Joe's Liver

by Di Filippo, Paul

  “Ardy, just push the cart and don’t worry, okay?”

  “I will try to understand, Dawn. However, it does require some mental readjustment.”

  Finally the last day of the year makes its muted grey entrance. Ardy awakes with barely suppressed excitement. His debut social event in the glamorous First World! How many times, standing outside in the cold beside Roseanna’s Jaguar, did he wonder what was going on inside, what glittering pleasantries were being exchanged, what witticisms unleashed, what tender confidences expressed, what daring liaisons arranged! Now, this very night, he will find out.

  Ardy spends the day decorating the apartment with streamers and honeycombed constructions of tissue-paper, in the shape of bells, balls, champagne glasses, etc. Roy is out during this time, and Dawn remains abed until noon, so Ardy has plenty of liberty to arrange things to his liking, whistling “Auld Lang Syne” all the while.

  “Ardy, I can’t get out of my room.”

  “Sorry, Dawn. One minute, please don’t tear at that crêpe, just let me … Okay, how’s that?”

  “Ardy, this is like doing the limbo.”

  “It’s only for tonight, Dawn.”

  “Oh, all right.…”

  The afternoon dawdles, but evening finally arrives. Ardy, wearing the nicest outfit he has been able to assemble from the clothing he and Roy scavenged before their flight, stations himself by the door, ready to greet any and all guests.

  “I take it, Dawn, that many of your fellow Bohemian art students will be coming tonight.”

  “Well, Ardy, don’t get too broken up if they don’t show. A lot of them have gone home for the holidays, and a lot of them just don’t like me. Actually, most of the people I’ve invited are older folks I know through my parents.”

  “I see. In any case, we have Roy’s new friends to anticipate.”

  Dawn exhibits a little nervousness at the mention of Roy and his crowd.

  “Yeah, I guess they’ll be pleasant enough. I wish Roy would get here a little ahead of them, though.”

  “Please don’t fret, Dawn. I’ve never known Roy to let me down yet. He’ll be here on time. Meanwhile, shall we indulge in a single glass of champagne?”

  “I don’t suppose it would hurt.”

  Ardy and Dawn manage to kill a bottle before the first guests arrive: Mister and Missus Littlefield, a couple in their early seventies.

  “Hello, Dawn dearest. How are your parents?”

  “Fine, Auntie. How are you and Uncle?”

  “My arthritis is kicking up,” barks Mister Littlefield. “But other than that, we can’t complain. Here, my good man, you can take these coats.”

  “Uncle, this is my friend, Ardy.”

  “I am pleased to meet you, sir.”

  “Hmpfh!”

  Other guests manifest in couples and singly. The median age of Dawn’s friends appears to be fifty-three. All of them pick seats and refuse to stir. Ardy is forced to circulate with drinks and food. The talk — that gay chatter so anticipated by Ardy — consists mainly of complaints about health, the stock market, and servants. Occasionally, though, there is a bright spot.

  “What’s in this egg salad, boy?”

  “Just a little nutmeg, sir.”

  “Not bad, not bad at all.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Around eleven Roy, shouldering a backpack, and his companions arrive. Their coming seems to precipitate the general exodus of Dawn’s friends.

  “Oh, can’t you stay just until the New Year?”

  “Now, dear, you know your Uncle has to be in bed before then.”

  “Goddamn sciatica.”

  “Oh, I did so hope … Well, goodbye, see you next year.”

  “That’s not my coat, young man!”

  “Terribly sorry, sir. Excuse me. This champagne has gone straight to my head.…”

  Ardy is prevented from cordially seeing the very last of Dawn’s relatives on their way by a sudden impetuous hug from a conspicuously affable Roy. Roseanna’s wayward son crushes Ardy to his bosom so that Ardy’s face is concealed from the other newcomers filing into the condominium.

  “Thongstrap!” bellows Roy jubilantly, albeit without apparent cause. “Come with me a second.”

  Roy hustles Ardy into a room empty of people, wherein many of Dawn’s abortive art projects lie shrouded, slams the door shut, then releases him. “Okay, listen close now. I need your help to play like some charades with my new friends. First, we’ve got to put this make-up on your face and neck and hands.”

