The Teachings of Don B.

by Donald Barthelme

  At dawn each day, an eight-mile run, to condition ourselves for the implausible exploits ahead.

  The enormous pumping station, clad in red Lego, at the point where the new river will be activated . . .

  Areas of the city, they told us, had been designed to rot, fall into desuetude, return, in time, to open space. Perhaps, they said, fawns would one day romp there, on the crumbling brick. We were slightly skeptical about this part of the plan, but it was, after all, a plan, the ferocious integrity of the detailing impressed us all, and standing by the pens containing the fawns who would father the fawns who might someday romp on the crumbling brick, one could not help but notice one’s chest bursting with anticipatory pride.

  High in the air, working on a setback faced with alternating bands of gray and rose stone capped with grids of gray glass, we moistened our brows with the tails of our shirts, which had been dipped into a pleasing brine, lit new cigars, and saw the new city spread out beneath us, in the shape of the word FASTIGIUM. Not the name of the city, they told us, simply a set of letters selected for the elegance of the script. The little girl dead behind the rosebushes came back to life, and the passionate construction continued.

  A NATION OF WHEELS

  With the invention of vulcanization by Goodyear in 1839, it became possible to obtain a rubber that retained a high degree of resilience over a wide range of temperatures. This development had its most important application in the rubber automobile tire. America quickly became a nation of wheels.

  Originally linked to the internal-combustion engine to provide cheap individual transportation, the wheel assumed near-autonomous status in the 1970s with the arrival of (1) self-powering devices and (2) the so-called “elastic consciousness.”

  The interface of man and machine had long before produced a sort of shared mental activity. The human factor had been, however, dominant. Men had been “calling the shots.” But now a product of technology had developed “a mind of its own.” Human factors found this disquieting in the extreme.

  First manifestation of the wheel’s new self-regard was the sudden appearance, in every area of the country, of hundreds of Welcome Wagons that seemed to be directed by no human agency. These, with implacable goodwill, carried warm greetings into every American home. But from whom?

  It rapidly became clear that a technological revolution of an order of magnitude beyond anything previously imaginable had taken place. Moreover, behavior of the revolutionaries tended to be distressingly value-free. A number of “incidents” were recorded.

  Tradition-oriented individuals sounded the alarm.

  Other individuals were quickly co-opted.

  All defenses were found to be penetrable.

  Resistance ended. The streets belonged to the wheels. Human beings ventured out of their homes only with the greatest timidity. A committee of wheels met to formulate a list of nonnegotiable demands. A spokesman said, “Guidance of the Vehicle of State requires the most subtle intelligence the culture offers. We want a wheel at the wheel.” The new President was acclaimed by nearly everyone.

  People who had, in the past, suffered from technophobia suffered even more. Others took other positions. Things were not so bad. Things could be worse. Worse things could be imagined. Worse things had been endured, and triumphed over, in the past. This was not the worst. The worst was yet to come.

  A few hotheads engaged in acts of defiance. These acts, the wheels said, were “D’Artagnanistic” and objectively useless. A technological revolution, they explained, cannot be successfully resisted. It can only be supplanted, by another technological revolution.

  Nevertheless, the secret police were everywhere.

  What the wheels wanted, and obtained, was Lebensraum. Structures of all kinds were demolished to provide more space for freeways, throughways, parkways, and expressways. Parking lots proliferated. Soon entire cities were being bulldozed into rubble to make way for miles and miles of new concrete.

  Finally, only a thin ribbon of human space remained, running from Augusta, Maine, to San Diego, California, and bound on both sides by limitless savannas of gray.

  The Departure from Baltimore.

  A class in wheel appreciation.

  Human beings, nose to nose in their tiny spaces, reacted in predictable ways: “Things could be worse.” “Worse things could be imagined.” “This is not the worst.” “The worst is yet to come.” Propinquity was redefined as desirable, lack of space as a higher good. “Tight is right,” people said.

  But now stretches of pavement have been whispering to each other.

  “Why wheels?” they say.

  “What do we need them for?”

  “A perfectly paved globe . . .”

  The Venus of Akron.

  The inevitable work of rewriting the history of the culture proceeded apace. “America is based on the wheel,” the President said, “and furthermore, it always was.” The museums mysteriously filled with artifacts supporting this thesis.

