Metamorphosis

by Sesh Heri

  “Competition?” I asked. “What competition?”

  “Why— me and no one else,” Dash said.

  “You’re competition?” I asked. “Is that what you call what you do? I hadn’t noticed. Want a sandwich?”

  “I’ll swipe one and run,” Dash said. “Elsie and me are going out on the town. Just wanted to say bye-bye.”

  “Bye-bye, brother,” I said. “You better take two sandwiches. You’re a growing boy!”

  “I’ll take three!” Dash said, putting one sandwich in his mouth, and grabbing two more.

  “You look like a sandwich truck!” I said.

  Dash nodded.

  “I’ll wire you when I get to Los Angeles,” I said.

  Dash nodded and went out.

  Several more players came around the corner and sat down at nearby card tables.

  Jack and Charmian came in and sat down at our long table among the players, and sitting there, drinking the beer that Collins liberally poured out, Jack and Charmian seemed to be players themselves. They had certainly spent enough time at the theatre this past week to qualify.

  There was much laughter at table, Collins creating it at one end and Jack at the other.

  Glen Ellison asked Jack, “The ventriloquist Chesterfield told me that you wrote his act. Is that true?”

  “It is,” Jack said. “He came to town with a very bad act, lots of old jokes. But he was good at telling those old jokes— him and his dummies. I came backstage here and said to him— ‘You’re much too good a player to have such a bad act.’ He asked— ‘Can you write a better one?’ I laughed and said— ‘A better one? In ten minutes I could write a better one!’ He said— ‘Then let me see you do it!’ And so I sat down right over in that corner and wrote Chesterfield’s new act— in ten minutes. A ten minute act written in ten minutes.”

  Ellison said, “Chesterfield gets a lot of laughs, but I noticed there isn’t a single joke in his whole act.”

  “No doubt,” Jack said. “I don’t really recall what I wrote for him now. I know I just wrote some dialogue and told him to deliver it with great gravity and pause at the end of each line.”

  “That’s what he does,” Ellison said, “and the audience laughs. They can’t figure it. They think he’s deep.”

  “Maybe he is,” Jack said. “Or maybe he’s spouting absolute nonsense. I can’t remember what I wrote. I just remember I didn’t write any jokes.”

  “Where do you all go from here?” I asked all the players. “You’re not going down to Los Angeles.”

  “No,” Ellison said, “all the rest of us— every act but yours— makes the next jump to the State Capitol.”

  “Sacramento,” Reine Davies said.

  “Small towns can be tough,” I said.

  “I know,” Ellison said. “They have something to prove— that they’re just as smart as the city-slickers.”

  “Well,” I said, “I know you’ll all make a hit there. You all have good, solid acts. It’s been a pleasure working with you this week.”

  “I have a joke!” Collins piped above the conversation.

  “Tell it!” I said.

  “Man has a talking dog,” Collins said.

  “The old talking dog story!” Ellison jeered. “We’ve heard it!”

  “Not this one!” Collins snapped.

  “Tell it!” I said.

  “Man’s got a talking dog,” Collins said. “Or at least claims to have a talking dog. He goes into a barbershop. Barber says— ‘No dogs in here.’ Man says— ‘But this is a talking dog. See for yourself. Ask him anything.’ Barber says to the dog— ‘How d’ye do?’ Dog says— ‘Ruff!’ Man says— ‘See? He said he’s feeling rough.’ Barber says, ‘Wot’s yer name?’ Dog says, ‘Ruff!’ Man says, ‘See? He said his name was Ralph.’ Barber says, ‘What’s on top of a house?’ Dog says ‘Ruff!’ Man says, “See? He said roof.’ Barber gets mad and says— ‘If your dog is so blimey smart and can talk, why de ye hafta keep tellin’ me wot he says?’

  And the man says— ‘Why, can’t you hear it? The poor bloke has got a speech impediment!’”

  Everyone laughed, but Glen Ellison said, “That one is so old it’s growing a gray beard.”

  “Sounds like you’ve heard ‘em all,” Jack said.

  “Heard ‘em all and told ‘em all at one time or another,” Ellison said.

