by Robert Ward
Now I climb the rickety log ladder up the side of the rusted caldron, and hold the bulky sack of corn above my head. I am suffering from vertigo and a bad case of the sweats and picture myself falling into the steaming mire. However, from someplace deep inside of me comes a new will, a second wind, and I watch the corn fall into the bubbles like a landslide of yellow snow. Then I go to the rim of the mountain and pick up the gigantic ax. On my first stroke I miss the entire pile of wood and slice a worm in two. After burying him (to show my reverence for all living things) and wiping the rest of it on my pants, I again attempt to chop the wood. As I raise my arms, pictures of Paul Bunyan and his Mighty Blue Ox, Babe, are flashing in my mind. I see myself sailing down a snow-banked river with the two of them, a Swiss accordion in Paul’s giant red hands, a joyful glint in his eye. The ax comes down cleanly on the wood, but bounces off and springs from my hands, scaring a family of feeding birds three feet away. I lope casually after it, my hands in my pockets, whistling, as if I know perfectly well what I am doing.
“Goddamn birds bother a man,” I say in perfect West Virginia twang.
I soon acquire the knack of splitting logs and find myself falling into a regular rhythm. Splinters are flying into the blue air, bouncing off the green leaves. Only one or two sail back at me, digging into my cheeks. I feel new muscles in my body, feel all my organs pumping new, clean life. I pretend the Stumps have made a circle around me and are humming warmhearted lusty lumberjack songs. Soon I have made a huge pile of planks, and I race to the dying fire. I throw them on, and imagine an instant blaze. Of course, this does not happen, and I remember my Boy Scout training and laugh heartily at the irony of the situation. The very thing I despised is now coming back to me as a blessing. Before breaking up the smaller twigs to place under the massive pile of logs, I stare into the sky, feeling very religious, transparent and glowing with wonder. Without saying it, I am certain (suddenly) that nothing is ever wasted, that somehow everything is connected (beyond good and evil). I light the small twigs and stand over the fire, watching first one, then several of my logs go up in glorious flames. I hear the slow wonderful sounds of the bubbling still, and then a sound from the bottom of the mountain. It is the Stumps, in the backyard, doing a jingling jangling version of “Orange Blossom Special.” I see more logs go into red darting flames, and know that tonight we will sit in the back porch sipping our liquor, watching our West Virginia moon. In the morning I will be riding in their buckboard (though I have never seen one on the farm) on my way to some church social, girl friend June Bug bouncing her bustle on my ragged happy knees. I clasp my hands together ecstatically and race to the log pile. Chopping furiously (in time to the Stumps’ masterful music), I obtain many pieces of wood. Back at the roaring fire, I dump them on and watch them evolve into huge licking flames. Licking my lower lip, I see myself and the Stumps at the Grand Ole Opry, fifteen thousand rednecks worshiping us with backslaps and handshakes. The fire is roaring now, flames shooting up the sides of the caldron, bubbling going on louder than the Stumps down below. I watch and think I will soon have the greatest bunch of moonshine ever created (and in the shortest time on record).
“It’s all happening,” I scream into the orange woods.
Then there is a whiteness over everything. And a roar. The roar of ten thousand West Virginia mountain lions after being shot by Lester’s carbine. All the roars of all the Colt fans throughout the universe. My happiness reaches some new, indefinable peak as I am carried through the air, whipped through tendrils and woodflowers, smashed into a burning tree. Good Lord almighty, the still has blown to hell.
XX.
In Which the Narrator Meets the Phantom of Cleveland and Learns That There Is No Business Like Show Business
I am wobbly in the dusk of Interstate 90. At my back is a monstrous Allstate sign, which warns me that I should take care of loved ones. Ahead, spread out like a newer and uglier Baltimore, is Cleveland, Ohio. I am highly disappointed that the sun is not shining, for in my dreams I picture Cleveland as a place flooded with light. I have imagined light streaming down on all the good Cleveland mothers as they hang out their wash. I have pictured the wash itself getting whiter and whiter, setting spacious backyards all aglow. This is not the case, and I am sorrier for it.
