steel sword— Stop him!”

  “Wow! That was the most exciting ‘Cream’ ever played! Is Hideo all right?”

  “Yes, somebody is getting him a glass of water.”

  “You’re my man, Hokie! That was the dadblangedest thing I ever saw!”

  “You’re the king of jazz once again!”

  “Hokie Mokie is the most happening thing there is!”

  “Yes, Mr. Hokie sir, I have to admit it, you blew me right off the stand. I see I have many years of work and study before me still.”

  “That’s O.K., son. Don’t think a thing about it. It happens to the best of us. Or it almost happens to the best of us. Now I want everybody to have a good time because we’re gonna play ‘Flats.’ ‘Flats’ is next.”

  “With your permission, sir, I will return to my hotel and pack. I am most grateful for everything I have learned here.”

  “That’s O.K., Hideo. Have a nice day. He-he. Now, ‘Flats.’”

  The Question Party

  “YES, MARIA, we will give the party on next Thursday night and I have an agreeable surprise in contemplation for all our old friends who may be here.” The pleasant air about Mrs. Teach as she entered the parlor where her daughter was seated betokened the presence of something on her mind that gave her great satisfaction. The daughter had been importuning her mother for a party which after due deliberation she had decided to give and to make the evening more entertaining she had determined to introduce a new feature which she thought would create some excitement in the circle of her acquaintances and afford them the means of much amusement. She had just hit upon the plan before entering the room and the smile of satisfaction upon her face was noticed by her daughter.

  “Shall we, Mother? I am so glad!” she answered. “But what is it you are preparing for our friends? Are you going to sing?”

  “No, Miss, I am going to do no such foolish thing! And, for your quizzing, you shall not know what it is until the evening of the party!”

  “Now, Mother, that is too bad. You are too hardhearted. You know the extent of woman’s curiosity and yet you will not gratify me. Are you going to introduce a new polka?”

  “There is no use in your questioning; I shall not tell you anything about it, so you may as well save your breath.”

  “Do you intend showing your album quilt?” perseveringly inquired Maria.

  “Now do not provoke me to cancel my promise by your pertinacity. I tell you as a punishment for quizzing your mother you shall not know until Thursday next what it is.”

  “Morning or evening, Mother?”

  “Evening, Miss. So no more questions but get about writing your invitations.”

  Maria proceeded to the bookcase and taking from it her notepaper and envelopes commenced writing.

  Eight o’clock on the evening of the party. The first who were ushered into the parlor were Mrs. Jawart and her two daughters, who were always the first at the reunions. The younger Miss Jawart was somewhere out of her teens, and the elder, although her face was profusely bedecked with curls—the original owner of which, being dead, had no further use for them—could not conceal that she was much older than she wished to be considered. Mr. and Mrs. White came next, the lady somewhat pompous in her manner, and the gentleman quite so. An interest in a canal boat had placed him, in his own view, among shipping merchants, and some of his acquaintances broadly hinted that if he were cut up in small pieces and retailed out for starch, he would be fulfilling his destiny. The two Misses Jennings and brother came next. These young ladies, the one eighteen and the other twenty, seemed somewhat disappointed, when they entered the room, at the absence of some of their young beaux, whom they expected to find there; this feeling was dispelled in a few moments, when a matched pair of the latter presented themselves.

  Mr. Lynch, a bachelor of fifty, was the next to claim the attention of the company. He was a short, thickset man, with a small pair of whiskers that curled up on his cheekbones as if endeavoring to cultivate an acquaintance with his eyes. A few gray hairs in them, overlooked by the owner—his attention to them was exemplary—had been, in his toilet for the evening, elbowed, as it were, by the others to the fore, possibly to attract the attention of a few of the same color which peeped from behind the false hair of Miss Jawart. A standing collar formed a semi-wall around his neck, and shoes of the brightest polish graced his feet. At about half past nine, then, all the guests had assembled, filling comfortably both parlors and rendering the place vocal with their animated conversation.

  The company had been engaged some time in singing when there was a call for a polka. In a few moments partners were selected and everyone was hopscotching through the figures at a lively rate, reminding one strongly of a group in a state of advanced intoxication. The mind of Maria suddenly became abstracted to such an extent by thoughts of the surprise that her mother had promised that she forgot her time and the dancers were compelled to stop and reprove her jokingly for her remissness. Just at that moment Mrs. Teach’s voice could be heard, above the general din of laughter and music, calling for everyone, without exception, to come into the front parlor as she had something to show them which she thought would amuse. In her haste to get into the room Maria almost knocked one of the Misses Jennings over.

