The Howling Man

by Beaumont, Charles

  "Yak, yak!" said Mister Bones.

  Kinkaid rose, unsteadily. "I think," he said, "that I'd better go."

  "Too late," said Biddle.

  "Boo!"

  Kinkaid jumped backward, colliding with a large desk. When equilibrium returned, he found himself staring at a figure alongside which the man with the black face seemed absolutely humdrum. This figure reflected a hundred times throughout the room, wore a golden mask and a skin-tight suit of many colors, each color in the shape of a diamond, each diamond a different hue from the other. The figure approached, and as it did so, the tiny bells attached to its ankles and to its wrists and to its high-peaked cap tinkled wildly.

  "What goes up the chimney down but not down the chimney up?"

  "I don't understand the question," said Kinkaid. "Would you repeat it?"

  "No," said the belled figure. Pointing the stick at Biddle: "Tell him."

  "An umbrella," said Biddle.

  The man with the black face slapped his knees. Peculiar noises issued from his throat. They were, Kinkaid thought, like the noises of the Laff-Tracks on TV; but also not like them.

  "Mister Bones," said the belled figure, "it's toodle-oosville, s'il vous plait."

  The man with the black face tapped his tambourine, turned and walked headlong into the wall. Again Kinkaid felt the strange constriction in his chest. The ends of his mouth curled upwards as the man crashed to the floor, rolled, picked himself up and staggered through the doorway.

  "I don't know, Biddle," said the harlequin figure. Kinkaid could feel hot eyes staring upon him from behind the golden mask. "I'm very dubious."

  "He smiled," said Biddle, frowning.

  "Yes, but that was a yok. We've got to be so careful."

  "Of course. I know that. That's why I waited to be sure." Biddle put his arm around Kinkaid's shoulder. "Understand, he's a beginner. And he was amused by the trick cigar."

  The bells tinkled. "Was he?"

  "He very nearly laughed."

  "Well!" Silence. Then, once more, the bells; louder; much louder. The figure reached across the desk. "Good to meet up with ya, podnuh!"

  Hesitantly, Kinkaid accepted the hand. There was a loud buzz, followed by a painful tickling sensation on his palm. He jerked away.

  The Laff-Track noise again, from Biddle's throat. Listening, Kinkaid was hardly aware of the lava-hot ball gathering and expanding inside him. When it burst, he was as surprised as the others. "That's it!" he shouted, slamming his fist down on the desk. "I don't know what the hell all of this is about, but I know one thing--I don't want any part of it. You hear? You people--you're psycho! You know that? Psycho!"

  He strode angrily to the door.

  It was locked.

  "You see!" said Biddle. "Emotion."

  "Yes," said the belled figure. "That's encouraging, though far from conclusive." He gestured. "Mister Kinkaid, please calm yourself. This is all quite necessary."

  "For what?"

  "Membership. Do sit down, but take care to remove the Whoopee-Cushion. Now. I gather Mister Biddle has told you nothing."

  "That's right," said Kinkaid, still annoyed.

  "Then I'll explain. You are in the headquarters of the S.P.O.L.--the Society for the Preservation of Laughter. We're a secret organization, running counter to established law. Most of what we do is either frowned upon or strictly forbidden. We are, in short, outlaws."

  Kinkaid glanced at Biddle, then struck a cigarette, nervously.

  "I," said the belled figure, "am known as the Grand Jester. Mister Biddle, here, is one of our Interlocutors. Should you be accepted, you would start as a Schlock. It is no disgrace: we were all Schlocks, once. After six months, however, you would be entitled to apply for a raise in status. Assuming a positive vote, you would then ascend to the Second Degree, that of Hipster. And so forth. Am I making myself clear?"

  "Not exactly," said Kinkaid.

  "Well, then, skipping the parliamentary jazz for the mo," said the Grand Jester, "it should be enough to say that our title explains our purpose. The world has forgotten how to laugh, Mister Kinkaid. Some of us regret that fact. Unlike the authorities we feel that laughter is sufficiently important to be preserved, despite the grave psychological risk. You dig?"

  "I didn't know there was any psychological risk in laughter."

