by Aaron Thier
Though I had intended to call my parents as soon as I was able, yet now, much to my surprise, I found that I did not relish the idea of such a phone call, for indeed how could I explain to them what had happened? I will go so far as to say that I felt a kind of embarrassment, as if my predicament had been some fault of my own.
For this reason I resolved to determine whether William Brees was still in the island, if indeed he had come in the first place, and to do that I had only to find a computer, for I knew that he updated his Facebook profile religiously, thus preserving a record of all that he did and thought, and of everywhere he went. Therefore I asked the coconut seller if he could lend me a few pennies so that I could buy myself a few minutes in a nearby internet café, and this he was most eager to do.
I can hardly describe the delight I felt when I set my fingers upon the computer keyboard, and watched the glowing windows flicker and dance before my eyes, for it was as if I were home already. In a matter of moments I had the information I sought, for I discovered, to my great relief, that William Brees was indeed still in the island, and that he was staying nearby, in a bed-and-breakfast called A Piece of the Indies. I was greatly comforted, for I had no doubt that he would be eager to help me, and now I could delay that conversation with my parents, the thought of which was the source of such complex feelings, and painful emotions.
I asked the coconut seller to direct me to A Piece of the Indies, which he promptly did, and I arrived there after a walk of no more than ten minutes. It was a pretty house, embosomed in sweet-smelling shrubberies, and in the brilliant sunshine it seemed so far removed from the plantation upon which I had lately toiled that for the briefest moment I felt as if I had come to a different island altogether, and I remembered those dreams of tropical sunsets and soft air that had so enchanted me as I sat beside my radiator at Tripoli three or four months before. This impression was confirmed by the sense I had that no one in the city had any information about the violence in the interior. Indeed, were it not for the smell of the burning cane, I might have thought it had all been a dream.
I found Dean Brees in a state of prostration, so sick was he with an unnamed fever, and indeed I will venture to say that he was made sicker still by the abhorrent prescriptions of his physician, who had forced him to swallow all manner of foul tinctures and suspensions, and indeed to violate his nether-parts with a most curious instrument, for the doctor had diagnosed a venereal complaint, when in fact Dean Brees was probably suffering from nothing more than the flu.
Here, at last, after all my trials, I wept, and I wept not because my ordeal was at an end, though of course I felt the greatest relief on that account, but because I was now in the company of a man who had never been anything but kind to me, and who respected the choices I had made, and in front of whom I knew it was safe to weep. Nor did he fail to comfort me as best he could, though he was very weak, and feverish. Thus it was that sitting there with him, and looking down upon him where he lay sweating and shivering, I realized that although we could hardly have had less in common, he, and not Professor Kabaka, was the person after whom I ought to model myself, for he had taught me that simplest and most valuable of human lessons, the importance of kindness.
I placed a cold washcloth on his brow and then I took some money from his wallet and purchased him some Tylenol at the corner store. Then I undertook the preparations for our departure, purchasing two plane tickets with his credit card, packing his suitcase, and obtaining for myself some new clothes. He was soon feeling much better, and though he was not yet well we took ourselves off to the airport, whence we departed that very night. But of this I will say no more, for my deliverance was at hand, and my own sufferings at an end. Thus I bring my narration to a close, leaving the island of St. Renard stretched out below in the warmth of the Caribbean night, suspended as it were between the bloody past and the uncertain future.
Undercover Dean: Blog Post #8
Even though I hadn’t seen any of the plantations or factories, my dinner at Mr. Price’s house seemed to confirm all the worst things I’d ever heard about the business ethos of Big Anna®. It made me embarrassed to be an American. So I can’t say I was surprised when I began to hear rumors of strikes and other conflicts on the island.
Commandant Kabaka had made it clear that he wouldn’t shrink from violence, but he didn’t post news about actual events, and I was having trouble getting concrete information about the situation in the interior of the island. One day the air was full of sweet smoke, and another day I saw three fierce-looking black men tramping down the street with rifles on their shoulders, but the Saint Renard Times was always full of the same tourist stuff: “Peggy Nutmeg to Perform at High Times Casino!” “Pompey’s Makes the Best Conch Fritters in the Caribbean!” Every day I was more concerned about Megan and the other Tripoli students, but it was impossible to arrange transportation to the interior.