“Cheer up,” says Warren. “Cleveland could not be worse than those wonderful good-natured rustics the Stumps.”
“Mockery is a cheap art,” I answer.
“If you hadn’t left behind all your musical instruments, you could compose a folk ballad to the home of Luke Easter,” says Warren.
“I have never been an Indian fan, as you well know,” I say, but with little conviction.
“Put out your thumb, stupid ass,” says Warren.
I heed Warren’s advice and stick my thumb into the smoky air. Within seconds, a Falcon of undistinguishable color slams on its brakes. I race the few yards to my ride, and imagine a camera catching all the boyish joyfulness on my face.
The driver of the filthy vehicle is the ugliest person in the world. He introduces himself to me (with no attempt to shake hands) as the Phantom. For several minutes I am unaware of what he is saying (and he is talking constantly) because I am so amazed at his face. It is longer than Plastic Man’s and as red as a Mott’s apple. The redness is caused by raised welts the size of silver dollars. His eyes are gray and rimmed by many thousand blackheads, which look like the fantails stitched on Mother Freda’s bedcovers. His teeth are big and jaggy and there seem to be too many of them for his mouth. When he grits them together he looks very much like a werewolf. The hair is also wonderful. Massive brown ringlets which fall over his forehead in a Bill Haley loop-de-loop.
After I am awakened from my daze by the spittle which flies from his crooked mouth, I am able to hear his voice. It sounds like Wallace Beery, or the voice of Fernando Roush as he plans some deadly strategy.
“You into this thing, man? You dig?”
“Dig what?” I say meekly.
“Film, man, and revolution. Come on.”
“I saw a good movie before I left Baltimore.”
He lifts his top lip and gives me an early Elvis snarl.
“A good moooo-vie? I’m talking about revolution, man, not some Lana Turner epic. I am talking about things like acid, and getting your head into something. What are you hitching for, man, if it’s not to find that?”
I start to say “That’s a good question, buddy boy,” but stop myself, thus avoiding an onslaught of bile.
“Yeah, I see what you mean, man,” I say, dropping my voice an octave and rubbing my chin. I figure if I act hip, he will not throw me out of the car. But I am also intrigued by this grotesque Phantom. I realize that my entire life is going to go through a major change, and shake my head as he shakes his.
I wait for the Phantom to tell me more important things, but he grows silent. His long red fingers rub around the steering wheel and he leans toward the windshield, like an old motorist driving an antique Packard. In front of us, the traffic has grown thick, and I stare out the window at a Big Boy Family Restaurant. The giant plaster Big Boy wears red-and-white-checkered overalls and stands on one foot. I imagine that he has to go to the bathroom, and picture a balloon over his head which says “I’ll give you a free Big Boy Burger if you will stand here a few minutes while I piss.” I am about to tell the Phantom of my remarkable insight, but he beats me to the punch.
“Dig that, man,” he shouts.
“What?”
“Down there, on the side road.”
I stare past his hideous head and see a shady suburban road with many oak trees. About one block down the road is a small crowd. They form a semicircle around what looks like a fallen pedestrian.
“Someone’s been hit,” I say, feeling excited. I know that the Phantom will not let this situation go unattended.
“Yeah,” he says dreamily. His bunny eyes squinch up and he frantically turns the wheel to the left.
“We’re going to see a
bout this, man,” he says. “Yeah …”
We cross the highway, barely missing a tragic accident with an ice cream man, and speed toward the scene.
Once there, Phantom leaps from the car as if his seat were a trampoline. He bounds toward the circle and I leap out after him. I do a perfect imitation of his kangaroo walk.
Lying in the middle of this circle of citizens is a big Negro lady. Her flesh-tinted hose are all twisted around her fat legs, and she is moaning softly. Blood pours from her ears and makes a small puddle on the white street. To my left is a golden car with the title “Cougar” on its side. Sitting behind the leather steering wheel is a skinny girl who is holding her head in her hands. She is moaning many things, most of which are incomprehensible. The only one I am able to hear clearly is “Whoa no, don’t die. Oh pleeeease don’t die.” Phantom has circled the entire crowd like a dangerous wildcat. He bounces up to me, his wide teeth in a yellow grin.