  “Ah,” Jack said, “to hear them all and tell them all and do them all is a terrible thing. Nothing left to hear, tell, or do. How do you manage?”

  “Manage?” Ellison asked. “Manage what?”

  “From going mad,” Jack said, blowing smoke out of his nostrils.

  Ellison shrugged, “Don’t know. How do you?”

  “I have another drink,” Jack said.

  “Don’t mind if I do!” Ellison said.

  Someone shouted, “Let’s drink up before the prohibitioners grab the vote!”

  “I’m voting for prohibition!” Jack said. “But I’m drinking up before I do!”

  “Vote against!” Ellison cried. “Against!”

  “No! The demon drink is ruining us!” Jack said, raising his beer mug with a gleam in his eye. “Can’t you see that? John Barleycorn has had his day! I say burn all the gin mills to the ground! Revolution! I cry for revolution!”

  Jack stood up at the table and held his beer mug aloft.

  “Revolution!” several at table cried, raising their mugs.

  Jack said, “I am a radical prohibitionist! My color is not pink— but red! Red! Red as the grape! Down with drink and down with drinkers! Shall we drink to it?”

  “Aye-aye!” Ellison shouted, and he and Jack put their mugs to their lips and put down all the beer that was in them.

  Jack wiped his mouth, grinned, and then turned to me, “You are the only sane and honest man among us! A true teetotaler without peer. Now tell me: Isn’t prohibition the best thing for this country?”

  “Haven’t thought about it,” I said, suddenly realizing that Jack was drunk, drunk in his own way and on his own terms. “I suppose a person has a right to choose whether or not to drink. It’s one’s own business.”

  “Ah,” Jack said, sitting down, “that is the book opinion of the matter! But John Barleycorn doesn’t give a rap about the book opinion. He just works on you and works on you until you don’t care anymore, you blissfully just don’t care anymore. Isn’t that right, Glen?”

  Ellison said, “I can’t drink enough beer not to care anymore. I need whiskey to achieve true bliss.”

  “Ah, yes,” Jack said, “beer is pretty lousy stuff.”

  “You don’t like it?” Ellison asked.

  “Can’t stand the taste of it,” Jack said. “And it gives me heart-burn.”

  “What do you like?” Ellison asked.

  “I’d just as soon have a glass of syrup and soda water,” Jack said. “Or how ‘bout some candy? I’d like a good ol’ ‘cannon ball’!”

  “Cannon ball?” Ellison asked. “If you don’t like liquor, why do you drink it?”

  “To be sociable,” Jack said. “To be sociable— and for the jingle it gives. I like to get jingled. Don’t like the taste of getting jingled.”

  “I like beer,” Ellison said. “Tastes good to me. But I like whiskey better,”

  “You are truly a manly-man,” Jack said, “a chesty manly-man who drinks his beer and likes it!”

  “But I like whiskey better,” Ellison said.

  ”Ah, yes, beer just starts the game,” Jack said. “But it’s whiskey that finishes it, all right. But before it finishes it, it gives out one moment of sublime truth— one moment of pure, white logic unbound from all of the world’s miserable lies.”

  “Jack,” Charmian said.

  “What?” Jack asked, pausing suddenly and slowly turning to look at Charmian.

  “That’s enough,” she said.

  “Oh,” Jack said. “I apologize. I apologize to you all. My wife here tells me I am making an alcoholic spectacle of myself. Th
is only proves my point. I am proof— living proof— of the power of John Barleycorn! Collins, old chap, where are you with that bloody pitcher? My glass is empty! I am bankrupt!”

  “Jack,” Charmian said, and she stood up.

  Jack said, “My wife tells me that I’ve had enough and it is time for us to go. And we all know it is a deadly sin to stay on too long. So I’ll say adieu to you all. Good night, good luck, and good bye.“

  Jack stood up. He seemed completely in control of his muscles, but I could still tell he was drunk.

  “We shall never meet again,” Jack said. “Most likely we shall never see each other again. It is a tragic moment. Would you not all agree this is a tragic moment?”

  Jack looked over to me.

