Shedding Skin

by Robert Ward

  “Phantom, we have got to get him out of here.”

  “No, continue, Robert.”

  “You’re there?”

  For now I really don’t know. I am looking at Phantom and seeing him opaque, glossy, shimmering, like spray.

  “I watched all the space shows, even when I knew they were fake, because you were positive that people in outer space would have to have more on than T-shirts with SPACE PATROL written across the front, but I never complained, never once about it, I loved it all, loved them all, Tom Corbett, Buzz Corey, Rocky Jones, Space Ranger…. I didn’t gripe even when the rocket ships looked like little fishes moving against a cardboard backdrop, no, I went with it all the way, sitting and eating my Kraft caramels all day Saturday morning, and I dug the ‘Sealtest Big Top,’ which always featured some trapeze artists who had worked all their lives to thrill me by hanging from a rope with their teeth, and they did it, and I wasn’t thrilled but I didn’t write in, I didn’t go down with a firebomb and try to do in the Big Top, you know I didn’t … and after that came Winky Dink with a couple two stage, no class, cartoon puppets and a quizmaster cat who looked like he had a square head, and hated kids, and the magic screen for three bucks was a crummy piece of green plastic but I didn’t suggest we rip out Winky’s intestines, not once…. Are you out there, America?”

  And I can see Mal, and she is crying and leaning on Phantom, oh good to see it, and for a second I try to tell myself that I am really in control of this monologue, that I am doing it to get sympathy, but then it’s all shaking again, the picture is all horizontal lines, weird sound waves….

  “Continue, Robert.”

  “And I watched Beany and Cecil, and all the game shows, even ‘Queen for a Day,’ and ‘Strike It Rich,’ and I never suggested we take the Queen for a Day out into some old weed-filled lot and shoot her about a million times, I been a good citizen…. Yes, I watched every fake show you sent my way because it was like an electric current through me, do you see, it was like the rock group with the bass booming through your veins, every cartoon you could lay onto my skull, over and over, I swear it, how about that, America? I watched the dancing piggies on Farmer Alfalfa’s porch, and the one where the bad black dog held up the train station, and kept telling the depot agent to stick ‘em up, and when he did, his pants would fall down, and the crook, who had warts on his nose, would say, ‘Pull ‘em up,’ and it went on that way for a long time, years actually, ‘Stick ‘em up,’ ‘Pull ‘em up,’ ‘Stick ‘em up,’ ‘Pull ‘em up,’ ‘Stick ‘em up,’ ‘Pull ‘em up,’ and I never missed a rerun, never missed a commercial, not one in all those years, yes, I watched ‘em all, every one, because it made me feel like I was into something, and it made me feel I knew something, and you shouldn’t want to fuck with me, because I am an American….”

  “Can you remember any more?” says Phantom, jelly in front of me.

  I don’t say anything, and they are both helping me to the place where we are to sit down, and then it all comes into focus.

  “I’m O.K.”

  “We’ll wait it out with you.”

  “O.K.”

  We sit in three plastic chairs, staring out the windows, Mal on one side of me, Phantom on the other. “I was raving, wasn’t I?”

  Neither of them answers me, and we keep staring out the big windows at the plane. Everything feels like steel.

  XXXVII.

  On the Plane

  On the plane, I receive a voice. It is metallic, the voice of an announcer at the Colt games, and it is my friend. I am sure it is my friend because it is telling me I have got to hang on. So I do. I hold on to the armrest of the seat, and I take huge breaths, and in my head is a picture of Don Larsen when he pitched the perfect game, and he tells everyone in the clouded, stinking clubhouse that he takes deep breaths before every pitch, and I take deep breaths and tell myself that there is a way not to collapse. I will look at everyone in the plane, and I will watch their every feature, and I will not collapse into the seething kettle of images which lies boiling and waiting for me inside my wrecked head.

  “Use the eyes,” I say to myself. “Use only the eyes. Just see it and record it and don’t try to assimilate it.”