“This is it, man. Do you see it? This is it. That black chick is going to die right here in Cleveland, Ohio, and these people are going to watch.”
Phantom then sees the lady in the Cougar and leans in the window.
“You can’t believe you are in this, right?” The lady takes her hands from her face and stares blankly at Phantom.
“You can’t believe all this is happening to you, isn’t that correct?” The lady nods, biting her lower lip.
“You were doing just fine up till now, weren’t you? You had finally gotten through analysis, and you were just starting an affair with a dentist, and you have just gotten your whole load of Cannon dish towels in the mail, and at night you were thinking about taking French, and for the first time in ages the flowers have sprouted and you owe it all to Scott fertilizer, and now it’s all ruined because you had to go and run down a nigger.”
The lady tries to say something, but all that comes out are small animal noises. She shakes uncontrollably (much like Mr. Pensy before one of his window attempts) and rolls up the window.
Phantom gives a triumphant laugh and races into the center of the circle. He props the injured lady’s head up and tells her consoling things:
“You ain’t gonna die, miss. It’s all right now.”
His tone is just moralistic enough to assure her she will soon be in the grave.
Now Phantom spins into action. He walks over to a businessman in a gray suit:
“Say, baby, that’s a nice suit. Looks like gray moss hangin’ off an old wall. I’ll bet your cock looks jes like that too.”
The man does nothing.
Then Phantom races back to the victim, pulls a handkerchief out of her mouth and dabs the blood away from her eyes and mouth.
“Yeah, moss man. You must have a beauty of a cock. Like some great dead fruit. I’d love to have a photo of it. Hang it next to my bowling trophies.”
Moss man angers at this and yells at Phantom:
“You better watch your step, boy. This is Ohio.”
He steps forward, but a little guy in Bermuda shorts grabs his arm.
“Get off, George,” says moss man. “This boy is gonna get it.”
“Nothing is ever decided by violence,” says George.
Phantom jumps up again and points his finger at George.
“Listen here, you. If I hear any more of this pacifist bullshit out of you, I am going to break each of your chickenshit fingers individually.”
George shakes his head sorrowfully, and Phantom reaches between the lady’s legs and picks up a rock. He misses George but hits a small girl in Catholic high school dress, with a Saint Vincent’s emblem over the breast.
“Hey, watch it,” she yells.
“You watch it,” says Phantom. “This ain’t no crab feast or beer party.”
“Just what is it then?” she says, giving him a saucy look. “If it was up your ass you’d know what it was,” says Phantom.
“That’s not nice to talk like that,” says a motherly looking lady with a gnarled ear. “It’s not nice for two reasons. One is that she’s a little girl you’re talking to, and another is that you might upset the nigger.”
“I’m sorry about your ear,” says Phantom, “I’m really sorry. In fact, I’ll bet you suffer more than anyone in the world. I’ll bet all your organs are going bad at once. So why doncha just lope on home and pull ‘em out? Yeah, that’s right, pull out all those festering organs and roll ‘em down the street. Have a contest. See which one can get to the mayor’s office first.”
“A Communist. He’s a Communist. A Red.”
Two old ladies pick up the chant and mumble “Communist, Communist” through dry gums.
“Hey, that’s nice, Grandma,” says Phantom as he motions to me to come in the circle with him. “I’ll tell you what. You can have a contest too. Sure. I got one special for you. A sweater contest. You get all the grannies out on the porch some night when you could catch a death a chill, and see which one can wear the most sweaters. I got an aunt who can wear fourteen. You top that?”
At this moment the injured lady is beginning to cry and wail. I suggest to Phantom (softly, for fear that he will turn his wrath on me) that it might be a good idea to get these people to do something.
“Yeah, baby. You are absolutely right. While I been rapping she ain’t getting any better, is she? Man, I hate these people so fucking much I just lost sight of what we are doing here.”
