Pathologies

by William Walsh

  UNTITLED

  Sco. Scolio. Scoliosis. The pretty girl on the bus has scoliosis. A bodycast can be a sexy thing. To a fetishist. Into that kind of thing. Her name is Missy. She’s just sixteen. Headphones on. Her peripheral vision acute. Here comes Bert. He’s a fetishist. Into bodycasts. That’s his thing. She overheard her mom. Talking on the phone. “This will keep the boys away. For one more year.” Bus driver’s head. Perfectly flat on top. Ought to wear a hat. Some fetishists can’t enact their thing. That’s Bert all over. He would never dare. Too much of an imposition of will. Missy’s tall for her age. Maybe she grew too fast. Her teeth came in straight. But her back’s out of whack. Bert knows his will is suspect. And he doesn’t deserve. Tiny woman up front. Five toddlers with her. Like so many monkeys. Bert’s stutter is new. He doesn’t mind it though. Folks more patient with him now. Sco. Scolio. Scoliosis. Missy notices Bert. Staring at her. She doesn’t get scared. Turns her music up. Summer Bert was ten. His mother’s leg in a cast. She took him to the beach. He helped her undress. Bert saw everything. Plus the dirty cast. The other passengers. Are all sort of nondescript. Except maybe the old man. Looks like he still dresses for work. The cast will change Missy’s body. It has already changed her head. Which feels unconnected to her neck. His mother still limps. Sometimes she leans on Bert. Missy doesn’t sleep at night. Thinking about her bent back. Bert’s doctor called it. Erotic imprinting. Dirty cast. Mother’s crotch. Can’t be erased. Nothing to be done. Can’t re-set it like a bone. Sco. Scolio. Scoliosis. Missy doesn’t get off the bus. Not in Bert’s mind. It’s never her stop. Bert becomes one with the bus. Part of a hole in the seat. Didn’t take long. He did it quietly. Nobody saw. Because Bert didn’t want to be seen.

  SO MUCH LOVE IN THE ROOM

  The baby would fix everything. The baby would be a magic bullet. Their marriage wouldn't fail with a baby in the house. They would have more than a marriage, with a baby. They would have a family. Their family would not fail. They hated failure more than they hated each other, so they would do anything to keep their marriage from failing. They would have a baby.

  Their gripes were valid. Their gripes were identical. They always agreed on this, their gripes. And everybody wanted them to fail, to stop succeeding. They were certain.

  So they had a baby boy and they named him Beef and they dressed him like a clown until he was three and was able to take off his clown clothes and tell them that he wanted to be dressed like a farmer.

  “One night,” they tell him, sounding—they knew—too rehearsed. “One special night. We’ll never forget. One night when there was so much love in the room.”

  GOVERNOR GHANDI,

  GOURMAND AND EX-CON

  A favorite lunch of mine is the fried baloney sandwich. As with any meal worth eating, preparation is key. Your cast iron skillet must be hot as Hades. The baloney should sear quickly, and you have to flip it before puckering begins. It is best served on white bread. Drink either lemonade or milk. You might discover that it's one of those meals that tastes better when eaten standing. A complementary dessert is a Granny Smith apple. I now skin my apples because I find that the peel gives me heartburn. Spicy foods don't repeat on me, but some of the most innocent snacks do, like Girl Scout Cookies (all varieties) and ricecakes.

  What's different this time around? I have a better nose now. I don't need glasses. I came to power effortlessly. I'm skiing. I've noticed that wine is more consistent, from one bottle to the next. Years ago, there was a vast difference in quality between expensive wines and more modestly priced wines. And I'm not so abstemious anymore. Nowadays I eat what I want, when I want.

  I admit that I developed some odd dietary habits in prison, like fasting. However, I did manage to avoid picking up the lazy speech patterns of my fellow inmates, and I remained morally straight in prison, unlike many of the men I was imprisoned with who had sex together.

  I don't want to talk about my past life. I've made that clear in virtually every interview I've granted since my return. I don't even want to talk about the time I had Italian ices and played hopscotch with the Pope in St. Peter's Square. Even still, hundreds of school children have written idiotic letters to me, asking me for help with their book reports on me. Go to the library and leave me alone.

