Joe's Liver

by Di Filippo, Paul

  “Pick the word or phrase you think is the correct answer. Then turn the page to check your score.…”

  Yes, oh yes! It does pay to increase your word power! How else would he have been able to so winningly sell the tremendous quantity of nutmeg gum to the GIs which he required to finance this very trip …?

  A large green sign with silver letters captures Ardys attention. He reads:

  CUSTOMS 1 MILE

  BE PREPARED TO STOP

  WELCOME TO VERMONT

  Ardy turns to Mister Enrico, a question forming on his lips. He confronts the startled and queerly galvanized face of Mister Enrico, who apparently has seen the sign too.

  “Holy shit!” exclaims Mister Enrico, before rocketing out of his seat and into the aisle, where he begins to scream mingled abuse and demands at the driver of the bus.

  “What the hell you doing, you crazy motherfucker! Where you going? Listen to me, man! You got to stop this bus! This is supposed to be the New York City bus, not no Vermont bus! Hey, you dumb sucker, let us off! Turn around! Go where you supposed to go, man!”

  Ardy cannot see the driver from his vantage, nor does he really recall his once-seen face, but the man’s loud deep voice and surly tone seem to indicate that he is not a honcho to trifle with.

  “Sit back down, you crazy Spic dopehead! This is the Boston bus! I’m not turning around, and no one’s getting off. Unless you keep it up, that is. Then I’ll kick your tail off at sixty-five per!”

  Mister Enrico falls back into his seat, defeated. Hopelessly he whispers, “Man, I don’t know no one in Boston. I never been through this Customs before. Oh, man, we are doomed! Doomed, man.…”

  Ardy attempts to comfort Mister Enrico. “Don’t despair, Mister Armitage. Surely these passports you have so cleverly obtained for us will be adequate to get us into the country. And what does a little detour matter? I don’t mind — really I don’t. I’ll be quite happy to see Vermont, the Green Mountain State. Why, do you know that one of ‘My Most Unforgettable Characters’ actually lives in this State? Yes, don’t appear so shocked, it’s true. ‘Doctor Herbert Spencer, the Gentle Veterinarian of Goosequill Junction.’ I remember the article as if I read it yesterday, although actually it’s been several years, at least —”

  “Shut up, man! Shut up! You’re driving me out of my head with this stuff about people you never even seen! Your most unforgettable shithead can stick his head up a goose’s ass, for all I care! Just shut up and let me think.”

  Ardy, his feelings injured, resolves to offer no more such solace. He recalls an inspirational gem once offered under “Quotable Quotes”: “Sometimes the best helping hand you can get is a good firm push.” Perhaps he has been wrong to coddle Mister Enrico. The man does have a few faults, after all. Nothing so serious, of course, that a little diligent self-improvement couldn’t turn him into a better soul, and perhaps even bring him the measure of worldly success which has so far eluded him. Maybe silent example and a face of stern reproval would be the wiser course.…

  Mister Enrico straightens up in his seat. His eyes glisten again, as if recently waxed. Ardy is riveted by their stiletto-like poignancy. Mister Enrico speaks.

  “Okay, okay, now listen good. Just maybe, we ain’t lost yet. But it all depends on doing exactly what I say. First thing is, you got to give me your moneybelt.”

  “My moneybelt?”

  “That’s right, Mister Dumbshit Echo, your moneybelt. Listen — if I got to bribe someone, how’s it gonna look if I gotta ask you for money? And besides, you’re the one who wrecked your passport by fooling around. So if anyone gets thrown in the can, it’s likely to be you. Now, how’m I gonna pay your bail if you got all the money?”

  “Mister Armitage, I’m ashamed to say that I cannot give you my moneybelt.”

  “You don’t trust me. I knew it! Man, this is the brick that breaks the camel’s back. First you get us on the wrong bus —”

  “Hey, MiSter Armitage, that’s not fair. I didn’t pick this bus.”

  “You didn’t say nothing against it, did you?”

  “No.…”

  “All right, check it out, the man admits it. First you put us on the wrong bus, and now, when I start talking about how to get us out of the mess you arranged for us, you practically spit in my face.”