  KISSING THE PRESIDENT

  Between political speeches and introductions, [Tammy] Wynette took the stage to sing with her arm around the President’s waist and her head on his shoulder. As she finished, she kissed him gently on the lips and said: “You’re so wonderful.”

  —The Post

  Q: What class of person is, under the U.S. Constitution and applicable statutes, entitled to kiss the President?

  A: The Constitution says nothing specifically about kissing the President. Nor are there laws on the books directly relevant to this issue. There is, however, quite an elaborate protocol governing the matter, dating, we are told, from the Age of Jackson, when kissing the President first became popular. Considered as a class, those permitted to kiss the President are women, mostly.

  Q: Are men ever permitted to kiss the President?

  A: Frenchmen and officials or dignitaries of former French territories are permitted to kiss the President in the traditional French manner, on both cheeks, first the left, then the right. Other men are not permitted to kiss the President.

  Q: Not even the Joint Chiefs?

  A: Not even the Joint Chiefs. The Joint Chiefs will maintain the position of attention at all times. In their war bonnets. Heroes, on the other hand, are granted special dispensations. At moments of high emotion, such as airport greetings or awarding of the National Medal, a reciprocal Class B embrace is stipulated, providing that the embrace is initiated by the President.

  Q: What is a reciprocal Class B embrace?

  A: The participants advance toward each other, faces aglow, across the tarmac or whatever as the Marine Band plays. The President extends his hand and pumps the hand of the hero, then grasps him by the upper arms and gives him a little shake. The hero is then allowed to grasp the President by his upper arms and give him a little shake. More or less to maintain his balance.

  Q: What is a Class A embrace?

  A: A Class A embrace is a full-chested hug, or “bear” hug. Only employed in relation to women. And bears of course, for all we know, at night, deep in the National Forest, by the light of a single Watt—But this is speculation.

  Q: Are there political considerations operable in determining who may or may not kiss the President?

  A: Both international and domestic. Kissing the President is an option available, in general, only to citizens of the Free World.

  Q: No Communists, then, are allowed to kiss the President?

  A: State Department theorists have war-gamed a scenario in which, at the conclusion of a very successful summit meeting, the President and Mr. Andropov might tastefully join in a middling-warm Class B embrace with a twenty-five percent escalation factor. The latter involves the sides of their heads touching, briefly.

  Q: What if a male Communist baby tried to kiss the President?

  A: No babies are allowed to kiss the President willy-nilly. The President may elect, at his discretion, to kiss any baby-sized individual he wishes, but the initiative must always be his. It is conceivable
that under certain circumstances the President might find it apposite to kiss a male Communist baby—a visit to Wroclaw, for example.

  Q: Can just any American woman kiss the President?

  A: Any American woman of whatever kind whatsoever. Even Democrats. However, it helps if you are a National Institution. There are more opportunities. Tammy Wynette. Dolly Parton. Loretta Lynn. Jeane Kirkpatrick.

  Q: Is it appropriate to sing your hit Top Forty song with your arm around the President’s waist and your head on his shoulder?

  A: Don’t be stuffy. Of course. Jeane Kirkpatrick has not as yet had a Top Forty song, to my knowledge, but we are told she is taking Dobro lessons.

  Q: Then any free American woman, be she old granny or young lubricious scantily clad sex bomb, may kiss the President any time she wishes?

  A: Correct. The President is said to be especially partial to old grannies—loves and respects them and admires their spunk. So, attending the average flood disaster, the President will typically fill one sandbag for the levee and buss one homeless but still spunky old granny. Young lubricious scantily clad sex bombs are sometimes not allowed to kiss the President because of the danger of exposure to harmful strobe light.

  Q: What is the one right thing to say after you have kissed the President?

  A: “You’re so wonderful.”

  Q: Is pinching the President permitted?

  A: The President, though vast, is finite. Thus, pinching the President is not permitted. You can imagine . . . one pinch multiplied by . . .

  Q: How about dropped handkerchiefs?

  AND NOW LET’S HEAR IT FOR THE ED SULLIVAN SHOW!