  Initially, I opened a consulting firm called What Would Gandhi Make of This? I provided Fortune 1000 companies with my considered opinion on new products they were launching and new services they were delivering to their clients. I would hold their product in my hands and tell them what I thought. Consumer electronics, toiletries, household consumables. I developed a surprising expertise in the area of foods and beverages. I sampled the latest confections from snack manufacturers, sipped twice-brewed coffees, nibbled on the new sizzling fajitas from a regional TexMex chain. Often my food evaluations were done blindfolded, and without the benefit of a taste test. I used only my sense of smell to determine if the plate of food before me was tempting enough for a man to cave in and give up his fast. It was fun and satisfying work, and I had billings of $300,000 in my second quarter. But I missed politics. That's when the boys from Rhode Island called.

  I took on the appointment as Governor with one stipulation: That I could wear a cape instead of the puffy diapers I used to wear in my former life. I had other "requests" of the syndicate, it's true, but the cape was my only stipulation. And now wearing capes isn't the fun I thought it would be. It's all anybody ever talks about. Mention my name and all the talk turns to capes, Did you see Gandhi's cape yesterday? They keep track of the capes that I wear to high-level functions, and I better not wear the same cape twice in a month or else I'll read about it in the tabloids. I brought it on myself. I courted flamboyance. Now I'm married to it. And flamboyance is a full-time job with mandatory 24-hour OT every day. Pacifism, by comparison, was easy. I never had a problem with getting hit over the head, provided I got my way in the end. Plus, I developed a taste for fasting. I'd launch a hunger strike every other day if there were a call for it. A skinny guy like me doesn't really care to eat that much anyway. You get a lot of attention on a hunger strike, and it's a decision you can chose to live by or undo as necessity dictates.

  Which brings me to my topic today: Flavored potato chips. For many years I held a very low opinion of those who like flavored potato chips. I thought them to possess an immature palate. I thought them to be simpleminded, easy to please. And when it came to the consumption of flavored potato chips by members of my family or office staff, I was something of a dictator. I forbade flavored potato chips from the Governor's mansion and in my administrative head-quarters. Once, at a cookout that one of my wife's doctor friends had invited us to, I struck my son, Ben, when I caught him eating a barbecue-flavored potato chip. I don't know where the chips had come from, or who among the guests had offered them to my son. The irritating thing was that there were so many other wonderful dishes for him to choose. Why would he go for the barbecue-flavored chips?

  Later, my daughter, Marie, in that quiet way of hers, pointed out the irony of my action. I had built an international reputation as a peaceful man intent on achieving political success through, as I called it, passive resistance, but here I was hitting a five-year-old boy across the puss. What had I become? I had never struck any of my jailers, no matter how abusive they were to me. To my credit, I immediately felt regret for my actions.

  To make it up to Ben, I sat down with him the following morning and watched one of his television shows with him. It was the show that features a dozen or so cartoon characters and one live actor: A man of about thirty who has the face and physique of a teenage boy. He is cheery and has a convincing way of making eye contact with all the cartoons around him. My son loves this show. I pretended to like the show for my son's benefit, resisting the urge to tell him that in my time, animation was animated, meaning cartoon characters moved! These cartoons today don't move a muscle. They all have dots for eyes and squiggle lines for mouths, and these are the only parts that move. I be
gan to pay closer attention when the live actor sat down to eat his breakfast, surrounded by his cartoon friends. Everything on his table had a face, and everything talked to him: His plate and utensils, the salt and pepper, the napkin holder. But when his food was served it had no face and didn't make a peep. He had ham and eggs and flapjacks and toast and a fruitcup. My son turned to me and asked me if watching the show made me think of all those hunger strikes I used to pull when I was in jail. I said, Ben, everything reminds me of those hunger strikes. Everything.

  THE MARGARET ATWOODS

  Margaret Atwood had been arrested before. But he had never been arrested by a police officer named Margaret Atwood.