  And for a few seconds it works. An old man next to me. I stare at his skin—brown. He has been on the beach. I stare at his wrists—hairy. He plays golf. I see his silver hair, and his pigskin briefcase, from which the creature hands are taking a portfolio. He is into stocks. And behind this is something in my head. It’s as if I am split directly down the middle. For I know that while I am recording these things there is something being built in my brain. I can shut my eyes and see something like nails, and black paint. Look at someone else.

  And I stare at the stewardess, and try not to think of her as plastic. I try not to think of her at all, but simply to record her. To see the eyes, which are blue, and the dress, which is bluer, and the pillbox hat, and the teeth, which are capped. Whiteness of the teeth, and behind my eyes Brain is making sounds. Nails are being driven in, and I know it’s the Town of Thatched Rooves, only this time I am not running there to escape from Glenn and Freda, no, this time the Town is coming to get me, to take me away from the legs of the stewardess, which I must stare at, don’t think of any metaphors for them, don’t see images, just look at those legs, and the whack whack whack in the back of the head, and Brain is making images, and I start to mumble things about Brain. I think that I will make up a Brain poem, and by getting down what I am thinking, defeat Brain, stop it from that whacking, it’s a good thing to create art. Pull a pencil out of my pocket and write down the Brain poem; on the back of an airplane magazine called Wonder Flight, now isn’t that ironic, because now, you see, I do not want flight, is that irony? Now I want to look at the man in front of me is paying one dollar for a little bottle stop—write a Brain poem on the back of this magazine.

  Perhaps it is a matter of the Brain. The Brain inside the skin, bone, vessels, keeps working. I would like to see Brain pulsate. I would like to see the forehead so profound. The face is a coherent unit making me real. I would like the Brain to show me its act.

  I would ask Brain a thousand questions.

  I would ask Brain why, when my pants are pushed above my hips, I can feel Walter’s red nose move across my face.

  I would ask Brain why my arrogant voice is so like Kirk’s.

  Or if when the red nose and the arrogant voice appear simultaneously I should change my name to Kirker.

  Or if I should smell a flower like Mal.

  Or if I should remain calm or become terrified when I melt into the sides of cars.

  I would like to ask Brain if it can laugh, having no mouth.

  These questions are important. These are scathing questions.

  I would like Brain to run through them with me.

  Now I feel Brain lying in the network of girders, trying to come out through the ear.

  Now I feel Brain becoming part of a tree.

  Now I relax. My hands are limbs.

  I would like Brain to make up its mind.

  I would like Brain to come around to my way of thinking.

  I sit staring at the page, and sign my name to the poem. I think about sticking it into the bag of the lady who is sitting one seat away. I scan her face, certain that she is a doctor, certain that she has been planted on this plane, positive that she can hear the chopping behind me. I rip the page out and roll it into a ball. It’s crinkly in the hand, you can feel it, and you know that it is not a “ball” at all, but only crunched edges. Don’t think like that. Look at things.

  Look out the window at the clouds, and don’t pay any attention whatsoever to the red, flaming image in the head, the grandstand which is being built whackwhack, don’t watch yourself up there on the black platform, wearing an ancient waistcoat, high above the beloved townsfolk. Yes, they are craving me, they are craving me and the warmth of the sun, but there is no sun. The sun refuses to set. Blackness surrounds us, only the flicke
ring torches allow me to see them, their leathery faces open in pain and confusion. There is no time for indecision.

  I breathe into the shotgun microphones, speaking like an old bug, to my panic Town:

  “There shall be sun, O children of Thatched Rooves. There shall be sun and golden harvest. You need not doubt it. Don’t give in to self-indulgent fears.”

  As I speak, there is an illumination over my shoulder, a radiance larger than all the radiances imagined by all the people on any religious holiday you would care to mention. I turn slowly, big-tooth leer cracking my face, my tuxedo tails swishing majestically over the black boards.

  “Did I not proclaim it? … Observe, my friends … observe the fiery orb.”

  Most embarrassing … most … ‘tis the moon. Not the sun, blessed healer, but cold cold moon. Lord, Lord, one fails to see the humor….