  “Make-up?” Ardy’s mind, fuzzled by bubbly, does not at first register the necessity of donning make-up for a round of charades. But Roy’s surprising desire to enlist Ardy in the fun and games renders him agreeable. “Very well, as long as it’s non-allergenic.…”

  Taking the proffered tube from Roy, Ardy squeezes out its contents and applies the paste to every area of visible skin. The unknown compound transforms his cocoa epidermis to a shade best described as that of a jaundiced Tartar.

  “Fantastic. Now, close your eyes.”

  Ardy complies. Roy clamps a firm hand atop Ardy’s head. Ardy feels a pinprick at the corner of one eye, then, before he can jerk away from the restraint, a parallel lancet-like jab at the other eye.

  Ardy snaps his eyelids up. Or tries to. These vital yet seldom appreciated organs do not respond in their wonted manner. Turning to a mirror, Ardy notes that his eyelids are sagging in a fashion that makes him resemble Droopy Dawg. Meanwhile, Roy is callously disposing of a hypodermic needle in a nearby trash container.

  “Roy, what have you done to my eyes?”

  “Nothing permanent. It’s just a shot of botulism toxin. Rich old crones use it to smooth out their wrinkles. I copped it from a buddy whose dad is a plastic surgeon. Its effects are strictly temporary, just like the skin dye.”

  Ardy is trying to push his semi-occluding lids into place with a fingertip, but they refuse to obey. Never vain, he nonetheless does not relish this unflattering transfiguration. A creeping anger begins to burn through his inebriation. “Roy, your confusing ministrations have left me looking like a Mongoloid halfwit.”

  “That’s perfect. It’s all part of the game. Now one last touch.”

  From the same backpack that yielded cream and needle, Roy extracts a mangy hat: a felted crown like an Oriental stupa surrounded by a barricade of fur. He plops it on Ardy’s noggin. “Great! Now you’re ready to meet the gang.”

  “I fear they will look askance at my new countenance and chapeau.”

  “Not a chance. It’s what they expect.”

  The two pals emerge to rejoin the social scrum.

  Despite his half-hooded gaze, Ardy is able to take stock of Roy’s friends. Uniformly youthful, clad in jeans and a variety of informal shirts, they seem the very antithesis of those who have just left. A mix of male and female, they all bear a certain serious mien, which they preserve even while falling ravenously on the food and drink.

  Chaperoned by a fulsomely smiling Roy, Ardy walks over to the crowd of youths busily demolishing the various platters.

  In the middle of the group is someone unnoticed by Ardy before. A slim man in his mid-forties, dressed rather like a truck driver, this fellow wears a long grey ponytail and a silver mustache which complements his rugged face.

  “I want you to meet Professor Anger, Ardy. He’s the unofficial faculty advisor to our little group.”

  “Hello, Professor. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  “That goes double for me, Mister Dorjam.”

  Ardy is about to correct the academic, who is vigorously shaking his hand, when Roy interrupts. “The Professor wants to ask you about conditions back home, Ardy.”

  “That’s right. You know, this is the first chance I’ve had to meet someone from your country. We’re all very concerned about the continued presence of foreign soldiers there.”

  “Oh, my country’s such an insignificant place.…” says Ardy humbly. “As for t
he soldiers, they are now an inextricable part of our landscape.”

  All the students are quiet now, regarding him with excessive attention, and Ardy feels his throat drying up.

  “Could I have a drink, please, Roy?”

  Roy tenders a glass eagerly.

  Professor Anger is speaking again. “…be modest, Mister Dorjam. The whole world is focused on your nation and its longstanding troubles. Why, our newly constituted Action Committee is devoted to your cause, as are dozens more around the nation.”

  “I wasn’t aware …”

  “Tell me truthfully now, Mister Dorjam — how do you regard the role of America in your nation’s affairs?”

  An expectant silence fills the room. Ardy doesn’t know what to say.

  “Why, I never, that is, um — well, without American support, we cannot have any freedom.”

  A murmur of awed incredulity arises from the listeners. Professor Anger’s eyes grow large.