One morning, two or three weeks after the dinner at Mr. Price’s house, I woke up feeling a little strange. There was a kind of echoing or reverberating noise in my head, and I almost fell over as I got out of bed. I chalked it up to a bad night’s sleep and went down to the courtyard for some coffee.
Downstairs, I saw a group of young men and women I didn’t recognize. They were dressed formally—the men in carefully pressed suits, the women in lacy gowns of the sort that Lady Nugent had been wearing—so I assumed they were here on business and I decided to ask if they knew anything about the political situation. I called one of the young men over and put the question to him directly:
“Can you tell me anything about the strikes and conflicts in the interior? I’m concerned about a friend of mine.”
But my voice sounded strange to me, and suddenly I began to sweat. It was like a light going on. One minute I was dry and comfortable, the next my clothes were soaked. I was also keenly aware of my pulse, which was strong and fast, like the ticking of a watch.
“We represent the Free Produce Society of Pennsylvania,” the young man said. “We’re organizing a boycott of all slave-grown produce, and that includes everything marketed under the Big Anna® trademark.”
He passed me a flyer, which I’ll reproduce here because it made a powerful impression on me at the time. In my feverish state, I felt certain that I’d found a way in which I could contribute to the struggle against Big Anna®. The flyer read as follows:
WHEREAS there are many persons, who while they deplore the existence of Slavery, indirectly contribute to its support and continuance by using articles derived from the labor of Slaves:—And whereas we are satisfied, that by a proper union of reasonable efforts, articles similar to those which are thus produced, may be obtained by free labor:—And believing that the general use of such articles among us as are raised by Freemen, will gradually establish a conviction in the minds of those who hold their fellow-creatures in bondage, that their own interests would be promoted by the increased quantity, and more ready sale, of their produce, resulting from the change of the condition of their Slaves into that of hired Freemen:—
Therefore,—We whose names are hereunto subscribed do agree to form an Association under the title of
THE FREE PRODUCE SOCIETY OF PENNSYLVANIA
The anachronistic language seemed just right, and I had a wild idea that by making this analogy with the bloody past, which we were all supposed to have transcended, they’d have no trouble shaming people into joining the boycott. How could any good person argue against it, after all?
But then, almost as quickly, my spirits fell once again. One of the young men was outlining his plans for the boycott, but although I strained to listen, it was like I had couch cushions tied to my head. I was still sweating buckets, and now I worried that my tongue had started to taste funny. I could hardly tell if it was today or yesterday or two hundred years ago.
“We think the practice of slavery is morally, religiously, and economically indefensible . . .”
There was a mango tree next to the pool, and for
the first time I realized that it was hung with miniature fruit. It came to me suddenly that it would soon be dropping big sticky mangoes all over the pool deck.
“Who’ll clean it up?” I said.
I thought I should tell someone to snip the little mangoes off right away, before they could cause any trouble.
“Just bring me a ladder and I’ll do it.”
But suddenly the mangoes started to swell and burst, and hunks of sweet fruit fell into the pool with an offensive plop plop sound, and I thought I was dreaming, and do you know what? I was dreaming!
When I came to, one of the young men was holding me by the shoulders and another was standing very close, looking into my eyes. The sharp shadows of the royal palms seemed to bite into my skin.
A doctor had been summoned. Mr. Codrington, the proprietor, brought me a cup of sage tea.
I spent the rest of the morning in bed, alternately sweating and freezing, clicking the air conditioner on and off, and drinking cup after cup of this mysterious sage tea, which was delicious. When I slept, I had ferocious nightmares. In one of them, two slave girls cut Bish Pinkman III into small pieces and fed him to me. I kept trying to refuse, but they wouldn’t hear of it, and eventually I decided that it would be impolite to disdain this food they’d taken so much trouble to prepare, so I ate the bloody hunks with a smile of gratitude.