  There is a negative reaction to this failure, negative indeed. I am moving slowly along the shadow line, feeling the moon eating out my Brain. In my hand is a one-way ticket to Acrabar, where I shall live out my life in luxurious but sterile Banishment. The crowd moves toward me, their mouths moving without sounds, their eyes humming no satisfactions.

  “Ah dear friends,” I say, backpedaling steadily.

  “Sweet citizens,” I cry, bowing from my slim waist, the old vaudeville trouper never run out on a show.

  A flaming snowball knocks off my top hat. I trip, stumble, indeed do fall into the river, the cold waters gushing into my eyes, nose and lying mouth.

  “A drink, sir? Do you want a drink?”

  My eyes are on the waitress and she is transformed into an angel. I want to fall on my knees in front of her, go onto television doing testimonials for the flight gals of TWA.

  “I could have drowned,” I say to her.

  “Do you want a drink? Coke?”

  “They had me,” I say, and then I am telling her that I need a Scotch, and she is saying that will be one dollar, and I am handing her one dollar, but I cannot let it go.

  “My fingers …”

  “One dollar, sir.”

  And the man with the briefcase is staring at me, but the fingers will not let go of that dollar.

  “Take it,” I command her. “It’s a war injury.”

  And she is prying it loose, and there are eyes looking at me but it causes little embarrassment, for I am not here to look at, but somewhere running through the gabled houses of the Town of Thatched Rooves, taking big long strides, and gasoline and oil are rolling down the road right toward me, and Fernando Roush is up there lighting it. And I am the cartoon who will not be put all back together again in the next scene, but if you just hold on to your drink, tight with both hands, and keep looking at things, keep staring at them, holding it tight with both hands … Yes. Oh, yes. Now that’s it. Tight. Tight. Tight.

  XXXVIII.

  Back Home: Kirk and Walter’s Basement

  I am standing in the dimly lit hallway at Kirk and Walter’s basement apartment.

  “Hey,” I say, “isn’t anyone here? It’s me. I let myself in.”

  No answer.

  There are steps ahead of me, steps which lead down to a dark room. I should go on into the room, lie down and get myself together. Perhaps Kirk and Walter are out getting some food or doing a drug deal. But I cannot get up the energy to make my feet move forward. My shaking legs would rather turn me around, move me toward the door. But where would I go from there? Back to Glenn and Freda’s, the return of the Prodigal Son?

  “Gosh, folks, I was a fool. Forgive me for my juvenile arrogance.”

  No. Eating humble pie would never do.

  I hear a noise from the black room.

  I must identify myself. “Hey,” I yell, “it’s me.” More noise. Footsteps moving toward me. “Who is it?” says a familiar voice; I can’t place it. Now I really want to run. I turn my body around like a toy robot. The light goes out.

  There is high, hysterical laughter. I must be in the wrong apartment. They will plug me, carry my body to the morgue.

  PROWLER SHOT BY WIDOW.

  The lights go on. I blink my eyes, rub my chin. “Don’t shoot,” I say. “I didn’t mean …”

  “Ward. Oh wowwwww, you’re back.” I squint, see her, rub my eyes again. It’s no illusion. In front of me is Susan. “Susan,” I say.

  She stands there staring at me. I do likewise. This can’t be happening. Her blond hair is brown. Her false eyelashes are not false. Her Ship ‘n Shore blouse is a T-shirt, dyed with swirls of green, blue and red. She has on paint-splotched Levi’s and no shoes. Her toenails aren’t polished, and they aren’t cut. Where is her Peter Pan collar?

  “Ward,” she says with a nasal voice. “It’s really you.”

  Now she is skipping across the room, throwing her arms around me. She never did that before.

  “Too much,” she whispers, hanging off my neck.

  “Kirk and Walter are out hustling some food. We just got the stamps from the Welfare Department today. Beautiful scene. Here, come with me.”