  “May I quote you on that, Mister Dorjam ?”

  Ardy feels confident that he has said the right thing. “Of course. I will even amplify my remarks. America is the sole hope of my country. Everything my nation could one day become derives from your inspiration.”

  “Dig it!” “Its just what we’ve been saying!” “They’ll never be free without us!”

  Pleased at the response he has evoked, Ardy swigs his drink. The bubbles seem to collect in his head, making it want to float ceilingward.

  Professor Anger grips both of Ardy’s biceps fiercely. His countenance expresses righteous indignation. “Mister Dorjam, your cause is ours! All our energies, our very bodies, are at your disposal. We must communicate your informed opinions — so much more strongly expressed than those of your noble yet timid uncle — to the general public, and simultaneously work to change the policies of this misguided country of ours, beginning with the university itself. Would you be willing to attend a rally, and perhaps make a small speech?”

  “Well, I don’t know.…”

  “Of course he would,” says Roy.

  “Wonderful. We’ll begin planning tomorrow.”

  The Students break up into small clusters of animated talk. Ardy, not quite sure of what Roy has pledged him to, feels the need to sit down. Exactly how much champagne has he drunk …?

  Before Ardy quite realizes it, midnight has arrived. Someone shuts off the lights, and a general shouting and hooting and resounding of paper-coned horns occurs. Ardy tries to stand to take part, but trips and falls backwards over the couch. By the time the lights go on and Ardy can get up, people are filing out.

  Roy is on his way out. “Dawn, I don’t know when I’ll be back. We gotta go talk about the rally. See you later.”

  Soon, only Dawn and Ardy are left in the apartment.

  “Dawn, I will begin cleaning up now.…”

  Seated laxly on the couch, Dawn seems inexplicably depressed.

  “Leave it till the morning, Ardy, and come sit here with me.”

  “If you wish, Dawn.”

  Silence. It is rather a morose start to the new year.

  “Dawn, who were those people?” Ardy asks at last.

  “I’m not supposed to tell you.”

  “Are we not good friends, Dawn? Even, dare I go so far, companionable fellow-shoppers?”

  “Give me a kiss, then.”

  “Miss Shattuck, I am reluctant to compromise my standing as Roy’s friend by trespassing on the affections of his paramour.…”

  “That jerk! If he likes me so much, why isn’t he here?”

  “Roy follows certain ideals.…”

  “Screw ideals! I’m a tangible! Here, feel this.”

  “Ah, um, yes, your corporeality is unmistakable.”

  “Now what about that kiss?”

  “Well, if you insist …”

  “Mmmm, that was nice.”

  “I have had a certain amount of practice lately.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Not since I’ve known you, though, Dawn. Listen, may I ask again exactly what the Action Committee’ wishes to take action about?”

  “Oh, they want the university to push for the freedom of your country.”

  “Spice Island? But we’ve already been liberated.…”

  “Oh, no, not there. Tibet.”

  Ardy jumps to his feet.

  “Are you telling me —”

  “Yes, I’m telling you, Mister Thongstrap Dorjam, nephew to the Dalai Lama.”

  “And when I said —”

  “Yes.”

  “And they thought I —”

  “Yes.”

  “And now they want me to —”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh my God!”

  “Yes. Now sit back down here.”

  “No, I can’t now —”

  “Ardy, don’t I always get what I want?” Ardy thinks a moment, then contemplates Dawn, all loose-limbed with a hand hung down between her thighs. He sits back down.

  “Yes, Dawn, you do.”

  8

  Toward More Picturesque Speech

  “I refuse, Roy. I absolutely will not go along with this hypocritical hoax.”

  “Ardy, buddy, listen — Hey, don’t turn away like that, c’mon!”

  “Roy, there is nothing you can say that will convince me to do what you wish me to. It is immoral, unethical, fraudulent, and quite probably illegal.”

  “Granted. But all of that’s beside the point. Can’t you see that we’re working for a higher good here? Look, we’re trying to free a whole enslaved nation of innocent yak-herders! Doesn’t a goal like that allow us to act just a little bit outside normal ethics, especially when those ethics — which you must admit are only the accumulated truisms of generations of White Anglo-Saxon Protestants, mixed with Judeo-Christian tenets inapplicable to Asian cultures — are deliberately employed for the sole purpose of perpetuating the capitalist system of cheap labor and golden parachutes?”