I woke up later to find the doctor standing beside the bed with Mr. Codrington.
“I sometimes think this island is incompatible with virtue,” Codrington was saying. “A young man arrives, and no sooner has he stepped off the boat than he feels he can now drink, wench, and blaspheme without a sigh or a blush.”
There was no doubt that he was talking about me, even though I was older than he was.
“He simply continues until a premature death puts a period on his sufferings and excesses.”
Seeing that I was awake, the doctor gave me a very stern look and offered me a slip of paper. It was entirely filled with dark, cramped handwriting—a prescription—and even now, back home at Tripoli and restored to health, I can only make out the first two lines:
R. Vin. antimon. Zip. sign. puke.
R. Sal. catt. amor. Zip. sign. purge.
“The prescription,” the doctor said, “is one vomit, two boluses, one phial of injection, an electuary, and a purge, all marked thus, and you are to be rigidly strict in taking them as follows: The first night you are to take the vomit by swallowing a tablespoonful every ten minutes by a watch until it operates, then to work it off with large and repeated drafts of lukewarm water, until you puke seven or eight times . . .”
I tried to interrupt him, but he raised his hand and continued. He went on and on. Codrington was writing it down. I simply closed my eyes and concentrated on my breathing.
“At night repeat the bolus,” the doctor was saying, “and the third day repeat the purge. If in six days you do not find the discomfort much abated, repeat the boluses and electuary. You must not omit every day to bathe and wash the parts two or three times . . .”
“What parts?” I said.
“. . . and every night when going to bed to rub a small bit of the ointment to the butt and under-part of the penis.”
“I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” I said. “It’s just the heat, the mosquitoes. I caught a bug or something.”
The doctor rolled his eyes. “Intemperance destroys many more constitutions than anything inimical in the climate.”
He gave me some dietary advice. I was to avoid greasy foods, windy and flatulent foods, spicy and salty foods. Bread, panada, barley gruel, and linseed tea were to be my only nourishment for a few days.
When he’d gone, Codrington went out to have the prescription filled, and I fell asleep and dreamed that Megan and I were married, and Bish Pinkman was our child.
Codrington came back to deliver the mysterious medications, but now that my fever had spiked again, I was so disoriented that my only concern was to follow the doctor’s instructions to the letter. I didn’t want him to be disappointed in me.
Codrington prepared the so-called “vomit” himself, and reminded me to take it by the tablespoon until it operated. I’ll spare the reader a description of this part of my ordeal.
The next morning I was well enough to come downstairs and drink a cup of weak tea. The Free Produce people were there again, now dressed in shorts and T-shirts. They were very polite and kind, asking after my health and trying to include me in their conversation, but I still felt weak. After about fifteen minutes, I went back to bed.
The fever returned in the early afternoon, and in my delirium I wandered into the bathroom and ate at least half a tube of toothpaste. I vomited for what seemed like forever, and when Codrington found me I was curled up on the floor of the bathroom, encrusted in dried toothpaste. I was dreaming that I was a naked slave girl! I remember worrying that Codrington could see the inside of my dreams, and I was very ashamed.
The next morning the fever was gone once again, but I was feeling wiped out. I tried eating some oatmeal, which tasted wonderful and wholesome, and then I got into the pool and tried to relax for a little while.
But the fever returned, and Codrington kept forcing me to take the bolus and the electuary—a kind of sweet paste—and it seemed like I’d never get better as long as I was taking all that medicine. I had bizarre, vivid dreams once again, so that when I woke up late the next morning and saw Megan standing at the foot of my bed, dressed in rags and thin as a rail, I was certain I was still asleep.
“Pinch me,” I said.
But she started crying. She hugged me. I didn’t know what to do or think or feel and I just hugged her back and told her that everything would be okay. And in that moment, after everything that had happened, I believed it. Everything would be okay. I missed my wife so much that I could hardly stand it, but I could stand it.