  "Then you have not been with it, friend-o. Most humor, you see, had its roots in cruelty. In stamping out cruelty, we have automatically stamped out humor. Therefore, there ain't much to laugh at no more.

  "This is the story," continued the man in the golden mask. "Once upon a time, the world was a basically bad scene. We had disease and war and oppression and prejudice, and all that scam. The worst! How did the people endure it? By laughing. They worked out all their beefs with boffs, so to speak. Then the psychologists and the censors came on. We got sophisticated. Conditions improved. And humor vanished." With his jeweled stick he pressed a number of buttons on the desk. "It's a fragile thing, humor. Analysis can kill it. But we are an analytical people now, so you'll have everything explained to you--once--to eliminate psychological after-blast. Now. I trust you understand the trick cigar episode?"

  Before Kinkaid could answer, Biddle said: "I thought it best to wait." He turned. "James, it was simply that a figure of authority was momentarily rendered ridiculous. Sort of a consummation."

  The Grand Jester shook his head, causing the bells to ring. "Leave him alone," he said. "Mister Kinkaid, what about the man who walked into the wall?"

  Kinkaid thought a while. "What about him?"

  "He was painted to represent a Negro. Negroes constitute a minority race. Somewhere deep inside you, you are prejudiced against minority races. You wish them ill. When ill befalls them, you laugh."

  "That's absurd," said Kinkaid.

  "Yes," said the Jester, "but partially true. If your mother had walked into the wall, you would not have grinned. Ergo and thus. How else do you account for the disappearance of Negro humor? Of all racial humor, for that matter? It's basically prejudicial, cruel."

  "The upside-down room is another example," said Biddle.

  "Precisely," said the Jester. "I have a peep-hole through which I observe visitors. As they stumble about in discomfort, or panic, I laugh. You, Mister Kinkaid, made me laugh quite heartily. It was endsville."

  "The peculiar words," said Biddle, "amuse because they are an expression of individuality. They may be interpreted as a form of rebellion against organized society."

  The Jester reached into his desk, withdrew four oranges and began to juggle them. "I don't think he gets it."

  "Give him time!"

  "All right." The oranges fell to the floor. "My own costume harks back to a figure of great pathos, the Court Jester. He was usually a dwarf or a cripple. Funeee!"

  A buzzer sounded. The man in the golden mask picked up a microphone. "What has four wheels and flies?" he shouted.

  "A garbage truck!" returned a chorus of voices.

  "Make it!"

  The door opened. Five figures entered the room. The first was clad in a billowing polka-dot suit, the second in dark rags, the third in long underwear, the fourth in a toga, while the fifth and last was mother naked. The figures lined up in front of Kinkaid and regarded him speculatively.

  "First degree interlocutors," said Biddle. "Your judges."

  The naked man stepped forward. "Have you heard the one about the little moron who tried to look through a screen and strained his eyes?"

  Kinkaid said, "No."

  There was a pause. The naked man stepped back.

  The ragged man took his place. In a high-pitched sing-song voice, he said: "Roses are red, daisies chartreuse. If you will bend over, I'll give you a start."

  "What?"

  The polka-dot man reached into his pocket and took out a large paper, which he unrolled. It was a lined drawing of two bearded men imbedded to their chests in jungle slime. A quotation at the bottom of the picture read: 'Quicksand or not, I've half a
mind to struggle.'

  The man in long underwear leaned on a cane, which snapped in two. From the floor he said: "There were these real wild hopheads sitting on a curb. They're smoking away. Along comes this fire engine going about a hundred miles an hour, with the bells and the siren, screaming along. It screams right by them. Wait a minute, I forgot to say they were high. Y'know? Anyway, the first hophead turns to the other hophead and says, 'Like man. I thought they'd never leave."

  The man in the toga raised his hand. "There was a young man from Saint Bee's, who was stung on the hand by a wasp. Said he, with a grin, as he somethingsomething, 'I'm sure glad it wasn't a hornet."

  The five figures then began to run about the room, singing:

  "He thought he saw a Banker's Clerk Descending from the bus:

  He looked again, and found it was A Hippopotamus:

  'If this should stay to dine,' he said, 'There won't be much for us!"

  "Won't be much for us!" cried Biddle. "Won't be much for us!"