  “Was that a question or a manifesto? I fear I became lost somewhere around the third dependent clause.”

  “That’s funny, Ardy, that really is. Sure, you can joke, because you don’t have anything at stake. What about me, huh? What about my reputation with the Action Committee? Right now they think I’m a mover and a shaker, a guy with connections. But if I show up at the rally without you, the main attraction, they’ll think I’m nothing but a big blowhard.”

  “Roy, although it pains me to say it, sometimes you do seem to deserve such an epithet.”

  “That’s it, abuse me, call me names, I don’t care, I deserve it, I’m white, you’re black, the master must atone to the former slave for his sins, I dig it, I feel the guilt, my head is bowed. But can’t you see that everything I’m doing is intended to make up for the centuries of injustice my race has inflicted across the imperialist-dominated globe?”

  “I was not aware our relations existed on such an emblematic plane. What about simple friendship?”

  “What about it?”

  “When you introduced me to Professor Anger and those students, I was pleased. I thought it was because you were proud to have me as a friend —”

  “I am, I am!”

  “Then why did you tell everyone prior to their arrival at Dawn’s that I was one Thongstrap Dorjam, nephew to the Dalai Lama, educated at Oxford and a personal friend to Richard Gere?”

  “It was a slight exaggeration.”

  “Your understatement of the offense is comprehensible, but still annoying. It was as much a slight exaggeration as the news of Mark Twain’s death. Roy, you out and out lied!”

  “Yes, I admit it, I lied! But ask yourself why!”

  “To aggrandize yourself in the eyes of your new friends, who, despite their never having gone through a firefight with you as I have, you esteem more highly?”

  “No, that’s not true! Ardy, I did it to provide the movement with a symbol.”

  “A symbol?”

  “Yes, you, Ardy, you’re the symbol. Man, you
didn’t see what I saw. It was pitiful. Here’s this really radicalized bunch of students and faculty — Professor Anger isn’t the only teacher on our side you know — Where was I? Oh yeah. Here’s these people who really want to get their school to disinvest in China, as a first step toward freeing America from its role as supporter of Tibetan repression, but they’re just flopping around like gaffed fish, they don’t have any central figure to mobilize around. They can’t make the issue concrete to the uncommitted majority of the student body, no one’s paying any attention to them. Being a fairly perceptive person, I see all this right away. So I take it on myself to supply what they’re missing. That’s you, and you alone, Ardy. You’re a natural for the role, now you’ve got the skin dye and the eyejob and genuine hat. Toss in your weird accent, and you’re the only one who could carry it off. Sure, if I coulda gotten a real live Tibetan, I wouldn’t have involved you. But those guys are at a premium! They’re all off in DC or Hollywood or busy contemplating their fucking navels. Ardy — without you, the whole thing falls apart.”

  “Roy, I just don’t know …”

  “Look, I know what you’re worried about. It’s the aftermath of that day we blew up the reactor, isn’t it? You’re afraid that by sticking your neck out again, you’ll bring the heat down on us, who are still a little pissed because half of Boston is glowing. Is that it?”

  “Well, at the risk of appearing cowardly, I will admit that such thoughts had crossed my mind.”

  “Okay, talk about me being perceptive! Well, put yourself at ease, man, ’cause by falling in with my plan, you also get instant anonymity.”

  “How do you reach such a conclusion, Roy? I would tend to think the opposite, that by appearing in public I will attract the authorities in much the same way that a decaying coconut summons fiddler crabs.”

  “It’s like that old Poe story, man, ‘The Purloined Letter.’ You know, the one place people don’t look for something they assume is hidden is out in the open. By agreeing to become the symbol of our movement, even if it should mean appearing on national television, you gain the perfect disguise.”

  “National television?”

  “I’m just blue-skying it, Ardy, but who knows? It could happen.”

  “Roy, I simply don’t … Roy, please don’t cry.”