  Desk Sergeant stopped by Margaret’s cube. “Atwood,” he said. “You fucked up your arrest report. You typed your name on the perp’s line.”

  “No, Sarge,” Margaret said. “Perp’s name’s the same as mine. Margaret Atwood.”

  Margaret Atwood had always wanted to be a cop, ever since he was a little boy. He even liked doing the paperwork.

  The crime Margaret Atwood allegedly committed is not important. If he wasn’t completely innocent, he was, at least, not indictable. What he allegedly did in an Italian restaurant in Providence, Rhode Island, is irrelevant, not worth mentioning.

  Margaret Atwood, the arresting officer, was six years old in 1986 when Police Academy 3 came out. He wanted to go see it, but his parents wouldn’t take him because it was rated PG. Also, his mother got nauseous in movie theatres. “All I smell is dirty hair,” she’d say.

  Margaret’s father promised to buy Police Academy 3 for the boy as soon as it came out on video. Margaret’s father—also named Margaret Atwood—had just graduated from the Rhode Island Police Academy, third in his class, and he had just begun a promising career in law enforcement with the Providence Police Department. But his career was cut short when two fellow police officers discovered Margaret marching in a gay pride parade. He was disguised as a mime, but he was still recognizable in his big black cop shoes. His colleagues beat the hell out of Margaret along the parade route. Margaret took his licks like a mime: silent, miming his reactions to the real punches. When they were done, he was a mime with a black eye and split lip?

  So Margaret Atwood’s father began working as a security guard. The police force didn’t want him. He already wasn’t Italian, couldn’t grow a mustache, and had a girl’s name. Now he was gay.

  Margaret Atwood, the perp, got into lots of fistfights as a young man. He wanted to like people, but people were not nice to him. One hundred percent of Margaret Atwood’s fights were about his name. Margaret was his mother’s name, and when she died giving birth to her one and only son, Margaret’s father decided to name his one and only son after his dead wife. At the time, in profound grief, he could not be talked out of it.

  Margaret discovered that he could win nearly every fight if he were to throw the first punch. One punch is all it takes with most guys, Margaret understood, especially if the other guy isn’t expecting to be punched. The ones who needed two or three punches to be defeated by Margaret Atwood—he didn’t win those fights. Margaret threw quick over-handed punches—jabs really—aimed right at the nose and top teeth. If he wasn’t in position to throw an over-hand punch, he threw a roundhouse right to the temple or eyesocket.

  There had been some confusion after Margaret was cuffed. When asked to state his name, Margaret always paused, readying himself for a reaction, readying himself to punch. He looked down at his feet and said, “Margaret Atwood.”

  Margaret Atwood slapped the perp hard across the back of his head. He figured the perp had read the nametag above his badge. “Comedian.”

  A COURTSHIP BALLAD

  Millie was a fine, old-fashioned girl. With a fine, old-fashioned pair of tits. I understood instantly that Millie’s tits would require an old-fashioned courting. So I took Millie’s tits to the cinema. I took Millie’s tits out for an ice cream cone. To the finest restaurants, I took Millie’s tits. And I took Millie’s tits to the art museum (with many nude paintings of bare tits that were quite old fashioned and a few paintings of nude tits that were quite modern in their casting). And I took Millie’s tits home to meet my dear mother. And I took Millie’s tits to the cemetery where my dear father lay. I thought of nothing day and night except Millie’s tits. I drew pencil sketches of what I imagined Millie’s tits looked like. And I wrote love poem after love poem to Millie’s tits. And I spent hours and hours thinking of ways to get a better and longer look at Millie’s tits. I snuck a peak at Millie’s tits every time she blinked. (A slow blinker, she, thank God!) And when Millie left me alone in her apartment for a short period of time while she helped her aged landlady with the cable box, I dug deep into Millie’s lingerie drawer to uncover the holy brassieres that held her fine, old-fashioned tits. I bought a blouse for Millie that I knew would accentuate her tits. But Millie wore the new blouse in her typically modest way (with all of the little buttons buttoned). I bought skin care cream for Millie that I imagined she applied to her tits nightly. Millie said, indicating her tits with a nod, “I can’t continue seeing you if you’re going to be all hands. Although I like to kiss and coo, I am at heart an old-fashioned, first-base-only-kind-of-gal.” So I went to Sunday Mass with Millie’s tits. I prayed and I prayed for Millie’s tits. I concluded that I had to marry Millie’s tits. I spent two months salary on a ring for Millie’s tits. And I bought a bouquet of roses for Millie’s tits. I hired a skywriter to fly over the park and to spell out my proposal to Millie (and her tits). I took Millie’s tits up, up, and away in a beautiful hot air balloon. I got down on one knee in the cramped gondola to reiterate to Millie (and to her tits) what the skywriter had just slowly spelled out. And, with the balloon man bearing witness, Millie clutched her tiny hands to her tits and said, “Yes. Yes, I will. Yes.” One week later Millie’s father walked Millie’s tits down the aisle (I am not one who believed in long engagements and on this point Millie’s tits agreed). I am now married to Millie’s tits. And I must say that I have not stopped singing (singing!) about Millie’s tits since our wedding day.