  The Ed Sullivan Show. Sunday night. Church of the unchurched. Ed stands there. He looks great. Not unlike an older, heavier Paul Newman. Sways a little from side to side. Gary Lewis and the Playboys have just got off. Very strong act. Ed clasps hands together. He’s introducing somebody in the audience. Who is it? Ed points with his left arm. “Broken every house record at the Copa,” Ed says of the man he’s introducing. Who is it? It’s . . . Don Rickles! Rickles stands up. Eyes glint. Applause. “I’m gonna make a big man outta you!” Ed says. Rickles hunches a shoulder combatively. Eyes glint. Applause. Jerry Vale introduced. Wives introduced. Applause. “When Mrs. Sullivan and I were in Monte Carlo” (pause, neatly suppressed belch), “we saw them” (pause, he’s talking about the next act), “for the first time and signed them instantly! The Kuban Cossacks! Named after the River Kuban!”

  Three dancers appear in white fur hats, fur boots, what appear to be velvet jump suits. They’re great. Terrific Cossack stuff in front of onion-dome flats. Kuban not the USSR’s most imposing river (512 miles, shorter than the Ob, shorter than the Bug) but the dancers are remarkable. Sword dance of some sort with the band playing galops. Front dancer balancing on one hand and doing things with his feet. Great, terrific. Dancers support selves with one hand, don and doff hats with other hand. XOPOWÓ! (Non-Cyrillic approximation of Russian for “neat.”) Double XOPOWÓ! Ed enters from left. Makes enthusiastic gesture with hand. Triple XOPOWÓ! Applause dies. Camera on Ed, who has hands knit before him. “Highlighting this past week in New York . . .” Something at the Garden. Can’t make it out, a fight probably. Ed introduces somebody in audience. Can’t see who, he’s standing up behind a fat lady who’s also standing up for purposes of her own. Applause.

  Pigmeat Markham comes on with cap and gown and gavel. His tag line, “Here come de jedge,” is pronounced and the crowd roars but not so great a roar as you might expect. The line’s wearing out. Still, Pigmeat looks good, working with two or three stooges. Stooge asks Pigmeat why, if he’s honest, he’s acquired two Cadillacs, etc. Pigmeat says: “Because I’m very frugal,” and whacks stooge on head with bladder. Lots of bladder work in sketch, oldtimey comedy. Stooge says: “Jedge, you got to know me.” Pigmeat: “Who are you?” Stooge: “I’m the man that introduced you to your wife.” Pigmeat shouts, “Life!” and whacks the stooge on the head with the bladder. Very funny stuff, audience roars. Then a fast commercial with Jo Anne Worley from Rowan and Martin singing about Bold. Funny girl. Good commercial.

  Ed brings on Doodletown Pipers, singing group. Great-looking girls in tiny skirts. Great-looking legs on girls. They sing something about “I hear the laughter” and “the sound of the future.” Phrasing is excellent, attack excellent. Camera goes to atmospheric shots of a park, kids playing, mothers and fathers lounging about, a Sunday feeling. Shot of boys throwing the ball around. Shot of black baby in swing. Shot of young mother’s ass, very nice. Shot of blond mother cuddling kid. Shot of black father swinging kid. Shot of a guy who looks like Rod McKuen lounging against a . . . a what? A play sculpture. But it’s not Rod McKuen. The Doodletown Pipers segue into another song. Something about hate and fear, “You’ve got to be taught . . . hate and fear.” They sound great. Shot of integrated group sitting on play equipment. Shot of young bespectacled father. Shot of young black man with young white child. He looks into camera. Thoughtful gaze. Young mother with daughter, absorbed. Nice-looking mother. Camera in tight on mother and daughter. One more mother, a medium shot. Out on shot of the tiny black child asleep in swing. Wow!