  Abruptly the song stopped. The figures ceased their running. They peered at Kinkaid, who had sat frozen for the past several minutes; then they scampered, howling, from the room.

  The Grand Jester balanced the jeweled stick on his nose and said: "They'll vote tonight."

  "What do you think?" asked Biddle.

  "Hard to say."

  "I know, but what do you think?"

  "Won't tell," said the Jester.

  Biddle sighed. "All right," he said, and took Kinkaid's arm. "Nothing to do now but wait. Let's go downstairs. Maybe we can catch an orgy."

  They sat in heavy leather chairs, Biddle wiping his forehead with a handkerchief, Kinkaid merely sitting, waiting for the nausea to pass.

  A man in a white jacket paused and put glasses in their hands.

  "Absinthe," said Biddle. "It'll rot out your eyes if you make a habit of it. Like most sins, though, it's harmless in moderation."

  The thickish liquid tasted bad to Kinkaid, but appeared to settle his stomach.

  Biddle was mumbling.

  "What?"

  "I said, I may have made a mistake." The district manager swallowed all the liquid in his glass and belched. "No point being pessimistic, though." He rose from the chair. "Come along, it's almost show time. There are a few things I want you to see."

  Kinkaid followed his superior across a deep red carpet to a room. The walls of the room were lined with books.

  Biddle handed Kinkaid a gilt-edged book weighing at least ten pounds. Opening at random, Kinkaid found a drawing which depicted communal breeding.

  "The Germans were great hands at pornography," Biddle said, chuckling. "They almost made an art of it. So did the Japanese. Here--this is our collection of graffiti." He reached down an impressive leather-bound volume. "You're probably not familiar with the word. It refers mainly to the scrawls one used to find on the walls of public restrooms." He flipped through the pages. "Some wonderful stuff, really. Completely uninhibited. Take this: 'Here I sit, broken-hearted--"

  "Mr. Biddle," said Kinkaid. "I'm not feeling very well."

  "Oh? That's too bad. Well, next time. In case you're alone: this section contains essays and short works of fiction; this section is devoted entirely to cartoons; that's the film vault over there. All the Chaplin pictures, Buster Keaton, W.C. Fields, Laurel and Hardy, the Marx Brothers, et al. Also a rather interesting selection of stag reels. When you decide to look at those, by the way, have one of the interlocutors help you. Personally I would recommend 'Bathroom Frolics,' though 'A Night at the Zoo' is also first rate."

  There was an ugly bleating sound.

  "The Bronx cheer," said Biddle. "That means show-time. Here go."

  They hurried out of the book-filled room, across the crowded bar, through a curtained doorway, to a small amphitheatre.

  They sat down. The lights dimmed. The curtains parted. A small man in a checkered suit walked to the center of the stage.

  "Anybody wanna buy a duck?"

  The people in the amphitheatre roared. A large man with white hair jabbed his elbow into Kinkaid's ribs. "Too much!" the man said. "Too much!"

  The footlights became dimmer. A man in patched clothes shuffled across the stage. A spotlight came on. The man took a short-handled broom from his pocket and tried to sweep away the spotlight.

  Again the roar.

  Two men with black faces and white gloves shambled across the stage.

  The tall one said: "Crony, my boy, where has you been? I ain't seen you in a long time!"

  The short one said: "I been in de jailhouse."

  "Whuffo?" asked the tall one.

  "Well," said the short one, "lemme ax you sumfin'. What would you do if you come home and found yo wife in bed wid anudder man?"

  "I would simply cut my wife's acquaintance."

  "Dat's all I did. An' believe me, I cut him deep!"

  "Yak! Yak!"

  "Negroes," said Biddle, "were thought to be morally lax. The humor here derives from the odd speech patterns, the misunderstanding of a common phrase, and the casual attitude toward murder. But forget that. Take it for what it is. Try!"

  Kinkaid tried, but he did not understand any of the things that passed before his eyes. Biddle's voice was a distant hum. The lights danced inside his mind.

  When they returned to the lounge, Biddle ordered drinks.

  They took a corner booth.

  "Look at it this way," Biddle said. "Humor is an escape valve for the emotions. Everybody has emotions, even today. They're building up, all over the world. Getting ready to explode.