  “Mister Armitage —?”

  “I ain’t talking to you no more.”

  “Mister Armitage, it’s not that I don’t trust you.”

  “Oh, no, it’s all my fault, man. Pardon me.”

  Growing frustrated at being misunderstood, Ardy employs the forbidden name. “Mister Enrico — please listen. It’s only that without a belt my pants would fall down. I’ve lost weight recently, you see, and …”

  “Man, why didn’t you just say so? Look, we’ll fix that in like two seconds.”

  Mister Enrico’s hands shoot to his neck, where they begin tugging at his collar like the hands of a stranger seeking to administer first aid to a fainting victim. Ardy soon realizes that he is only undoing his garish tie. When the tie is finally in Mister Enrico’s hands, he gestures to Ardy to undo his belt. Ardy unloops the fat moneybelt with its hidden inner zipper and replaces it with the tie, which bears a charming motif of three skiff leaves repeated diagonally. Mister Enrico, in turn, fastens the moneybelt around his waist above his other belt.

  The bus is slowing now, turning off the highway into a wide paved area where a small official-looking building sits. Several lanes are marked out with paint. The bus takes one, pulling up under a sort of giant roof supported on poles, not far from the building.

  The bus comes to a stop amid a hissing of airbrakes and a general shuffling of feet and shifting of posteriors among the passengers. Mister Enrico has slumped lower into his seat, as if hoping to merge with the garish fabric. Bits of yellow synthetic stuffing lie all around him on the floor. In conjunction with the glassy nature of his eyes, the scattered filling makes it appear that Mister Enrico is indeed an unusually unattractive plush animal who has begun to leak.

  Ardy looks out the window and tries to identify what he is feeling. He is not nervous, exactly. More like anticipatory of wonderful events, some of which might turn out to be mysteriously inexplicable at first, but none of which he would be willing to miss. He notes that the bus is currently shadowed by the giant roof above them, and thus more susceptible to the penetrating cold outside. Beyond the shadow of the roof, the November sunlight, which had heretofore seemed thin and useless compared to the blazing light that drenches the Spice Island, now appears like an impossibly wonderful gift held tantalizingly just out of reach.

  Hearing the door open, Ardy rises up so that he can see over the seat in front of him. The driver — indeed a big bruiser — is exiting. As soon as he leaves, two other men enter.

  These men are dressed alike in conservatively cut dark suits. One is fair-haired and white-skinned, with a face like that of a lugubrious walrus; the other is a black man with features seemingly carven from perdurable anthracite. Conspicuous beneath their jackets are guns holstered at their hips.

  Ardy is suddenly jerked back by the hem of his windbreaker. He falls into his seat. Mister Enrico thrusts his face into Ardy’s and hisses, “Man, don’t attract no attention. Those suckers’ll be on us soon enough.”

  “Good news, Mister Armitage,” says Ardy, in a burst of generous exuberance. “One of the Customs men belongs to my very own racial group. In other words, he is what we commonly call a ‘soul brother.’ Surely of anyone, he will be sympathetic to our plight, and willing to overlook minor technicalities. I wonder if I should initially break the ice by enquiring as to his musical tastes.”

  After regarding Ardy solemnly for a moment, Mister Enrico is finally moved to speak. “Listen to me closely, man, while I say these three words. You’re crazy! Don’t go saying nothing! Let me do all the talking. This guy ain’t no ‘soul brother,’ man. Wherever you dug that one up, I don’t know, but if there ever was any such thing, there ain
’t no more. Maybe you still got some kind of togetherness down on your raggedy-ass, barefoot Nutmeg Heaven, but up here things are different. I keep telling you man, you’re in the First World now. You’re on one side of the badge, and he’s on the other. This here ‘soul brother’ is just part of the system now, man. He’ll get a nice big bonus for catching you, whatever color you are.”

  Ardy wishes to dispute this rather cynical view of society with Mister Enrico, but decides against raising new points of contention at this ticklish juncture.

