Welcome to the Monkey House: The Special Edition

by Kurt Vonnegut,Gregory D. Sumner

  “Yes——?” said Nancy.

  “Nancy McLuhan?” said a man. His voice was disguised. He might have been speaking through a kazoo. “I’m calling for a mutual friend.”

  “Oh?”

  “He asked me to deliver a message.”

  “I see.”

  “It’s a poem.”

  “All right.”

  “Ready?”

  “Ready.” Nancy could hear sirens screaming in the background of the call.

  The caller must have heard the sirens, too, but he recited the poem without any emotion. It went like this:

  “Soak yourself in Jergen’s Lotion.

  Here comes the one-man population

  explosion.”

  They got him. Nancy heard it all—the thumping and clumping, the argle-bargle and cries.

  The depression she felt as she hung up was glandular. Her brave body had prepared for a fight that was not to be.

  The sheriff bounded out of the Suicide Parlor, in such a hurry to see the famous criminal he’d helped catch that a sheaf of papers fell from the pocket of his trench coat.

  Mary picked them up, called after the sheriff. He halted for a moment, said the papers didn’t matter any more, asked her if maybe she wouldn’t like to come along. There was a flurry between the two girls, with Nancy persuading Mary to go, declaring that she had no curiosity about Billy. So Mary left, irrelevantly handing the sheaf to Nancy.

  The sheaf proved to be photocopies of poems Billy had sent to Hostesses in other places. Nancy read the top one. It made much of a peculiar side effect of ethical birth-control pills: They not only made people numb—they also made people piss blue. The poem was called What the Somethinghead Said to the Suicide Hostess, and it went like this:

  I did not sow, I did not spin,

  And thanks to pills I did not sin.

  I loved the crowds, the stink, the noise.

  And when I peed, I peed turquoise.

  I ate beneath a roof of orange;

  Swung with progress like a door hinge.

  ’Neath purple roof I’ve come today

  To piss my azure life away.

  Virgin hostess, death’s recruiter,

  Life is cute, but you are cuter.

  Mourn my pecker, purple daughter—

  All it passed was sky-blue water.

  “You never heard that story before—about how J. Edgar Nation came to invent ethical birth control?” the Foxy Grandpa wanted to know. His voice cracked.

  “Never did,” lied Nancy.

  “I thought everybody knew that.”

  “It was news to me.”

  “When he got through with the monkey house, you couldn’t tell it from the Michigan Supreme Court. Meanwhile, there was this crisis going on in the United Nations. The people who understood science said people had to quit reproducing so much, and the people who understood morals said society would collapse if people used sex for nothing but pleasure.”

  The Foxy Grandpa got off his Barcalounger, went over to the window, pried two slats of the blind apart. There wasn’t much to see out there. The view was blocked by the backside of a mocked-up thermometer twenty feet high, which faced the street. It was calibrated in billions of people on Earth, from zero to twenty. The make-believe column of liquid was a strip of translucent red plastic. It showed how many people there were on Earth. Very close to the bottom was a black arrow that showed what the scientists thought the population ought to be.

  The Foxy Grandpa was looking at the setting sun through that red plastic, and through the blind, too, so that his face was banded with shadows and red.

  “Tell me—” he said, “when I die, how much will that thermometer go down? A foot?”

  “No.”

  “An inch?”

  “Not quite.”

  “You know what the answer is, don’t you?” he said, and he faced her. The senility had vanished from his voice and eyes. “One inch on that thing equals 83,333 people. You knew that, didn’t you?”

  “That—that might be true,” said Nancy, “but that isn’t the right way to look at it, in my opinion.”

  He didn’t ask her what the right way was, in her opinion. He completed a thought of his own, instead. “I’ll tell you something else that’s true: I’m Billy the Poet, and you’re a very good-looking woman.”

  With one hand, he drew a snub-nosed revolver from his belt. With the other, he peeled off his bald dome and wrinkled forehead, which proved to be rubber. Now he looked twenty-two.