The victim then says she wants to see “Jeezkris” and Phantom tells her that that particular gentleman is not available and that she will have to schedule an interview.
“Hey, come on, Phantom,” I say. “You shouldn’t bait the lady like that.”
“Bullshit, baby. We are all racists, all of us, and it’s better to joke about it than let it stay inside. This is a black woman, man. A housecleaner. You gotta admit it, man, you look down on her.”
“But, Phantom, the point is that if you don’t get these morons moving, this lady is going to die.”
“Yeah,” he says, shaking his head. “Yeah, I see what you mean. O.K., baby, watch this.”
Then Phantom is whirling around the circle telling everyone what to do in a clipped military accent.
“You,” he says, pointing to a kid with a basketball in his hand. “Thot’s rot, you, lad. Fetch me some water….
“And I say, Mrs. Driver, I say, be a good girl and ring up the ambulance….
“And you over there, wot ho? I say, thot’s dandy—yes, you cretins over there. Get yourselves together and bring some blankets…. Very good. Very very good.”
“That’s a fine imitation,” I say to Phantom after he has discharged everyone to their proper place. “Why, they don’t even seem mad at you anymore.”
Phantom smiles. “Of course they’re not mad. They can’t sustain any fucking emotions long enough to be mad. They are cattle, baby. Cattle, and ripe for the picking. Wait till you see what I give ‘em for the grand finale.”
The crowd is beginning to come back. Moss man is carrying three blankets (one of them electric; a nice gesture but a bit much). Half ear is carrying a first-aid kit. The little Catholic girl is carrying a magazine called Beauty Hints, which she offers to the victim. (Victim moans.) The old woman brings a huge pitcher of lemonade with gray hairs floating on the top.
Phantom thanks them heartily and places the gifts around the victim.
“Miss Rosie thanks you from the bottom of her heart,” he says.
“And while you were going to get these … these sweet mementos, Miss Rosie said that there is one more thing she would appreciate before she goes into the big closet in the sky. Yes, she has one last request of you white folks, and she wishes you could grant it, yes, she wishes that with all her heart. And fortunately, my friends, my farmer friends out here in the heartland of this great country, yes, fortunately we have the power to grant her that request. Doesn’t it make you feel good? Answer yes, children.”
“Yess,” moans the crowd.
“Well, here is that last request, good neig
hbors. Miss Rosie wants you to send her out the way she came in—with a hymn—her favorite hymn. Can we sing that hymn, O children of the plains?”
“Oh yessssss.”
“Then gather round. Yes, gather round now. Gather round this woman who cleaned your houses and who you will see no more. Send her off the way she would like best. Show her that you do really care. In your deepest heart of hearts. In your way down real red white blue souls. Show her.”
The circle gathers round. Moss man unclenches his fist. Half ear and the little Catholic girl embrace. The old women make gummy noises. I move up next to Phantom, who has his hands clasped on his chest. Slowly, majestically he begins:
Oh it’s just a closer walk with thee (Lawd Lawd)
And it’s blessed Jesus if you please (Oh Lawd)
And it’s daily walkin’ close to thee
Ah none but thee, dear Lord,
None but thee …
I open my eyes (Phantom’s are closed tightly) and watch the pink open mouths, the straining throats. There are many tears here. Many chills throughout the body. The victim’s moans are all but drowned out by the magnificent, swelling harmonies. Yes, these are people truly together, deeply aroused by their own voices, and I watch them kneeling and humming, gathered here together in Cleveland. Yes, oh, we are here, all of us … and we stay that way until the baboon cry of the ambulance breaks into our song.
XXI.
The Spirit of Saint Louis
When Phantom and I pull into his girl friend’s house in Saint Louis I am gagging and choking. Ever since I slept with the hogs at the Stumps’ I have been feeling shaky. Phantom’s girl, a tall blonde named Sally Carderelli, is very sympathetic and takes me to a back room, where I crash on a mattress. (Up until this moment, I have not used words like “crash,” thinking them too self-consciously hip, but since traveling with Phantom, it seems only natural. All of a sudden I am part of a big movement.)
