“Yes,” says Claudia, “it’s all very nice.” Still more crumbs.
“Hallelujah!” cries Citrus, her face slightly lifted, her biscuit crumbs arching high. And others express their pleasure at the biscuits and the dinner and at things in general, I believe, saying “these are good” and “this really is nice” and “let’s eat” and the air over the table is filled with white bits of Oven-Fresh Homemade Goodness, the spirit of this dinner made tangible before us.
And I look down at the plate of food before me. The main dish is a complex thing, bits of green peas and red pimento and tan mushrooms all awash in the swirls of egg noodles and, of course, there are white chunks all through, and I am stricken again with the fear that I cannot shake. These chickens died for us: I put it this way to cast it in its least frightening light, though the chickens were slaughtered and diced nonetheless. They died to nourish these other creatures, to give them life. It is the pattern repeated over and over on this planet, these very chickens, for instance, being willing to eat insects scurrying about. And, I must admit, it is a pattern found throughout the universe, though my own species has ceased the practice. We eat no sentient thing. Still, one wonders about even the possible hidden sentience of vegetables. There is so much yet that my species does not know. All of which thinking represents the wild spiral of a mind away from a fear for his own skin.
“Am I this chicken?” I ask.
For a moment the others do not understand what I mean. Then Hudson says, “I’d sure be, facing what you’re facing.”
Now I am puzzled. But I know to set aside my literalist impulse at moments like these. I suddenly remember the idiom. To be a chicken means to be afraid. This makes things much worse. Those whom I will face tonight understand the chicken to have feelings. Particularly the feeling of fear. And so how must they understand, then, the way in which they make billions of these fellow creatures end their lives? Prematurely. Ravished with fear. Grabbed and beheaded. Plucked and gutted and cooked and eaten. It is imbedded in the very words of this place that chickens are fearful creatures, yearning, no doubt, for a life free from that fear. How can I face those who willfully scorn such feelings in others?
I look at these twelve around the table, their teeth grinding away at the flesh of others. These thirteen. For my wife is eating, as well. It was her choice to serve chicken. And yet I know how gentle and loving is my Edna Bradshaw.
“What all is it you’ve got to do, exactly?” asks Hudson. “Tonight down on Earth.”
I find myself saying by rote, “At midnight I must descend in a public way and reveal to your planet the existence of …
Hudson interrupts, “Right. Right. But then what?”
“This is what I am still trying to determine,” I say.
Digger says, “Pretty late in the day, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I say, “I am afraid it is.”
Claudia leans in my direction, her hand coming out. “Don’t you have specific directions for what to say, what to do after the revelation? That sort of thing?”
“No,” I say. And another clear but wordless reaction occurs. A dark, sinking thrum of a sound from those at the table. I am in trouble, they clearly believe.
“We are like this, as a species,” I say. “I am the senior specialist on this planet. So those to whom I am responsible give me my directive in the simplest way and allow me to carry it out however I see fit.”
Hudson says, “But how about envoys and technical advice and such.”
“All of that is premature,” I say. “You must come to grips with the fundamental principle before any of those secondary things can happen.”
“So that’s it?” Hudson asks.
“It?”
“You go down, say here I am, and you split?”
I struggle with literalism once more. Hudson notices. “Leave,” he says. “You leave.”
“Yes.”
“Right away?” He is saying he does not approve.
“Right away is up to me,” I say. And then, “This is good.” I am suddenly full of gratitude to Hudson, and to the others as well, for pressing me. “This is good you should ask these questions. I need your help to understand how to proceed.”
There is a general squaring of shoulders and clearing of throats. I believe my guests are pleased at being cast in this role.
“Don’t they … you … want any further contact with us after you show yourself?” Claudia asks, an edge to her voice.
“Not for a time,” I say. “We hope this basic fact of things will encourage you to end your divisiveness. You are one people, all of you. We will stay away until you learn to live with each other.”
The edge smooths in Claudia’s voice. “You’ve done this elsewhere?”
“Not me personally. But as a species, yes.”
Lucky, next to me, bends a little in my direction. “How does it usually go?”
“It is not fair to compare,” I say.