  Minutes pass. Ardy can hear the Customs men politely asking passengers to produce identification. He is soothed and reassured by their evident reasonableness. Mister Enrico, however, appears to grow more and more discomfited with every passing second.

  Finally the Customs men, having dealt with everyone else on the bus, stand beside Ardy and Mister Enrico. They both appear well over six feet tall, and have evidently missed very few meals during their developmental years — something Ardy, and probably Mister Enrico, cannot claim. The padded shoulders of their suits seem suitable for linebackers afield.

  The Customs men fix impartial but probing glances first on Mister Enrico — who is almost supine now — and then on Ardy, who flashes back a bright smile.

  “I’m Agent Johnson,” says the white man. “And this is my partner, Agent Johnson.”

  “No relation.”

  “May we see some identification from you gentlemen?”

  Ardy nods and removes his passport from his pocket. Frozen, Mister Enrico makes no move until Ardy nudges him, whereupon he takes out the passport of Duncan Armitage and hands it over.

  Johnson and Johnson spend much time carefully inspefting the passports, exchanging them, conferring in sibilant whispers. At last they hand them back and stare silently at the seated pair.

  “Mister Fitzwater,” says Agent Johnson.

  It takes a moment before Ardy realizes that it is he they are addressing.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Did you spill something on your passport ?”

  Ardy, unable acually to lie, looks sheepishly down at his feet.

  “I would like to remind you, Mister Fitzwater, that your passport is an official, government-issued document, and as such should be handled with the requisite care and respect. In the future, please remember that the Great Seal of the United States should be treated exactly as you would treat a portrait of your own mother.”

  Ardy nods respectfully, although the analogy carries less force than Agent Johnson perhaps would wish, since Ardy has never seen his mother, either in the flesh or by the medium of photography.

  The Customs men turn to depart. Mister Enrico, who has remained unbreathing throughout the inspection, suddenly exhales loudly and capaciously.

  The Customs men stop. “What’s that smell?”

  Mister Enrico remains silent for an agonizingly long time. Ardy, remembering the commands laid on him by his guide, does likewise. Only when the silence becomes unendurable does Ardy break his promise and speak up.

  “Sirs, I believe that what you are smelling is my nutmeg gum. I fear I am rather addicted to it. Would you care to sample a piece?”

  Ardy proffers his pack of gum. Agent Johnson tentatively accepts it, sniffs it, and hands it to his partner, who also passes it under his nostrils. They exchange knowing looks.

  “I’m afraid you two will have to come with us, please. This is just a formality of course. However, anything you say can and will be held against you, and you have the right to notify next-of-kin of your last known whereabouts.”

  Ardy gets numbly to his feet, as does Mister Enrico. They sidle out past Johnson and Johnson, who fall in close behind them.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please remain calm. There will be a slight delay in your journey while we establish the innocence or guilt of these two heinous drug-smugglers.’’

  Mister Enrico is walking like a robot with a short-circuit. Ardy is none too steady himself. The agents Johnson are a few paces behind. When Mister Enrico comes to the front of the bus, he pauses, as if unsure of what stairs are. Out of the corner of his mouth he whispers, “Man, you know which direction is south?”

  “I believe I could establish it by gauging the position of the sun.…”

  “Then you better do it fast, man, ’cause it’s time to run for it. We’re gonna split up, soon as we get off the bus, and burn some sneaker-tread south.”

  “What …?”

  “Just follow my lead, man!”

  “Move along, you two perps.”

  Outside, Mister Enrico suddenly drops his somnambulism and springs into action, slamming the bus door upon the Johnsons as soon as Ardy is through.

  “Run, man, run!”

  Ardy begins to sprint, still wondering if this is the wisest course. He is out in the sunlight now. From somewhere off to his right he hears Mister Enrico yell, “See you in Pleasant-town, man!”

  The parking lot seems as big as Spice Island. Ardy concentrates on a line of trees far ahead, unable to think of anything beyond them. Beneath his light clothes he is beginning to sweat, despite the chill air.