  The company after much confusion being seated, Mrs. Teach took from the center table a handsome marble card basket containing a pack of plain, gilt-edged cards and explained that she had prepared an innocent and entertaining amusement for them which she hoped would prove interesting.

  “Maria,” she continued, “will you pass around this basket, my dear, and let each one of the company select from it one of the cards?”

  Maria did as her mother requested.

  “I shall propose a question,” said Mrs. Teach, “to which each one must write an answer on the card they have. Which cards shall be placed in this vase on the pedestal behind me. After they are all deposited I will draw them out singly and will read them aloud. There is to be no mark upon the response by which its author
may be known.”

  There was a general mustering of pencils at this announcement and an evident curiosity was immediately raised in regard to the subject which would be propounded.

  “As there is a majority of ladies here, I shall propose for the first question: What is a bachelor?”

  For the space of a quarter of an hour the pencils of the company made desperate attacks upon the faces of the cards which left them covered over with black lines. The last answer written and deposited in the vase, Mrs. Teach, with a smile, commenced the task of reading them aloud.

  “A target for fair hands to shoot at,” she read.

  A general laugh greeted this response.

  “I beg of you, ladies,” said Mr. Lynch, “not to shoot too close to me, but I know that my prayer is to no avail since your arrows are already in that vase.”

  The second card was drawn forth.

  “Any icy peak, on the mountain of humanity, that the sun of woman’s love has never melted,” read Mrs. Teach.

  “Then I will nip you with my frost,” said Mr. Lynch, putting his arms playfully around one of the Misses Jennings.

  “How do you know it was my answer?” she cried, releasing herself from him.

  “I read it in your face this moment,” he replied.

  “Then we must turn our faces from you, or we shall all betray ourselves, if you are such an excellent face reader,” said the elder Miss Jawart.

  “I beg you, do not!” exclaimed Mr. Lynch. “For that would deprive me of much pleasure.”

  “An old maid’s forlorn hope,” said Mrs. Teach, reading the next response, the aptness of which was felt by all—yet a sense of propriety restrained any acknowledgment of this. Another card was instantly drawn to divert attention from it, and to relieve Miss Jawart from her unpleasant dilemma.

  “A fox longing for the grapes he pronounces sour.”

  “Now I really do object!” said Mr. Lynch. “I could never find it in my heart to pronounce any lady sour.”

  “Heart, indeed! This is the first time I ever knew you to acknowledge the possession of such an article,” Mrs. Teach quickly replied.

  “There you do me wrong, for, see! I have one now which you gave me,” said Mr. Lynch, taking from his pocket a handsomely worked velvet heart. “And observe, there are as many pins in it as you are endeavoring to plant thorns in its partner here,” he went on, placing his hand over that part of his coat which covered the real article.

  The laugh was turned on Mrs. Teach and she drew forth another card.

  “A creature whose miseries might be pitied had he not the remedy within his reach.”

  “It must be you, Miss Bookly,” said Mr. Lynch, “as you are sitting closest to me.”

  “I did not write it,” said Miss Bookly. “And besides, Miss Jennings was sitting closest to you before she moved away after you put your arms around her.”

  “That is true,” he said with a mock sigh.

  Another card terminated the conversation on that subject.

  “Just like Mr. Lynch.”

  The merriment of the company knew no bounds at this answer. Mr. Lynch joined the rest with great zeal, and in a few moments exclaimed, “Well! I really do think you are making me a target to shoot at tonight. It is well for you that I am good-natured, else I might retaliate with some formulations of my own.”

  This is really a dumb game, thought Maria.

  Mrs. Teach dipped into the vase for the next card.

  “One who boasts of liberty but sighs for the slavery he condemns.”

  “That would be acute,” Mr. Lynch said thoughtfully, “had I ever boasted. But I recall no such occasion. There is, in fact, a kind of shame and horror attached to the bachelor state—an odium combined with a tedium. Sleeping with strumpets is not the liveliest business in the world, I assure you.”

  “What are they like, really?” asked Miss Bookly.

  “Some are choice, some are not,” said Mr. Lynch.

  “For heaven’s sakes, man, be silent!” exclaimed Mr. White.

  “A bit of fresh, as the expression runs,” said Mr. Lynch, “can—”

  Mr. White drew forth his pistol and shot Mr. Lynch dead with it.

  “Good Lord! He is dead!” cried Mrs. Teach.

  Dr. Balfour knelt over the body. “Yes, he is dead,” he said. All assisted the Doctor in placing the carcass on the sofa.

  “There is but one more card in the vase,” said Mrs. Teach, peering into the article in question. “Dare we look at it?”