“So you don’t expect the planet Earth to change very quick,” Hudson says.
“Do you?” I hear how naturally now my own instinctive choice of words employs the strange question-as-statement locution. This pleases me.
And Hudson nods at me with a smile that I find pleases me, too—more, it makes me very happy—a we-understand-each-other smile. And Lucky’s leaning toward me makes me happy. And the earnest attentiveness of all these faces makes me happy. “My friends …” I say, though I have nothing in mind to finish the sentence. It is a simple assertion of being. They wait. “That is all,” I say. “You are my friends.”
Digger puts both hands on the table, “So what is it you need our help deciding?”
“Who you all are, the people of Earth.” I am not surprised to find blinking and bewildered sighing at this. As soon as I speak, I recognize the original goal of this dinner has never been realistic. So I quickly let them off the hook. “But I do not expect that from you. You have given me enough by your patience on this ship.”
“Then, what?” Digger asks.
“What to say down there.” Again, all that I do is speak the need and I instantly know I cannot be helped. I say, “But the words must come from me. I realize that. It would be a mistake to take your suggestions, no matter how good, and parrot them.”
“So is there nothing?” Viola sounds disappointed.
Citrus rises to her feet. “There’s one thing. A big thing that only we can do for Desi. We will speak what we know of this Second Coming, after he is …” She gropes for a word. She settles on “… gone.”
“You are right, Citrus,” I say. “I must descend in a place where very many people will see me, including the Cable News Network. But your memories of me and this ship and my wife Edna Bradshaw and her Homemade Southern Goodness will be very helpful to focus people’s understanding.”
“Oh man!” Hudson cries. “A book deal.”
“The Larry King Show,” Claudia says.
“I’m frightened,” says Mary.
Lucky shifts beside me, his hand going out toward his girlfriend around the curve of the table. “It’s okay,” he says.
“Yes,” I say to her, “there is no responsibility …”
“It’s hard enough trying to be what I am,” she says.
“Nobody ever heard of Thaddeus or James the son of Alphaeus.” This is from Citrus, who is still standing. We all look at her, and she adds, “They were part of the first twelve. You don’t have to be a major player.”
“Are we still trying to say that Mr. Desi is Jesus?” Misty asks.
“I am not Jesus,” I say. Firmly.
“You are next,” Citrus says.
“I am …”
“It’s all made new,” Citrus says. “It’s always got to be made new.”
“I am Desi.”
“My daddy will never recognize you,” Citrus says.
“Actually I am not originally Desi …”
Citrus lifts both her hands high, her palms turned upward. “There will be m
any who will not recognize you.”
“My wife Edna Bradshaw has given me that name.”
“They will turn on you.”
“You cannot pronounce my original name.”
“They will crucify you.”
With that, declared loudly by Citrus, everything stops. I, of course, am drawn instantly back from my tangent about my name. The local murmuring—I presume about the opportunities for appearances on late-night talk shows and endorsements of various products—suddenly ceases. We all look at Citrus. She is looking at me. Her hands are still raised, but in the silence she slowly lowers them.
Then Hudson says, “Where exactly do you plan to appear?”
“Yes,” I say. “This is something that you can help me with.”
“New York City,” Citrus says at once. “Times Square.”
I am growing frightened again. Of Citrus sounding like a prophet. Citrus giving voice to the worst that might happen to me. Citrus, now, tapping into my dream. Times Square.
And Hudson frightens me, too. “That’s the logical choice,” he says.
I know it is logical.
“Big media,” says Digger.
“I’m worried,” says Claudia.
“It’s the only choice,” says Citrus.
“Worried about what?” My wife Edna Bradshaw breaks her silence at all of this. She is speaking to Claudia.
Claudia turns to Edna and motions toward Citrus. “What she said. If there’s a danger of a crucifixion for an unarmed spaceman suddenly appearing in a flying saucer and scaring the hell out of a big, drunken crowd, that’s the place for it.”
“If?” I ask.
“There is a danger,” Claudia says.
“There is an inevitability,” says Hudson.