From: “Maggie Bell”
To: “Chris Bell”
Date: March 24, 2010, at 1:00 PM
Subject: (no subject)
Mr. C,
It’s only because I worry about how Mom and Dad will react. Dad would say all the wrong things, call people up, yell at them, cause trouble. All I want now is quiet, so don’t worry. I know maybe I didn’t make sense on the phone. I’m just exhausted. But yes, that is what I need you to do. Don’t say anything. Just think good thoughts about me and I’ll be home in a few days. I’m staying with the dean this weekend.
I don’t know. A person could go crazy trying to think through to the truth of it. Plenty of good people eat Big Anna junk food and wear underwear made by kids in Southeast Asia, and the same people spend their time writing petitions to raise the minimum wage and ban plastic grocery bags. It doesn’t make them hypocrites. It makes them people living in an imperfect world. The only lesson is the basic one, which you don’t have to work on a sugar plantation to learn: Just try every day to be better, and never stop trying.
Capitalism. I don’t know. Capitalism means pain and fear but also a walk on the moon and a hybrid car and this email and all the comforts that make life less bad. Capitalism is just people and when we say it’s evil, we’re really just expressing our disappointment with people. In the fact that people are not better than they are. That they’re just people.
I’ve spent the last day or two sitting out on the porch in the cold, drinking tea and staring at the melting snow and the spring rain. I feel fine. I’ve decided that I’m allowed, after everything that happened, to feel fine. The thing I learned is that I’m tough. I always thought so and now I know for sure.
Jeez, man. We’ll be okay. I love you,
M
Christina Montana
Prof. Collier, English 401b
Creative Nonfiction Assignment
April 3, 2010
At Home with President Beckford
Inside the museum it was unendurably hot, the walls were running with moisture, the hygrothermograp
hs had been destroyed and the pieces were scattered through the ravaged galleries, a scroll here and a needle there, and someone said that he’d said that humidity was good for the paintings, but maybe he despised the paintings, it didn’t matter, the truth was that in the unbearable lethargy and mortifying reek of that museum there was no room for motive or decision or even impulse, there was only the roaring silence of a haunted orchidarium and the overwhelming musk of a perfumery in flames. We didn’t know where to turn in that disorder of violated sarcophagi, it seemed as if time had stopped, nothing moved, nothing mattered to us any longer, certainly not the minor procedural concern that had brought us here, a matter of getting our schedules signed, of getting him to sign off on our course selections for the fall, because after everything he was still acting chancellor of the English Department, such things were his responsibility, paperwork was paperwork and paperwork must be done, we couldn’t expect Tripoli’s antique computer systems to adjust to the capricious whims of mankind.
A filthy derelict of a man, dressed in the uniform of a porter or footman from another time, met us in the prehistoric gloom of the Brewster Gallery and introduced himself as Mr. Bish Pinkman III, associate director of the Vocational Writing Program. He asked if he could bring us something to drink, coffee or tea or wine, and he offered us handfuls of sinister white tablets, which he had arranged on a dull salver from the college’s collection of antique silverware. To satisfy the demands of our anxiety, we ordered wine, we ordered chilled white wine, we hoped it would cool us down, but even more we hoped it would calm our hammering hearts and enable us to keep our heads long enough to navigate out of that evil paradise of smoldering Dumpsters and indistinguishable trash-heap exhibits and early American paintings covered with the most obscene graffiti. Only when he turned to go did we see that Mr. Pinkman III was hobbled, there were small dumbbells bound to his ankles with chain and baler twine, it was ghoulish, and we listened with horror as the ghastly thump of his homemade shoes died away. In the quiet that followed we could hear impossible sounds, we could hear children talking softly, dogs whimpering, tormented birds singing show tunes, the martial rhythm of construction. We could not swear to the reality of any of this and we had already begun to accept that what we heard and saw in that place was only as real as we made it, no more, so that when Mr. Pinkman III returned and handed us trophy cups filled with cane liquor, we drank and drank, we felt an animal thirst, we didn’t care why he’d asked what we wanted if he was only going to bring cane liquor, it turned out that cane liquor was just what we wanted. We helped ourselves to some of his white tablets, why not, to hell with it, we’d follow the slope all the way to the bottom.