  “You know it is a tragic moment, even though I shall see you tomorrow— tomorrow morning, six o’clock sharp. Ladies and gentlemen, the Great Houdini is coming up to my ranch as my special guest. We will have a fine time up there. I wish you all could join us. It shall be such a fine time. I wish to extend an open invitation to you all to come visit us up in Glen Ellen in the heart of the Valley of the Moon. You are all welcome, come any time. The latch key is out. Just reach for it when you can. Now I will take my leave, because I am drunk and need to go to bed. I am drunk, but I am not a drunkard. I know I am drunk. I have been much drunker. This is nothing, but it is disturbing my dear wife, my mate. Good night, good night, I have imposed upon all of you far too long.”

  Charmian said not another word, but only took Jack by his hand and led him to the stage door. Jack put on his hat and waved. Several at table waved back and laughed, but the party had lost its steam. Charmian and Jack went out of the stage door. There still was some more light banter, but I sat there a bit dazed as the sound of it buzzed distantly. I suddenly looked up, and all the chairs at the table were completely empty. Apparently everyone had left long ago. I turned and saw that Bess stood at my side.

  “You’re tired,” she said.

  “It’s been a long day,” I said.

  “And a long week,” she said.

  I stood up, and took her by the arm.

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  “Let’s,” she said.

  We went to the stage door.

  Bess said, “Charmian and Jack are going to knock on our door at six.”

  “Then we better get some sleep,” I said.

  We went out of the stage door, down the alley, and down that narrow alley until we were back out on 12th Street. Oakland was dark and quiet.

  We went to the entrance of the Adam’s, went into the lobby, and climbed the stairs to our room. When we got to the fourth floor, we saw Collins waiting outside our door with Vickery standing beside him.

  “Here for the birds,” I said.

  “Yes sir,” Collins said.

  We went into our hotel room. I brought the bird cages out of the bedroom and handed them to the boys.

  “They’ve been fed today,” Bess said. “Don’t give them anything more ‘til tomorrow afternoon.”

  “That we’ll do, Mrs. H,” Collins said. “Goodnight.”

  “See you in Los Angeles,” I said.

  Collins and Vickery went out with the birds and I closed the door behind them. I looked over at Bess.

  “Long day,” I said.

  Bess nodded.

  We went into the bedroom. Bobby stuck his nose up out of his wicker basket and then leapt on to the floor.

  “Come here, Bobby, old boy,” I said.

  Bobby’s tail went between his legs the moment he looked up at me. He backed away shivering.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Bess asked.

  “Don’t know,” I said.

  She knelt down and felt of his nose.

  “He doesn’t have a fever,” she said. “He looks all right, just seems kind of— well— scared.”

  “Maybe he’s just tired,” I said.

  “He might be coming down with something,” she said.

  “We’ll watch him,” I said.

  “Lay down, Bobby,” Bess said.

  Bobby lay back down into his basket, licking Bess’s hand all the while.

  “That’s a good boy,” Bess said.

  Bess stood up.

  “He’ll be all right,” I said.

  “I hope so,” Bess said.

  I started peeling off my clothes and got into my pajamas. Bess went into the bathroom. I pulled back the covers of my bed and slid down into the sheets.

  Bess came out wearing a gauzy black something with a very low neckline; it was a something I was sure she had just purchased over in San Francisco. She sauntered across the room slowly and sat down on my bed.

  “Very nice,” I said with my eyes half-opened.

  “Wanna play some, mister?” Bess asked in a little girl’s voice.

  “Like to,” I said. “But I’m tired. Really. I’m tired, exhausted. I need some sleep.”

  Bess sat there looking at me, and then she reached out and rubbed my chest with her hand.

  “You sure?” she asked.

  “Mm-hm,” I said, closing my eyes.

  I felt her hand go down along my stomach, and then down further.

  “No,” I said, taking hold of her hand.

  “Not tonight,” I said. I opened my eyes; I could see the hurt in hers’.

  “Bess,” I said, “you’re beautiful. You deserve better. But I just can’t now. Please understand.”

  She drew her hand away.

  “I understand,” she said coldly. She stood up next to my bed.