  A warning resounds above the distant traffic noises. “Halt within the next two seconds, or, pursuant to the RICO act and the Presidents Unending War on Drugs, we shall employ deadly force! One, two … Very well, you’ve had your chance. Agent Johnson, adopt the standard field target posture. On the count of three, commence firing.”

  Ardy begins to zig and zag, his heart fighting to escape his chest.

  “One, two, three!”

  Gunshots crack the air. Ardy picks up his feet and slaps them down faster than he has ever done before, faster even than when the wild boys used to chase him for sport, eager to torment him for enjoying the easy life with the Sisters of Eternal Recurrence. He feels an unexpected wetness streaking his neck, but has no time to worry about it.

  The trees and bushes are upon him before he even knows they are close. Branches whack his face and chest and thighs, but he plunges on heedlessly. There are no more shots, and he can hear no sounds of immediate pursuit, but none of this serves to alleviate his fear, and he plunges on, deeper and deeper into this strange temperate-zone forest full of trees and bushes and wild animals he has only read of before.

  “The Bobcat, Tiny Terror of the North.”

  “The Grizzly, Man-Mauler or Implacable Killing Machine?”

  “The Oak, Your Friend.”

  After a seemingly interminable period of broken running, Ardy at last falls to the gelid ground, exhausted. The cool sun shines beneficently down. Startled birds resume their calls. A squirrel appears and chatters. A leaf falls on Ardy’s head. His lungs no longer feel pierced with tiny knives. Putting a hand to his crown, he draws it away bloody, having felt what seems like a shallow gouge.

  He is all alone. He assumes that during his crazy run he has crossed the border. He is in America now, at last. He attempts to laugh, but the sound emerges devoid of emotion, as if from a teletype.

  “Ha, ha, ha.”

  If, he wonders, laughter really is the best medicine, why isn’t it helping now?

  2

  My Most Unforgettable Character

  In his most rapt, devout reading of such “Dramas in Real Life” as “Crash Landing Above the Arctic Circle” and “Whiteout! — When a Blizzard Strikes on the Way to the Seven-Eleven,” Ardy has never imagined the actual, bone-deep nature of real cold.

  But after last night he feels he can write such a tale himself, with many fine touches and true-to-life details born of noble suffering and pain.

  Walking now down the middle of a narrow country back road — its paving crumbled and frost-heaved in spots, dry weeds choking the gravel margins and rattling in the cruel breeze, woods and an occasional field stretching seemingly without end off to either side, the pale sun weakly beaming — Ardy recalls the traumatic night just past.

  Stumbling with fatigue through the all-too-quickly benighted forest, not daring to stop and lie down and
sleep, knowing that he will never rise again, hearing dire noises all around, pausing to piss and drying irreversibly up when he remembers Mister Enrico’s warning about his private member falling off, eventually breaking through a final curtain of scrub growth and sensing the road beneath his feet, then having to jog in place until dawn, (his hands which are undoubtedly already gangrenous with frostbite in his pockets), since he has lost all sense of direction and worries he might inadvertently set out on a northward course, back toward the fearsome guns of the Agents Johnson, finally watching with heavy-lidded gratitude the breaking of rosy dawn.…

  Oh, yes, it is an awesome and pathetic tale, fit to stand beside others in the genre. Perhaps when he reaches Pleasantville he will tell it to sympathetic ears and be instantly commissioned to produce a whole book based on his experiences.

  Thus does Ardy dream away the weary miles as he treads ever southward, removing his hands — not rotting yet, thank the Sisters! — frequently from his jacket pockets to chafe them, staunching his hunger with an occasional nutmeg cough drop, wondering about Mister Enrico and whether they will ever meet again, and wishing he had had the foresight to hold on to at least a few dollars of his hard-earned money.

  After a time, Ardy’s head starts to throb and he begins to hear a rumbling noise. He worries that his final earthly hour is approaching, feverish hallucinations leading inevitably to coma and death.… God, this is awful. But yet — he’s in America at last! Is he not moving manfully on toward his inevitable goal of meeting with those saintly geniuses who produce each month the journal by whose precepts he has shaped his life? Buck up, lad! This is the first day of the rest of your life.