  BEGGARS CAN’T

  Beggars can’t be subtle. Beggars can’t be born without palms. Beggars can’t be aphasic. Beggars can’t be anti-sidling. Beggars can’t be unavailable. Beggars can’t be standoffish. Beggars can’t be amortizers. Beggars can’t be their own four-color brochures. Beggars can’t be self-aggrandizing. Beggars can’t be in two places at once. Beggars can’t be ATMs. Beggars can’t be remote. Beggars can’t be incorporated. Beggars can’t be partial to the fugue. Beggars can’t be procrastinators. Beggars can’t be lit from within. Beggars can’t be without a ready back-story. Beggars can’t be obscure. Beggars can’t be averse to full disclosure on a handmade sign. Beggars can’t be taxed. Beggars can’t be dismissive. Beggars can’t be more at home in the woods. Beggars can’t be litigious. Beggars can’t be nonchalant. Beggars can’t be recondite. Beggars can’t be landmarks. Beggars can’t be effete. Beggars can’t be hobbyists. Beggars can’t be commuters. Beggars can’t be finicky. Beggars can’t be vacationers. Beggars can’t be diffident. Beggars can’t be pound foolish. Beggars can’t be too trenchant.

  DIAGNOSIS: MUSTACHE

  Hello. You have reached the production offices of Diagnosis: Murder, starring Dick Van Dyke as Doctor Mark Sloan. At the sound of the tone, you're invited to leave a message for the cast and characters of Diagnosis: Murder. Friday nights, eight o'clock, CBS. But if this is the lady who keeps calling to say that Dick Van Dyke should shave off his mustache, we don't want to hear from you again. Dick will not be losing the mustache any time soon.

  The days of a clean-shaven Dick Van Dyke are long gone. History. He is no longer Rob Petrie. He is Doctor Mark Sloan, full-time physician and part-time sleuth. Diagnosis: Murder, CBS, Friday nights, eight o'clock. Dick's mustache is his baby. Dick is into his mustache. When it comes to his mustache, Dick's like a man who has switched religions. He prays to the mustache god now, and he doesn't
want to even think about his old no-mustache god.

  Dick's mustache is the defining symbol of his blooming second career, lady. There were some tough years before Dick grew the mustache, and he doesn't want to even think about his life before the mustache. He's drawn mustaches on all his old pictures. He took a magicmarker and drew a mustache on every single picture. He did the family photos first, vacations, holidays, every picture in the Van Dyke family photo album. Then Dick drew mustaches on his old headshots. Dick drew mustaches on his TV Guide covers from 1962 and 1965. Dick even drew mustaches on his commemorative posters for Chitty-Chitty Bang-Bang, Mary Poppins, and Bye Bye, Birdie. He called the Museum of Television History and asked if they would add a mustache to the Dick Van Dyke in their Dick Van Dyke Show exhibit. They said no go, but Dick says he's going to call again in six months, and if the answer's still no, then he's going to keep on calling. "People yield to repetition," Dick says.