“Houston would be no better.” I turn to the voice. It is Hank. He makes fists with his two hands, extends his two forefingers and thumbs, and then snaps his thumbs down and up. I do not understand.
Hudson explains it to me. “Guns. They carry them in their cars.”
Lucky, at my side, leans to me again. “Any big crowd is going to freak out.”
“I’m afraid that’s true,” says Claudia.
“Does it have to be tonight?” Edna’s voice is tiny in my ear.
I turn to her. I know how hard it is for her to hear all of this. “I am sorry, my honeybun. This is one of the few things my orders specifically require. Your planet sees this as an auspicious moment.” I feel a sharp pain at this phrase coming from my mouth: “your planet.” I am apart. I am separate, in some important sense even from my wife Edna Bradshaw.
“Come with us to the casino.” Edna looks in the direction of this voice. I do, too. It is Trey.
“That’s a good idea,” Edna says, brightening. “We can all go together.”
There are strong temptations before me now. I am afraid this dinner has been a mistake. I am who I am. I say, “It is necessary to have a big crowd. It is necessary to have major media. Videotape. Slow motion. Freeze frame. Playing over and over for years to come. Regrettably, this discussion must come to a close now.”
I am afraid they hear a sharpness in my voice that I do not intend. They all fall silent and grim.
Then Edna says, “I think it’s time for pie.”
“Please serve our guests,” I say. I am Bluer Than Blue. “I will have no pie. My time approaches. I must be alone now and prepare myself.”
I rise.
Trey says, “I thought you were going to tell us how to win big at the casino.”
“That was just me shooting off my mouth like I always do,” says Edna. “I’m sorry if I misled you. I just wanted you to understand what a smart and good man my husband is.” I do not have to look at her to know that the tears are beginning to well up in her eyes.
I am feeling guilty at not fulfilling the promise made in my name. I think about what I have learned on this subject. I say, “Play the handle. There are four clicks. Jump into the moment. Know how much you’re willing to lose, and when you lose it, get up and find your way to the door.”
There is a moment of silence. Then Trey says, “That’s it?”
“I am not as smart as I look,” I say.
“And you’re talking to a guy they nicknamed ‘Trey.’ Not ‘Ace.’ I need a little more.”
I stand here wishing I can be more helpful and finding nothing to say, and then Hudson speaks up, catching Trey’s attention and addressing him. “If Desi does what he says and lets us remember all this and take our story with us, he’s giving you something a lot more valuable than some gambling tips. Book deals. Lecture tours. Oprah’s show. You’re a made man … Ace.”
“You will all remember,” I say. “I want you very much to remember.” And saying this, I turn and Edna touches my hand. I manage to smile at her and I know she understands that I must be alone.
I go out as Edna cries “Who wants pie?” and a chorus of voices says “I do!” and I am glad they will get what they want.
16
I move away from the sounds of the others, into the quiet of the corridors of my ship. I am blank inside. Inside my head, that is. Somewhere else inside me—in the very somewhere else I have been learning about from the people on this planet—I am filled too full. I want, I yearn, I yak yak yak, I yada yada yada, I make a turn and another and I go in at a door without thinking and I am in the Hall of Objects. I stop. There is a hush in the air. There is a dim blue light all around. The shelves are full of bits of the planet Earth. I wait for just the right moment. One click. Two. Three. I listen. To the soundless welter. Inside and out. I move forward. And I am. A garden troll and a Swiss Army knife and an adding machine large as the portable TV on one side of it and as silver as the Pontiac hubcap on the other side and there are more hubcaps and more and more stored in stasis elsewhere and a multitude of umbrellas and single gloves and socks—we have collected many socks, but only one from each set—and The Club to protect your car, to keep the bad guys from getting what they want, and a Heated Massaging Body Mat with Magnets with a woman on the box lying on her side and her head is thrown back and she is feelin’ groovy like the Feelin’ Groovy Barbie doll beside her with spaghetti-strap fuchsia minidress and knee-length iridescent coat with faux fur at the cuffs and hem and hot pink drop earrings all setting off her lovely black hair and lavender eyes and a wingless Quacker the Beanie Baby Duck with original tag, old-style, and a lava lamp birthing an orange sun, even