  “I understand perfectly,” she said.

  “No,” I said, “you don’t. You don’t or you wouldn’t be mad.”

  “I’m not mad,” she said, turning away.

  “Yes you are,” I said.

  “I’m not mad,” she said again, and pulled back the covers on her own bed. “This has happened too often for me to be mad.”

  Bess turned off the lamp and the room went pitch-black. I heard her slide into her bed and turn over. I knew she had her back to me now.

  “Bess,” I said.

  “No,” she said. “You said you were tired so just leave me alone and go to sleep.”

  “You’re crying,” I said.

  “I am not,” she said.

  “I’m sorry, Bess,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, just shut up, young man,” she said. “Just shut up and leave me alone.”

  I lay there in the darkness, looking up at the ceiling, listening to Bess as she tried to stifle her sobs.

  I was tired. But I knew a better man would make an effort. An effort. It didn’t seem to make sense to me then— love-making as an effort. It should come naturally, I felt, or not at all. And, anyway, I had tried that making an effort business many times in the past. It never worked. Bess could always see through it. “You’re not here,” she would say to me. “I have your body, but you’re not here with it. Where are you, young man? Where are you? Who are you thinking of?” “No one,” I would say. “Nothing.” And then she would explode at me— “Is that what I am to you? Nothing?” “I didn’t mean that,” I’d say. “I meant— I’m tired.” “Tired, tired! You’re always tired!” And she would pull away from me there in the dark, her hands and arms suddenly strong with a cold strength.

  I lay there in the dark thinking about all this and much more. Thoughts of the years behind us drifted through my mind, places we had been, people we had seen. The images became more and more disjointed. Bess’ sobs faded from my consciousness until I was gradually lost in a gray twilight. The thoughts kept passing through my mind: Things I planned to do in the next week, the next month, the next year; people’s faces who I needed to talk to about one thing or another. Abstract ideas flittered across the gray. Is this all there is? Who am I, really? Why is it so important to live? Why do we want to live so badly when we suffer so much? Why do I want to live? Why do I love my life so much when there is so little to love? Public acclaim? What does it mean? Money? What
can it buy? The love of my wife? What does her love for me really mean? Does she really love me? Does she really know me? Do I know…myself? My questions went deeply into the gray and did not come out again. I drifted. I drifted into the gray, deeply into the gray.

  Then I saw the grid.

  It was the same grid to which Ed Morrell had reintroduced me at San Quentin. It moved from left to right across my field of vision, just as before. And again, just as before, the grid began taking on color and designs within its squares. I watched the grid dispassionately. I watched it as it continued to move past me at a steady rate of speed. Then I heard a voice.

  It said, “Now.”

  And then I saw a finger raised. The finger was in the lower field of my vision; I could only see the finger and that it was covered in the fabric of a white glove. As soon as the voice said, “Now,” the grid slowed its motion, and came to a stop with a blue square of the grid stopping right in front of me.

  “Who are you?” I seemed to ask.

  “Who am I?” the voice asked. “Who are you?”

  “I’m me,” I said.

  “That’s who I am,” the voice said. “I’m me.”

  “Where are you?” I asked.

  “Where am I?” the voice asked. “Where are you?”

  “I’m here,” I said.

  “That’s where I am,” the voice said. “I’m here.”

  “Stop playing games,” I said.

  “No,” the voice said.

  “Why?” I asked. “Why don’t you stop?”

  “There is no stop,” the voice said. “All is game.”

  “I’ll find you,” I said, moving toward the blue square that looked like an open window to the sky on a summer’s day.

  “You’ll have to look very carefully to find me,” the voice said.

  I went through the blue square and felt the terrible flattening and the surging flow of power through my body, a flow that increased until I felt like I would explode into a thousand pieces. Then there was a loud snap beside my ear, and I fell through the blue, fell deeply into the blue, and then came out floating above the ground in the dark green of a forest glen.

  A rustle sounded off to the side, and I turned to look.

  From amongst the leaves of the forest a man stepped out, a man wearing a high silk hat— an opera hat— a “topper”— and dressed in the formal attire of an earlier generation, the generation of my childhood.