  “The police will want to know exactly what I look like when this is all over,” he told Nancy with a malicious grin. “In case you’re not good at describing people, and it’s surprising how many women aren’t:

  I’m five foot two,

  With eyes of blue,

  With Brown hair to my shoulders—

  A manly elf

  So full of self

  The ladies say he smolders.”

  Billy was ten inches shorter than Nancy was. She had about forty pounds on him. She told him he didn’t have a chance, but Nancy was much mistaken. He had unbolted the bars on the window the night before and he made her go out the window and then down a manhole that was hidden from the street by the big thermometer.

  He took her down into the sewers of Hyannis. He knew where he was going. He had a flashlight and a map. Nancy had to go before him along the narrow catwalk, her own shadow dancing mockingly in the lead. She tried to guess where they were, relative to the real world above. She guessed correctly when they passed under the Howard Johnson’s, guessed from noises she heard. The machinery that processed and served the food there was silent. But, so people wouldn’t feel too lonesome when eating there, the designers had provided sound effects for the kitchen. It was these Nancy heard—a tape recording of the clashing of silverware and the laughter of Negroes and Puerto Ricans.

  After that she was lost. Billy had very little to say to her other than “Right,” or, “Left,” or “Don’t try anything funny, Juno, or I’ll blow your great big fucking head off.”

  Only once did they have anything resembling a conversation. Billy began it, and ended it, too. “What in hell is a girl with hips like yours doing selling death?” he asked her from behind.

  She dared to stop. “I can answer that,” she told him. She was confident that she could give him an answer that would shrivel him like napalm.

  But he gave her a shove, offered to blow her fucking head off again.

  “You don’t even want to hear my answer,” she taunted him. “You’re afraid to hear it.”

  “I never listen to a woman till the pills wear off,” sneered Billy. That was his plan, then—to keep her a prisoner for at least eight hours. That was how long it took for the pills to wear off

  “That’s a silly rule.”

  “A woman’s not a woman till the pills wear off.”

  “You certainly manage to make a woman feel like an object rather than a person.”

  “Thank the pills for that,” said Billy.

  · · ·

  There were 80 miles of sewers under Greater Hyannis, which had a population of 400,000 drupelets, 400,000 souls. Nancy lost track of the time down there. When Billy announced that they had at last reached their destination, it was possible for Nancy to imagine that a year had passed.

  She tested this spooky impression by pinching her own thigh, by feeling what the chemical clock of her body said. Her thigh was still numb.

  Billy ordered her to climb iron rungs that were set in wet masonry. There was a circle of sickly light above. It proved to be moonlight filtered through the plastic polygons of an enormous geodesic dome. Nancy didn’t have to ask the traditional victim’s question, “Where am I?” There was only one dome like that on Cape Cod. It was in Hyannis Port and it sheltered the ancient Kennedy Compound.

  It was a museum of how life had been lived in more expansive times. The museum was closed. It was open only in the summertime.

  The manhole from which Nancy an
d then Billy emerged was set in an expanse of green cement, which showed where the Kennedy lawn had been. On the green cement, in front of the ancient frame houses, were statues representing the fourteen Kennedys who had been Presidents of the United States or the World. They were playing touch football.

  The President of the World at the time of Nancy’s abduction, incidentally, was an ex-Suicide Hostess named “Ma” Kennedy. Her statue would never join this particular touch-football game. Her name was Kennedy, all right, but she wasn’t the real thing. People complained of her lack of style, found her vulgar. On the wall of her office was a sign that said, YOU DON’T HAVE TO BE CRAZY TO WORK HERE, BUT IT SURE HELPS, and another one that said THIMK!, and another one that said, SOMEDAY WE’RE GOING TO HAVE TO GET ORGANIZED AROUND HERE.

  Her office was in the Taj Mahal.

  · · ·

  Until she arrived in the Kennedy Museum, Nancy McLuhan was confident that she would sooner or later get a chance to break every bone in Billy’s little body, maybe even shoot him with his own gun. She wouldn’t have minded doing those things. She thought he was more disgusting than a blood-filled tick.