now, and I am floating on the crest of these waves inside me, they crash beneath me, but as they do, others come along and bear me up, me, and I am a Krazy Kat Klock ticking away the last ticks of my time before me, the eyes darting back and forth, and Mr. and Mrs. Potato Head standing side by side waiting for me to speak, to tell them what my existence means to them, waiting to ask me to interchange their facial features to make new delightful combinations of them both, and I am a bag of golf clubs and a Weed Eater and a painted saw with a great green stretch of countryside and a barn and cows and an orange sun and I am a Soap-on-a-Rope and a three-bladed razor with rubber fins and a bowling-pin cocktail shaker and a Tom Corbett Space Cadet steel lunch box and a St. Joseph Home Sale Kit with plastic Saint Joseph to bury in the yard of your handyman’s fixer-upper to make it the house of someone’s dreams, someone with good credit, and I am reeling now, I am feeling snagged as if by this Popeil’s Pocket Fisherman before me, I am being dragged from my watery world into this other world of air and light and a glow-in-the-dark rosary taller than me and a Crosley tabletop cathedral radio and I am The Body Hug the full-length pillow to hold in the night and it conforms to your very own body contours and it is easy to care for and it is odorless, and this is the hook in me, the loneliness of these things, the terrible striving in these things, and I am a battery-operated mustache trimmer and a nose-hair clipper and pre-trimmed prefeathered self-adhesive long and lovely eyelashes and a Water Bra more natural than any other padded bra (not for prolonged use in cold weather) and a wolf-whistling furry monkey who says I love you�
��and what am I to do about all of this what am I to do and where am I to go?—and I am a brass Statue of Liberty, her lamp lifted and her belly a thermometer, and I am, beside her, a cast-iron Empire State Building, also with thermometer, and I stop here before them, and there is a necessary thing for me to do and there is a logical place for me to go—Little Old New York New York the Big Apple the Big Burg the Big City Father Knickerbocker the Empire City Jumpin’ Jitterburg the Melting Pot the Little Old Hell of a Town If I Can Make It There I Can Make It Anywhere—and I see out of the corner of my eye the blue-black metallic gleam of Claudia’s pistol, but I do not look at this object, I focus to see what the temperature is, and it is both seventy-two and eighty-one, and for a moment there is no logic at all, there is only the jostle of things and a clock somewhere—perhaps Krazy Kat, perhaps another—clanging an alarm—and I am a poor and huddled mass yearning to breathe free, but I am not free, it is nearly time and I am bound to go. I am homeless and tempest-tossed, and I have my own lamp to lift.
17
And so I find myself standing beside the door of the bus that bears its LUCK upon its face and my time has run out and my LUCK has, too, I am afraid, and my wife Edna Bradshaw is at my side and the twelve who will remember me—these dear twelve—are ready to return. I shake each hand that passes before me, wishing to give at least a beat or two of my heart. But it is difficult. My hands are stiff. My fingertips are puckered. And I am missing important things, I realize. I have fallen out of the moment, in violation of one thing I think I can say I have learned from this planet, but there is nothing to do about it because even the process of thinking about what I am missing makes me miss even more of those things, and I have only fragments: Digger’s mouth sets hard, Misty’s eyes fill with tears, I am speaking words to them and they are passing on into the warm good-bye of my wife Edna Bradshaw and I do not catch what they are saying, I am forgetting their faces already as they may forget me, too, even without my help, and “… luck …” comes in Trey’s voice and he is passing on and I am wishing luck to him in return, I think, but I can hear my own heart now, thumping in my head, I am aflame with fear and Mary’s hand is moist and her eyes are moist and she is gone and Lucky says something about eagles and his eyes also are filling and I am working myself up even more and Arthur is here and gone and now Viola’s face looms into mine and she speaks of knowing when to fold your hand and there are more of these tears, these baffling tears, Viola’s eyes are full, and now they are overflowing, and things suddenly slow down. My hearing clarifies. Viola has moved on and my wife is saying, “Viola, honey, I wish I could give you a phone number or something.”
Mr. Spaceman Page 19