  Sullivan enters from left, applauding. Makes gesture toward Pipers, toward audience, toward Pipers. Applause. Everybody’s having a good time! “I want you to welcome . . . George Carlin!” Carlin is a comic. Carlin says he hates to look at the news. News is depressing. Sample headlines: WELCOME WAGON RUNS OVER NEWCOMER. Audience roars. PEDIATRICIAN DIES OF CHILDHOOD DISEASE. Audience roars but a weaker roar. Carlin is wearing a white turtleneck, dark sideburns. Joke about youth asking father if he can use the car. Youth says he’s got a heavy date. Pa says, Then why don’t you take the pickup? Joke about the difference between organized crime and unorganized crime. Unorganized crime is when a guy holds you up on the street. Organized crime is when two guys hold you up on the street. Carlin is great, terrific, but his material is not so funny. A Central Park joke. Cops going into the park dressed as women to provoke molesters. Three hundred molesters arrested and two cops got engaged. More cop jokes. Carlin holds hands clasped together at waist. Says people wonder why the cops don’t catch the Mafia. Says have you ever tried to catch a guy in a silk suit? Weak roar from audience. Carlin says do you suffer from nagging crime? Try the Police Department with new improved GL-70. No roar at all. A whicker, rather. Ed facing camera. “Coming up next . . . right after this important word.” Commercial for Royal Electric Jetstar Typewriter. “She’s typing faster and neater now.” Capable-looking woman says to camera, “I have a Jetstar now that helps me at home where I have a business raising St. Bernards.” Behind her a St. Bernard looks admiringly at Jetstar.

  Ed’s back. “England’s famous Beatles” (pause, neatly capped belch) “first appeared on our shew . . . Mary Hopkin . . . Paul McCartney told her she must appear on our shew . . . the world-famous . . . Mary Hopkin!” Mary enters holding guitar. Sings something about “the morning of my life . . . ceiling of my room . . .” Camera in tight on Mary. Pretty blonde, slightly plump face. Heavy applause for Mary. Camera goes to black, then Mary walking away in very short skirt, fine legs, a little heavy maybe. Mary in some sort of nightclub set for her big song, “Those Were the Days.” Song is ersatz Kurt Weill but nevertheless a very nice song, very nostalgic, days gone by, tears rush into eyes (mine). In the background, period stills. Shot of some sort of Edwardian group activity, possible lawn party, possible egg roll. Shot of biplane. Shot of racecourse. Camera on Mary’s face. “Those were the days, my friends . . .” Shot of fox hunting, shot of tea dance. Mary is bouncing a little with the song, just barely bouncing. Shot of what appears to be a French 75 firing. Shot of lady kissing dog on nose. Shot of horse. Camera in tight on Mary’s mouth. Looks like huge wad of chewing gum in her mouth but that can’t be right, must be her tongue. Still of balloon ascension in background. Live girl sitting in left foreground gazing up at Mary, rapt. Mary in chaste high-collar dress with that short skirt. Eff
ective. Mary finishes song. A real roar. Ed appears in three-quarter view turned toward the right, toward Mary. “Terrific!” Ed says. “Terrific!” Mary adjusts her breasts. “Terrific. And now, sitting out in the audience is the famous . . . Perle Mesta!” Perle stands, a contented-looking middle-aged lady. Perle bows. Applause.

  Ed stares (enthralled) into camera. “Before we introduce singing Ed Ames and the first lady of the American theater, Helen Hayes . . .” A Pizza Spins commercial fades into a Tareyton Charcoal Filter commercial. Then Ed comes back to plug Helen Hayes’s new book, On Reflection. Miss Hayes is the first lady of the American theater, he says. “We’re very honored . . .” Miss Hayes sitting at a desk, Louis-something. She looks marvelous. Begins reading from the book. Great voice. Tons of dignity. “My dear Grandchildren. At this writing, it is no longer fashionable to have Faith; but your grandmother has never been famous for her chic, so she isn’t bothered by the intellectual hemlines. I have always been concerned with the whole, not the fragments; the positive, not the negative; the words, not the spaces between them . . .” Miss Hayes pauses. Hand on what appears to be a small silver teapot. “What can a grandmother offer . . .” She speaks very well! “With the feast of millennia set before you, the saga of all mankind on your bookshelf . . . what could I give you? And then I knew. Of course. My own small footnote. The homemade bread at the banquet. The private joke in the divine comedy. Your roots.” Head and shoulders shot of Miss Hayes. She looks up into the lighting grid. Music up softly on, “So my grandchildren . . . in highlights and shadows . . . bits and pieces . . . in recalled moments, mad scenes, and acts of folly . . .” Miss Hayes removes glasses, looks misty. “What are little grandchildren made of . . . some good and some bad from Mother and Dad . . . and laughs and wails from Grandmother’s tales . . . I love you.” She gazes down at book. Holds it. Camera pulls back. Music up. Applause.