  It wasn’t compassion that changed her mind. It was the discovery that Billy had a gang. There were at least eight people around the manhole, men and women in equal numbers, with stockings pulled over their heads. It was the women who laid firm hands on Nancy, told her to keep calm. They were all at least as tall as Nancy and they held her in places where they could hurt her like hell if they had to.

  Nancy closed her eyes, but this didn’t protect her from the obvious conclusion: These perverted women were sisters from the Ethical Suicide Service. This upset her so much that she asked loudly and bitterly, “How can you violate your oaths like this?”

  She was promptly hurt so badly that she doubled up and burst into tears.

  When she straightened up again, there was plenty more she wanted to say, but she kept her mouth shut. She speculated silently as to what on Earth could make Suicide Hostesses turn against every concept of human decency. Nothingheadedness alone couldn’t begin to explain it. They had to be drugged besides.

  Nancy went over in her mind all the terrible drugs she’d learned about in school, persuaded herself that the women had taken the worst one of all. That drug was so powerful, Nancy’s teachers had told her, that even a person numb from the waist down would copulate repeatedly and enthusiastically after just one glass. That had to be the answer: The women, and probably the men, too, had been drinking gin.

  · · ·

  They hastened Nancy into the middle frame house, which was dark like all the rest, and Nancy heard the men giving Billy the news. It was in this news that Nancy perceived a glint of hope. Help might be on its way.

  The gang member who had phoned Nancy obscenely had fooled the police into believing that they had captured Billy the Poet, which was bad for Nancy. The police didn’t know yet that Nancy was missing, two men told Billy, and a telegram had been sent to Mary Kraft in Nancy’s name, declaring that Nancy had been called to New York City on urgent family business.

  That was where Nancy saw the glint of hope: Mary wouldn’t believe that telegram. Mary knew Nancy had no family in New York. Not one of the 63,000,000 people living there was a relative of Nancy’s.

  The gang had deactivated the burglar-alarm system of the museum. They had also cut through a lot of the chains and ropes that were meant to keep visitors from touching anything of value. There was no mystery as to who and what had done the cutting. One of the men was armed with brutal lopping shears.

  They marched Nancy into a servant’s bedroom upstairs. The man with the shears cut the ropes that fenced off the narrow bed. They put Nancy into the bed and two men held Nancy while a woman gave her a knockout shot.

  Billy the Poet had disappeared.

  As Nancy was going under, the woman who had given her the shot asked her how old she was.

  Nancy was determined not to answer, but discovered that the drug had made her powerless not to answer. “Sixty-three,” she murmured.

  “How does it feel to be a virgin at sixty-three?”

  Nancy heard her own answer through a velvet fog. She was amazed by the answer, wanted to protest that it couldn’t possibly be hers. “Pointless,” she’d said.

  Moments later, she asked the woman thickly, “What was in that needle?”

  “What was in the needle, honey bunch? Why, honey bunch, they call that ‘truth serum.’ ”

  · · ·

  The moon was down when Nancy woke up—but the night was still out there. The shades were drawn and there was candlelight. Nancy had never seen a lit candle before.

  What awakened Nancy was a dream of mosquitoes and bees. Mosquitoes and bees were extinct. So were birds. But Nancy dreamed that millions of insects were swarming about her from the waist down. They didn’t sting. They fanned her. Nancy was a nothinghead.

  She went to sleep again. When she awoke next time, she was being led into a bathroom by three women, still with stockings over their heads. The bathroom was already filled with the steam from somebody else’s bath. There were somebody else’s wet footprints crisscrossing the floor and the air reeked of pine-needle perfume.

  Her will and intelligence returned as she was bathed and perfumed and dressed in a white nightgown. When the women stepped back to admire her, she said to them quietly, “I may be a nothinghead now. But that doesn’t mean I have to think like one or act like one.”

  Nobody argued with her.

  · · ·

  Nancy was taken downstairs and out of the house. She fully expected to be sent down a manhole again. It would be the perfect setting for her violation by Billy, she was thinking—down in a sewer.