  "James, listen to me," Biddle said. "This is the way it was. When television was born, censors started cracking down. Any humor that might offend--that's to say, all real humor--was banished. A new humor sprang up. It didn't offend anyone, but it didn't amuse anyone either. Nobody liked it, but that didn't matter. Vaudeville died. Burlesque died. Circuses died. The wonderful jokes that used to spread like wildfire. . ." Biddle sighed and peered at his glass. "It was phenomenal. You're too young to remember, James. We had jokes about everything under the sun, about insanity and disease, about sex and God and crime and marriage and--oh, nothing was sacred. And the wonder is, a lot of these jokes were good. Still are! I'm afraid it's a lost art. Everything's lost. Drink up, my boy. You're what's left."

  Kinkaid threw down the remains of his drink and ordered another. There was a curious loss of control in his motor muscles. He looked at all the people, listened to the roar of their voices, and returned to the booth.

  A naked woman sat in his lap.

  "Coo, ducks," she said. "Have you heard the one about the married couple and the chimpanzee?"

  "No," said Kinkaid. His mind was whirling now. The girl became two, then three. The voices faded.

  ". . . got into bed and here was this ape . . ."

  He blinked furiously. Now there was a girl in Biddle's lap, and they were making those barking, Laff-Track noises.

  "Get it?" said a voice.

  Kinkaid felt a sudden hot rush of tears on his face. "No!" he cried, pressing his hot wet face between the girl's breasts. "No, I don't get it. I don't get it!"

  A hand reached into his mind, then, and turned it off.

  The morning light was cold and harsh. Kinkaid lay on the bed unmoving for a long time. When he did move, it was an agony. His head throbbed and his stomach felt as though someone had been punching it, hard, for hours.

  It was not until after his shower that he remembered the previous night.

  Excited, he dressed, breakfasted, and took the hi-speed belt to work.

  "You are seven minutes, twenty seconds late," said the Time Box.

  "Up yours," said Kinkaid, happily.

  He ran the gauntlet of eyes to his desk, took out his papers and sat down. A red bulb flashed.

  Kinkaid walked down the aisle toward the door marked: William A. Biddle. Biddle was seated behind his desk.

  "Hi," said Kinkaid. "You are late."

  "I know. That absin
the must have got to me."

  "Absinthe?"

  "Maybe I didn't tell you, but I hadn't even tasted the stuff before last night. I'm sorry about what happened. Who took me home?"

  "Kinkaid, I don't know what you're talking about."

  "About last night. S.P.O.L." The corners of Kinkaid's lips curled upward. "Anybody wanna buy a duck?"

  Biddle's expression was grim.

  "I'll be happy to give you a goose instead," said Kinkaid. "There, how's that? That's a joke, isn't it?"

  "I couldn't say."

  "Come on, Mister Biddle. I know I was a disappointment to you, but it was all so new. I didn't understand. I wanted to, I tried . . . I'm willing to learn.

  Biddle said nothing.

  "They're not going to hold it against me because I didn't laugh, are they?" Kinkaid found that his heart had begun to beat rapidly. "I didn't know how. But I do now. Listen. Ha! Ha-ha! Ha-ha-ha--"

  "Kinkaid!"

  "Yes, sir?"

  "You're fired."

  "What?" Kinkaid's mouth went dry. He stared at the stern man behind the desk and tried to remember how he looked with his tie loose and a naked woman in his lap. "Mister Biddle, I know the vote was against me. I know that. And I don't blame them. But, you can fix it, can't you?"

  "Get out."

  "Please! All I want is a second chance. Is that so much to ask? You people lived through the time, I didn't. I've got to learn."

  "I don't know what you're babbling about, Kinkaid. But I warn you. If you repeat any of it to the authorities, they'll put you away."

  Kinkaid stood there a moment, tense; then he sighed, turned around and walked quickly out of the building.

  That night, and almost every night thereafter until the final demolition, he rode the belts to No Man's Land. He walked to where the ugly sightless buildings were, and he searched, but he could never find the building he wanted.

  Sometimes he would stand perfectly still on the crumbling sidewalks, and listen. And once in a while it almost seemed that he could hear the distant laughter.

  It was a lovely, desperate sound.

  * * *