  Speechless, I follow her down the steps. She turns on a wall light, and we are in a big, brick-walled basement with glowing red rugs, some old couches with blue and orange burlap covers. From the ceiling hangs a ball lamp with a red paper shade. She walks across the room and turns on a stereo. The Jefferson Airplane.

  She pivots around on one foot, faces me again. Her smile is radiant, beatific. There are many yellow teeth.

  “Wow, too much, you’re back. I’ve been thinking about you, I mean, like what I was going to say to you…. Whatsa matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Yeah, welll … I mean, I’m a little shocked, I guess.”

  She lights a cigarette and throws her hair around in time to the music.

  “Yeah, man, I guess we both are a little up-tight. I mean, man, I’ve been through some pretty heavy changes since you split, pretty heavy….”

  She brushes her hair out of her eyes, takes a seat cross-legged on the floor.

  “Like I was totally distraught when you split, you dig? I went over Kirk and Walter’s old place and like cried myself sick. Then they began to turn me on to some things, grass, acid, man, and like I went through this incredible reevaluation scene, you dig?”

  I nod my head and sit down on the couch. Above me is a poster. It’s Trotsky.

  “So like then I moved in with them. I mean, man, I just realized why you had to leave and what was happening to me, and like I knew I was repressed. Really repressed. Very heavy. It was really hard not to hate you, man, but I didn’t…. I mean, after I got my head together; and, wow, things started coming together when I got my head in shape, you dig? So like we moved down here in the ghetto and really started getting it all together, like we ball together and eat together and take dope together and it’s a very tight scene. But I always knew you’d come back. And I am glad you came tonight while they are out, so we can groove together on what’s been happening. Wow, when you were my old man, I was like sooooooo straight, and, wow, I don’t know how you stood being around with me as long as you did….”

  This is happening. This is Susan whom I got Bumjarred for, and this is Susan who couldn’t stop yawning, and I am not real at all, but an assortment of nuts and bolts, and I got to get somewhere and get a blowtorch and see if I can weld myself a suit of armor. I can wear it around until it grafts itself onto my shrinking and connects up to my ruptured heart. What am I saying to myself? This is Susan?

  “You dig this place, man?”

  I look around. Our old bookshelf filled with paperbacks. I can see some kind of psychedelic manual and a book by the Head. Lenin and Mick Jagger look down on me from the other wall.

  “I did most of this place myself, man,” says Susan, rubbing her thighs.

  “Like I wanted the place to be loose, free, kind of like an environment. You dig?”

  I feel my stomach turning. I see her laughing.

  “Look,” I say, “I’m pretty wasted. You got a john
around here? I got to take a shit.”

  That was the Phantom talking. It wasn’t me. I heard the Phantom moving in on me, saw his long, striding feet walk right into the voice control box and broadcast that to Susan.

  She is smiling again, leading me to the bathroom.

  “Too much,” she says, offering me a joint.

  I take a drag off it and give it back to her.

  “Too much,” she says again, pointing to the toilet.

  “What?”

  “I mean it’s too much, you saying you ‘got to take a shit.’ “

  She knows. She knows that wasn’t me talking. She’s going to tell everybody.

  “I mean like, man, when you and I were married, you would have never said, ‘I got to take a shit,’ but now I think it’s really cool that you wouldn’t have any hang-ups about saying it. Like we are really communicating on a whole different level, like we were two different people. There’s no past at all. Too much.”

  She hugs me again. She’s gotten stronger. I push her away, enter the bathroom and shut the door. I put my ear to the door to see if she goes away, but she’s still talking.

  “Hey, man,” she says loudly, “like go ahead, take your time. Wow, there’s so much time. We can talk about it all. Kirk and Walter will flip to see you. Just relax in there. There’s a book on the john to read if you want to. I always read when I’m in there. It’s like good for the metabolic system, you dig? Wow, had some boss speed tonight before you came, straight meth crystal. Really nice. If you had gotten here a little sooner you could have done up with me.”

  I try to twist the lock on the door, but it’s broken. I rub my hands together. They are not my hands. I look into the dusty mirror. My face is all lean, weird looking.