  But they took her across the green cement, where the grass used to be, and then across the yellow cement, where the beach used to be, and then out onto the blue cement, where the harbor used to be. There were twenty-six yachts that had belonged to various Kennedys, sunk up to their water lines in blue cement. It was to the most ancient of these yachts, the Marlin, once the property of Joseph P. Kennedy, that they delivered Nancy.

  It was dawn. Because of the high-rise apartments all around the Kennedy Museum, it would be an hour before any direct sunlight would reach the microcosm under the geodesic dome.

  Nancy was escorted as far as the companionway to the forward cabin of the Marlin. The women pantomimed that she was expected to go down the five steps alone.

  Nancy froze for the moment and so did the women. And there were two actual statues in the tableau on the bridge. Standing at the wheel was a statue of Frank Wirtanen, once skipper of the Marlin. And next to him was his son and first mate, Carly. They weren’t paying any attention to poor Nancy. They were staring out through the windshield at the blue cement.

  Nancy, barefoot and wearing a thin white nightgown, descended bravely into the forward cabin, which was a pool of candlelight and pine-needle perfume. The companionway hatch was closed and locked behind her.

  Nancy’s emotions and the antique furnishings of the cabin were so complex that Nancy could not at first separate Billy the Poet from his surroundings, from all the mahogany and leaded glass. And then she saw him at the far end of the cabin, with his back against the door to the forward cockpit. He was wearing purple silk pajamas with a Russian collar. They were piped in red, and writhing across Billy’s silken breast was a golden dragon. It was belching fire.

  Anticlimactically, Billy was wearing glasses. He was holding a book.

  Nancy poised herself on the next-to-the-bottom step, took a firm grip on the handholds in the companionway. She bared her teeth, calculated that it would take ten men Billy’s size to dislodge her.

  Between them was a great table. Nancy had expected the cabin to be dominated by a bed, possibly in the shape of a swan, but the Marlin was a day boat. The cabin was anything but a seraglio. It was about as voluptuous as a lower-middle-class dining room in Akron, Ohio, around 1910.

  A candle was on t
he table. So were an ice bucket and two glasses and a quart of champagne. Champagne was as illegal as heroin.

  Billy took off his glasses, gave her a shy, embarrassed smile, said, “Welcome.”

  “This is as far as I come.”

  He accepted that. “You’re very beautiful there.”

  “And what am I supposed to say—that you’re stunningly handsome? That I feel an overwhelming desire to throw myself into your manly arms?”

  “If you wanted to make me happy, that would certainly be the way to do it.” He said that humbly.

  “And what about my happiness?”

  The question seemed to puzzle him. “Nancy—that’s what this is all about.”

  “What if my idea of happiness doesn’t coincide with yours?”

  “And what do you think my idea of happiness is?”

  “I’m not going to throw myself into your arms, and I’m not going to drink that poison, and I’m not going to budge from here unless somebody makes me,” said Nancy. “So I think your idea of happiness is going to turn out to be eight people holding me down on that table, while you bravely hold a cocked pistol to my head—and do what you want. That’s the way it’s going to have to be, so call your friends and get it over with!”

  Which he did.

  · · ·

  He didn’t hurt her. He deflowered her with a clinical skill she found ghastly. When it was all over, he didn’t seem cocky or proud. On the contrary, he was terribly depressed, and he said to Nancy, “Believe me, if there’d been any other way—”

  Her reply to this was a face like stone—and silent tears of humiliation.

  His helpers let down a folding bunk from the wall. It was scarcely wider than a bookshelf and hung on chains. Nancy allowed herself to be put to bed in it, and she was left alone with Billy the Poet again. Big as she was, like a double bass wedged onto that narrow shelf, she felt like a pitiful little thing. A scratchy, war-surplus blanket had been tucked in around her. It was her own idea to pull up a corner of the blanket to hide her face.

  Nancy sensed from sounds what Billy was doing, which wasn’t much. He was sitting at the table, sighing occasionally, sniffing occasionally, turning the pages of a book. He lit a cigar and the stink of it seeped under her blanket. Billy inhaled the cigar, then coughed and coughed and coughed.