  “Yes, yes,” was the answer, in a subdued murmur.

  “I sincerely hope that it may be a favorable one,” said Mrs. Teach, “for I fear we have dealt harshly with our late friend tonight.”

  The last card was drawn from the vase. Mrs. Teach examined it closely on both sides and then proclaimed, “Blank!”

  “A prophecy,” said the younger Miss Jennings. “Who could have foreseen what was to happen?”

  “It was not a matter of foreknowledge,” said Maria. “The card is mine. I couldn’t think of anything to write.”

  “Well,” said Mrs. Teach, “I am not entirely satisfied with my little experiment this evening, and so shall leave it to another to choose the entertainment for our next.”

  “Not at all,” said Mr. White. “The evening, despite its sad but necessary consequences, has been most delightful. I can’t recall when more interesting things have been said or done, in all the years of my residence in this city. And as I shall have the pleasure of giving the next party, I shall most certainly adopt your little experiment, as you call it.”

  “What will the question be?” asked Miss Jawart.

  “Something dangerous,” said Mr. White, with a twinkle.

  “Parties are always dangerous,” said Miss Jawart.

  “I am inviting Geronimo, chief of the Apache Indians, who happens to be in town,” said Mr. White.

  “That will make it all the more dangerous,” said Mrs. Teach, “as I am told that he is extremely cruel to his enemies.”

  “He is extremely cruel to everyone,” said Mr. White.

  Yes, it was an agreeable party after all, Maria thought. My mother is not dumb. My mother is surprisingly intelligent. It was wrong of me to think ill of her. Now no one will ever know that Mr. Lynch was the man who— How strange is justice! How artful woman!

  Author’s note: This piece is an objet trouvé. It was originally published in Godey’s Lady’s Book in 1850, under the byline of a Hickory Broom. I have cut it and added some three dozen lines.

  Belief

  A GROUP of senior citizens on a bench in Washington Square Park in New York City. There were two female senior citizens and two male senior citizens.

  “Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit, rabbit,” one of the women said suddenly. She turned her head to each of the four corners of an imaginary room as she did so.

  The other senior citizens stared at her.

  “Why did you do that?” one of the men asked.

  “It’s the first of the month. If you say ‘rabbit’ four times, once to each corner of the room, or the space that you are in, on the first of the month before you eat lunch, then you will be loved in that month.”

  Some angry black people walked by carrying steel-band instruments and bunches of flowers.

  “I don’t think that’s true,” the second woman senior citizen said. “I never heard it before and I’ve heard everything.”

  “I think it’s probably just an old wives’ tale,” one of the men said. The other male senior citizen cracked up.

  “Shall we discuss old men?” the first woman asked the second woman.

  The two men looked at the sky to make sure all of our country’s satellites were in the right places.

  “What about your daughter the nun?” the second woman, whose name was Elise, asked t
he first, whose name was Kate. “You haven’t heard from her?”

  “My daughter the nun,” Kate said, “you wouldn’t believe.”

  “Where is she?” Elise asked. “Georgia or somewhere, you told me but I forgot. Going to school you said.”

  “She’s getting her master’s,” Kate said, “they send them. She’s a rambling wreck from Georgia Tech. I was going down to visit at Thanksgiving.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “I called her and said I was coming and she said but Thanksgiving Day is the game. So I said the game, the game, O.K. I’ll go to the game, I don’t mind going to the game, get me a ticket. And she said but Mother I’m in the flash card section. My daughter the nun.”

  “They’re different now,” Elise said, “you’re lucky she’s not keeping company with one of those priests with his hair in a pigtail.”

  “Who can tell?” said Kate. “I’d be the last to know.”

  One of the men leaned around his partner and asked: “Well, is it working? Are you loved?”

  “There was another thing we used to do,” Kate said calmly. “You and your girl friend each wrote the names of three boys on three slips of paper, on the first day of the month. The names of three boys you wanted to ask you to go out with them. Then your girl friend held the three slips of paper in her cupped hands and you closed your eyes and picked—”

  “I don’t believe it,” said the second male senior citizen, whose name was Jerome.

  “You closed your eyes and picked one and put it in your shoe. And you did the same for her. And then that boy would come around. It always worked. Invariably.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Jerome said again. “I don’t believe in things like that and never have. I don’t believe in magic and I don’t believe in superstition. I don’t believe in Judaism, Christianity, or Eastern thought. None of ’em. I didn’t believe in the First World War even though I was a child in the First World War and you’ll go a long way before you find somebody who didn’t believe in the First World War. That was a very popular war, where I lived. I didn’t believe in the Second World War either and I was in it.”